tried….”
“Slow down, please. What has happened?”
“The little boy-he’s gone.”
“The one you’d taken to feeding?”
Charlotte nodded, wiping at her eyes with a handkerchief.
“I’m sorry.” He sighed in frustration. “I’m afraid it happens more often than I can stand … or explain.”
“Dr. Preston said, `Get used to it. I have.’ “
“Unfortunately it’s a natural response. One must harden oneself or work elsewhere.”
“I should never get used to it.”
He nodded. After a moment he stepped closer and murmured, “Come, Charlotte.” He offered his hand. Her brain mildly noted his use of her Christian name, but at that moment she was beyond caring.
She allowed him to help her to her feet. Her time was drawing near and she would have found it difficult to get to her feet unassisted, even had she not been in so distressed a state.
“Come,” he repeated. “I shall help you to your room.”
He held her by her arm and guided her inside and down the passage.
“Did I do something wrong?” she asked tearfully. “Is that why…?„
“No, Charlotte, no. I’m sure that little boy lived longer than he would have had you not cared for him so.”
“For all the good it did him.”
“Of course it did. How much better to leave this world loved and cared for.” He opened the door to her new bedchamber. She had gotten her private room at last. “Now, off to bed. You’ll have your own little one soon, and you need your rest.”
Charlotte was unaware she had sat in the garden so long and that it was evening already. “Very well. Good night.”
“Good night.”
She went inside and sat down on her bed. She was vaguely aware of him closing her door and the sound of his footsteps fading away, but Charlotte’s tear-streaked eyes were filled with another scene, another death. She wrapped her shawled arms tightly around herself and remembered.
“She’s gone,” young Mr. Taylor had said, looking at her over her mother’s still form.
Charlotte gasped. She felt her insides collapse, like a cocoon flattened by a careless boot.
Mr. Taylor stepped forward, as if he might take her in his arms, but at that moment Charles Harris swept into the room, his stride urgent, his handsome face nearly fierce in its grimness.
“Oh, Mr. Harris!” Charlotte cried and turned on her heel, stepping into his arms. He pulled her close against him.
“Dear, Charlotte. Dear, dear, Charlotte …” He murmured against her hair. “I am so sorry.”
She sobbed against him and felt him stroke her back as he whispered words she knew were meant to comfort her, but no words could diminish the flaming, burning pain inside of her. She was vaguely aware of Mr. Taylor letting himself from the room but was too devastated to care.
Daniel Taylor did not venture to the club as often as he once had. He went not to drink and play cards, as did the other men, but to further his reputation and, he hoped, his private practice. But tonight, he had no thoughts of business in his weary mind, only a few minutes relaxation before taking himself home.
A group of regulars, gathered tightly around a table, were jesting with two well-dressed newcomers. Daniel looked over and recognized both men immediately, although he knew them from another time and another place.
“So the great Charles Harris is finally married,” silver-haired Mr. Milton said, raising his tumbler in salute to the older and darker of the two newcomers.
“Well, yes, for more than half a year now.”
“Many are the lasses still crying over it, I can tell you,” a second gentleman with a wax-curled moustache agreed cheerfully.
“Miss Lamb is among them, I assure you,” a younger voice said.
The young man perhaps now twenty years old-was another person Daniel had last seen in Kent. William Bentley was sitting beside Mr. Harris his uncle, if Daniel remembered correctly.
Harris stared at his nephew, clearly astonished. “Miss
“Slow down, please. What has happened?”
“The little boy-he’s gone.”
“The one you’d taken to feeding?”
Charlotte nodded, wiping at her eyes with a handkerchief.
“I’m sorry.” He sighed in frustration. “I’m afraid it happens more often than I can stand … or explain.”
“Dr. Preston said, `Get used to it. I have.’ “
“Unfortunately it’s a natural response. One must harden oneself or work elsewhere.”
“I should never get used to it.”
He nodded. After a moment he stepped closer and murmured, “Come, Charlotte.” He offered his hand. Her brain mildly noted his use of her Christian name, but at that moment she was beyond caring.
She allowed him to help her to her feet. Her time was drawing near and she would have found it difficult to get to her feet unassisted, even had she not been in so distressed a state.
“Come,” he repeated. “I shall help you to your room.”
He held her by her arm and guided her inside and down the passage.
“Did I do something wrong?” she asked tearfully. “Is that why…?„
“No, Charlotte, no. I’m sure that little boy lived longer than he would have had you not cared for him so.”
“For all the good it did him.”
“Of course it did. How much better to leave this world loved and cared for.” He opened the door to her new bedchamber. She had gotten her private room at last. “Now, off to bed. You’ll have your own little one soon, and you need your rest.”
Charlotte was unaware she had sat in the garden so long and that it was evening already. “Very well. Good night.”
“Good night.”
She went inside and sat down on her bed. She was vaguely aware of him closing her door and the sound of his footsteps fading away, but Charlotte’s tear-streaked eyes were filled with another scene, another death. She wrapped her shawled arms tightly around herself and remembered.
“She’s gone,” young Mr. Taylor had said, looking at her over her mother’s still form.
Charlotte gasped. She felt her insides collapse, like a cocoon flattened by a careless boot.
Mr. Taylor stepped forward, as if he might take her in his arms, but at that moment Charles Harris swept into the room, his stride urgent, his handsome face nearly fierce in its grimness.
“Oh, Mr. Harris!” Charlotte cried and turned on her heel, stepping into his arms. He pulled her close against him.
“Dear, Charlotte. Dear, dear, Charlotte …” He murmured against her hair. “I am so sorry.”
She sobbed against him and felt him stroke her back as he whispered words she knew were meant to comfort her, but no words could diminish the flaming, burning pain inside of her. She was vaguely aware of Mr. Taylor letting himself from the room but was too devastated to care.
Daniel Taylor did not venture to the club as often as he once had. He went not to drink and play cards, as did the other men, but to further his reputation and, he hoped, his private practice. But tonight, he had no thoughts of business in his weary mind, only a few minutes relaxation before taking himself home.
A group of regulars, gathered tightly around a table, were jesting with two well-dressed newcomers. Daniel looked over and recognized both men immediately, although he knew them from another time and another place.
“So the great Charles Harris is finally married,” silver-haired Mr. Milton said, raising his tumbler in salute to the older and darker of the two newcomers.
“Well, yes, for more than half a year now.”
“Many are the lasses still crying over it, I can tell you,” a second gentleman with a wax-curled moustache agreed cheerfully.
“Miss Lamb is among them, I assure you,” a younger voice said.
The young man perhaps now twenty years old-was another person Daniel had last seen in Kent. William Bentley was sitting beside Mr. Harris his uncle, if Daniel remembered correctly.
Harris stared at his nephew, clearly astonished. “Miss
Similar Books
