Lucy and the Doctors

by Ava Sinclair

  Lucy’s heart was hammering in her chest. Memories rushed back.

  This will teach you. Bitch. Harsh words. Rough hands. The choking ether-soaked rag placed over her nose and mouth. Blackness. Judgment. Restraint.

  “No!” She found her voice suddenly, panicky. She was flailing now against the two sets of hands that sought to lift her from the floor. She screamed as she was immobilized. The door opened. A nurse was called. More people loomed over her now. Her arm. She could not move her arm. The painful pinch of the needle entering her skin.

  Blackness. Again.

  Chapter Three: Lucy

  She was so light in his arms, and Dr. Benedict Crane found himself missing Lucy’s warmth against his chest when he laid her down on the exam table. It was late in the evening, and she was still unconscious.

  “That was far too much morphine, Thomas.” He was holding the young woman’s wrist as he addressed his friend and colleague. Her pulse was light and rapid. He lifted her eyelid and shone a light into her pupil. The iris surrounding it was the color of green sea glass; he breathed a sigh of relief when the dark circle inside contracted.

  “She’s best quit of there for sure,” Thomas said, looking down.

  Benedict shook his head. “Such a damn shame,” he said, glancing up at Thomas. “Were it not for her affliction she’d be sitting in Judge Bonham’s parlor at the moment, sipping a spot of tea before bed—a gentle young wife basking in the esteem of marriage to the most noted judge in the region.”

  “And this couldn’t have been easy for her poor husband. From what Dr. Litman said, he took her to wife sight unseen.”

  “Did he tell you more?” Benedict asked as his gaze skimmed the pretty heart-shaped face. In sleep, Lucy Bonham looked vulnerably childlike. It was hard to imagine her in a wedding gown.

  “Only that she was orphaned and her father was a friend of the judge. He took custody of her when she was very young, but sent her to be raised by a pastor and his wife in the country. They sent him pictures, and she wrote him letters. When she turned eighteen, his interests shifted from paternal to romantic. He announced his intentions and had her sent for to marry. It seems the whole time she and the guardians who’d raised her managed to keep her true nature hidden. I suppose they were embarrassed.”

  Benedict shook his head. “Hmm. Or more likely keen to get rid of her. I can only imagine the judge’s distress at finding the truth. His reputation for morality and religious conviction is well known. The disappointment must have been acute.”

  “It’s hard to imagine the depth of his shame,” Thomas replied. “But to his credit, rather than put her out he sent her to where he thought she could at least get help. It must have broken his heart.”

  Benedict sighed. “And now it falls to us to study her. And to perchance fix her if we can, although a woman diseased by too many random liaisons can only be remedied to a point.”

  Thomas wrinkled his nose. “We should assess her for starters. And it’s best to do it while she’s out cold. From what Litman said, the mere brush of a man’s fingers is enough to have her body respond with demonic wantonness. We should act quickly, Benedict, before she wakes.”

  Benedict turned and reached for some scissors on a tray by the table. Lucy wore no gown; when they’d removed her straitjacket, she’d been left in just chemise and pantalets. As he cut the fabric away, Benedict found his eyes gazing on a body as beautiful as the face. Lucy was small, but possessed the body of Juno, with full breasts, a waist that hardly needed the stricture of a corset, and gently flaring hips. The stomach was nearly flat save for the pleasantest of a slight swell just above the v-shaped thatch of blond curls.

  “We’ll need to shave her to fully check for blisters and lesions.” Thomas was raising the leg supports on the end of the bed. As he did, Benedict pulled the remainder of fabric away from Lucy’s body and discarded it into a nearby basket. When he looked back, he was seized by the desire to lift her into a protective grasp, but pushed this urge aside. She was a subject to be studied, not a waif to be coddled, and so he returned his interest to the clinical and assisted as Thomas lifted her shapely legs into the supports.

  Nurse Lassiter had placed the shaving supplies back in the cabinet, and Benedict fetched them along with a washcloth as Thomas gathered the other supplies he would need for the examination. He was tender as he carefully shaved away the curly blond fleece to reveal the plump outer lips of her pussy.

  “No lesions here,” he remarked to his colleague.

  Thomas quirked an eyebrow. “Sometimes there aren’t with these things. She’s likely between eruptions.”

  He’d pulled up a small stool and now sat between her legs, his gaze fixed on the delicate nether parts of the woman. Benedict watched as his colleague reached out to gently part the outer lips with his fingers, spreading them to reveal the delicate inner folds. Thomas was peering carefully, a quizzical look on his face.

  “I’m not…” He peered harder. “Benedict. I see no evidence at all of disease or infection of any kind.” He stood, and Benedict could not help but note that his colleague’s countenance had taken on an expression of unease. “I need to check something,” he said. “And if I’m right…”

  “What?”

  But Thomas Allard was not answering as he moved to the side of the table. Benedict watched as his friend’s hands moved between the young woman’s thighs, his finger slipping inside of her.

  “Good God, Ben…”

  “What, Thomas? What is it?” Benedict stepped forward and when he looked down, he instantly knew what his friend was going to say.

  “It can’t be,” Benedict said.

  “I’m afraid it is.” Thomas withdrew his finger and stepped back. “This young woman is no diseased wanton. She’s a virgin.”

  Benedict looked from his friend to the naked Lucy and then back again.

  “This makes no sense,” he said.

  Thomas turned away. “No. It doesn’t.”

  “But Dr. Litman saw…” Benedict began, but his friend interrupted him.

  “I think now that Dr. Litman was misled. When I was handling the paperwork, he made a remark to me that now makes sense, Benedict. He told me that she was in such a state of wantonness on her wedding night that Judge Bonham had her sedated for transport to the asylum. I’m now suspecting that she’s been kept sedated since arrival.”

  Benedict looked at his friend. “And you think the behavior described to us wasn’t actually witnessed by Dr. Litman, but merely recounted to him.”

  “That’s exactly what I suspect.”

  “But why ever would Dr. Litman do such a thing? What about his ethical duty to assess a patient before locking them away?”

  “Isn’t it obvious, Benedict? Judge Bonham is a man of great influence and power. The asylum must come hat in hand annually to get funding for its operations. He can ill afford to question a man with such connections.” He rubbed his chin thoughtfully as he looked down at Lucy. “Besides, Judge Bonham is known for his principles. It likely never occurred to Litman that his account of this woman’s behavior was anything but an honest one.”

  “So where does this leave us?

  Thomas shook his head. “It could be that Bonham exaggerated his description. Perhaps she was overly passionate, and he just assumed it meant she was stricken with nymphomania.” He grew quiet, musing on the possibility. “It’s hard to comprehend, though, a pretty young girl exhibiting such excitement over a paunchy old man that she frightens him. We won’t know until she’s awake and we can gauge her reactions.”

  Benedict frowned. He was beginning to feel concerned, not just about Lucy, but about the whole situation. There was something definitely amiss. The angelic-looking woman on the table did not square with the stories he and his colleague had been told. And if an exam proved that she was in no way a nymphomaniac, and therefore unfit for their study? He imagined taking her back to the asylum, relinquishing her to Dr. Litman. He recalled how she’d trembled in hi

s arms, her warmth. He needed to feel it again.

  “She needs be bathed,” he said. “Would you draw a bath, Thomas?”

  His colleague was quiet for a moment. “Of course, Ben.”

  As Thomas left, Benedict lowered first one of Lucy’s legs and then the other. As he laid the second one down, she stirred and moaned softly.

  “Mrs. Bonham?” He moved up the side of the exam table to take her hand. It was slim and cool and small in the larger one that enveloped it.

  “I’m not… please…” Her voice was light, childlike, as innocent as her untouched body.

  “Calm yourself, Mrs. Bonham.”

  “No… not… please… don’t call me that.” Her speech was slurred, and a tear leaked from the corner of one sea green eye to trail down her cheek. It left a track in the grime coating her face, and Benedict felt a swell of anger to think how she’d languished for so long in that filthy room.

  “Don’t speak,” he said, squeezing her hand, and she closed her eyes. But no sooner had she done so than they flew open, and the expression she fixed him with was one wild with fright.

  “Don’t hurt me!” she cried, and recoiled so violently that Benedict had to catch her to keep her from falling from the table. “Don’t hurt me! Please! You’re hurting me! No, Judge Bonham! I beg of you!”

  “Thomas!” He turned, calling to his friend, who was already running back into the room. “She’s having some sort of hallucination,” he said, but when Benedict reached for a syringe and more sedative, he held up his hand. “No. The last thing she needs is more oblivion.”

  Thomas turned with a sigh and set the things down on the counter.

  “See,” Benedict said. “She’s already slipping away again.”

  And she was. Lucy had faded back into unconsciousness.

  “Did you hear what she said?” Benedict asked.

  Thomas nodded.

  “We can’t draw conclusions, though, Benedict. We’re scientists. There’s no place for emotion here. It could well be she’s as mad as he claims and is simply gripped by a nightmare.”

  “It’s not emotional to suspect there’s more afoot, Thomas.” Benedict lifted the young woman from the bed and left the exam room for the bathing chamber, his colleague in quick step behind him. The claw-foot tub was filled nearly to the brim, steam rising off the water. Lucy’s eyes fluttered as he lowered her into it, her body tensing then relaxing.

  “I’ll hold her steady,” Thomas said, kneeling at the head of the tub and grasping her by the upper body. Benedict noticed how his friend’s large hands grazed the sides of Lucy’s upraised, round breasts. She was stirring more, and both men were watching now for the first signs of the condition Dr. Litman described.

  “The slightest touch—even though the haze—should have the nipples hard, tight peaks,” Benedict remarked. “And yet, nothing.” His voice was thick as he said the words, and he cleared his throat and turned away to get the soap.

  “True,” Thomas said. “With the level of nymphomania Litman described, you’d think the slightest sensation would cause arousal, even in the subconscious. But we’ve not started to bathe her.”

  Benedict had retrieved the washcloth and soap. He turned back, wondering as he approached the tub why he was so nervous. He’d seen countless naked women, some as fair of form as Lucy. He’d been with more than a few women sexually. Yet there was something about this young woman—so helpless, so vulnerable—that affected him in a way no other one had.

  “Ben, are you coming?”

  “Yes. Of course.” He made his way to the tub, kneeling down. Dipping the cloth into the water, he wetted it before lathering it well with the soap. Benedict kept it over his hand, a barrier between his palm and her bare skin. But he could still feel the curve of her shoulder as he washed, the dips and valleys of her physical terrain as he moved lower, the roundness of her buttocks, the soft swell of her thighs. When he moved between them, the rag slipped from his hand and as he groped for it, his fingers brushed her pussy. He felt his face flush as his cock throbbed in response to the sensation of her silky soft mons. Quickly, he retrieved the rag and scrubbed her, trying to ignore the lengthening of his cock as it pressed against the front of his pants.

  “You do her hair,” Benedict said curtly, turning as he stood. He fetched a cup, but didn’t turn back until he’d discreetly moved his coat to hide his turgid erection. Thomas, at least, seemed oblivious to his distress. But the reason why gave Benedict no comfort. His friend had positioned Lucy’s fair head so that it rested against his arm, and was staring down into her face, studying the features intently.

  “Here.” Benedict pushed the cup toward him and Thomas looked up, pulled back to the present.

  “Thank you, Benedict,” he said.

  A half hour later, Lucy was sitting in a chair by the fire, clad in a shift Thomas had found in the guest room. She was starting to stir as Benedict combed the last tangles from a mane of thick blond hair now shining and fragrant with lavender. She’d gone from broken doll to restful child, her sweet face innocent amid the golden frame of tresses.

  “Lucy?” Thomas squeezed her hand, his voice gentle as he spoke. “Lucy?”

  Her eyelids twitched, her long lashes fluttered, and then her eyes opened. Benedict moved to sit on the ottoman at her feet, his eyes fixed on her. He was a man of science who never prayed, but found himself silently doing just that now as he summoned whatever divinity there was to keep her awake.

  The green eyes stayed open.

  She said nothing at first, but just looked around almost curiously. She’d pulled her hand from Thomas’ grip and was clutching the blanket Benedict had thoughtfully put across her lap. They were in the sitting room before the fire. She turned her attention from one man to the next, then to the blaze. When she spoke, her voice was barely audible.

  “Where is this place?”

  “You’re at the home and offices of Doctors Benedict Crane and Thomas Allard,” Benedict said quietly.

  She looked at Benedict, directly at him, and he could see that the fog of morphine had all but lifted from her sea green eyes. “I was somewhere before this,” she said, turning her gaze to Thomas. “Somewhere terrifying. There were screams.” She moved her hand to her chest as she sought to remember. “Screams in the dark.” She paused. “Some were mine.”

  “You were in St. Bart’s Asylum,” Thomas said. “Do you remember being taken there?”

  Her shudder was apparent to both men. She shook her head. “No.” Then her expression changed and light caught the tear that rolled from one eye to trail down her pale cheek. A shudder accompanied it. “Wait. Yes. I do remember. If only I could forget…”

  “Can you tell us what happened?” Thomas put the question gently as he pressed a cup of tea into her hand. She looked at the cup gratefully and took a deep sip of Earl Grey heavily fortified with sugar. With a sigh, she leaned her head back on the chair and closed her eyes.

  “Yes, I can tell you,” she said. “But first you must come to tell me why I’m in your house.”

  Benedict exchanged a glance with Thomas, who nodded in consent.

  “Dr. Allard and I practice a particular branch of medicine,” he said. “We specialize in female health and sexuality. We’ve been asked to conduct a study on nymphomania.”

  “Nymphomania?” She repeated the word with a confused shake of the head.

  “It’s a term for women with an unnatural craving for carnal things,” Benedict explained. “Named for the Greek nymphs noted for their unrestrained passions. Of course, in mythology such behavior was perfectly acceptable. Today, however, in civil society, a woman is expected to control herself.”

  “What does this have to do with me?” she asked hesitantly.

  “You really don’t know?” Thomas asked, urging her to take another sip of tea. Once she’d downed two more swallows, he took the delicate cup and set it aside.

  “Why should I?” Lucy asked.

  The glances exchanged now were weighted with concern.

  “You were recently married, were you not?” Benedict inquired.

  Fear registered on Lucy’s face. “Yes,” she whispered. “To a much older man I’d never laid eyes on. He was my guardian, I was told. The couple who raised me—a kindly pastor and his wife—were also older. They bade me write this man, Archibald Bonham, each year to apprise him of my progress in schooling and the like.” She paused. “I turned eighteen a fortnight ago and on that day was told that my designation would be changed from ward to wife, as Bonham wanted me for a bride. I was told as his ward, I had no say in the matter; it was for him to decide whom I would marry, even if it were him. We are not blood related, I was told; he’d merely adopted me. And so I was sent here to London to wed a man I’d never met.”

  Benedict’s heart seized at the news. He had an idea of what was coming, but did not want to lead her, so he merely pressed her to continue.

  “I… I knew nothing of this man. He chilled me upon our meeting. The way he stared… licking his lips…” She shuddered violently. “It was as if I were a fondant to be consumed. I…” She covered her face with her hands now and began to sob.

  “Please continue,” Thomas urged, and they waited for her to compose herself.

  “I remember little of the wedding. I was so very afraid and confused. There was a reception, but we left almost as soon as it began. I was taken to a house in the city. There was a maid there. She helped me into a nightgown and took me to a chamber that smelled of smoke and lineaments. Judge Bonham arrived. He was wearing a dressing gown. He told me I was his gift from God, that it was my wedding night, and that he would take my virginity. I did not know what he meant. But then he… he took hold of me. His foul breath, the stink of it… the slime of his tongue as he licked my neck. I did not know what he wanted; I only knew I wanted none of it. He repulsed me. I did not desire him. I told him so. He pinched my…”

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