Lady Lovett's Little Dilemma (10 page)

“I’d never have guessed it. She looked as innocent as a child, herself. And as frightened. This was no place for her. She admitted as much but I think she’d have entered a tiger’s den if she could have reclaimed her husband and poured out her heart to him.”

Justin, who had been scanning his report once more, while preparing to leave, looked up.

“She was here to
reclaim
her husband, did you say?”

Maria nodded, chewing her thumbnail as she continued to stare into the street. “If we women were only given rudimentary knowledge of the facts when it came to the realities of marriage this poor woman would not be so desperate and I”—her shoulders slumped—“might still be happily married.”

He could barely attend to her reflections, and hoped his voice did not betray him. Trying to assimilate the multitude of questions jostling for precedence, he asked carefully, “How did you and this woman meet?”

“She was near fainting in the corridor so great was her fear of discovery. She’d been told her husband was here, though she seemed to have scant notion as to what she would do when she found him.”

“She ventured to this place, alone, to find her husband?” Justin balled his fists and forced himself to breathe evenly. Mariah could be describing no one else but his wife. “Because someone told her this is where she’d find me?”

“I think she just wanted to know if he was here. Though I don’t think she’d have known what to do if she’d found him. She said she was terrified of more children. Apparently her mother died giving birth to her sixth.”

“What!” Justin gave no thought to the force of his exclamation.
Afraid of more children?
Cressida doted on their offspring. Increasingly she chose to spend her time with them, rather than her husband.

Mariah was speaking once more. He tried to concentrate on her words while the implications of her assertion filtered through to his brain. He’d begun to think his wife’s earlier enthusiasm for the marriage act was purely for procreation, not recreation. That while she sought a cessation of marital relations with the nursery full, she’d also lost interest in the shared intimacy he still so greatly craved. Not once had she ever suggested he take precautions to protect against further pregnancies.

Shock was swept away by the most intense dismay as he acknowledged they’d never properly had the conversation. Such talk was lewd, sinful… Good Lord, he thought with a start, perhaps Cressida did not even know such prevention was possible. It was not a conversation one had with one’s wife, though he had tried…

The realisation of Cressida’s real and terrible fears swamped him and the words of his report, upon which his eyes were unconsciously trained, blurred. Uncurling his fingers, he raked his hand through his hair.

He straightened in his chair, breathing carefully as he acknowledged how gravely he had failed his innocent, lovely wife. It was his duty to comfort and protect Cressida, to make her happy. He was ten years older, with experience beyond anything she could ever know. Just as Cressida had no knowledge of sexual relations outside their own bedroom, she’d have no idea how to translate her fear into words. Lord almighty, she’d known nothing on her wedding night and when her first pregnancy had been confirmed she’d asked from where the baby would emerge!

Now, instead of broaching a topic that Justin suspected was not discussed even among women, she’d practised the only thing she knew would protect against conception.

Abstinence.

Resistance.

A surge of protectiveness sent the blood roaring through his veins and moisture stung his eyes.

How long had his precious, darling Cressida been caught in this dark, terrible place, unable to translate her feelings for him into anything physical for fear of the consequences? Last night she had come so far, taken such bold, brave steps, faltering only at the last when he had failed, yet again, to understand her terrors.

The chair nearly toppled in Justin’s sudden haste to return home and take Cressida in his arms and counter every fear of hers in the most loving, practical way of which he was capable.

“Apologies for my abrupt departure, Mariah,” he said, “but I have just recalled an urgent appointment. Tomorrow I shall return with, I hope, confirmation to set both our minds at rest.” In three quick strides he was at the door. In less than ten minutes he’d be home. He’d thought Cressida was playing games with him. No…he’d had no idea what Cressida was doing but now he knew the truth. Surely, if he acted quickly, he could rekindle their precious love before she had drifted too far from him?

“That’s unlike you, Justin.”

He could barely answer, for his thoughts were concentrated entirely on the task at hand. “Sounds like your poor new friend’s husband is an ignorant boor,” he muttered, his hand upon the doorknob, “who deserves to sleep alone.”

Great was his disappointment to learn upon arriving in Bruton Street that Cressida had apparently responded to an urgent summons from her great-aunt Jane, who claimed to be upon her deathbed. Brimble, the butler, said he was uncertain when Lady Lovett would return.

Chapter Seven

Fumbling in her reticule for her handkerchief as she stood uncertainly in a dim passage at Mrs Plumb’s the following Wednesday, Cressida mopped her eyes. These tears! Where did they come from? Soon she would be confined to the asylum if she did not find a remedy for the nervous anxiety that afflicted her. She’d spent the previous five days with her great-aunt before returning this afternoon to find Justin not at home. She had to admit she’d been rather relieved.

She trembled. Tonight… What might it bring? It all depended so much on whether Miss Mariah was telling her the truth or not.

“My dear girl!” Her friend greeted her warmly and led her into a small conservatory at the back of the house.

“It is such a lovely evening we can sit here, as my own sitting room is currently occupied.” Miss Mariah patted the seat beside her on the cane sofa. “I’m glad you came…and dressed for action, too, I see,” she added, referring to Cressida’s revealing black evening gown. With its deep neckline and figure-hugging cut it was very different to her widow’s weeds. “I promise you, a few minutes are all it takes for me to explain what would advance society’s happiness and end so much suffering.”

From the tray on the table beside them, she took two glasses of sherry and handed one to Cressida.

In the natural light, Miss Mariah looked different from the previous week. There was now no sign of the grey that had peppered her hair, her gown was of fine blue silk and her eyes sparkled. Cressida was surprised she felt no revulsion for this creature who traded her body for what she could not otherwise procure. Unlike Cousin Catherine, Cressida tried not to be so quick to judge others.

Miss Mariah leaned across the small space between them and asked with clear enthusiasm, “Now, where shall we begin? I do admire a young woman who sets out to help herself. You have been an inspiration to me, for I was a lustreless creature last week, I’ll admit it.” She raised her own glass. “You helped me see that, regardless of our trials, we must embrace the future.”

Cressida took a nervous gulp of the amber-coloured liquid and looked down at her gloved hand, clenched in her lap. “My husband—” she began, feeling a surge of longing for the man she’d hurt, neglected and lied to over the past week and whose arms she could not wait to feel around her. A week had heightened her desire for the simple comfort of his company.

“Your husband is a capital place to start. I’ve no idea what kind of man he is but, as it is clear you are deeply in love with him, I cannot imagine he’d not be completely amenable to doing his part to lessen the risk of increasing your already large brood when it comes to lovemaking.”

Heat seared Cressida’s face and throat as she spluttered on her sherry.

Her friend laughed. “How many years did you say you’d been married? Eight? Nearly as long as myself. My dear, the way we entertain our husbands is at the very core of how they regard us and if you are too afraid even to mention what is at the root of your fear then I see you have a very great problem indeed.”

Cressida forced down her embarrassment. If this woman spoke the truth her world was about to begin anew. She’d grown up with maiden aunts who’d taught her nothing about the business and a domineering mother-in-law who’d made it clear that a reluctant wife was undutiful and unnatural. A knowledgeable stranger was as good as anyone to dispense the kind of advice she needed right now.

She put down her empty glass and laced her fingers, directing a level glance at Miss Mariah. “After I left you last week I chanced upon my husband unexpectedly in this house,” she said, quietly. “Yes, I was shocked but we were both in masquerade,” she said, then began to explain what had transpired.

“Good Lord, my dear girl, how have you managed this past week if your husband was so full of expectation upon meeting you last Wednesday?”

Cressida felt her mouth tremble. “I went to my great-aunt’s. I couldn’t face him. I didn’t know what to do.” She raised hopeful eyes towards Miss Mariah.

“Oh, my dear, what a terrible time you’ve had of it. If I’d known I’d have got down to business straight away. As it is, we’ve not a moment to lose. So, you ask me if it’s so easy to have marital relations without begetting a child nearly every time?”

Cressida leant even further forward. The urge to learn filled her with hope. She wanted to know everything Justin knew. Those women who’d borne her along with them in that haze-filled room obviously indulged in sensual pleasures with scant regard for the cares that beset Cressida. Knowledge was power. Cressida could use it to conduct her life and use her body as she wished. She didn’t have to be like those women but she could feel in control of her life in a way she certainly didn’t now.

Fascinated, Cressida watched Miss Mariah reach into a crimson velvet drawstring bag. Upon the inlaid table in front of them she laid out a small sponge and a brown bottle labelled vinegar. Beside it she placed a strange oblong object made of, if Cressida didn’t know better, some animal membrane.

“Men have been using French letters for centuries, but we women have our little secrets, too. Now, my dear”—she patted Cressida’s hand, “I am going to give you the kind of advice and information I’d have given my own daughter—” her voice hitched, “had I been able.”

Cressida didn’t miss the lapse of composure. She sympathised. A woman’s chief purpose was to beget and rear her children. Wasn’t she blessed to have had five, and all so robust, for at last Thomas appeared to be growing out of his childish maladies. He’d run about Great-Aunt Jane’s country garden like a little colt. But this woman had had to forgo the joy of a family in order to support herself through the pleasures of the flesh. Or the need to make money in perhaps the only way she was able.

Cressida felt the excitement building. If what Miss Mariah was telling her was true, Cressida could enjoy both.

Tending to Great-Aunt Jane had been a trial. While Cressida had nursed her fractious relative, she’d also nursed her own confusion, her lacklustre spirits bolstered by the daily, loving letters her husband had sent her. Wonderful Justin deserved far better than simple, fearful Cressida. However, as Cressida had wrinkled her nose at the foul-smelling ointment she’d used to rub her ungrateful great-aunt’s arthritic legs, she’d also found herself blushing as she’d channelled her mental energies into concocting a thrilling scenario that would set Justin on fire. Thanks to the now dream-like experience of Mrs Plumb’s back chamber and Miss Mariah’s instruction on lovemaking without consequences, Cressida’s marriage, she now felt with increasing conviction, was about to take off in a whole new thrilling direction.

* * * *

Justin couldn’t remember when he’d been at such pains to ensure his turnout was immaculate. Finally, Wednesday evening had come around again, signalling a week since the dreadful confusion with Cressida in Mrs Plumb’s sitting room and here he was, back in his friend’s modestly furnished abode, making another attempt at getting his necktie just right.

After Cressida’s abrupt departure last week for Bath he’d been at a loss. A complete and utter loss. For the first four days their communication had consisted of one brittle letter informing him of her health—a poor response to the reams of loving good wishes
he’d
poured on to the page. Then, extraordinarily, yesterday, after a long description of the children’s activities, she’d written that she’d missed him and that she looked forward to meeting him…

He took another breath to calm himself as he reflected on those uncharacteristic words so full of promise.

“…perhaps in unexpected circumstances tomorrow evening when all shall be revealed
.”

All shall be revealed
? Images of her literal disrobing competed with a frank explanation of her torments. Justin was fully prepared to offer a very loving reception in both instances.

Then, out of the blue this afternoon, Mariah had mentioned seeing again the ‘poor woman with so many children’, obliquely alluding to the ‘instruction’ she’d offered and that she hoped would benefit her.

Was Cressida really returning this evening, armed with new knowledge, to finish what they’d started the week before? On the one hand he felt deeply remiss and neglectful that she’d had to resort to a stranger like Mariah for instruction—on exactly
what,
he could only imagine. But he had to let that go. What husband could speak to his gently reared wife in such terms unless she broached the subject with him?