Charlotte had hoped to arrange such a meeting but was a bit bewildered at how it had all come about so quickly. And with so much enthusiasm on the part of Mrs. Taylor.
Since Marie took her half-day on Sunday, Charlotte sat at the work table with Mrs. Beebe that afternoon, helping her arrange buns, biscuits, and small cakes on a silver plate. Thomas, still wearing his Sunday suit, knocked on the kitchen door, hat in hand. Rising, Mrs. Beebe wiped her hands on her apron and opened the door for him.
“Hello there, Thomas.”
“Mrs. Beebe.”
“I half expected you to come ’round to the front door.”
“And when have I ever?”
She returned to her work,tskingher tongue against the roof of her mouth. “Taking tea with the tenants. My, aren’t we rising in the world.”
“Now, now, Mrs. Beebe, you know I am only here for your apple tart.”
Mr. Beebe, drinking tea at the three-legged chop block, winked at him. “I figgered that was the way of it. Any time to help me with the hedges this week?”
“Would Tuesday suit?”
“That it would. Any time before two or after three.”
Mrs. Beebe shook her head. “Heaven forbid you should interrupt the old man’s nap.” She smiled begrudgingly at her husband, then nodded to Thomas. “Well, then, off with you into the parlor. But don’t expect me to call you ‘sir.’”
“I wouldn’t know who you were addressin’ if you did.”
Mrs. Beebe took his hat from him, then swatted his backside with it as he passed through the kitchen door.
Mrs. Taylor insisted that Charlotte join them for tea, which was a first. In many ways, Charlotte would have preferred to stay in the kitchen with the Beebes. But Anne was still napping and she had no excuse to decline. Besides, she would enjoy the time with Thomas and looked forward to witnessing his discussion with Dr. Taylor firsthand.
As she had imagined, the two had a great deal to talk about. Dr. Taylor gladly told him all about the medical uses for milkweed—as well as costmary, foxglove, wood sorrel, comfrey, candytuft, and several other plants.
Thomas asked question after question, and Dr. Taylor never seemed to tire of answering. Mrs. Taylor, however, tired of the conversation and soon rose and excused herself, saying not to get up, she would just go check on Anne.
Charlotte relaxed in Mrs. Taylor’s absence, knowing how closely the woman had been observing her and Thomas during the afternoon.
At one point, Charlotte interjected, “Tell Dr. Taylor about the poultices you made for your mother.”
Thomas reddened, embarrassed, but described the herbs and method he had used.
“Very well done,” Dr. Taylor said. “I could not have prescribed better.”
Thomas beamed with pleasure.
Two hours later, the men parted, shaking hands. Under his arm, Thomas carried two books that Dr. Taylor insisted he borrow.
“That’s quite a young man,” he said to Charlotte as the two stood near one another, watching from the window as Thomas walked away down the path.
“Yes,” Charlotte agreed.
Feeling his gaze on her profile, she added, “Though not so young, really. Only four years or so younger than you yourself.”
“Really? Feels like more. Some days I feel quite ancient.”
At week’s end, Lizette Taylor insisted Charlotte take the morning off—walk into the village or visit that “très grandfriend of yours.” She smiled meaningfully and Charlotte felt the need to correct her.
“He is not my particular friend.”
“Non? Tant pis.”
