A/N: The idea for this particular story came to me when I was working on a LOL using a screencap from the 1986 version. This just seemed like a perfect comical opportunity - plus, it has its basis in fact, as many Victorian girls weren't told all the details of childbearing until much too late! I tried to make it innocent, though, as it was my intention to make it proper and shocking at once. ;)
**Written for FanFic100!**
The Facts of Life, and Other Terrors
028. Children.
One day about three weeks before my marriage to Dora, I took Agnes along with me to visit my pet at her aunts' house. I knew that, whenever Agnes was in town, the two girls loved to see one another. At least, I knew Dora loved to see Agnes, to "Keep her eye on her," as she always said mischievously. I don't suppose I ever really asked Agnes about it, but, being Agnes, I knew she must love those occasions as much as I myself did. How could she not?
Dora was so beautiful that day, that I was beside myself in raptures and pride over the little bird who would soon be my wife - mine! She was wearing a little dove-colored dress with blue flowers all over it, and about seven ribbons of the same color as the flowers tied all throughout her hair; and as soon as we entered her sitting room, she informed me that she had completed her trousseau, and that it was full up with linens, as she put it, and - here she blushed - there were even diapers in it!
And then she remembered Agnes and said hello to her, which gave me a few moments in which to collect my senses after her last, somehow unsettling, announcement.
"What shall we name our children, Doady?" she pondered as we seated ourselves, pouring a great deal of cream into Agnes' teacup, and very little tea.
"We are almost children ourselves, Dora," I said, rather magnificently, reflecting over the leaps and bounds we were quickly making toward our maturity. Dora looked at me for a moment, and rolled her eyes.
"Agnes, have you any ideas?"
Agnes looked up in surprise. "I am not sure I am qualified to suggest anything on that point, Dora," she replied quietly, as she accepted her brimming teacup. "I must admit I haven't thought much about it."
"Well since no one wants to help," Dora sighed loudly, "I'll come up with something stupid for our daughter. Our son will be named Francis, of course, so at least we'll have one child without a stupid name."
"Won't he be named David?" I asked, slightly injured.
"We already HAVE a David," Dora said, exasperated. "But no Francis. Not anymore." She was quiet a moment. "And our daughter will be called Alessandra, I think. Alessandra Copperfield." I decided not to suggest "Betsey Trotwood" at that moment, as, compared to "Alessandra," it seemed terribly plain.
"They will be so pretty, won't they Agnes?" Dora asked.
"Of that I am certain."
"They will have Doady's nose and chin," Dora decided, critically, as she leant her head against my shoulder. "They always have the father's nose and chin, you know. But they'll have my eyes. Oh, won't it be a sight, Doady, when the doctor takes them out of his black bag!"
I laughed at Dora's droll comment, but Agnes stopped stirring her tea suddenly. I couldn't imagine why.
"What fancies you have, my love!" I told Dora, thoroughly bewitched with her imagination.
"Oh, it's no fancy, Doady," Dora responded, quite seriously. She looked at my face. "Why, don't you know?" she cried gleefully. "To think, I know something DOADY doesn't even know!"
I cleared my throat, and looked at Dora's face again. It was then that a growing dread fell upon me, turning my skin cold, and then hot. It wasn't possible, I argued with myself. And yet Dora seemed so convinced with her theory that, chokingly, I knew I had to clear the issue up, so I would not be so perturbed at what I knew must be a misunderstanding on my part.
"Dora...do you mean to say...am I to understand that...you don't know," I faltered, "where babies come from?"
The look Dora gave me was so extremely patronizing I shall never forget it - at the time, however, it only made me redden more, in fearful anticipation of her answer. "Of course I know where babies come from, you stupid Doady," she responded incredulously.
"Where do they come from, then?" I asked, faintly. "Other than the black bag, I mean?"
She sat down her teacup, looked at me like I was an idiot, and said simply: "God!"
Oh my.
I think I dropped my cup all over the floor, but if I did, I'm sure I didn't realize it. I had known some girls could be quite - innocent - on this particular subject. Boys are not. At all. You learn all the possible intricacies of the process the first week you step over the threshold of a boys' school, in far more detail than you'd ever care to know. And I knew that such modesty in a girl was really quite a prized virtue, and yet -
It was making things very difficult.
Dora was under the impression that this great Problem had been solved, and was capering with Jip on the floor, and trying to pry his little mouth open with the handle of her spoon, as if she were a lion tamer. She looked so like a doll I felt like some lewd ogre that had brought his dirty feet into a fairy bower. And so I looked to the only existing person who could possibly help me - Agnes.
Agnes, with her usual self-effacing grace, had been stirring her tea mildly, and with great concentration, so it was difficult for me to catch her eye and so convey my meaning to her - when I did, she gave me such a comic look I was straightway put at ease. I don't know if she meant it as a comfort - it may just have arisen from the way her practical sensibility was being most unfavorably contrasted with Dora - but that was the effect of it, at least.
My look was all it took for Agnes to comprehend, though she paused a moment as if she were allowing me to change my mind (which I did not, as our wedding now seemed fearfully close), or collecting her thoughts. "Dora," she said, calmly, folding her hands in her lap. Dora looked up.
"Yes, Agnes dear?"
"Dora, I have something to - to say to you."
Dora looked rather frightened, as though she were in trouble. "Please, my dear," I said, weakly, "Agnes will tell you something VERY IMPORTANT about babies."
Dora put her hands on her hips impatiently. "I already know they aren't like dolls, and can be troublesome creatures, which is why we will have a nanny for them, Doady." Then an Idea seemed to strike her. "Do you want to be their nurse, Agnes?"
Agnes said "no" quite quickly, and rather vehemently, I thought, though I was too dull to ponder it at the moment.
Entirely at a loss now, Dora approached Agnes solemnly and inclined her round face toward her. Agnes looked at me. "It would probably be more proper for you to leave the room, Trotwood," she said, politely, "as this is a hallowed subject."
I blinked. "Oh, oh yes." And did so.
Outside the door, I could hear Agnes say some things, in a low voice, with Dora murmuring "Oh dear!" at intervals. I stood, gasping, outside that door, for ten minutes, until I heard their voices die down. When I came back in, Dora went white, and looked at me violently.
"You must be mistaken, Agnes!" she cried, in turmoil and disbelief. Agnes sipped her tea.
"You may ask Trotwood for correction," she responded placidly, "if you prefer."
I said I was sure all Agnes told her was true, and wished to throw myself out the window, and crack my head like a nut upon the pavement. Oh, to have such a child-wife! It was terrible!
The rest of the day was very awkward, except for Agnes' futile attempts at pleasant conversation. I spent the majority of time summoning all strength and courage I possessed to ask Dora what exactly Agnes had told her. When Dora had shut the door upon Agnes, and trudged back to her seat by the window, I managed to choke out my message.
Dora was very quiet for a moment, tracing the complicated design on her cushion with her trembling forefinger; but at last she said, nervously, and all in a rush, "Agnes said that I was mistaken, and she said that babies arise from the love that a lady and gentleman have for each other, and then she said some ugly things about how they were born, and that they did not come out of a black bag at ALL, and I told her I didn't believe her, and that's not what Papa said, and then she said, it was true, and it was all in the Bible, and so it was all right, and if I wanted to know how the baby got there in the first place, or if I ever had any questions or doubts about it - " here she burst into the most terrible, fervent tears, "TO READ THE SONG OF SOLOMON!"
I must admit that, I had never thought that book would be so functional, particularly to me, and as Dora did not much seem in the mood for companionship, (indeed, she eventually cried, "Oh go away, you horrid thing!" when I attempted to embrace her, claiming it was all my fault) I crept from the room, like the wretch I felt.
And as I started home, I wondered if I should take a refreshment course in that particular story, myself.