“I am very aware of that Aunt. Painfully aware. I know this will not bring my son back, if you fear I am suffering from that misapprehension. But this little girl needs me.”
“No. She does not. Any of a dozen women in this place could care for her needs.”
“But who will care for mine?”
“God will.”
“I believe that, Aunt, I do—or I would be in that pit already. But I cannot hold God, smell or caress God. His cries do not drown out my own as hers do. She gives me a reason to get out of bed, to keep living, for today, for a little while longer.”
“There are other ways to cope.”
“How do you know? Forgive me, but you are not a mother. You have no children of your own.”
“I did.” She stared off, a sudden sheen of tears brightening her eyes. “I had a little girl many years ago, long after your uncle and I had given up hope of children. She lived but a few days.”
“Oh, Aunt. I am sorry. I had no idea.”
“She had dark curls, just like you. I suppose that is one reason I have always felt close to you.”
Charlotte gazed at her aunt’s profile, but instead saw bits of memory like pieces of colored glass, a beautiful jumble of special moments and little kindnesses collected over a lifetime. “How did you get past it?” she asked quietly.
“I am still getting past it. Every day. The pain is dimmer now, but still there. The first days, weeks, were torture—like being skinned alive. But it is not something we talked about. Infants die all the time. Women are supposed to be strong and try again as soon as possible. But there was no trying again for me. I lost my womb along with my babe.”
“Dear Aunt. How dreadful for you.”
“Yes. And for you.”
“But ... you always seemed so cheerful. So happy when you visited us.”
“I was happy. In many ways. Especially when your mother was alive. Although visiting your family was a joy with a slice of pain all its own. My sister with her two beautiful daughters. And you, with your dark hair and eyes ... I could never look at you without thinking of my own daughter. How old she would be, what she would be like, how similar and how different from you.”
“I never knew.”
“I did not wish to spread my sorrow.”
“Yes, but we might have shared the burden with you.”
“Yes, well. That is why I am biting my puritanical tongue and having this conversation with you. I would share this sorrow with you, if you would allow me.”
“Of course. You have done so much for me already.”
“Tosh. I have done nothing. Would that I could take you into my own home had your father not forbidden me. But do you not see how this situation in a man’s home could open your family to more talk and scandal?”
“Dr. Taylor is not much out in society. He certainly does not entertain in his home, where people might see me. But I do see your point.”
“Do you? Then you do feel some ... unease about the man?”
“No. Not about Dr. Taylor. I believe his intentions are honorable. But still there is something ... a discomfort at the thought of living in his house.”
“You fear he would not treat you well?”
“No. I think he would treat me very well. As he does here. But you see, Dr. Taylor is some acquainted with our family. He attended Mother during her illness.”
“Did he?”
“Yes. Dr. Webb was mother’s physician, but Dr. Taylor was one of his apprentices before he went to university.”
“So he is a young man, then?”
