Lessons in Pleasure (6 page)

He looked toward the pale smudge of her face in the dark. “Can I get you anything, sweetheart?”

“No, Mary has already brought a glass of wine to help me sleep.”

“Very well.” He walked slowly back to the dressing room, wondering if she was really sick or only suffering a guilty conscience as she had the day before. Or, he supposed, it was possible she was miffed over his long absence today. Regardless, he meant to join her in their bed.

A few minutes later, he slid beneath the cool sheets, startling a little jerk from her side of the mattress. “James?”

“Shh. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“Oh.” That one little sound seemed full of relief, forcing James to push down his wounded pride.

“Go back to sleep, Sarah.” He felt her nod and reached to smooth a hand over her brow. No fever, at any rate. When he repeated the motion, she sighed. “A headache?”

“Yes,” she whispered. “I’m sorry.”

“Come.” He tucked her into his shoulder, meaning to offer comfort, but the seconds dragged into minutes before her body relaxed into his. “Go to sleep, love.”

Her nod stirred up the scent of her soap as she finally lay an arm across his naked chest. She was thoroughly clothed in a long-sleeved gown far too hot for the night. Staring at the blackness above him, James wondered what that meant. His chest ached with the answer.

He could not be so greedy next time. As he’d said himself, they had a lifetime of nights together. Sarah had lived nineteen of her twenty years knowing nothing of her own body, much less her husband’s. He could not resent her nervousness . . . even if it did thrust a knife through his gut.

“I’m so sorry,” Sarah whispered again, as if she could feel the sorrow churning inside him. Her hand stroked his chest, smoothing away some of the pain.

When he pulled her tighter and pressed a kiss to her forehead, Sarah’s arm wrapped farther around him. She rolled her whole body against his side, moved one flannel-covered knee up over his thigh, and the rest of his worry flowed away like a receding tide.

She’d never lain like this before, pressed so comfortably against his naked flesh. She’d never sighed into his skin and rubbed her cheek against his shoulder like a settling cat. This was a headache, nothing more.

She was his wife and he loved her. All would be well, or he would make it so.

C
HAPTER
6

The nondescript door gave no indication of what Sarah would find within. It looked neither seedy nor stately. The blue painted wood wasn’t scarred, but neither was it ornate. A tiny sign hung above the lintel, naming the occupant of the space and his credentials, but again, that offered her no help. She already knew who Dr. Whitcomb was and why she was here.

Sarah clutched her reticule tighter and eyed his doorstep from the opposite side of the narrow street. She needed answers. She could not go through one more day of lies and subterfuge. Of course, her head really had been pounding the night before, but she knew that wasn’t why she’d apologized to her husband. She’d apologized for bringing this curse into his house, for lying, for failing to live up to the promises she’d made at their wedding. For pretending to be a whole woman, when it seemed more clear every day that she was not.

She needed to know.

Her foot had just touched the first cobblestone in the street when that dreaded door swung open. Sarah leaped back, nearly tumbling to her backside when her heel caught on the curb.

A lady emerged. A real lady, not a shopgirl or seamstress. The feather in her hat bobbed jauntily as she descended the steps. Her cheeks glowed with good health. Her smile looked soft and sleepy, relieved even. Was this woman under his care? Impossible to think she could be ill, but in his book Dr. Whitcomb promised an 85 percent success rate with his specialized battery of treatments.

Sarah watched the woman touch a lace-edged handkerchief to her brow before a shiny carriage pulled up to take her away.

Bolstered by the innocuous scene, she stepped off the curb again and rushed across the street. If Dr. Whitcomb could save her and her marriage, Sarah would risk anything. She knocked before she could lose her nerve, and a thin maid in an oversized mobcap opened the door.

“I need to see Doctor Whitcomb, please.”

“Do you have an appointment?”

“No, but it’s an emergency. I’m sure he’ll see me. He treated my mother.”

The maid looked doubtful, but she opened the door wide, revealing a small entry. “Doctor Whitcomb is a busy man, of course, but I’ll convey your message.”

Sarah gave her name and her mother’s name, then stood rigid as the woman plodded up a short set of polished stairs. The maid knocked on the first door and waited until a male voice called out before she disappeared inside.

She’d been afraid of the doctor as a girl. Would he frighten her now? Would he even see her? Perhaps her mother’s name meant nothing to him.

All her doubts spun around her, weaving a tight net that slowly squeezed the air from her lungs. The room seemed to recede until all she could see was a wide square of sunlight where it struck the landing.

“Mrs. Hood?”

She blinked, and he was there, at the top of the stairs. He smiled as he descended, and she was relieved to see that he grew smaller with each step. He’d seemed a giant for a moment, but when he stood before her, her eyes were even with his.

“Mrs. Hood, I’m honored that you’ve come to see me.” His gaze seemed to devour her. “Why, you are the very image of your mother.” His smile widened until she could see his back teeth. She had expected someone older; he had seemed so intimidating in her youth. But in truth he must have been a very young man then, for he looked only a few years older than her husband.

“Doctor Whitcomb,” she finally managed to say.

“Please come up to my office. I’d imagine that you didn’t stop by simply to chat about the weather.”

“No.” She drew a deep breath before she took his arm.

His office was very much like the man himself, clean, simple, attractive. Not the least bit intimidating. A large desk sat in front of the window, faced by two delicate chairs. A chaise longue dominated the rest of the room, remarkable only because of the linen sheets folded at the foot of it and the chair snug against its side.

“Please,” he said, indicating the desk area. “Have a seat.”

He held a chair out for her before rounding the desk and taking his place behind it. His short blond hair gleamed in the sunlight. “What can I help you with today, Mrs. Hood?”

Sarah cleared her throat, shocked to find that she actually
wanted
to talk to him. “I’ve read your book.”

He nodded and rubbed a hand over his close-clipped beard.

“My mother . . . I suspect that her illness was described there?”

“Yes, of course. She was one of my most tragic cases.”

“It was . . . It was nymphomania.”

He dipped his head in assent. “Yes, and hysteria leading to dementia, of course. I tried my very best to help her rise from those depths, but her illness . . .” He sighed. “It was too severe. I’m sorry.”

Her heart thumped hard against her throat, and she felt startlingly ill for a moment but pressed on. “If it had been caught earlier, do you think that would have helped?”

“It’s very possible. Her symptoms began after your birth. As I stated in the book, I believe that the very same illnesses that can be brought on by the shock of a female’s introduction to intercourse can also be brought on by the brutality of childbirth. With slightly different manifestations, of course.”

He leaned back in his chair and stared thoughtfully at a little ceramic figure. Sarah realized with a start that it was a nude female form.

“Your mother became quite listless after giving birth. She was lethargic and morose for nearly a year. When she emerged from that melancholia and resumed her marital duties, the mania began to set in. Restlessness. An interest in conjugal relations that superseded the fact that she wanted to avoid another pregnancy. Over-arousal. Her husband—your father—did not recognize any danger, as most men do not. This went on for nearly four years between bouts of sadness and depression before she happened into my office.”

Stunned, Sarah sat staring at him for several heartbeats before he raised his gaze to her and blinked.

“I apologize. Perhaps I was too graphic.”

“No.” She had wanted honesty and it seemed she’d come to the right place.

“When I confronted her with her symptoms and made my diagnosis, she became obstinate, but I continued asking questions.” He leaned forward now, eyes locked with Sarah’s. “Did she have trouble sleeping? Did she encourage unusual acts in the bedroom? Did she find that her . . .” His gaze flickered down and then up again, “feminine parts became congested at the mere thought of marital relations?”

“Congested?” Sarah breathed.

“Swollen,” he answered. “Wet.”

She wanted to leave, but Dr. Whitcomb’s eyes held her frozen.

“Mrs. Hood,” he said gently. “This disease is very often hereditary. Medical science has proven the familial connection with no doubt at all. Did you come to me because you are suffering these same symptoms?”

“I . . .” She couldn’t think what to say, much less force it from her throat.

“By the time she came to me, your mother was very ill. It had gone on too long. When confronted with the truth, she sank into another depression. Her maid realized that she was suffering and sent for me. I started intensive treatment right away, but despite the many months she was under my care, you know what happened. She grew irritable, then inconsolable. She vacillated between restlessness and lethargy. When she decided she could not be helped, she went to the river and threw herself in.”

Sarah had known this. She’d always known how her mother’s life had ended, with stones weighing down her pockets as she sank to the bottom of the Thames. Still, she shuddered to hear it said aloud.

“But yes,” he continued, voice so soft it barely crossed the distance between them. “I believe I could have saved her if she had come to me earlier. Are you suffering, Mrs. Hood?”

Tears clogged her throat. She dragged a handkerchief from her reticule and pressed it to her lips. She couldn’t help but think of the woman she’d seen leaving, the woman who had looked so calm and happy as she wiped a touch of perspiration from her brow.

Dr. Whitcomb offered a sympathetic smile. “We shall do an exam. I can see you’re clear-eyed and that’s an excellent sign that you have not let this go too far.”

Nodding in relief, she stood and moved toward the chaise to perch on the very edge of it while Dr. Whitcomb stood above her.

“First, your pulse.” He took her wrist in his hands and watched the clock on the wall. “Tell me about your symptoms.”

“I’ve been restless. Nervous. Sometimes I have difficulty sleeping.”

“When were you married?”

“Two months ago.”

“And you were a virgin?”

She jerked a little at the word. “Of course.”

“When your husband took you, was it painful?”

“Yes, but—”

“How often do you engage in sexual congress?” He dropped her wrist and indicated she should recline against the back of the couch. His fingers pressed against the sides of her throat.

“Um, three or four times a week until recently.”

His hands froze on her skin. “Recently?” He crouched down to look into one eye, then the other.

“Recently, yes. It’s become more, um, frequent.”

“How frequent?” One of his hands pressed her stomach, just below her breasts.

She closed her eyes. “More than once a day.”

“I see.” The hand moved lower, to her belly. “And do you become congested when he touches you?”

A tear leaked from the corner of her eye, but she admitted the truth. “Yes.”

Dr. Whitcomb stood. “I will leave you alone to undress. My maid will be in to provide assistance. She will cover you with the sheet before calling me.”

“Pardon? No! No, I cannot . . . My husband . . .”

“Mrs. Hood, I am a physician. How am I to examine you past whalebone and petticoats?”

“Can you not . . . ?” Her tears started in earnest. “Can you not simply give me the medicine to try?”

He sat in the chair and took her hand. “Mrs. Hood, there is no medicine, there is a physical treatment. Your pulse is elevated, and I suspect from your description that your uterus is inflamed and congested. The treatment involves manual relief of the congestion and pressure. We do not need to begin treatment today, but I must palpate the uterus to be sure of diagnosis.”

They were at an impasse then. She simply could not remove her clothing in front of this man, doctor or not. When she shook her head, he sighed.

“Well, your modesty is another good sign, at any rate. Lie back and I’ll do my best.”

She lay back awkwardly, her bustle pressing into her lower back, arching her body up as he felt along her skirts at the bottom edge of her corset.

“The next time you visit, please wear your stays a bit looser, if you will.”

“All right.” He pressed so hard against her belly that she winced.

“Ah, yes. Definitely full and inflamed.” Before she realized what he was doing, Dr. Whitcomb had reached for the hem of her skirts and slid his hand beneath it. Quick and methodical in his movements, his hand was on her thigh before she could respond.

“Sir!” Sarah snapped up, nearly hitting her head against his chin.

His fingers spread over her thigh, holding her. “Calm yourself, Mrs. Hood. I only need to do a quick internal exam. Nothing more than what you can expect during pregnancy.” His hand crept up toward the slit in her drawers, the slide of his skin burning her like acid.

“No!” When she pushed his arm away, he let her, but his fingers smoothed down her leg as she shoved.

“Very well. But your skin is flushed and very hot, and I’d imagine that your vulva is hotter still. Until our next visit, please refrain from eating any rich foods. In fact, I advise a daily dose of barley water to calm the humors. Of course, you should refrain from any marital relations with your husband and from reading novels. Do you read novels, Mrs. Hood?”

Panicked, she didn’t answer, but simply pushed to her feet. “Thank you, Doctor.”

He stood as well, and took her fisted hand in his. “I understand that this is difficult, Mrs. Hood. But I am very hopeful for you and for the future of your marriage.”

James
, she thought. I can do this for James.

He placed a small pot into her hands. “Camphor. Please rub it thoroughly into your labia once each day.”

She had no idea what a labia was, but she nodded anyway.

“It will start to relieve the congestion in preparation for your treatment. Would you prefer to take treatment here, or shall I come to your home?”

“I’ll . . . I’ll come here.”

“Excellent. Please return at the same time next week.”

As soon as the words left his mouth, Sarah rushed for the door. She flew down the stairs and clawed the front door open before the maid could reach it. Desperate to get away as quickly as possible, Sarah stepped into the street and nearly stumbled right in front of a dray wagon pulled by four massive horses. The driver scowled and whipped them faster as he passed her by.

She needed a hack. She needed to get home and bathe. She shouldn’t have allowed him to touch her. She felt soiled by the questions. If she felt so awful just from the examination, how could she bear to return for treatment at his hands?

And yet that other woman, that perfectly respectable lady, had left Dr. Whitcomb’s office with a smile on her face.

Sarah wanted that, too. Serenity. Happiness. And she wanted that for James.

When she spied a hack she nearly jumped in front of it to make it stop. The driver eyed her warily, but when she handed over a coin along with her direction, his scowl turned to a grin.

“Right-o, madam. Let me help ye in.”

But she didn’t want him near, so she scrambled in herself and shut the door on the hem of her skirt. The wheels seemed to seek out ruts in the road as they turned. Sarah closed her eyes and braced herself against the back of the seat.