A consistent method for pelvic massage that would ensure a rapid paroxysm every time—was it even possible? Such a discovery could revolutionize the lives of women suffering with hysteria and would quite possibly be the most important advancement in recent medical history. He giggled at the thought.
Dr. William Whitcraft was a slight man but stood very straight, elongating his person with a confident posture. He had a habit of holding his chin in front of him, particularly when trying to gauge the tenor of any situation. He wore his spectacles low on his nose and contemplated his subjects with thoughtful brown eyes under brows furrowed with deep concentration.
He wore a dark blue, double-breasted frockcoat overtop a grey waistcoat. His white linen tall-collared shirt was tied at the throat with a grey-patterned cravat. Brown trousers and black shoes completed his outfit. Even in the most casual of circumstances, he wore a different version of this exact same ensemble.
He bounded up the steps to his narrow townhouse and saw through the glass that Miss Faffle hadn’t yet returned. He dug into his waistcoat pocket and produced his key, unlocking the front door with practiced ease.
Miss Faffle’s abandoned desk, two plain wooden chairs, an area rug, and empty hat stand completed the sparse, no-nonsense professional décor. One never knew what one might find upon returning from luncheon, and he felt pleased to see that everything seemed well in order.
Last week, after another meal with Dr. Vorago, he had found an ashen-faced young fellow slouched on his steps cupping his dismembered hand in the crook of his elbow as he waited for the doctor’s return.
“Good God, man! Why didn’t you go to hospital? You are bleeding out!” he had yelled, dashing up the steps and fashioning a makeshift tourniquet out of his own waistcoat to stop the torrent of blood.
“Oh, it seemed like too much of a bother, you know,” the man had replied, his tongue thick, and his eyes half-opened. That poor intoxicated soul had turned out to be the calmest, most reasonable patient of the day.
Dr. Whitcraft eyed Miss Faffle’s desk for any messages and, finding none glanced into his small examining room, which was also empty for the moment. Satisfied with the current state of his business, he strolled into his office.
Books upon books crowded the shelves encircling the room, making it feel smaller than it actually was. Bundles of journals lined his desk, spilling onto the floor in tall but organized stacks. Behind his desk, among the sagging stacks of academic ephemera, stood a large wooden cabinet tucked into the corner.
To a visitor, his office must have appeared rather haphazardly arranged, but to Dr. Whitcraft, the scheme was systematic and organized. He could lay his hands on any article within his collection, and when finished, would dutifully return it to its proper designation. Even the trusted Miss Faffle rarely entered this place, knowing he’d be frantic if a single item were mishandled or lost.
A narrow stairway against the back wall led up to his residence, a small flat consisting of two tiny rooms. It was all rather austere, but comfortable enough. With the exorbitant prices in London, he was lucky to be able to afford any accommodations at all, especially in a neighborhood as desirable as Berkeley Square.
Unlike many doctors in London, Dr. Whitcraft did not have access to familial money. His father had been a school teacher, and had raised his only son with constant admonitions regarding the merits of making one’s own way in the world. “Wit and perseverance” had been the man’s refrain, and Dr. Whitcraft had indeed earned everything he had by hard work and determination.
He rose to the tips of his toes and reached to the highest shelf, gliding his hand over three identically bound volumes before he fixed his grip on just the one. In faded gold leaf, the title read: Treatise on the Study of Diseases Affecting Women, Including but not limited to the study of hysteria, hypochondria and nervous disorders.
He pulled it down and at once began flipping through its thin pages, stepping over a pile of journals as he made his way back to the desk. Thoroughly engrossed, he barely noticed the sound of the front door, followed by the familiar scrape of Miss Faffle’s shoes. But there was something else…was it singing?
In the eleven months that she had worked for him, he had never seen the nervous Miss Faffle joyous about anything. And now she was singing? Curiosity piqued, he set the book aside and wandered out into the reception area.
She had her nose buried in a bouquet of purple primroses. “Did you have a pleasant meal with Dr. Vorago, Dr. Whitcraft?” A rare smile quivered on her lips.
“Why, yes. Thank you, Miss Faffle.”
The only extraordinary feature about this girl was her uncanny ordinariness. Her mouse-colored hair matched her sallow complexion, and when dressed in one of the drab beige dresses she often wore, the poor girl disappeared right into the wall, unnoticed by even the most observant patients. But today, she almost looked appealing as the primrose petals reflected shades of lavender and pink on her chin.
“It seems you are in good spirits this afternoon, Miss Faffle,” he said.
“Oh yes,” she whispered. “I’ve had the most wonderful luncheon. Mr. Gamon, the greengrocer from up the street, took me. I’m sorry I’m late.”
“Oh, no bother. It appears Mrs. Snaggs is running behind as well.” He took out his pocket watch and frowned. Her treatment was liable to take hours, and now she was late. He turned back toward his office. “Let me know when she arrives, then.”
Good for Miss Faffle, he thought as he settled back down behind his desk, though Mr. Gamon did seem an unlikely choice as a suitor. He was a rather coarse fellow, unattractive to say the least, and known for grumbling at customers who mishandled his fruit. And wasn’t he known to be a frequenter of disreputable publick houses?
Miss Faffle, on the other hand, was more of the bashful sort. Dr. Whitcraft had met her in the hospital when he had tended her dying father, and was impressed with her calm demeanor in the midst of the ward’s gruesome conditions. After her father expired, he had offered her a job.
Now she lived a cloistered and dreary life sharing a tiny flat in Holborn with her mother and three younger siblings. Was Mr. Gamon planning on wooing and whisking away his assistant? He wasn’t sure what to make of this development.
The front door opened, followed by the rustle of crinoline.
“Hello? Dr. Whitcraft? Is anyone in?”
Chapter Three
Every few months, The London Society of Physicians sponsored a dinner party. This evening’s gathering was more lavish than usual, as it honored Dr. Charles Smatchet, who had recently been named 1829’s Physician of the Year. Each new arrival gushed over the doctor, patting his back and offering their most hearty congratulations. Dr. Whitcraft was no exception. With his lovely young fiancée Miss Catherine Reave on his arm, he waded through the crowd toward the man of the hour.
After some appropriate words to Dr. Smatchet and his wife, Dr. Whitcraft grasped Miss Reave by the wrist and pulled her toward the center of the party. It appeared to be an excellent turnout, every room filled with physicians and their spouses, all exchanging pleasantries, sharing amusing medical anecdotes, and commiserating with one another about the details of their practices.
“Where on earth are you taking me, William?” Miss Reave asked, watching the party guests as they, in turn, watched her.
“Just looking for a colleague, my dear.” He searched the crowd.
Miss Reave was a beautiful young girl, thin of frame, and tall enough to be mindful of heel height when selecting her shoes for an evening out with the conservatively statured Dr. Whitcraft.
She dressed fashionably, usually in something lightly colored and high-waisted, which accentuated her long lines and pleasing figure. She had fair skin, dark eyes, and rich, chocolate-colored hair sculpted into a still life and set upon the top of her head. Two delicate ringlets on either side of her forehead framed her face like a theater curtain drawn to the sides. She had dark eyebrows and rather a narrow nose that terminated just above
her full, lightly shaded lips.
Dr. Whitcraft had known Miss Reave since she was a gawkish girl annoying him with her blushing attentions as he worked alongside her father documenting the hazards of breathing bad air.
Her father had encouraged the attachment, however, often commenting how a sensible, self-made man like Dr. Whitcraft would one day be an ideal match for his whimsical young daughter. Over the years she had bloomed into such a lovely young woman, the captivated Dr. Whitcraft had only recently gathered his courage and asked for her hand. To his delight, she accepted three months ago, days after her eighteenth birthday.
Escorting his fiancée to social occasions also meant keeping track of her rather questionable chaperone, Mrs. Anile. In her heyday, Mrs. Anile had been Miss Reave’s governess, guiding her through childhood as an unrelenting taskmaster. A series of apoplectic episodes in her sixties, however, had robbed the woman of her higher faculties and previously unquestionable judgment. Now slow and easily distracted, she had developed a taste for card playing and hard drink. More than likely, Dr. Whitcraft and Miss Reave would spend the latter half of the evening interviewing the servants about the woman’s possible whereabouts.
“Ah, there’s the man.” Dr. Whitcraft guided Miss Reave toward a musty looking gentleman with white whiskers standing by the fireplace and gazing out the window.
“Dr. Forspent, how nice to see you! Miss Reave, I’d like you to meet Dr. Eugene Forspent, one of my mentors from The London Hospital Medical College. He is a renowned expert in the art of bloodletting and humorism. I owe him a great deal.”
“Oh nonsense, young man.” Dr. Forspent raised his arm and patted Dr. Whitcraft across the shoulders. “Nonsense!” The humility was as false as his teeth.
“And how is Mrs. Forspent?” Dr. Whitcraft inquired with a smile, looking around for his wife.
“Oh, she is here somewhere—went to find our hostess I presume. She is well. You know, it will be forty years for us this September.”
“Well. How about that.”
“Say?” Dr. Forspent inched closer, his face wrinkled with confusion.
Dr. Whitcraft blinked and cleared his throat. “I said…well, how about that!” he shouted as pleasantly as possible at the man’s ear.
Dr. Forspent burst into a smile of recognition as Dr. Whitcraft’s words penetrated his withered auditory canal. He wet his lips and turned to Miss Reave.
“Miss Reave did you say?” He drew himself toward her in anticipation of a reply. “I believe I may have instructed your father, Dr. John Reave.”
“Of course you instructed Dr. Reave. He speaks about you all the time,” Dr. Whitcraft enunciated in his ear.
Dr. Forspent kept his eyes on Miss Reave. “Yes. How charming to finally meet you, my dear.” The ancient physician squeezed the tips of her gloved-fingers with his gnarled blue hands. He hunched over, got very close to her face, and spoke with much gravity. “William Whitcraft was one of the most promising students I ever had the good fortune to instruct. So full of promise, this one. The kind of mind that can offer a real contribution to our field…a problem solver, you know.”
Miss Reave smiled and turned to see her fiancée blushing, but not at all displeased with his mentor’s affections. “Oh we are lucky to have him,” she said, eyes wide and impish.
“Yes. You certainly are. Am I to understand that you are engaged to be married, then?”
“We are indeed.” Dr. Whitcraft stood a little straighter and stole another glance at Miss Reave. “Next spring.”
“Why that’s splendid. Every young physician needs a loving wife by his side, supporting and doting on him. Ah, the hours may be difficult my dear, the sacrifices great, but the rewards will be substantial. The good Lord remembers those who endeavor to comfort the suffering.”
Miss Reave nodded, looking past the old man. “Excuse me,” she said before leaving the doctor’s side to make her way through the crowd toward the champagne and hors d’oeuvres.
“Charming young lady.”
“Yes. I am a lucky man,” Dr. Whitcraft agreed. “Dr. Forspent, I was hoping I’d see you here today. I have been thinking about you lately. I am toying with a new pursuit, something rather ambitious. I’d be interested to hear your thoughts.”
“Certainly, my boy.” Dr. Forspent’s cloudy blue eyes brightened slightly.
“The use of paroxysm in the treatment of hysteria,” Dr. Whitcraft pronounced with a dramatic sweep of his hand.
The mere mention of the object of his research was enough to extinguish the old man’s piqued interest. Dr. Forspent rolled his eyes and pursed his lips.
But Dr. Whitcraft remained undeterred. “I’m keen to develop a standard method whereby a physician can elicit a paroxysm in a more reasonable amount of time. Surely it must be possible.”
“Ah, that’s where you are wrong. In my younger days, when I practiced, I tried method after method, with erratic results. I know it is lucrative, my boy, but leave that business to the midwives. They have much more success.”
Dr. Whitcraft frowned. “The midwives I’ve had the misfortune to encounter are little more than mystics and magicians. They aren’t scientists. They don’t have the capacity for careful judgment and restraint in dealing with an illness as confounding as hysteria.”
A tall, stylish gentleman approached, nodding furiously. “Oh, I couldn’t agree with you more. Midwives have no business with these types of patients. I myself have been called in time and time again to right their wrongs. Excuse me, gentlemen. I didn’t mean to interrupt your conversation. I am Dr. Edward Marplot.”
Dr. Whitcraft extended his hand. What an impressive individual—rather thin, almost concave, and was at least a head taller than Dr. Whitcraft. His hair, styled into dramatic, lolling waves atop his head, was that certain shade of light brown that towheaded children often acquire as they age. He had cool blue eyes, set perhaps a little too close together atop a rather dignified, patrician nose.
“Very nice to meet you, sir,” Dr. Whitcraft said. “Forgive me, but are you the same Marplot who authored an article in The Lancet last week regarding the use of hands to divert the body’s magnetic fluid?”
“Why yes! One never knows if anyone actually reads those silly academic journals. I’m impressed, Mister...”
He straightened himself. “Doctor. Dr. William Whitcraft.”
“Oh excuse me, of course. Doctor Whitcraft.” Dr. Marplot bowed his head, smirking.
Another gentleman appeared from the crowd and gripped Dr. Whitcraft on the shoulder. “Hello! I wondered if you’d be here! Good to see you! And Dr. Marplot and Dr. Forspent.” The rather stubby man held a napkin in one hand as he balanced a small plate of savories in the other.
“Ah, Dr. Scamble. How nice to see you, as well.” Dr. Whitcraft patted him on the back, nearly toppling his plate.
Dr. Scamble could barely contain his excitement. “Did you sample any of the shrimp? They have them by the bucketful over there. Just delightful! Those little pies with the cream and caviar? Outstanding! Oh, you know, Dr. Whitcraft, I read your paper on the potential uses of the voltaic pile in the treatment of muscle paralysis. Very enlightening, to say the least. I think you’re really on to something, there. Very original thoughts, indeed.”
“Why thank you,” he replied with appropriate academic gravity, glancing over the speaker’s shoulder for a glimpse of Miss Reave.
“Have any of you gentlemen seen our host?” Dr. Scamble asked. “I have yet to pay my respects.”
“I met him when we arrived. Charming man,” Dr. Whitcraft said. “Such a good reputation in London as well.”
Dr. Scamble leaned in and whispered, “I guess administering to those society women is paying off. He’s got the wives and daughters of at least a dozen earls as patients. Not to mention that he bleeds that lord from parliament, what’s his name…oh I can never remember…but anyway, he bleeds him every other week for his indigestion! Imagine the revenue! And look at this house! How much do
you think this townhouse cost him?”
“I haven’t any idea.” Dr. Whitcraft found the talk of money in situations such as this to be vulgar, but the other doctors seemed very interested. It could not be denied that it was an impressive home, however, furnished with all the trappings any professional man might hope one day to possess. “It is certainly lovely,” he admitted, glancing around.
“And in this neighborhood, too. Positively the most desirable neighborhood in London,” Dr. Marplot added.
“Look at his furniture. I don’t know, maybe he’s got family money.” Dr. Scamble pointed across the room. “Did you see that he’s got a collection of over fifty decorative crystal boxes, all imported from France, I believe. Over there, next to the shrimp.”
“Dr. Smatchet told me that a single one is worth over fifty pounds,” Dr. Marplot said.
“Why that’s more than half of what I made all last month!” Dr. Scamble gasped.
“Crystal boxes?” Dr. Whitcraft asked.
“Yes, over there.” Dr. Forspent pointed with a crooked finger. “Look, there he is…hovering over them as he pontificates about each one’s provenance.”
“Hmm,” Dr. Whitcraft whispered.
****
As Dr. Whitcraft climbed out of the Hansom cab, the driver hurried back from the house, breathing heavily and looking bedraggled.
“Dr. Whitcraft, Mrs. Anile was really a handful tonight. You’d better look in on her, Miss Reave.” The man took her hand and helped her descend from the carriage. “She may need your help to get into her room. And oh...here’s her eye patch. She threw it at me. Y’know…I don’t think she even knew where she was.”
Miss Reave rolled her eyes as she jammed the wadded eye patch into her bag.
“Thank you, sir.” Dr. Whitcraft said. “I appreciate the extra effort.” He produced a small stack of coins from his pocket and handed them to the driver.
The Five Step Plan Page 2