Cassie lifted her head reluctantly, her blue eyes swollen and red-rimmed and shimmering with fresh tears.
“You’re not going to die.”
“I’m not?”
“You are not,” Augusta said, with all the certainty she could muster. “What’s happening to you is perfectly normal. More than normal. It’s natural. It happens to every woman, sooner or later. It’s called your courses. Your monthly courses.”
The term clearly meant nothing to Cassie. Her brow furrowed, the skeptical expression so reminiscent of Hudson that Augusta had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling.
“My… courses?”
Augusta nodded, brushing a damp curl from Cassie’s forehead with her thumb. “Yes. It’s your body’s way of telling you that you’re growing up. Becoming a woman.”
She chose her next words with care, aware of the minefield she was navigating: an eleven-year-old girl, terrified and confused, in a household where the main caretaker was a man who, for all his virtues, was unlikely to have considered the educational requirements of a soon-to-be adolescent female.
“Your body,” she continued, keeping her tone matter-of-fact, “has been preparing for this for some time. Every month, if a baby doesn’t start growing inside you, your body cleans itself out. The blood you saw doesn’t mean you’re hurt. It doesn’t mean anything’s broken. It means your body is working exactly the way it’s supposed to.”
Cassie stared at her, the tears slowing, her skepticism giving way to a dawning comprehension that was painful in its vulnerability.
“Every month?” she asked. “You mean, this will happen again?”
“It will,” Augusta confirmed. “Usually every twenty-eight days or so, though it can be irregular at first. For some women, it comes with cramps, a pain in the stomach, and for others, it’s merely uncomfortable. But it’s not an illness, Cassie. It’s a sign that you’re healthy. That your body is doing what it was designed to do.”
“Designed,” Cassie echoed, and the word emerged with a hint of her usual spirit. “By whom, precisely? Because if I could have a word with the designer about the scheduling, I’d have several suggestions.”
The attempt at humor made something in Augusta’s chest loosen. She smiled, brushing another tear from Cassie’s cheek with her thumb. “I’ve often thought the same. The timing leaves something to be desired.”
“Does it hurt a lot?” Cassie asked, her voice small.
“Sometimes,” Augusta admitted. “For some women more than others. There are things we can do to help: a warm cloth against your stomach, a tisane of certain herbs. I’ll show you. And the bleeding itself…” She paused, considering how to frame this in terms an eleven-year-old would find reassuring rather than alarming. “We manage it with rags. Special ones, kept clean and changed regularly. It’s not pleasant, I won’t lie to you, but it’s manageable.”
Cassie’s eyes widened. “You mean I don’t have to tell everyone? Hudson doesn’t have to know?”
The question came with such naked relief that Augusta felt another twist of that complicated emotion in her chest—part tenderness, part something fiercer that had to do with the vulnerability of girls in a world designed by and for men.
“I… believe that this is not something youneedto hide from him,” she hedged.
Cassie’s lip trembled. “I don’t want to tell him. Please, I really don’t. He will… he will constantly worry about it, and he won’t understand…” Fresh tears welled up in her eyes. “Please, do not make me tell him yet. I beg you.”
“If you truly do not want to tell him, you do not have to. At least not yet,” Augusta assured her.
The relief on Cassie’s face was profound, a physical thing, visible in the way her shoulders dropped, the tension leaving her small body in a rush that was almost audible.
“Yes,” she said. “Please. I don’t want him to worry. He worries about everything already, and if he thought I was… if he knew about the blood…” She shuddered. “He’d call physicians. Dozens of them. With leeches. James told me about the leeches.”
Augusta suppressed a smile. “No leeches,” she promised. “No physicians. Just you and me, and a very practical conversation about rags and washing and how to make yourself comfortable when your stomach hurts.” She brushed another curl from Cassie’s forehead, her touch lingering. “It’s going to be all right, Cassie. I promise you that. This is nothing to be afraid of. It’s simply your body doing what it needs to do.”
Cassie was quiet for a long moment, her head resting against Augusta’s shoulder, her small hand finding Augusta’s and holding on with the particular firmness of a child seeking anchor. When she spoke, her voice had regained some of its customary steadiness.
“Does it happen to you?” she asked. “The courses?”
“It does,” Augusta replied. “Every month. It has since I was about your age.”
“And you’re not dead.”
“Remarkably alive, as it happens.”
Another silence, shorter this time. Then: “Will it happen to all my friends? Lady Harriet, and Miss Cecily, and the others?”
