“Why thank you, sir.” The man looked into his hand with much approval. He bowed to the pair and jumped atop his cab. With a quick word to the horse, he clopped away into the night.
The moonlight cast a riot of shadows over the empty street. Miss Reave swayed playfully, clinging to Dr. Whitcraft’s arm as they walked toward her father’s steps. Her bag swung from her wrist and thumped him in the ribs with each step.
She hummed a nondescript tune as they walked, but quieted suddenly. Then she dropped his arm and bounded up the steps, giggling all the while. Dr. Whitcraft wondered how many glasses of champagne she had managed to drink while he wasn’t looking.
“Did you enjoy yourself this evening?” he called, noticing her bare neck. She should be covered in this cold evening air.
“Why of course I did. I find all that doctor talk to be so enlightening.”
“Splendid.” It crossed his mind that her words could be construed as sarcasm, but he was quick to dismiss the notion. He climbed the stairs and stopped. She towered over him from the top step. She was blinking slowly, hypnotically flashing her eyes at him.
“I want you to kiss me,” she whispered.
Dr. Whitcraft swallowed hard. Propriety dictated that this request must be refused outright. They were in public after all, and he certainly wouldn’t want her reputation sullied should anyone observe such a careless moment of abandon. But he glanced around anyway, noting that they were indeed alone.
Truth be told, he had only kissed her twice since their recent engagement; once when she’d accepted his proposal of marriage, in private, of course, away from the eyes of her father, and again when she had entrapped him unawares in a darkened hallway. Not that he was averse to her feminine charms, however. Quite the contrary. Dr. Whitcraft was instead tormented by the fear that even the slightest waver in his resolve may lead to a cascade of animal carnality, unthinkable if directed at an incorrupt flower like Miss Reave.
These fears lingered still as he looked up into her dark eyes…so bewitching, her fair skin flushed with the chill of the night air. He could feel his rationality disintegrate, dispersing into the ether only to be replaced by the basest of male desires. He followed the sublime lines of her cheek down to the nape of neck, enrapt all the while by the slow rise and fall of her chest.
Suddenly, like a starving man lunging on a crust of bread, he cast his walking stick aside and leaped up, gathering her surprised form in his arms and delivering a most sinfully lustful kiss. She moaned in approval and returned his fervor, wrapping her arms around his neck, and pulling herself in closer still.
The proximity of his fiancée’s unfamiliar curves was intoxicating. She was so immediate, so willingly pressed against his body that Dr. Whitcraft’s excitement had been most discernibly stirred.
Both actors froze, and Miss Reave pulled back, revealing wide eyes as she glanced down at the urgent development now between them; a presence not unlike that of a third person. A look of devilish thrill settled onto her face, and she lifted her eyes to meet his.
The sight of his young fiancée betraying the knowledge of his compromised condition so embarrassed the doctor that he catapulted himself away and would have fallen down the stairs had he not managed to grab onto the scrolls of the cast iron railing.
Breathlessly, he declared, “Oh…oh, I’m so sorry.” He pulled a handkerchief from his waistcoat pocket and mopped his lips. “How…how absolutely inappropriate of me.” He glanced at the front window certain he would see her enraged father glaring at them from within, or worse, soaring out of the front door to thrash him on the spot. Mercifully, however, the window was empty and the front door remained still.
“William...” she purred in a coquettish singsong, smiling once again as she stepped closer, her fingers grazing his arm as they traveled up, tickling their way to his chin.
He spun away. “You know,” he coughed, retreating backwards down the steps avoiding her eyes, “you really shouldn’t drink so much.”
She frowned at this, and then looked careless. “Well, is this good night, then, my darling doctor?”
“I think so…yes…yes.” He brought his hand to his temple, squinting up at her.
“Will you call on me tomorrow?” she asked with the sweetness of an innocent.
“Yes, of course.” He lowered his voice and inhaled. “Please tell your father I finished his paper this morning. I’ve had some thoughts—”
But she had disappeared into the house, leaving him standing on the steps alone. Dr. Whitcraft sighed and descended the remaining stairs. He tugged at his frockcoat and gingerly bent to retrieve his discarded walking stick. After one more look back at the Reave’s front door, he turned and walked toward his home less than a mile away.
Inside the house, Miss Reave smiled to herself as she stumbled down the darkened hallway, making her way to the parlor where her father had been kind enough to leave a lamp burning. She fell onto the couch, tossing her bag aside. She stared at it for a moment, and then pulled it onto her lap. When she tugged at the drawstring, its contents spilled out—a mother of pearl hair comb, Mrs. Anile’s wadded eye-patch, a house key, and an exquisite little crystal box.
Chapter Four
Dr. Whitcraft had hoped the brisk walk home would help coax his perturbed humors back into their proper state, but alas, it hadn’t worked. Striding faster and counting his respirations had done little to dismiss the image of Miss Reave from his mind. Distracted, he approached his front steps with key in hand, but stopped suddenly. After a moment’s reflection, he turned and headed to an entirely different destination.
He now found himself on Upper Newman Street in the Covent Garden, gripping his walking stick a little tighter. If things got out of hand in this rather infamous part of London, it might be necessary to use it as a weapon.
There were many lurkers out tonight, their numbers visible under the street lamps recently added courtesy of The London Society of Manners, an organization to which Miss Reave enthusiastically belonged.
But the gaslights, rather than dissipating the disreputable element, seemed to make them collect like moths, bathing under the green glow, waiting for whatever untoward rendezvous might be negotiated under their blazing night watch.
Tonight’s collection of miscreants appeared occupied by their own distractions, however, paying Dr. Whitcraft little notice as he approached the modest but well-kept house number 3. The light burning in the front window was obscured by gauzy white curtains, its presence like a beacon of welcome. He stepped to the unremarkable front door and engaged the knocker five times—not more, not less. After a moment, an angel-faced young woman appeared.
“Ah, come in, come in.” She stepped aside to let him pass, a cup of spirits clutched crookedly in her hand. She ambled behind him as he made his way into the parlor, which was more quiet this evening than usual.
“Brandy and water, right?”
“Nothing for me, thank you. Does your mistress have an engagement this evening? I thought perhaps she’d be at the theater.”
“Oh no, she’s in. She’s been out of sorts, though. Is that why you came by?” The girl gave him a mischievous wink that the doctor chose to ignore.
“Out of sorts, how?”
“Ask her yourself…she’s in bed.” The girl yawned and went out of the way to brush herself against him as she passed.
Dr. Whitcraft watched the girl glide down the hall and turn into one of the rooms at the end. Adjusting his spectacles, he followed her path but stopped at the first door and knocked.
“Yes?” a hoarse voice answered from within.
“Mrs. Minnock? It’s Dr. Whitcraft. May I come in?”
A dry cough followed a faint, “Come in…come in.”
He opened the door and a dim flicker from a single candle illuminated a weary looking Mrs. Minnock. She had a nightcap pulled over her fair hair and her face was flushed pink with fever. She smiled, but coughed again at once.
He tossed his walking stick as
ide and hurried over. “My goodness! Why didn’t you send someone to get me earlier? You are unwell.” He dug a handkerchief out of his pocket and handed it to her. She dabbed her mouth as he rested his hand on her cheek. “How long have you had this fever?”
“I’ve had the cough all week, but the fever started today. I knew if you came here you’d want to bleed me.”
“I should leave and get my bag this instant.”
“Send one of the girls to go get it.”
“At this time of night? No…” He paused, contemplating that for a moment. “No, I won’t take long.”
“I don’t even know what time it is. Oh my...” She sat up, squinting at him. “Didn’t anyone get you a brandy and water?”
“I’m taking a leave from spirits.”
“Only spirits?” She grinned and placed her hand on his thigh.
He furrowed his brow. “Are you coughing anything up? Blood? Bile?”
She sighed. “Such a disgusting question. No, I don’t think so.”
“Eating?”
“Yes, of course.” She studied him. Even bloodshot with fever, her eyes still shone a pleasing blue. “You look so dashing, all dressed up. Have you just come from a gathering?”
“Mmm hmm. Physician of the year dinner.”
“Ah yes.” With that she broke into another fit of deep coughing.
After she quieted, he picked up an empty glass from the side table and gestured at her with it. “It is crucial you drink water, do you understand? Get one of the girls to make certain this stays full. Which one of them should I tell—”
“You don’t usually come here on a Friday,” she said, her eyebrows raised. “Are your humors out of sorts this evening, Dr. Whitcraft?” She grinned as if not particularly expecting an answer. Not getting one, she shrugged and pointed to the decanter of brandy on her dressing table. “You are abstaining, doctor, but I’m not. Pour me some, if you please.”
“Just a moment.” Frowning, he set the glass back down and leaned over her, placing his hands under her chin. With a light touch, he palpated her neck. “Hold still, now,” he whispered. Satisfied, he sat on the bed and placed his ear next to her chest. “Take in a deep breath, if you please.”
“Brandy, if you please,” she whispered.
“Yes, yes.” He pulled back with stern eyes. “I don’t want you receiving any visitors until this fever clears up, do you understand? Let the girls manage their own affairs for the next few days, as well. They need to let you rest.”
She turned her mouth under and cast her eyes toward the sheets. “I barely see any ‘visitors’ as you say,” she muttered. “But I think you are aware of that, doctor.”
He softened his professional countenance, and put his hand on hers. It was very hot. “I’m sorry you’re not feeling well, Mrs. Minnock.”
She smiled and laced her fingers between his. He squeezed back, and the two sat in silence for a time. Finally, he let go, stood and poured her a small dose from the decanter.
“I’m going to my office to get my stethoscope. I’ll find you something for that cough, as well.”
“Wait. Would you like me to call one of the others for you?” she teased, taking the glass of brandy from his hand. “Before you go, Lilly or…”
Dr. Whitcraft felt himself redden as he reached for the door. “Don’t be ridiculous. I’ll be back within the hour.”
****
Dr. Whitcraft was exhausted. It had been a late night at Mrs. Minnock’s house. In all likelihood the poor woman had bronchitis. She was quite ill, so he had stayed up most of the night with her, applying cold compresses for the fever and lavender oil to her chest to ease her breathing. It was dawn by the time he made it back home.
When Miss Faffle arrived this morning, she discovered him asleep at his desk with his head in the middle of a treatise on hysteria, still sporting last night’s dress clothes. But he had summoned his reserves, put the reading aside, and ascended the stairs to clean himself up for the new workday. So far, it had been a busy morning.
He replaced the lid on the mercurial ointment with a firm twist and proceeded to rinse his hands again in the washbasin. Mr. Brim sat on the edge of the examining table looking vulnerable in his long, blousy shirt while his legs dangled over the edge. His waistcoat had been removed and draped to the side and his trousers and small clothes hung in a bunch around his ankles. Oddly, however, he had neglected to remove his top hat.
“May I pull up my trousers now, doctor?” the patient said in a whisper.
“Give the ointment another few minutes to dry if you please, sir.”
Mr. Brim glanced down at the creamy sheen. He took a deep breath and pursed his lips.
“No, no! It’s oil-based. Blowing on it won’t help,” the doctor said. “Let it soak in…just another few minutes.”
Mr. Brim’s shoulders slumped even lower.
“Reapply the ointment several times a day, after meals would be best…taking extra care with the discolored areas. I must reemphasize that there is to be no—”
“Yes, I know. No contact with the opposite sex. I understand completely.”
“For the next several weeks. Minimum.”
As Mr. Brim nodded at the doctor, his wadded trousers and small clothes slipped over his shoes and landed on the floor with a soft thump. He stared at them, close to despondency.
“Now, Mr. Brim…” Dr. Whitcraft began in a serious tone. “This is the third episode in a relatively short time, and today’s variation is a serious one. Perhaps your wife should come see me as well.”
“This doesn’t concern her,” he whispered, looking up from the floor.
“I see. Well, as your physician, I hazard to say, without judgment of course, that in the interest of preventing future unpleasantness, you may want to consider confining your activities within the boundaries of your marriage.”
Mr. Brim shifted his weight. “That option has been unavailable to me. You see, my wife…well, she has been away visiting, uh…her sister, with consumption.” He stared at Dr. Whitcraft, offering a resolute nod with each additional detail.
“Well, I’m sorry to hear that.” The doctor rose and walked toward his patient, ducking to take a closer look. “I believe the matter is quite dry now. You may reclaim your trousers at your leisure, sir.”
Mr. Brim hopped down from the table and fumbled with his small clothes.
“You know, if marital activity isn’t possible, and you sense that…well, that a release of certain, tormenting masculine humors is in order, prudence must still be the guiding factor.”
Mr. Brim danced one leg into his trousers. “But you warned me at my last visit against… against handling the matter myself—”
“Good Lord!” Dr. Whitcraft cried. “Sir, it is an unquestionable medical fact that the manipulation of one’s self in order to achieve that particular outcome is terribly, terribly dangerous, not only to one’s general constitution, but to the soundness of one’s mind.”
“Then, what am I to do?”
“Well…” Dr. Whitcraft shrugged and tried to measure his tone. “Perhaps a more judicious selection of candidates is in order.” He hated to sound as if he were scolding his patient. No one would ever be honest with a doctor who scolded them, after all.
“I understand that, but how am I to tell which ones are…up to snuff?”
“As I believe I advised you at your last visit, sometimes a visual inspection can be helpful. I’m fairly certain that in this latest episode, had you taken the time to inspect the young lady’s, er…well…gave her a good once-over, why you may not be in this predicament.”
“Hmmm.” Mr. Brim’s eyes roamed the floor. “It was very dark, doctor.”
“Uh…you could’ve used a lantern, to take a quick look.”
“That crossed my mind, I do say, but I was afraid that the light would attract the police.”
“The police?”
“Quite. I was in an alleyway, against the back wall of the stables—i
n the rookery. The clattering of the pitchforks made enough noise. The light would have been like a beacon.”
“Well, good Lord!” Dr. Whitcraft’s insides tightened in revulsion.
“I wasn’t alone, you know. There were several other fellows.”
“Any female who does not have access to the inside of a building should not even be considered for such an enterprise.”
“A building? Well that could get rather pricy, I’m afraid,” Mr. Brim replied, indignant.
“Your health may well be worth the indulgence, sir, not to mention that disreputable characters of that sort would likely not think twice about knocking you over the head and making off with your money.” Dr. Whitcraft had recently been forced to attend The London Society of Manners symposium regarding the decay of morality in the city of London, specifically detailing the bloom in prostitution and its aftereffects over the last several decades. The horror stories shared at that meeting had shocked and thrilled its attendees.
Now fully dressed, Mr. Brim adjusted his top hat, dropped his arms to his sides and stared at the door as if yearning to pass through it.
Taking the hint, Dr. Whitcraft stood as well. “Sir, I hope I have given you something to think about.” He walked to the door. “Caution, prudence. If money is the issue, perhaps saving for a few weeks might be worthwhile. Perhaps then you could afford an up-grade. Maybe discover an offering with a bit of privacy, at least.” He opened the door.
A heavy-set woman with a bonnet choked around her larynx stood at Miss Faffle’s desk surrounded by a collection of small children. She turned and her eyes widened in delight. “Why Father Benison, how wonderful! I almost didn’t recognize you without your vestments. Look children, it’s Father Benison. I had no idea you were a patient of Dr. Whitcraft. You’re not ill, are you, Father?”
Dr. Whitcraft heard the air leaving the lungs of his patient.
“Why, no…Mrs. Pursy. No.” He spoke as if someone had a vice-grip on his middle.
The children giggled, picking at and pushing one another; a few of the younger ones peeked from behind their mother’s skirt.
The Five Step Plan Page 3