Lady of Milkweed Manor (21 page)

Suddenly, Charlotte dropped her quill and sat very still. He was just about to make his presence known and step in to speak with her when she picked up the single sheet and crumpled it into a small ball. Her expression was bleak. She laid her head on her arms on the desk and gave way to great shoulder-shaking sobs. He longed to rush to her, to comfort her, but he knew that such an action would be not only inappropriate but also futile. No man could ease a pain as tormenting as this. Only time and only God. Still, he wished there was something he might do.

At that moment, the tall nurse, Sally Mitchell, walked into the passage and he gestured her over. He nodded his head toward the room and Sally followed his gaze. Pausing only long enough to give him a grim nod, she hurried into the room.

“There, there, love …” he heard her murmur.

Daniel decided then and there, if ever he could do some good for Sally Mitchell, he would.

After Charlotte had finally cried herself into a grief-exhausted slumber that night, she was awakened by screaming from down the corridor. The screams were familiar and yet different. Dr. Taylor’s French wife, yes, but this time crying out with the regularity of labour pains. Charlotte turned over in bed, feeling aware but dulled in her senses. She couldn’t bear to give too much thought to another baby at the moment.

Then she heard the matron barking orders and people rushing about in the corridor. Feeling a sudden pull, Charlotte rolled back over and climbed out of bed. She put on her dressing gown and stockings and opened her door, peering out. Lamps were lit and shadows and echoes danced off the walls as people ran past on their way above stairs.

Gibbs marched past, clean linens in her arms.

“Gibbs, what is happening?”

The normally aloof, efficient assistant had been unusually warm and consolatory toward Charlotte since the news of Charlotte’s loss.

“The doctor’s got hisself a little girl,” Gibbs said matter-of- factly. “But the missus … Oh, Miss Smith, she is utterly changed. I wouldn’t have known her! I best get back up there. Go to sleep, Miss Smith. Nothing you can do.”

Of course there was nothing she could do. Even so, and not knowing why she did, Charlotte made her way to the servants’ stairway at the end of the corridor, as she had on those other nights that now seemed so long ago. She walked as one sleeping, without aid or need of a light, knowing the way well enough by now. She felt her way up the stairs and cautiously pushed the top door open.

From here, the screaming was even louder. And now came the clamor of things being thrown and smashed as well.

Charlotte winced.

“Take eet away from me!” the woman cried in her accented English.

Charlotte took a few tentative steps down the corridor. Mrs. Moorling suddenly emerged from Mrs. Taylor’s room, a bundle in her arms. Someone inside the room slammed the door shut behind her.

Charlotte walked closer and, by the light of the oil lamp, saw a long angry scratch on the matron’s cheek. Her brown hair had come all but loosed from its knot.

“Mrs. Moorling?”

“Oh, Charlotte!”

“Are you all right?”

“I will be.”

From behind the closed door, Dr. Taylor barked out, “Bring the restraining device-hurry!”

Mrs. Moorling’s flushed face grew even more strained. She took a step closer to Charlotte and thrust the baby toward her. Charlotte shrank back and opened her mouth to protest. Then she caught a glimpse of the little face, clearly resembling Daniel, just as her own son resembled his father. Had God planned it thusly-designed to garner paternal support? She accepted the baby into her arms and Mrs. Moorling ran toward the main stairs.

Charlotte stood there, staring down at the tiny infant whose eyes were wide open, looking at her. Then the babe began nuzzling her, instinctively looking to nurse. Charlotte’s pent-up milk let down in response. She looked down at the front of her wet dressing gown in growing horror. Then another voice startled her. Mobcapped Mrs. Krebs had come up the stairs and was striding toward her in the same militant style of Mrs. Moorling.

“The babe, is she all right?”

“Yes. Mrs. Moorling gave her to me. Here.” Charlotte started to hand the baby over to Mrs. Krebs but then pulled the infant back against herself to cover the mortifying stains.

“I am … forgive me. I did not mean to … Charlotte stammered. “She cried and it just happened.”

“Perfectly natural. Do nurse her for me. There’s a love. I’ve got me hands full now.”

“But … I cannot. I should not.”

“Come now, you know how it’s done.”

“Yes, but this is Dr. Taylor’s baby. His wife might. .

“His wife’s a raving loony at the moment, dearie. Best thing for that wee one is to be as far away from her as possible for now. Go on, nurse the wee one. Nurse your own grievin’ heart as well.”

Charlotte saw the compassion, the understanding in the older woman’s eyes, and her own eyes filled with tears.

“If you think it would help her,” she whispered.

Mrs. Krebs smiled a sad smile and squeezed Charlotte’s arm. “It will help, Charlotte.”

Using the better-lit main stairs, Charlotte returned carefully to her room. She sat in her chair and loosened her gown and offered her heavy breast to the baby. After a few awkward tries, the little girl latched on and began nursing. Charlotte wept the whole while. Blood and tears and milk were flowing out of her at such a rapid rate that Charlotte felt as though her very life were being drained from her … yet returned to her at the same time.

Daniel Taylor shuffled through the corridor, exhausted and defeated. His wife was worse than ever. The delivery had sent the puerperal mania to new heights. Or was it depths? His poor little daughter! Would she ever know the bright, loving woman he’d married?

Mrs. Krebs came out of the infant ward, closing the door behind her.

“Mrs. Krebs. Have you found someone to nurse the baby?”

“Aye.”

He headed toward the foundling ward.

“She isn’t in there. I asked Miss Smith to nurse ‘er.”

“Miss Smith? Why on earth?”

“I have me reasons.”

“And she agreed?”

“That she did.”

“Where is she?”

“Told her she could take the wee one back to her room. Poor lamb-never seen a girl so modest-like.”

He walked quietly back through the manor to Charlotte’s room. The door was closed. Through it, he could hear Charlotte Lamb singing to his infant daughter in a tear-cracked voice. It was not a lullaby she was singing. He recognized the tremulous melody of a hymn:

“..To thee in my distress, to thee,
A worm of earth, I cry;
A half-awakened child of man,
An heir of endless bliss or pain,
A sinner born to die….”

He leaned his forehead against the smooth wooden door, to absorb the sound, the sadness … if he could.

It has long been customary to provide facilities for ladies requiring wet nurses to obtain them at the Hospital on payment of a small fee. Many ladies are accommodated with wet nurses in the course of the year, and the Hospital is, in this way, a great convenience.

T. RYAN, QUEEN CHARLOTTE’S LYING-IN HOSPITAL FROM ITS FOUNDATION IN 1752 TO THE PRESENT TIME (LONDON 1885)

No object, however beautiful or interesting, gives pleasure to their eye, no music charms their ear, no taste gratifies their appetite, no sleep refreshes their wearied limbs or wretched imaginations; nor can they be comforted by the conversation or kindest attention of their friends. With the loss of every sentiment which might at present make life tolerable, they are destitute of hope which might render the future desirable.

-THOMAS DENMAN, CELEBRATED MAN-MIDWIFE, DESCRIBING MELANCHOLIA FOLLOWING CHILDBIRTH, 1810

Now, in chusing of a Nurse, there are sixe things to be considered: Her birth and Parentage: her person: her behavior: her mind: her milke: and her child.

JAMES GUILLEMEAU, CHILDBIRTH OR THE HAPPY DELIVERIE OF WOMEN

CHAPTER 16

few days after the birth of little Anne Taylor, a knock sounded on the door of Charlotte’s bedchamber. She rose gingerly from bed and opened it.

“Hello, Dr. Taylor.”

“You needn’t have gotten up.”

“I do not mind.”

“Most physicians insist on a full month’s recovery. But I see it as a good sign that you are up and about already.”

She nodded, briefly attempting a smile. “I suppose you are wanting your daughter?” Charlotte retreated back into the room toward the cradle. “Let me bring her to you. Mrs. Krebs asked me to nurse her or I should never have presumed …”

“Nonsense. I am most grateful.”

“Your wife. She is … ?”

“No better, I’m afraid. I regret you had to see her in that state. But that is not why I am here.”

Charlotte lifted wide eyes and waited.

“I thought you would like to know. Mrs. Harris wants a wet nurse for your … for the newborn child.”

A swell of hope rose within Charlotte, which she immediately realized was vain and foolish. She could not apply to nurse her own son. Katherine would know the truth at once.

“Mr. Harris has asked me to recommend someone,” Dr. Taylor continued. “Have you a preference?”