“Oh, darling, I am so sorry to interrupt.” Miss Reave slid in next to him from within the crowd, and cast a quick glance at Mrs. Pannade. “Dr. Marplot is asking for you, and the intermission is almost over.”
Dr. Whitcraft shrugged at his patient. “I suppose I must attend to that. Mrs. Pannade, how marvelous it’s been to see you looking so well. I do hope you enjoy the rest of the performance. I’ll see you on Monday, then. Ten sharp.”
“Yes, until then.” Mrs. Pannade waved, her eagerness deflating as the doctor disappeared into the crowd.
Across the lobby, Dr. Marplot entertained a small gathering of adherents with his insights on the evening’s performance thus far.
“That songstress playing La Comtesse Adele! What a magnificent coloratura soprano. Her treble is just sublime! Even better than in Paris—Ah, if it isn’t the illustrious Dr. Whitcraft. I was just asking about you.” He abandoned his audience and pulled the doctor aside, where the crowd was at its lightest. He ducked down and whispered, “I understand there’s a secret you need to share with me.”
“What?” Dr. Whitcraft stepped back with a queer look. “I don’t follow.”
“The word is out, old man. You’ve had some sort of a discovery in the treatment of hysteria that’s got this town buzzing.”
“Oh, that is no secret. I’m working on a paper detailing every aspect of the maneuver.”
“The maneuver? Oh, now you have me intrigued!”
“The Whitcraft Maneuver, actually.” He felt himself redden.
“Oh, I see,” Dr. Marplot said. “The Whitcraft Maneuver. Yes. What exactly is this Whitcraft Maneuver, if I may ask?”
“It’s a variation of pelvic massage. Frankly, my initial results have proven to be most promising.”
“Hmm. You’re writing a paper, you say? I’m not sure if you are aware of it, but I work in…in an editorial capacity for The Lancet. We must be the first to get a look at your paper when you’re finished.”
“Of course. I had no idea hysteria interested you. I thought your practice was more of a general one.”
“I dabble in it all! I see patients over at The Barts, but I am beginning a small private practice. I’d love the opportunity to offer my patients the very latest discoveries. Anything to give them some relief, you know.”
“I couldn’t agree more. And, I have to say, I’ve discovered something that is highly significant.”
“As soon as you finish that paper, then. Send it to The Lancet’s office. Address it to me. I’ll see to it that it gets in the right hands.”
“Where the devil is Miss Reave? We should be getting to our seats.”
Dr. Marplot put his arm around his colleague’s shoulder and pulled him back toward the crowd. “Oh, you’ll just love the second act. Count Ory is quite the mischief maker!”
****
“What?” Dr. Whitcraft turned round and contemplated the irritated face of Miss Reave.
“You haven’t been listening to anything I’ve just said. I was telling you what Dr. Marplot said about the second half and how we should pay particular attention to the woman playing Isolier. Honestly William, I don’t know why I bother.”
She continued her scolding, but the opera, the metamorphosis of Mrs. Pannade, even his recent conversation with Dr. Marplot…everything that had been relevant only minutes ago was now forgotten as he turned away from Miss Reave and gazed around the theater for someone else. Someone he had spotted in the lobby as the intermission ended—the stunning Mrs. Minnock. In an exquisite sapphire-blue gown, she was a vision of feminine perfection, sipping a glass of champagne on the arm of this evening’s rakish gallant.
Dr. Whitcraft had gasped at the sight, and nearly pulled Miss Reave’s arm out of the socket when he yanked her away from the duo and propelled her through the crowd.
“William!” Miss Reave had demanded. “What on earth?”
“We should return to our seats m-my dear,” he had stammered, almost plowing her head first into their aisle.
Now that they were seated, however, he couldn’t stop searching the audience. It seemed absurd, but Dr. Whitcraft had never before considered what would happen if he and Mrs. Minnock saw one another in a public place, let alone if Miss Reave was hanging off of his arm like an ornament when it happened. The whole episode had been utterly traumatic.
And that companion! Flaunting her out in public like a prize he had picked up at the Bartholomew Fair. He was probably married, that duplicitous rascal, standing there, sipping his champagne as he leered out at the lobby, so above it all. Imagining them leaving together at the end of the performance—Dr. Whitcraft could only shiver at the thought.
There they were, perched in a loge four levels above the stage, in what must have been the most expensive seats in the house. If he squinted, he thought he could see them chatting and gesturing out at the audience.
Dr. Whitcraft slouched into his seat, suddenly feeling exposed. Miss Reave was oblivious to his torment, and peeked into her bag. He turned resolutely and patted her hand. “I am so happy to be here with you tonight, my darling,” he declared, trying to concentrate on his fiancée’s face.
“Oh, me too, William. Shh. It’s starting again.”
The lights dimmed, the curtains opened, and Dr. Whitcraft’s attention was completely captivated…by the occupants of the loge four levels above the stage.
Chapter Ten
Dr. Whitcraft set the journal next to the washbasin. This must be met with extreme delicacy, he thought, not certain what to say next. He should have known something was amiss by the way Mrs. Pannade had come dressed for her usual appointment. Rather than her typically dowdy dress, today she wore a curiously revealing ensemble, one that a novice at luring men might have assumed to be provocative, but rather only served to highlight her protruding clavicles and bony upper torso.
Donning his most pleasant smile, he sat next to her, drew breath to speak, but instead Mrs. Pannade blurted, “Please don’t be upset with me. I can see that you’re upset, but you told me to be honest!” Her eyes pled with him as her gloved-fingers grazed her cheek, darkened today with a stripe of ill-applied rouge.
He held up his hand. “Mrs. Pannade, I am not upset with you. Now, this development is not uncommon, especially in extremely vulnerable patients such as yourself. Why, it’s perfectly understandable that you…well that you believe you are in love with me. After all, I dote upon you, care for you and so on, but, well, of course you do not love me. You are simply misguided.”
The blood left her lips. “Misguided? I assure you that I’m not misguided. Dr. Whitcraft, it has all become so clear to me lately. When I’m alone at night with just my thoughts, I can only think of one thing. You! I have never felt such an intense passion in all my life. You must understand…”
At this, his neutral countenance disintegrated, but he was quick to recover. He cleared his throat, forcing himself to continue with a slow and deliberate string of logic. “I certainly understand how it may seem that way to you, Mrs. Pannade, but I assure you, feelings like these are—”
“…and I certainly know I would make a much better wife to you than that dreadful Miss Reave you have been running around town with.”
“Mrs. Pannade,” he gasped. “That comment is completely inappropriate! My private life should not enter into this matter at all. Really!” He tugged at the bottom of his waistcoat, blinking rapidly as he worked to catch his breath and harness his composure. “Now let’s just calm down for a minute. You must understand—”
“Frankly, Dr. Whitcraft,” Mrs. Pannade added thoughtfully, “I think you are much better off in the hands of that Mrs. Minnock woman rather than with that uppity Miss Reave. At least Mrs. Minnock doesn’t make any pretense about her business with you.”
Dr. Whitcraft’s mouth dropped open and he jumped to his feet. “How on earth?” he shrieked. “How could you possibly know about…” His voice gave way as he searched her face, feeling his own turn the most macabre shade of
crimson. “Madam, that is my private business, not to mention a grievous violation of our doctor-patient relationship. I am…outraged! Simply OUTRAGED!”
Mrs. Pannade was undiscouraged. She got to her feet as well, beaming. “Darling, I understand your shock at this unexpected turn in our relationship, and I just know that you are going to come around…and I am happy to wait for you.”
“No, no… there is nothing to wait for!” He threw up his arms. “There is no relationship!”
Transfixed by his gesticulations, Mrs. Pannade fluttered her eyelids in response.
He dug a handkerchief out of his pocket and dabbed his forehead while attempting to invoke in a more rational tone. “Mrs. Pannade, you are a married woman and my patient. There is nothing that can ever, ever happen between us. For goodness’ sake, you must try to clear your head and understand that! And if indeed you have been following me about…well, that nonsense is completely unacceptable and must stop at once!”
“I’ll bring you another pie tomorrow at ten a.m., for my treatment. I think that dietary regimen of yours is really very silly, but if you prefer, I’ll bring you another roasted capon, instead of the pie. Or perhaps you fancy something else? Hmmm. Oh, don’t worry. I’ll surprise you. I love you, my darling!” At that, she dove in to steal a kiss, pulled back from the stricken doctor and tousled his hair before parading out of the door.
****
“So, will you help me?” Dr. Whitcraft asked as he drummed his fingers on the pub’s battered table.
Dr. Vorago waved his cutlery, his mouth too full to respond. With a gulp, he drew breath for a response, but became distracted by a passing barmaid’s tray of eye-catching puddings: a sugar-glazed berry tartlet, a fragrantly spiced gingerbread topped with lemon crème, and a sweetly steaming suet pudding. “I know it’s rather a lot to ask.” Dr. Whitcraft said, hoping to recapture his friend’s attention.
Dr. Vorago turned back to his own joint of roast beef and began sawing at it with renewed fervor. “You know I’d do anything for you, dear sir. I’d be glad to take her off your hands. I guess that’d be quite literal, then wouldn’t it. Ha!” He laughed at his own joke, snorting unattractively as he shoveled the remainder of his Yorkshire pudding into his mouth.
After a moment of thorough chewing, he added, “That treatment of yours is driving women to distraction. Do I dare attempt it with her? She may fall in love with me next.” He grabbed his napkin and mopped the butter drips from his chin, spreading a thin sheen across his lower face.
Dr. Whitcraft frowned. “Do not confuse the gravity of her symptoms with my treatment, please. It’s just rather evident now how extremely ill the poor woman is. I have to say that I feel dreadful about the matter. She’s a very decent woman, but I’m no longer in a position to offer her help. I haven’t even told you what she did this morning.”
“Oh, do tell! Miss? Miss? Bring me another bottle of ale. Does she hear us?”
“Yes, yes, she is nodding at you.” Dr. Whitcraft felt a bit nauseated from his colleague’s enthusiastic table habits. He wondered how the man could return to a full schedule of patients after such a display.
Dr. Vorago leaned back and patted his belly. “Do tell, doctor. What did she do this morning? Did she bring you another roasted bird?”
“No, I told you, it has gotten much more serious. She broke into my office—I still don’t know how she managed that—and climbed my stairs carrying a full breakfast of kippers and eggs! I woke with the woman hovering over me and a full plate of food balanced on my front. She frightened me so terribly, I nearly had a fit!”
“Egad!” Dr. Vorago laughed. “My wife won’t like that nonsense when she does that to me.” He jammed his fork into the last square of roast beef and stuck it in his mouth. While chewing he added, “How were they, then?”
“How was what?”
“The kippers and eggs. Can the woman cook?”
Dr. Whitcraft stared at his colleague. “I didn’t eat them! I wouldn’t want to encourage her. I set them aside and demanded she leave at once.”
“Oh. That is a pity.” Dr. Vorago swallowed and looked off to the side. “So, what, shall I call on her, then?”
“I suppose I’ll write her husband and explain the necessity for a change in physicians, then recommend you as the replacement.”
“Capital. Oh, thank you, my dear.” He grabbed the bottle of ale from the young maid and drank like a man deprived. When he finally set the bottle down, Dr. Vorago gasped for breath and exclaimed, “Shall we have a pudding, then?”
****
Dr. Whitcraft mumbled to himself as he climbed the Reaves’ front steps, mentally composing the letter of escape he would pen to Mr. Pannade. But he shook the thought away. The workday was over and now it was time to pay a call on the delightful Miss Reave. Professional matters could wait.
Just as he was about to knock, the gallop of an approaching carriage slowed to a trot. When it stopped, a pair of nicely dressed young men stepped out onto the street, their arms filled with packages wrapped in brown paper. One accepted the parcels from the other, balancing them precariously as his companion disappeared back into the carriage. Moments later, he emerged with an additional lot.
A third man, the driver presumably, came from the opposite side with his own assortment and distributed these amongst the other two men before ascending back to his post. Looking like beasts of burden, the two men turned and proceeded toward the stairs.
“Good Lord, may I assist you gentlemen?” Dr. Whitcraft stepped down and whisked several parcels from atop each pile.
“Oh sir, why thank you, sir,” one of them said.
“Would you mind knocking for us, sir?” asked the other.
“Gladly.” But he didn’t have to. The door swung open and an ecstatic Miss Reave stood glowing with anticipation. She looked right past the doctor.
“Oh! How wonderful! Right this way, I’ll show you just where to put it all.” She dashed down the hall leaving Dr. Whitcraft holding the door.
As he stepped into the parlor, he set the packages aside and waited while the young men busily stacked and sorted their charges. As per usual, Mrs. Anile was slumped in the corner armchair, very much asleep. Her eye-patch had traveled past her bad eye and was resting squarely in the center of her forehead.
Wasting no time, Miss Reave clawed into a particularly lumpy parcel. “I can’t believe that Mr. Varment has completed my order so quickly. The man’s a genius! Oh! Oh, will you just look at this! Just look!” She eased a wispy butter-colored habiliment out of its package and glided it past her cheek, groaning in near ecstasy.
As the men continued arranging the packages, Dr. Whitcraft uttered, “My darling, what is all of—”
“Where’s the hat?” she asked, remembering suddenly. “There should be a hat that goes with this gown.”
One of the young men jumped to his feet and scurried to the couch. “I believe it’s in one of these, miss.” He pointed at three identical looking square boxes.
“Don’t just stand there, find it for me, if you please. I can’t wait to see it. William, help him, please.”
Dr. Whitcraft walked toward the boxes, unsure of his assignment.
“No need, sir. I’ve got it.” The young man knocked the lid to the side and lifted an oblong feathered hat through the crinkling paper.
Miss Reave shrieked. “Oh! Why it’s perfect!” She danced over, took the hat from the bowing man’s hands, and placed it on top of her head. Dodging a jumble of purchases, she dashed to the mirror.
Everyone in the room paused, their eyes fixed on the posing Miss Reave as she adjusted and readjusted her new acquisition. Finally, one of the fellows gathered his courage and asked, “Is that all then, miss? Would you like us to stay while you unwrap? We would be happy to assist you, of course.”
“Oh…well, hmmm,” she said to the mirror. “I don’t suppose that will be necessary. William, my dear, would you please be kind enough to see these gentlemen to the door?
Thank you, boys. Please give my regards to Mr. Varment.”
Dr. Whitcraft gestured to the hall and the men dutifully filed past him.
“William!” she whispered before he had left the room. Her reflection gave him a stern look. “Please tip those men before they leave, and make sure you are generous. I don’t want to appear ungrateful.” With flattened palms, she removed her new hat by its edges.
In the hall, the deliverymen thanked the doctor. After Dr. Whitcraft returned, she spun around in a sudden burst and contemplated the room.
Dr. Whitcraft shook his head as he stepped through scraps of brown paper and past the sleeping governess. He made his way to Dr. Reave’s writing desk and eased open its slim top drawer. He pulled out a small hand mirror and glanced at it before making his way back to Mrs. Anile. Casually, he tucked it just under her nose. He relaxed when the mirror fogged sufficiently.
“Now that they’re gone, perhaps you would care to enlighten me. What is all this?”
“Well...” She ripped the paper from another package. “After chatting with my friends over luncheon the other day, everyone agreed that I should begin to dress more like a proper doctor’s wife.” She cast the paper aside and grinned. “Especially when that doctor is swimming in new patients and destined to be famous.”
Dr. Whitcraft stifled a small smile. “Well, well. I see.” He tucked the mirror back in its place and then pushed several boxes to the side of an armchair. “I can’t imagine the look on your father’s face when he sees all of this.” He squeezed onto the chair’s edge. Envisioning that poor man walking in on this display—it was just dreadful. “This must have cost an absolute fortune. I hope you at least prepared him.”
Miss Reave had her hands buried deep inside a box and looked up. An impish smile spread across her face. “He won’t have anything to say about it at all, my darling.” She stood straight now, cocking her head to the side. “I’m surprised Miss Faffle didn’t show you, although maybe it hasn’t arrived just yet. I had the dressmaker send the bill to your office.”
The Five Step Plan Page 8