“Not in so many words, but yes, I did inquire of his dealings with her.”
“And how did he respond?”
“Perhaps I had better not repeat it... .”
“I insist. What did he say?”
“It shames me to speak of it.” Still, the older man went on. “He said he was not altogether surprised at Charlotte’s ‘troubles,’ that he saw her being very familiar with more than one man on several occasions.”
“He said that?”
“Well, you know how he talks, all hints and innuendo and you didn’t hear it from me.”
“Insolent fool!”
“You do not think it the truth? The evidence certainly bears him out.”
“I am afraid my nephew has motives of his own that no doubt colored his report.”
“Have you never seen her cavorting with men?”
Charles hesitated, and the old man set his face bitterly.
“No, my friend,” Charles hurried on. “You mustn’t think the worst of Charlotte. I have never seen her act in any untoward manner with anyone.”
“Then who was it, man? Have you any idea?”
Charles sighed and shook his head. “I am so sorry. If there was anything I could do, I would do it. You know I would.”
“Of course, of course. You have your own future to think of. You don’t suppose there is any hope of convincing young Bentley to redirect ...”
“I am afraid not. Not any longer. Has he ... made any offer that you know of?”
“No. Though Beatrice seems nearly to be holding her breath in hopes of one.”
The name of the Milkweed, Asclepias, comes from the
Greek god Aeskulap, the god of healing.
—FLOWERESSENCESOCIETY
CHAPTER7
Through a grated window in the foundling ward door, Daniel Taylor watched Miss Lamb. She was standing alone in the tangled garden behind the manor, and he couldn’t help but remember her in a garden far more grand. She had often been there when he’d come with Dr. Webb to call on her mother.
He had spent a few years in Doddington as an apprentice to Dr. Webb before he’d gone off to the University of Edinburgh to complete his studies. He’d enjoyed his time in Kent and had a great deal of respect for Dr. Webb, who seemed never to tire of visiting patients, consoling families, and doling out physic and other remedies as needed.
Mrs. Lillian Lamb was one of the patients he visited most frequently. In truth there seemed little the good man could do for her, though Webb never said as much. Mrs. Lamb was a lovely, serene woman who seemed more concerned with making them welcome and comfortable than with her own prognosis. It was the Reverend Mr. Lamb who insisted on such regular visits. He seemed quite convinced his wife would “be her bonny old self one day soon, now that you’re here.” Daniel had both admired and feared his optimism.
As was often the case with female patients, Dr. Webb shooed his apprentice from the room soon after the preliminary pleasantries were dispatched and the physical examination commenced. Dismissed and with nothing to occupy him, Daniel would poke through the many books in the vicarage library or wander through the modest grounds or even into the more sprawling expanse of the great estate abutting the churchyard. Fawnwell, he believed the estate was called. But for its more modest size, the Lambs’ garden was among the finest he’d seen, and he knew from his pleasantries with Mrs. Lamb that gardening was her dearest pastime. Evidently her younger daughter shared this enthusiasm.
On one of these occasions Charlotte, who must have been fourteen or fifteen at the time, hailed him from where she stood in the garden. Dropping the shears into her basket, she ran toward him, hand atop her bonnet to keep it in place.
“Mr. Taylor,” she panted, out of breath, “there you are. And how fares my mother today?”
“Better, I think. And you? I trust you are well?”
“Yes, very, I thank you.” Charlotte searched the lawn behind him. “And where is Dr. Webb?”
