LIKE A CRIMINAL TO THE gallows, thought Rebecca as she hurried along the busy pavement with Jack toward Harley Street. Her mouth was dry and her palms were sweaty, but she marched on with determination. She had to do this for Jack, and anyway it was good to be actually doing something that might make motherhood a reality. She would do whatever the specialist said. The day would not be easy, but already she felt the Lord had helped them. They had been very concerned about what to say to Uncle Hector and how to sneak out without any questions being asked, but all anxiety was swept away when a housemaid apologised for her master’s absence from the breakfast table and explained he was indisposed due to the strenuous activity of the previous day. Of course, Rebecca would never actually pray for someone to feel indisposed, but his indisposition did seem like an answer to prayer.
The streets were bustling with people going about their business, but it was the birds that caught Rebecca’s attention. Oh for the wings of a dove, or even a pigeon, she thought as she saw one of the latter flying away from danger. I would fly far away, and be at rest. Away from infertility, physicians, and surgeons. Would a dove or a pigeon feel bereft if they never laid an egg or hatched a brood? Would other doves and pigeons despise them for not producing offspring? On reflection, no. She remembered that the Sermon on the Mount teaches that the birds are content with whatever their Heavenly Father provides. Now she envied them, not only for their wings but for their contentment too. But Jack had stopped and was addressing her, and she must attend.
“We’re nearly there and are a bit early.”
They had turned into a street of houses even more imposing than Uncle Hector’s, but Rebecca was in no mood to admire architecture. “Let’s just wait here a bit then.”
“Or shall we find the place first, then loiter out of sight?”
Rebecca shrugged. “Whatever you like.”
Jack put his hands on Rebecca’s shoulders and turned her to face him. “No, I want to do what you prefer, darling.”
Rebecca’s gaze fell from his. “I don’t know, and I don’t care.”
“Oh, Rebecca, I wish I could help you.” Jack grasped both her hands.
She looked up at him then. “You are helping.”
“I really feel for you, my love.”
“Thank you,” croaked Rebecca, “but please, no sympathy now, or I will cry.”
Jack kissed her gloved hands silently.
“Jack, I love you, but just for now I can only manage business-like and matter-of-fact.”
“Okay,” agreed Jack. “Here we come, Harley Street, Mr. and Mrs. Business-like and Matter-of-fact, and we demand the very best you can offer.”
Rebecca had hoped that the specialist would be a kindly, greying man with sympathetic eyes and an understanding manner, but the man before her was stern, with eyes that pierced her soul. His huge waxed moustache seemed to convey a certain smugness unbecoming to his profession. As he ushered them into his consulting room, he looked them up and down, and Rebecca suspected he immediately decided they were below his normal class of clientele, wondering if they could afford his fees. My dear Pa’s hard earned money is as good as any of your genteel patients’ brass.
With an air of extreme condescension, he offered them a seat before sitting down behind a large polished desk. Immediately, he began to finger a gold fountain pen while he addressed Jack.
“So, your wife is barren?”
“Well, she seems to be struggling to conceive.”
“For how long?”
“Two years, sir.”
Mr. Gascoigne looked accusingly at Rebecca over the top of his half glasses. Feeling like a naughty school girl before a schoolmaster, she nearly apologised. The questioning recommenced, not involving her, but all directed at Jack. Rebecca blushed and curled her toes as information was sought and given that should never be discussed outside the marital bedroom. But if these made her feel uncomfortable, worse was to come.
“So how is your wife’s mental state?”
Surprise caused Jack’s jaw to drop. “Mental state? Why, she is of a sound mind!”
“Easily agitated?”
“No.”
“Easily flustered with trifling cares?”
“No.”
“Easily dissolves into tears?”
“No.”
“But, Jack,” interrupted Rebecca, wanting to be open and honest. “I sometimes get agitated or tearful just prior to . . . err . . . once a month.”
The steely schoolmaster eyes fixed on her, silently daring her to speak again.
“Is that so?” he asked Jack.
“Not that I would notice.”
“But your wife confesses to these agitations, and they may be very significant. The female body is of weak frame and subject to all manner of influences. Undue worry, stress, or emotion can greatly affect the female reproductive organs and result in wandering of the womb. The worst scenario in the female is hysteria, when uncontrolled, unbalanced emotion completely displaces her womb, rendering her barren and mentally infirm.”
“Mrs. Hayworth does not suffer that, sir,” said Jack firmly. “She is a most rational and balanced woman.”
Mr. Gascoigne ignored this interruption.
“But even a small degree of disequilibrium can render a woman infertile. She needs to learn to check her emotions and seek to maintain calmness at all times.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And now I wish to carry out a physical examination of your wife.” He seemed to be asking Jack for permission, not Rebecca. He rose and led her out of his opulent consulting room to a leather-covered couch in a small, tiled examination chamber en-suite. It reminded Rebecca of the cold room at Barton Manor where fish, pheasants, and geese were disemboweled. Lying on the hard couch in a most compromised position, Rebecca tried to disassociate herself from the present, but one glance at the large, shiny speculum made her eyes widen, and she gulped in horror.
“That would fit a horse!” she said.
Mr. Gascoigne refrained from replying but merely raised one of his black bushy eyebrows and continued with the examination.
Rebecca grasped the sides of the coach and looked up intently. There was a crack in the ceiling that looked like the outline of Wales. She nearly verbalised her thoughts, then immediately thought better of it. Such a random comment would certainly activate the eyebrow and might lead to a firm diagnosis of madness. The pushing and poking made her feel nauseated and faint, not helped by the way his ridiculous waxed moustache bobbed up and down as he carried out his inspection.
When she felt she could bear it no longer, Rebecca prayed for help and comfort. What a wonderful thing the Christian faith is, she thought, when even in this awful position, I can freely pray to my Heavenly Father, not having to fear that it is irreverent but confident of His sympathising ear. Could any other religion offer the same consolation? All others would think it most unseemly and prescribe rituals and ceremonies before approaching a distant deity. If the Lord blessed this undignified investigation and would give the obnoxious man wisdom about a treatment plan, maybe this time next year she could be cradling her very own baby.
At last the examination was over, and Mr. Gascoigne silently exited the room, leaving Rebecca to sort herself out. As she pulled down and straightened her skirts, she wished her emotions could be put right as easily. From the next room, she heard the drone of Mr. Gascoigne’s authoritative voice. Was she expected to join the men or wait to be invited back in? A rush of rebellion seized her. It was her body after all that was at stake, so she opened the door. Mr. Gascoigne had lit a fat cigar and was giving his verdict amid a cloud of smoke.
“Yes, as I say, the findings are fairly inconclusive—as they so often are in this difficult specialty. There are so many factors involved, all very complex. The mind of a woman and her body are so uniquely and intricately connected that any exertion of the mind, whether through intellectual effort or strong emotion, may create obstruction of menstrual effluent. This may in turn result in congestion of the brain and lead to irreparable psychological damage, insanity, or death.”
“I see,” whispered the couple in unison.
The smoke billowing from the accoucheur’s nose did not help to relieve Rebecca’s feeling of nausea.
“To keep the physiological, mental, and emotional economies of womanhood in equilibrium, Mrs. Hayworth will need to cultivate a calm and even emotional state. No unnecessary taxing of the brain through study. Nothing to encourage a wandering womb. No hard physical labour or exercise that disturbs the abdomen, but daily gentle walking— vigorous enough to warm the body but not to produce perspiration. In the morning when the air is fresh and invigorating, but not in the evening, for evening dew is a source of ill. Gentle walking is a tonic to general health and does not put undue strain on the structures supporting the reproductive organs. Of course, no tight lacing of the corset. A good corset will provide warmth, support, and protection to the delicate female organs and ligaments. It will help maintain a good digestion and healthy bladder as well as averting back injury. But a tightly laced corset could do untold internal damage and dislodge your vital organs. Finally, I suggest a daily sitz bath, by which I mean sitting in a few inches of cold water.”
Mr. Gascoigne put down his smoldering cigar and fingered his fountain pen.
“Now Rev. Hayworth, may I give you some advice. I detect that you, like many other men of less privileged class, are at risk of viewing your wife as an equal. This is a grave and dangerous error. Indeed, you, of all men, should remember how even Scripture refers to women as the weaker vessel. Do not require her to share the burden of care that ought to fall on your shoulders.”
Was it Rebecca’s imagination, or did her husband stiffen his shoulders at this statement? Was it in disagreement, or was he flexing himself to shoulder the parish burdens alone?
“Keep her from the strains and alarms that come your way and demand the attention of men like you and me, who are called upon to assist the suffering and unfortunate. Do not encourage mental exertion—for example, the reading of your theological tomes. Women are weak and need to be treated as such. Light reading, moralising tales, and ladies’ periodicals are suitable, but no study books or emotionally disturbing novels.”
The flow of advice then ceased, but the Hayworths sat silently, unable to formulate a sensible reply.
“So that will be all. Come back in several months if there is no change, and we can consider surgery. That will be ten guineas. Thank you and good day.” The fountain pen pointed toward the door, and they obligingly exited.
They walked in silence all the way to The Regent’s Park. Carriages rattled past them, and street sellers advertised their wares loudly, but Rebecca was oblivious to everything except her battle to fight back tears. What an incapable specimen of womanhood she was! She appeared to have no control of her emotions or her wandering womb. She must change beyond all recognition before she could ever hope to be worthy of motherhood. As they sat down on the first available bench, she was blind to the trees, flowers, and beauty that would have normally enchanted her. All she could see were legions of nannies and young mothers proudly pushing perambulators.
She could bear it no longer; the tears she had held back since the humiliation of the examination chamber flooded out, and her whole body shook with their force. Jack pulled her to himself and held her close to his chest. He bent down to kiss her hair, but it landed on her bonnet.
“My darling, don’t take it so badly. The man is a buffoon.” The sobs continued. “What he said about women was outrageous! Especially applied to you. You are the most rational, energetic, and sane woman I know. If we can’t have children, it is nothing to do with your . . . whatever did he call it? . . . equilibrium or whatever. It is just what the Lord sees best for us.”
“The specialist despised me!” Rebecca shakily replied from the depths of his waistcoat.
“He despises all women,” her husband said in a low voice.
“Why did he choose that profession then?”
“To charge ten guineas, purchase gold fountain pens, and smoke cigars.”
The sobbing recommenced. “I’ve cost us so much money.”
“I’d have paid more, just to escape.” Dear Jack and his humor.
“Do you think he has a wife?”
“Probably—in a specimen jar somewhere,” he whispered in Rebecca’s ear.
“Pickled?”
“Exactly!”
Unaware of any passersby, they clung to each other, mingling tears and laughter.