Lots of men need to do it like that. Don’t pretend it hurt you more than it really did.’
She heard the blustering, defensive note in his voice and knew that he was ashamed. It had happened before, to a lesser degree. He wouldn’t admit anything, but he would try to be gentler with her now and she would be reminded of the man she had dreamed into existence before her marriage.
Taking a deep breath to control the sobbing, Isabel said, ‘You have no right to force me. You can’t force me to do what disgusts me.’
She sensed him wincing at the word, and then he said coldly, ‘There is no force in marriage, Isabel. You are my wife.’
‘Not your possession,’ she bit back at him. But she knew that Peter wouldn’t hear her. He sat up and pulled the cover carefully around him. Except when he was excited, Peter was conscious of his nakedness.
‘I don’t know what to do with you, Isabel. God knows, I’ve tried hard enough. I’ve never known a woman as stiff as you. I thought it was just maidenly decency before we were married, but now I’m beginning to wonder.’ A note of vindictiveness crept into Peter’s voice. ‘It’s like poking a bolster for all the response you make.’
And this was her husband, Isabel thought. Saying these things, hurting her like this.
‘What … what am I supposed to do?’ she asked.
‘You are supposed to enjoy it. Other women do, believe me.’
Isabel flinched and stared down at her fingers twisted in the ribbons of her nightdress. Peter had known other women and they had enjoyed it. Of course he would have done before they were married, Isabel thought. She was not so naïve as to imagine he was as innocent as herself. But then, if exactly the same things had happened to other women and they had enjoyed them, then clearly it was herself who was at fault.
Fleetingly she thought of Adeline and the physical pleasure she had suspected lay at the heart of her mother’s changing friendships and then, as always, she sheered away from the hint of coarseness in that.
‘I don’t, Peter. I … can’t.’
Help me, she was going to say. Try to be patient. But he gave her no time for that. Peter made a small, angry noise. He stood up and gathered his scattered clothes and then banged through the door into his dressing room.
For a long time Isabel lay dry-eyed in the crumpled bedclothes, staring at the closed door. As the pain and humiliation receded, a little of the detachment came back to her. The man who came to her bed wasn’t the man she had married. He wasn’t even the man who lived the other hours in the well-ordered house with her. He was another person, a stranger, and she would have to learn to exist with him. At the prospect of the years ahead Isabel went stiff in the sheets that still smelt of him.
In the morning, Peter had gone out long before Isabel came downstairs and she was glad of that. The mornings were difficult enough at present anyway.
Taking her cup of weak tea and lemon with her, she went into the drawing room and dialled her doctor’s number.
Yes, the secretary confirmed. Of course Mr Hardwicke would see Mrs Jaspert this morning. Would eleven-thirty be suitable?
Peter’s Daimler and chauffeur were at Isabel’s disposal in the mornings, but instead of ordering the car round she slipped out of the house and took a taxi to Mr Hardwicke’s consulting rooms in Devonshire Place. At eleven-thirty exactly she was shown into the doctor’s room.
It was time to have her suspicions confirmed.
Mr Hardwicke was Adeline’s doctor and he had attended to the childhood ailments of all three Lovell children. The big room with its waxy floral arrangements, polished desk and green leather examination couch were so familiar to Isabel that she didn’t even glance around her. Mr Hardwicke had crossed the room to greet her and now he was shaking her hand. She forced herself to smile and focus on what he was saying.
‘ … since you were married. Congratulations, and so forth. How time flies. It hardly seems a year since you were a little girl down with that nasty bout of measles. Dear me. Sit down here, now.’ Behind his desk again the doctor folded his hands and beamed at her. ‘Well, Mrs Jaspert. What can we do for you today?’
Carefully Isabel took off her cream leather gloves and laid them on her lap, smoothing the fingers flat. The big solitaire diamond in her engagement ring flashed at her.
‘I think I’m pregnant.’
‘Well, well. That’s very suitable. Well done. I’m sure you’re right. Tell me the symptoms, will you?’
Isabel told him, keeping her eyes fixed on her folded hands.
‘That sounds like it to me. Well now. We’ll do a couple of little tests, and I’ll examine you to make sure everything’s in perfect order. Then you can go home and tell Mr Jaspert the good news. I’ll call in my nurse, and perhaps you would slip behind the screen there and undress and then put yourself on the couch so we can take a look at you?’
Isabel did as she was told. She stretched out on the white towel laid over the green leather and the nurse put a blanket over her. The doctor’s face was wreathed in smiles as it loomed over hers, hovering unnaturally close and then dissolving back again with the light flashing off the gold-rimmed spectacles.
Isabel fought against the nausea and the faintness. The doctor’s voice boomed in her ears.
‘Try to relax. Just a little examination.’
The blanket was taken away and Isabel almost screamed as his gloved fingers touched her thigh. It took all the shreds of her willpower to force herself to be still while the fingers explored her.
At the end of it, inexplicably it seemed, Mr Hardwicke was still smiling. Was it possible that he didn’t feel her shuddering? Isabel wondered.
‘There now. That wasn’t so very terrible, was it?’ He was peeling off his gloves, and the nurse tucked the blanket back again. ‘How long have you been married?’
‘Three months.’
‘And I can confirm that you are at least two months pregnant. Nothing at all amiss there. You’re very lucky, you know. Some young people have to wait for ever. Boy or a girl, would you like? Boy first for Mr Jaspert, I expect? You can get dressed now, my dear.’
Isabel was thinking of the hotel room in Florence with the view of the Duomo from the balcony, the high white bed and the nights with Peter. On one of those nights, then, it had happened.
‘Mrs Jaspert? Would you like to get dressed?’ The nurse was holding her clothes, one hand stroking the soft furs with unconscious envy.
When she was dressed again and sitting opposite the doctor at his desk, Isabel felt the nausea releasing its grip.
Mr Hardwicke was writing her notes, nodding and smiling. ‘You’re a healthy young lady, Mrs Jaspert. I foresee no problems at all, but perhaps you would like to consult an obstetric specialist? I can give you the name of the best man, or perhaps Lady Lovell will have some advice for you as far as that goes. Nearer the time of your confinement, perhaps? That will be in mid-November, so far as I can judge. During your pregnancy you should continue to live as normally as possible, eat a healthy diet, and take as much rest
