Sabine made a sheepish face and extended a cup of tea to the older woman.
“Lovely, I’d nearly forgotten about the tea. Thank you.” She took a sip. “Tell me, Sabine, how is Mr. Stoker getting on? Harley has assured us he will not die in our cellar, thank God. But that is all we know.” She settled the cup and saucer on her knee.
“He is doing quite well, thank you. My own work has kept me busy these past few days, but when last I spoke to the doctor, he gave a very encouraging report. I... I cannot tell you how grateful I am for Harley’s assistance. And that you’ve allowed us to make over my bedroom as his sick ward.”
“He is your husband, Sabine, and Arthur and I said when we invited you girls here that this would be your home just as it is ours. That makes it his home, as well.”
Sabine looked into her teacup, overwhelmed by the four years of boundless generosity from the Boyds. “Thank you, Mary. You and Arthur are the very souls of kindness.”
“You girls are like the daughters I never had—which brings me to the reason I have called you here.” Mary wiped her hands and set aside her cloth, taking up Willow’s open letter. She narrowed her eyes at Sabine.
Sabine’s heart had begun to pound.
Mary gazed down at the letter. “Willow is very worried about you, which, in turn, makes me worry. Do we need to be worried, dear?”
“Worried about...?”
“Right,” said Mary, taking up her tea. “Do you mind if I speak frankly, dear?”
“I prefer it,” said Sabine.
“Willow says here that there is some...confusionamong you and Mr. Stoker about... the marriage bed.”
“Oh God,” said Sabine, dropping her teacup on the saucer with a clatter.
“Indeed,” said Mary, not looking away. “I would not normally insert myself into a quandary like this—these matters do tend to work themselves out—but Willow could not be here and she believes you have no one else to talk to.”
Sabine considered taking up the open pot of furniture stain and drinking it.
“The confusion is... not all that troubling,” Sabine said, unable to look up. She stared into her lap, seeing nothing, feeling nothing but a full-body blush, inside and out. Even her hair, she was certain, had turned pink.
“Can you tell me if Mr. Stoker is well enough to... engage with you in some manner, Sabine? Obviously, this is something I cannot ask Harley.”
“Oh God,”breathed Sabine. “Please do not ask Harley.”
“Of course not. I am asking you, and honestly, I’m surprised by your shyness. You were always the boldest of the three brides, weren’t you?”
“I know I’m being... silly. Forgive me. I’ve—that is, when I took him in, I never expected to enjoy his company quite so much. And after that, I never expected to... to—”
She looked up and shook her head. She wasn’t sure how to say the rest.
Mary Boyd reached again for her tea. “Ah, so the answer is yes. Heiswell enough in some way. Lovely.” She took a sip and glanced again at the letter.
“I’ve no wish to interrogate you or embarrass you, Sabine,” Mary went on, “but I share Willow’s concern for your—oh, let’s continue on with the notion ofconfusion. This is yet another area of life kept shrouded in mystery and shame for females, isn’t it? It’s not as if you can locate a book on the topic and research the answers, can you? You must rely on other women to speak plain truth. In the absence of Willow or Tessa or your own mother—here I am. I am an old woman, but I have been married for many happy years, and I try very hard to speak plain truth whenever I can.”
Sabine nodded. “Thank you.”
“Now, lucky for us,” said Mary, waving Willow’s letter, “there doesn’t seem to be a mechanical question per se—although I can happily answer those, too, should the need arise.” She glanced at Sabine.
Sabine, finally recovering some of her signature cheek, raised one eyebrow.
Mary laughed. “Right. Very good. But Willow is concerned that Stoker has suggested to you that marital relations between husband and wife involves some sort of... barter? Is that correct? Does he want something from you, Sabine? Surely not?”
Sabine shook her head wildly. “No, no, it’s the other way around. And please understand. We’ve only shared so much as a, er, kiss—thus far. I mean, at all. He is still recovering—and when he is healed, I believe he will sail from London, just as before. There is no guarantee that ‘marital relations’ are in our future. But he made such a big fuss about the kiss, it raised the question. Andthatis why I wrote to Willow. Although I see now I should have simply come to you.” Sabine slumped on the sofa. “How has her reply reached you so quickly?”
“Private courier,” said Mary, waving the envelope. “Willow felt this conversation was very urgent, indeed.”
Sabine shook her head and choked out a laugh. But then she thought of Stoker, whom she hadn’t seen in five days despite her mounting desire to see him. Perhaps it was rather urgent. Perhaps she had been avoiding him because she needed some ruling on this issue.
