The second time Daniel saw Charles Harris was the day Charlotte’s mother died. He remembered that day all too well.
Dr. Webb had been called away that morning to another patient’s home, so Daniel alone had attended Mrs. Lamb when she breathed her last. He had felt a heavy mixture of failure and grief, sharpened by the caved-in expression on Charlotte’s face. He had stepped forward, intending to take her in his arms, to try in some small way to comfort her, when Mr. Harris swept in. Harris immediately took Charlotte in his own arms, enfolding her in his greatcoat, which looked to Daniel at that moment very much like bats’ wings. The man whispered words of familiar comfort, as if it was the most natural thing in the world to hold her in his arms.
Unnoticed and unwanted, Daniel had silently let himself from the room.
A few days later, Daniel found Charlotte alone after her mother’s funeral. She was sitting in the garden. Not weeding or cutting anything, just sitting on a little lawn rug. He could remember but few times he had seen her idle. He cleared his throat, clutching his hands behind his back.
“I am terribly sorry, Miss Lamb.”
“Thank you.”
“We did everything we could for her. But there was so little—”
“Of course you did. We do not blame you.”
“I’m afraid your father does.”
“Father is wrong. We all knew it was coming. Even Mother knew. Father was nearly cruel with her when she tried to raise the subject. In any case, it is not you he blames.”
“What do you mean?”
“How do you think Mother got this ailment? Father told me himself she was never the same after birthing me. She was never able to bring another babe to term—her pain often left her too weak to stand. And here I was, forever tiring her with my questions and tempting her to the garden when she ought to have been indoors resting. She’d been ill so long, I guess I stopped believing just how ill she was. Or was too selfish to care. I should have made her rest. I should have prayed harder. I should have—”
“Charlotte, stop. You did all you could do. You loved her better than any daughter I’ve known, and it was perfectly obvious she loved you as well. There was nothing more you could do.”
“I want so badly to believe this isn’t my fault.”
“It isn’t your fault. Charlotte, it isn’t. Don’t take guilt upon yourself that isn’t yours to take. There’s too much of the deserved variety to go around.”
He paused long enough to fish out his handkerchief from his pocket and hand it down to her before continuing. “Why does it have to be anybody’s fault? I’m no theologian, but I don’t suppose it’s God’s fault either. Allowed it to happen, perhaps. Who’s to say? Our medical knowledge and skill is not all it could be—much of it still remains a frustrating mystery. Even if we deduce that some organ has quit functioning, and even if we understand why, that does not mean we have an inkling of how to repair the thing. There was nothing we knew to do for your mother that we did not do. And I don’t think God withheld a miracle because you did not read the book of Numbers.”
In the early nineteenth century a new term—“puerperal–insanity”—
would find its way into medical texts... . Women were
believed to be particularly at risk shortly after childbirth ...
but they could also become mad during pregnancy.
—DR.HILARYMARLAND,DANGEROUSMOTHERHOOD
CHAPTER11
The entry hall was empty as Charlotte walked through it, passing the manor’s main staircase. There was normally a chain strung from between the wall and banister, but at the moment it hung limply from the wall. She thought she heard voices above stairs and paused to listen. It was afternoon, and bright sunlight filled the hall from the high, unobstructed windows over the main door. There was nothing sinister about the setting this time, but still, when the cry came, chills coursed through Charlotte’s body—accompanied by pity for whatever poor creature had uttered it.
Charlotte put her hand on the banister and took a slow step up and then another.
Suddenly a male voice burst out from above, “Moorling! I’m waiting!” The voice startled her. It was Dr. Preston’s voice, angrier than usual. She shouldn’t have been surprised, she supposed. She knew Dr. Taylor was not usually on duty during the afternoons—that daytime hours were primarily the reign of Dr. Preston. Still for some reason it perplexed her to hear him up there. She had assumed that it was Dr. Taylor’s on-duty residence—and domain—alone.
She heard footsteps clicking across the marble of the ground floor and looked over the railing to see Mrs. Moorling approaching. She was carrying a tray laden with lances and glass vials, iodine and bandages. Charlotte recognized it immediately for what it was. A bloodletting tray. One of Dr. Webb’s colleagues had treated her mother with similar instruments over a course of days, and it had weakened her so badly that Dr. Webb forbade its use ever again.
Carefully balancing her tray, Mrs. Moorling had not yet seen Charlotte, but as soon as she reached the foot of the stairs and glanced up, her already drawn expression took on a sharp edge.
“May I ask what you are doing, Miss Smith?”
“I thought ... I heard voices.”
“Of course you did,” she snapped. “We have occasional patients on the upper floors as well. Did you not see the sign?”
