London, April 1880
Julius turned to a fresh page in his patients notebook. It was out of the ordinary for Clarisse Chadbourne to have made an appointment. He had no record of ever having seen her before, except at the occasional social event he felt compelled to attend. She was the wife of his colleague, Dr. Gilbert Chadbourne, a surgeon, a well-made man still of a vigorous age. Perhaps despite his good looks and apparent virility he lacked the ability to please his wife. Perhaps she sought Julius’ talents in relieving frustration.
But when Mrs. Chadbourne arrived, her countenance suggested not sexual deprivation but just the opposite, mixed with a bit of panic. She wore a dark, hooded cloak, only taking down the hood and removing the garment when she was in the examination room and the door had been closed behind her. Her dress hugged her generous curves perfectly, hinting at the sensual woman within, but its high neck and dark plaid were at odds with the spring weather.
“Mrs. Chadbourne,” Julius said, indicating she sit on the examination table. “How can I be of service?”
“Thank you for seeing me, Dr. Christopher. I hope I am not being too forward when I say I have heard you offer unusual treatments for women.”
He lifted a brow. “I wouldn’t call them unusual. My practice is in step with current medical theories.”
She met his gaze briefly. “Yes, well, I have heard that you are of a more modern disposition than some,” she said quietly.
“I take that as a compliment. How does this apply to you?”
“Dr. Christopher, I’m pregnant—”
She did not look happy about the news.
“And I do not want this child.”
A chill prickled his spine. It had been a long time since he had heard those words. The last time it had not been a woman who uttered them.
“Gilbert and I have a vigorous intimate life. And we already have four children. Neither one of us wants any more. We’ve been using various methods of…of prevention.” She hushed the last word as if it were iniquitous. “It appears one of those methods failed not too long ago.”
Ah. “And how long has it been since your last menses?”
“About three months.”
“The menses can cease for a variety of reasons. Have you been experiencing typical symptoms of pregnancy?”
“Yes. It’s been difficult to keep them secret from my husband and my lady’s maid.”
Secret? That was indeed surprising. “So your husband does not know?”
“I think he suspects. He’s a doctor so he’s more attuned to the physical than other husbands might be. But the less he knows the better.” She looked at him beseechingly. “I want it to seem natural. Many of Gilbert’s colleagues are men with very traditional views. If they thought he might be involved it would destroy his career.”
Julius cleared his throat. “And a charge of murder would not destroy mine?”
Mrs. Chadbourne blanched. “Julius,” she began quietly, tears forming in the corners of her eyes, “I know I am putting you at great risk. If you cannot help, I’ll look elsewhere. I’ve seen advertisements in magazines—”
“Quackery, Clarisse. All those advertisements are quackery.” He heaved a sigh. She was better off under his care. “I can prepare an emmenagogue—an herbal remedy to restart the menses.”
“Thank you,” she exhaled.
“But I warn you: there will be cramping and bleeding. Your condition won’t go unnoticed by the household or your husband. You’ll have to go away.”
“I’ll make arrangements to go abroad on holiday. I have a dear friend in Belgium.”
He glared at her. “Your friend will have to be aware of what will be happening to you and be able to offer succor.”
“I understand. She’s a trusted confidante.”
“All right. I’ll label the mixture as a remedy for dysmenorrhea, painful menses. That way your symptoms of cramping and bleeding will draw less suspicion.”
Clarisse reached out and squeezed his hand. “Thank you, Julius.”
He nodded sullenly then went to his cupboard and pulled out a locked box. “Make your arrangements as soon as possible,” he said as he fished for the key. It hung on his key ring but he rarely used it. He had given Grace a copy so she could restock the box with fresh herbs, with herbs that would still hold their potency. He hoped for Clarisse’s sake that the mixture would be potent enough.
“This may take a while. Would you like to return later today?”
“If you don’t mind, Doctor, I would prefer to wait.”
“All right.”
Julius rang the bell pull. A moment later, Grace knocked on the door.
“Come.”
She entered timidly. “Dr. Christopher?”
Her obvious pregnant state was suddenly alarming. He wanted to shield her, to protect her. Instead he shunted aside his emotions as a professional ought to do. “Yes, Grace, please come in.” He went to his desk and pulled out his recipe book. “I need you to follow this list and carefully and precisely measure out these herbs.” He pointed to the recipe. “Label each jar with the name and amount. I’ll prepare the instructions.”
He meticulously transcribed the instructions for use, noting probable side effects. He knew all too well what a woman would have to endure. When he was finished, he inspected Grace’s labels and amounts, placing each jar in a box. He closed the lid and handed the box to Grace to wrap up.
He handed his instructions to Clarisse. “You must follow these instructions to the letter or there may be horrible consequences. I have detailed the usual side effects: heavy bleeding, cramping, nausea, dizziness akin to a fever. Please have your friend read and understand these instructions, as well. I strongly urge you to have a sympathetic doctor at the ready in case the event does not go as planned.”
She glanced at the note. “A tea? What does it taste like?”
“Bitter and herbal. Something like a digestive liqueur.”
He helped her with her cloak then she took the box from Grace. “Thank you, Julius.”
He gripped her arm. “Clarisse, you must write me to let me know you are well.” He tried to quell the anxiety in his voice.
“I will, Julius.”
And then she left, cloaked and hooded, Grace leading her to the front door.
Julius locked the door to the examination room, sank against it and let the tears fall uncontrollably.
* * * * *
Lincolnshire
Joseph gazed down at Sophia lying in the bed beside him, her respiration edged with the wheezes of one who had just gone through great physical exertion. Her body curled awkwardly around the fruits of her labors, shielding and protecting the bundle as if it were the most precious object in the world.
Because it was—he was. A son. Their son. Joseph quietly snorted his amusement. After nineteen years, Helena finally had a brother.
Before the day had come, Lady Richmond had sent for the doctor and midwife so they would be at the ready at Harwell Hall. And when Sophia went into labor, Joseph insisted on being present at the birth as he had been for Helena’s. He held Sophia’s hand, reciting poetry and singing songs, until the moment arrived and the doctor insisted upon her full attention. Joseph remained at her side, letting her grip him, hit him, listening to her screams as if music to his ears.
And then the child came. Fat and bawling, healthy despite Sophia being thirty-eight years old.
They had agreed upon the name Henry Abraham Phillips. The first in honor of Arthur’s deceased beloved, Lady Henrietta Langley. The middle name after the American president who freed the slaves. Both namesakes had left indelible impressions on the first years of Harwell Phillips & Company as the partnership struggled to gain traction in the American railway industry.
Then while mother and son slept that first night, Arthur got Joseph drunk in celebration, reminiscing how the birth of Helena had been mired in solitude and secrecy. Leaving Joseph wondering why the hell it took so damn long for him and Sophia to have another child.
They had purposefully refrained because of his too-frequent absences on business. In New York, Sophia had had the benefit of his mother’s assistance and advice. Yet whenever they were in England, she had to rely on nurses and nannies—and Anna Peel, if she was not busy with her own brood. Besides, Joseph hated that he had missed so much of Helena’s growing up. That would change now. His son would have the benefit of his experience and the joy of his love every damn day.
As he looked down upon mother and child so serene, so contented, he wasn’t so sure he did not want to have a third. They would be old parents, but not so old as others.
Not as old as Arthur if he went through with Lady Richmond’s plan to marry a debutante. What was worse than Arthur not wanting such a marriage was the possibility he would distance himself and consider the brats to be merely his expected duty.
He would probably spoil his godchild and nephew more than his own children.
Joseph would see to it that Arthur found joy in parenting—even parenting children he might not think he wanted at first. Joseph had been too much a part of the Harwell family discord. No more. There would be no more acrimony in the family. He would make sure of that.
Henry gurgled.
Joseph touched his son’s soft cheek. He would show Arthur by example what a blessing it was to have a child one did not expect, how, despite a man believing there was no more room in his heart, there was always room for a child.
And one’s grandchild, expected a few months later.
Joseph chuckled audibly. Sophia stirred next to him, surprised to see little Henry still in the cocoon of her body.
“The nurse hasn’t taken him yet?”
Joseph smoothed the hair from her brow. “I told her to wait a while.”
“He’s going to wake up at any moment and be hungry,” she chastised. “You’re not going to like it.”
Joseph kissed the crown of her head. “I’m going to love every minute of it, darling.”
He lay a comforting hand on his son, his palm and fingers almost as large as Henry’s entire body. As Henry wakened noisily to the astonishment of hunger, Joseph laughed out loud.
* * * * *
London
Julius leaned his elbows on the desk in his study and held his head in his hands. The lamp burned dully, like his mood. He had thought old memories dead and buried, but when Mrs. Chadbourne made her request, he realized how close to the surface they lay.
Lavinia had been an innocent in the whole affair, unaware of the evil his mind considered. The image of her sprawled on her bed, bloody and crying, had burned into his brain. And then he had rejected her, left her to fend for herself emotionally and physically after the devastation wrought by the end of their affair.
He was a monster. He hadn’t been thinking of her at the time. He had thought only of himself.
How did one purge oneself of a nightmare?
Monks and penitent sinners did such things as self-flagellation. Some were roused by the acts of violence, no doubt, as a sort of masturbatory release. But Julius needed something different. Not an act of self-abuse where his own hand would be stilled by the fear of pain, but an act by another who would not feel the pain and hence, have no qualms.
Grace.
She had it in her—he knew she did—yet she had always held back. When they had performed erotic flogging she dampened her enthusiasm partly so he would not be exhausted. It was an act of selfishness on her part, she had once said, as she wanted him to have the strength to perform. But what if the act were not erotic? They had never done such a thing, not together. And, despite Julius’ vast experience, he had never done anything like it with another.
Grace was in the library, curled up on the couch with a book, her lips moving as she read, a dictionary on the seat beside her. Once she had learned how to read, she took to the diversion with alacrity, thirsting for the meanings of new and strange words. She thoroughly enjoyed novels, plus serialized stories in magazines and penny dreadfuls. It was really quite endearing.
He watched her from the doorway for a minute before she looked up. She smiled, her face glowing with contentment. She must have read something in his expression, for her brow furrowed.
“Julius? Is something wrong?”
“Grace, I’ve done a bad thing.”
She closed her book. “Oh?” She untucked her legs and put her feet on the floor and stared at him, waiting for him to say something.
But he couldn’t. How could he tell a young woman who carried his child the horror he had done to another such as she?
She stood, her hand holding her belly. “If you can’t tell me then I don’t want to know.” She came toward him with open arms. “I know you can’t always tell me about your patients. But I’m here to comfort you.”
He fell into her embrace. “I don’t deserve you.” He held her tightly. “I need you to punish me for what I have done.”
She pulled back, horrified. “Jules?”
“Please just do this for me, Grace. Please.”
She searched his eyes. “Yes. What is it you would like me to do?”
“The room under the stairs…I need you to…flog me.”
Surprise flashed on her face then deepened to understanding. “All right. Let’s go downstairs.”
Once in the room, she lit the lamp.
“Get the vectis,” he said.
She left to retrieve the obstetrical instrument from his examination room while he undressed.
He waited for her, naked under the shackles. When she returned, she placed the vectis on a stool then proceeded to bind him, first his ankles, his legs forced to spread to reach the manacles on short chains, then his wrists, his arms also spread wide for the shackles on the ceiling. He ignored the cool bindings prickling his flesh. Instead he stared at the vectis, the ebony-handled instrument with its metal loop at the one end mesmerizing him. They really should just leave it in the room under the stairs. He never used it as a birthing instrument and since he had used it on Grace the first time last year, he found it more useful as a flogger. At this moment, in his state, it was heavily symbolic.
She went to the cabinet where they kept a few supplies. “Shall I gag you?”
He would need the release of the screams. “No.”
“Then are you ready, Doctor?” She stood before him, holding the vectis in one hand, her other hand stroking and fondling the curved metal loop with the delicacy of a lover.
Julius closed his eyes and drew in a long breath, exhaling it slowly through his mouth. “Yes, Miss Danby.”
She knew precisely what to do. Her first swats were gentle, letting the chilled flesh of his buttocks and thighs become used to the cold metal. He flinched not from the pain of impact but the surprise.
She stopped, letting him gather his courage or perhaps drawing out his apprehension. She walked around in front of him, lay the vectis on the stool and stared at his cock, hanging flaccidly. She grabbed it, pulled cruelly and slapped the head. He recoiled with a yelp, the restraints tugging at his limbs. She repeated the assault, briefly studying his slowly burgeoning prick as it lay in her palm before smacking the glans one more time. Julius sucked air between gritted teeth, exhaling slowly to dispel the lingering sting.
Grace picked up the vectis and went behind him to resume her punishment.
This time she held nothing back.
She struck with the fury of a woman wronged, the fury he needed to expel his demons, slapping his buttocks, his thighs, his upper back. With every hit, her grunts of exertion grew louder. He swung on the shackles at the impact. His balls flew up and slammed back between his legs.
Which must have given her the most incredible idea.
With a strength she had never shown before, she swung the vectis between his legs, hitting his stones, the impact forcing him to double over, the restraints preventing him from doing so.
The pain was glorious.
“More!” he croaked.
She granted his wish, her abuse varying its focus—his butt, his thighs, his balls. With every hit he was cleansed, with every cry he was purged of his sin. Behind closed eyelids he saw Lavinia in her pain. He would never make such a mistake again.
Grace would make sure he did not.
She slammed the vectis one more time against him then stopped. A warm rivulet of blood cooled his burning thigh. Julius gulped air to satisfy his enervated lungs.
She came around his front and knelt before him. She once again grasped his cock, now hard from the stimulation it had misinterpreted as erotic, and stroked, her movements determined, frantic, willing him to come.
She knew him better than he knew himself.
It was easy to surrender his fate to Grace, to her ministrations, giving her control of his body. She gripped his balls, squeezing harshly in rhythm to her strokes before shoving her fingers in his arse to massage his prostate, coaxing his lust, drawing it out of him until he exploded. She milked him of his sinful seed, determinedly working inside to force the release of every drop. He came on the floor, expelling the evil from his body with each spurt of his emission, the pools of semen widening with every release.
He wanted to crumple but his restraints prevented such reprieve.
It was only the first step. It would have to suffice until he could gather courage to meet with the wronged lady herself. To confront the memory of what he had done and complete his atonement.
Grace sat back on her heels, panting, as exhausted as he.
“Thank you, Grace. Thank you.”