I am overwhelmed at the positive support I have received for a story with such tough beginning involving minor characters. I am looking forward to sharing how things unfold from here.

Mrs. Gardiner's POV

Chapter 2: What Will Become of My Daughters?

I suspected something was very wrong when I first saw my Fanny's face. She was ghastly pale and seemed on the verge of fainting, but there was also a blotchy blush across her cheeks. I did not want to draw unnecessary attention to her and kept my inquiry measured. I knew immediately that we needed to leave.

Mr. Gardiner did not question me. I suspect he could read the deep concern etched on my face that (while I could conceal it from others) was amply evident to my husband of more than twenty years. Mary-Ann was more stubborn but what could one expect of a young woman very newly admitted to society and just a few months past seventeen who was enjoying the attention of a man who had been mooning over her long before her come out?

The silence on the carriage ride to our home confirmed to me that whatever happened was far more serious than a spat with one of Fanny's friends or a snub from one of the eligible gentlemen. Thus when we arrived to our modest home, I hustled Fanny into my chambers that I shared with Mr. Gardiner (we did not live like the gentry who might have different chambers for man and wife and thought such a practice rather odd) while giving Mr. Gardiner a look that told him he would not be retiring anytime soon. I heard him telling Mary-Ann that she ought to repair to bed and asking Aunt Gardiner if young Edward was asleep.

I did not hear ought else as Fanny began weeping. When I tried to mop her face with a handkerchief, she flinched before allowing my ministrations. She pushed me away when I tried to embraced her. Yes, there was no doubt something was very wrong. She had never before rejected comfort from me, save when I was the cause of her tears, a rare occurrence indeed.

I waited until her tears lessened before I asked her what transpired to cause them, but she made no response except for a mournful sound that seemed to come from deep inside her. I have not the words to describe it, but to say it was part groan, part moan, part scream, part keen for the dead. It was not a sound I had ever heard before, though it might have resembled a sound a trapped animal might make as it tries to decide whether to chew its foot off or slowly die. Something in me recognized the meaning of her sound and it struck a deep tearing bleeding gash into my heart. I wondered what something or someone could have hurt my child in such a way.

I began to suspect then what I later learned was true. I slowly brought the oil lamp nearer to her face (not wishing to startle her again) and spied in the better light some marks near her mouth that seemed familiar. It came to me that I knew what those marks were as I often bore them on my face when newly married, receiving them when my husband kissed me too hard and his stubble rubbed on my face.

Someone had taken liberties with my daughter, but I knew not whom was the culprit or what he had done. At this minor revelation, I felt my heart beating more rapidly in my chest, a wild rabbit struggling to escape the pot. However, I knew I had to calm myself, for whatever was done was done and my daughter needed me to be strong and unaltered, to be the same mother she always had.

So I asked as calmly as I could, "Did he hurt you?"

She nodded, but said nothing. I led her to my bed and bid her to lie down upon her back. She obeyed but her eyes were wild, like those of a colt who had lived its whole life in the pasture being seized so it could be broken.

Slowly, very slowly, I raised the edge of her dress, all the while speaking soothingly to her. I have no memory of what words I then spoke to her as my attention was fixed on what I was doing. Fanny was trembling and I was horribly scared of what I would find.

I had not lifted her dress above a foot or two, when I spied a drying flaky whitish line down one leg, and a little further up where the drip was still moist, streaked with red. I knew then, though I tried to convince myself it was only her courses mixed with her own substances, or that if it was a man's leavings that he had merely generated them against her leg rather than inside of her.

I stopped lifting her dress then and told her, "Let us get you cleaned up, shall we?"

Not waiting for a reply, I poured some water from the pitcher into the bowl and dipped a cloth in the bowl, which once wet I rubbed against some soap. Normally this was how I washed my face.

I brought the cloth and basin to the bed and set it beside her. Gently, I began to clean up her leg. As I did so, without any conscious thought I began to sing a song I sang to her when she was but a baby. It was a song I still sang to her little brother Eddie on occasion, but it had been many years since I sang it to her. Her trembling calmed a bit.

I dabbed, rubbed and then swished the cloth out in the bowl and then wrung it out mostly dry. Aside from my singing, there was only the sound of my cleaning, the slight splash the cloth made when I dipped it in the water, the sound of swishing, the sound of the drops of water splashing in the bowl as I rung it. Those sounds repeated over and over as I worked in rhythm. As I worked my way up, my speed increased as she tolerated it. I was anxious to reach the apex of her legs, all the while fearing what I would find there. I remember the water quickly took on a pinkish hue, ever darker and more cloudy each time I cleaned the cloth.

I paused when Fanny's dress was drawn up almost to where I most feared to look. The contents of the bowl worried me. I felt if anyone saw, they would immediately know. It was perhaps a ridiculous thought. Yet, I needed to get rid of the befouled water and I was sure I would need fresh water for what awaited me.

I decided a window was my best recourse. Our chambers were above Mr. Gardiner's offices which fronted the street, though our kitchen was down below, behind his offices. My window was in a dormer that was set back from the front of the building. I tried to decide whether I should pour the befouled water down the roof or not. Likely it would just flow down the roof and dry. It was not as if someone from the ground would be able to see what such water looked like under cover of night, yet I had an irrational fear that everyone would know, that it would be as bright as the splashes of blood Moses told his people to mark the doorways of their homes so that the vengeance of the Lord would pass over them and only be struck against the Egyptians.

I resolved that I had to do it, must do it, as I could not leave my daughter this way to exit my room and walk the water down to where I could simply pour it behind the bushes. I opened the window and slowly poured the water out. I was fearful of making any sound that could be heard below.

I returned to my Fanny and gently stroked her forehead. I was struck suddenly by the ridiculousness of her wig still being on her head in such a circumstance. It could not be comfortable to by lying down with it on. "I am going to remove the wig," I told her.

She lifted her upper half up and held herself up by her elbows, but did not look at me, instead she seemed to be looking at her legs, which were now clean. I removed her wig and the two braids her hair had been tied in, to be tucked up against her head, tumbled down on either side of her head and made me think of the girl she had been.

She reclined then, said, "Thank you Mama."

"Fanny," I said gently, "It is almost over. You are almost clean. I need to clean the last little bit. There is not much more I need to do."

"No Mama," she whispered, "I will do it, I do not want you to see."

"Fanny," I said then, "I know what I will find. Let me do this for you, I would make sure you are not injured more than is usual."

She made no reply. Then I lifted her dress the last little bit. There was blood dried in her nether curls along with his leavings. It was not that much, less than I had feared. I began to sing again to her. First I cleaned the outside, very slowly and carefully. I did not wish to hurt her or scare her. However, I knew that was not all I had to do. I had to see and yet I did not want to. Then I parted her hairs and spied a slight tear to her skin, more a scratch than anything. I cleansed her until as much of her as I could reach was clean. It seemed to me that I had cleaned the outside of the dish yet what was inside was also unclean. However, there was nothing I could do about that.

When she was as clean as I could get her and I had poured the now filthy water outside, I bid her stand so that I could undress her. She cooperated passively, like a young child. On her backside I spied slight bruises that appeared to be caused by fingers. I dressed her in my own night clothes and left her dress upon my bed. I led her out of my room and to the chambers she shared with her sister and she climbed into bed.

When I returned to my own chambers, I stared for a time at the pale yellow dress upon my bed. I wondered if I should have made up the dress with a higher neckline, used a tucker. The dress had been lovely, I had worked hours stitching it. Fanny had been so pleased, had twirled around in it. Now I hated it. I wanted nothing more than to stuff it in the fireplace, watch it catch fire and be destroyed. We had not the means to simply waste a dress and that would have led to more questions; I needed to be practical, so I flipped up the skirt again and started cleaning the evidence left inside it. I scrubbed at the stains until they were too faint for anyone but me to see them. Then I hung the dress up, along with her panniers, stays, shift and the like. I placed her wig in a drawer. I poured that last basin of water out. There was no water left now.

As I prepared myself for bed, I wondered why I had not kept a closer watch on Fanny and instead been supervising Mary-Ann. I knew how Mr. Phillips felt about her and had worried about him taking liberties. She was my younger daughter, was it not natural that I should be most concerned with her rather than my daughter who was the elder and seemed to have no particular man after her? And yet, if Mr. Phillips had taken liberties would it have been so bad? I knew he wanted to marry Mary-Ann and that would have remedied such a matter.

Whomever had done this thing to Fanny, I feared greatly that he wanted nothing else from her. How was such a man to be prevailed upon to marry her? And yet, that was what was supposed to occur in such a situation. Yet even if such an unknown man could be worked upon, did I really want my daughter matched with one that could harm her in such a way?

I knew there were other things that could be done. We could arrange a marriage for her with someone below her station that would not care too much that she was damaged goods. We could send her away to other relatives who could claim she was a widow. But we need do nothing now, so long as she was not with child.

That last thought scared me to the core. I thought it unlikely that anything would come of one single union, yet it would take time to know that. I prayed earnestly then to God that no fruit be born of whatever union had occurred on this night.

When Mr. Gardiner returned and we were in our bed, finally my tears came. He did not ask, merely held me and waiting for me to talk. I told him, "Someone at the Netherfield Ball forced our Fanny. I am so fearful. What if word of what transpired gets out? What if she is with child? What will become of our daughters?"

He said nothing for a time, just held me close. When he finally spoke he asked, "Do you know who has done such a thing to her?"

"She has not told me."

"Tomorrow you must endeavor to find out. If he can be prevailed upon, I will make him wed her."

I did not protest, though I feared who the man could be and doubted she could be happy in a marriage with a man who did such a thing, not because he was simply anticipating wedding vows and could not contain his passions in the weeks leading up to a union, but simply because he took what he wanted for his own purposes. I knew Mr. Gardiner was right; it was what any father would do.

"If he cannot be worked upon, we will give Mr. Phillips permission to marry Mary-Ann so that she may be protected from whatever result may transpire. I had hoped for more for her and to not have her leave our home so young, but Mr. Phillips is not a bad sort and can succeed to my work. I had hoped to leave the business to young Edward, but I suppose they could become partners. She can have a fine life. Whatever brush has stained Fanny must not stain her as well."

"Do you think Mary-Ann loves him?" I asked.

"No, but they fancy each other and is that not enough? He will be kind to her and she will be respectable. Not everyone has what we have, dear wife."

There was nothing more to be said just then. I knew he was right. We needed to secure Mary-Ann's future at all cost. Though I did not think my Fanny a wanton, if word got out everyone would consider her nothing but a common trollop.