A Kiss For Midwinter

He spoke in such a straightforward way, as if the penis and the cervix were parts of the body no more objectionable than fingers or toes, as if enrobing them in rubber were as simple as donning gloves. He didn’t speak of what one would do after that particular glove were put on.

Lydia licked her lips and refused to look at him. “Have you used any of them?”

He didn’t laugh at that highly improper question. “French letters, quite regularly. While I was in medical school, I had an arrangement with a widow who missed sexual intercourse, but didn’t want a husband.”

She couldn’t believe that she’d asked. She couldn’t believe that he’d answered. She really didn’t want to think about the fact that Doctor Grantham was male, in possession of the standard male parts. That made her feel odd inside. Odd, and aware of her own body in a way that made her uncomfortable.

“French letters dull the sensation somewhat,” he said. “If I were married, I’d ask my wife if she would consider being fitted for a Dutch cap. But that won’t prevent social diseases like gonorrhea and syphilis.” He looked at her directly, as if daring her to become flustered at the words he used.

“I really…” The protest seemed a formality, something she had to say. “I don’t think that I should be having this conversation with you.”

She was certain she shouldn’t be. He’d just told her about his illicit arrangement with a willing widow. Men didn’t tell women these things. And yet he hadn’t boasted about the conquest. He’d stated it as a fact, as if sexual intercourse was just another thing that people did, one that had medical implications.

She blinked and shook her head furiously.

But his jaw had squared, and he turned to her. “When should I have this conversation with you, Miss Charingford? Do I wait until you’re married and your body is already falling apart with the strain of carrying your seventh child in as many years? Should I wait until a fifteen-year-old girl catches pregnant because she was seduced by an older man?”

She couldn’t breathe. “Don’t, Grantham. Don’t you dare talk about that.”

“Why, because you might get angry again?” He set his bag down and turned to her deliberately. “I would rather infuriate you by telling you that sperm causes pregnancy and that there are methods to help prevent its transmission. The truth is a gift, Miss Charingford, and this conversation is a damn sight better than telling you you’re going to die as a slut, and then poisoning you in hopes that you lose the babe.”

He was furious, so furious that it took her a moment to comprehend what he’d said.

“Poisoning me?” she echoed.

“I told you earlier I thought you were angry with me. You should be angry. I could never tell if Parwine prescribed that remedy because he was ignorant, because he was trying to induce a miscarriage, or because he wanted you dead.”

She couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t think at all. “I told you. I don’t want to talk of that. I wish you’d forget it. I have.”

“Tell me, Miss Charingford, before you miscarried, did you feel confused and faint? Were you dizzy? Was your skin more flushed than it usually was?”

“How did you know?” she breathed. “How did you know I miscarried?”

“A good guess. Prussic acid is also known as hydrogen cyanide, and it is one of the deadliest poisons known to man. Of course, the difference between a poison and a cure is the dose, but… At the level Parwine suggested? It wasn’t a cure.”

Lydia stared straight ahead, her eyes feeling dry as a desert. Her whole body seemed in agony remembering those cramps that had come. She shook her head, but the denial didn’t help.

“So, no,” he continued, “I won’t forget that day. I held my tongue because Parwine was older and he knew better. I held my tongue because he had told me to keep quiet, and I thought that agreement more important than your wellbeing. And I have regretted it. I regretted it every day of my medical training. I regret it every day that I practice. I regret it now more deeply than you could imagine. I should have spoken at the time, and to hell with what Parwine told me beforehand. It shouldn’t have mattered that he was the elder, and I was the young pup following him about. I wanted to be a doctor. The rule is that I should do no harm, not that I should do what is considered proper.”

She’d never seen him so animated. She’d never felt so closed down, as if he’d stolen all the life from her. As if he were a repository for every dark emotion that she’d felt and shoved aside.

“So if you’d like to know, Miss Charingford, why I speak of penises and cervixes, I lay the blame at your door. There is no way I can apologize for what I could have prevented with a little plain speaking. All I can hope is that I will never make the same mistake again. I would rather open my mouth and say what is true than shut it for the sake of propriety. You claim you’re not angry with me, Miss Charingford, but you should be. You should be.”

She didn’t feel anything at all. She wouldn’t. She refused to let anger take root.

“You…you didn’t agree with Parwine?”

“Not in the slightest particular. And for the record, Miss Charingford, when first I approached you last year… I had no idea who you were until you told me. I simply thought you were a reasonably attractive young lady. When I figured out who you were, I realized you were one of the bravest.”

“But you are always so rude to me. So…so…”

He shrugged. “Miss Charingford,” he said, “you may have noticed that I have a small number of defects in my character. I will tell you when I believe you are being missish—or silly—or overly cheerful, and yes, I make no attempt to cover my opinions in a coat of white sugar. But I have long believed that underneath that lovely, overly cheerful façade, you are actually a worthwhile individual.”

He was looking at her in that way he had, the one that made her fingers curl. Worthwhile wasn’t much of a compliment, but it was still too much. “I’m also the eleventh prettiest young lady in all of Leicester.” She threw it out to remind herself how little she meant.

His cheeks actually colored at that—she had thought him utterly impervious to embarrassment—and he looked away. “As I said,” he muttered. “You have good reason to be angry at me.”

She couldn’t think about what he’d said—none of it. He had to hate her. He had to think what Parwine did. He couldn’t think well of her, because if he did…