Lessons in Pleasure

Sarah didn’t wake fully aware of the night before. No, her head felt a bit achy and her throat raw with thirst when sunlight finally woke her. She was snuggling into her pillow to escape the discomfort when the first inkling of what she’d done hit her. Hand pressed to her chest, she sat bolt upright and inhaled as much air as would fit in her lungs.

She was stark naked.

“Oh, good Lord.”

The memories weren’t exactly crisp, but they were vivid nonetheless. She’d moaned and writhed. Shuddered and scratched. A stray cat howling for a tom. And then . . . then she’d had some sort of fit. A screaming, jerking fit.

“Oh no,” Sarah sobbed, pressing both hands to her mouth. What must her husband think? Eyes rolling, she scanned the room, but saw no sign of him. When her gaze caught sight of the small clock on the mantel, her shoulders collapsed. It was nearly ten. He’d left for work long before. She would not see him for hours, and she couldn’t help but be thankful, disloyal as that seemed.

She fell back to the pillows and pulled the coverlet up to her nose. What in the world had happened to her? The wine perhaps, except her strange mood had started earlier, so much worry and restlessness. And then . . . when her husband had touched her, something had . . . come to life inside her body. Something hot and trembling. Something almost hungry.

A groan escaped her throat, scaring her almost as much as her thoughts. If there was a beast inside her, lurking in her deepest soul, she knew what it must be. Her secret. Her family’s secret.

Sarah set her teeth and swallowed hard. She wasn’t a woman prone to dramatics. James had hardly seemed alarmed, from what she could recall. He had seemed . . . What? Encouraging? But he did not know the truth. She had not told him the truth. So she could not depend upon him to know whether her paroxysms were a normal phenomenon or a sign of worse to come.

In truth, she had heard her own mother cry out like that on occasion. Usually when the doctor would go in and shut the door for her treatments. Then, afterward, her mother would weep, sometimes for days.

Knowing full well that time spent lying in bed would only mean more worry, she dug her nightgown from beneath the sheets and twisted and wiggled until she had it on. Then she rang for a bath. By the time the clock struck eleven and she found herself staring down at the congealing breakfast on her plate, Sarah knew what she must do.

Though the housekeeper was a slightly terrifying presence, Sarah forced herself to calmly request the woman’s attention in the morning room. It took her approximately two minutes to quench her suddenly dry mouth, wipe her fingers, and rise to make her way to the morning room. The housekeeper was already there, awaiting her.

“Oh, Mrs. Baylor. Such a prompt response.” Sarah could not understand how Mrs. Baylor could be quite so round and still move more swiftly than a startled mouse.

“Yes, ma’am. Would you care to review the menus this morning, then?”

“No, I think the schedule is going splendidly. You run this house with great efficiency.”

Mrs. Baylor waited, eyes darting toward the door as if she’d like to be off to see to other duties.

“Well, then,” Sarah chirped. “I am running a few errands today, and I should like to steal one of the maids away. Could you spare Betsy, do you think?”

“Betsy? Which Betsy, ma’am? There are two.”

Sarah blinked. Two? Lord, she thought she had planned so well. One of those Betsys couldn’t read even the simplest words. Sarah knew this because she’d heard the girl explain to Mrs. Baylor why she couldn’t fetch a certain spice from the larder one evening when Sarah had been trying to teach them the recipe for her grandmother’s spiced cakes. Sarah needed that girl.

She cleared her throat. “The, um, the Betsy with the curly brown hair that sneaks from her cap?”

“Aye, I’ve spoken to her about that, ma’am. I’ll—”

“The hair is fine. Only can you spare her?”

“Of course.”

Sarah nodded and smiled past her pounding heart. “Wonderful. I shall be ready in half an hour. Please notify the footman that I will require a hack.”

The moment Mrs. Baylor quit the room, Sarah rushed to the writing table and drew a piece of paper from the drawer. After staring at the blank page for at least ten minutes, she took the pen into one shaking hand and scratched out three lines. She did not sign it, only dried it carefully and folded it into a tight, neat square.

The rest of her preparations took no time at all, and before the half hour was up, she and Betsy were in the coach and on their way.

The shop was less than a mile from the house, but Sarah rarely patronized it. The owner was her least favorite of the nearby book merchants, he being more interested in science and politics than “those dreadful novels,” as he called them. An arrogant bore in Sarah’s opinion, but he might prove useful today.

As soon as the hack creaked to a halt before the store, Sarah pressed the note into Betsy’s hand, along with a generous fistful of coins. A few simple instructions later, and she was alone in the coach, still rocking from Betsy’s jarring descent.

She stared at the opposite cushion, hands clenched tight together, and waited. Minutes dragged by. She thought about James. Wondered if he was thinking about her. Perhaps the night had meant nothing to him. Perhaps it had been like any other. Nodding to reassure herself, Sarah took a look at the door of the shop.

Nothing.

Had the bookseller grown suspicious? Was he even now questioning the maid? Surely he couldn’t object to the request.