Her mother patted her hand. “Of course you will.”
There was an oddly awkward moment of silence, then Iris’s mother said, “What sort of house is it, Maycliffe? Elizabethan? Medieval? Are the grounds extensive?”
“Late medieval,” Iris replied. “Sir Richard said it was built in the fifteenth century, although there have been several alterations over the years.”
“And the gardens?”
“I’m not sure,” Iris said in slow, careful tones. She was certain her mother had not come to her room to discuss the architecture and landscaping of Maycliffe Park.
“Of course.”
Of course? Iris was mystified.
“I hope it will be comfortable,” her mother said crisply.
“I’m sure I shall want for nothing.”
“It will be cold, I imagine. The winters in the north . . .” Mrs. Smythe-Smith gave a little shake. “I couldn’t bear it. You shall have to take the servants in hand to make sure all the fires are—”
“Mother,” Iris finally interrupted.
Her mother halted her rambling.
“I know you did not come here to talk about Maycliffe.”
“No.” Mrs. Smythe-Smith took a breath. “No, I did not.”
Iris waited patiently while her mother fidgeted in a most uncharacteristic manner, plucking at the light blue counterpane and tapping her fingers. Finally, she looked up, met Iris’s eyes dead on, and said, “You are aware that a man’s body is not . . . the same as woman’s.”
Iris’s lips parted with surprise. She had been expecting this discussion, but my, that was blunt.
“Iris?”
“Yes,” she said quickly. “Yes, of course. I am aware.”
“These differences are what makes procreation possible.”
Iris almost said, “I see,” except she was fairly certain she didn’t. At least, not as much as she would need to.
“Your husband will . . .” Mrs. Smythe-Smith let out a frustrated breath. Iris did not think she had ever seen her mother so discomposed.
“What he will do . . .”
Iris waited.
“He will . . .” Mrs. Smythe-Smith paused, and both of her hands spread in front of her like starfish, almost as if she were steadying herself against thin air. “He will place that part of him that is different inside you.”
“In”—Iris didn’t seem quite able to get the word out—“side?”
Her mother’s cheeks flushed to an improbable shade of pink. “His part that is different goes in your part that is different. That is how his seed enters your body.”
Iris tried to visualize this. She knew what a man looked like. The statues she had seen had not always utilized a fig leaf. But what her mother described seemed most awkward. Surely God, in his infinite wisdom, would have designed a more efficient means of procreation.
Still, she had no reason to doubt her mother. She frowned, then asked, “Does it hurt?”
Mrs. Smythe-Smith’s expression grew serious. “I will not lie to you. It is not particularly comfortable, and it does hurt a great deal the first time. But after that it gets easier, I promise. I find it helps to keep one’s mind occupied. I usually go over the household accounts.”
Iris had no idea what to say to that. Her cousins had never been so explicit when speaking of their wifely duties, but never had she got the impression they might be using the time to do sums in their heads. “Will I need to do this often?” she asked.
Her mother sighed. “You might. It really depends.”
“On what?”
Her mother sighed again, but this one was through clenched teeth. She had not wished for further questions, that much was clear. “Most women do not conceive the first time. And even if you do, you won’t know right away.”
“I won’t?”
This time her mother positively groaned. “You will know you are with child when your courses stop.”
Her courses would stop? Well, that would be a benefit.
“And besides that,” her mother continued, “gentlemen find pleasure in the act that ladies do not.” She cleared her throat uncomfortably. “Depending on your husband’s appetites—”
“Appetites?” There would be food?
“Please stop interrupting me,” her mother practically begged.
Iris closed her mouth instantly. Her mother never begged.
“What I am trying to say,” Mrs. Smythe-Smith said in a tight voice, “is that your husband will likely wish to lie with you a great deal. At least in the early days of your marriage.”
Iris swallowed. “I see.”
“Well,” her mother said briskly. She practically jolted to her feet. “We have much to do today.”
Iris nodded. The conversation was clearly over.
“Your sisters will wish to help you dress, I’m sure.”
Iris gave a wobbly smile. It would be nice to have them all in one place. Rose lived the farthest away, in the west of Gloucestershire, but even with only a few days’ notice, she had had plenty of time to make it to London for the wedding.
Yorkshire was so much farther away than Gloucestershire.
Her mother departed, but not five minutes later there was another knock on the door.
“Enter,” Iris called out wearily.
It was Sarah, wearing a furtive expression and her best morning frock. “Oh, thank goodness, you’re alone.”
Iris immediately perked up. “What is it?”
Sarah glanced back into the hall and then shut the door behind her. “Has your mother been in to see you?”