Page 60 of Lady of Milkweed Manor

He looked up at her, little brows crinkling up—so like his father.

“Why are you sad?”

“I don’t know. I suppose it is because I cannot believe you are already three years old. It is silly, really. Birthdays are to be happy times, and you are a very happy boy, are you not?”

Again he shrugged. “Yes.”

“I am so glad.”

He lifted the book. “Read to me?” he asked.

Her heart fisted hard within her, and she bit her lip to hold back bittersweet tears.

She opened her mouth to answer when a woman’s voice called down the corridor, “Come now, master Edmund, your father will be home any moment.” A prim-faced young woman in grey dress appeared, shaking out a miniature frock coat before her.

“Time to dress.”

Charlotte stood and the woman paused.

“Oh, pardon me I did not know Edmund had a guest.”

“That’s all right. I was just leaving.”

The woman passed by them and into Edmund’s room.

She felt Edmund tug at her sleeve. “Father is taking me to the circus.”

“How nice.”

“But you can read to me first.”

She smiled at him. “I would love nothing more, but I am afraid I must take my leave.”

“Oh. Then Papa shall read it. It’s his favorite.”

“Yes, I know,” Charlotte said softly. She reached a tentative hand toward him and touched his shoulder briefly. “Happy birthday, dear Edmund.”

Charlotte could not sleep. She turned over yet again.

Her stomach growled. She should have eaten more at supper.

Giving up, she reached for her dressing gown at the foot of her bed but could not find it.

She must have kicked it to the floor with all her tossing and turning.

Oh well. She wouldn’t light a candle to find it and risk waking Anne.

Besides, the house was warm and there was no one to see her at this time of night.

She tiptoed out of her room in her nightdress.

In the corridor, she could hear John Taylor’s soft snore as she passed his room.

She picked up the candle lamp on the landing table and used it to guide her down the many stairs and into the kitchen.

There, she set the lamp down and opened the icebox.

She retrieved the bottle of milk and set about lighting a fire in the stove and pouring some milk into a pan to warm.

Then she selected an apple from the vegetable bin.

Taking it to the work table, she slid a sharp knife from its slot and set to work slicing off a few wedges of fruit.

The door opened behind her and Charlotte started. The knife sliced into her left index finger. She gave a little cry, more from fright than pain. She half-turned from the table, surprised and relieved to see Dr. Taylor standing there, medical bag in hand.

“You frightened me.”

“Forgive me. I did not expect to find anyone up.”

Charlotte became aware of throbbing in her finger. She put it to her mouth, tasting blood.

“I’ve cut myself.”

“How badly?”

She stepped closer to the candle lamp and he did as well. Her relief that the late-night intruder was Dr. Taylor now faded as she remembered she wore nothing but a thin nightdress.

“Let me see it.”

“I am sure it is nothing.”

He took her left hand in his, her palm forward. With his free hand, he gently examined her index finger. Her heart pounded in time with its throbbing.

“Here, let’s clean that.” From his bag, he deftly retrieved a bottle of antiseptic. He held her hand over the basin, released her only long enough to open the bottle, then poured antiseptic over the wound. The stuff stung, and she wrinkled her nose at its smell.

“Let me wrap that for you,” he said quietly.

He retrieved a small rolled bandage from his bag and then stood again before her.

He guided her hand closer to the light and leaned near.

She realized she was breathing in shallow, rapid breaths as he skillfully and gently wound the bandage around her finger and secured it.

Still, the process seemed to take quite a long time, as he reexamined his work, still holding her hand in one of his.

She hoped he did not guess how affected she was by his nearness.

Without releasing her hand, he looked up from her finger to her face. His eyes shone with intensity, his pupils large in the dim light.

Did she alone feel this tension, this delicious, terrifying ache?

To dispel it, she said shakily, “Who is minding the Manor?”

“Thomas is filling in. Said I looked dead on my feet.”

She smiled and said awkwardly, “You do not ... look so to me.”

His eyes roamed over her features. “Nor you.”

She swallowed and said needlessly, “I could not sleep.”

He looked down at her hand again, as though just realizing he still held it.

“Will the patient live?” she asked lightly.

He did not smile. Instead he turned her hand over and lifted it to his cheek. He pressed his lips to the back of her hand and looked into her eyes. Charlotte could hardly breathe.

Without warning the kitchen door again opened, and they both turned to see John Taylor standing there, candlestick in hand. Charlotte took a sheepish step away from Daniel.

John Taylor looked from one to the other, a speculative gleam in his eyes. “I thought I smelled something burning,” he said.

Charlotte turned. The milk was boiling out onto the stove.