“I’m sure you are fine.”
“No. I am not.”
When Charlotte next glanced up from Crispin’s fuzz-covered head, she was stunned to see that Mrs. Henshaw had unfastened the nursing panel of her gown. Charlotte glimpsed dark purple bruises before the young woman closed the panel again. Charlotte’s shock was replaced by compassion.
“Oh, you poor dear! No wonder you cannot nurse Crispin. How painful that must be!”
“The physician thinks I may have some infection. All I know is that I cry out in pain when I try to nurse my son. Crispin starts crying then, too, and Mr. Henshaw starts shouting.”
Charlotte shook her head in pity.
“I do not blame him,” Mrs. Henshaw said. “What kind of woman cannot nurse her own child? He says his own mother nursed him, and he would not have his son farmed out to some crude, greedy peasant. Oh! Forgive me, I did not mean you—”
“It’s all right. I have heard such opinions before. You know, you are not the only woman to have trouble, Mrs. Henshaw.”
“Please. Call me Georgiana.”
“Very well, Georgiana. And you may call me Charlotte.”
“Thank you.”
“I have seen that once before. At the lying-in hospital.”
“You have? Is it curable?”
“Of course it is. I shall nurse Crispin for you for a few days while you heal. It appears that he has not been latching on properly.” Georgiana lowered her head and Charlotte hastened to add, “But how would you know if no one showed you? I realize women have been doing this since creation, but it does not always come as naturally as one might think.”
Georgiana attempted a smile. What a lovely, gentle expression she had. Charlotte liked Georgiana Henshaw very much, felt nearly as maternal toward her as she did toward little Crispin. Her husband, however—she’d prefer to have as few dealings with him as possible.
“My own mother is gone, I’m afraid,” Georgiana said wistfully.
“As is mine.”
“I have one sister. But she is far off in Newcastle. Have you a sister?”
“Yes. But she is far away from me as well.”
[Milkweed] has also been used in ancient times
to poison arrows. It also induces vomiting in birds
that eat the Monarch butterfly.
—JACKSANDERS, THESECRETS OFWILDFLOWERS
CHAPTER28
His wife vomited daintily into the basin, then wiped her mouth with a lace handkerchief. It was a graceful act, nearly ladylike. At least until she swore.
“What is wrong?” Daniel asked.
“Nothing. I am only sick of this foul English food.”
“Are you all right now?”
“Oui—maintenant. Why will Mrs. Beebe not allow Marie to cook our meals? If I must eat that wretched cabbage fried in mutton fat one more time, I shall spew out my soul.”
He chuckled and helped her to her feet.
