She smiled at him, then said imperiously, “Oh, you are the worst of the lot. Ice, they say. Distant. Impersonal. One girl compared your bedside manner to that of a man gutting fish.”
His brows rose. “Dreadfully sorry I asked.”
She regarded him a moment, then said tentatively, “You do seem changed. Though I suppose that is only natural after so many years.”
His expression became somber indeed. “If you had seen the things I have—death, piteous creatures, loved ones lost ...” He hesitated, seemingly adrift in thoughts too bleak to share. She guessed he was speaking of more than his medical duties alone, of losses infinitely more personal.
“Yes,” he continued, “perhaps I have distanced myself. Become harder.”
“Colder,” she added helpfully. “More aloof.”
“There are worse things.” He looked directly at her, and Charlotte ducked her head.
“Miss Lamb, I did not mean ... I was not referring to you, to your condition.”
And there he was again. The Mr. Taylor of old, teasing but reassuring, comforting her.
Charlotte kept her eyes lowered. “I confess when I first saw you here, I was quite mortified.”
“I can imagine.”
“I think now the worst of the shock has passed, I shall be glad to have a friendly face about.”
“A cold face, you mean.”
“One that improves upon acquaintance. Or in our case, reacquaintance.”
“I am glad to hear it.”
Charlotte suddenly had the disquieting thought that he might think her forward, so she asked, “Might I have the privilege of meeting Mrs. Taylor sometime?”
“Well, I ... I don’t think ...”
“Of course. Forgive me. I am in no position to be introduced to anyone. How foolish of me.”
“Miss Lamb, I—”
“It is Miss Smith for now. Good night, Dr. Taylor.”
She left the office and walked quickly down the passageway, embarrassment burning at her ears.Stupid girl, she remonstrated herself. She imagined Dr. Taylor saying to his wife,My dear, please meet the ruined Miss Charlotte Lamb. Can you believe I once admired her?
If the milk of a wet nurse could give a child a loud laugh
or a secretive disposition, what kind of influence
would be derived from the milk of a goat or a cow?
—JANETGOLDEN,A SOCIALHISTORY OFWETNURSING INAMERICA
CHAPTER5
The next few weeks passed slowly and Charlotte grew weary of stitching. She stood before the matron’s desk, feeling like a wayward schoolgirl.
“Mrs. Moorling. I wonder,” she began, “might I help in the foundling ward?”
The matron’s eyes narrowed with near suspicion. “Why?”
“Well, I ... I am sure sewing is no doubt beneficial. It is only that I thought ... well, with my own child on the way, some experience with infants might do me good.”
