The Belle of Belgrave Square (Belles of London #2)(43)

As Julia had grown older, she’d often wondered if her mother had used the excuse of poor health as a means of securing her privacy and independence. She and Papa had never had another child. They kept separate rooms and maintained largely separate lives. It was the closest thing to Mama being a widow. And Papa couldn’t complain, not when his own health was in such a precarious state—though he regularly lamented his lack of a male heir.

Women had so little power in life to control their destinies. Julia had experienced the lack of it firsthand.

She was experiencing it now.

If claiming illness could offer her a fraction of the same freedom it had given her mother, Julia didn’t see why she shouldn’t take advantage of it.

“I can’t do my duty in this condition,” she said. “I’m not able to do anything.”

Mama’s lips thinned. “Maidenish nerves, I don’t wonder.”

“It isn’t that.”

“What is it, then? Mrs. Major claims you were indisposed last night, but she failed to report the specifics of your complaint.”

“My stomach aches,” Julia said. “And I have pains in my chest.” That much was true. Her heart felt as though it had been trod on by an elephant. “I need a few days of rest to restore myself.”

Mama expression became pensive. “Your eyes are swollen. And your nose is red. Dr. Cordingley warned me about danger to the mucous membranes in those with imbalanced humors.”

The only danger Julia was in was from excessive weeping. She’d cried last night into her pillow. She felt a little like crying now, truth be told. But she was done with feeling sorry for herself. Done with pining over Captain Blunt.

If she could just be alone with one of her books, the world would right itself eventually.

“Have you a fever?” Mama pressed the back of her hand to Julia’s brow. She withdrew it, frowning. “I’m so feverish myself I can hardly tell.” She stood. “I’ll summon the physician.”

Julia’s pulse quickened with apprehension. It was one thing to contemplate bloodletting in the abstract. But faced with the imminent possibility of it, her composure began to crack. “I don’t need Dr. Cordingley. I only need a few days in bed.”

“Nonsense,” Mama replied. “You’ll feel better after a good bloodletting.”



* * *





?Julia did not, in fact, feel better after a good bloodletting. She felt weak, light-headed, and entirely incapable of defending herself against Dr. Cordingley’s backward opinions on women’s reading habits.

“Novels are at the root of it, mark my words,” he said as he packed away his brass scarificator. The octagonal brass casing of the horrible instrument housed a mechanism of spring-loaded blades used to create cuts in the flesh. It was more efficient than a lancet, allowing for greater blood flow with one strike.

And there had been so much blood this time. By the time the procedure was completed, Julia was scarcely able to lower her bandaged arm from the bleeding bowl back to the bed.

“Reading novels promotes an excess of heat in the body,” Dr. Cordingley went on. “Fevers, palpitations, and so forth. It cannot be permitted in the female sex. In young ladies like your daughter, the passions must be repressed rather than stimulated.”

Mama sat in a chair near the door, a lace handkerchief pressed over her mouth. She nodded her head in agreement. “As you say, Doctor.”

Dr. Cordingley cast a disdainful look at the stack of novels on Julia’s bedside table. “You’d do well to dispose of these, and any others in her possession.”

“I shall,” Mama said.

“No.” Julia managed a faint objection. “You can’t. They’re mine.”

“Your parents will do what’s necessary, Miss Wychwood,” Dr. Cordingley replied sternly.

“They’re mine,” Julia repeated. “I bought them.”

“Never mind who bought them,” Mama retorted. “If the doctor says you mustn’t read them anymore, you won’t read them, and there’s an end to it.”

Dr. Cordingley was complacent. “It’s as I’ve told you, Lady Wychwood. Novel reading pollutes the body and corrupts the mind. Do you wonder your daughter finds herself in such a sad condition?”

“Will your treatment be enough to cure her, Doctor?” Mama asked.

“To start.” Dr. Cordingley snapped shut his leather medical bag. “I recommend a second course of venesection to rebalance her humors.”

Mama didn’t appear alarmed by the suggestion. She had a zealot’s faith in the medical profession. “Administered when?”

“An hour from now.”

Julia struggled to draw breath to object. Her room was sweltering hot. Mary had been placed in charge of keeping the fire stoked. She stood near the hearth, her face gone white. She knew as well as Mama that Julia had never yet undergone two consecutive rounds of bloodletting.

“Mama,” Julia said weakly.

“Be quiet, child,” Mama chided. “Doctor? May I offer you some refreshment?”

“You are very good, my lady.”

Mama rose from her chair. “You’ll understand why I can’t join you. My own health has deteriorated to such a degree, I fear I haven’t the strength.”