in a quiet and healthy house. . . .
—P HILADELPHIA P UBLIC L EDGER , 1837
CHAPTER 19
Charlotte and young Anne were established in Margaret –Dunweedy’s snug cottage in the village of Crawley, not far from The George Inn—a midway stop on the coach route between London and Brighton.
Margaret Dunweedy, Charlotte’s great-aunt, was a small, wiry woman with surprising vitality for one of her advanced years. Her hair was white and twisted around the crown of her head in a long plait. Her eyes were the color of cornflowers, as were many of the veins around her eyes, making her irises appear even bluer. She was rarely still. She received Charlotte and the baby with great warmth and enthusiasm, bustling about, making tea, bringing extra blankets, exclaiming over the joys of having someone sharing the old place again. Her husband had been gone twenty years, and her son, Roger, was living in Manchester and too busy with his post to visit very often.
Margaret Dunweedy’s sole fault, Charlotte soon surmised, was her inability to cease speaking. The cheerful woman seemed never to run out of things to say. For the first few weeks, this was quite a pleasant relief, for Mrs. Dunweedy felt no need to question Charlotte, happy to simply relay countless tales of her own life. But as the long months of winter wore on, Charlotte began to grow weary of the constant chatter.
Otherwise, the winter passed in relative ease and comfort. Dr. Taylor visited his daughter every fortnight or so, as his schedule and road conditions allowed. His wife was somewhat improved, he’d reported, but was still suffering.
Anne began sleeping through the night, and so did Charlotte. She was amazed at how much better she felt, how much lighter the anguish, the pressing weight of her grief. It was still there, of course, like a hooded cloak about her head and shoulders. The cloak had at first been fashioned of barbed chain mail that threatened to knock her to her knees. Over the winter months, it had become a cloak of heavy grey wool, its hood falling over her eyes and blocking out the light, encasing her in darkness, suffocating her. But as winter gave way to spring, so too the cloak lightened as if to a dense velvet or thick damask. She could still feel it with every fiber of her skin, her being, but now it let in the light and allowed her, finally, to breathe. Even so, there was not a waking hour in which she didn’t think of Edmund. And rare was the night when she did not dream of trying to find him, or of him about to fall from some dangerous precipice. How she tried to get to him, but he was always out of reach.
As soon as the weather allowed, she took to bundling up Anne and taking the baby outside with her in the untidy remains of last year’s garden and beyond, to the damp fallow field behind the cottage, parroting her mother’s wisdom about the benefits of “fresh air and exercise.” She closed her eyes and breathed in the loam, the wilted sage, the rare silence.
On one such day in March, she noticed a carriage coming to a halt on the road on the far side of the meadow. Something about the horse and rig seemed familiar, but at such a distance she could not see the driver. As the carriage sat there on the open road, Charlotte saw a glint of light, as off glass. Strange, Charlotte thought. Was someone watching her?
On the first day of April, Gareth Lamb, her brother-in-law, stared at her incredulously over his teacup. “Are you suggesting she might yet be recovered?”
Amelia Tilney nodded, taken aback by his sharp tone.
Across from Amelia, her eldest niece said between clenched teeth, “I suggest we discuss this no further.”
“Beatrice, please,” Amelia began. “I have reason to believe she’s lost the child.”
“Must we speak of it! The indecency . . .”
“The babe lives,” Gareth Lamb said flatly.
“What?” Amelia asked, stunned.
“I saw them with my own eyes.”
Amelia’s heart began to beat painfully within her. “You did? When?”
“I was in Crawley for a clerical meeting Monday last. Drove by your aunt’s cottage, and there she was in the back garden, babe in arms.”
“Will my mortification never end!” Bea flopped herself down on the settee in a most unladylike manner.
Amelia realized her hand was over her heart. “I confess I am speechless . . .”
Gareth gave her a knowing look. “I am sure you are.”
“Did Charlotte see you?”
“No. I was too far off. I—” He shifted uncomfortably. “I happened to have an opera glass with me.”
“Well, she cannot return here,” Bea stressed. “Really, Father, it is too much.”
“If only the man would do his duty,” Mr. Lamb shook his head somberly. “Plenty of other children have come into the world in such a manner. Many have been granted educations and gone on to marry well. Some have even been given titles . . .”
“Father. I doubt this father has any title to bestow beyond that of assistant gravedigger.”
“Beatrice!” Amelia gasped.
“Have you another theory, Aunt? Another explanation?”
“She assures me the man in question is a gentleman of good repute.”
“How can that be?”
“She declines to blame him, but it seems clear that he must have chosen to marry another.”
“She said so?”
“Not directly, but I gathered this from her certainty that there was no way to bring him around.”
“I have another theory,” Gareth Lamb said with a frown. “Perhaps the bounder has intentions for her sister and refuses to yield.”
It was Bea’s turn to gasp. “Father! I forbid you to speak so of Mr. Bentley! It’s slanderous!”
“Well, the young man has yet to ask for your hand. Has all but disappeared. Have you another explanation?”
Bea raised her chin. “If it has anything to do with Charlotte, it is that our family’s disgrace has somehow come to his attention.”
Bea flounced out of the room, more for escape than out of any true emotion. She was off to meet her friend Althea. They were to attend a reading together in the bustling market town of Faversham. Buxley was already waiting for her outside with the carriage as she had requested.
Arriving in Faversham a quarter hour ahead of schedule, Bea asked Buxley to let her down near the town center. She would walk to the library from there. It was a market day and vendors filled the streets surrounding the old guildhall, their carts, baskets, and makeshift tables overflowing with sausages, cheeses, bread, fish, and fruit. Taking her time, she strolled past the booths, then paused to look at the hats displayed in the milliner’s window, noting with disdain that they were terribly out of fashion. She sighed. It was too bad they did not live closer to London town.
Ahead she saw a tearoom. Outside its doors, several tables stood beneath a striped awning. She noticed two couples enjoying refreshment al fresco, taking advantage of the unseasonably warm spring day.
“Mr. Bentley!” Bea called before the scene fully registered. Then her breath caught and she nearly stumbled. There was no mistaking the smile William was giving the young lady across the table from him, how close he was leaning . . . that light in his eyes. Bea had seen all these before. She knew. It was either slink away, ashamed, and hope he had not heard nor seen her, or mount an offensive. Beatrice Lamb had never slunk away from anything in her life, and she decided not to start now. She wouldn’t give him—or her—that satisfaction. She squared her shoulders and waved a handkerchief. His handkerchief.
He saw her and quickly excused himself from the redhead. Squire Litchfield’s daughter, if she was not mistaken. Pretty, yes. Dumb as a mule. That her father had more money than hers, there was no doubt.
Did she imagine the slight sheepish expression, the flush of his fair cheeks? The awkward smile now as he approached? Surely she had, for the man clearly had no shame.
She summoned her most confident smile and stood tall. “How fortuitous to happen upon you, Mr. Bentley.”
“Yes. Miss Lamb, um, how good to see you again. How do you fare?”
&nb
sp; “Wonderfully well, I thank you. And so relieved to see you out enjoying yourself on such a fine afternoon.”
“Yes?”
“I have been hoping for an appropriate time to return this to you. Trite thing, this, but how glad I am to happen upon you in a public place. There you are. Now I am relieved of that obligation. I do thank you, sir. And wish you well.”
She turned to leave, smile stiff but resilient. If only she could manage not to trip and disgrace herself on her departure.
“Bea!”
She started, which she hoped he did not notice, and forced herself to turn around slowly at his unexpected call.
“Yes, Mr. Bentley?” she began, but fearing she sounded too hopeful, added breezily, “Did I forget something? Oh, forgive me, please do give my regards to your companion. I must hurry to a reading with a friend or I would adore meeting her.”
“You must know her. It is Amanda Litchfield.”
“Oh, one of the Litchfields. Do say hello for me.”
“Bea . . . Miss Lamb. Are you certain you are all right?”
“Of course I am.”
“And . . . your family?”
“Better than ever, I thank you. Now I really must fly.”
He looked at her, clearly perplexed. There was a speculative look in his eyes that told her he might suspect her act but wasn’t quite sure what to believe. It would have to be enough.
Amelia Tilney studied the stgern face of her brother-in-law. He had moved on from tea to port, though she knew he was not given to drink. She felt only mildly guilty for driving him to its solace this day. “Gareth, I must say your coldness surprises me most unhappily.”
“Madam. There are consequences to be reckoned with, and certainly we are all aware that there is no happy outcome in such a situation.”
Amelia leaned forward and adjusted the framed miniature of her sister on the table. She said softly, “You are a man of God, –Gareth. You of all men should know that God is forgiving, a God of mercy—”
“He is also a God of wrath. And of consequences.”
“But must Charlotte pay such a dear price—the loss of her entire family? She has already suffered greatly. She was a mere shadow of herself when last I saw her.”
“Was she?” He seemed to contemplate this. “Is she repentant? Sorry?”
“Oh, a sorrier girl I have never seen.”
“And is she being well provided for by your aunt?”
“Well, there is not much money for coal or meat, but she has a nice kitchen garden and preserves all she can for winter. I am afraid Margaret’s son is a mean sort who provides little for her upkeep. My husband and I send what we can. If you would but allow us, we would do more, now that Charlotte is there.”
“No. You have done enough. I must ask you to do nothing further. And to speak no more of this.”
“You may depend upon my discretion. I only speak now because I feel Charlotte’s plight so keenly—”
He halted the rest of her sentence with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Yes, yes.” He rose. “Now I really must bid you good day.”
Amelia rose as well. Though stung by her brother-in-law’s rudeness, she believed him not quite as unmoved as he appeared.
A week later, the bell jingled as Margaret Dunweedy pushed open the butcher shop door. The gust of wind that accompanied her sent the hanging fowl and sides of meat to swaying on their hooks. The smells of sausages, strong English cheeses, and meat-pie pastries greeted her, as did the cheery butcher with his ready smile and crisp apron. “A good day to you, Missus Dunweedy.”
“And to you, Mr. Doughty. What have you today for sixpence per pound?”
“No need for soup bones today, ma’am. Not with your account bulging with a good two pounds to spend.”
“Two pounds—you are surely mistaken, Mr. Doughty. On my account?”
“No, ma’am. No mistakin’ it.” He winked at her. “You’ve got yourself a secret admirer, I’d say.”
“Don’t talk foolishness, man. At my age.”
“Not foolishness at all. Well, then, what will it be. A fine leg of lamb? Or perhaps a stuffed goose? A roast of beef?”
“You are quite sure?”
“Sure I’m sure.”
Margaret Dunweedy would have liked to believe the gift from her son, Roger. But she knew better. She guessed the two pounds had more to do with her lodger than with her, but she was grateful to be able to provide the sweet lass something finer than the stews and soups she’d been preparing.
“I haven’t had a roast of beef since I don’t know when,” she admitted.
“Roasted with potatoes and onions . . .” The butcher closed his eyes, savoring the thought.
“The roast it is, Mr. Doughty.”
“Excellent choice, ma’am. Excellent choice.” He wrote himself a note.
She raised a brow at the paper he scribbled upon.
“I’m to account for how the pounds is spent, ma’am. Seems your admirer has more generosity than trust in an old scuff like me. Afraid I might take your two quid and leave you none the wiser.”
“Then he doesn’t know you, Mr. Doughty. A more trustworthy butcher I’ve never known.”
“Thank you, ma’am. And here you are. You enjoy that, now.” He handed her the wrapped package.
“Indeed we shall.”
“You’ve company, then?”
“Oh, just my niece come to call.”
“Ah, that explains it.”
It didn’t. Not fully, Margaret knew. But she was wise enough to know the village butcher didn’t need to know her great-niece’s troubles. He might not cheat on the fair weight of meat, but he wasn’t above handing out juicy gossip along with his chops.
Tibbets announced Lady Katherine’s arrival and her father stood. Bea merely laid aside the book she had been reading. Her cousin strode into the room, looking—Bea noted begrudgingly—elegant in a feathered hat and a full pelisse that did not quite conceal her figure, still somewhat rounded from her confinement last autumn.
“Lady Katherine. Niece!” Father boomed.
“Good day, Uncle. You’re looking . . . well, rather tired, actually. Are you not well?”
“I am not getting any younger. But I cannot complain.”
“And Beatrice. How nice to see you again.”
Beatrice merely nodded.
Her father smiled in her stead. “What an unexpected pleasure.”
“Is it unexpected? Surely you heard that we were returning to Fawnwell.”
“We did hear that the repairs were nearing completion, but not that you—”
“Yes. I’ve shut up my London home for the season. We’re doing everything quite the wrong way round this year. Now that most of our friends have left their country homes and are returned to London, we have quit town to stay here for the spring and summer. I detest the thought of missing the London season, but Charles believes the country air will be so much better for Edmund. Oh! You must meet him.” She turned to the servant. “Do ask the nurse in as soon as she’s done changing the child.”
“Yes, m’lady.” Tibbets curtsied and left the room.
“Won’t you sit down?” Beatrice offered coolly.
“Thank you. That gown . . . Rather severe, is it not? Yet it fits you somehow.”
“I think so.” Bea liked the high-necked frock in a color she thought of as storm grey.
“I would have called sooner,” Katherine chatted on, filling the silence. “But first I had my recovery, of course, and then this dreadful winter. Did you not find it so? I do detest traveling in inclement weather. The roads get so rough and rutted. How glad I am that spring is here at last and I can be out calling again.”
Tibbets returned a moment later with a tall horse-faced woman holding a chubby baby in a satin gown. The nurse bobbed a curtsy, then carried the child to his mother and placed him in her outstretched arms.
Katherine, smile bright, turned the baby around to face them.
“This is
our Edmund. Is he not the image of Mr. Harris?”
Bea stared. For a fleeting moment, she saw Charlotte in the child’s features, his upturned nose and fine brows above large brown eyes. Was she really feeling so guilty about her? Or missing her so keenly? The little boy smiled a toothless grin in Bea’s direction. She did not return the gesture.
“He looks like Charlotte,” her father said dully, staring too. He’d said her name, as he’d vowed not to.
“You mean Charles, Father, surely,” Bea rushed to correct.
“Oh, yes, yes. Charles. The names are so very similar. I meant to name my son Charles if I’d had one.”
Katherine’s brows were furrowed as she looked from one to the other.
From the corner of her eye, Bea noticed the ungainly nurse staring at her from across the room, where she stood in wait behind her mistress. Why had Katherine even brought the sorry creature?
“Speaking of Charlotte . . .” Katherine began.
“We were not,” Bea said. “In fact we prefer other subjects.”
“Yes, do tell us about Fawnwell,” Father added. “Is all as it once was? Before the fire, I mean.”
Katherine stilled, only her eyes moving between them, scrutinizing. She opened her mouth, closed it, and changed tack.
“Beatrice, Charles and I are thinking of hosting a house party this summer to celebrate the restoration of Fawnwell, and of course, to introduce Edmund. We are considering inviting many of our London friends down, many eligible . . . persons you might enjoy meeting. Has that any appeal for you?”
Beatrice shrugged. “Perhaps.” Why is that nurse still staring at me?
“And you, Uncle, certainly you would not mind a little variety in society? A chance to debate theology with like-minded men of rank?”
Bea did not miss the patronizing choice of words, but Father did, and beamed.
“I should not mind at all. Sounds grand. When is it to be?”
“Why, just as soon as you tell me what I wish to know.”
Wet nurses are unfortunately a necessary evil. Without them the children
Lady of Milkweed Manor Page 19
