Marrying Winterborne (The Ravenels #2) - Lisa Kleypas Page 0,105
countess’s lips pursed like the closure of a drawstring reticule. For a woman who discussed the breeding and reproduction of horses with ease, she was surprisingly uncomfortable when talking about the same processes in the human species. Unless it was in the small, exclusive circle of her society friends. “Have you tried the hot water bottle?”
Helen considered how to put it delicately. “I suspect that I may be ‘in a situation.’”
Lady Berwick’s face went blank. With great care, she set her writing pen back in its holder. “If this concern is a result of your rendezvous with Mr. Winterborne the other night, it is far too soon to tell if there is fruit on the vine.”
Lowering her gaze to the patterned carpet, Helen said carefully, “I understand. However . . . Mr. Winterborne and I had another, much earlier rendezvous.”
“Do you mean to say that you and he . . .”
“Upon our engagement,” Helen admitted.
The countess regarded her with resigned exasperation. “Welshmen,” she exclaimed. “Any one of them could talk his way past a chastity belt. Come into the room, child. This isn’t a subject to be shouted from the threshold.” After Helen had complied, she asked, “Your regular monthly illness has ceased?”
“I believe so.”
After considering the situation, Lady Berwick began to look somewhat pleased. “If you are in the family way, your marriage to Winterborne is practically a fait accompli. I will send for Dr. Hall, who attends my daughter Bettina.”
“Your ladyship is very kind, but I have already sent a note to request an appointment with Dr. Gibson, at her earliest convenience.”
The countess frowned. “Who is he?”
“Dr. Gibson is a woman. I met her on Monday evening at Winterborne’s.”
“No, no, that won’t do. Females are not meant to be doctors—they lack scientific understanding and coolness of nerve. One cannot trust a woman with a matter as important as childbirth.”
“Ma’am,” Helen said, “my sense of modesty would be less offended by a lady doctor’s examination than one performed by a man.”
Huffing indignantly, Lady Berwick lifted a beseeching gaze to the heavens. Returning her gaze to Helen, she said dourly, “Dr. Gibson may attend you here.”
“I’m afraid I must go to her private office, in her residence at King’s Cross.”
The countess’s brows shot upward. “She will not examine you in the privacy of your own home?”
“She keeps all the latest scientific and medical equipment at her office,” Helen said, recalling Rhys’s description of it when he’d told her about Dr. Gibson treating his dislocated shoulder. “Including a special table. And a lamp with a concentrated light reflector.”
“That is very strange indeed,” the countess said darkly. “A male doctor would have the decency to close his eyes during the examination.”
“Dr. Gibson is modern.”
“It would seem so.” Lady Berwick, who harbored deep suspicion of anything modern, frowned. “Very well.”
“Thank you, ma’am.” Filled with unutterable relief, Helen fled the room before the countess could change her mind.
AN APPOINTMENT WAS secured for the next afternoon at four. In her growing agitation, Helen had hardly been able to sleep that night. By the time she finally crossed the front threshold of Dr. Gibson’s house, she was exhausted and fraught with nerves.
“I’m here on false pretenses,” she blurted out as Dr. Gibson welcomed her into the narrow, three-level Georgian terrace.
“Are you?” Dr. Gibson asked, seeming unperturbed. “Well, you’re welcome to visit no matter what the reason.”
A plump, round-faced housemaid appeared in the small entrance. “Shall I take your coat, milady?”
“No, I can’t stay long.”
Dr. Gibson regarded Helen with a quizzical smile, her green eyes alert. “Shall we talk for a few minutes in the parlor?”
“Yes.” Helen followed her into a tidy, pleasant room, simply furnished with a settee and two chairs upholstered in blue and white, and two small tables. The only picture on the wall was a painting of geese parading by a country cottage with a rose trellis, a soothing image because it reminded Helen of Hampshire. A mantel clock gave four delicate chimes.
Dr. Gibson took a chair beside Helen’s. In the parchment-colored light from the front window, she appeared disconcertingly young despite her presence of manner. She was as clean and well-scrubbed as a schoolgirl, her maple-brown hair pinned in a neatly controlled chignon. Her slim form was clad in a severe unadorned dress of forest green that verged upon black.
“If you’re not here as a patient, my lady,” Dr. Gibson said, “what can I do for you?”
“I need help with a private matter. I thought you would be the best person to