Christobel

Christobel Part 11

Chapter 11: the journal

3rd February, 1911

I've got an awful feeling that something profound is happening to my body. My cycle seems to have stopped – I've lost track of the last time the monthly visitor came. It must be six weeks or more. I'm usually predictably regular, to within a day or two. And I'm beginning to feel a little nauseous in the mornings. And I don't know whether I'm imagining it, but my breasts seem to be a little tender and perhaps just a little larger, too. Perhaps that's due to Henri being just a little over-enthusiastic sometimes (he's such a passionate lover!). But no, surely not. He's always gentle and considerate; never veers towards violence, even when excited. He's not like some men are, I believe.

Not that I've any experience of anyone else, of course. One man is quite enough! Sometimes I can't believe I'm actually doing this; letting myself become embroiled in a love affair with a dashing Belgian who is almost more like a character from some romantic novel than a real man. But perhaps that's just my heightened sensibilities telling me that. Of course he's a real flesh-and-blood man, but he's still my wonderful hero and all of this does still feel like a dream, even after more than nine months. Could it really be happening to me, Christobel Fawley, who's such a God-fearing, well-brought-up girl? Could I be doing this, outside of marriage?

I don't know what Mother would make of it, I'm sure. But then she is radical and progressive in her thinking after all. She might say, well, what's sauce for the male gander is equally sauce for the goose. Equality between the sexes, and all that. Although I'm not going to risk telling her about it, all the same. I've just said that I'm "walking out" with one of the (unmarried) doctors here and spared her the details. I've confided in Mabel though, and sworn her not to tell Mother. I'm not sure what Mabel thinks about it all either. She's advised me, playing the concerned, protective older sister role, to "be careful", which is fair enough I suppose. Perhaps she's a little envious, as she's still single and unattached herself. Unfortunately, Mabel isn't blessed with great beauty. Like Miss Cavell, she seems utterly wedded to her job. As I would have said I was, a year ago!

Well, Henri and I have been careful. Most of the time, at any rate. We've tried various things: the male contraceptive for him, although we don't like that very much because halting things halfway through whilst he fits it seems to detract from the spontaneity of the proceedings somewhat; and the Dutch cap for me, which has the same drawback although not to the same extent. And spermicidal jelly for me, which seems to be best, because I can prepare myself well in advance, on the off-chance, so to speak. Goodness me: I'm almost making myself blush, writing about such things! There's no knowing who might read this journal many years in the future!

But anyway, as we have been taking precautions of one sort and another, how can I be in the condition I fear I might be? Well, it is fear, if I am to be honest? If I am (say the word, try it cautiously for size) pregnant, then surely Henri and I would have to get married, for the sake of respectability? Saying it like that, saying "have" makes it sound like a cruel burdensome necessity, but I don't think it would be. The idea of being married to Henri is distinctly appealing. And after all, I'm thirty-two now and time is racing on; I should be having children soon, before I become too old.

I think perhaps I should have a word about my condition, my symptoms, with Marie. She's an expert in these things after all and should be able to tell me one way or the other. Or there's Henri, although I don't know how much he would know about gynaecology, being a cardiothoracic specialist. And besides, I'd have to confess my anxieties to him. How would he (and his mother) react if I were indeed pregnant?

15th February, 1911

Still no sign of a monthly, so I've had a word with Marie. She was pretty surprised that I have an affair going with the very eligible Dr. Pascal, as I hadn't confided in her about it before, although she didn't sound disapproving. Continentals are more liberal-minded about such things than we English, probably! She examined me, including internally (which was a little embarrassing; no one has ever touched me there before, apart from Henri of course) and pronounced that, considering how long it's been now since my last monthly (I think it must have been sometime back in early December) and the general condition of me: my gradually increasing waistline, altered breasts and cervix, apparently, I almost certainly am with child.