A Kiss For Midwinter (Brothers Sinister #1.5)(16)
“She doesn’t walk the streets, if that’s what you mean. And I have no doubt that with eight children, she is on her feet working as long as she can, as hard as she can, every day.”
It made Lydia’s back ache simply thinking about it. “I suppose,” she finally said, “that she deserves…comfort, too. No matter what has happened to her.”
Grantham gave a snort. “Comfort? Miss Charingford, you know precisely what is going on, even if you won’t say it aloud.”
Lydia felt her cheeks flush.
“Mrs. Hall is on her feet every minute she can work during the day, and when she can no longer stand, she works on her back. It’s a common enough arrangement in tenement halls such as these. Likely she has ten or twelve men who visit her on a regular basis, who help to make up the difference in her expenses. The men can’t afford a wife and a family; she can’t afford not to have a husband.”
Lydia was silent a moment longer. She thought of those shoes lined up, the curtains in the window. The note in the woman’s voice as she said her children were precious to her.
Lydia now knew precisely how she valued them.
She thought of Grantham, leaning in at the end of the visit and whispering, and she felt a hot curl of anger.
“When you whispered to her, were you warning her of the danger of moral decay?”
She could still remember Parwine’s gaze on her as he predicted damnation and death.
But Doctor Grantham simply rolled his eyes. “Tell me, Miss Charingford. Do I look like a rector?”
She glanced at him. The rector had floppy sideburns and always smelled of cabbage. Grantham’s collar was white underneath a black cravat, but there the resemblance ended. He wore dark brown, which set off the dark color of his eyes. He was clean shaven, and he smelled faintly of bay rum. He looked… Very well, he looked handsome. Not that she cared about that.
She looked away and didn’t answer.
“I’m a doctor; it is not my job to look to anyone’s soul, but to see to their physical wellbeing. I told her that she should be using a French letter or one of the new capotes made from vulcanized rubber. Failing that, I suggested that she consider being fitted with a Dutch cap. The expense would be considerable for her, but not compared with the cost of a child.”
Lydia turned to stare at him. “What are those things?”
“Prophylactics.”
He tilted his head to look at her and must have seen the puzzled look on her face.
“For the prevention of pregnancy and, in the case of the former two, social disease,” he spelled out. “The French letter goes over a man’s penis and prevents the transmission of sperm; the Dutch cap over a woman’s cervix. Neither is perfect, but they’re certainly better than nothing.”
The images that brought to mind… Lydia could scarcely breathe, imagining a sheath of rubber being fitted over a man’s… Her cheeks flamed. “I am certain that this is not a proper subject of conversation between an unmarried lady and a gentleman.”
He rolled his eyes again. “Tell me, Miss Charingford. Do I look like an etiquette advisor?”
“Not in the slightest.”
“I’m not a virgin. Neither are you. And even if you were, there’s no need for either of us to be missish about the matter. If a woman is old enough to push a ten-pound child through her birth canal, she can hear words like ‘penis’ and ‘cervix.’ These are medical terms, Miss Charingford, not obscenities.”
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?”