“Sixteen.”
“I quite agree.”
“This is only a letter from my dear aunt. I’m to stay with her the month of August, and I long for it. I am reading what she says we shall do and whom we shall likely see ... all the while pretending to readthisto please my father. Do you think me very wicked?”
“Never, Miss Lamb.”
“Father would. He says if we are all very good, and pray hard, Mother will get better. Do you think it true?”
“It’s certainly not fair.”
“Fair?”
“For your father to put that responsibility on you. Forgive me, I mean no disrespect, but do you really think God works that way? If we do the things we ought, He’ll preserve those we hold dear, but if we forget or neglect our duty, He’ll bring down calamity upon us and those we love?”
“I think perhaps you need to read the Old Testament more often.”
“Perhaps you are right. But I prefer the New.”
“Except for the Proverbs and most desperate of Psalms?” He smiled, “And that other book, which shall remain nameless.”
Now Daniel became aware of the congregation standing around him and quickly joined them, glad to rise from the hard bench. He felt himself smile again at the memory, a smile quite out of place with the serious benediction.
That night, Charlotte dreamt that Dr. Webb was again listening to her mother’s heart. And, as she remembered him doing before, he asked her if she would like to listen as well. Smiling, Charlotte climbed up onto the bed, returning her mother’s serene smile, and laid her head against her mother’s chest. But her mother’s smile soon faded. Try as she might, Charlotte could not hear the heartbeat.
“Do you not hear it?” Dr. Webb demanded sternly.
“No,” Charlotte cried. “I cannot.”
It was her fault. If only she could position her head correctly, find the right spot to listen, if only she could hear it ... but she could not, and so it beat no longer.
Charlotte awoke, her own heart pounding, a nauseous dread filling her body as the images and cloak of guilt filled her mind. The images soon faded, but that familiar, nauseating guilt remained. It expanded, accompanied now by new pressure in her abdomen, a pressure which soon grew into pain.
Charlotte rose gingerly and removed her nightclothes to dress for the day—and that was when she saw the small, dark red stain.
On shaky legs, she made her way to breakfast, ate little, and was soon sitting at the table with the other women, attempting to finish the blanket she was embroidering for her child. She found it difficult to concentrate. Then a second wave of pain struck.
At the urging of the other women, Charlotte made her way carefully to Mrs. Moorling’s office. When she had confided to the matron about the pains and the slight but frightful bleeding, Mrs. Moorling had immediately gone off in search of a physician to see her.
By now, Charlotte had been sitting in the office for a quarter hour or more, shifting on the hard chair, trying to get comfortable, rubbing her abdomen, hoping to somehow ease the tightness, the strange new pains.
Gibbs appeared in the doorway. “Dr. Preston has just arrived. He will see you directly.”
“Dr. Preston? Perhaps I could wait ... see how I feel tomorrow.”
“Miss Smith. If you are bleeding, you had better not waste time.”
“Is it so serious?”
The woman shrugged. “Can be.”
Charlotte felt sick. “Very well.”
Gibbs led her down the corridor, through the workroom, and to the examination room. She opened the door and announced without expression, “Miss Smith,” before stepping out and letting the door shut Charlotte into the room. Charlotte saw Dr. Preston straightening from a slouched position in the desk chair. He was a very handsome man, she could not deny. His clothes were rumpled, however, as was his hair—even though it was but midmorning. Had he slept in those clothes? She saw him lift the lid of a Smith & Co. tin and pop a “curiously strong” mint into his mouth. Charlotte found it ironic. She, who had grown up in a home that abstained from strong drink, might very well not have identified the odor, but the cure he had taken for it was a telltale sign. He smoothed down each side of his moustache before rising. It was not a dandy’s gesture, she judged, merely a very tired-looking man trying to smooth on a professional facade. His next words, however, dispelled the image before it could fully form.
“Remove your frock, if you please.”
She felt her mouth drop open. “I beg your pardon.”
