Though given many curious stares, no one tried to engage her in conversation. Not surprising but, wondering what a Victorian woman talked about in her spare time, Emmy drew closer to a group to listen. One of the older ladies, Connor’s aunt Millie, she thought, was relating a story of her youth and mentioning how her mother had died when Millie was just sixteen. “It was difficult enough when she died but even more so entering into marriage with no mother to explain how things should be.”
“What did she die of, Millie?” Emmy asked curiously wondering in an academic way what the causes of death were to young women in the nineteenth-century.
“I beg your pardon?” The older woman asked twisting to face Emmy.
“I’m sorry,” Emmy apologized. “I wasn’t trying to be rude. I was just curious about the cause of her death. I’m sure it must have been hard on you, losing your mom. I know because my mom died when I was nineteen. She had breast cancer.”
The ladies’ gossip all fluttered to a halt as a flock they turned to Emmy. “I know,” she nodded feeling all their eyes on her, “it was terrible. She had to have a double mastectomy early on.” Brows drew together on several ladies’ faces. “She had both breasts removed,” she explained quickly drawing more gasps. “Years of chemo and treatments, but in the end…”
“I’m sorry dear, I must have misunderstood you. What did you say?” Aunt Millie asked raising a hand to halt Emmy’s detailing of her mother’s cancer treatments.
“I said my mother died of breast cancer and had both breasts removed,” Emmy repeated in a loud slow voice wondering if the woman was hard-of-hearing.
A low murmur went around the room, the music stopped and Millie fanned herself frantically. Puzzled, Emmy frowned at them. “What? Oh, I know breast cancer used to have this shameful taboo about it, not to be talked about, but we are all modern women, aren’t we?” She waved her hand dismissively but remembered that as recently as the 1950’s and 60’s that breast cancer had been a subject rarely discussed. It had once been considered ridiculously shameful or some such nonsense, she recalled now.
A hush settled and Emmy turned to see their attention on Connor standing in the doorway. He cocked his finger at her signaling she should follow him out of the room. Still oddly intrigued by the upset in the room Emmy followed him out the door.
Connor took her by the elbow and ushered her farther down the hall until they were out of earshot. Leaning back against the wall, Emmy watched with some amusement as he tried to figure out what to say. “My dear, I understand that you have been away for some time, perhaps even away from polite society for that time, but surely you haven’t forgotten how to make civil conversation?”
“It’s a disease, Connor, nothing more shocking than that. I know it used to be kept a secret like there was some personal shame in being inflicted but really,” she humored him.
“I do not believe it was your reference to the disease in and unto itself that has upset them,” he rebuked her casual absurdity.
“What? Breast cancer…Breast? This isn’t about some absurd Victorian sensibility about body parts, is it?” Emmy joked thinking he could not be seriously disturbed by such a thing.
“This is no laughing matter, Heather,” he waved her off as she started to deny the name. “A lady converses upon the weather and social events. I cannot have you speaking of such crudities in front of the ladies of this house.”
“Crudities? How can you even say that? It isn’t a crudity; it is a body-part, a breast!”
“Heather!”
Emmy cupped her breasts in her own hands and insisted, “Breasts, Connor. Body parts. Basic anatomy.”
“Heather, I am warning you…”
“I am not Heather! I am Emmy MacKenzie and I am a doctor, an OB for crying out loud! A breast is a breast is a breast and I’ll be damned if I’m going to pussyfoot around basic anatomy to cater to the ‘tender sensibilities’ of a bunch of women who need to get out and get a life!” she snapped right back at him.
“You will stop this!” he barked.
Emmy glared at him for a brief moment and then rolled her eyes. “Breast, breast, breast, breast….” she childishly chanted as she rocked her head back and forth with each syllable. “Breast, breast, breast….”
My God, she was exasperating, Connor thought, difficult, a wee bit annoying and utterly delicious in her indignation. When had she begun to be so outspoken? And to keep saying it over and over? Each reiteration of the word in question focused his attentions away from the offense to the ladies of his house and more entirely on the aforementioned body part still cupped in her hands. Her breasts cupped in her own hands. The word pounded through his head. “Breast, breast…” Her breasts were magnificent, he thought. Large, full and ripe.
What he wanted were those breasts in his own hands. Without conscious thought, he reached for them.
Emmy squawked to a halt as Connor’s big hands cupped her breasts roughly. He pushed her up against the wall pinning her there with his body as his fingers massaged her. Stunned, she let the heat of his caress flood through her and heedlessly leaned into him. Staring down into her wide-eyed surprise, Connor was shocked by his actions, but more so by her acceptance. She did not protest. Indeed her eyes grew warm and her hands covered his as they massaged her. He pressed against her more fully, reveling in the contact of their hips and thighs. Nuzzling her neck, Connor inhaled savoring the intoxicating perfume she wore. Most women he knew wore the scent
