But no, I do not want you to risk condemnation from my father. Did he not threaten to prune you from the family tree along with me? One of us cut off is more than sufficient ... .
Seeing Charlotte’s door ajar, Daniel looked in and saw her writing furiously at the little desk in the corner. She laid down the quill only long enough to swipe at the tears on her cheeks, then picked up the pen and dipped it again. In truth, he was surprised to see her out of bed. When he had last seen her the day before, she had seemed almost incapable of movement, of thought beyond her grief. It reminded him pitiably of his own dear Lizette, and the thought of Charlotte sinking in similar fashion made him feel physically ill. He wondered to whom she was writing. Had Charlotte already changed her mind—was she writing to Mr. Harris?
Suddenly, Charlotte dropped her quill and sat very still. He was just about to make his presence known and step in to speak with her when she picked up the single sheet and crumpled it into a small ball. Her expression was bleak. She laid her head on her arms on the desk and gave way to great shoulder-shaking sobs. He longed to rush to her, to comfort her, but he knew that such an action would be not only inappropriate but also futile. No man could ease a pain as tormenting as this. Only time and only God. Still, he wished there was something he might do.
At that moment, the tall nurse, Sally Mitchell, walked into the passage and he gestured her over. He nodded his head toward the room and Sally followed his gaze. Pausing only long enough to give him a grim nod, she hurried into the room.
“There, there, love ...” he heard her murmur.
Daniel decided then and there, if ever he could do some good for Sally Mitchell, he would.
After Charlotte had finally cried herself into a grief-exhausted slumber that night, she was awakened by screaming from down the corridor. The screams were familiar and yet different. Dr. Taylor’s French wife, yes, but this time crying out with the regularity of labour pains. Charlotte turned over in bed, feeling aware but dulled in her senses. She couldn’t bear to give too much thought to another baby at the moment.
Then she heard the matron barking orders and people rushing about in the corridor. Feeling a sudden pull, Charlotte rolled back over and climbed out of bed. She put on her dressing gown and stockings and opened her door, peering out. Lamps were lit and shadows and echoes danced off the walls as people ran past on their way above stairs.
Gibbs marched past, clean linens in her arms.
“Gibbs, what is happening?”
The normally aloof, efficient assistant had been unusually warm and consolatory toward Charlotte since the news of Charlotte’s loss.
“The doctor’s got hisself a little girl,” Gibbs said matter-of-factly. “But the missus ... Oh, Miss Smith, she is utterly changed. I wouldn’t have known her! I best get back up there. Go to sleep, Miss Smith. Nothing you can do.”
Of course there was nothing she could do. Even so, and not knowing why she did, Charlotte made her way to the servants’ stairway at the end of the corridor, as she had on those other nights that now seemed so long ago. She walked as one sleeping, without aid or need of a light, knowing the way well enough by now. She felt her way up the stairs and cautiously pushed the top door open.
From here, the screaming was even louder. And now came the clamor of things being thrown and smashed as well.
Charlotte winced.
“Take eet away from me!” the woman cried in her accented English.
Charlotte took a few tentative steps down the corridor. Mrs. Moorling suddenly emerged from Mrs. Taylor’s room, a bundle in her arms. Someone inside the room slammed the door shut behind her.
Charlotte walked closer and, by the light of the oil lamp, saw a long angry scratch on the matron’s cheek. Her brown hair had come all but loosed from its knot.
“Mrs. Moorling?”
“Oh, Charlotte!”
“Are you all right?”
“I will be.”
From behind the closed door, Dr. Taylor barked out, “Bring the restraining device—hurry!”
Mrs. Moorling’s flushed face grew even more strained. She took a step closer to Charlotte and thrust the baby toward her. Charlotte shrank back and opened her mouth to protest. Then she caught a glimpse of the little face, clearly resembling Daniel, just as her own son resembled his father. Had God planned it thusly—designed to garner paternal support? She accepted the baby into her arms and Mrs. Moorling ran toward the main stairs.
Charlotte stood there, staring down at the tiny infant whose eyes were wide open, looking at her. Then the babe began nuzzling her, instinctively looking to nurse. Charlotte’s pent-up milk let down in response. She looked down at the front of her wet dressing gown in growing horror. Then another voice startled her. Mobcapped Mrs. Krebs had come up the stairs and was striding toward her in the same militant style of Mrs. Moorling.
“The babe, is she all right?”
“Yes. Mrs. Moorling gave her to me. Here.” Charlotte started to hand the baby over to Mrs. Krebs but then pulled the infant back against herself to cover the mortifying stains.
“I am ... forgive me. I did not mean to ...” Charlotte stammered. “She cried and it just happened.”
“Perfectly natural. Do nurse her for me. There’s a love. I’ve got me hands full now.”
“But ... I cannot. I should not.”
