She focused on him from some far off place. “Why would you be able to help me when Dr. Hurple could not?”
He smiled and approached his prospective patient, lightly patting her on the shoulder. She jumped under his touch. “As I said, I’m not familiar with Dr. Hurple, but from what your husband has said, the doctor has suggested perfectly reasonable treatments for your illness. Tell me about the pelvic massage treatments he administered. Did you find them helpful?”
She shrugged. “Not really. He spent hours with me, I’m afraid, insisting I wasn’t concentrating properly on the treatment. He recommended a midwife, but I never contacted her. I’m starting to feel rather hopeless, I’m afraid.” Gazing up into Dr. Whitcraft’s eyes, her own were now lined red and filling with tears.
“Nonsense. There’s a new treatment I’m using. I suspect it will do wonders for you. Today I would like to do a cursory examination, and then with your consent and that of your husband, I’d like to see you daily, either here or in my office, although I do believe the short walk to my office would do you worlds of good. The treatments won’t take long, and I believe you’ll see a difference in your mood in under a week’s time.”
She didn’t seem convinced, but managed a small smile.
“I’ll also need you to keep a detailed journal. I want you to write down everything. What time you wake, what you eat for breakfast, what activities you engage in…everything. Bring this journal to our appointments and we’ll discuss it together. With that, in addition to your treatments, I believe we’ll be able to move toward resolving this problem for you. How does that sound?”
She shrugged and strained a whisper, “All right.”
“Splendid,” Dr. Whitcraft said.
****
As soon as Mrs. Minnock shut her door, a giggling Dr. Whitcraft swept her off her heels and danced her around the room. He paused in his merriment and looked serious as he held her suspended for a moment, but then broke into laughter once again. “I’m going to toss you now,” he warned.
“You are?”
After one, two and three swings in the air, he tossed her onto the bed, and dove in next to her.
“My, my, my,” she giggled. She sat up, peeling off a glove. “You’re in a wonderful mood this evening, aren’t you?”
“I’m sorry, I’m just giddy.” He sighed, grazing her cheek with the back of his hand. “Honestly, I haven’t any idea how I can possibly thank you.”
“Oh, don’t be silly.” She slipped off the other glove. “You don’t have to thank me. You are my only client who pays six months in advance and stocks his own brandy and tea here. How could I ask for more? You’re out of brandy, by the way.”
“I’m abstaining…I’m abstaining.” He waved his hand. “I’ll bring more when my experiment is over, but seriously, I have to do something for you, Elizabeth!” He grabbed her bare hand. “Should I buy you a necklace, a bracelet? What is it that you want? I’m not very good at those sorts of things.”
Mrs. Minnock patted his cheek. “I’m pleased you are so grateful, but you certainly don’t need to buy me anything.”
“Yes, but you have no idea how that maneuver you showed me is changing my life! It’s only been a few weeks and already my practice has nearly quadrupled. I’ve got hysterics queued up…I just picked up another one this afternoon, a society woman, so pitifully stricken. You should have seen her, the poor soul!” He tossed his frockcoat to the floor and turned back to her with delight. “Oh, I just can’t wait to get her up on my table!”
Mrs. Minnock pulled at her bodice. “So you’re telling me that you have women, society women, queuing up in your office.”
“Of course!”
“Help me understand this, if you please.” She squinted as if conjuring the vision. “You put them on your table, and they just lie back and…and let you…” She made the unmistakable sweeping gesture of step five.
Dr. Whitcraft frowned. “Why, of course they let me. Where would they be if they weren’t on my table? I can’t very well do it to them while they are standing.”
“Oh. Well, actually you could.” She reached around and patted the back of her dress for the hidden hooks and eyes. “But you’d have to attain a rather unprofessional posture, I’m afraid.”
Dr. Whitcraft stopped moving, and stared at her. “It can be done standing?” he whispered, and looked off to the side. “Fascinating. I hadn’t thought of that.” He plucked at button after button on his waistcoat while envisioning this previously unconsidered possibility.
He shook his head. “These women…they are diagnosed hysterics, Mrs. Minnock. Deeply troubled women, and yes, they gladly let me do it. And you wouldn’t believe their improvement.”
“Well, I should expect so. I would think it would do wonders for most women, especially if they are grumpy.”
He stopped unbuttoning his cuffs and looked up. “You’re skeptical then, aren’t you?”
She raised her eyebrows with a grin but said nothing. She reached around and unhitched some final complication. The top of her dress gave way, exposing one freckled shoulder and then the other, her bare neckline now scalloped by a lovely lace corset, looped and tied with a slim powder-blue bow.
But Dr. Whitcraft remained philosophical. “If you are skeptical because…well, because the maneuver appears to elicit a rather agreeable sensation, then you must also be skeptical about the proven benefits of rest and exercise, because they are enjoyable as well.”
“You’re joking.”
“I’m telling you, the women who have received this maneuver daily for at least a week have, for the most, part shown a remarkable improvement in their symptoms—therefore, the maneuver is obviously working.”
“I wouldn’t say that I’m skeptical, Dr. Whitcraft.” Mrs. Minnock wiggled the loosened dress over her lower curves. She climbed out of the empty garment and onto her knees, wrapping her arms around his neck. “I just feel like you and I have something in common now. I feel like you haven’t realized it yet, but you are working my side of the street.” She shrugged.
For a moment, agitation flashed upon his face. But he shook off his waistcoat and combed his hand through her curls.
“Mrs. Minnock, I know why you are saying that, but I promise you, there’s nothing untoward about it at all. In order to restore a woman’s health in certain cases of hysteria, her nether regions must be perturbed. This is a known medical certainty and has been since the time of Hippocrates.”
She withdrew her arms and grasped his chin, studying the earnestness in his eyes all the while.
“It may seem silly to you, Elizabeth, but I really want you to believe me.”
A soft smile bloomed on her lips. “Yes…well I suppose when one remembers about Hippocrates…it makes perfect sense, then, doesn’t it?”
Dr. Whitcraft dropped his shoulders with a smile, pulled her close and tugged at the crisscrossing laces on her back.
She rested her chin on his shoulder, rolling her eyes just the tiniest bit.
****
Mrs. Pannade edged forward watching Dr. Whitcraft flip through her journal.
“Splendid.” He nodded. “No headaches for the last few days. I see you kept down a coddled egg and toast yesterday morning. Capital! How did you feel afterwards?”
“I was afraid of becoming ill, of course, but I did all right.”
“Did you enjoy it?”
“The meal? I don’t know.”
“Hmm.” He jotted something down in his notes and then handed the journal back to her. “You are doing very well. Fewer incidents of unpleasantness after mealtimes and you slept through the night twice this week. Do you feel pleased with your progress?”
“Oh yes. Coming here this week and last…it’s made me…well, I feel like I have something to look forward to.” She smiled and bit her lip, blushing.
“Is your husband pleased with your progress, as well?”
The very mention of her husband obliterated her pleasant expression.
“I suppose you would have to ask him,” she mumbled.
“He hasn’t said anything, then?”
“He doesn’t take the slightest interest in me, or my condition.”
“Really?” Dr. Whitcraft dipped his pen back into the ink and made an additional note. “What doesn’t—”
“He’s barely a husband anyway,” she whispered under her breath.
“What do you mean?”
She looked down at her lap and fidgeted. “We’ve been married for six years…and in that time… Let’s say, it’s no accident that we don’t have any children.”
Dr. Whitcraft stared at this woman for a moment before he could bring himself to ask. “You’ve been married for six years. Are you telling me that, well…marital relations are infrequent?”
Blushing, she began to cry, and shook her head.
“Mrs. Pannade, it’s normal during the course of a marriage, a certain diminishment in frequency.”
She looked up at him with a desperate wildness. “I’m telling you that we have never had marital relations. Ever! I-I have never…”
Dr. Whitcraft sat dumbfounded, and then recovered himself enough to make a note of this dramatic and not unimportant piece of information. “I see.”
He tried to sound nonchalant as he underlined this particular note four times, drew stars on either side of it and, after some reflection, made arrows pointing toward it from all four corners of his paper.
He looked up at his patient who was still shaken by the revelation. He set his notes aside and rose to get the pitcher of water by the basin. He poured a glass, and casually offered it to her. The gesture of kindness brightened her countenance at once.
“I’m sorry.” Her eyes were fixed adoringly on him as she took the water.
“Not at all. There is no need to be embarrassed. Your candor is critical. Sometimes that includes discussing, well…any marital idiosyncrasies. The more information you provide to me the better.”
There was a sudden male shout through the wall, unintelligible up to the point when the man declared, “NOW!”
Dr. Whitcraft flipped open his pocket watch. “Oh dear. I have a feeling that my next appointment has become a tad impatient. We were about finished here anyway, I believe. Mrs. Pannade, I am delighted with your progress.”
“Oh, as am I!” She stood, smoothed out her dress, and smiled warmly at him. “I’ll see you tomorrow, then. Ten a.m. sharp.”
“Indeed.” He ushered her out and saw that among the three other hysterics, the unshaven Mr. Buzznack sat waiting. His naked right foot was propped against the wall. He was grumbling at Miss Faffle.
“I’ll put my damn shoe back on when he gives me something for this gout!”
Mrs. Pannade winced as she scuttled past the untidy display, but recovered herself and looked back at the doctor with devotion. She waved to him again and passed through the door.
Chapter Eight
“Miss Faffle, we’ve had a bit of a mishap.” Dr. Whitcraft dashed into his packed reception room. “Mrs. Junters has dropped her water glass. I’m afraid her hands were rather shaky after the maneuver. Could you fetch another if you please, and then sweep up?”
“Oh dear. Of course, doctor.” Miss Faffle jumped up and circled around the women standing in front of her desk before rushing into the examining room.
He glanced back in at poor Mrs. Junters. She sat on the table, still wrapped in the drape and puffed away as Miss Faffle handed her another glass of water.
The other ladies in the reception area had become intrigued by his sudden appearance, and craned their necks to get a peek at his current patient. He extended his leg and kicked the examining room door shut, turning then to acknowledge his audience with a polite smile as he attempted to walk through the crowd toward his office.
One of the ladies, a large, heavy-bottomed sort dressed in layers of black ruffles, placed her foot in his path. She stuck her chin in the air and introduced herself with much gravity. “Sir. How wonderful to finally see you. My cousin, the Earl of Arundel, has recommended you to my husband, who wishes to engage your services on my behalf. Apparently you have all but cured his unfortunate sister’s hysteria.”
“Oh, why yes, madam. How uh…flattering. I’m afraid you’ve caught me on a rather busy morning.”
Undeterred, the woman slid closer to his ear, breathing the hot, sour breath of one whose false teeth were chronically unkempt. “I don’t know what these other sorts are paying you, but I can guarantee that my husband takes my health very seriously, if you understand what I’m getting at.”
Dr. Whitcraft nodded, the beginnings of panic rising in his chest as he caught the glances of the other women, all probably intent on making their own cases directly to him as well. “I actually have a standard fee, you see, given the professional demands of the…uh, you know. Miss Faffle will most certainly schedule you when she returns.”
He pivoted around the woman, disappearing into his office to fetch another chair. “Here is at least one more chair, ladies.” He struggled to cram it in between Miss Faffle’s desk and the wall. “Miss Faffle will schedule you all, I assure you.”
“Oh she doesn’t have to schedule me. I’m next,” a younger lady in a fashionable blue dress announced looking up from her book.
“Yes, and I’m after you,” called a woman with a narrow face and protruding eyes.
“You! Just look at you.” A stout woman standing at the desk pointed her lace umbrella at the woman in blue. “I’ve been diagnosed with hysteria for over four years now, but by the looks of you, I’d say that you’ve only just gotten it. He should prioritize us, in order of urgency.”
“Well! How astonishingly rude!” the woman in blue said. “Why don’t you just keep to yourself and wait for your appointment like the rest of us?”
Dr. Whitcraft’s insides tightened as he looked from face to face. “Uh, ladies, it’s quite all right. I promise you all—”
“Who do you think you’re talking to, you underfed, common house-trollop?” the stout woman shrieked, waving her umbrella at the woman in blue.
At that, a waifish, middle-aged lady who had been watching the fray in stunned silence, dropped her head into her gloved-hands and began sobbing. A third young lady turned her mouth under in disgust and heaved her journal full-force, missing the stout woman’s chin by the narrowest of margins.
“Oh! How dare you!” She wielded her umbrella with renewed fervor at the entire collection of women.
“Ladies? Ladies!” Dr. Whitcraft picked up the errant journal from the floor. “For God’s sake let’s remember ourselves! I will see to all of you, but you must try to be patient.” He glared at the stout woman, snatched the umbrella from her and hung it on the hat stand. “There is to be no more of this chatter! You will all sit quietly until you are called, is that clear?”
Seething glares and frightened glances abounded. Just then, Miss Faffle opened the door and cleared her throat. “She is much better now and will be out shortly.” She dashed back to her chair. Several women crowded toward the desk and loomed over her.
“Which one of you was next?” She glanced wide-eyed from woman to woman.
Dr. Whitcraft flipped open his pocket watch. He had just enough time before his next appointment to take in some fresh air and get his thoughts straight. Because the maneuver made his treatments so quick, he scheduled appointments every twenty minutes now. If he had another examining room, he might even be able to double that. But he was getting exhausted.
He stepped out onto his stoop and sat down, marveling at the extraordinarily busy street. The air that he had hoped to find so refreshing was instead rather oppressive with all of the odors and noises of London.
As the wagons and carriages passed by his attention was captured by a woman across the street. She appeared to be staring at him, most intently too, but it was difficult to tell because she only came into view for a fraction of a second between the passing chaos. He adjusted his spectacles and waited fo
r another glimpse, leaning forward just in time to see the back of her skirt disappear into a vestibule. Hadn’t Mrs. Pannade been wearing a dress in that color when she’d turned up early this morning—a visit from which he was still reeling.
He had found her in the reception area before 6:30 a.m., long before Miss Faffle came in. He had been shocked to see her, of course, and demanded to know how she had gotten in. She didn’t answer, but instead handed him a freshly baked pie.
Flummoxed, he took the pie and offered to give her the maneuver so she wouldn’t have to return for her regular appointment. She had heartily agreed. But now, it must have been nearly 11 a.m., yet she appeared to be still lurking about. How odd.
A firm knock sounded from above. He turned to see Miss Faffle rapping on the glass. She gestured for him to come back in at once. Several restless female faces popped up behind her, one after the other. He sighed and stood back up, wriggling his fingers in anticipation.
****
Dr. Whitcraft bent over the sideboard and adjusted the oil lamp; its flame flickered and rose in the glass chimney, illuminating the darkened room with a pleasant golden glow. He straightened and strode past the slumbering Mrs. Anile. She was slumped in the corner armchair, her white curls tufted under her kerchief like cotton wool, her knitting tangled at her feet.
“You are going to become famous!” Miss Reave gushed as he sat beside her. “Julia’s father is so pleased with her improvement, he thinks she may be well enough to attend a few parties this season. Their whole family is telling everyone how that maneuver has saved her!” She threw her arms around his neck and draped herself across his lap.
Dr. Whitcraft blushed. “Once I finish my paper and get it published, I would guess the fervor will increase exponentially. But it was never about the notoriety, of course.”
“Yes, yes, it’s all about helping those poor hysterical women. No reason to enjoy any of the glory for yourself.” She rolled her eyes, but then brightened. “Papa says all the other doctors in London will be worried about their patients flocking to you when the word gets out. Oh, you know, if that happens…maybe then you could afford a proper office, one that doesn’t double as your flat.” She grabbed his hand and squeezed hard. “Maybe then we could get a house like we talked about. Oh wouldn’t that be just splendid?”
The Five Step Plan Page 6