“Undressing us down, you mean.”
Just then Charlotte recognized young Becky as she walked quickly through the room, head down, face flushed red, shawl and arms pulled tight across her bosom like a shield of wool and adolescent muscle. Sally followed Charlotte’s gaze and clucked sympathetically.
“Becky, poor girl, come sit with us,” Sally called. “Can I pour you a cup o’ tea?”
But the girl only shook her head swiftly, eyes on the floor, as she walked past them and out the other door.
“Whatever is the matter?” Charlotte asked. “Is she ill?”
“She was right as rain before her appointment,” Mae said.
Gibbs reappeared in the doorway and Charlotte’s heart began thudding in her chest. The needle slipped in her sweating hands and she set her work down, wiping her palms across her lap. If this man did not conduct himself properly, she would give him a piece of her mind. Just because she had made one mistake did not mean she would make another. She took a deep breath. Still she could not calm herself. She felt so vulnerable, so removed from those who would protect her.
Gibbs walked toward her, and Charlotte took another deep breath. The woman’s face was a mask of somber efficiency, but Charlotte thought she glimpsed some darker emotion there as well. Anger? Annoyance? Had Charlotte done something wrong? When Gibbs stopped at the table Charlotte rose from her chair.
“You may return to your work, Miss Smith. Dr. Preston has been ... called away suddenly and cannot see you this morning after all. We shall reschedule for tomorrow.”
“Oh, I see.” Charlotte exhaled. “Thank you.”
Gibbs turned on her heel and strode back toward the offices. Charlotte sank back into her chair, feeling foolishly relieved. Across the table, Sally winked at her.
Charlotte returned to her stitching but found herself thinking about her mother, who had spent a great deal of time in the company of surgeons and physicians in the final years of her life. Her mother had enjoyed a friendly camaraderie with her physicians and never feared their presence. Portly Dr. Webb, a respected and kindhearted doctor, had called on her so often as to become nearly a friend to the family. The only thing Charlotte had feared from him was a final diagnosis for her mother.
Dr. Webb had brought to the Doddington vicarage a succession of colleagues and apprentices. The colleagues were stuffy older men—Cambridge professors or renowned London physicians come to offer their opinion on her mother’s condition. These men offered benign greetings to Charlotte in passing. The apprentices were young men who seemed determined to prove themselves, so most rarely condescended to speak with a young girl, and of course, Charlotte was never examined by any of them. Actually, Charlotte had been such a healthy girl that she had rarely been treated by anyone. Her mother had cared for her minor ailments, and she had never broken a bone. The only time she had seen a surgeon was when she had fallen into a fox hole while running through the sheep pasture behind the churchyard. Her parents had feared her ankle broken, but the surgeon—she didn’t recall his name—declared it only sprained.
There was one apprentice who did speak with Charlotte, though granted, he was a bit older than most of Dr. Webb’s apprentices. Daniel Taylor was his name. He was tall and very thin, with –reddish-blond hair and the palest of skin. She could not think of him without both a smile and a painful wedge of guilt pressing against her stomach. She always seemed to say the wrong thing, and inevitably his boyish face would blush a deep apple red, a brighter hue than his rust-colored hair. But still, he must have admired her. She was certain he did, at least until her father made his disapproval so mercilessly clear. Mr. Taylor left Kent with barely a good-bye and, she feared, the impression that her own opinion of him matched her father’s. Something the vicar had no doubt implied.
Charlotte pricked her finger with the needle and gasped. Eyes from around the table rose up in question. She held up her finger, the spot of blood growing big as a beetle. She smiled dolefully at the others. “One should never daydream with sharp implements in one’s hand.”
Bess rolled her eyes and the others returned to their work, but Charlotte found herself morbidly fascinated with the mounding blood. She lifted her finger and watched the blood run down into her palm.Life-giving liquid, she thought oddly.God’s milk.
Poor woman! how can she honestly be breeding again?
—JANEAUSTEN, LETTER TO HER SISTER,1808
CHAPTER3
The next morning Charlotte awoke before either Mae or Becky, driven by nerves to prepare herself for the visit with the dreaded Dr. Preston. Would he really require her to remove her clothing? She shuddered. Worse yet, would he question her about how she came to be in this place?
She bathed herself with a rough cloth and cold water from the washbasin, cleaned her teeth, and brushed and pinned her hair. It crossed her mind that she should attempt to make herself appear as unattractive as possible, considering the girls’ comments about Dr. Preston’s character. But she doubted anyone could find her attractive in her present condition. Rather, she felt the need to arm herself with good grooming and her best dress, as though to show the man that she was not just another poor, uneducated girl he could manipulate. The thought pricked her conscience as surely as the needle had pricked her finger. Did she feel herself above the other girls? Yes, she admitted to herself, she did—even as she acknowledged the hypocrisy of the thought.Forgive me. Wasn’t she just another poor—though not uneducated, certainly naïve—girl, alone in the world and at men’s mercy? She shook off the unsettling thought.Please protect me, almighty God.
After breakfast, Charlotte again joined the other women at the sewing table. She glanced around nervously and was relieved when she didn’t see Gibbs anywhere about. Perhaps the doctor was still indisposed. But no sooner had she begun her second stocking than Gibbs and her ledger appeared before Charlotte.
“The doctor will see you first this morning.” Gibbs glanced at the clock on the mantel. “He is expected directly. I will let you know the moment he’s ready.”
Charlotte swallowed and nodded.
Bess and Mae exchanged knowing looks. Bess snorted and Mae covered a giggle with her freckled hand.
“Hush, now,” Sally admonished gently. “Dr. Preston is gentlemanlike most of the time. If you ask me, ’tis that other doctor what gives me the shivers.”
“The old one or Dr.Young?”
“Young. He looks at you with those cold eyes and ’tis as if they’ve got no feelin’ in them. Ice like. Like he’s ... gutting fish instead of tending people.”
“Better cold eyes than warm, roamin’ hands,” Bess muttered.
“Here he comes,” Mae whispered.
