Iris waited patiently while her mother fidgeted in a most uncharacteristic manner, plucking at the light blue counterpane and tapping her fingers. Finally, she looked up, met Iris’s eyes dead on, and said, “You are aware that a man’s body is not . . . the same as woman’s.”

Iris’s lips parted with surprise. She had been expecting this discussion, but my, that was blunt.

“Iris?”

“Yes,” she said quickly. “Yes, of course. I am aware.”

“These differences are what makes procreation possible.”

Iris almost said, “I see,” except she was fairly certain she didn’t. At least, not as much as she would need to.

“Your husband will . . .” Mrs. Smythe-Smith let out a frustrated breath. Iris did not think she had ever seen her mother so discomposed.

“What he will do . . .”

Iris waited.

“He will . . .” Mrs. Smythe-Smith paused, and both of her hands spread in front of her like starfish, almost as if she were steadying herself against thin air. “He will place that part of him that is different inside you.”

“In”—Iris didn’t seem quite able to get the word out—“side?”

Her mother’s cheeks flushed to an improbable shade of pink. “His part that is different goes in your part that is different. That is how his seed enters your body.”

Iris tried to visualize this. She knew what a man looked like. The statues she had seen had not always utilized a fig leaf. But what her mother described seemed most awkward. Surely God, in his infinite wisdom, would have designed a more efficient means of procreation.

Still, she had no reason to doubt her mother. She frowned, then asked, “Does it hurt?”

Mrs. Smythe-Smith’s expression grew serious. “I will not lie to you. It is not particularly comfortable, and it does hurt a great deal the first time. But after that it gets easier, I promise. I find it helps to keep one’s mind occupied. I usually go over the household accounts.”

Iris had no idea what to say to that. Her cousins had never been so explicit when speaking of their wifely duties, but never had she got the impression they might be using the time to do sums in their heads. “Will I need to do this often?” she asked.

Her mother sighed. “You might. It really depends.”

“On what?”

Her mother sighed again, but this one was through clenched teeth. She had not wished for further questions, that much was clear. “Most women do not conceive the first time. And even if you do, you won’t know right away.”

“I won’t?”

This time her mother positively groaned. “You will know you are with child when your courses stop.”

Her courses would stop? Well, that would be a benefit.

“And besides that,” her mother continued, “gentlemen find pleasure in the act that ladies do not.” She cleared her throat uncomfortably. “Depending on your husband’s appetites—”

“Appetites?” There would be food?