“No, do not be foolish. I meant no offense, Miss Lamb. I am simply a mother concerned for her child. You understand,non?” Suddenly the woman’s face brightened. “Of course you must stay. Clearly my daughter needs you, and who knows how long it would take to find another suitable nurse? Please. Consider this your home. For as long as Annette needs you.”
She said it graciously, but Charlotte did not miss the message. Accented or not, her English was skilled ... and pointed.
And every one knowes how hard a thing it is,
to finde a good [nurse], because they have been
so often beguiled, and deceived therein.
—JAMESGUILLEMEAU,CHILDBIRTH OR
THEHAPPYDELIVERIE OFWOMEN
CHAPTER23
Sitting in the nursery at Fawnwell, Sally held little Edmund close, studying the shape of his nose, his brows, his mouth. “The image of yer mum, you are,” she cooed, running a finger over his smooth cheek.
“What did you say?”
Sally looked up, startled. She hadn’t heard the mistress, but there she stood, looking sternly down at her.
“Nothing, m’lady,” Sally said, panicked. Had she broken her promise so quickly? What would become of her little charge ... of herself?
“I heard you. Repeat what you said,” Lady Katherine demanded imperiously.
“I ... I only meant ...” Sally stammered.
“You said he looked like his mother,” Lady Katherine supplied.
Sally lowered her head, waiting for the hot words to rain down.
Instead the mistress took a step closer. “Between you and me, I quite agree.”
Sally looked up at her, trying to discern the meaning, the mood behind Lady Katherine’s pensive expression.
“Do you?” she asked weakly.
“Yes. I always make a point to say how much he resembles his father—I think it wise to offer such comments to build a man’s esteem, his bond with his offspring.”
“Oh ...” Sally whispered, still not at all sure what the woman was saying.
“Still, I do see hints of myself in his features. The arch of his brows, the coloring of his fair skin ...”
“Aye ...” Sally murmured, slipping back to a word Charlotte had advised her not to use. Still, she thought Charlotte would not mind, considering her secret, it appeared, was still safe.
Sally looked with wide eyes around Chequers, Doddington’s crowded, noisy inn. Through the haze of smoke from many pipes and the inn’s fireplace, she took in the tables ringed by men drinking ale and laughing. She felt out of place, sitting there with her new friend, the two of them the only women in the place, save for the innkeeper’s wife.
She’d met Mary Poole when she’d been out walking with Edmund. Mary worked as a nurse for the Whiteman family down the road, in a house that lay between her master’s estate and the village itself.
“Your first night out?” Mary said, aghast. “Sally girl, you must make your conditions known.”
“Conditions?”
“Conditions of employment. ’Tisn’t right they shouldn’t give you a night out each week.”
“But I need to be on hand to nurse the child. ’Tisn’t anyone else to do it.”
“Aw, he’s not going to starve in a few hours, now, is he?”
