Was this the crying she had heard those other nights? Not likely this far from her room. She moved to the first room of sleeping infants. One was crying, and another awoke to join the first, the cries mingling in an ear-piercing refrain. Charlotte stepped back into the hall and saw a mobcapped Mrs. Krebs struggling to fix a feeding tube with sleep-smeared eyes. “Go and fetch Ruthie for me, will you, Charlotte? It’s her turn. Second door on the right.”
Charlotte soon returned with the sleepy red-haired woman, who sat down and began nursing the two crying infants. Charlotte walked down the row of cribs and saw another infant lying awake, a boy according to the small card with the child’s sex and date of admission pinned to the side of the crib. Occasionally a card contained a name, if the child had been given one, but it was rare. This little boy lay on his back, looking around the room peacefully, taking in the commotion with calm ease. Charlotte paused, looking down at the child, his eyes bright in the candlelight.
Mrs. Krebs sighed. “Fixed the feeder up for nothing, looks like. Usually when one cries a whole choir wake with it. But only two so far, and Ruthie can manage a pair on her own.”
“Would you mind if I fed this one?” Charlotte asked quietly.
“Isn’t fussing.”
“I know, but he’s awake and so am I.”
“Suit yourself.” Mrs. Krebs set the feeding tube on the table and left the room.
Charlotte picked up the swaddled infant, who seemed light as a kitten in her arms. She sat with him in the rocking chair nearest the table, and he immediately turned toward her, molding himself to her body. At first she pulled away, back pressed hard against the chair, feeling embarrassed as the infant rooted against her nightdress. She looked around, feeling guilty, though of what she wasn’t sure. But no one was watching. Ruthie was facing the other direction and seemed to have nodded off even while she nursed, and Mrs. Krebs had taken herself back to bed.
Charlotte relaxed and allowed herself to draw the infant close. She felt a sharp longing, and wished she could nurse this little one. She ran a finger along his smooth cheek and he turned toward it, taking its tip between his lips. The force of the suction was surprisingly strong. He took her finger farther in until she felt the wet ridges of the roof of his mouth and his tongue tugging along the underside of her finger. She wondered how it would feel, if it would hurt or be pleasant, when she finally nursed her own child.
“You’ll have to settle for goat’s milk tonight,” Charlotte whispered. She pulled her finger from his mouth with a slick popping noise and picked up the feeding tube from the nearby table. She adjusted it, lowering the open end toward the baby’s mouth.
“Here you are,” she murmured and smiled when the little one began drinking the milk in earnest.
“If you were my handsome boy, I would not let you out of my sight.” She closed her eyes as she fed the baby.Dear God in heaven,she silently prayed,please watch over this dear, helpless child.
Daniel Taylor stood in the darkness, watching Charlotte. Unable to return to sleep after a trying day and worse evening, he had roamed the manor’s corridors. As he passed through the quiet ward, he had been surprised to see her there, especially at this hour. Aware of his hasty dress and need of a wash and shave, he did not make his presence known. He had seen many women hand feed or nurse infants over the years—from beautiful young girls to ancient nuns—why did he feel so oddly transfixed by the sight of Charlotte Lamb feeding a foundling?
Milkweeds are considered field pests, hard to eradicate and a threat to
stock. But many people would just as soon have a patch of milkweed... .
The French, in fact, imported them to their gardens in the 19th century.
—JACKSANDERS,THESECRETS OFWILDFLOWERS
CHAPTER8
Daniel Taylor helped his father into his Sunday coat, dusting off, then smoothing the shoulders and sleeves. His hands lingered a moment on his father’s upper arms. When had he become so slight? He felt the tremor running through the older man’s body and bit his lip. Today was no day for lectures.
“Come now, Father. Wash a bit and then we’ll go.”
John Taylor appeared far older than his fifty-five years as he hobbled over to the washbasin and bent low to wash his hands and face.
“Give your mouth a rinse as well.”
His father paused in his ablutions, then did as he was bid. When he finished he said quietly, “Perhaps I ought to stay in this morning.”
“No, Father. You know the service does you good.”
“I’m not sure I’m feeling up to it.”
Daniel sighed quietly. He was torn between the temptation to feel relieved and go alone, knowing his association with his father would not help him build a thriving practice—at least not among those who could pay—and, of course, guilt at such a thought. He looked at his father, sitting on the edge of his bed now, and felt a combination of feelings too complicated to separate: mild revulsion, pity, anger, protectiveness, love.
“Let’s see,” Daniel began softly, stepping close to his father and lifting his chin gently, looking into his aging face. His eyes, though tired, were not bloodshot. He then laid his wrist against his father’s creased forehead. Warm but not feverish. From this angle above him, he noticed how thin his father’s hair was becoming on top and how several white tufts stood in disarray. Carefully, he smoothed down the errant hair, as methodically as if he were performing some important medical procedure.
“There now. The picture of health and decorum.”
John Taylor’s grin was bleak. “If only that were true, eh, my boy?”
“Come now, Father, we do not wish to be late.”
