Lessons in Pleasure

by Victoria Dahl

  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.”

  Oh, God.

  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.”
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  “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.

  She did not feel hysterical. She hadn’t felt deranged even as he asked those awful questions. And though she wanted to be home, she did not feel as if she might crawl into bed and stay there for days, crying and sleeping and staring at the ceiling as her mother had once done.

  The doctor’s hands on her body had felt wrong, wrong, wrong. But when James touched her, it felt real and good.

  Was she sick, as Dr. Whitcomb suggested, or was she normal, as the other book seemed to imply?

  Sarah moved to wipe a tear from her eye, and realized her cheeks were wet with them. She wanted to talk to James, tell him her worries, but because of her own dishonesty, she could say nothing. He would hate her if she told him. How could he not? At the very least he would watch her always with a wary eye, wondering if she might descend into madness at any moment.

  Despite her desperate need to be home, when the carriage stopped, Sarah held her breath. She swiped both hands across her cheeks. She could not pass the servants like this. She needed to calm down.

  The door snapped open. “Home, madam.”

  She made herself take his gloved hand—calm, calm—and stepped heavily to the street. She held herself straight as an arrow as she climbed the steps to her house and opened the door. She maintained her calm facade until she saw that she and Crawford were not alone in the entry. James stood frozen in mid-pace, eyes narrowed at her.

  “Sarah, where have you been? I’ve been worried sick.”

  “James!” Oh, no. Oh, God. Why was he home?

  “You told no one where you’d gone and didn’t even take a maid with you!”

  “I . . .” She stepped back, away from her husband.

  He stepped closer. “My God, Sarah. Have you been crying?”

  She’d have to tell him the truth: that she’d lied, that she’d endangered him and any future children. That she was a disturbed woman.

  Sarah felt the world receding, turning gray and then black at the edges. Lights sparkled in the middle of her vision. She could see James mouthing her name as he rushed forward, but couldn’t hear the sound of it.

  Sarah Rose Hood was fainting for the first time in her life, and she was supremely grateful for the opportunity.

  * * *

  “Sarah!” He held his wife tight to his body in an awkward grasp. “Call for the doctor, Crawford.” She began to slide down, so he scooped her up and hurried into the parlor to lay her on the settee. “Sarah, darling, wake up, please.”

  She didn’t stir. Her lips were pale against the alarming white of her face. At least her forehead was cool, though he didn’t like the clammy feel of it. He touched her all over—her shoulders and chest, her arms and belly and legs—as if he could sense any injury just by the feel of her.

  When he saw her torn skirt, he stared at it, struck dumb with horror. Surely she hadn’t been attacked?

  Where the hell had she been?

  To make up for the day before, he’d come home in the middle of the day expecting another quiet luncheon with his bride. Instead he’d spent a half hour pacing the hall, trying to figure out where the hell she could have gone without even a maid as an escort. He’d been frightened and angry. And sadly, even suspicious. Just two days before he’d come home and found her gone, and when she’d returned she’d behaved so strangely.

  Damn it, what the hell was going on?

  “Sarah,” he tried again,
and this time her eyelids stirred. “Sarah!”

  Her eyes blinked open, brown eyes darker than ever against her pallid skin as they slowly focused on his face.

  “Sarah, are you hurt?”

  Eyes growing wider still, she shook her head.

  “I’ve sent for the doctor. He should be here any moment.”

  “No!” She threw her hands to the cushions beneath her and pushed up. “No, please don’t.”

  “You’re unwell. You need—”

  “I’m fine. I promise. I wasn’t ill, only frightened.”

  He rocked back on his heels. “Frightened of what, Sarah?”

  Her mouth closed, literally snapping shut.

  “Of me?”

  “No, of course not.”

  “Did someone hurt you? Your skirt is torn.”

  She looked down and brushed at the blackened fabric. She brushed and brushed until he realized she was crying. “No one has hurt me,” she sobbed. “I am fine.”

  James collapsed onto the seat beside her and pulled her to his chest. “You must tell me what is wrong before I go mad, Sarah. Please, you’re scaring me.”

  Nodding, she sniffed into his jacket. “I’ll tell you. I must. I should never have hidden it from you in the first place. Only call off the doctor, please, and I’ll tell you the truth.”

  Reeling at her words—what could they mean?—James nodded and went to speak with Crawford before shutting the parlor door. He stood there for a moment, head bowed, hand pressed to the door, and tried to calm his heart. What had she done? Could there possibly be another man? Some secret love she’d have preferred to marry eight weeks ago?

  If so . . . if so, James would murder him and toss his body into the river. Or perhaps just have him pressed into Her Majesty’s navy. Yes, that would be a more reasonable solution. And then he’d convince Sarah that she could love him just as well as this other man.

  He heard her rise and walk toward him, and turned to meet her gaze. As he watched, she put her shoulders back and straightened her spine. She would have looked regal if not for her torn skirt and disheveled hair. Instead, she looked even more vulnerable.