“Yes, well, we have letters from a physician and the matron testifying to her character on those accounts,” Mr. Harris said dismissively.
“Indeed. ‘She must likewise be chaste.’ Miss Mitchell, are you married?”
“No, sir.”
“‘She must not desire the company of her husband or strange men, because carnal copulation troubleth the blood, and so by consequence the milk.’”
Sally blushed once more, and again Katherine’s hand went to her temple.
“Yes, yes.” Mr. Harris rose, agitated. “Mr. Palmer, do try and remember there is a lady in the room.”
“I am only trying to determine if this woman is a suitable choice.”
“I understand that. And what is your conclusion?”
“Well, I have yet to examine her breasts or her milk for the correct color and consistency ...”
Charles Harris lowered his head and bit out, “And how long does that require?”
“Not long. For the milk, I shall have the nurse express a small quantity onto a looking glass. It should be pure white, have a sweet smell, and be neither too thick nor too thin.”
“Then get on with it, man.” Mr. Harris sat back down.
The accoucheur and Sally disappeared behind a curtained partition, placed there for this use.
Even from her position of modest safety, Charlotte felt her heart pound, her face and neck heat at the thought of what poor Sally must be enduring on the other side of that partition. The only sounds were the rustling of fabric and an occasional murmur of “Mmm-hmm ...” from Mr. Palmer.
Five minutes later the man reappeared, a square of glass in his hand. He tilted it gently from side to side. “The milk flows in a leisurely fashion, not too watery, nor too thick.”
“So?”
“She will do,” Hugh Palmer announced. “The height and crooked teeth are not ideal, but overall an acceptable specimen.”
Stepping back into view, Sally beamed at the words, as though they were the finest compliment a woman could receive.
Charlotte sat on the garden bench, a swaddled Anne Taylor asleep in her arms. She remembered how her mother believed fresh air and sunshine were as important as mother’s milk for a child. Dr. Taylor came out the side door and waved to her. She tucked the child into the handled basket beside her and rose as he approached.
“Miss Lamb, may I say you look like a woman who has borne many a child.”
She looked at him quickly, then away, her hand moving self-consciously to her midriff, still somewhat rounded.
Dr. Taylor’s pale cheeks turned pink beneath the sandy stubble.
“What I mean to say is ... you look quite the experienced... . That is, quite ... as if you know what you are doing.” He rubbed his eyebrows with thumb and forefinger. “Though I obviously do not.”
Charlotte wondered why he seemed so nervous.
“Do you still plan to depart for Crawley soon?” he asked.
“Yes. Unless I hear otherwise from my aunt.”
Hands behind his back, he studied the earth. “Miss Lamb, I wonder if you might consider another course.” He cleared his throat. “That is, I do not suppose you would do me the honor of, um ...”
He left off and began again. “You see, I’m afraid I know not when my wife will be sufficiently recovered to return home. I should only hope it will be soon. But, as my wife must, I fear, reside here longer, I would be eternally obliged ... Of course I shall understand completely if you refuse. I know it is terribly presumptuous, that you no doubt would rather be rid of this whole business forever, but ...”
Charlotte furrowed her brow, trying to follow his rambling. Then she understood. He was asking her to continue on as his daughter’s nurse. She recalled Sally’s examination and interview with humiliating clarity. She swallowed.
“But any of the women here would be happy to oblige. I do not ... That is, why would you ask me?”
