The Five Step Plan

by Elizabeth Welsford

  Dr. Whitcraft couldn’t help smiling a little, although he tried to stifle his reverie. It didn’t seem appropriate, somehow. “Yes, well, we’ll have to see about that.”

  Miss Reave got up from his lap and tucked herself beside him, studying her hands for a moment. She was thoughtful, her dark eyes cast down, as if there were something else. But she hesitated.

  “You look like you were going to say something,” he said.

  She turned to him and leaned in closer, lowering her voice. “You know, William, Julia told me about it.”

  He blinked. “She told you?”

  “Well, you know. She told me how you did it to her.” Miss Reave scooted in closer still, reading his face all the while.

  “Did she now?” Dr. Whitcraft felt himself blush; his mouth went dry, although he could not say why Miss Reave’s query had had such a visceral effect on his ganglionic nervous system. How awkward it was to have a patient discussing such a personal treatment with his fiancée.

  “Yes, she told me,” Miss Reave continued in a purr. “Do you know what she said? She said it was amazing. That’s exactly what she said. Amazing.” Miss Reave’s eyes were hypnotic, but she blushed and looked away. Finally, she whispered, “She even said…that I should get you to do it to me.”

  “That’s absurd.” He leaned back and glanced at the comatose Mrs. Anile.

  “Why is it absurd? I am going to be your wife.”

  “That has nothing to do with it. It’s a medical treatment. Doing the Whitcraft Maneuver to someone who is not afflicted could be dangerous. It would be liable to upset the delicate balance of a healthy woman’s constitution. A paroxysm is a powerful tool in the arsenal of dealing with hysteria, and is nothing to administer with carelessness.” He patted her on the knee before standing up. “I’m glad that Julia is feeling better.” With that, he walked out of the room in search of Dr. Reave.

  ****

  “Mr. Pannade is here to see you, Dr. Whitcraft,” Miss Faffle whispered from the doorway.

  “Ah, thank you.” His shoulders slumped and he flipped The Lancet shut. He’d only had a few moments to catch up on his reading before luncheon, but now it would have to wait. “Please send him in.”Dr. Whitcraft had been at a loss regarding Mrs. Pannade’s revelation. After a great deal of thought, he had reluctantly concluded that a face-to-face meeting with Mr. Pannade was necessary, and had sent him a letter requesting an interview at his earliest convenience.

  And there he was, appearing both surprised and delighted from the doorway. He opened his arms with a wide sweep, and strolled past Miss Faffle with long, lazy strides.

  “What a pleasure it is to see you again, sir. I was so pleased to receive your summons!” He lowered himself into the chair.

  Dr. Whitcraft clasped his hands together, studying the man on the other side of his desk. He wore a shining gold frockcoat lined with red piping and a peculiar patchwork design at the shoulders that reminded one of epaulettes, making the entire outfit resemble a military dress uniform of some small, strange country.

  “I appreciate you coming, Mr. Pannade. I thought it best that I give you an apprisal of your wife’s progress. She is doing much better, of course. I had also wanted to inquire about something else.”

  “By all means. Our lives are an open book. I, for one, am at your service.” He spread his hands open like he was conducting an orchestra.

  “Why thank you. That should prove to be most helpful.” Dr. Whitcraft straightened his spectacles and leaned forward. “Sir, I know you care deeply for your wife. Your attention to her medical care, the hiring of me, well it shows that you are concerned for her well-being.”

  “Mmm.” Mr. Pannade glanced off to the side, and ran his hand over his neck, as if to iron away his double chin.

  Dr. Whitcraft continued. “It is not my intention to be intrusive into your lives, but the very nature of hysteria makes all aspects of your marriage relevant to me, in attempting to determine the causes of your wife’s problems. Do you understand at all what I’m getting at?”

  Mr. Pannade shrugged and looked back at the doctor with childlike innocence.

  Dr. Whitcraft sighed, and began again. “A woman’s body…there are certain stagnations of fluids, humors, blood and the like, that when not properly…dislodged, if you will, can disturb the organs, torment them, leading to a variety of symptoms, many of which your wife is suffering. One treatment which has been recommended by physicians for generations, the best and perhaps the most beneficial for women in your wife’s state is to be married.”

  “Well, obviously that isn’t working because she’s already married, isn’t she?” Mr. Pannade wrinkled his nose with a small giggle.

  “What I mean is, it’s not just the legal certificate of marriage that is an issue, sir. It is the other, more intimate component of marriage that is in question.”

  Mr. Pannade sat in silence and seemed mystified by what the doctor was getting at. Finally, Dr. Whitcraft grabbed the edge of his desk and blurted, “Let me be frank, Mr. Pannade. The vigorous motions that accompany marital intimacy can be most beneficial, and I truly feel as a physician for me not to tell you this would be doing you and your wife a terrible disservice, although I certainly don’t want to be intrusive…”

  Mr. Pannade raised his hand. “A question, doctor.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “These vigorous motions. Are they only beneficial for women, or would they also be advantageous for men like us, as well?”

  The question was not at all what he had expected, and Dr. Whitcraft was completely thrown. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

  Mr. Pannade had gone silent, but his expression seemed to contain great import, although Dr. Whitcraft was at a loss to determine its meaning.

  So he cleared his throat and took on his most pedantic tone. “Let me explain. Women have a uterus. In some cases hysteria develops in women who are not…shall we say, active. The male anatomy is entirely different, of course, but the same principle applies. The human body, when left to its own devices, uh…humors can stagnate and release becomes crucial for the proper function.”

  Mr. Pannade sat forward and smacked his hand down on top of Dr. Whitcraft’s hand, meeting his eyes with a reassuring grin.

  Flummoxed, the doctor jerked away, stood up and walked to the window. “Frankly, the both of you would benefit if engaging in marital relations became a priority.”

  A gentle knock made both men turn to the door, where Miss Faffle peeked in.

  “I’m right in the middle of something here,” Dr. Whitcraft snapped.

  “I’m so sorry doctor, but it’s Miss Reave. She and Mrs. Anile have arrived for your luncheon and she’s getting very impatient. She told me to come in and—”

  “Yes, yes. Please tell her I’ll be right out.” He sat back at his desk. “My apologies, Mr. Pannade, it seems my fiancée is getting restless.”

  “Your fiancée?” The man furrowed his brow and looked off to the side. “Hmm.”

  “Regardless, has our talk—has it inspired you at all, sir?”

  Mr. Pannade stood up, and shrugged. He held out his hand rather stiffly. “Frankly I’m a little less inspired than when I came in.”

  Dr. Whitcraft shook the gentleman’s hand, mystified. “That is unfortunate. I apologize if I haven’t made myself clear.”

  “Oh no, you have. I understand completely. Good day, Dr. Whitcraft.” Mr. Pannade bowed deeply, threw his shoulders back, and proceeded on his way.

  ****

  Ah, the tranquility of being able to relax without a single hysterical woman in the vicinity, Dr. Whitcraft thought.

  “Have you ever heard of a grown woman, a married, grown woman that has never engaged in amorous relations with her husband? They certainly seem to be rather mismatched as a couple, but still... It was quite an extraordinary revelation she made to me, and after speaking to her husband today, frankly I am more confused now than before.”

  Mrs. Minnock had depos
ited herself in between the crook of Dr. Whitcraft’s raised arm and his chest. After a moment of contemplation, she said, “You are telling me this woman has never been intimate with her own husband?”

  “That’s what she told me, yes. And she was very upset about the matter.”

  “Of course she was. Hmm.” She inhaled, deliberating on the issue as she traced a figure-eight lightly on his arm. “How long have they been married, do you know?”

  “Six years, I believe.”

  After a few moments, she said, “I would say that there are two possibilities. First, the husband has another woman tucked away somewhere. Someone he’s known since they’ve been married and is more devoted to than his wife. So there’s that. But I believe, from what you’ve described, if they’ve never been intimate, ever, then the most likely explanation is that the husband in question just doesn’t fancy women. Simple as that.”

  “What the devil do you mean? He got married after all.”

  “Of course he married her...for money, or social position, or maybe even for access to other men, who knows? I’m rather surprised that a mind as deductive as yours hasn’t considered the possibility that the husband prefers men rather than women.”

  He was quiet for a moment. “In our first interview with his wife there, he did mention that he has a great deal of male friends with whom he attends parties and other such nonsense. But the man prefers to be around men rather than women, it still doesn’t explain their lack of intimacy.”

  Mrs. Minnock sat up on her elbows and stared at him. After a moment, she threw her head back and laughed before jumping atop her client, kissing his face in between fits of giggling. “My poor, naïve Dr. Whitcraft.”

  “Wait a minute. Do you mean…as in prefers?” He inhaled as her meaning became clear.

  “Of course that’s what I mean.” She looked down at him, smiling sadly as one does at an innocent child who finally learns an important truth about life.

  “My goodness. He, he came to my office, and tried to hold my hand.”

  At that Mrs. Minnock collapsed, burying her face in his shoulder in convulsions of laughter. “He, he…tried to…he tried to hold your hand…and you still didn’t guess?”

  “Oh sit up, sit up, will you! That’s enough of that!” Red-faced, he gave her a gentle shove. She rolled onto her back and bit her lip to stop herself from giggling.

  After a few seconds of contemplation, Dr. Whitcraft spoke. “Well, I hadn’t anticipated that. What a confounding set of circumstances, I tell you. Now, the question is, what do I do about her treatment? The lack of marital activity is an aggravating factor in her disease, I’d gather. I don’t know, perhaps more treatments are in order.”

  “Well.” Having regained herself, she arched her back in a long and extended stretch. “They certainly wouldn’t hurt.”

  Chapter Nine

  The King’s Theatre vibrated with excitement. Its expansive, classically appointed lobby buzzed with opera lovers and cultural pulse-takers from the elite of London society. Elaborately costumed ladies mingled about the lobby with their corresponding escorts, each making certain that their attendance at the premiere of Gioachino Rossini’s newest opera, Le comte Ory, was duly noted.

  Dr. Whitcraft enjoyed the opera but could rarely withstand the significant expenditure required to attend. Tonight’s performance, however, hadn’t cost him a penny. A grateful patient, suffering from the unfortunate aftereffects of an ill-advised amorous congress, had offered him tickets in exchange for clandestine treatment behind a bookshop.

  Religious about his patient’s discretion, he had happily accepted the payment, knowing how delighted Miss Reave would be to attend such an important social occasion. And there she was, crossing the lobby, stopping to speak to this gentleman or that lady, a vision of stylish grace. Even among the other ladies in their lavish gowns, Miss Reave stood apart. She wore a simple, but elegant, peach-colored gown with great puffy sleeves that terminated just below her shoulders. Its sculpted neckline left the top of her chest bare, save for the tight string of pearls encircling her neck.

  She beamed with pleasure, completely in her element. “Oh, I am so excited to be here,” she exclaimed, approaching him on soft feet and speaking directly into his ear. “Absolutely everyone is here!”

  “We should take our seats, I’m afraid. I don’t want to be one of those ill-mannered cretins who come in late to the—”

  “Why, Dr. Whitcraft!” Dr. Edward Marplot stepped from behind a pillar, his long arms opened wide. He gave them a small, tranquil smile. Formal dress seemed to suit him—fitting the man just a little bit better than the other attendees—as if his ancestors and their ancestors before them had existed wearing nothing else.

  “A devotee of the opera, I see. Well done, old man! I’m a music lover, myself. But you must introduce me to your lovely companion.”

  “Oh.” Dr. Whitcraft frowned and glanced at Miss Reave. “How rude of me. I thought you had already met. Dr. Edward Marplot, this is my fiancée, Miss Catherine Reave.”

  “Ah. Miss Reave.” He bowed, raised her gloved-hand to his lips, and kissed it softly. “I studied under your father at The Barts. A learned man who has produced a remarkably lovely daughter whom I have always admired from afar. I’m enchanted to finally make your acquaintance.”

  “Oh. Well. How charming,” she breathed, transfixed by his most pleasant face.

  Dr. Marplot straightened, still holding Miss Reave’s hand. “You both are in for a treat. I saw this premiere in Paris last year, and I know you will just adore it!”

  Dr. Whitcraft frowned again. How the devil could he have seen this in Paris? The tickets, the cost of the trip; it must have been staggeringly expensive.

  “It is the most charming of farces. Oh, I just love a good farce.” Dr. Marplot raised an eyebrow at Miss Reave. “And I have to say that I’m anxious to see how the French libretto will compare with tonight’s Italian.” He squeezed her hand for emphasis, but caught a sharp glance from Dr. Whitcraft, and released his catch.

  “Oh, then you speak French and Italian?” she asked.

  “Of course! All lovers of language speak French, and I would think most men of science have at least the basest familiarity with Italian, given our need for Latin, don’t you agree, Dr. Whitcraft?”

  Dr. Whitcraft felt his face redden. “Latin is necessary for our profession, yes of course.” With that, he interlocked his arm with Miss Reave. “We should be getting to our seats, you know.”

  “Oh yes, of course. Find me at the intermission, old man. I’ve heard something intriguing about you, and there is a professional opportunity I wanted to get your thoughts on.” He turned to Miss Reave. “Miss, I am most anxious to hear your opinions regarding tonight’s performance. Until the intermission, then.” He picked up her hand once again, kissed it, and flashed a dazzling smile before he bowed and departed through the crowd.

  Dr. Whitcraft pulled her by the wrist in the opposite direction. “What an impressive man!” she exclaimed.

  After they had found their seats, Miss Reave busily scanned the audience while Dr. Whitcraft stared at the empty stage contemplating tonight’s Italian libretto as compared with the French. He had never even known about the difference. He shook his head and looked around the theater.

  It was an inspiring building, perfectly designed and acoustically sound for—and then he saw something odd. A few rows over, a woman was staring at him. Staring most intently, as if she had been waiting all evening for him to look in her direction. He couldn’t quite place her, although he knew most certainly that he should be able to. When their eyes had met, she broke into the most ecstatic of smiles. He returned the acknowledgement, nodding, searching his mind when it struck him.

  Why it was Mrs. Pannade, of course, but he barely recognized her. Usually she appeared without the slightest trace of feminine embellishment, plain and sad—but not this evening! Her face was heavily made up, colored in like an Italian fresco, and she wore an elabor
ate formal gown just like her peers, but more so. She had certainly not spared any time or expense to make herself more appealing. She sat lodged between two dour society ladies, which only served to highlight her extraordinary transformation. And she was beaming at him.

  Well, well, he thought as he smiled at her. The attendance at tonight’s social event and the corresponding attention to her appearance were sure signs that his maneuver had worked. How wonderful!

  The gaslights dimmed and Dr. Whitcraft turned back to the stage, extremely pleased as the crowd stirred in anticipation.

  ****

  Dr. Whitcraft watched Miss Reave disappear through the chattering crowd, in search of a girlfriend she had spotted at the beginning of the intermission. He turned and was at once face to face with his lately transformed patient.

  “Mrs. Pannade! I say, you are looking well. Good for you!”

  Her face glowed. “Yes! How kind you are to notice. It’s all thanks to you.” She reached over and squeezed him above the elbow.

  He tensed and glanced at her hand. “Are…are you enjoying the performance?”

  “Oh yes! And oh, that naughty Count Ory! Don’t you find it coincidental that he recommends love as a cure for melancholia?” Her eyes widened at this, and her smile increased wickedly with each nod.

  “Yes,” he muttered. The entire libretto had been rather a mystery to him given his shaky Italian. “Your husband did not come along this evening?” He gestured at the two ladies glowering in their direction.

  Her smile dimmed. “Oh…oh no. I am here with my aunt and her dear friend. You know, this is a new dress. I-I was actually thinking of you when I picked out the fabric.” She plucked up the shocking pink organza and proceeded to spin around for his approval.