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“I’ve been worried,” she continued. “And I found a book written by Doctor Whitcomb. It detailed some of my symptoms—”
“What symptoms?”
Her cheeks flamed to scarlet at the question. “I’ve been recently overcome with . . . feelings and . . . urges.”
“Urges?”
“I’m sure you’ve noticed,” she added in a rush.
“Your urges?” His mind finally latched on to an impossible thought. “Ah, Sarah? Are you speaking of our recent lovemaking?”
“Yes! I don’t wish to speak of it, James, but you have seen the changes. Doctor Whitcomb says it is one of the first signs of hysteria. I don’t want to go mad, James. You have no idea the destruction it brings. He is willing to treat me, but—”
“Sarah, stop! You are not mad. You are the most serene person I know.”
“But I do not feel serene!” she cried. “I feel restless and hot and hungry, and it only gets worse every day! Doctor Whitcomb says that treatment will help me to control these thoughts, but—”
“I can’t believe this,” he muttered, finally dropping into a chair, unable to wait a moment longer for her to be seated.
“Oh, James, I never ever meant to—”
“A doctor actually means to treat you for wanting to make love with your husband? Perhaps you are mad.”
“James!”
“Did he hurt you?”
Sarah shook her head. “Who?”
“The doctor. Did he hurt you or frighten you or—”
“No!” Sarah interrupted. “I only went to ask him a few questions. There was a quick examination, and . . . but I never should have kept this from you. If I become like my mother . . .”
“Come here.”
She frowned at his firm tone.
“Come here, Sarah.”
“Why?” Though she’d started off so vulnerable, Sarah now looked angry and strong as she took only one step closer to him.
As soon as she was within reach, James snagged her waist. She struggled when he pulled her to his lap, and James’s body appreciated the fight.
“What are you doing?” she demanded. “This is serious.”
He wrapped his arms around her to keep her still. “Hush. Do you know what I thought the first time I saw you?”
She glared at him. “No.”
“Have I never told you?”
“No.”
“It was at the Worthings’ party, do you remember? And before I saw you, I was thinking, ‘My God, Beatrice Worthing has a terrifically bad singing voice.’ But when she finished that song, you were there, Sarah. My first glimpse of such a lovely stranger. You clapped as you approached Beatrice, smiling as if she’d just performed a beautiful aria. And I heard you ask if she knew your very favorite song in the world. I noticed, because I thought you were mad, volunteering your favorite song to be butchered.
“But then she began to sing, and I realized what you had done.”
“What?” Sarah breathed.
