by Lynn Kerstan
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.
13
The cat was a bad idea.
From the covered basket on the hackney seat, the outraged feline yowled its own displeasure as Bryn slid another inch away, regretting the impulse that had saddled him with this monster.
The ride back to London, on horseback with the basket nestled between his legs, had been even more unnerving. Sharp claws raked at the woven straw, perilously close to sensitive portions o
f his anatomy, and the stallion, spooked by his irate passenger, was nearly impossible to control.
Bryn had spent the day at Richmond with Claude Howitt and his family, hoping to distract himself while Clare met with Maude Beales. But everything reminded him of what he’d set out to escape, especially Alice, swollen with her fourth child. He kept looking at his watch, imagining what Clare was doing every minute. Had she arrived at Clouds? Was she disgusted by Mrs. Beales’s lecture? Did she despise him for putting her through that ordeal?
The children had played at his ankles and eventually managed to entice him into their games, although he was, as usual, stiff and uneasy in their company. Except for his infrequent visits to Richmond, he never encountered children and had no idea how to relate to them. Still, they seemed delighted when he lost at a game of jackstraws, and even he was laughing when they declared him a horse and took turns riding on his back. He pranced around the room on all fours, now and again rearing up to the sounds of excited squeals while they clung to his neck in mock terror.
Claude watched from his wingback chair, a knowing smile wreathing his face as he puffed on his pipe. Bryn could not help but envy the man. Whenever he visited this house, so filled with contentment and love, he was all too aware how little of either existed in his own life.
After lunch, everyone adjourned to the barn where the children were anxious to show off the newest litter of kittens. Mandycat produced a batch at regular intervals, and the youngsters had strict orders to find homes for them before her progeny overran the small farm—which had given Bryn his bad idea.
He often worried that Clare was lonely, with only servants for company when he was not with her. Perhaps she would like a cat.
When he asked the children to select a candidate, they immediately chose an odd-looking specimen … for his personality, they said. The kitten was all white, except for four black paws, black ears and privates, and black splotches above his mouth that resembled an unkempt mustache.
Alice lined a small covered basket with rags and handed it up when he mounted his horse for the ride home. That was when his troubles began.
He was still amazed that such a tiny creature could make so much noise. When he’d arrived at St. James’s Square late that afternoon, he ordered his appalled butler to feed the kitten and adorn the basket with satin and ribbons. Any gift to Clare merited splendid presentation. Then he dispatched a footman to Clouds with a message to expect him at eight o’clock. Tonight he had to win himself back into Clare’s good graces, assuming he’d ever been there, after which he would track down Robert Lacey and apologize.
He had skipped dinner, figuring he’d have his fill of humble pie in the hours ahead. And now, as the hackney drew up in the alley behind the house on Grosvenor Square, he felt perspiration gather on his forehead.
Would she appreciate his peace offering? For all he knew, Clare didn’t even like cats.
A footman took his hat and gloves, directing him to the salon where Clare was waiting. She wore a simple pale-blue gown and had once again woven her hair into a thick braid that reached to her waist. He could not decipher the glimmer in her eyes as she looked up at him from a deep curtsy.
Not angry, he thought. Nor precisely critical, even after her session with Maude Beales. Her gaze was speculative, perhaps, with a welcome touch of her ironic sense of humor. He bowed in reply and held out the basket. “I’ve brought you a present.”
Immediately her face shuttered. “You have given me too much already,” she murmured. “Far more than I’ve earned.”
He stood awkwardly, unsure what to say, and finally set the basket on a table. For once, the kitten was quiet and immobile. “I shall take it back, if you don’t like it. To tell you the truth, we are both well rid of the thing.”
That seemed to pique her interest. She moved closer, fingering the ribbons that held the lid in place. “More jewels?”
“Open it and see.” Then, recalling the animal’s belligerence, he held up a hand. “No, allow me.” With some effort he untied the ribbon and removed the lid.
Immediately the kitten bounded onto the table, pausing only long enough to rake its claws over the back of Bryn’s hand before jumping to the floor.
“Bloody hell!” Bryn stared at the blood oozing from five long welts. Then he looked up to see the demon climbing one of the duchess’s expensive Gobelin tapestries. Finally he glanced at Clare, who appeared mildly concerned behind a wide grin.
“Cat scratches can turn putrid,” she advised, moving to the door. “I’ll be right back.”
Bryn used the time to swear fluently at the kitten, which glared back at him from the frieze rail just above the tapestry. The cat was no larger than his hand, but the fur on its back was raised in a gesture of defiance and two malicious yellow eyes challenged him smugly from well out of reach.
The cat, he reflected once again, was a very bad idea.
Clare returned with a tray, which she placed on a low table before asking him to sit next to her on a divan. She had removed her gloves, and he was very aware of the scars on her palms as she bathed his hand with warm soapy water.
“This will sting,” she cautioned, pouring something that smelled of alcohol over his wounds.
Bryn bit his bottom lip. It burned like hell. When his jaw unclenched, he managed to say, lightly, “You appear to have some experience as a healer.”
“I’ve treated my share of scrapes and scratches,” she acknowledged, dabbing a soothing salve over the throbbing welts. Then she wrapped his hand with a length of soft cloth and tied the ends in a knot. “If you have any serious swelling, and especially if lines of red begin to run up your arm, see a physician immediately.”
He studied the bandage for a moment. “Obviously I cannot leave the cat with you. He’s a menace.”
“I expect he was annoyed after being shut up in a basket. And who wouldn’t be?” Crossing to the tapestry, she gazed up at the kitten. “What an absurd little face he has.” Immediately the cat began to purr and knead at the ornate rail under its paws.
“You want to keep him?” Bryn asked with some surprise. “I had hoped he might be company for you, but you’ll do better with a pet not possessed by the devil. This one has the disposition of a rampaging Hun.”
“In that case,” she said, tugging a chair to the wall, “I shall name him Attila the Cat.”
Bryn helped her climb onto the chair, and she lifted her arms to Attila, still several inches out of reach. In a low voice, she spoke nonsense while the kitten regarded her curiously. After a few moments, he risked a descent down the tapestry until she was able to take hold of him.
Both of them purring, Bryn thought as he watched her gather Attila into her arms. The kitten curled against her breast, altogether content, and for once he respected the fiend if only for its excellent taste. He also wondered if Clare would ever hold him with as much affection.
Thunderation. Now he was jealous of an irascible cat!
Clare returned the placid kitten to its basket, where Attila curled up and promptly went to sleep. Then she placed her hands on Bryn’s shoulders, stood on tiptoe, and brushed her lips across his mouth.
“This is quite the nicest present I have ever received,” she told him with a smile. “Thank you, Bryn.”
Pleased and astonished, he struggled to regather his wits. “I’m glad you like him,” he muttered. “But if he becomes too much trouble—”
“I shall deal with it.” She chuckled. “I am accustomed to difficult males.”
“I expect you are,” he said in a serious voice. “Was your encounter with Mrs. Beales altogether repellent?”
Her lashes lowered, but not before he saw the speculative, amused look return to her eyes. “It was most educational. I only hope I remember what to do the first few weeks. After that, so long as I drink the potion she fixed up for me, it seems I can put away the sponges and vinegar.”
Her voice grew faint on the last words, and he could tell she found the whole busi
ness confusing, and probably repulsive, although she was trying valiantly to hide it.
“Forget sponges and vinegar,” he said, drawing her into an embrace. “Drink the herbal mixture, but for the first month or so I shall take responsibility.”
She leaned back in the circle of his arms, staring up at him from wide eyes. “But Mrs. Beales said that you could not. You told her so.”
“And so I thought. But I will control myself somehow.” He grinned. “If nothing else, Clare Easton, you are teaching me discipline. Already I want you so desperately I cannot sleep at night, and my temper … well, I have many fences to mend, with all my servants and most of my friends. Nevertheless, until Mrs. Beales tells me there is no longer fear of conceiving a child, I shall do what is necessary.”
“But—”
He placed two fingers on her lips. “Let me take care of you, butterfly. I want to. Coping with that demonic cat is difficulty enough. And now I must leave you and go in search of Robert Lacey. If he is still speaking to me, perhaps I can find out when Clouds will be ready for you to move in.”
“I had thought Sunday.” Her voice quavered. “Tomorrow.”
The apprehension in her voice chilled him. How she dreaded their first night together. “There may be a delay,” he said quietly. “Don’t worry, my dear. I promise not to seize you the moment your trunks are unpacked.”
She pulled away. “I am ready whenever you are, Bryn. Do not put things off on my account.”
WHY ELSE? HE thought as the hackney took him to St. James’s Street, where he found Robert Lacey at White’s, playing whist for high stakes.
A glass of brandy in his hand, he pretended to watch the game until the rubber was done, still thinking about Clare. How ironic, to want her so much that her needs had become more compelling than his own. That had never happened before, with any woman.