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They were at an impasse then. She simply could not remove her clothing in front of this man, doctor or not. When she shook her head, he sighed.
“Well, your modesty is another good sign, at any rate. Lie back and I’ll do my best.”
She lay back awkwardly, her bustle pressing into her lower back, arching her body up as he felt along her skirts at the bottom edge of her corset.
“The next time you visit, please wear your stays a bit looser, if you will.”
“All right.” He pressed so hard against her belly that she winced.
“Ah, yes. Definitely full and inflamed.” Before she realized what he was doing, Dr. Whitcomb had reached for the hem of her skirts and slid his hand beneath it. Quick and methodical in his movements, his hand was on her thigh before she could respond.
“Sir!” Sarah snapped up, nearly hitting her head against his chin.
His fingers spread over her thigh, holding her. “Calm yourself, Mrs. Hood. I only need to do a quick internal exam. Nothing more than what you can expect during pregnancy.” His hand crept up toward the slit in her drawers, the slide of his skin burning her like acid.
“No!” When she pushed his arm away, he let her, but his fingers smoothed down her leg as she shoved.
“Very well. But your skin is flushed and very hot, and I’d imagine that your vulva is hotter still. Until our next visit, please refrain from eating any rich foods. In fact, I advise a daily dose of barley water to calm the humors. Of course, you should refrain from any marital relations with your husband and from reading novels. Do you read novels, Mrs. Hood?”
Panicked, she didn’t answer, but simply pushed to her feet. “Thank you, Doctor.”
He stood as well, and took her fisted hand in his. “I understand that this is difficult, Mrs. Hood. But I am very hopeful for you and for the future of your marriage.”
James, she thought. I can do this for James.
He placed a small pot into her hands. “Camphor. Please rub it thoroughly into your labia once each day.”
She had no idea what a labia was, but she nodded anyway.
“It will start to relieve the congestion in preparation for your treatment. Would you prefer to take treatment here, or shall I come to your home?”
“I’ll . . . I’ll come here.”
“Excellent. Please return at the same time next week.”
As soon as the words left his mouth, Sarah rushed for the door. She flew down the stairs and clawed the front door open before the maid could reach it. Desperate to get away as quickly as possible, Sarah stepped into the street and nearly stumbled right in front of a dray wagon pulled by four massive horses. The driver scowled and whipped them faster as he passed her by.
She needed a hack. She needed to get home and bathe. She shouldn’t have allowed him to touch her. She felt soiled by the questions. If she felt so awful just from the examination, how could she bear to return for treatment at his hands?
And yet that other woman, that perfectly respectable lady, had left Dr. Whitcomb’s office with a smile on her face.
Sarah wanted that, too. Serenity. Happiness. And she wanted that for James.
When she spied a hack she nearly jumped in front of it to make it stop. The driver eyed her warily, but when she handed over a coin along with her direction, his scowl turned to a grin.
“Right-o, madam. Let me help ye in.”
But she didn’t want him near, so she scrambled in herself and shut the door on the hem of her skirt. The wheels seemed to seek out ruts in the road as they turned. Sarah closed her eyes and braced herself against the back of the seat.
She did not feel hysterical. She hadn’t felt deranged even as he asked those awful questions. And though she wanted to be home, she did not feel as if she might crawl into bed and stay there for days, crying and sleeping and staring at the ceiling as her mother had once done.
The doctor’s hands on her body had felt wrong, wrong, wrong. But when James touched her, it felt real and good.
Was she sick, as Dr. Whitcomb suggested, or was she normal, as the other book seemed to imply?
Sarah moved to wipe a tear from her eye, and realized her cheeks were wet with them. She wanted to talk to James, tell him her worries, but because of her own dishonesty, she could say nothing. He would hate her if she told him. How could he not? At the very least he would watch her always with a wary eye, wondering if she might descend into madness at any moment.
Despite her desperate need to be home, when the carriage stopped, Sarah held her breath. She swiped both hands across her cheeks. She could not pass the servants like this. She needed to calm down.
