Chapter 10

I t took three wicked widows pushing from below and a lot of pulling from Mrs. Robinson, but Gwendolyn managed to get back into her room before the sun had risen over London.

An hour later, Mariah brought her a breakfast tray. “Did you do it, Miss Gwendolyn?” she whispered.

Gwendolyn’s cheeks flushed red, but she nodded. “I did. Thanks to you.”

“Good!” Mariah dropped her voice low. “From what I hear, yer brother has one of his doctor friends coming this afternoon. To confirm if the deed has been done.”

Gwen swallowed. She had suspected Joseph would insist on an examination. While she had been surprised how natural it had felt last night to bare her body before Tom, the thought of one of her brother’s vile friends inspecting her most intimate areas filled her with dread.

She shook herself. She had come this far. She would let nothing come between her and her rightful future. She could bear any affront, face any humiliation if it meant she would be able to live out the remainder of her life in peace and happiness in Aunt Agatha’s cottage.

“I’ll get through it,” Gwen told Mariah.

The maid nodded. “You’ll have some support. We’ll make sure there isn’t any funny business.”

Gwendolyn wasn’t sure what support Mariah could possibly offer her. Surely Joseph would not allow anyone else to be present in the room during the exam. But she said, “Thank you, Mariah.” She seized the maid’s hand before she could leave, squeezing it. “For everything.”

That left Gwen cooling her heels for the remainder of the morning. She wondered which of her brother’s horrible friends he would summon to perform the exam. Joseph had at least two friends who were physicians, and she would not have trusted either of them to remove a splinter. Harry Hastings and Andrew Mapplethorpe were not what you would call dedicated to the medical sciences; much to the contrary, they were every bit as dissolute as her brother.

Gwen was fairly certain her brother would send Harry Hastings. She shuddered at the thought. Harry had a leering way of looking at her and a habit of standing too close. Several times, he had brushed her bosom with a shoulder or the back of his hand. Gwen didn’t think it had been an accident.

She shuddered to imagine what an exam with Harry would be like.

When the knock finally came, it was well past noon. Joseph entered the room, but to Gwen’s surprise, he was accompanied not only by Harry Hastings but also by a dignified man with spectacles and a grey beard who carried a leatherbound notebook in one hand.

Joseph looked as though he had just drunken bile. “Gwen,” he said acidly, “you know Dr. Hastings. And this gentleman who has insisted on joining us is?—”

“Dr. William Pickering,” the man said, offering his hand to Gwendolyn to shake. “I am here at the behest of your barrister, Mr. Finnimore.”

The glare Joseph turned on Gwendolyn was murderous. “I was not aware that you had a barrister, sister .”

Gwen hadn’t been aware, either. It was the Wicked Widows’ doing, no doubt. But she lifted her chin. “I do.”

“ Splendid .” Gwendolyn could tell by Joseph’s look that she was going to pay for this new development, but she returned his glare with a mulish look. She was inches from victory, and she was not about to back down now.

Dr. Pickering clapped his hands. “Let us proceed. I am sure Mrs. Simpkins will want to conclude this matter as expeditiously as possible.” He turned toward the open door. “Mrs. Whitby, if you will join us.”

Joseph held out a hand. “That won’t be necessary.”

“Certainly, it will,” Dr. Pickering said firmly. “A female practitioner is an absolute necessity. She will be conducting the physical portion of the exam if Dr. Hastings insists that one is necessary.”

“It absolutely is necessary,” Joseph snapped. “And the exam will be performed by a physician of my choosing, not by a woman with no qualifications of any sort, who is being paid by my sister’s barrister!”

“No qualifications?” A petite woman who looked to be in her fifties, with grey streaks in her light brown hair had appeared in the doorway. “I have thirty years’ experience working as a monthly nurse, assisting some of London’s most prominent accoucheurs with their deliveries and attending the mother in the weeks that follow. On nine occasions, when the babe came early and the physician could not be summoned in time, I delivered the baby myself, and on all nine of those occasions, both mother and child survived. I have attended three duchesses, six marchionesses, and many more countesses, viscountesses, and baronesses during their labors. And I feel confident that many of them would be willing to testify as to my upstanding character.”

Gwendolyn had never seen her brother look so furious as he came to understand that he had been outplayed, which was really saying something.

“Fine,” Joseph spat. “Have your own doctor, and your monthly nurse, for all the good it will do you!” He leaned forward, and Gwen could smell the sour-vinegar scent of his breath after yet another night of drinking. “I inspected your bedding. Personally . We both know the marriage wasn’t consummated!”

With a final glare, he stalked out of the room, slamming the door behind him and leaving Gwendolyn alone with three strangers.

“Well,” Harry grunted, starting toward Gwen and reaching down as if to grasp the hem of her skirt. “Let’s get this over with.”

Dr. Pickering stayed him with a firm hand on his shoulder. “Not so fast. I believe it likely that we will be able to resolve the question at hand through an interview.”

Harry scowled at the older man. “An interview? Nonsense. The only way to tell for sure will be through a physical exam.”

Dr. Pickering guided him to the cherrywood table by the window and pressed him into a chair. “Let’s see, shall we?”

Gwen sat on the edge of her bed. Dr. Pickering took the other chair by the window, and Mrs. Whitby settled on the padded stool by Gwen’s dressing table.

Dr. Pickering’s eyes were gentle. “So, Mrs. Simpkins. Allow me to begin by apologizing for the indelicate nature of the questions that are to follow.” He cast a sideways look at Harry. “It is my personal belief that one should accept a lady at her word in such matters, especially when the lady in question is of unimpeachable moral character. But, as your brother is insisting, we will do what must be done.”

Gwen nodded, attempting to cloak herself in an air of wounded dignity. “I understand, Doctor.”

“Very well.” Dr. Pickering opened his notebook to a blank page and withdrew a pencil from his waistcoat pocket. Beside him, Harry shifted in his seat, seeming to realize that he should have brought something similar.

Dr. Pickering gave her an encouraging smile. “Tell me, Mrs. Simpkins, was your marriage consummated?”

“It was,” Gwen answered. To her own surprise, she did not feel even a pang of guilt as she uttered this untruth. Although lying was a sin, she had difficulty imagining that the Almighty would have preferred that she subject herself to a lifetime of misery at the hands of her brother and her next husband.

Dr. Pickering nodded as he made a note in his book. “Tell me, did you know much about the act prior to the wedding?”

Gwen felt her cheeks heat. And to think, things would only get more awkward from here! “Only a little bit. Growing up, I spent summers in the country. So, I have, upon occasion, observed animals engaged in, um…”

“The act of procreation,” Dr. Pickering supplied, his pencil scratching softly on the paper. “Did anyone tell you what to expect before your wedding night?”

“Not particularly,” Gwendolyn answered. “Over the years, I have heard a few stray remarks. About how the first time is painful for a woman. But my mother died last year, so there was no one to give me a more detailed talk.”

It was true, strictly speaking. Lady Sylvan had told her what to expect, but that had been after the wedding night.

Dr. Pickering looked up. “My apologies for the nature of the question, but could you please describe what your husband did?”

Gwen’s hands twisted the fabric of her skirts into knots. It was difficult to force the words out. But she did. She described in broad terms the things Tom had done to her. How he had kissed her, undressed her. Touched her all over. And finally, laid down on top of her and breached her maidenhead.

“Did it hurt?” Dr. Pickering asked gently.

“It did,” Gwen confirmed. “Right when he first… you know.”

“And did you bleed?” Dr. Pickering continued.

“Only a little bit,” Gwen admitted, hearing the astonishment in her voice. “It was not nearly as unpleasant as I had been led to expect.”

Harry’s voice was lurid as he said, “Enjoyed it, did you?”

Dr. Pickering gave him a sharp look. “I am not sure how that is germane to the issue at hand.”

“And yet, if this series of events really transpired, she should be able to answer it.” Harry looked at Gwen, his eyes challenging. “How is it that you had such an easy go of it, Mrs. Simpkins ?”

Gwen swallowed. She pictured Aunt Agatha’s cottage. The life her beloved great-aunt had wanted her to have.

She could endure any humiliation to bring that dream to fruition.

Drawing in a breath, she said, “I must confess, I did enjoy parts of it. He was… considerate of me. More considerate than I would have thought.”

Harry leaned forward. “What do you mean by considerate ?”

Cheeks aflame, Gwendolyn said, “He f-fondled me. On my breasts and…” She squeezed her eyes shut, then said in a rush, “… between my legs. He said it would make the rest of it go more easily for me. Those were the parts where I found, er… enjoyment.”

She opened her eyes a slit. Dr. Pickering was writing in his notebook, his expression carefully blank. Mrs. Whitby had a fierce expression in her eyes.

Harry, on the other hand, was staring at her slack-jawed, his expression incredulous. “You expect me to believe that Maurice did all that?”

“He did,” Gwendolyn said tightly.

Disbelief was plain on Harry’s face. “Because I have been to the brothel with Maurice any number of times, and I have never seen him?—”

“That’s quite enough, Dr. Hastings!” Mrs. Whitby snapped.

Harry glared at her. “No one asked you.”

“I agree with Mrs. Whitby,” Dr. Pickering said firmly. “It should come as no surprise that a man would show increased care with his wife, particularly on her wedding night.”

Harry laughed. “It’s plain that you don’t know Maurice.” He turned toward Gwen. “You said you bled.”

“I did,” she confirmed. “Only a little, but I did.”

His expression was triumphant. “Then why were the sheets snow-white, with no trace of blood?”

Gwen drew herself up. “Once he finished, he fetched a damp cloth from the washstand. He used that to clean me up, and pressed it to my, um…”

“Quim?” Harry asked, seeming to take pleasure in saying the rude word to Gwendolyn’s face.

“Just so,” Gwen said firmly. “I would assume that is why the sheets were not soiled.”

“Sounds unlikely to me.” Harry slapped his hands on his thighs and pushed to his feet. “But if you did, in fact, bleed, there should still be signs of it. Let’s see, shall we?”

“Dr. Hastings,” Dr. Pickering snapped, “your expectation is extraordinary. Extraordinary, unnecessary, and inappropriate.”

Mrs. Whitby had also risen from her seat. “How can you disbelieve her? Her story is entirely consistent. How would she know such things had the marriage not been consummated?”

Harry scowled. “One of the maids probably told her what to say.”

“I highly doubt it,” Dr. Pickering said scornfully. “Mrs. Simpkins’ story has a level of detail that does not suggest that she came by her information secondhand. Ask her more questions if you are yet to be convinced. Surely, there must be some question whose answer would convince you.”

Harry froze, and then a delighted, vindictive smile spread across his face. “What an excellent suggestion, Doctor. It happens that there is a question I would like to ask.” He smirked at Gwen, his expression full of triumph. “If you’re so familiar with it, you should be able to describe Maurice’s cock.”

Oh, drat! She could have described Tom’s member well enough, but what did she know of Maurice’s? Gwen swallowed down the panic rising in her chest as she saw her dreams fading like a mirage.

Although…

The memory came to her in a flash. Maurice opening the falls of his trousers right in front of her and relieving himself in the chamber pot.

“Do you mean his mole?” Gwen blurted.

Harry’s face fell, and she knew she had remembered correctly.

“He has a mole,” Gwen insisted. “A large one. Not at the tip of his, er… organ. But closer to the tip than to the, ah… root.” She thought for a moment. “It’s on the right side. His right, that is.”

“How do you know this?” Harry demanded.

Mrs. Whitby laughed incredulously. “How do you think?”

Dr. Pickering was writing furiously. “An autopsy is to be performed on Mr. Simpkins this afternoon. I will make sure to be present for it, so I can confirm Mrs. Simpkins’ description.” He beckoned for Gwen to come forward, then spun his notebook around to face her. “I apologize for the indelicate nature of this request, but could you sketch out an illustration of this distinctive feature?”

Gwen’s cheeks were aflame, but she would much rather make an embarrassing sketch than bare herself before Harry Hastings. “I am not much of an artist,” she warned. But, as the subject matter was not overly complex, she was able to make a reasonably accurate sketch in the course of a minute.

Peering over her shoulder, Harry cursed, then stormed from the room.

Dr. Pickering gathered his supplies, and then he, Gwendolyn, and Mrs. Whitby followed Harry from the room. Out in the corridor, she found Harry and Joseph conversing in harsh whispers. Her brother’s face was purple in his rage, and he cast her a poisonous glare as she closed the door behind her.

Another man was standing in the hall, one she did not recognize. He looked to be in his forties, with a touch of grey at his temples. He bowed over Gwendolyn’s hand and presented her with his card. She saw that he was a barrister— her barrister, she assumed. “Nathaniel Finnimore, at your service, Mrs. Simpkins.”

Gwen curtseyed, trying to look as if the barrister’s presence was expected. “Thank you for accepting my case on such short notice, Mr. Finnimore.”

“Of course.”

Down the hall, Dr. Pickering was holding his notebook open in front of her brother. Judging by the string of curses that emerged from Joseph’s lips, Gwen took it that he was showing her brother the drawing.

Gwendolyn turned to Mr. Finnimore. “Suffice it to say, my late husband had a very distinctive feature on his, er… anatomy.”

“Ah,” Mr. Finnimore said, strolling over to peer at Dr. Pickering’s notebook. His eyes went wide as he took in Gwen’s drawing.

“I will attend the autopsy this afternoon to confirm the accuracy of the drawing,” Dr. Pickering said. “But I believe this matter will soon be closed.”

Mr. Finnimore turned to Gwen. “Am I correct in assuming that you wish to take up residence in your new property effective immediately?”

“Indeed, I would.” Gwen caught Mariah’s eye. “Please pack all of my things. I will not be returning.”

Joseph’s furious face loomed before her. “The hell you won’t!”

Both Dr. Pickering and Mr. Finnimore opened their mouths to respond on her behalf.

But Gwen stepped forward before they could speak. “From this moment forward, I shall do as I please.” She jabbed a finger at Dr. Pickering’s notebook. “My drawing is accurate. And you know it! You have no authority over me anymore!”

Joseph’s expression was murderous. “We’ll see about that!”

Gwendolyn lifted her chin. “The fact that you are too stupid to recognize defeat when you see it does not affect me in the slightest. You are welcome to waste as much of your money on legal fees as you wish.” She stepped forward so that mere inches separated their faces. “But I will be moving to Frogcroft Cottage. And there is nothing you can do to stop me!”

Joseph was the one to flinch. “Fine!” he spat, wheeling around and stalking down the hall. “You’ve won this round. But don’t rest too easy. You haven’t seen the last of me!”