“For all that is good and holy, remember yourself, Dr. Encraty!” Dr. Vorago swung his tankard to his lips, eyes darting at his colleagues.
Murmurs of disapproval abounded.
“Well, couldn’t they?” Dr. Encraty persisted. “Why couldn’t they just do it to themselves, thereby managing their own treatment and may I add, depriving us of the revenue all the while?”
The doctors gasped and another young man leaned forward with much agitation. “Oh my God, if they could do it to themselves, there’s no telling what the effects would be. With no professional to gauge the frequency or duration of such a pursuit, the woman could be driven mad by her own hand.”
Before Dr. Whitcraft could address this controversy, Dr. Chimble spoke up with fervor. “No respectable woman would ever dare engage in such scandalous behavior!” He leaned over the table and dropped his voice to a harsh whisper. “Attempting to navigate such a delicate and unpredictable region by one’s self… Good gracious. If I had an inkling that any patient of mine ever seemed inclined to attempt such a feat, why, I’d not only instruct her about the evils of doing so, but would also caution her guardian—the father or the husband, whatever the case may be—and demand she be monitored for any indication of such behavior.”
“Yes! Yes, of course!” the doctors agreed most heartily.
Dr. Whitcraft held up his hand, keeping his voice calm and his tone pedantic. “I can assure you, gentlemen, that what Dr. Encraty has proposed is not even physically possible. First of all, the patient is lying on the table and can’t see what the administering physician is up to. Unless she were startlingly perceptive regarding their own anatomy—and I have yet to find a patient that is—these women would have no way of knowing how to even go about doing the maneuver.”
“That’s another problem, then isn’t it?” a narrow-faced doctor with curling whiskers blurted, having gained courage from intellectual hullabaloo. “Dr. Marplot, didn’t you say that The Lancet is planning on publishing a complete explanation of how to do the damn thing? Step by step, I believe you said. Well, I for one could imagine some of my more devilish patients trying to make off with my copy if they knew what it contained.”
“No, no!” Dr. Vorago’s jowls shimmied as he shook his head. “Are you joking, sir? No woman has the slightest interest in picking up an academic journal, and they certainly don’t possess the inclination to actually read one. Academic journals do not contain gossip or recipes or fanciful romantic stories. I doubt The Lancet would publish anything that a female could understand let alone misuse if they were to stumble across it. Am I right Dr. Marplot?”
“Yes…yes of course,” he acceded, although he did look concerned.
“But, regardless, gentlemen,” Dr. Whitcraft said, “let’s say, just for the sake of argument, if they somehow got the notion. You saw it for yourselves. It’s simply not possible to…well to do to one’s self. The limited rotation of the wrist precludes it.” He demonstrated by holding his hand above the table, rotating his wrist and then inverting his arm inward. “You see, to turn backwards like that and attempt the clockwise motion that is required for step three…well, it is just not possible.”
“But…” All heads turned back to Dr. Encraty.
“But what?” Dr. Chimble demanded.
The young doctor cocked his head with a shrug. “What if the patient were to…what if she were to use two hands?”
At that, everyone gasped. Dr. Naffin threw his napkin on the table and Dr. Clowclash’s monocle popped away from his face like a champagne cork, bouncing off Dr. Chimble’s cane before disappearing under a neighboring table of clergy. Dr. Clowclash apologized to the vicars before crawling on his hands and knees in between their hands and knees in search of the errant eyeglass.
But no one paid much mind to Dr. Clowclash, because they were all distracted by Dr. Vorago. The man had drawn in his breath so sharply at the two hands supposition, that he had aspirated his latest gulp of ale, and had begun to acquire the most intriguing shade of violet. Dr. Whitcraft at once pounded on his friend’s back, demanding that he cough, man cough while another doctor plucked up Vorago’s wrist to monitor his pulse.
“Air! Give the man some air!” Dr. Chimble exclaimed.
A gasping Dr. Vorago jerked his wrist away from his neighbor and waved to his concerned colleagues. After a moment, he dabbed the perspiration from his temples. “Criminy,” he croaked.
When everyone was satisfied that Dr. Vorago had fully recovered himself, the men turned back to Dr. Encraty, but it was Dr. Whitcraft who spoke. “Gentlemen, I still believe, even with two hands, the necessary torque could not be achieved, thus making the maneuver unfeasible.”
Dr. Chimble’s face flushed crimson. “God’s bodkin man, we’re in a public place! Enough of this two hands business!” He turned to the sheepish Dr. Encraty, seemingly taking the man’s postulation as a personal affront.
“Dr. Encraty, we are talking about society women here…not common street harlots from the gutter. The patients in question are, for the most part, from fine families and possess the most unquestionable pedigrees. These are the mothers and wives of the very fabric of our great society. They are upright and virtuous and would never dare to consider such…such scandalous behavior.” He sat up straight in his chair and grabbed his tankard of ale.
“You know,” Dr. Clowclash said, having reseated himself and replaced his monocle, “we’re all thinking it, so I’m just going to say it out loud. The reason Dr. Encraty here is so lost is because the man trained with an apothecary rather than at a legitimate university. Dr. Sangrado, this is just what I was saying to you last week, our profession needs standards. We shouldn’t just label someone a doctor because they’ve spent a few months capping pills for one of those drug-peddling charlatans. I went to Oxford for God’s sake…yet we can both call ourselves doctors? Shameful, just shameful.”
“Oh, that’s it!” Dr. Naffin toppled his chair as he jumped to his feet. “How dare you, sir! I’ll have you know that I studied under an apothecary too, you pompous son of a bitch. I pride myself in possessing an utterly unimpeachable knowledge of medicine. Oxford? Did your daddy buy you in because it certainly wasn’t your knowledge of anatomy! Why, I heard only last month that you killed a man right there in your office when you botched a simple bloodletting. Everyone at these tables knows that, too!”
Dr. Clowclash rose to his feet, red and growling at his rival. He yanked off his frockcoat, and cast it to the side. Dr. Naffin guffawed in response. He began to strip away his own clothing, pulling at his sleeves and collar with animated vigor.
“This business is going to come to blows,” Dr. Vorago whispered to Dr. Whitcraft. They slid their chairs away from the two posturing doctors.
Dr. Marplot had gotten to his feet now too, graciously inserting himself between the two incensed academicians. “Gentlemen, gentlemen, please. We must all remember ourselves. Every man at these tables is qualified to be here, and our profession suffers when we bicker like this. Let’s keep to the matter at hand, shall we?”
Reluctantly, Dr. Naffin and Dr. Clowclash relented, each man matching the other’s speed and angry grimace as they lowered themselves back into their seats.
“Now, I couldn’t agree more with Dr. Chimble,” Dr. Marplot continued in a most soothing coo. “We need to give the ladies of our society more credit, so let’s not dwell on this distasteful speculation that they will somehow misuse the maneuver. We’re all here to mark a significant discovery. Let’s raise our cups in celebration of such a crucial scientific step forward.”
“Here, here,” the doctors agreed, settling down once again. With renewed cheer, they murmured and nudged each other with most hearty congratulations.
Chapter Twelve
Mrs. Minnock cupped her chin in her palm watching Dr. Whitcraft search the cabinet.
“I don’t want these cups, I want the blue ones.” He shut the door and opened another.
“The blue china is up there
, on the top shelf,” she said. “Why does it make a difference?”
“Because the others dissipate the heat too quickly.” He stood on the tips of his toes now, straining to reach. “The blue cups keep the beverage nice and hot, and frankly I just like them better...something about the feel of the handles.”
Bemused, she watched him blow the traces of dust out of two Royal Doulton teacups before setting them on the counter. He reached up again and retrieved their corresponding saucers. “Well then, by all means, we should use the blue.” She dropped her head and rested it on her folded arms. “I’m very pleased to hear that your demonstration was such a success.”
“Well, the demonstration went all right, but afterwards things got a little tricky.”
“They would, wouldn’t they with a bunch of academics all blustering about, but oh...” She exhaled a long, breathy sigh. “I can’t tell you what a difficult day I’ve had.” She could hear Dr. Whitcraft fooling around with the copper teakettle.
“I hope you’re not going to tell me some brutish scoundrel got carried away with one of the girls.”
“No, no. There was no scoundrel. It was a woman.” She sat up. “A wife, as a matter of fact.”
“Oh, good Lord.”
“Yes…well, I doubt the Lord had anything to do with it. How she made it past the front door, I’ll never know.”
“What happened?”
“She tackled Arabella, is what happened. The silly girl turned eighteen today and had just been presented with a rather extravagant birthday gift by the woman’s husband. Mr. Drumble is very devoted, so the diamond brooch was not exactly unexpected. The wife managed to get Arabella into a rather peculiar grappling hold, all while accusing her of joining giblets with her husband in their marital bed when she had gone to see her mother in Surrey.”
“Oh dear,” Dr. Whitcraft muttered from behind her. “What did the husband do?”
“Not a thing.” She shook her head. “He had made himself comfortable on the stairs peeking at the chaos through the railings like a spectator at a circus. It was up to me to quell the passions of the women in his life. According to the other girls, Arabella has been making it a habit of lurking around the Drumbles’ flat and taunting his wife when she hangs out the wash.” Mrs. Minnock looked up and noticed the empty cup and saucer in front of her. But there was more. Two infusers packed with tealeaves sat at the ready along with napkins, spoons and a small plate crowded with biscuits. Dr. Whitcraft sat down and patted her hand.
“The water should be ready in just a few minutes. Please, continue. You have me in suspense.”
She picked up a piece of shortbread and turned it over in her fingers. “Well, you won’t believe this part. When Mrs. Drumble tired of squeezing the life out Arabella, she dashed over to her husband and began tearing off her clothes, insisting she would service him on the spot, thereby saving their household the additional expenditure.”
“My heavens.” Dr. Whitcraft stood again.
“I know.” She shook her head again and shut her eyes.
He wrapped his hand in a tea cloth and eased the steaming kettle from the range. “Now that’s quite an extreme display for a proper married woman. It almost makes me wonder—” He stopped speaking, and looked lost in thought.
“What?” Mrs. Minnock spun around, cocking her head.
“I was just wondering if the woman might possibly benefit from a diagnostic examination. I hazard to say, perhaps it is even possible that she has—”
“For goodness’ sake, not every enraged woman has hysteria, Dr. Whitcraft. Is that what you were going to say? Really! Frankly, if my husband drained our household funds so he could buy a silly trinket for his mistress, I’d have been more furious than she was.”
“Well, I’m not sure about that,” he muttered as he poured hot water into her cup and sat back down.
“I had to dismiss Arabella, of course. What a scene that was. I can’t run a business if some half-witted girl is going to breech our rules and see clients outside of this house. Not to mention harass their wives.” She brought the blue teacup to her lips and blew. She softened her voice. “Thank you for the tea, by the way. Pampering me this way. It’s very kind of you.”
He nodded, blowing at his tea.
She set the cup down and stirred lazily with her spoon. “Arabella is the one I blame, much more so than poor Mrs. Drumble. I suppose the moral of this story is not to put faith into ridiculous adolescent girls. They are much too frivolous and silly to be trusted. I need to stick to older, more seasoned women if I am to exist here in peace.”
She smiled at Dr. Whitcraft, who looked suddenly stricken as he lifted the cup to his lips.
“Oh do be careful not to burn yourself, doctor,” Mrs. Minnock warned.
****
Mrs. Pannade sat at her writing desk, a stack of letters from this morning’s post clutched in one hand, a squat glass of her husband’s brandy balanced in the other. She took a small sip and winced. The liquid had curiously burned and numbed her lips all at once.
She sighed and set the glass down. The dullness of the morning was unbearable. She cast letter after letter away with a disinterested flick of her wrist. But then her heart leapt. The unmistakably erudite script of her physician, Dr. William Whitcraft, was right there in her hand, addressed to her, not to her husband like all the others had been! She dropped the remaining letters, snatched up the paper knife and sliced it open.
Dear Mrs. Pannade,
After numerous unsuccessful attempts to communicate with your husband, I have concluded, most reluctantly, that I have no choice but to bypass his authority and instead plead my case directly to you.
I begin by reiterating that your standing 10 a.m. appointments with me have been TERMINATED; a development of which you are unquestionably aware as I have personally escorted you out of my office each and every day at this same time, an occurrence that has become as regular as the machinations of the heavens. These visits simply must cease at once!
Secondly, I have, in fact, discovered that you passed yourself off as my wife and deceived a rather hapless locksmith into duplicating a key for my property…in the middle of the night, no less, while I slept inside unawares!
I learned of this plot when presented with a delinquency notice from said locksmith, which incidentally allowed me to change my locks to an entirely new arrangement. I am telling you now, Mrs. Pannade, discard your counterfeit key at once. It will no longer grant access into my home.
Your actions have been utterly shocking. If additional conduct of this nature is attempted or discovered, I will not hesitate to involve all relevant authorities.
Finally, so that there shall be no ambiguities between us, I shall enumerate my expectations of you once and for all in writing:
The pursuit of my affections shall end herewith!
There is to be no loitering, lurking, prowling about, spying on or menacing me of any kind.
No gifts shall be delivered, no offers of service submitted.
The attempt to win the favor of my parents shall end henceforth! (I have alerted them of your tactics and treachery, and they will no longer be accepting tokens of affection on my behalf.)
I close this letter with a personal plea. I believe your condition has deteriorated dangerously and beg you to seek treatment elsewhere. I continue to recommend Dr. George Vorago for the position. He is assuredly most capable of rendering cautious and thoughtful care.
Mrs. Pannade, I have never before been driven to banish a patient from my practice, and it truly pains me to do so now. I have deliberated on this issue most thoroughly, and have concluded that I was simply left no other choice.
I wish you only the best, I am,
Respectfully,
Dr. William Whitcraft
Mrs. Pannade frowned. She folded the letter in two, pinching the crease crisp before laying it aside. She pulled back the heavy brocade curtain and gazed out, not particularly interested in the view. After a few moments,
she thrust her chin forward, scooped up the glass for another go, and commenced sorting the post with renewed vigor.
But the presence of a rather heavy letter gave her pause. A grin spread across her face, and she grabbed the paper knife again and sliced into the envelope, releasing a newly forged iron key that slipped out of its folded invoice and landed on her desk with a heavy clank.
Mrs. Pannade giggled as she inspected her prize, twirling it this way and that. She extended her gloved arm, and fished out its now useless predecessor. She kissed the new key and expertly tucked it in place, relishing the cold metal tingle against her skin.
****
Dr. Whitcraft escorted the day’s last patient out of the examining room, and was surprised to see Dr. Marplot seated next to the girl’s mother, gazing at him with a careless smile. Perhaps the man had good news about The Lancet finally agreeing to publish his paper.
“Are you all right? Is she all right, Dr. Whitcraft?” The mother hurried to their side.
“I am perfectly fine, for goodness’ sake, Mama.” A few strands of the girl’s hair had escaped her elaborate coiffure. She blew at the tickling wisps with a gentle puff. She threw a quick glance back at her doctor, and without realizing it, a most contented smile had settled on her lips.
“How many more treatments, doctor?” The mother adjusted her daughter’s capelet over her dress.
“The wedding is, what…in three months? I still believe the symptoms will abate once she’s married. Why don’t we drop to twice a week until then? Mondays and Wednesdays. Miss Faffle, can you make a note of that, please? Is that all right with the both of you, then?”
“Absolutely. Thank you.”
“Yes, thank you.”
The mother and daughter departed. Miss Faffle scurried into the examining room, and Dr. Marplot rose with an extended hand. “Good to see you, sir. My apologies for the unannounced visit. May we have a word…in private, if you please?”
“Yes, yes of course.” Dr. Whitcraft pulled back from his colleague’s grasp and gestured toward his office.
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