“Is she a foundling?”
“Well, in a manner—”
“Bless your heart, Charlotte, I guessed it! You’re motherin’ a wee one from the foundling ward in place of your own poor lad gone to heaven. What a saint you are.”
“I’m no saint, Sally. Far from it.”
“Well, I think you are.”
She opened her mouth to tell Sally the truth. But how could she admit she had lied to avoid the immense shame it would bring her family if it were known she was a wet nurse—Sally’s own chosen profession?
“Well, all I can say is that this little girl needed a mother’s care.
So I’m caring for her—at least for a time. But, please, Sally, don’t say a word to Katherine or anyone about my son. Please. I cannot tell you why, but it’s very important. Promise?”
“But if she knew, she could—”
“No, Sally. No one must know. Ever.”
Sally looked at her, eyes wide, searching. Finally she said, “Very well, Charlotte. If that’s what you want.”
“It is. It is what I need.”
Charlotte looked down at Anne, who had nursed for only a few minutes before falling into a deep sleep. “Oh, Anne ...” Charlotte mumbled, gently trying to rouse the baby.
“No use.” Charlotte sighed. “She’s hardly nursed all day. Too tired, I suppose.” Charlotte rose and laid the sleeping child in the cradle. “She didn’t sleep well last night. I think the poor thing had an earache.”
“Would you mind, then?” Sally looked at her, then away, almost too casually.
“Hmm?”
“Well, you’re needin’ to nurse and I’m needin’ a rest. This lad is never satisfied, and I want to have enough milk fer the long ride home.”
Charlotte was stunned. A warm ache of need pooled within her as she stared at Edmund. Sally pulled him gently from her breast and stood, child in arms. Charlotte sat down, speechless, and Sally handed him to her.
“Mind if I take a lie on your bed?”
“No, of course not,” Charlotte whispered, still staring down at Edmund.
Sally left her peripheral vision, but Charlotte didn’t pay attention. Her mind barely registered the creak of the bed ropes as Sally reclined—her eyes were focused on her son. She guided him to her breast and cuddled him close. She felt his wet little mouth, the tug of his tongue, the sweet sting of milk coursing through her, the bittersweet flow of tears on her cheeks. She glanced up and saw Sally lying on her side on the bed, watching her all too closely.
Daniel Taylor alighted the horse drawn London-Brighton coach at The George, then began the walk down Crawley’s High Street. As he strolled, he pulled out the schedule pamphlet and double-checked the return departure times. Looking up with the barest glance, he made the turn through Mrs. Dunweedy’s gate and nearly walked straight into Katherine Harris.
“Well, Dr. Taylor, imagine meeting you here.”
He dropped the schedule.
“Lady Katherine!” He gulped a deep breath. Then he bent over to pick up the pamphlet, and as he raised back up, took in her traveling clothes and just then saw the large carriage in the lane. He silently berated himself for his inattention. “I am surprised to find you here.”
“I imagine you are. And here I thought you said you had no idea where Charlotte was.”
“Well, I ... I am not here to see Charlotte. I am here to see my—”
“Dr. Taylor!” Mrs. Dunweedy interrupted with a great burst of voice and smile as she hurried from the cottage and took his arm.
“How good you are to come all this way to see me. My poor back has been hurting dreadfully. So good of you to come.”
Katherine looked from Mrs. Dunweedy to Dr. Taylor, skeptical brow rising.
