The Other Virgin's Baby | A Thoroughly Modern Marriage | 1

Wondery Plus subscribers can binge entire seasons of British Scandal early and ad-free. Join Wondery Plus in the Wondery app or on Apple Podcasts. This episode contains discussion of sexual consent and might not be appropriate for all listeners. Matt, before we get started, we have actually had quite a few emails in. Loads of people are now using the email as a kind of, I suppose, like a village pinboard. If they've got a complaint, a correction, a bit of advice.

We're a very analogue show in a lot of ways. We don't have social media for British Scandal. No, we're as old-fashioned as you can get in the digital age. We've basically become like an MP's advice surgery. People are coming to us and they've had their water cut off if they think they're going to be deported. There are certain things we can't help with, but there are certain things that it's good to hear about. Nick has been in touch. Go on. And he says, the pie mash shop.

in the Millennium Dome heist series, is meant to be pronounced Manzies. Nick, I'll be honest with you, I'll just have to... take your word that that's not how I pronounced it, because we don't listen back. Well, I do. I'm a genuine fan of the show. In fact, that's how I got this gig. I emailed BritishScandalAtWondery.com and my dream came true. And I've always said you do really give competition winner energy. Thank you.

Tom has been in touch. He wants you to know, Matt, on the subject of Rustler's Burgers, which got a lot of airtime the other day, you've been doing it all wrong. They are actually not for human consumption. No, that's not what he said. He said, don't microwave the whole thing. Toast the bun and microwave the innards. How did I... the innards? How did I never think of that?

Because we know it's nought to tasty in 60 seconds. We know that. That's a given. But obviously, if you're microwaving the bread with the burger, it's far superior to toast it, as they do in burger joints. As they do in joints across the world.

Thank you so much, Tom. I mean, these are the hot button topics that you can only hear about here on British Scandal. So if you want to get in touch with a recommended scandal for us to cover. Or the best way to consume processed meat. Yes, find a podcast that can do both, is what I say. British Scandal.

Right, enough of this. Shall we begin? 17th June 1921. Bedford Square, London. Dr McKenzie beams and pulls out a chair for the young woman entering his treatment room. Christabel Russell is a member of one of the country's finest aristocratic families, and he's keen to impress. Mrs. Russell, how wonderful to meet you. Do please sit down. Dr. McKenzie notes how attractive she is, if a little unconventional with her short bobbed haircut and close-fitting dress. Now then.

What seems to be the trouble? He watches Christabel fidget with the tips of her gloves, her eyes glued to her lap. I'm afraid this is rather... embarrassing. Dr. McKenzie arranges his features sympathetically. He softly pats her hand. My dear, I've been doing this job for 30 years. I assure you, whatever the matter, I have seen it before. He waits as she squirms a little. I've been told that I'm with child and all the signs seem to be there. Dr Mackenzie's smile widens.

Everyone in his social circle knows how desperate Christabel's in-laws are for an heir. And he, Dr John Baird McKenzie, could be responsible for this precious cargo safe gestation. Well, not really. I hate to take it away from him, but... I think most people agree. It's the men that do the hard work when it comes to pregnancy and childbirth. This would really put his modest practice on the map. In a year's time, he may even be treating royalty.

Oh, what wonderful news. He grabs the cushion from the back of his chair and races round to place it behind Christabel. The thing is, I don't believe it. He blinks. I don't understand. Which doctor did you see? I was told by a clairvoyant. Dr McKenzie tries not to let his tone betray his irritation. Why must so many foolish women trifle with the occult?

Right, well, a full examination will soon settle things. He gestures to his table, but Christabel recoils. No, I've never had anyone interfere with me down there, including my husband. I won't. Dr McKenzie stares, uncertain he's heard her correctly. Mrs Russell, if that were true, you'd be quite the medical marvel. To his despair. Christabel shoots him a furious look. Are you calling me a liar? Dr Mackenzie reddens. He hasn't spent 30 years studying the body's finer mechanisms.

to be questioned by a twenty-something woman consulting witch doctors. But he can't allow himself to be rude. Please stop calling them the body's finer mechanisms. I fear this may lead to disciplinary action, but I would just like to say they are some of the finest mechanisms I've ever seen. Mrs Russell, please forgive me, but...

The only way we can establish this is with a physical check-up. He holds her gaze for what feels like a lifetime. Finally, she nods and makes her way over to the examination table. Dr McKenzie moves briskly. first feeling her abdomen. While it's not as pronounced as with some, there is an unmistakable firmness beneath the surface. Well, you certainly are with child. He sees the blood drain from Christabel's face.

He moves lower onto the internal examination and his brow furrows. This can't be right. Dr McKenzie catches Christabel's eye. He checks again. Being wrong about this would put his whole reputation on the line, but there's no mistaking it. He's examined hundreds of women, and he's certain that Christabel Russell is five months pregnant. But just as she states... She also appears to be a virgin.

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From Wondery, I'm Alice Levine. And I'm Matt Ford. And this is British Scandal, the show where we bring you the murkier stories that ever happened on these odd little aisles. British scandals come in many shapes and sizes. Some are about money, some are about sex. They're all about power. But when we look at scandals a bit closer, they turn out to be stranger, wilder, just plain weirder than we remember. So we're journeying back to ask who's to blame for what happened. And when the dust settled.

Did anything really change? Alice, today's scandal has a vaguely festive theme. What is the miracle that we all associate with the background of Christmas? Okay, is it the degree of the discount of Black Friday deals? No, that is a miracle, but it's not that one. The unique taste of advent calendar chocolate? Personally, for me, that probably would be it.

But in this context now. Is it the generous returns policy of major retailers that means you can take stuff back way into January? You're verging on product placement. No. The bit that still blows my mind today is the Virgin Mary. Ah, sure. The ultimate case of we need to talk about where babies come from. Also, isn't it funny that 2025 years on, she's still known as the Virgin Mary?

That's like me being known as Tonking Matt forever. Or ever. Fair point. And actually, today's story is about Britain's very own version of the Immaculate Conception. I feel like I would have heard about this, so go on. Yeah, you won't have heard of this story, but it is a cracker. It's a story of innocence, wealth, ambition, sex, gossip and feminism, a nightmare mother-in-law and that classic British scandal subject.

Class. In the words of our executive producer, Joe, it's about breeding. In this case, it's more of a question of did they breed? And for this story's suggestion, we have listener Amy Vincent to thank. Thank you, Amy. This is the story of Christabel Russell, a woman who married into the upper classes and somehow found herself at the centre of one of the strangest, most scandalous court cases in British history. This is episode one, A Thoroughly Modern.

December 1917, the Savoy Hotel, London. 20-year-old John Russell helps his mother out of their black daimler. He nervously eyes the entrance to the grand ballroom. Grimaces as his mother yanks him down and adjusts his bow tie. Must you? John straightens up again. his six-foot-six frame now towering over her. She glares back. This wedding reception will be teeming with eligible young ladies, good families, proper breeding.

There is a war on mother. I'm only back for three days. It's hardly the time to be... Nonsense. Your cousin Cedric managed to find a wife and he's in the trenches. That feels like a lie. Where? Get me out there. That'd be a heck of a recruiting tour, wouldn't it? There's loads of ladies in the trenches, you know. Just dig deeper. Down there somewhere. John Sighs.

He'd much rather be with his Navy buddies during his leave than this stupid ball. His pals will be enjoying cigars and whiskey right now. His mother cuts into his thoughts with her usual squeal. Russell family line goes back to the Dukes of Bedford. Your great-great-uncle was the Prime Minister twice. It's high time you produced an heir. John nods, his mother's eyes still boring into him.

He's always been so shy around girls, but with his mother it's easier to surrender than argue. Inside, under Lady Anthil's hawk-like gaze, John edges towards the dance floor. where gentlemen expertly steer ladies in silk gowns across the marble floor. Imagine mum watching you. Come on, talk to her. Squeeze her boob. No, not her. She's too good looking for you. Keep going down the line. No, further, further, further, further.

His top hat tilts as it brushes some hanging garlands. John inwardly curses as he pushes it straight, more self-conscious than ever. But he forces himself to approach a girl nearby. I say, care to dance?

The girl looks up at him and smirks. Sorry, but I didn't bring a ladder. John's cheeks burn as a gaggle of ladies chortle. He turns away humiliated, only to feel a hand on his arm. He feels a rush of anger. Mother, will you just for once, please? But as he turns, his breath catches. He's staring into the eyes of a stunning blonde. She's tall, perhaps five foot eleven.

And there's something Sphinx-like about her. I'll dance with you. Before John can fathom a response, she's pulling him across the floor, nodding towards the girl who just mocked him. Ignore that horrible creature. I sat next to her at dinner and she was the most crushing bore. I'm Christabel, but I prefer Chris. John relaxes a little as she confidently steers him around to the music.

John Russell, midshipman, HMS Defence. A sailor? How tremendous. I've always wanted to go to sea, although I doubt it can beat the thrill of the air. You've been in an aeroplane? I've flown one. It was absolutely topping. Like being a bird. John's self-consciousness begins to leave him as he fires questions at her.

He discovers she's 21 and works in a munitions factory. Not only has she flown, she's ridden horses, driven motorbikes, and her passions are dressmaking and dancing. But then, to his despair... The music ends and she checks her wristwatch. I must be on my way. Mary's club beckons. John feels a stab of panic. He's certain that if Christabel leaves now...

He'll never see her again. A new determination grips him. I wonder, could I take you to dinner when I'm next on leave? He stays on her as she rests her hand on her hip and tilts her head, studying him. For a moment, he's certain she'll refuse. But then her lips curve into a smile. Why not? It might be rather fun. John's heart soars.

He spots his mother across the room, eyes narrowing in suspicion. He knows Chris is nothing like the demure young ladies his mother has in mind for a bride. But he's already decided. He'll defy every deathly dull plan for him by making this girl his wife. Seven months later.

September 1918, Kensington, London. Christabel straightens her white ruff and shakes out her arms to show off her baggy white tunic with black pom-poms. She sticks a leg forward as John opens the door of his flat, giving him an eyeful of her pantaloons. Ta-da! I'm Piero. She points to the tear painted onto her powder-white face. Looks glum.

Right. It's different. Cristobal inwardly sighs when John reveals he's chosen mock medieval armour for the costume party they're attending. It's nice, but rather dull. A bit like him. Christabel has done all she can these last few years to enjoy the freedoms the war has offered young women like her. She loves working at the Woolwich Arsenal. Recently she was promoted to Inspector of Gun Carriages.

Now she's in charge of over 2,000 women. She takes home real money, £400 this year. You know what I'm going to ask you? In modern money, that would be £24,600. Not only is that a lot of money, most women in her position... before the war, probably wouldn't have had a job. And here she is, trousering £24,600. This is why older people loved the war. They made a fortune!

I was making a point about feminism, and as ever, you have just trounced it. Yeah, but Alice, read what it says on my T-shirt. This is what a feminist looks like. The money gives Christabel freedom to go out in the evenings and dance. She likes John. But this costume reminds her he's hardly unconventional. I'm sure we can find you something better. Where's your closet? Oh, through there, but why don't you wait while I have a look?

Christabel playfully barges him aside. Nonsense! I dread to think what you pick. Christabel eagerly pulls the closet open. Inside, several silk and satin dresses hang between John's naval uniforms. She slowly looks back at him, finds herself smiling. John, how many girls do you see while you're on leave? None. There's only you, I promise. She lays one of the dresses out on the floor, lets out a little laugh. If I wore that, I'd need stilts and a prayer. She looks from the dress to John.

whose cheeks have turned crimson. Her eyes dart back to the six feet of fabric on the floor. She watches as John slumps onto the bed, a look of utter mortification on his face. John Russell! Here, I thought you were all starch collars and straight lines. Okay, so this is not what I was expecting either. He wears dresses in his alone time, we presume. John loves cross-dressing. And of course, he's the last one that you would expect.

But isn't that always the case? What are you getting up to, Alice Levine? Am I the last one you'd suspect to be wearing a dress? Yeah, fair. He looks up in shock. She knows she has to tread carefully. I'd love to see one on, quickly adds, for the party. She feels a thrill course through her, as John's expression transforms from one of utter shame, to trepidation, to eagerness.

Really? She gently rests a reassuring hand on his arm. She might just have misjudged John Russell after all. Yes, it would be perfectly tremendous. I'll do your make-up.

At the party, Cristobal looks over the shoulder of the man she's dancing with and watches John with growing fascination. His usual stiffness has gone as he sweeps elegantly around the room, topping up drinks, chatting easily. Her tipsy partner pulls her uncomfortably close. Christabel recoils. I'd rather you didn't. Her anxiety grows as the man ignores her, tightening his grip. But then...

Excuse me, the lady's with me. Christabel feels a surge of relief at John's assertive voice. He reaches out his painted fingers and takes her into his arms, keeping a polite distance as always. She feels her shoulders relax. Chris, I wonder, would you ever consider becoming my wife? Christabel starts to laugh. Oh, John, I'm really not the kind. But John stops dancing, fixes her with a serious expression. I'm hearing talk of the war ending soon. We should think about the future.

Christabel's mind races. She hadn't thought beyond the war. Yeah, of course there's been this... breaking the norm and she's living in this anomalous moment of independence where she can go out at night enjoy herself she can go dancing but also she's got this job and she's got purpose and she's got money and she's thinking about the end of the war

And imagining probably quite rightly that it's going to default back to normal dynamics. She won't be working every day in charge of lots of people in her factory. She will likely be in a domestic role and she won't be needed with the purpose that she has now. No war? Equals no munitions. Equals no fun. I would never expect you to change, Chris. You could still go out dancing, living just as you do now, as would I. I feel we understand each other.

She gazes into John's hopeful eyes. She realises that in a few months she'll be expected to settle down. And if she doesn't, people will start asking questions. She feels John's gentle hands on her waist. He's so much more respectful than other men. He makes her feel safe. Maybe this could work out well for both of them. He can marry her, and she can keep her old life and use him as cover.

But she must be completely honest. The thing is, I've never wanted children or any of that bedroom business. I find the whole idea of that messiness rather ghastly. If we were to marry, it would have to be more like a friendship. OK, this is interesting. So she lives this very free, alternative life, but we've seen her reject.

the guy in the club although he did seem sleazy to me so far and now she's saying no bedroom business which I'd like to unpack so we're thinking maybe she's gay or she's asexual and we don't know is historians have no idea the reason why. All we do know is she did not want any man going near her finer mechanisms. She eyes him nervously, expecting him to withdraw his offer.

But to her surprise, that's fine by me. Whatever you want. Christabel has always thought of marriage as a trap. But perhaps with John, it really could be a thoroughly modern arrangement. Based on understanding and fun. Maybe she really can have it all. October 1918.

Oakley House, Bedfordshire. Lady Amphill forces a welcoming smile as the butler shows her sheepish-looking son and his new wife into the drawing room. She extends her hand with the barest of warmth. Christabel, how nice to meet you. Likewise, Lady Anthil. We were so sorry you and Lord Anthil couldn't make the wedding. Yes, well...

Sadly, we had long-standing commitments that were quite impossible to change. Her jaw tightens as Christabel raises an eyebrow. It's clear they both know that's a lie. In fact, Lady Anthil refused to attend. believing her son could do much better than this colonel's daughter. She had nothing less than royalty in mind for her eldest. She can only hope today's meeting will give Christabel a clear idea of what's expected of her.

Lady Amphill adjusts her lace cuffs and gets straight down to business. Your dress is rather contemporary, Christabel. While I'm sure Bond Street has changed since I last visited... It would be more in keeping if I made it myself, actually. Lady Anthil can barely hide her horror. Like a seamstress? John jumps in. Christabel likes to design her own clothes. Well, when you are presented at court, we shall have something properly made. She watches Christabel's eyes widen. Presented at court?

I hadn't thought, um... Lady Anthil's mouth tightens. She can't believe the girl's naivety. My dear, you are a rustle now. There are certain values.

Sadden... Expectations. Lady Anthil eyeballs her, confident the message has got through. That evening. Lady Anthil pauses as she walks through the guest wing, confused to see John unpacking in the blue bedroom. She goes inside. Why are you in here? I had the rose sweet prepared. Yes, well, Cristobal and I, at home, we have our own rooms. I don't understand. She watches John straighten up. We have decided not to, that is...

Christabel is rather averse, too. You don't need to explain. Just say we have our own rooms. Not even second base? There's other stuff that you can do. Even over the shirt. A knot forms in Lady Anthil's stomach. You mean to tell me she's not fulfilling her... conjugal duties? It's really none of yours. But what about children? Christabel doesn't really care for them. I beg your pardon? I don't want to push.

I really think if you try to get to know her, give her time to adjust, perhaps in time she'll... Lady Amphill holds her hand up, her patience reaching its limit. She will not let this girl infect John with such outlandish, unacceptable ideas. Tradition must be upheld. You and your wife have a duty to produce an heir within the year. There will be no more separate rooms nonsense. She will lie back and do what every woman must. Do I make myself...

So grim. And also imagine having to then say, look, I know we've talked about it, but my mum really wants us to have sex. Could you just do it for her? She just said, could you just lie back and do what every woman has to do? So, like, is that cool? And then I've got to go and tell my mum that we did it. In fact, I might just get her in halfway through. Mum! Mum, quick! God, quick!

See you later. Lady Amphil stays on John until he wilts under her gaze and nods. But she knows she can't leave it there. She will keep a close eye on John and refuse to let up. Whatever it takes to ensure the family bloodline survives.

One month later, Kensington, London. Christabel closes the door of the flat, kicks off her dancing shoes and rubs one of her aching feet. She stifles a yawn as she checks her watch. Midnight. She glances towards the kitchen and is relieved to see the light is off. She usually enjoys chatting to John about her night over cocoa, but all she wants to do now is sleep.

Entering her room, she startled to see John sitting on her bed, holding a slim book. John, whatever are you doing in here? Come here, I want to show you something. Christabel slowly edges towards him. Only when she sits does she read the title. Married Love by Mary Stokes.

This is a really famous book, isn't it? This manual, I guess. It is. It is a revolutionary book and it advocates female sexual pleasure, which was groundbreaking at the time because particularly the upper classes considered talking about sex. Absolutely a no-go area. And sex was seen at the time purely for procreation purposes. Female sexual pleasure was not considered at all. Yes, I guess Lie Back and Think of England was the rather horrendous... Sequel. Mantra.

Christabel shudders. What, um, what is this? John pushes it towards her. It's a guide for married couples in the bedroom. Christabel eyes him with confusion. waits for him to continue. The Navy chaps are always talking about this manual. She glares at John as he thumbs the pages enthusiastically. It's actually frightfully modern. Some of the suggestions even sound...

Fun. Christabel's skin crawls. She snaps the book shut. We had an agreement, John. The thing is, Mother is threatening to cut off my allowance. Even take the flat if I... we... Don't provide her an heir by... That's blackmail! To Cristobal's horror, John reopens the book. I know we've rather shied away from these things, but this explains everything.

Cristobal stares at him, aghast, as he begins to read aloud. The woman has at the surface a small vestigial organ called the clitoris, which corresponds to the man's penis and is extremely sensitive to touch. Why are you making notes? Does the book say where it is? The diagram is right. Stop it! Christabel notes the more John reads, the more excited he seems to become. There are suggestions for prevention too.

We wouldn't even have to have a baby straight away. We could practice first. It could be like dancing. Christabel's revulsion grows. It is nothing like dancing. Please just leave now. John rises from the bed. and slowly pads out. Christopher lies the book and tentatively opens it, picking out words like stimulus and orgasm, and diagrams of unimaginable acts.

She slams it shut and hurls it across the room. Her chest heaves. Christabel wonders if she's made a terrible mistake by marrying into such a controlling family, with all their suffocating talk of duty. She will just have to show them that she won't be pushed around and banish these thoughts from her husband's mind by doing things her way. The modern way.

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March 1920. White drawing room, Buckingham Palace. Lady Amphill sucks in her breath as Christabel enters the flag-filled room on John's arm. She's wearing a dress with a shockingly low neckline and hair newly styled in a dreadful bob. Hardly appropriate for a victory party with royalty. Lady Amphil's fingers tighten around her glass as she drains her sherry. She's sick of this humiliation. Talking to John has achieved nothing. She will have to deal with Christabel directly.

She cuts through the crowd and grabs her daughter-in-law's elbow, firmly steers her into a quiet corner. It's high time we discussed your behaviour. I fund your lifestyle. In return, I expect you to fulfil your role as wife. Lady Anthil puffs her chest. Fully. She falters as Christabel nods. I quite agree. Lady Anthil blinks, starts to relax her grip on Christabel a little. Right, well, for a start, we must have no more of these elaborate... creations.

She waves her hand at Christabel's dress. Oh, but I must keep wearing them, Lady Anthil, to advertise. Lady Anthil stares at her, lost, if I'm going to go into business so that I can support John. instead of relying on your allowance. Oh, this is lovely. She has played this beautifully. Business? Whatever do you mean? Her mind reels.

Does her daughter-in-law mean to trade? Christabel swims in and out of focus. My mother will help me finance it. I've already found a suitable place in Mayfair. Lady Anthil is speechless. as Christabel casts her eyes across the room. And thanks to your connections, a whole host of potential clients. Lady Anthil clutches her pearls. I absolutely forbid it.

You will concentrate on producing an heir, and if you do not, I will, I will insist, John seeks an annulment. Christabel's smile is infuriatingly serene. An annulment? After you presented me at court? Wouldn't that be rather... improper? Lady Anthil's mouth goes dry as Christabel leans in. Whatever would your friends say? What would the king say? Lady Anthil is speechless as the dinner gong sounds. Which was the mic drop of the 1920s.

as she delivers the killer one-liner. Now if you'll excuse me, I must join my husband. Lady Anthil feels her chest tighten as Christabel glides away. She realises now how destructive this girl is to all she holds dear. Enough is enough. She must force John to see the error of his ways and find a new, more compliant wife.

before the Amphil name is irreparably damaged. Four months later, Curzon Street, Mayfair. Christabel pins the folds of a gold lame dress on a mannequin. She beams as she steps back and takes in her shop. Bolts of silk and satin adorn the tables. A few society ladies browse through a book of her designs.

She's about to go over and help them when Christabel's smile fades as John marches in and angrily slaps a letter on the counter. She sighs at the sight of his mother's familiar spidery handwriting. What now? She's cut my allowance entirely. Cristobal glances at the customers. She stares John away from them. It doesn't matter. I can give you money. I don't want to be kept. It's not right.

This comes up often in British scandal when we're talking about megaposhos. There is a kind of selective observance of what is proper. I can't live off money from my wife. I must live off money from my mother instead. Exactly. I'm a proud independent man. Sean slums his fist down. She'd stop if we just gave her an air. Christabel flushes as her customers scurry out. Her discomfort grows as he steps forward, grabs her shoulders. Would trying really be so bad?

The book says, not that wretched book. She pushes him away. Ever since John laid eyes on that blasted book he's changed. Most nights he leaves his door open, like an open invitation. And she's even caught him watching her undress. She takes a breath. I love you, but I simply don't have those urges. And I don't think you really do either.

It's just the pressure from your mother. Please, if you want to be with me, you must forget about her and all this air business. She stays on him, relieved when he nods sadly and slumps upstairs.

Cristobal feels her stomach a knot, hoping that will be an end to it. Later, when she enters the flat after work, she's heartened to see John's bedroom door is firmly shut. Exhausted, she heads to bed, soon falling into a deep sleep. Until a hot breath against her neck wakes her with a start. A body pressing close. A hand moving across her nightgown, trying to get underneath. Horrified, Christabel sits bolt upright and turns to see John laying beside her, naked. John, what on God's earth?

She scrambles from the bed. I must have been sleepwalking. I'm terribly sorry. This is suddenly very sinister and very scary. Cristobal pulls on her dressing gown. wrapping it tightly round her as she waits for him to go. But since I'm here, perhaps we could... Cuddle. Cristobal stares into John's eyes and sees something new. Something alien and unnerving.

Lust. She feels sick to the stomach as she realises with absolute clarity that this isn't just about Lady Anthil's wishes anymore. John's urges are real. She pulls on her shoes and runs down the stairs, John shouting after her. Chris, where are you going? Chris! Ignoring his cries, Cristobal unlocks the door and sprints out into the cold night.

She halts when she reaches Murray's Club. Hearing the faint strains of music nearby, she feels safe, like she can breathe again. And now she knows what she must do. If she can't keep John from her bed... She will simply ensure she's never in it. Instead, she will go out dancing. All and every night if she has to. Anything to escape her husband's incessant, ceaseless desires.

December 1920. The rag club, Pal Mal. John sinks into his leather armchair and takes a sip of whiskey as his old Navy captain recounts a recent fox hunting trip. Lads, lads, lads. Classic 1920 leads. John's determined to make a night of it. He spent the past month either arguing with his mother or with Chris. Tonight, he just wants to forget.

Had a little rascal in my sights early on, but the blasted thing gave us a good run. Very nimble it was. Tireless. John makes sympathetic grunts along with the rest of his pals, until one of them turns his way, a small smile playing on his lips. Speaking of nimble stilts, I saw your wife at Murray's the other night, dancing up quite the storm she was, with several different men. John forces a laugh as his captain chimes in. Lithe, little thing, isn't you?

John shrinks into his chair as they clink glasses. Certainly is. I must admit to being quite envious. She must be rather worked up by the time she gets home. The table erupts in laughter. Only joshing, old boy. You don't know how lucky you are, stilts. All changes down there once they start knocking out sprogs. These guys are fun, aren't they? They're just fun.

He drains his glass, orders another, then another and another. Three hours later, John stumbles through the dark streets towards home. His head swims with thoughts of Christabel. How he loves her, wants her. He's fought his family, his dogged mother, for months to be with her. And he has rights as a husband. He must take them. John crashes into the flat to find Christabel removing her coat. John, I thought you were asleep. Polstered by alcohol, John bites back. No, Chris, I am very much awake.

And I simply must! To his annoyance, she doesn't even meet his eye as she waves her hand behind her. I'm tired, darling. I'll see you in the morning. He's left standing in the dark hallway alone. and feels something deep within him snap. He storms into his room, pulls a trunk from under the bed and stares at its contents. He's had enough of being emasculated, humiliated, ignored. He's going to take what is rightfully his by force. Seconds later, Curzon Street, Mayfair.

Christabel sighs at the sound of her door creaking open. She continues to remove her makeup. She's exhausted, and all she wants to do is sleep. John, I said I'm tired. But as she turns, she feels the blood drain from her face. John is pointing a shotgun directly between her eyes. Jesus Christ. You will fulfill your conjugal duties. And if you refuse me again, I will kill you. Right here and now. The rune seems to spin.

Cristobal's heart hammers against her ribs as she forces herself to breathe slowly. John, darling, you don't mean this. You're drunk. She flinches as he takes a step closer. Don't patronise me! She watches as his hand begins to tremble. Then, to her growing horror, he turns the gun to his own temple. Maybe, maybe I can't kill you, but I'll blow my own brains out, I swear. Christabel looks into John's wild, unfocused eyes. Let's just talk, John.

Please. She hears his voice crack. All we do is talk. Christabel sees tears form in his eyes. She takes a tentative step forward. only for John to press the gun's barrel even more forcefully against his head. Please, sit with me, John. Cristobal slowly guides him to the bed. She allows herself to breathe. as he finally lowers the gun slightly and sinks onto the mattress beside her. But to her despair, his finger remains on the trigger. I love you, John. You know that.

I just want things to work out. John's shoulders begin to shake. His lip quivers. Then why? Why do you make me a laughingstock? Wow, so it's not even... I really desire you, please give me what I want, which is in and of itself completely unreasonable. It's because the big boys tease me at the club, will you have sex with me? Still a no, actually, weirdly.

Actually, it was a definite no before. It's even more of a no now. Cristobal feels a prickle of guilt. I didn't realise that... Tomorrow, when we go to Oakley... Mother will belittle me as always. She'll call me spineless, a disgrace to the family. Everywhere I go, everywhere I look, Cristobal's heart breaks as his voice cracks. She watches the gun slip from his fingers and onto the bed as he collapses against her, sobbing onto her shoulder. I can't do this anymore. I can't!

Shh now. It's all right. We'll make it right. I promise. Christabel practically holds her breath as John's breathing becomes heavier, the alcohol and exhaustion overtaking him. He passes out. Carefully, she picks up the shotgun and carries it to the closet. She tucks it behind her hatbox as out of sight. Her eye catches the copy of Married Love she'd hidden there months ago.

She pulls the book out and opens it. Her stomach lurches just as it did the first time she saw these pages. But now she forces herself to read. Has she just been in denial these past few months? clinging to a fantasy that such a thing as a modern marriage can exist. Because however much it disgusts her, if she doesn't give John what he wants, right now she fears that one or both of them... will end up dead.

Three eight-year-old boys were brutally murdered in West Memphis, Arkansas. As the small-town local police struggled to solve the crime, rumors soon spread that the killings were the work of a satanic cult. Suspicion landed on three local teenagers, but there was no real evidence linking them to the murders. Still, that would not protect them. Hi, I'm Lindsey Graham, the host of Wondery Show American Scandal.

We bring to life some of the biggest controversies in U.S. history. Presidential lies, environmental disasters, corporate fraud. In our latest series, three teenage boys are falsely accused of a vicious triple homicide. But their story doesn't end with their trials or convictions. Instead, their plight will capture the imagination of the entire country and spark a campaign for justice that will last for almost two decades. Follow American Scandal on The Wondria or wherever you get your podcasts.

You can binge all episodes of American Scandal The West Memphis Three early and ad-free right now on Wondery+.

The following day, December 1920, Oakley House, Bedfordshire. Christabel pushes her baked apple charlotte around the plate. overwhelmed by a sense of impending doom at what she promised John she would do later tonight. Lady Anthil's eyes burn into her from across the dining table. You've barely eaten this evening, Christabel. Have we served you something you couldn't stomach? No, I just don't have much of an appetite, Lady Anthil. I hope you'll forgive me if I retire early. Of course.

The bed is made up in the rose suite. For both of you. Christabel catches the hopeful smile from John as she pushes back her chair and makes her way towards the stairs. Twenty minutes later, her hands tremble as she attempts to fasten her nightgown in the suite's adjoining dressing room. She stares at her reflection in the mirror. It's perfectly natural. Perfectly fun.

Just like dancing. Think of dancing. Christabel takes a deep breath, then opens the door to see John is already in bed. He pulls back the covers invitingly and looks at her with such tenderness. that her fear begins to recede. Come here, darling. Don't be scared. Not what you want to hear from a potential lover. Cristobal climbs in beside him, tries to relax.

But the musky scent of his body, the heat from his skin as he shuffles closer, the sweat beading on his brow, it all feels so alien to her, so wrong. I promise I'll be gentle. We can start with just the tip, as my Navy chaps call it. No point trying to climb Everest on the first expedition, eh? Cristobal squeezes her eyes shut. Then she feels the weight of John's body on top of her, pressing down.

Try to relax, darling, while I... Christabel feels him fumbling, just as she feared. The sensation is strange, uncomfortable. Darling, please, I... It's almost in. Just a little longer. I'm sorry, but I simply can't. She shoves him away. Whatever way you look at this, it's so grim. She's definitely under an immense amount of pressure. She feels pressure.

from her mother-in-law to have sex with her husband. I can't believe that she even tried it. I mean, the dynamic here is, as we know, totally bonkers. I mean, he was in their room with a gun not that long ago. And then there are other moments of genuine affection. So we can't know what was going on in either of their heads, but you never want to hear the sentiment, it's almost in just a little longer. Cristobal sees the desire in John's eyes turn to despair.

We want different things, John. We've been fooling ourselves. What are you saying? We must admit defeat. Get that blasted annulment. Christabel's heart aches as she watches John's face crumple. But saying the words has only crystallised the decision in her head. It's time to put them both out of their misery and end this marriage once and for all.

Five months later, May 1920, Mayfair. Christabel wrinkles her nose at the strong aroma of incense as she enters the shop and takes in the myriad crystals, astrological charts. and eastern figurines before her. A small woman emerges from a pair of long velvet drapes at the back of the room. She wonders if she should leave. She's been struggling to focus and sleep since she's separated from John.

So her mother has suggested she sees her clairvoyant. But Christabel is having second thoughts. Mrs Naismith? You must be Christabel. Mrs Naismith extends her hand. Christabel takes it reluctantly, feels a prickle of unease. Please, come through. Mrs Naismith sits her down at a table, then closes her eyes and lifts her hands. so that they hover over her. You pride yourself on being modern, independent. You've recently opened a business in fashion.

And your marriage is troubled. Christabel smiles wryly. Her mother could have told Mrs Naismith all of this. Your husband has taken new employment. and has looked at a cottage for the pair of you near Harpenden. He so desperately wants you back. Christabel shuffles uncomfortably. She never told anyone about that. Although estate agents can be a bit nosy, so they could have let slip. They all gossip, didn't they? They've been talking to Foxton's. Now, tell me what troubles you.

Christabel hesitates. But then she reasons there's no harm in confiding in a woman she'll never see again. My husband and I want different things. His family are aristocratic and in need of an heir. But I do not wish to provide one. Mrs. Naismith opens her eyes and gives Christabel a strange, knowing smile. My dear. It's rather late for such concerns, don't you think? Christabel stays on her, confused. Whatever do you mean?

You already have a baby on the way. Christabel throws back her head and laughs. That's impossible. I'm quite certain. And quite wrong. We've never... had sexual intercourse. But Mrs Naismith stays on her, looking doubtful. Really? When did you last have your monthly courses? The question stops Christabel cold. Her mind races backwards through the months.

Was it January? Or maybe earlier? But she still can't believe. I've been under tremendous stress. I just assumed. Christabel's head spins as she thinks about the nausea she attributed to nerves. the tightness of her dresses can it really be true is she going to have a miracle baby From Wondery and Samistat Audio this is the first episode in our series The Other Virgin Baby

A quick note about our dialogue. In most cases, we can't know exactly what was said, but all our dramatisations are based on historical research. If you'd like to know more about this story, you can read Christabel, The Russell Case and After by Eileen Hunter. The Virgin's Baby, The Battle of the Amphill Succession by Bevis Hillier, and Modern Women on Trial by Lucy Bland. And we love hearing from you with comments and suggestions, as we said at the top of the show, so please keep them coming.

British Scandal is hosted by me, Matt Ford. And me, Alice Levine. Written by Wendy Grandeter. Additional writing by Alice Levine and Matt Ford. Our story editor is James Maniac. Sound design by Dan King. Our engineer is Jai Williams. For Samizdat, our producer is Chica Ayres. Our assistant producer is Louise Mason. Our senior producers are Joe Sykes and Dasha Lissitzina. Executive producers for Wondery. of Theodora Leloudis, Estelle Doyle and Marshall Louis.