Lady in Blue (17 page)

Clare gazed at the large table
with some amazement. It was covered with all sorts of things that could not possibly be related: silky paper that looked as if it was oiled, a lemon, thread, scissors and a sponge, vinegar, honey, disks of wax, olive oil, alum, bark, green tea, herbs of every kind, items she could not identify, and a cucumber.

Mrs. Beales looked bored as she allowed time for Clare to examine the display before asking her to take a seat. Obviously she had been through this exercise many times.

Clare settled nervously on the trestle bench, hands folded in her lap, still not altogether certain what to expect. When she arrived at Clouds, the housekeeper led her immediately to the kitchen without explanation. Bryn had told her about this lesson, but she could not decipher what it concerned.

With a thin-lipped smile, Mrs. Beales took up a position directly across from her. “Today,” she said briskly, “I shall introduce you to several methods of preventing conception. As the earl has no doubt made clear, his first son must be born in wedlock. After that happy occurrence, and should you still be under his protection, the two of you may decide to have children together. Until then, all care must be taken. You do understand that?”

Clare stared at her, cheeks flaming. Better than most, she knew the consequences of careless passion and what happened when an aristocrat bred children on a woman he did not intend to marry.

“Very well, then.” Mrs. Beales made a sweeping gesture over the table. “This is a mere sample of prophylactic devices, culled from my studies. I have developed rather an interest in the matter and pride myself on keeping up with the latest advances.”

“There seem to be a g-great many of them,” Clare stammered. “Could you not simply tell me which is the best choice? In truth, I know embarrassingly little about . . . anything.”

“My dear, all the young women who have sat across from me at this table were innocent, although few were entirely ignorant. However, I shall assume you know nothing at all, and you must stop me if you have a question.”

“I do. The same question, actually. In my place, which method would you choose?”

“I would never be in your place, Miss Easton.”

Clare stood and regarded her levelly. “Consider yourself fortunate to have been given a choice.”

The housekeeper’s cold blue eyes held a glint of approval. “Because I lost any claim to beauty before I was out of leading strings, my own choice was confined to Harry Beales, as ugly-tempered a brute as ever walked this earth until he fell off a horse and hit his head on a rock. I made certain the obliging horse lived like a king for the rest of its life.”

She folded her arms across her thin chest. “Dislike me if you choose, young woman. I have worked for Lord Caradoc these past twelve years, although he tells me I am nosy and insolent. In fact, he has dismissed me eleven times, but always he begs me to come back, with a rise in salary. Should you insist, he’d dismiss me yet again, and I would stay with my sister until another young woman is ready to sit in that chair and learn what she needs to know. It’s up to you whether we live in this house together, Miss Easton. Otherwise I shall wait out your tenure elsewhere.”

Clare sat, recognizing a force stronger than herself.

Mrs. Beales produced a sour smile. “A wise decision. Now, shall we begin? The only certain way to prevent the birth of a child at an inappropriate time is abstinence. Under the circumstances, we cannot consider that an option, but I wish your understanding to be complete. Your circumstances may change, and what will not do with his lordship may later be your method of choice.”

Abstinence would definitely top her list, Clare reflected, once she was free of her debt to the earl.

“Some gentlemen prefer to take the responsibility themselves,” Mrs. Beales went on, “whether for lack of confidence in other methods or mistrust of their partners, I cannot say. The earl assures me this will not be possible with you, which is unfortunate. Withdrawal is much the easiest procedure for the female.”

“I see.” Clare swallowed. “Er—withdrawal of what, exactly?”

Mrs. Beales sat down, regarding her curiously. “Have you no brothers, Miss Easton?”

Her eyes lowered. “No, not precisely. That is, I am aware of certain anatomical differences between the genders and have occasionally witnessed mating between dogs and the like. But somehow I cannot quite imagine how it works.” Her gaze lifted. “It all seems exceedingly . . . awkward.”

“And so it is, in many ways. When you are more schooled regarding the physical details, much of what I am about to tell you will make better sense. At that time, I shall be happy to review this lesson. A good argument,” she added with a quirked mouth as she pulled a small notebook from her apron pocket, “for keeping me here. I have written down several recipes, with instructions for everything I am about to describe, so you needn’t concern yourself with remembering it all. Simply get a general feel for things, and then I’ll give you my recommendations.”

Clare nodded mutely.

The housekeeper propped her elbows on the table. “We have our concoctions, our insertions, and our barriers. The concoctions, usually brewed into tea or some other liquid, consist primarily of herbs. There are hundreds of such potions, but I have recorded only a few of the most efficacious. To get you started, I prepared a centuries-old gypsy formula.” She pushed a small jar across the table. “You must drink a teaspoonful of this mixed into water every morning, but it will take several weeks to become effective. In the meantime, you must also employ another method.”

Lifting the jar, Clare held it to the light. The liquid was milky gray, studded with bits of green and globules of black. She set it down, her stomach lurching.

“I cannot recommend the insertions,” Mrs. Beales continued relentlessly, “although some have been popular since the Egyptians. On the other hand, Egyptians were especially partial to the use of crocodile dung, which may account for the decline of their civilization.”

Clare shuddered. “I believe we can rule out crocodile dung.”

“Indeed. But like the Greeks, they also used a mix of honey and gum from the tips of the acacia shrub.” She lifted a branch and waved it in the air. “In the absence of fresh acacia, one might substitute olive oil.”

“One might,” Clare observed glumly, “if one happened to be in a pantry.”

Mrs. Beales pushed the exhibit to one side. “Insertions of this sort tend to leave one feeling and smelling like a salad, if not worse. There are, however, some insertions that can be applied immediately after, assuming one has no tendency to fall asleep. Until you are certain you will always remember, I suspect douching is not a good idea. But it carries the added benefit of feeling somewhat fresher, and women often douche in the morning for that reason alone. I recommend a solution of alum, mixed with white oak, hemlock bark, green tea, or raspberry leaves. Should you wish to experiment, I will show you how it is done.”

“Thank you,” Clare said. “I’ll let you know.”

“And, finally, the barriers.” Mrs. Beales lifted a sheet of oiled, silky paper. “Misugami, from the Orient. The earl owns ships that trade with Japan, so this is easily come by, but you would require considerable instruction in how to fold it properly. Here is something a bit simpler to manage.” Mrs. Beales passed her a disk that resembled a slice of candle. “Beeswax. Easy to get in, not so simple to get out. String may cut through the wax.”

Clare was still trying to grasp the concept when Mrs. Beales picked up the large yellow lemon and hacked it in two with a cleaver. Using a spoon, she scooped the pulp from one half and tossed the peel to Clare, who barely managed to catch it.

“This too would require string for removal,” Mrs. Beales informed her, “but there is less danger of accident. Casanova swore by the lemon.”

Carefully, Clare set it on the table, certain she’d lost her taste for lemonade.

“Now pay close attention,” advised the housekeeper. “I expect you’ll choose this method until the herb potion takes hold.” She picked up the scissors and snipped off the tip of a sponge. “This is about the right size. And make sure to boil your sponges first, Miss Easton. A midwife told me that.”

Next she cut three lengths of thread about a foot long and braided them together, tying one end around the sponge. “Dip this in vinegar and insert deeply, making sure the string hangs out. You’ll learn to find the moment without destroying the mood, so to speak.”

So to speak. In her wildest imagination, Clare could not picture the scene. Like a schoolgirl about to succumb to a fit of giggles in church, she wrapped her arms around her waist, her eyes watering.

“Now, now.” Mrs. Beales clucked, shaking her finger. “Nothing to get all worked up about. Keep in mind the earl is well acquainted with this business, and will not be surprised—”

“If I bolt off the bed and start boiling sponges? This is really too ridiculous, Mrs. Beales. Why cannot we use the method you mentioned at first, where I don’t have to do anything?”

Mrs. Beales stood and rested her palms flat against the table. “Caradoc does not think he will remember in time.” She smiled. “You may consider that a compliment, Miss Easton. Generally, the women are asked to select one of the herbal potions, and he is careful to use preventive measures of his own until they take effect. But it seems that you must take full responsibility, and if that troubles you, pray consider the consequences should you become pregnant before he has sired an heir.”

“He would turn me out if I . . . ?” Her voice faded off.

Mrs. Beales gazed at her somberly. “Honor would not permit that. Certainly he would provide for you and the child, but he is most anxious not to complicate the inheritance with scandal. Should a girl be foolish enough to believe she could impel the earl to marry her if she were with child and water a plant with the herbal potion, she would be gone the next day. You seem wise enough to realize he must wed a lady of aristocratic birth and unsullied reputation. You would not wish to put him in a difficult position.”

“The last thing I want,” Clare assured her vigorously, “is to marry the man. If necessary, I’ll even try to figure out what to do with that lemon. Is there anything else?”

Arching her eyebrows, Mrs. Beales picked up the cucumber.

From across the table, Clare stared at it cross-eyed. She took it between her hands when it was passed to her, wondering what was meant by the phrase
as cool as a cucumber.
This one felt hotter than the business end of a poker.

“That,” Mrs. Beales said clinically, “is the male member.” She held up what appeared to be a sausage casing. “And this is
la capote Anglaise,
as
the French would have it. An English riding coat. On this side of the Channel, we call it the French letter.” She flapped it in the air. “It is made from the large intestine of a sheep, goat, or calf.”

“How very attractive,” Clare muttered under her breath.

“In fact, I find it rather clever, although the material is somewhat uncertain. It can split or develop tiny perforations. Before use, it ought to be tested, like this.” Lifting the open end to her mouth, she puffed a breath of air and the casing expanded rather like a hot-air balloon. Clare regarded it with awe.

Mrs. Beales came around the table, deflating the odd contrivance and rolling it up. “Once you are certain the device is whole, apply it rather like drawing on a silk stocking, and watch your fingernails.” Placing it on the tip of the cucumber, she used the palms of her hands to pull it down snugly. “
Voilà!
”

“Oh, my.” Clare held up the sheathed vegetable like a candle. “Is this,” she faltered, “a fairly accurate representation of—?”

Laughing, Mrs. Beales removed the casing and tossed the cucumber into the peelings pail. “I cannot say for sure, but women do gossip in this house. From what I’m told, the earl is rather more . . . ripe.”

“Oh.”

“Just so. But delicious nonetheless. Now don’t you be worrying, Miss Easton. His lordship is not partial to the French letters, and I only told you about them in case you later take a protector who favors such methods. Use the sponge and vinegar for at least four weeks and drink the herbal potion every day. That should do it.”

On shaky legs, Clare rose and held out her hand. “Thank you, Mrs. Beales. This has been most enlightening.” Her mouth sloped in a forlorn smile. “And mortifying.” She gazed for a moment at the exhibits on the table. “Who would have imagined?”

“When the time comes,” Mrs. Beales cautioned, “you must remember your responsibility. And that is exactly the time lovers are most apt to forget everything but each other. The earl does not trust himself, so you must take control even when he urges you to forget everything and come into his arms. Men are more . . .
driven
than we, Clare Easton. Always keep your head.”

In a daze, Clare climbed into the unmarked coach waiting for her, clutching a packet filled with sponges, thread, vinegar, and the repugnant herbal mixture. She was only grateful that Bryn had chosen not to escort her this morning. It would be impossible to face him right now.

In her mind’s eye, he had assumed the form of a large, crisp cucumber.