In an instant, Dr. Whitcraft was on his feet, huffing and puffing as he frantically reevaluated the contents of the room from the perspective of the man who would be paying for it. “Y-you sent the bill to my office?”
“Of course.” She stared at him curiously now.
“Well, that’s it!” he heard himself shout as he clapped his hands together underneath his chin. “You’ve ruined me, do you realize that?”
Miss Reave parted her lips as a lilac bonnet dangled from her fingers. “Ruined you?”
“How in the devil can a woman…a woman…just march into a shop and j-just…swindle the proprietor into squandering what must unquestionably be his entire inventory of fabric on a single order and then deliver the spoils of said order to this address? An address to which I have no attachment, by the way, and then assign me the bill? Why, this is so outrageous as to nearly be a matter for the police!”
Miss Reave cast the hat aside, threw herself on the couch amongst the packing paper, and folded her arms. “I have to say, I’m surprised, William. I thought you would be pleased. This is all for you, you know. I thought you’d expect your wife to dress like a proper lady.”
Perspiration dampened his waistcoat. He shrieked, “Wife? I’m rather certain they don’t hold weddings inside the walls of debtor’s prison, my dear!” He scanned the packages and draping garments, calculating all the while. “What can I do, what can I say to make you return this foolishness back to the opportunistic scoundrel who took advantage of you? If you could just wait until after we’re married, after I know where I stand…I’ll draw up a budget and within those reasonable boundaries, I promise to…” His words trailed off seeing the disappointment on her face. What the devil was he doing, anyway?
This is what he had wanted: an attractive, socially adept wife to solidify his place administering medicine to London’s polite society. Now that they were engaged, shouldn’t she expect him to pay for the trappings of that role? Truth be told, in all likelihood he could afford such indulgences now that his practice was so busy, even though spending so freely felt contrary to the frugal manner with which he had managed his life thus far. But with his bachelorhood nearing an end, his self-centered view of his finances would have to end as well. His angry words hung in the air between them even as his shoulders dropped in defeat.
Miss Reave stood up and waded through the packages. She reached out and squeezed his arm. “I’m sorry. I suppose I should have asked you first.”
“No, no…I’m sorry,” he whispered, cupping her chin. “I want you to have it. Have it all. I suppose I’ll manage.” He winced as he looked past her at the cluttered room.
She let out a gasp and threw her arms around him. “Thank you, William.” She spun around giggling at the sight of her new treasures.
****
The Lancet’s office was smaller and darker than Dr. Whitcraft expected. Aging treatises burdened the shelves, dusty and cluttered documents lay in crooked stacks on the bureaus. Who would have thought that such a prestigious journal’s office would be so haphazardly arranged?
He shifted in his chair as he leered across the desk at Dr. Marplot. He had been under the impression that he would be meeting with the editor, but instead had been augustly greeted by this man, who now sat flipping through the pages of the paper he had sent here by post earlier in the month.
“Well,” Dr. Marplot said finally, pushing the paper across the desk and looking up. “We can’t publish it, old man.” He leaned back and studied his colleague’s reaction.
“What?”
Dr. Marplot shrugged, staring back down at the paper with a subtle smile.
“What the devil do you mean we can’t publish it? And why are you telling me? You’re not the editor. I’ve asked around. Don’t you only work on the chess column?” Dr. Whitcraft’s voice was thick with suspicion.
“How nice of someone to take notice of my chess column. Do you count yourself as an admirer?” He paused with an arched eyebrow, but softened his voice. “You really just need to calm down. No one said that we will not eventually publish your work. You’re so oversensitive, Dr. Whitcraft. There is no question of your ability to write a well-crafted, scholarly article. Your peers here at The Lancet were all impressed with your pedagogic style, and of course your credentials and reputation are impeccable. It’s just that what you are proposing here is rather difficult to believe.” He picked up the paper and smacked it on the desk. “A five-step magical machination that induces a paroxysm in every woman? We can’t just publish something like that until I, for one, see it performed.”
“Oh.” Dr. Whitcraft leaned back in his chair. “Well, that’s different. I’d be happy to arrange a demonstration. We could reserve an operating theater in one of the hospitals. I’ve had several colleagues who’ve asked to see it demonstrated. Word is beginning to get around. You can’t imagine how many hysteria patients have been begging for an audience with me.”
“Really?” Dr. Marplot leaned forward.
“Oh yes. I’ve turned away at least fifteen women because I simply don’t have time in my schedule to accommodate new patients. I barely had the time to come here today, if you want to know the truth. I can’t imagine what will happen after my paper is published. When you see it performed, you’ll understand its value.”
“Of course, most certainly. You know…” He picked up the paper again and thumbed through it. “You never mention in here how you managed to come up with it.”
“The maneuver?”
“Yes. It’s quite inspired, then isn’t it? Where’d you get the idea?”
Dr. Whitcraft looked down at his hands, and cleared his throat. “I’ve been interested in hysteria for quite some time, and of course saw the need for an improvement in its treatment for my own practice. The difficulty of pelvic massage has been—”
“Yes but, how exactly did you discover the five steps? To go about them in that precise way and in that order?”
“Well…” He grasped the arms of his chair and readjusted himself. “Trial and error, I suppose.”
“Really? Trial and error?” Dr. Marplot looked directly at him, as if contemplating the countenance of a man bluffing at cards.
Dr. Whitcraft glanced off to the side, his eyes searching for a moment before he turned back to his colleague and began to nod. “Yes. Trial and error.” He spoke with the deliberation of one who had recently made up his mind.
“Remarkable.” Dr. Marplot’s eyes narrowed, but after a moment his expression relaxed, and a gentle smile crept across his face.
“Regardless, I am most anxious to see a demonstration. I’m certain that I… Hey, what the devil? Do you know that woman?” Dr. Marplot gestured at the window, behind Dr. Whitcraft’s head.
“What woman?” He spun around, the prickle of fear settling in on his stomach.
“She was just there. That’s the third time today that I have spotted that queer looking woman. Once early this morning, and then I could swear I saw her gawking at us when you descended from your cab. Now it appears she’s lurking outside the window. Keep watching, I’ll wager that she will…look, there.”
Dr. Whitcraft’s heart sank, as he now saw the unmistakably twitchy blink of Mrs. Pannade just before she ducked back into the bushes.
“Oh my…I don’t know what to say.” He dropped his head into his hands.
But Dr. Marplot was on his feet and walking to the window. He cranked it open and leaned out. “You there. I say. You in the bushes. What the devil are you up to?”
“No, no. Shh, she will go away, just…” Dr. Whitcraft rose, dreading the forthcoming explanation. He joined his colleague at the window, just in time to see Mrs. Pannade dash behind the building’s corner.
“She’s an ex-patient of mine, I’m afraid. A hysteric...one of the most troubling cases I’ve ever encountered, but I’ve had to pass her off to Dr. Vorago because sh-she seems to have convinced herself that…well, it is rather embarrassing. She has convinced herself that s
he’s in love with me. She believes we are destined to be together or some such nonsense, and follows me around. It’s all rather upsetting.”
“Really?” Dr. Marplot watched him closely, clearly amused, and turned to gaze out the window again. He craned his neck to get another look at the mystery woman, but gave up and turned back to Dr. Whitcraft.
“You’ve got women following you around the town? Hiding in bushes trying to get a glimpse of you? Well done, old man.”
“No, no—it’s nothing like that. I’m engaged to be married. That woman out there is very ill. I can assure you I’ve done nothing to encourage such shocking behavior.”
“Ah yes, Dr. Reave’s daughter, that lovely creature. My, my. Who’d guess by looking at you that you have such an effect on the ladies?”
Dr. Whitcraft’s blood pressure began to escalate. “Sir, I have not—”
“Kidding, kidding. You are rather stodgy for someone so young. Let’s sit down and plan out this demonstration of yours, shall we?”
Chapter Eleven
“No, no, Dr. Chimble…you’re using too much pressure. The tips. Use only the fingertips. Step two requires a very light touch. There, that’s it.” Dr. Whitcraft leaned over the man’s shoulder.
The patient was a middle-aged widow. Her grey curls spilled over the examining table as she lay flat with her eyes tightly shut. Step two was taking effect, however, because she let loose a long sigh and the wrinkles in her face relaxed.
The other doctors tightened their circle around the table, acknowledging her progress with hushed murmurs.
Dr. Whitcraft counted under his breath while he watched Dr. Chimble’s handiwork. “All right, seven, eight, nine…there. Now, commence step three. Yes. Like that, just that way. Dr. Clowclash, step closer, man, you can’t see from that angle.”
Dr. Clowclash blushed and stepped from the back of the crowd, inserting himself between the two taller fellows in front.
“Are you seeing the way Dr. Chimble is going about the machinations of step three, gentleman? Clockwise. Always clockwise.” His eyes followed his colleague’s fingertips. “Note the patient’s change in pallor. Two more goes, gentlemen, then we commence with step four. Are you able to see, Dr. Marplot?”
“Yes…quite,” he answered, entranced.
Dr. Chimble straightened his glasses with his free hand. Nervous perspiration beaded along his forehead.
“Nurse! Dab Dr. Chimble.” Dr. Whitcraft gestured to a plump blonde nurse. She scurried over and began madly blotting Dr. Chimble’s forehead with a tea cloth.
The patient’s breathing had changed. She was producing a singular low sounding gurgle which seemed to emanate from her very core.
“Step four is just a whisper, just a touch and then go immediately into step five.” He crouched for a better view, stepping side to side like an anxious wicket-keeper.
“Notice men, take notice how he is putting his entire shoulder into step five. Excellent, Dr. Chimble. You must roll the shoulder; feel the roll. Do any of you engage in lawn bowling? It’s a similar motion, you see.” Dr. Whitcraft made a large sweep of his arm, but most were too entranced by the demonstration to notice the gesture.
Suddenly, the patient arched her back, drew in a full breath, and exhaled.
“Ah, and there we have it.” Dr. Whitcraft clapped his hands together with delight. The patient reached her paroxysm with quiet dignity, clearly better for the treatment. “A successful paroxysm in a fraction of the time it had taken in the past. How are you feeling, Mrs. Gillfurt?”
“Could I have a drink of water?” she whispered, making the effort to sit up. She looked surprised, as if just now discovering their presence. “I feel much better, thank you.”
“Splendid. Just splendid. Nurse, when the patient feels steady, could you escort her to the anterior room there and get her a glass of water? Thank you so very much.”
As the nurse and patient whispered together, Dr. Whitcraft turned back to his audience, offering a special nod to Dr. Marplot. The stunned doctors stood in breathless silence until one of them began clapping. In an instant, they had all joined in, creating a most appreciative applause.
“Oh, well…” Dr. Whitcraft whispered. He cleared this throat and asked, “Are there any questions?” Several doctors raised their hands. “Yes, you there. Dr. Naffin, I believe it is.”
A tall man with a boyish face and a hunched-over frame put down his hand. “You are telling us that this maneuver works on every patient, every time? Pardon me, sir, but I find that rather unbelievable. I myself have labored for hours on a single patient, and I can’t believe that—”
“Forgive me for jumping in, sir, but I promise you, if executed in the precise manner in which Dr. Chimble has just demonstrated, the maneuver will result in a successful paroxysm each and every time. That’s the first time he has performed it solo, and just look at his success. Don’t you agree, Dr. Chimble?”
Dr. Chimble nodded vigorously, still wiping his hand. “I can’t believe how easy it was.”
“There you have it. I personally guarantee if Dr. Naffin brings that same patient he had such difficulty with to me, I will perform the maneuver on her, and the paroxysm that had proven so elusive will indeed occur.”
The dubious doctor bowed and backed into the crowd, as if he were already planning to take Dr. Whitcraft up on his offer.
“How many of these, uh, maneuvers do you manage in a single work day, Dr. Whitcraft?” a different voice from the back of the group inquired.
He smiled at that question, certain the answer would shock and delight his listeners. “Well my friends, let me begin by saying that I never fully appreciated the epidemic of hysteria gripping the females of our society until I experimented with this maneuver. Before, less than one fourth of my practice were women diagnosed with hysteria, and for those whose symptoms required therapy with pelvic massage, I treated one or two, at the most, per day. But, with the utilization of this maneuver, I have increased my practice—” he held several beats for the maximum dramatic effect then said with a flourish—“nearly tenfold!”
There were whispers and gasps among the doctors.
“I’m actually turning women away, which is why teaching this valuable treatment is so crucial, so more hysteria patients may be served.”
“How many patients have you done this to in a single day?” An impatient ginger-haired young doctor demanded from the back.
“Ten…sometimes twelve per day, on average. On my most productive day I was able to treat eighteen women, in addition to my other, incidental appointments.”
The crowd gasped. Dr. Whitcraft raised his chin just a little higher in the air. He watched the doctors’ faces reveal the mental calculation of their possible income adjustment. The room seemed to sparkle as their eyes glittered en masse.
“All right gentlemen, all right.” Dr. Marplot stepped past Dr. Whitcraft, upstaging him. “Which among you would care to adjourn with me for a continued discussion of this miraculous new discovery? I believe some libations are in order.” His nodding posture and dazzling smile were dialed to their highest setting.
There were enthusiastic calls of approval, but Dr. Whitcraft frowned. Anticipating his maneuver-filled afternoon, he flung open his pocket watch, but looked up just in time to see Dr. Marplot’s long arms pulling several colleagues into a huddle. They were whispering and laughing about something or other. Then Dr. Marplot cupped his hand to his mouth and leaned in toward Dr. Naffin’s ear. The man threw his head back in appreciative laughter and then glanced at Dr. Whitcraft.
Dr. Whitcraft’s face grew hot, and with a most deliberate gait, he joined the others. “Yes…yes of course. A round of libations would most certainly be in order.”
****
The doctors crowded around several low tables covered in baskets of bread, plates of cheese, and tankards of foaming ale. Their dark frockcoats wrinkled as they bent forward, chatting astutely to one another under the stifling haze of the pub.
Dr. Whitcraft took his cup of tea from the young barmaid’s tray and passed Dr. Vorago his ale. His friend was so engrossed in the pontifications of Dr. Marplot, he hadn’t even noticed its arrival.
“Once we at The Lancet publish a full, step by step dissection of the maneuver, you will all be able to reproduce exactly what Dr. Chimble has achieved today—a revolutionary method whereby all hysterics may be treated.” Dr. Marplot’s hand sliced through the air as he spoke.
“Here, here.” A rotund chap with a monocle and top hat hoisted his ale over the table, encouraging the others to do the same.
A rather startled-looking young fellow crowded in the center muttered suddenly, “There is one thing that concerns me.” Everyone quieted and turned to the man.
“What is that, dear sir…you are Dr. Encraty, are you not?” Dr. Whitcraft asked in his most pedantic tone.
“Yes. I am Dr. Thomas Encraty. I’ve just finished my apprenticeship with an apothecary, so a lot of this is very new to me.” He gripped his ale with both hands and could barely meet Dr. Whitcraft’s gaze. “This maneuver. Frankly…uh, excuse me sirs, but I’m almost ashamed for even introducing this notion.” He withered low into his chair under the weight of their collective attention. “I believe an issue of some delicacy needs to be addressed.”
Dr. Marplot spoke up in a clear, booming voice. “We are all professionals here, kind sir. The advancement of our craft depends on candid discourse, so by all means, do not hesitate to voice your concerns. You are among your peers and we are all at your disposal.” He reached across the table and patted the boy on the hand, while the other doctors muttered affirmations in kind.
Dr. Encraty smiled appreciatively at Dr. Marplot, and then the others. “Well…this maneuver. If someone could explain to me, what exactly is there to prevent our female patients from attempting to do it to themselves?”
“Shh!” Dr. Naffin glanced around the establishment in a near panic.
“Propriety! We are in a public space, sir!” Dr. Chimble nearly toppled his ale. “How dare you even suggest such a thing?”
The Five Step Plan Page 9