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Chapter Nine
After leaving Stella’s, Clara returned to Burgess’s barely in time to take up her position in the entryway to await her carriage home. She clutched the parcel of secret books wrapped in linen, secured with twine.
Courtesy of the texts’ shocking illustrations, she watched the comings and goings around her with fresh eyes.
Had the lady in the staid gown ever touched herself intimately? Was the man with the large, hooked nose possessed of a similarly sized member? The wizened lady with veined hands and a curved spine—how many times in her life had she sweat under, or over, a man?
By the following Monday, Claraabsorbed the books and memorized a list of questions for Stella. She arrived early to Miss Smith’s, hoping that Stella wouldn’t mind dedicating at least part of their time to the topic.
Unfortunately, the tearoom appeared increasingly fashionable as the season progressed. They’d avoided complications by arriving while many ladies were still abed.
During a recent visit, they lingered; Clara hadn’t been able to avoid presenting Stella to some acquaintances.
An introduction in passing presented little risk. Gracious and well-spoken, Stella made the impression of a lady like any other in the Lilac Room. They frequented the establishment with such regularity, however, that Clara’s acquaintances could become more inquisitive. It would be a shame to require a new place to meet.
Clara dipped her head in greeting to a dowager countess and her daughter-in-law, the current countess. With practiced deftness, they sat down with straight spines, using their hands to settle their voluminous skirts.
She discreetly observed the sandy-haired countess, Lady Fordham, sitting two tables away. She couldn’t recall the last time she saw her in person; she was so often in confinement. She’d produced five daughters to date—and no living sons.
Guilt and pressure burdened many of Clara’s friends who’d yet to produce an heir. She wondered how the Countess of Fordham felt about her family composition, hoping she wasn’t suffering.
Clara forced her eyes to the empty tea cup in front of her, having observed the countess for too long. She stared at the lilacs painted inside the cup until they blurred.
Stella arrived, putting an end to her musings, and they exchanged greetings.
“Clara, you’re quite an avid reader. I find myself with reduced options in my personal library. Have you any recommendations for a diverting read?”
Smiling, Clara played along, grateful to her friend for her interest. “As it happens, Stella, I came upon a veritable trove of literary gems that I heartily recommend.”
“Literary gems?” Stella intoned, as if impressed.
“Perhaps not.” They laughed. “But diverting in the extreme, yes.” She dropped the pretense, leaning in to speak quietly. “However, as you forewarned, many of the…plots…exceeded my understanding. Or perhaps didn’t match my tastes.”
“Were they excessive? After you left, I felt rather distressed. Perhaps it would have been prudent to start only with one. A mild one.”
“I admit, I thought I was prepared for the subject, only to discover that I was a novice swimmer who ventured into depths beyond her ability. But I didn’t drown! I achieved a greater understanding of the waters that suit me, and those from which I wish to refrain.”
Stella eyed her. “I see.”
“You’ve been most gracious, but would you be inclined to answer more questions? We haven’t spoken of you as a swimmer, and I understand you may not wish to.” She looked down at the pristine white tablecloth. “If it wouldn’t be bothersome, I would like to pry rather rudely.”
Stella laughed musically. “Clara, isn’t it rather silly to call it rude? Given what I do, what I am?”
“What you are is myfriend.”
“Indeed. And a gentle-born woman raised to follow not just the word of God but to obey every man as if he were a god.” Stella glanced away. “But let’s speak of who I am today. I wear silk and take tea at Miss Smith’s. But I’m an impostor, am I not? Or at best, a hybrid. Rather than serve and obey one man for life, I crossed the invisible line between these people”—she gestured around them—“and those people. Now, I’m one of both.”
Stella took a sip of tea before continuing. “In order to do that, I discarded many notions. Just as you’re doing now, in your own way. As girls, neither of us would have fathomed taking tea without escorts! Yet here we are. That much has changed, even in the polite world. And neither one of us envisioned using our bodies in any other way than the marriage bed minimally required of us.”
Whispering now, Stella continued, her eyes not quite cold, but resolute. “I’m a whore, without regret. Once I set my mind to it, I turned my back on many conventions. What I do for a living is no longer difficult. Speaking of it with someone who doesn’t condemn me for it hardly signifies.”
Clara stared at her friend, fighting Stella’s designation for herself; she’d spoken the word whore as if stating simply that she was English, or blonde, or any other descriptor.
Her gaze bounced around the room, settling on no one in particular. Was she truly sitting in Miss Smith’s speaking of such things?
“You’re nervous,” Stella observed.
“I am. Won’t everyone know what we are discussing?”
