Page 114 of Saving Miss Pratt


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“Priscilla.” Her mother sounded nervous, unsure, which was completely out of character. “We need to . . . talk.”

“What about? I don’t feel well. I’m trying to rest.”

“I understand, dear. I think I know why, and I wish to address the matter. To ease your mind.” She didn’t sound angry or upset. In fact, gentleness laced her voice.

Nevertheless, Priscilla’s earlier churning stomach returned at what her mother might “know.” Reluctantly, Priscilla turned the key, unlocking the door, permitting her mother entrance.

Her mother’s usual confident stride had vanished, and she darted a nervous glance at Priscilla as she shuffled to a chair by Priscilla’s bed. “Have a seat, dear.”

Like a recalcitrant child, Priscilla plopped down on the mattress in an ungraceful fashion.

No censure or look of reprimand from her mother followed.

Strange.

After taking a seat and fussing with her the skirt of her gown at length, her mother cleared her throat. “I wished to speak to you about your wedding night.”

Oh! Oooh.No wonder it looked like her mother had swallowed something distasteful.

“As your mother, it’s my duty to prepare you for the marital act. It’s been four years since . . . well, since I prepared you for your marriage to the duke.” She cast her gaze to the tortured handkerchief in her hands. “Do you remember our talk?”

Priscilla searched her memory and came up short. “Not really.”

Her mother nodded, still refusing to look her in the eye. “I fear I may have failed in my duty, thinking since the duke was a physician he would explain things to you. But Mr. Netherborne is an entirely different type of man.”

Of that, Priscilla had no doubt.

Her mother cleared her throat. “You must have many questions, and your curiosity over what will happen has made you rather anxious. I remember the night before I married your father. I was at sixes and sevens the whole day. Why my mother—”

“Get to the point, Mama.” Priscilla took an evil satisfaction watching her mother squirm. Although Priscilla was sorry for many of her sins, she had a long way to go to achieve sainthood.

Another strangled sound rose from her mother’s throat. “Yes. Well. There’s nothing to worry about, dear. Mr. Netherborne will handle everything. I recommend indulging in a little more sherry than usual, or perhaps a glass of port before bed. If you think pleasant thoughts during the . . . act, it’s not so bad, and it’s usually over quickly. Personally, I enjoyed thinking of the new gowns and bonnets I would order, or a particularly lovely bracelet of emeralds and—”

“Mother.”

Her mother’s eyes snapped to hers.

The temptation was too great, too delicious to resist, and she had years and years ahead of her to serve her penance. She schooled her features to the most innocent she could manage. “What exactly will happen?”

Red flushed up her mother’s throat, traveling to her face until the whole thing was the color of a ripe apple. “Well, I . . . that is . . . the man, lies on top of you, and he places his . . . member inside your . . .” Her mother made a circular motion with her finger pointed low at Priscilla’s abdomen.

Oh, yes. Priscilla was courting the fires of hell, but she didn’t care. At least Mrs. Wilson hadn’t made it sound like the ultimate punishment. “And why, pray tell, is this coupling necessary? You make it sound like something I wish to avoid at all costs.”

Her mother seemed relieved not to have to further explain the how-tos. “It can be pleasant, especially as affection grows between you and your husband. And the why, my dear, is to have children. Before you know it, you’ll be bouncing an adorable baby boy on your knee. Children make it all worthwhile.”

“What if I have a girl?”

“Then you will keep trying. Of course, since Mr. Netherborne isn’t titled, there is no need to worry about producing an heir, but all men want sons.”

As if daughters were an afterthought and a consolation prize. The thought rankled.

“Besides”—her mother straightened her spine, assuming the demeanor Priscilla was most familiar with—“if you have a daughter, you will find yourself delivering this same speech one day. It is most disconcerting, I confess.”

“I’m sorry to have caused you distress, Mama.” Her mother’s woefully inadequate explanation of lovemaking did, however, precipitate a question. “How does a woman know she’s with child?”

“Well, your courses will stop. Which I admit is a benefit. There are unpleasant signs, however. I was horribly nauseous with both you and Victor. I could hardly eat a bite and cast up my accounts at the very smell of food. Oh, and dizziness. Why I had to take to my bed for the first five months.”

Her mother droned on with more accounts of suffering, the sound like an annoying insect, but Priscilla stopped listening after the mention of nausea and dizziness.

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