Chapter Twenty-seven
She was married. She had a husband. She was a wife.
And not just a wife, but a marchioness! Her, Sylvie Mason!
The thought, so thrilling, it made her head spin.
Mind you, she had known girls who had been petrified by the prospect of their wedding night, though truth be told, one or two had been wed to lecherous old men with sagging jowls, yellowing teeth, foul breath and a girth that wobbled like a jelly far lower than it ought.
But Lord Westland, Angus Charles, her husband, was everything a bride could hope for.
Tall, strong, handsome, with pearly white teeth, a defined jaw and not a wobble in sight.
And since their kiss in the garden… oh! Her pulse fluttered madly, so very eager to try it again.
Of course, she knew there was more to the wedding night than just kissing.
But all the married ladies she knew remained tight-lipped on the subject.
Some had given her a knowing little smile, whereas several others had looked upon her with pity.
It was such a conundrum. And mama? Well…
she’d been as elusive as a bag of hen’s teeth.
‘Just smile, my poppet, and don’t expect…
well, some never really… unlike your father and I, who do rather…
but… umm… in time… umm… right then… good talk,’ and had promptly left the room, flustered beyond repair.
“Are you nervous, my little lady?” asked Betsy, slipping the delicate nightdress over Sylvie’s head.
“No. Well, maybe…just a bit. Tis all a little mystifying, if truth be told.”
“Oh?” murmured Betsy.
“This joining ritual, to make one truly husband and wife… it seems it is a secret one must discover on one’s own wedding night.
But,” Sylvie leaned closer, whispering conspiratorially, “I know there is a bit more to it than just kissing. Oh, Betsy, I just hope he has read the book… every last page.”
“Read the book!” squeaked Betsy, doing her best not to laugh.
“Indeed. The whole thing! Cover to cover! It is the first time for both of us, so how else will we know what to do? Or, if we have done it correctly? You know,” she whispered again, “I read some of Papa’s book…
the one on the top shelf… and there appears to be some anatomical manoeuvre we are required to perform. ”
“Anatomical manoeuvre!”
“Yes! But Papa came home early, so I couldn’t finish the chapter!
Oh, if only Vivien were here to explain how such a thing is done efficiently.
I mean, she appears to be exceedingly happy, does she not?
She must have managed without too many problems. Though Alice Simpson…
” Sylvie shuddered dramatically, “… practically recoiled in revulsion at the mere mention of wedding nights. Mind… I cannot imagine Percy looks very dashing in his nightshirt without his corset.”
“His corset?”
“Well, you know he has always been a little doughy around the middle. Oh, Betsy, I have got not one scrap of helpful advice… from anyone! Honestly, you would think I had been seeking information of a treasonous nature. If only you were married, I know you would tell me.”
Betsy smiled quietly. “I would, but have you forgotten? I have three elder sisters… all married.”
“Oh!” Sylvie’s eyes went wide with excitement. “Yes, yes, Mary and Emily and April. Pray tell, they’ve told you something?”
“A little,” Betsy replied, her eyebrow quirked in a knowing grin. “But what goes on between a man and a wife…”
“Pff, save the intrigue for our stories, Betsy Jones. When have we ever had secrets?”
And it was the truth. Their positions in life may be worlds apart, but their friendship was as close as any could be.
Betsy had arrived at Mason House aged ten, a granddaughter of Cook’s sister, and had quietly worked her way up, scrubbing and learning without complaint.
One evening, sneaking down to the kitchens for one of Cook’s melt-in-your-mouth shortbreads, Sylvie had discovered Betsy curled over a small, dog-eared book of fairy tales.
From that moment, Sylvie began leaving her new friend a book once a week, and as the weeks grew into months, their shared love of stories wove them closer together.
When the time came for Sylvie to have her own lady’s maid, Betsy was her only choice.
Mama insisted it was impossible, ‘Betsy is far too young,’ but Sylvie, determined, had charmed Bailey, Mama’s own maid, into training Betsy, and convinced Lord Mason to talk her mother around.
Not that Lord Mason needed much convincing.
His daughters had only to wiggle a little finger, and he was wrapped around it.
“Come and sit so I can brush out your hair,” persuaded Betsy.
“But you must tell me! You simply must, or I shall die,” cried Sylvie, throwing herself into the chair with dramatic flair, the back of her hand to her brow, the other clutching her heaving chest.
Leaning close, whispering, Betsy imparted her considerable knowledge into carnal affairs — or so both girls believed — until Sylvie’s eyes were as round as saucers.
“No!” she gasped in horrified fascination. “Are you absolutely certain? I… I mean, I had an inkling… but… his manhood… glory be! What a confounding notion.”
* * *
Sylvie lay rigid in the enormous canopied bed, the covers pulled tightly under her chin as if they could shield her from the inevitable.
The glow from the banked-up fire and flickering candles cast shadows that danced mockingly across the bed chamber at Westland House.
Her room now, she reminded herself — beautifully decorated in a palette of dusky pinks and creams, with pale silks adorning the walls and contrasting drapes and bed hangings in darker hues.
The furniture was elegant, feminine, and clearly arranged with its occupant’s comfort in mind.
But never mind the room, where was Westland?
Where was Angus, her husband? Surely, he would know she was ready.
Betsy had left over an hour ago. An hour!
And still they had to perform this embarrassing ritual before the night was out.
She bit her lip, imagining him pacing nervously on the other side of the door.
Perhaps he was as terrified as she was. Perhaps he was thinking she would never summon the courage.
Patience, she told herself. Just give him a little longer.
And yet, with each passing minute, her nerves were replaced with frustration. She sighed heavily, wiggled her legs nervously beneath the covers. She longed to kiss him again, yes, but it was what they must first do to become truly man and wife that had her rattled.
“Oh, you silly ninneyhead,” she muttered to herself, flinging the covers aside.
“It’s hardly going to kill you.” Her bare feet hit the floor, cold and solid, grounding her before her nerves brought forth a swarm of butterflies in her tummy.
Tiptoeing across the room to the adjoining door, she took a deep, shuddering breath and pressed her ear against it. Nothing. Silence. Not even a creak.
Her pulse hammered, and for a moment, she considered retreating to the safety of the covers.
But no. She’d found the courage to come this far, and she wasn’t going to wither at the first hurdle.
With a trembling hand, she picked up a candle and carefully opened the door.
Heart racing, she dithered on the threshold, then, with a sharp swallow and silent command to her legs, she stepped forward before her silly mind could concoct an excuse.