Dragonfly in Amber - Diana Gabaldon [124]
This conclusion was borne out one day in late April, when, en route to L’Hôpital des Anges, she blushingly confided to me that she was in love.
“Oh, he’s so handsome!” she enthused, her stammer entirely forgotten. “And so…well, so spiritual, as well.”
“Spiritual?” I said. “Mm, yes, very nice.” Privately I thought that that particular quality was not one which would have topped my own list of desirable attributes in a lover, but then tastes differed.
“And who is the favored gentleman, then?” I teased gently. “Anyone I know?”
The rosy blush deepened. “No, I shouldn’t think so.” She looked up then, eyes sparkling. “But—oh, I shouldn’t tell you this, but I can’t help myself. He wrote to my father. He’s coming back to Paris next week!”
“Really?” This was interesting news. “I’d heard that the Comte de Palles is expected at Court next week,” I said. “Is your, um, intended, one of his party?”
Mary looked aghast at the suggestion.
“A Frenchman! Oh, no, Claire; really, how could I marry a Frenchman?”
“Is there something wrong with Frenchmen?” I asked, rather surprised at her vehemence. “You do speak French, after all.” Perhaps that was the trouble, though; while Mary did speak French very nicely, her shyness made her stammer even worse in that language than in English. I had come across a couple of kitchen-boys only the day before, entertaining each other with cruel imitations of “la petite Anglaise maladroite.”
“You don’t know about Frenchmen?” she whispered, eyes wide and horrified. “Oh, but of course, you wouldn’t. Your husband is so gentle and so kind.…he wouldn’t, I m-mean I know he d-doesn’t trouble you that way…” Her face was suffused with a rich peony that reached from chin to hairline, and the stammer was about to strangle her.
“Do you mean…” I began, trying to think of some tactful way of extricating her without entangling myself in speculations about the habits of Frenchmen. However, considering what Mr. Hawkins had told me about Mary’s father and his plans for her marriage, I rather thought perhaps I should try to disabuse her of the notions that she had clearly picked up from the gossip of salon and dressing room. I didn’t want her to die of fright if she did end up married to a Frenchman.
“What they d-do…in…in bed!” she whispered hoarsely.
“Well,” I said matter-of-factly, “there are only so many things you can do in bed with a man, after all. And since I see quite a large number of children about the city, I’d assume that even Frenchmen are fairly well versed in the orthodox methods.”
“Oh! Children…well, yes, of course,” she said vaguely, as though not seeing much connection. “B-b-but they said”—she cast her eyes down, embarrassed, and her voice sank even lower—“th-that he…a Frenchm-man’s thing, you know.…”
“Yes, I know,” I said, striving for patience. “So far as I know, they’re much like any other man’s. Englishmen and Scotsmen are quite similarly endowed.”
“Yes, but they, they…p-p-put it between a lady’s l-l-legs! I mean, right up inside her!” This bit of stop-press news finally out, she took a deep breath, which seemed to steady her, for the violent crimson of her face receded slightly. “An Englishman, or even a Scot…oh, I didn’t m-mean it that way…” Her hand flew to her mouth in embarrassment. “But a decent man like your husband; surely he would n-never dream of forcing a wife to endure s-something like that!”
I placed a hand on my slightly bloated stomach and regarded her thoughtfully. I began to see why spirituality ranked so highly in Mary Hawkins’s catalog of manly virtues.
“Mary,” I said, “I think we must have a small talk.”
* * *
I was still smiling privately to myself when I walked out into the Great Hall of the Hôpital, my own dress covered with the drab, sturdy fabric of a novice’s habit.
A good many of the chirurgiens, urinoscopists, bonesetters, physicians, and other healers were donating