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Butternut squash soup—the color, smell, and taste remind me of vomit. It’s not the bisque’s fault for my queasy stomach, although I would prefer to blame the cream base and the cook’s incompetence. On the contrary, it’s my fault. The reason for my ill health has become dreadfully clear.
Soon I will be the object of disgrace for our distinguished family. To be candid, there isn’t a noble family in England that wishes to have its name identified with scandal. The connotation of immoral behavior, impropriety, or misconduct births malicious gossip that spreads like a disease, destroying social relationships. Those who can keep it a secret remain unscathed. Whether that will be the outcome that awaits my parents is yet to be determined.
Like most human beings, I put the fault partly on another person rather than shouldering the responsibility entirely myself. It all began when a new stable hand, Roger Gooding, was hired. Perhaps I should blame Mr. Peters, our estate manager, for his poor choice in staff. Now that I have divided the liability between three individuals, it certainly diminishes my charge in the whole affair.
The moment I met Roger, I hurled away all reason. One could argue that most sixteen-year-old girls possess little if any common sense, which had certainly been my downfall. In my eyes, the young man glowed like a knight in shining armor in spite of his clothes that reeked of horsehair. His wavy brown locks and hazel eyes made my knees wobble. Frankly, I had never met another male that had such a profound impact upon my burgeoning womanhood.
Maybe I could have resisted the lure if I hadn’t noticed the twinkle of interest in his eyes on our first encounter. I should have thought it cheeky of him even to dare to show me any regard. After all, I was the daughter of an earl and deserved respect as a proper young lady. At least up until that time, I could call myself decent. As hard as my father tried to instill in me the aristocratic pride of old, my small nose never lifted with any airs. With no blue-blooded ego to retain, I adoringly accepted the first wink Roger gave me, recalling how my cheeks burst into a blush.
After a few weeks of harmless flirtation, sparks started to flash. Every day that I saw him, my palms turned sweaty and my heart raced as if I had run the entire length of the estate toward the stables. When he made the first advance to disregard my rank in life, I became convinced that it was Adam who held out the apple to Eve. I distinctly remember the banter between us. Roger waited with reins in hand, along with my saddled mare. His words keep whirling around in my brain even today.
“You look rather cute today, Izzy,” he said in a saucy fashion.
My mouth gaped open when he dared to call me by my nickname. Besides, I preferred Bella.
“Izzy? You’re a rogue and much too familiar for my taste,” I halfheartedly protested with puckered lips. “You just flatter young ladies like me so we will give you an encouraging smile in response.” I found it impossible not to flash him a toothy grin, showing my pleasure at the compliment.
Roger nervously looked around, making certain no one heard his invitation. “Will you meet me here tonight?”
For a second my heart stopped beating, and my eyes grew wide with excitement. “Tonight? For heaven’s sake, why would I do such a foolish thing, Mr. Gooding?” I reached out and patted the mare, appearing aloof.
“Because I want to steal a kiss, Izzy. Let me be your first,” he taunted.
“Stop calling me Izzy.” I hissed. “And what makes you think that a boy has never kissed me?” I protested. Naturally, I hadn’t been kissed, except for an occasional sloppy lick from our golden retriever named George. My parents never let me within a hundred feet of another teenage male with raging hormones. He grinned at me like a fool. The idea of my first romantic interlude sent chills down my spine. Looking at his mouth, I swiftly relented.
“All right. I’ll meet you here after dinner this evening.” Hastily my mind raced through several scenarios of how I could escape the house unseen. “You may have one kiss, and that is all.”
A suggestive smile lifted the corner of his mouth, but now that I recall the moment, his grin did have a slight wicked slant. Roger’s eyes sparkled at the prospect, and I mounted my horse and retreated to trot across the landscape in a dreamlike state of mind. Had I remained another moment, I might have dragged him into the empty stall nearby and stolen my first peck on my initiative.
My downfall had begun as soon as I sneaked out of the estate unnoticed, clad in my baby-blue chiffon dress. I bounced to the stables as if I were on my way to the town assembly for a night of dancing. When I arrived, Roger grinned in approval. He gave me the once-over, roving his eyes from top to bottom. I noticed that he, too, had changed out of his overalls. He wore a clean pair of tan trousers and a partially buttoned white shirt that bared his upper chest.
“You do look beautiful,” he said, approaching. Before I could answer, he slipped his right hand behind my neck, drew me toward him, and pushed his lips against mine. Astonished at the rapid onslaught, I could not protest.
“Well, good gracious,” I responded, pulling away and gasping for breath. “You didn’t even give me time to give you permission.” I shoved one hand on my hip, showing displeasure.
“Did you enjoy it?” He smirked unapologetically. Once again, not giving me a chance to answer, his lips found mine. The next I realized, he had me stretched out on a stack of hay, feeling marvelous. His kisses sent electricity down my backbone. By that time, I had started my journey toward destruction.
After the magnificent joining of our lips, Roger discovered that I had never experienced arousal from a man. Surely, had my mother spoke to me about the so-called birds and the bees at a longer length, I wouldn’t have been so ignorant as to allow him to have his way with me. That reminds me that there are four responsible parties for my predicament. I might as well drag my mother into this mess.
One moment of unchecked lust had taken me to a pleasant, blissful state. Like a weak rabbit caught in a trap, I let him have his way with me. I assumed afterward he would propose marriage as soon as I turned eighteen and we would run away to live happily forever after.
If only I hadn’t been such a simpleton.
How many times in life do we lament the “if only” acts in our lives? It should have ended at the first kiss. If it had, I might not be as terrified as I am now, looking into my cold soup.
To add to the injustice of it all, the next morning I found out that Roger upped and quit. My heart sank to the bottom of the haystack where I remembered his feigned words of love. He had lied and taken advantage of my witlessness, living up to the roguish term I had given him earlier in the day.
The smell from the bowl of bisque continued to sicken my stomach, and I have concluded the worst possible consequence of my scandalous behavior.
“Isabella, you look peaked. Are you feeling all right?” My mother’s voice called to me from across the dinner table, drawing me from my reminiscing state of mind.
“No, I have a stomachache,” I answered with a sincere moan. My hand pushed the bowl of soup in the opposite direction. “Might I be excused?”
My eyes rose to my father, who naturally scowled in my direction and started his interrogation.
“Have you been eating too many chocolates between meals again?”
Chocolate. Visions of gooey sweets set off a violent upheaval. A second later, my hand covered my mouth, holding back the deluge. I sprang to my feet, toppled the chair behind me to the floor with a loud bang, and fled from the dining room down to the nearest toilet. As the vomit oozed between my fingers, I lowered my head into the bowl and expelled the balance of my stomach contents, which smelled like the tuna I had eaten for lunch.
“Oh, this is not good,” I groaned with tears welling in my eyes. Another surge of my lunch that hadn’t digested exited my mouth, leaving a nasty taste on my tongue. After the upheaval had ceased, I knew full well that I was doomed. I raised my eyes to see my mother standing in the doorway with a worried look on her face.
“I better send for the doctor,” she announced. “You may have a case of the flu.” Mother knelt down on one knee and placed her arm around my shoulder. “You should go straight to bed.”
“Don’t send for the doctor,” I begged. “A little rest will do me well.”
“Come now,” she replied, picking me up into a standing position.
As I wobbled with her arm around me, gradually climbing the staircase, I wanted to blurt out the possibility for my condition. Mortified over the consequences of my confession, I repressed the urge.
“I’ll ring for Hazel to get you out of these clothes and help you to bed.” She pulled the cord that would send the ring to the servant’s quarters. It only took a few minutes before Hazel appeared in the doorway.
“Yes, my lady?”
“My daughter is ill,” Mother morosely announced. “Please help her out of her clothing and into a suitable nightgown. She needs rest.”
Hazel glanced over at me. “Yes, my lady, she had a spell first thing this morning too.”
The announcement sent a sharp pain through my abdomen. Why did she have to reveal that bit of information? I threw her an annoyed look.
“And you didn’t tell me?” My mother frowned in displeasure.
“Miss Isabella asked me not to, my lady,” Hazel said, defending her actions with respect. After a brief moment, she offered more damning tidbits. “It’s been three or four days this week that she has awakened in a sickly state.”
“I’m fine. Please stop fussing,” I implored. Horrified over the news Hazel had blurted out, I cringed, folding my arms instinctively around my midriff. My mother turned her eyes to me and studied me for a minute. After she touched my forehead and discovered no fever, she suddenly changed her mind. Her eyes became dull, and I suspected she had come to a verdict.
“Never mind, Hazel. I’ll handle this. You may go.” After a hasty curtsy, Hazel retreated and closed the door behind her, leaving me to my judgment.
“Do you often get sick in the morning?” Her tone remained neutral.
“Yes, Mama. For the past week.”
As she listened to my response, she ceased moving. “Have you... have you been late with your menses?”
I shook my head affirmatively but couldn’t raise my eyes to meet hers. She breathed in a quick breath and held it, clutching my hands and squeezing them tightly.
“What have you done, Isabella?” Her voice rose, demanding an immediate response. “Have you been with a young man? Have you been seeing somebody on the sly during your afternoon rides in the country?”
Her grasp tightened to the point that I feared she would break every finger. When I tugged them away, she let go but seized my shoulders instead and gave me a good jolt.
“Tell me what you have done, Isabella.”
After she had shaken me like a rag doll, I wailed my confession. “Oh, Mama, I laid with Roger Gooding, the stable hand. I didn’t mean to; it just happened.”
Mother halted her assault and brought both her hands to her mouth. “You laid with the stable boy?” she cried in a high-pitched wail.
I answered the question by nodding my head while warm tears flowed down my cheeks. Before I could reply further, her hand went up in the air and slapped me across my right cheek. The stinging force made me yelp in pain. Little did I understand that it was the beginning of years of bitterness and angry discourse between us that would follow.
“You stupid girl!” her voice boomed. “How could you be so bloody irresponsible to bring such shame upon us all? Your father... Well, your father will be livid. I dare say that I don’t know what he will do.” She peered at me in panic. “Is the young man still in our employ?”
My throat closed my airway, and I could scarcely choke out the answer. “No... No, he quit the day after.” Mother’s pale pallor had changed to beet red. My life had ended, and I knew it.
“Don’t tell Father yet,” I pleaded.
“I wouldn’t think of it,” she blurted. “First we must have a doctor confirm your condition before arrangements are made.”
“Arrangements?” I cried.
“Never you mind,” she spat. “Now undress and get some sleep. First thing in the morning, we’re traveling to London to see Dr. Richards.”
As I watched Mother leave and bang the door on her way out, I imagined my life had ended at that moment. Briefly I considered jumping out of my two-story bedroom window to finish it all. The short distance would most likely break my leg, but perhaps I could lose the baby. Then, as if a lightning bolt had seared my heart, I realized the seriousness of my situation. The palm of my hand rested upon my abdomen and lingered there. For the first time, I considered the life growing in my womb. Overcome with emotion, I wept like a child.
