Chapter Eighteen
When she woke up to find blood on the crisp white sheets of her large bed, Anastasia was mortified—and rather pleased that, although Laurence had stayed the night, he had already left to go about whatever business it was that he did in the day.
Her bleeding was so irregular that she never quite knew when to expect it.
She did not think this was the case for all women, but she did not know any well enough to have a frank conversation with them about such things.
Her own mother had died before her menses had begun, and her maid Elsie had been the one to explain them to her, when she had thought she was surely dying.
But normally, she noticed the signs before the bleeding began—the tenderness in her breasts, the dragging feeling in her stomach. This time, it had either been symptomless, or she had been too distracted to notice, for it had come upon her as rather a shock.
Did Laurence know about such things? How could she possibly speak to him about it without dying of embarrassment? But she would have to say something, for they had lain together every night since they were wed, and he would surely expect a reason to be given if she refused him.
She stripped the bed sheets herself, embarrassed to let the maid do so, even though of course she would know what had happened.
It was different this time, in this new house, with staff she barely knew.
She was once again struck by how alone she felt.
The only time she felt complete was at night, when Laurence came to her, when he held her in his arms, when they spent the night with their bodies wrapped around one another.
Tears pricked at her eyes as she realized that she would be even more alone now—for the next few days, at least. For there would be no reason for him to come to her room, since he could not lie with her.
Would he find another woman to lie with, while she was…indisposed?
She felt sick at the very thought. All day, as she completed embroidery and practiced the pianoforte, she fretted about how to tell him, about how he would react, about what words she would use.
She practiced the conversation in her head, feeling ridiculous and yet blushing even when speaking in her mind to the imaginary Laurence.
She had never discussed such a topic in front of a man, of course. Her brother and father would never have raised the subject. Somewhere in the recesses of her mind, she remembered her maid telling her that it had something to do with bearing children, but she could not quite remember the details.
How she wished she had paid more attention. Or that she had a female in her life she could turn to, to ask the questions that no one else could answer.
But alas, she was alone.
Anastasia had barely set foot in Laurence’s study since they had been wed, but that night she decided to go and find him there, rather than waiting for him to join her in her chamber. It seemed like it would be an easier conversation to have when she were not undressed and ready for bed.
The door was closed, and she knocked and waited for him to call her in, nerves bubbling in her stomach. Was it normal to feel nervous to speak to one’s husband?
“Enter,” his deep voice called, and she turned the knob and pushed the door open.
He was sitting behind the dark mahogany desk, a sheaf of papers splayed out before him, but he looked up when she entered and immediately smiled. That look sent a flutter through Anastasia’s whole body, a flutter which made her more annoyed that her bleeding had started.
“I hoped we could talk,” Anastasia rushed out, as he stood and offered her a chair before the fire.
“Of course.” He took the seat next to her, instead of the one he had been occupying behind his desk, and looked at her expectantly, his hands open on his lap, his knees almost touching hers.
“I can’t… I don’t think… I mean…” All the words she had planned to say seemed to abandon her as she sat beneath his warm gaze, and she wasn’t sure if it helped or hindered when he reached out and took her hand in his.
“You needn’t be so nervous around me,” he said, feeling rather guilty that she did not seem more confident in his presence after a month of marriage.
But then, was he more confident in hers?
He wasn’t scared of her by any means, but he didn’t find he knew what to say to her.
What to share. With other women, before they had wed, he had always felt more…
confident. Not in the bedroom, for there, things between him and his wife were exceptional. But outside of it…
If he thought about it more, he supposed he had never spent much time out of the bedroom with any of the women he had known. Pillow talk he could do, but the conversation of a relationship, day in, day out? That, it seemed, he found harder.
But still. He did not want his wife quaking before him when she had something to tell him. That was no good. The instinct to take her hand came naturally, and he squeezed the soft, warm flesh gently, asking again, “What is bothering you, love?”
The term of endearment had slipped out rather unplanned, and although he noticed himself saying it, he did not think making an issue of it was the right thing to do. Why shouldn’t he call his wife “love”?
She swallowed, and raised her eyes from the floor to meet his. “I… I cannot lie with you tonight,” she said in a shaky whisper.
“Oh,” Laurence said, not letting go of her hand. He smiled. “That’s fine, of course. You don’t need to apologize or look so worried. Are you well?”
It didn’t seem right that disappointment was his first emotion.
They had made love every single night since they were married.
It wasn’t like he had not had his fill—except he never seemed to feel like he had.
It was like he couldn’t get enough of her.
He would never have lain with a woman every single night before Anastasia.
And he knew enough from the wry comments his friends and fellow peers made to know that it was not common for a husband and wife to make love every single night.
It was certainly fair that she wanted a night off.
Perhaps he had been rather unfair in his expectations, especially considering she had been a virgin on their wedding night.
Not that she had complained…but he now worried that she had been too afraid to do so.
And since he had started staying all night, sometimes their bodies had found one another in the early hours of the morning, and they had made love then, too.
“I hope I have not…expected too much of you,” Laurence said, feeling a little sick at the realization that she had perhaps not been the willing participant he had thought she was. Her reactions had seemed genuine, her pleasure as explosive as his…but maybe he’d been reading her all wrong.
Her face turned as red as her hair, and she shook her head. “No, I…” She didn’t seem able to find the words. “It is not anything you have done, or a lack of… wanting to,” she said, and Laurence allowed a small smile to cross his lips. Well, that was a relief.
“I simply… cannot. Not for a few days…” Her eyes met his and widened slightly, as if willing him to understand her meaning, and suddenly it became clear.
He was not used to women as shy or unsure as his dear wife.
“Ah. Your monthly bleeding? I see. I had wondered…” He shook his head.
He had not really thought about the possibility that she could already be with child, except when he had fleetingly realized that they had been married for over a month with no cessation in their activities.
Not that he would have minded continuing, but he doubted that would be something Anastasia would want.
But no, she was making it clear that she was not with child—although he did not think that had been her intention in visiting him in his study.
“Mine have never been monthly,” she said in a whisper, as though she were afraid someone would overhear her.
Laurence nodded, wanting to put her at ease.
He did understand now why she had felt so awkward about the conversation, although it seemed like a topic that a husband and wife ought to be able to discuss, since it was so pertinent to the act of procreation, which was the reason for marriage in the first place.
“I understand that is the case for some women. But you do know…” He paused, wondering how much she had been told.
On their wedding night, she certainly seemed to have not been told many details about what to expect.
But he supposed she had no woman in her life to fill that role.
“When you are with child, the bleeding will stop. For the nine months that you carry the baby. It is a sign—usually the first sign, I believe—that a woman is with child.”
Laurence stayed late in his study that night, nursing a single glass of whiskey. For the last month, he had retired to bed far earlier than usual, but he found himself loath to go to bed alone.
How quickly he had become accustomed to spending every night with his wife. He wondered if she felt the same way.
He swirled the amber liquid around the bottom of his glass. Earlier, for a moment, he had wondered if Anastasia was with child—if their certainly frequent efforts at conceiving had been successful in their very first month as husband and wife.
She was not…and he found his feelings about that were rather mixed. If she had been pregnant, it would have been another step along the way to fulfilling his vow to his father.
But he wasn’t sure he was ready to be a father just yet.
He thought of the way he had looked up to his own father and wondered whether a child of his could ever look up to him in the same way.
Had he done enough yet to make a child proud?
So far in his life, he had mainly lived for his own enjoyment, creating a reputation that followed him around.
He also thought it might be rather nice to have a little more time just him and Anastasia.
He did not feel that they really knew each other that well yet.
Adding a child into the mix would certainly complicate things, and so perhaps it would not be so terrible if it took a little longer to conceive.
He had married in order to continue the family name and to save Miss Carrington’s reputation. But that did not mean they could not get a little more out of the marriage, did it?
She had looked so unsure when she had come to speak to him that he had felt guilty. He rather thought he needed to get to know her better—during the daylight hours.