‘That he made you happy? That he kept you safe? Of course I don’t mind.’ He stood up and reached down to help her to her feet. ‘Come, we had best get ashore and decent before your aunts discover us disporting.’
‘That’s a good word, disporting.’ But he had already dived into the sea and was treading water, waiting for her. She dived in, too, and swam slowly back to the point where their feet could touch bottom. ‘We disported here before,’ she said and slipped her arms around his neck and curled her legs around his waist. ‘Shall we try it again?’
*
Later that evening, as they sat, hand in hand on the sofa, trying to make conversation with a deliriously happy Isobel and Rosie and not simply sit staring into each other’s eyes, Molly came in.
‘Letter for Mizz Tamsyn, just been delivered by the doctor’s man.’
‘Will you excuse me, I had better read it now. I can’t imagine what it might be.’
The others talked while she took the letter to the table where the oil lamp stood and cracked open the seal.
Dear Mrs Perowne,
I have been meaning to read my predecessor’s diaries, which I found stored in a trunk in the attic of the house when I took over the practice, but have never found the time. After our discussion on the clifftop I looked at the one relating to the date of your husband’s death and the following weeks.
I find that the late Dr Philpott was a believer in the old theories of health and medicine, now thankfully becoming a thing of the past. He wrote that your bodily humours were unbalanced by shock and grief and that your womb had no doubt ‘wandered’ as a result.
You may be familiar with the idiotic but widely held theory that a ‘wandering’ womb is the cause of feminine hysteria. No doubt at the time you were understandably distraught at the tragic loss of your husband and might be thought, by an old-fashioned doctor, to be hysterical.
He wrote that it was very regrettable, but he expected you to be rendered infertile as a result. I can assure you that nothing in his notes leads me to the same conclusion.
I would recommend you to attend a specialist in these matters, possibly a London doctor—I can suggest some names. Or you may simply wish to let nature take its course.
I am, dear Mrs Perowne, your obedient servant,
Michael Tregarth, MD
‘Is anything wrong?’ Izzy asked.
‘No. Nothing is wrong at all. Dr Tregarth was simply recommending a certain course of action to deal with a problem I had discussed with him.’
Cris stood up and held out his hand to her. ‘Shall we take a stroll in the moonlight before bedtime?’
She let him lead her out on to the lawn and, out of sight of the windows, curled into his embrace.
‘Should I be concerned?’ Cris asked her, holding her a little away so he could look down into her face as she smiled up at him.
‘No, not at all.’ She told him what the letter had said. ‘I don’t want to be prodded about by London doctors. I shall follow his advice and let nature take its course.’
Five minutes later, emerging breathless from his embrace, she murmured, ‘My bedchamber is still the same one as before, my love.’
‘Excellent,’ Cris growled. ‘Because after that kiss, my darling Tamsyn, I, too, fully intend to let nature take its course.’
*