Cressida's Dilemma (13 page)

Cressida’s shoulders slumped. It was all so confusing, and the more she heard of such tales, the more her own moral code shifted on its axis. Nothing was straightforward, it seemed. “What is Minna going to do?” Of course it was nothing to do with her, but the pretty, fair-haired girl could have been any of the debutantes she’d grown up with and who’d gone on to make comfortable marriages.

“She is considering accepting this offer, as I said. This man has not revealed himself, so that makes her decision difficult, but increasingly she seems to place less importance on her own life, which is ruined and unhappy, and more on securing her sister’s happiness through her own sacrifice.” Miss Mariah sent Cressida a warning look. “Nevertheless, Minna will not risk bringing an innocent child into the world to bear the shame of illegitimacy and to be forced into a life of slavery to men, so that’s why she’s consulted me on the many ways to prevent or limit the risk of conception, and indeed ways to prevent a pregnancy from proceeding.”

Cressida gasped. “From proceeding? Why, that’s murder!”

“Is it murder to drink the tea made from a common herb? Would you call a poor woman who has twelve children, no money and a drunken husband a murderer for drinking pennyroyal tea to regulate her courses?”

Cressida shrugged, unsure how to answer. All her ideas on morality had been founded using very different examples to support them.

Miss Mariah’s expression softened. “But I can help you
before
you need to resort to such drastic measures, for it
is
possible for you to enjoy marital relations without constantly fearing you’ll beget a child.”

Cressida leaned forward. The urge to learn filled her with hope. She wanted to know everything Justin knew. 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 the women Miss Mariah described. Theirs was another world and their reasons for wanting to avoid conception very different from hers, though they all had one thing in common—the need to be in control of their bodies and fertility.

The thought was radical. What woman did she know who thought that way? There must be something wicked and wrong with her, and yet was this the secret nobody was prepared to discuss in public?

How had Catherine succeeded in giving birth to two sons only in a marriage of similar length to Cressida’s? Did she already know what Miss Mariah was about to teach Cressida?

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 labeled vinegar together with a small, brown paper bag. Beside this 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, 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 sympathized. 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. This last week, for the first time, he’d run about Great-Aunt Jane’s country garden like a little colt. How she wished Justin could have seen it. She shook her head quickly to banish the thought and returned to the here and now. Poor Miss Mariah had had to forgo the joy of a family in order to support herself through the pleasures of the flesh, making money in perhaps the only way she was able.

The sheath of sheep’s gut—for that’s what Miss Mariah now said it was—hung limply from her fingers. “Of all methods, the French letter is the most effective means of preventing conception, though not all women can persuade their husbands or lovers of the need to use them, meaning of course they must have alternative methods at their disposal.”

Cressida’s cheeks burned, and she nearly choked on her horror as Miss Mariah began to caress the object, half smiling. “Some women, however, are able to induce their men to don the French letter by turning the process of easing it over their manly organ when excitement builds into a sensual game. If you wish for a demonstration, there are those in this salon—”

“No!” Cressida squeaked. “Just…explain it to me.” Had she really gone so far even as to ask
that
? For an explanation? She’d never heard of such a thing, yet now she looked at it more closely she could see how it must work.

“The seed which would otherwise be spilled inside the woman, who then may go on to conceive, is contained within the French letter, which can be washed ready for future use.” Miss Mariah handed it to Cressida. “Feel it and, if you wish, you may take it. It may be all you need to save you another twenty years of doubt and anguish if not the pain and danger of multiple pregnancies.”

Cressida took it reluctantly. “I’ll…take it, but I could never ask my husband to use such a thing,” she whispered, “however much I may wish it. Please don’t look so disappointed, it’s just that in my position I could never explain where I came by such knowledge.”

“Then you must induce
him
to come by the knowledge himself, and to encourage the pursuit of such knowledge. It’s up to you to convey to him your desire to limit your nursery so that he can take responsibility for his role in ensuring he doesn’t foist a child upon you every year.” Miss Mariah reached for the bottle of vinegar. “For centuries, women have understood that douches such as vinegar or lemon juice following the sexual act are beneficial for minimizing the risk of pregnancy, though of course it is the man who chooses
coitus interruptus
or to wear a French letter, who is most beloved of women who wish for the pleasures rather than the consequences of bedroom play.” She cocked an eyebrow. “I gather you fall into the category of wives who do at least enjoy the pleasures of the bedroom.”

Cressida nodded, for the first time able to look Miss Mariah in the eye. Everything the woman said was common sense, so why should Cressida act like a shrinking violent when she was here to gain the strength she needed to be the wife and bedfellow her husband desired?

“And now we come to the seeds of the Queen Anne’s Lace plant, another useful weapon in your armament.” Miss Mariah picked up the paper bag and reached for Cressida’s hand, turning up the palm and pouring some grains onto it.

“These seeds, when taken some days before, or even for some days immediately after the act, have proven enormously beneficial for many women seeking to prevent conception.”

Cressida stared at them. How tiny and harmless they looked. Unlike a bottle of vinegar in her dressing room and a hasty exit to douche herself, which would alert Justin’s curiosity if not concern, she might easily swallow a handful of these seeds.

“Where can I get these?” she asked, aware of the excitement in her voice.

“I have a dear friend who is proficient in the herbal medicines, and she supplies me from time to time. You can take these now.” A warning note crept into Miss Mariah’s voice. “However, I would prefer that you discussed your fears with your husband before you secretly went about finding ways to limit your family. Indeed, this is a discussion for the two of you, otherwise grave misunderstandings could arise.” Her expression clouded. “I know that more than anyone.”

Despite the lecture and the dampening knowledge that she must indeed speak to Justin, Cressida felt the excitement building of so many possibilities within her grasp. If what Miss Mariah was telling her was true, Cressida could look forward to enjoying long, loving sessions with Justin and loving a smaller family than otherwise might be the case.

Tending to Great-Aunt Jane had been a trial. While Cressida had nursed her fractious relative, she’d also nursed her own confusion, her lackluster 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 channeled her mental energies into concocting a thrilling scenario that would set Justin’s senses on fire. Thanks to the now dreamlike 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.

Chapter Eight

Justin couldn’t remember when he’d been at such pains to ensure his turnout was immaculate. Finally, Wednesday evening had come around again, signaling a week since the dreadful confusion with Cressida in Mrs. Plumb’s sitting room, and here he was, about to return to his friend’s modestly furnished drawing room, 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 onto 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 which 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? No, this was women’s business.

And yet…

With a curse, he tossed aside the crumpled linen that had failed to meet his expectations of style. He’d dismissed his manservant for the night—tying his cravat was Justin’s responsibility—but as he tried again with fresh linen, he wondered suddenly at
his
dependence. In a moment, he would recall Dowling, who with a deft flick of his wrist would whip Justin’s rig-out into shape, and Justin would step out with every confidence of being up to the mark. Dowling had been in his employ since he’d set up in his own residence before he’d married. The older man had been an arbiter of style and a font of knowledge to the youthful Justin, who had been just finding his own feet in a world of opportunity.

But who had Cressida relied upon for advice and to bolster her confidence? Her mother had died when Cressida was just a child, and as a poor parson’s daughter, she’d not had a lady’s maid. The two females closest to her were her crotchety maiden aunt, who of course would know nothing with regard to what went on in the bedroom, and her dreadful cousin, Catherine, who had married shortly after Cressida.

Justin had been her only barometer when it came to gauging expectations within marriage. Cressida would have assumed Justin wanted sons—a backup for sickly Thomas—when he was more than happy with the family he had.

By the time Justin was satisfied at the way his coat sat and was at last at Mrs. Plumb’s, hope that his wife was coming tonight had mutated into the most extraordinary maelstrom of emotions he’d ever experienced as he envisaged the variety of scenarios that might ensue once they were together again.

Still, he could not push aside the responsibility and guilt he felt at Cressida’s apparent torment, and his attempts at communicating this on paper littered his study.

He’d not revealed to Mariah that Cressida was in fact the woman who had bared her heart to her. Mariah’s earlier criticism of his wife had stung. It might even be possible—though he doubted it—that Mariah was jealous of the wife who’d usurped her place in Justin’s heart eight years ago.

In the intervening week, Justin had tried to focus his attention on Mariah’s business and, to that end, at least, he’d been largely successful. Confirmation had been received discounting the second girl who might have been Mariah’s daughter. Now his report was finished and his work for Mariah concluded.

At least that was one thing at which he’d succeeded for Lord knew, he was feeling utterly beastly at what he could only conclude were his failures toward his wife.

Justin was just pouring himself a fortifying brandy when there was a tap at the door.

Mariah had promised him privacy in her small sitting room for the evening while he finished his report, saying she’d join him at about midnight, after she finished performing in the salon.

It was entirely probable, then, that the timid rapping was his wife, and yet his response put him in the league of some inexperienced greenhorn. His hand shook as he replaced the stopper of the cut-glass decanter.

Relief that she’d come surged while excitement roared through his veins. Could it really be her? He’d half expected she’d lose her nerve, but the fact that she’d continued to take matters so boldly into her own hands was extraordinarily exciting.

Commanding himself, he assumed the safest position—that of languid host, kindly disposed to receive his invited guest. Such a relaxed attitude when the maid showed Cressida in would help calm her no doubt disordered nerves. And his. She might be his wife of eight years, but the tenuous resumption of physical relations was too serious a matter for him to risk frightening her at this early stage.

As the door opened, he adjusted his mask, balled his fists and forced a smile, his breath leaving him in a rush. He felt his temperature rise and swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry.