Dark Angel (16 page)

Chapter Fourteen

Returning to the house, I attempted to pull myself together, twisting my hair, which had unraveled because of Gerard’s questing fingers, back up into its chignon and stabbing it into place with the few pins I could find. I smoothed the wrinkles out of my crushed skirts and located a tall mirror in the corridor.

My green eyes were bright, the color in my normally pale cheeks heightened. My hair was mussed, untamed fiery tendrils trailing around my face and neck. My lips, swollen from Gerard’s kisses, had taken on the color of ripe berries.

There was no hope for it. I looked like a woman who had been tumbled.

I sighed. Perhaps Mrs. Blackpot, never having met me before, would not notice. I tried not to think of what I would look like in the morning after Gerard was through with me. And
then
tried not to dwell on whatever iniquitous plans he had for me tonight, but it was rather like telling oneself not to think of elephants. One immediately began picturing pachyderms.

A thrill of exhilaration went through me as I recalled the smoldering heat of his gaze before he’d departed. I was terribly conventional. And yet, perhaps it was high time for a bit of adventure in the long-neglected amorous area of my life. However, the fact that Gerard honored no personal boundaries, had a vivid imagination, and wielded magic at his fingertips was enough to give any ordinary woman pause.

I took a deep breath and fanned my hot face with my hands, forcing myself to think of more immediate concerns, such as meeting the midwife and discovering how to stop the stillbirths on
Ynys Nos
. That thought returned me to a somber state and, somewhat more resolved, I went to meet Mrs. Blackpot.

Jeffries awaited me in the main hall guiding me to the Blue Room with a bland expression as though he had no inkling his master and his master’s houseguest had been wrapped around each other amongst the flower beds only minutes before.

When I moved past him toward the entrance of the Blue Room, he cleared his throat pointedly.

I stopped. “Yes, Jeffries?”

“If I may, madam,” he said, coming up behind me. “It is necessary for me to briefly touch your person, if you do not object. I assure you, this is required only as a consequence of my obligation to serve you at my master’s behest.”

I quizzed him with a frown. “Whatever are you on about, Jeffries?”

His hands were poised at my back. “If I may, madam?”

“Very well.”

He tugged at the back of my gown, and my face flooded with heat as I realized a few of my buttons must have been undone. Jeffries admirably performed the duty of ladies’ maid, normally carried out by Mrs. Jones, then stepped around me and bowed. It was to his credit that he hadn’t sent for Mrs. Jones in the first place. Probably an attempt to save whatever reputation I had left.

“Thank you, Jeffries,” I murmured as I walked to the door, my cheeks burning with chagrin. It was one thing for the servants to guess at what I had been about; it was another entirely for me to give evidence against myself.

“Think nothing of it, madam,” he said softly, then opened the door and announced me to the woman within the room decorated in pale hues of blue watered silk.

The brunette standing before me appeared to be in her midforties, apart from the fact that she was at least one hundred years older. She had been handsome once, but a life of hardship had etched itself in lines around her mouth and eyes. The woman was tall and buxom, her features sharp, and her black eyes narrowed in suspicion as I entered the room.

I smiled by way of greeting and motioned for her to take a seat. She did so, perching stiffly on the edge of a horsehair chair and glaring at me.

I noted the old-fashioned cap of ruffled linen into which she’d tucked her curly hair, the rough hands, the blunt nails. She’d donned a sack-backed gown of brown serge with plain winged cuffs on her sleeves; side hoops held out her petticoats. The fashion might have been from the middle part of the last century, though I could not be certain. The fabric looked as though it had been turned more than once.

I sat down opposite her, hoping to hurry the interview as much as possible so that I might return to Gerard.

She stifled a yawn, and I was instantly contrite.

“Mrs. Blackpot, I do apologize for rousing you at such a late hour. I am afraid there was some miscommunication on my part with the servants. I would be pleased to visit with you at your convenience tomorrow.”

“Well, I’m here now. Best get on with it.” She squinted at me. “You’re a nurse, I hear. So, I’m to be shoved aside to make way for the master’s lady-dove? Is that his reward to Mrs. Blackpot for all her faithful service?”

Stunned, I hastened to correct her misguided impression. “Firstly, I am
not
his
lady-dove
, by any means.”

At least not yet.

Is that what they were saying about me in the village? I cringed. “I am the master’s temporary guest until I can find a way to return home. And secondly, I have no desire to take your livelihood from you. I only wished to ask you a few questions and to offer a suggestion or two to aid you in performing your duties.”

She stared at me, still full of suspicion.

I leaned forward in my chair, trying to convince her of my good intentions. “I have certain knowledge to which you, having been isolated here for so long, may not have access. My only hope is that our talk will be beneficial to your clients. Nothing more.”

She frowned. “Not sure I understand, but that’s all right. As long as I’m not to be thrown out like a dirty old rag, I’ll listen right enough.” She clasped her hands beneath her generous bosom. “What is it you’re wanting to know?”

I tried not to take exception to her attitude. She had thought she was to lose her profession. “Please do not take offense at what I am about to say. I promise as well that everything we discuss will remain between us, so you have no need to fear reprisal.” I cleared my throat. “Reliable sources advise me that you counsel the women here on contraception. Would you mind telling me which methods it is you suggest?”

A knowing smile spread across her face. “Ah, so that’s the way of it, is it? Well, normally I charge for that advice, but seeing as how you belong to the master, I’ll let you have it for free.”

Alarm spread through me. “No, that is not—”

She touched a finger to her nose and nodded her head sagely. “Don’t you worry. Mrs. Blackpot is one to stay mum, you’ll see. No one will hear a word of it from me.”

I rubbed my temple with one finger and sank back in my chair, realizing there was no point in contradicting her. She would not believe me, no matter how much I protested. I could only hope she would keep her word and be discreet.

“The methods, Mrs. Blackpot.”

“Right.” She rubbed her hands together and proceeded to enlighten me about lemons, beeswax plugs, and withdrawal.

Good Lord.
No wonder there were so many stillbirths. “Well. I am very glad we have met, Mrs. Blackpot. Shall I tell you about the method currently in use in London? It is much more successful if used faithfully.”

She gave me a sideways look. “I suppose hearing about it wouldn’t do any harm.”

It occurred to me then that Mrs. Blackpot might have a conflict of interest in providing reliable methods of contraception if her livelihood depended on being a midwife.

“A wise woman such as yourself would be able to make a tidy profit from the knowledge I am about to share. It seems to me both men and women would clamor to acquire your expertise and pay handsomely for it. However, I would have to insist you charge according to their ability to pay and offer it to the poorest women for free. No one should be forced to endure the knowledge that the child growing in her womb will be born dead. Do we have an agreement?”

Mrs. Blackpot sucked in her cheeks and thought for a moment. I could practically hear her calculating profit ratios in her head. “What’s the method?”

“I first heard about it during my service as a nurse to Her Majesty’s army,” I explained. “I understand the French promulgated it almost two centuries ago to prevent the spread of syphilis amongst their army, hence its nickname, the French letter. It is a prophylactic.”

She squinted again. “A pro-fer… what?”

“A prophylactic. It is a flexible covering which can be fitted over the male member in order to prevent a man’s seed from entering the woman’s womb during intercourse.”

Mrs. Blackpot gaped, then brayed a laugh and slapped her thigh. “Leave it to the Frogs to figure out something like that.”

I could not suppress my smile. “I witnessed a demonstration of the manufacturing process. I would be happy to share the instructions with you, if you would be inclined to pursue this.”

Her eyes gleamed, despite the danger implied in the venture. “Is it something we could manage here?”

“The ingredients are commonly available: sheep intestines or goat bladders. You could make them without anyone in authority being the wiser. The trick is to properly cut, cleanse, and process the intestines, and of course, the storage and instructions for using the devices are critical. That would be where your guidance would be of most benefit to your clients.”

Her eyebrows rose in acknowledgement, and I spent another half hour describing the process in greater detail, all the while checking to make certain we weren’t disturbed. She agreed to create an initial test batch of the French letters for my inspection as soon as I could get away. In my mind, we could not begin our project soon enough. Gerard and Matthew might not approve, but what they did not know could not hurt them, and would certainly help the women of
Ynys Nos
.

Mrs. Blackpot finally took leave of me with a handshake, a much happier woman upon exiting than she had been upon arrival.

I, however, was in an opposite frame of mine. My interview with the midwife had removed the hazy glow of seduction from my mind, clarifying my resolve.

How could I justify counseling women against the consequences of sin when I so eagerly contemplated my own affair with Gerard? What had seemed adventurous and delicious less than an hour ago now faded into the tawdry transactions between men and women that had brought low so many a soiled dove.

And what if word should reach to those back home on whose goodwill I might be forced to depend? How would I explain?

I could not. It would not matter to them how I felt about Gerard, or that I found him nearly irresistible. It would not matter that his loneliness cried out to me, making me want to sooth whatever hurts he had endured, to share whatever shame or burden he bore. My own loneliness, even while I had been married to Jonathan, had become a lingering ache in my heart. I was weary of being alone, but God must have decided that loneliness was to be my cross to bear, for my conscience would not relent.

I had known Gerard only a few days. We were not married, nor were we likely to be.

It would not be right.

I rested my hand on the cameo over my heart and sighed, knowing the time had come to make a difficult decision.

I had to tell Gerard.

…

I hesitated before entering my room, a sixth sense telling me I would not be alone once I did. The doorknob turned of its own accord, and the door swung silently inward.

Of course, no one stood behind it. I gasped, but not for that reason—I was becoming used to such things. No, it was because Gerard had covered nearly every available surface in the room with candles in red-tinted goblets, and those surfaces not so ornamented had been drenched in red rose petals. Entranced, I gazed at the warm glow from the flickering flames. It spilled like liquid rubies across the opulent furnishings, the light revealing a heavy-lidded Gerard propped up against my bed pillows in only his fine lawn shirt and buckskin breeches, his ankles crossed, his boots still on, a goblet of amber-colored liqueur held loosely in one hand. He looked so deliciously, sensuously wicked lying on my emerald satin counterpane that my resolve wavered dangerously.

Then I thought of the consequences of giving in, and reaffirmed my resolve.

He watched me while I advanced slowly into the room, his lazy gaze never leaving mine, even when the door swung shut behind me.

“Oh, Gerard,” I murmured, looking around at everything he had done to create an air of romance, and pressed my hands to my flushed cheeks.

“For fear of setting the place on fire once we are otherwise engaged,” he drawled, “I’m afraid we must remove to the bedroom across the hall. I have filled it top to bottom with nothing but pillows and fur blankets.” He rose languidly and set the drink aside. “But I wanted to see you in the glow of candlelight first, your hair unbound for me. Only for me,” he murmured, reaching for the pins holding my chignon in place. He stood close behind me, pulling them out one by one, his spiced breath feathering across my cheeks, the heat of his body warming mine as my hair tumbled around my shoulders. He speared his fingers through my hair, gently massaging my scalp at the back of my neck. I nearly groaned from the pleasure of it, then sighed.

“Oh, Gerard.” He could not have missed the regret in my voice.

He stilled, quiet for a long moment, then turned me to face him. “You’ve changed your mind.”

I pleaded for understanding with my gaze. “Don’t be angry.”

His mouth twisted, and he leaned his forehead against mine. “I should have taken you in the garden when I had the chance. I should not have given you an opportunity to reason yourself out of wanting me.” He stepped back and retrieved his goblet, disappointment clouding his dark features as he dropped into a nearby armchair.

He took a deep swallow from the glass, staring at me over the rim. “What happened?”

I twisted my hands together. He had every right to be angry with me. I doubted he would understand the moral strictures I had imposed upon myself for so long they were a second nature to me.

“Gerard, please do not think I find you unappealing.”

He tilted his head. “Oh, I know I appeal to you. I felt you nearly come apart in my arms in the garden. I had hoped to feel it again, but having been denied this pleasure, I’d simply like to know why.”