Rolling her eyes, Valerie grabbed the flask and set it down.
“Will you just . . . hush.” Miss Isla Gately raised her hands, thankfully bringing a brief surcease to the frantic whisperings amongst the women. “Perhaps someone should . . . check for a heartbeat.”
“No, I do not think she is dead,” Miss Anwen Kearsley murmured. From her vantage point at the back of the settee, she leaned forward. Then, behind her spectacles, the young lady’s eyes formed huge circles. “Her chest! I believe it is moving.”
The lady’s younger sister Cora dabbed at the corners of her eyes. “It is because she is drawing her last br-breath.”
Another flurry of cries went up . . . that managed to penetrate Sylvia’s unconscious state.
The viscountess moaned.
All the ladies in their swath of white skirts moved like a wave, rolling toward Sylvia.
This was really enough.
Annalee clapped her hands once. “If you could give Sylvia a bit of room to breathe? I daresay she’ll live, but with you all crowding her so, she certainly risks suffocation.”
There was a brief collective pause, and Annalee gave another sharp clap, effectively dispersing the gathering.
The door exploded open, and a breathless Mrs. Flyaway, the head housekeeper, burst into the room. “Got the dear some mint, I did.” Waving her arms, she came racing forward, and the loyal servant handed that remedy over to Clara.
Sylvia’s lashes fluttered. There was a moment of dazed confusion, and then she blinked several times, her gaze taking in the fear-filled faces around her. She promptly tossed an arm over her eyes. “I fainted.”
“It was . . . more like a wilt,” Lila, the lady’s sister, said supportively. “You just”—she mimicked a sideways fall—“like that. Right against the arm of the seat. A most splendid way to . . . wilt.”
“Do not forget the way her eyes rolled back,” Cora Kearsley put in. “More like . . . this?” And with a disturbing—if accurate—imitation, she collapsed herself into a nearby sofa. “Oww.” Cora glared up at one of her younger sisters. “Whatever was that for? I was just pointing out—”
“That she almost died,” Brenna, another Kearsley lady, rejoined in a less-than-discreet whisper. “You do not need to re-create the moment.”
“Sy-Sylvia is d-dying,” Cressida Alby, the society’s newest member, sobbed. And just like that the room dissolved into chaos once more.
Taking advantage of the mayhem around them, Annalee slid onto the edge of the settee beside Sylvia. “Here,” she murmured, helping up the other woman. “Are you . . . ?”
“Fine,” Sylvia murmured. “Just mortified.”
“Oh, hush. This is nothing to be mortified by. Now, getting caught building a champagne tower with a vicar, as I did a week ago?” She waggled her brows. “That is grounds for humiliation.”
A little laugh escaped Sylvia, and she leaned her forehead against Annalee’s.
“Sylvia is crying!” Anwen said loudly, unfortunately for Sylvia bringing the room’s attention back their way.
“Is it because she’s dy—”
“I . . . am not dying,” Sylvia called loudly, her voice rising above the din. “I am expecting.”
Silence met that pronouncement.
Once upon a lifetime ago, Annalee had imagined babes for herself, little boys and girls, a whole gaggle of them, born to her and Wayland, and—
“Expecting what?” Isla Gately blurted.
Annalee didn’t blink for a moment, thinking she’d misheard the girl. Except . . . judging by the same blank stares from the other ladies, Isla wasn’t alone in her confusion.
Having lost her virginity at the age of seventeen to her first love, and then having eventually found her way on a path of the wicked, it had been so long since Annalee had been innocent that she’d forgotten virtuous women were, in fact, very real. She’d moved out of her family’s residence and in with two mature women: one a widow, and the other the lover of that widow’s late husband.
Sylvia smiled gently at the younger Gately sister. “I’m with child.”
There was another beat of silence, and then the room erupted with excited squeals as the ladies rushed to congratulate Sylvia. Annalee sat there beside her friend, taking in all the bright-eyed joy that filled the other women’s eyes. Annalee was absolutely not at all envious about the news. At all. Liar. She’d have made a miserable mother, but she’d always . . . liked those tiny humans.
As the chatter died down, Cressida shot up a tentative hand. “How, exactly, is it that a woman comes to be with child?”
All eyes went to Sylvia.
“I . . . I . . .” She cast a desperate glance Annalee’s way.
Valerie hopped to her feet and clapped her hands. “That concludes all the excitement for today’s meeting.”
“But . . .” Cressida was cut short by an elbow shoved into her side by Brenna.
“Her Ladyship might be dying,” Brenna said sharply.
“I’m not dying,” Sylvia called again as the loyal ladies hurried for the door, not breaking stride. “I’m really quite fine, you know.” When most were gone and only Annalee and Valerie remained, Sylvia looked to them. “I really am . . . fine.”
“Of course you are, dearest,” Annalee said, patting her friend on the shoulder.
“What I am, however, is . . . concerned about . . . all of that. They do not know the ways at all between men and women.”
No. Annalee flashed a grin. “Yes, I’d say a good number of our members would stand to benefit from lessons on les relations sexuelles.”
Two serious sets of eyes met hers.
Realizing their intent, Annalee was already shaking her head.
“They would, Annalee,” Sylvia said.
“And the society has been floundering. We’ve gotten so very far away from what we started out as,” Valerie said earnestly. “When we began, we were a group of women meeting, and our discussions evolved naturally. And I cannot think of a more perfect example than today’s talk about babies.”
Annalee laughed. “If you thought we had a membership problem before? What do you think your delivering such talks would do?”
“I wasn’t suggesting I would see to such a task,” Sylvia said.
“You always have the wickedest sense of h—”
“I was suggesting you could take the society in a whole new direction,” Sylvia continued over her.
Annalee’s laughter abated as it became increasingly clear that this was no jest on her friend’s part.
She looked desperately over at Valerie, and yet . . . there was none of the startlement Annalee felt reflected back. She narrowed her eyes. “You two have talked about this.” They’d discussed taking the society in a different direction, and also the role they expected Annalee to play.
“I will be leaving, Annalee,” Sylvia said in hushed tones. “The society needs focus, and I cannot think of a more important lesson for the ladies to receive instruction on. These women are going to be making matches soon, and most of them have absolutely no idea what will take place between them and their husbands.” The thread of finality in Sylvia’s words brought an increasing panic. “Annalee, you tell me how fair it is that grown women should ask questions about how babies are born?”