A doctor in Buxton had ruined those dreams. Mama and Papa had saved for months to take her to a proper physician—one who could treat her dysmenorrhea and what he later diagnosed as uterine hemorrhaging. They believed he would help her, but the old gentleman had delivered the most crushing blow to her fragile, girlhood hopes:
Who would want a woman who bled through her petticoats and might scream in agony at her husband’s ardent affections? If she could not perform her marital duties, she had no business becoming a wife.
Cassandra had wept for a week after the diagnosis. Was it any wonder she swore off romance? No man alive would want a frigid, infertile wife.
The Duke of Wadebridge would never agree to such a chaste arrangement. He would not remain faithful in bodyorheart. He was as selfish as all the others who had courted her pretty face.
Ignoring Honoria, Cassandra hauled the tea tray into the kitchen, where she would wash the cups and plates for the second time that evening. She wanted to be alone. Housework provided the outlet for her thoughts and her energy. Cassandra plunged the cheap china service into the sink basin and scrubbed away the last remnants of the duke.
Footsteps on the stone floor made her pause. Honoria’s arms came around her waist, wrapping her in a tight embrace.
“Youdowant more, don’t you, Cass?” the youngest Staunton whispered in the darkened kitchen.
She sighed. “What woman doesn’t?”
“You’re not always sick. There are weeks when you are perfectly well, if a bit fatigued.” Honoria gave her a loving squeeze. “You deserve a man who will love you just as you are, and cherish three good weeks with you out of every month.”
Sweet, naive Honoria. Mama and Papa had always babied her. She was their little angel, their pet. She knew nothing of men and women, or how the world worked.
“And what of that fourth week, when I am aching and bleeding? When I am crying and retching over the chamber pot? When I cannot lift a finger to care for myself, let alone the cooking, cleaning, and running of the home?”
“The right man foryouwill cherish that awful week, too,” Honoria replied. “He might even hold your hand through the worst of it.”
If only such a saint existed…
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Rain pattered into puddles that gathered on the path. Grey clouds blotted out the sun, and the dim sky looked more like evening than an early summer morning.
The villagers of Longstone picked their way through the churchyard. Women held their hems high to avoid soiling their Sunday best. Children splashed and squealed, despite their parents’ scolding. The little ones would be dripping and sniffling through service. The pews would be damp. The church would be chilly.
At least the roof did not leak, Cassandra thought as she joined the others on their weekly walk to Sunday service. The villagers—and, she suspected, Lord Althorne’s discreet generosity—kept the stone church and its tall, square bell tower in immaculate condition. The gravestones were well-tended. The paths between them were swept neat. Inside, the stained glass, the altar, and their meager treasures were lovingly cared for by Mr. Morton, the vicar.
He was a welcome sight on the church steps, clad in his vestments. A bright spot on a dreary morning, for a ring of dampness did not trouble his hems. He held his hand up—the one that was not holding an umbrella—and waved to greet his straggling congregation.
Imagine, one whole umbrella to one’s self! Cassandra felt rainwater dribbling down her back, for she and Honoria could hardly fit beneath the one they wielded. She did her best to manage her hems, though her arms grew tired and her booted feet slipped in the mud. But Honoria was forced to hold the umbrella, so she really ought not to complain.
Her sisters were always so careful and mindful of her poor health. With Octavia gone to Caswell Hall, young Honoria had quietly and uncomplainingly doubled her workload, while Cassandra’s life continued on as usual.
No, indeed. She had no right to complain.
“I can hold the umbrella for a bit,” she said to her sister, panting as they tramped.
They paused to join the others as they filed through the churchyard gate. Many of their neighbors smiled and chatted as they waited, but everyone was in a hurry to get out of the wet weather.
Honoria took the moment to study her sodden skirts. Mud splattered the pretty muslin. “I’ve already ruined my hems. At least, if I hold the umbrella, I’ll know that my hat won’t be drenched.”
Her younger sister had found her way into Mama’s wardrobe chest. Cassandra recognized blouses and frocks that had once graced their mother’s beautiful frame. This jaunty cap, newly trimmed with a length of flowing ribbon, was a hand-me-down as well.
When had Honoria grown up to be the spitting image of their mother? There were moments when the resemblance caught Cassandra off guard.
“She’d be glad to see you wearing it, you know.” There was no need to elaborate, for they both knew whom she spoke of. “You inherited her love of fashionable things, even if we could rarely afford them.”
Honoria smiled. “But we passed many happy hours poring over fashion plates. She would tell me stories of her life in London and shopping on Regent Street.” The youngest Staunton sister sighed. “She must truly have loved Papa to give all that up.”
“Yes, I am sure she did.” Cassandra knew in her heart that her parents had been deeply in love. Their warm, tender partnership had been plain to see. It was exactly the sort of marriage Cassandra would’ve wanted for herself, had that been possible.
At last, it was their turn to pass through the covered lych gate. They entered the churchyard at their neighbors’ heels. The gravel path was wet, but not muddy like the lane, thanks to Mr. Morton’s attentive care.
