The first page began with frank discouragement:
It is not unheard of for a new bride to wait months before she feels inclined to consummate the marriage …
“What?” He flipped through the pages in search of something useful.
When the husband cometh into his wife’s chamber, he must entertain her with all kinds of dalliance, wanton behaviour, and allurements … But if he perceive her to be slow, and cold, he must cherish, embrace and tickle her …
Tickle her. Sounded right idiotic.
… and shall not abruptly break into the field of nature, but rather shall creep in by little and little, intermixing more wanton kisses with wanton words and speeches, mauling her secret parts …
Mauling them?
… so that at length the womb will strive and wax fervent with a desire of casting forth its own seed. When the woman shall perceive the efflux of seed to approach, by reason of the tinkling pleasure, she must advertise her husband thereof that at the very same instant or moment he may also yield forth his seed, that by collision, or meeting of the seeds, conception may be made …
He threw the pamphlet in the bin under his desk. Kiss her, kiss her quim, take her slowly—he’d have done so all without the help of a manual. No, his approach wasn’t the trouble—it was him: scarred, blunt-fingered, lowly bred. And there was nothing he could do about that other than get on with it. On second thought, he dove under the desk to retrieve the pamphlet because it said it there, black on white in fancy speech, that a woman should get some tinkling pleasure from the act rather than just suffer it if she wanted to get with child. If Harriet wasn’t open to enjoying his attentions out of modesty, then perhaps impartial scientific advice could change her mind. He’d find out tomorrow night.
Chapter 10
The night before the wedding, her mother came to her bedchamber looking more harried and tight-lipped than Hattie had ever seen her. She carried a slim booklet, which she waved at Bailey, who was in the process of brushing out Hattie’s hair. “Leave us.” She proceeded to pace in a narrow circle next to the vanity table. “Bailey shall wake you at half past seven tomorrow.”
“Yes, Mama.”
“The gown and accessories are ready, the carriage is ready. Don’t tarry—we are leaving at half past nine sharp. The chapel is close, but traffic is thick at that time in the mornings.”
The wedding was scheduled for ten o’clock and would be witnessed by only her immediate family. The lunch would take place in her parents’ lunchroom, and they had strongly advised against Hattie inviting her friends. So she hadn’t. She felt like hiding from the whole world, in any case. Now her mother was fussing over the hopelessly old-fashioned wedding gown, which was draped over the mannequin at the foot of her bed; she aligned a ruffle here and straightened a capped sleeve there while muttering under her breath.
“Mama.”
“Hmm?”
“I know you have always wanted me to have a grand wedding in St. Paul’s,” she said softly. “And I’m sorry.”
A pause ensued, heavy with clashing emotions. Finally, her mother glanced her way. “I advise you to please your husband,” she said. “At least in the early days. It should make married life considerably easier on you.”
She placed the book on the vanity table next to the brush and left. Hattie waited until her mother’s footsteps had faded before she picked up the book.
Instruction and Advice for the Young Bride
by Ruth Smythers
Beloved wife of The Reverend L.D. Smythers
Ah. That sort of pleasing her husband. Though alone in her own room, she opened the first page with apprehension.
To the sensitive young woman who has had the benefits of proper upbringing, the wedding day is ironically, both the happiest and most terrifying day of her life. On the positive side, there is the wedding itself, in which the bride is the central attraction in a beautiful and inspiring ceremony, symbolizing her triumph in securing a male to provide for all her needs for the rest of her life. On the negative side, there is the wedding night, during which the bride must “pay the piper,” so to speak, by facing for the first time the terrible experience of conjugal relations …
She closed the book, her cheeks hot. She was sheltered but not clueless—she certainly had an idea about the mechanics involved in conjugal relations, though it was all rather blurred where the details were concerned. Judging by the stars in Annabelle’s eyes whenever her duke was near, she had assumed the experience wasn’t too harrowing. This was before she had known who her own husband would be, of course. Too late to run away now. It wasn’t just that someone was keeping watch outside her bedroom door at night since the day at the gallery. No guards were required to make her stay; her raging shame saw to it very effectively, for with shame came the fervent desire to undo her mistake, to make everything feel right again, no matter the cost.