“You are distraught, son. I understand. I know I have disappointed you. Truth is, I have disappointed myself. I have been weak—not the brother I should have been, not the father I should have been, and not the surgeon I should have been. . . .”
“Father . . .”
“But I have done some good. I have. Mothers who would have died, lived. Children too. That is why the Manor Home is so important. Promise me—keep the place going if you can. If not for me, for your poor aunt Audrey—God rest her soul.”
Daniel squeezed his eyes shut, the guilt pouring over him as it always did when his father mentioned Aunt Audrey—a woman Daniel had never known. His father’s sister had died as a young woman in a disreputable lying-in hospital. Until recent years the standards of care and cleanliness at such facilities meant fatalities were all too common. It was in his sister’s honor that John Taylor had joined forces with other surgeons, physicians, and charity groups to establish the Manor Home for Unwed Mothers in the first place. Of course that was before he fell into disrepute.
“The Manor is not going to close if I take a leave.”
“We cannot be sure. Did you not mention donations were down?”
“Yes, and expenses rising.” Daniel ran a weary hand over his face. “I shall see what I can do. Perhaps I can carry on at the Manor during the week and travel to the coast at the weekend.”
“Thank you, Daniel.” John Taylor’s hand trembled as he brought his teacup to his lips, then returned it to its saucer, untasted. “When my time comes, I can go thinking of the Manor Home and the lives saved there. May the good Lord forgive the rest. And you, Daniel. I pray you forgive me as well.”
A few days later, Daniel was disconcerted to find his father and Miss Lamb waiting for him in his study. “What is it?” he asked.
His father glanced at Charlotte. “Miss Lamb has some news she wishes to share.”
Daniel took in her anxious expression. She’s not leaving, I hope.
“I fear you will mind,” Charlotte began. “But I took the liberty of writing to my uncle—who is a solicitor—about the situation with Miss Marsden.”
“What?” Daniel’s relief that she wasn’t announcing her resignation was quickly replaced by anger.
“Forgive me, I know it was presumptuous.”
“Father, you were not to divulge—”
“Please,” Charlotte interrupted. “Allow me to explain.”
His father studied his hands, folded together in his lap as he sat. Daniel lifted his own hand, gesturing in irritated compliance for her to continue.
“Your father did not offer the information, Dr. Taylor. I asked for the man’s name, this Phillip Elton.”
Daniel groaned and shook his head.
“I thought the name was familiar but not for the reasons I guessed. In any case this man’s father, Lord Elton himself, has long been a friend to my aunt and uncle. It was his name I had heard spoken with fondness over the years. I have even dined with him at my uncle’s home on one or two occasions. However, this Phillip Elton is Lord Elton’s son, and my uncle has had to wrest him from trouble more than once.
“I wrote to my uncle to inquire—do not fret, I did not mention your names nor the details of the situation but only asked whether this Miss Marsden was known to him. My uncle has written back.” She lifted a letter she held in her hand. “In all truth, I wondered if he would, what with my father asking my aunt to cut off communications with me. But since I wrote with a ‘professional’ question, he thought it within his rights to reply. In any case, he assures me that not only is this woman no longer connected in any way to Phillip Elton nor Lord Elton himself, but that the Elton family has disowned the child she claims is his. They have severed all relationship with her. Beyond that, Phillip himself has had his privileges reduced and hasn’t the money to pay his club tab, let alone take anyone to court. So you see, the woman has no hold on either of you any longer.”
She smiled triumphantly—first at his father, who, Daniel noticed, did not meet her gaze, and then at him. Clearly, theirs was not the reaction she had expected.
“Perhaps my father forgot to mention that the woman’s allegations were not unfounded. He was guilty of negligence during the delivery of her child.”
Charlotte’s smile faded, but she did not answer.
“Yes. Father is very skilled in garnering sympathy but less so in staying sober. Had I not happened along when I did, the child might have died.”
“Daniel, I told you. I have not taken a drink since. It has been over a year. Will you never trust me again?”
Hands on hips, Daniel shook his head. “I don’t know, Father. I want to, but I just don’t know.”
Dr. Taylor arranged to take Lloyd Lodge for the months of May, June, and July. His wife and the servant Marie, a maid-of-all-work, journeyed to Shoreham a week earlier than the rest of the family to set up housekeeping.
Charlotte enjoyed those days, alone in the house much of the time with Anne and John Taylor. Aunt Tilney would not have approved had she known, but Charlotte felt not a moment’s unease in the kind man’s company. He treated her more like a daughter than a servant. And his gentle fondness was a warm salve that filled in the injured places, the jagged cracks in her heart, left there by her own father’s cold indifference.
And to his delight—and Charlotte’s—Anne grew quite attached to her grandfather during that time. His son, however, remained cool.
“I am sorry, Mr. Taylor,” she said to Daniel’s father one afternoon as they sat together in the sitting room during Anne’s nap. “It seems I have succeeded only in making things worse between you and your son.”
“Do not fret, my dear. I was touched by your efforts to help me. I know you acted with the best intentions. Daniel knows it, too, but is struggling to admit it. You see, he takes my failure quite personally. He resents that my disgrace has cast a pall on his reputation. I fear my son has always been overly sensitive to the criticism of others—real or perceived. I am sure he believes more censure has befallen him due to my failings than actually has. He has not the confidence some men do. I do not know why. Perhaps it has to do with his mother dying so young. Finding out his sole-remaining parent was fallible was a blow to him. I suppose it is always difficult for a child to realize his father’s flaws do not reflect on him. That he—or she—must make the best of the life God gave him.”
Charlotte felt tears sting her eyes but smiled at John Taylor nonetheless, knowing he could have little idea why his words affected her so.
“You will join us at the coast, will you not?” she asked.
“I do not believe I will. Daniel needs some time alone with his wife without his father hanging about. And I think I shall see what needs doing about the foundling ward. Mrs. Krebs will put me to work washing nappies if nothing else. Daniel cannot object to that.” He smiled warmly at her. “Especially not now, after what you have found out for us.”
When the week passed, they all stood in the entry hall, Charlotte holding Anne on her hip.
“I cannot change your mind, Father?” Daniel asked, picking up the last of the baggage to carry down to the waiting hansom.
“And who would water your gardens if I leave?” John Taylor bent his head to Anne’s eye level and rubbed her cheek. “Someone has to work around here.” He winked at Charlotte.
“Very well. I shall see you Monday week. Write or send a messenger if you need anything before. You have the directions?”
“Yes, I have everything I need. Do not worry about me, my boy. Just go and have a grand holiday—rest and rejuvenation for everyone, that’s what I prescribe. And I shall be praying for you all as well.”
“Thank you, Father.” Daniel walked out the door.
Charlotte stepped forward and offered the dear man her hand.
“We shall miss you, Anne and I.”
He took her hand in both of his. “And I shall miss you. But the summer will fly quickly, as it always does in soggy ol’ England, and
we shall all be together again soon.”
If only his words could be true.
Wet nurses earned twelve dollars a month, paid five dollars
for the care of their children, and netted an impressive seven dollars.
This was top dollar in the New York City servant market.
—H ARPER ’ S W EEKLY , 1857
CHAPTER 22
The seaside cottage Dr. Taylor had taken for the summer was a boxy Georgian of blond stone. From the village, where they had alighted the coach, they hired a boy with a pony cart to take them the rest of the way, across the Adur River bridge and west along the coast. It would have been a taxing walk with Anne and all their things. The road approached the cottage from the rear, and Charlotte could see neither beach nor sea as they walked up the cobbled path. The boy carried their baggage to the back porch, where Daniel paid him and waved him on his way. As Charlotte held Anne and waited quietly, she thought she heard the distant cry of gulls.
“We’re a hundred yards or so from the sea. You cannot see it from the cottage, but I understand it’s an easy walk down the hill.”
Daniel preceded her inside, dropping his medical case in the entry porch as he went. Taking a deep breath, Charlotte followed.
Mrs. Taylor seemed in good spirits and received Daniel and Anne warmly, taking the child and kissing her repeatedly. She offered a reserved but cordial greeting to Charlotte.
The French servant, Marie, led her upstairs, pointing out the rooms where the master and mistress would sleep, then preceded Charlotte up another set of stairs. Huffing and puffing, the woman pointed to two doors close to each other.
“For you and for ze nursery.”
Charlotte opened the first door and saw it led to a small but pleasant room with a narrow, canopied bed, dresser, and walls of white planking. A child’s room, she thought. Then she opened the nursery door and stepped inside, instantly noticing that it was much larger than her bedchamber. It was a lovely room with a white cradle made up with cheery pink bedding, two chests of drawers and two chairs, one of which was occupied by a doll and a stuffed rabbit.
“We are not to share, then?” Charlotte asked, wondering what to make of it. This room was certainly large enough to accommodate another bed.
“Non,” Marie answered haughtily. “Madame does not wish to bother you every time she wants to see her own baby.”
Charlotte raised her eyebrows. Perhaps it was only her accent, but the maid’s tone made Charlotte wonder if what she really meant was Madame did not wish to bother with her.
But Charlotte said only, “I see,” and forced herself to smile at the woman, who, had she been young or pretty, might have found easier, higher-paying work as a ladies’ maid—a post for which French women were in much demand. But Marie was neither. Charlotte wondered if this explained her sour and resentful disposition.
In short order, Charlotte established a daily routine. She nursed, bathed, and dressed Anne. Then, when the weather allowed, she bundled her up and took her for walks along the sea. Charlotte ate her meals with the servants: Marie and Mr. and Mrs. Beebe, who maintained the place for its absentee owners and were the doting grandparents to six children who lived nearby. Elderly Mr. Beebe took care of the simple grounds and what repairs he could, though judging by the worn condition of the place, he was no longer equal to the task. Mrs. Beebe, a few years his junior, was a decent, no-nonsense woman who cooked and did basic cleaning, though she made it clear she expected Marie to help with the housework and laundry while they lodged there.
On her first Sunday in Shoreham, Charlotte nursed Anne and handed her off to the Taylors as they prepared to leave for church, dressed in their finest clothes. The Taylors would drive together in the gig kept at Lloyd Lodge for tenants’ use. Charlotte also planned to attend services, but she would go on foot. Together with Mr. and Mrs. Beebe, she walked across the bridge to the Old Shoreham Church.
When they arrived, she saw the Taylors already seated near the front of the church. Charlotte sat near the back, next to Mrs. Beebe, whose head kept lolling against Charlotte’s shoulder during the long sermon. At one such moment, she noticed a broad-shouldered young man across the aisle, looking her way. He was a head taller than anyone else in the building and had a strong, square face and long nose. His light brown hair was short and tousled. He was not handsome, Charlotte decided, but was a very pleasant-looking young man. He looked from Charlotte to Mrs. Beebe in repose, and then back at Charlotte, smiling at her in amused empathy. It was a boyish, friendly expression, and Charlotte smiled in return.
After the service, when they had shaken the curate’s hand and walked out of the church a dozen paces behind the tall man, Charlotte asked Mrs. Beebe, “Do you know that young man?”
Mrs. Beebe followed her gaze. “Can’t say I’m surprised you’d notice him, Miss Charlotte. He does stand out in a crowd.”
“Indeed.”
“His name’s Thomas Cox. His family lives up coast from us a bit. One of his younger sisters is at school with our granddaughters.”
“Are his sisters tall as well?”
“No. He’s the biggest of the lot. But a gentler soul you’ll never find. Shall I introduce you, Miss Charlotte?”
“Oh, no. I only wondered.” Charlotte changed the subject, lest Mrs. Beebe misinterpret her interest as something it was not. “And what will you and Mr. Beebe do on your Sabbath day of rest?”
“We’re to dine with my daughter and her husband. They’re the ones with the four little girls. It’s my son in Worthing what’s got the two older boys. We’ll see them Sunday week.”
“How blessed you are to have your family so close at hand.”
“Indeed, Miss Charlotte. And close in heart.” The woman surprised Charlotte by reaching out and squeezing her hand. “Someday you will as well, my dear.”
A few days later, Charlotte borrowed Mr. Beebe’s pride and joy—the baby carriage he had built for his own grandchildren. It was much lighter and simplier than the large, ornamental conveyances afforded by only the very rich. His was fashioned after the invalid chairs he had once seen in the spa town of Bath, with a hood and push-handle. Promising to be careful, Charlotte put Anne securely inside, and together they strolled along the sea. The large wheels of the carriage turned more easily on the water-worn pebbles of the shingle beach than they likely would have on sand. Enjoying the breeze and the rhythmic roar of the waves, Charlotte walked for nearly a mile, she reckoned, passing the rooftops of several houses on the ridge as she did. In the sky ahead, she saw a kite flying. The sight cheered her somehow, the colorful diamond, soaring on a wind. She picked up her pace, hoping to catch sight of the child flyer.
She soon realized the flyer was not on the beach but up on the ridge, hidden from view. As she passed a path leading up to the nearest house, the kite came crashing down beside her. So startled was Charlotte that she shoved the carriage to the side too quickly and it struck a large stone. She heard something snap.
Oh no . . .
Charlotte sunk to her haunches between the injured carriage and the fallen kite and almost immediately heard feet crunching over the pebbles toward her.
Looking up, she saw a boy of nine or ten years, spool of thread in hand, brown curls flopping up and down on his head as he ran.
“I didn’t brain you, did I?” the child called, worried.
“No. Not quite.” Charlotte smiled, and as the child stepped closer she realized it was not a boy after all, but a girl with hair cropped short around her face and dressed in boys’ trousers.
“When I saw you down on the ground like that, I thought I must have.”
“I was just examining this wheel. I seem to have knocked it from its, em, rod there.”
“Axle.”
“Right.”
The girl peeked beneath the carriage hood to look at Anne. “What’s your baby’s name?”
“Her name is Anne. But she isn’t mine. I’m her nurse.”
“She’s lovely.�
��
“As are you. I like your hair.” Charlotte looked at the loose, springy curls, much like her own hair would be, she guessed, if she cut it that length. “Must be less fuss short.”
“That’s what Mother says. Keeps all our hair short.”
“All?”
“My sisters and brothers. I have three of each.”
“I see. Shall I help get your kite back up?”
“Do you know how to fly a kite?”
“No. My mother and I tried once, but there was insufficient wind.”
“Plenty today.”
“What shall I do?”
“Well, if you’ll hold the kite while I take out the slack and start running . . .”
Charlotte was already picking up the kite and flicked a piece of lichen from it.
Over her shoulder, the girl called, “Just let it go when I say.”
Charlotte saluted. “Aye, aye.”
The girl ran, the string grew taut, the girl shouted, and Charlotte released the kite. It struggled low to the ground for several seconds, then wavered. Just when she feared it would crash to the rocks, it caught the wind and leapt up. It rose higher and higher in the sky, level with the ridge, then beyond. It danced in the currents and reached higher still, straining at its tether. Watching the bright thing fly, Charlotte felt unexpected tears prick her eyes.
“Woo-hoo, Lizzy, that’s the way!” A man stood high on the ridge, his fist and face raised to the sky. The girl’s father, she assumed.
A few moments later, there came the man bounding down the steep hill, a broad smile on his face. He was younger than she would have expected. Wait, she recognized the man—the very tall man.
“Hallo there,” he called.
She waited until he jogged closer. “Hello. I was just admiring your little flyer there.”
“That’s Lizzy, my sister. I’m Thomas Cox.”
“Charlotte Lamb. I believe I saw you at church Sunday last.”
Lady of Milkweed Manor Page 22
