Back Color of Love
Chapters (18)
  1. Cover
  2. Title Page
  3. Chapter One
  4. Chapter Two
  5. Chapter Three
  6. Chapter Four
  7. Chapter Five
  8. Chapter Six
  9. Chapter Seven
  10. Chapter Eight
  11. Chapter Nine
  12. Chapter Ten
  13. Chapter Eleven
  14. Chapter Twelve
  15. Chapter Thirteen
  16. Chapter Fourteen
  17. About the Author
  18. Other Books by Anita Stansfield

She laughed softly and relaxed her head on his shoulder. “Won’t you be missed?” he asked, mindful of the time. He’d been hoping to speak with her for a few minutes. He felt blessed to be sharing this kind of time with her and hoped for many more such moments in the future.

“Not at all,” she said. “They all think I’ve gone to bed. Sometimes Kat sneaks into my room late at night to talk, but she’s not feeling well and went to sleep right after supper. Since Mother gave her a spoonful of what she calls the once-a-month concoction, I’m certain Kat is sleeping deeply.”

“The once-a-month concoction?” he asked, and she let out a little laugh that sounded mildly embarrassed.

“Forgive me,” she said. “My father is very comfortable—given that he has a wife and two daughters—having such things discussed freely in his presence. But I’ve been taught that it’s not proper to talk about such things in front of those of the opposite gender.”

“Men, you mean,” he said, and she nodded. “Such things?”

She was slow to answer, as if measuring her words carefully. “The unique facets of womanhood that sometimes confine her to bed once a month.”

“Ah,” he said with understanding.

“Are you shocked that I would be so bold? My mother told me that any gentleman would be, but I don’t think I believed her; obviously I didn’t or I would have been more discreet.”

“No, I’m not shocked, and I’m not naive. You might be shocked to realize how much men are aware of such things and really don’t care. It’s impossible to live under the same roof with a woman—whether it be a sister, a wife, a mother, or even a housekeeper—and not be somewhat aware of the days of their not feeling well.”

“Or the days of being unusually petulant?” Amala asked lightly.

“That too,” Henry said and chuckled. Her ability to be so candid and comfortable over the simple facts of life made him love her all the more. He felt certain that the more time he spent with her, the more he was doomed to just keep loving her more and more.

“Tell me about India,” she said. “Tell me how you felt when you first arrived there.”