“Mrs. Meecher? Mrs. Meecher?” Dr. Whitcraft stood on his toes; he poked a finger through the crack, trying to loosen the hook.
She whipped her head around and hissed, “Oh, will you stay quiet!”
“Stay quiet?” He put his lips to the crack. “Madam, I insist you let me out this instant! I am certain your husband will understand that even now you’re having an hysterical episode. This is exactly why he contacted me, Mrs. Meecher!”
The parlor doors swung open and a looming, well-dressed but disheveled figure appeared in the doorway, his teeth bared. “Where is he?”
Mrs. Meecher cocked her neck unnaturally. “My darling, I wasn’t expecting you.”
Mr. Meecher huffed and puffed from the doorway like an enraged Canadian goose. “It’s clear you weren’t expecting me! What the hell were you expecting?”
She shrugged, trembling now, and pretended to commence reading her book.
Mr. Meecher stormed past his wife toward the far door leading to the back hallway. In a moment, he returned to the parlor. “Where is he? Where have you put him? Did he go out this way, because if he did, Caxon will stop him.”
“Who?”
“You think I’m a fool, don’t you? Caxon told me another one of those charlatans has come and I—” Mr. Meecher stopped speaking, letting the silence fall over the room.
The wooden floor creaked underneath each step as he approached her.
“He’s in this room, then, isn’t he?” he whispered, turning from his frightened wife to the back of the room. Dr. Whitcraft silently shrank deeper into the cupboard.
Mr. Meecher crept toward the cupboard door like a cat burglar on tiptoe. Dr. Whitcraft groaned at his approach, straightening his glasses while trying to breathe. Certainly this predicament could be diffused with logic, he told himself.
Mrs. Meecher let out a cry when her husband reached for the handle, but he paused, noticing the engaged hook and eye. Licking his lips, he growled with renewed certainty, and released it with the flick of his forefinger and thumb.
All the air seemed to leave the room when the door swung open, exposing a rigid Dr. Whitcraft. Attempting to maintain a façade of self-righteous certainty, the doctor croaked, “Well, good afternoon Mr. Meecher. I am Dr. William Whitcraft. I must admit, sir, this is an awkward encounter, but I assure you that my purpose here is one of purely the most professional—”
The blow was instant. Dr. Whitcraft collapsed backwards into the cupboard like an umbrella snapped shut. The good doctor’s hat, however, remained exactly where his head had been, hovering frozen as if it too had been struck dumb by the clenched fist still waving with rage.
Mrs. Meecher shrieked.
Mr. Meecher shouted, “Get up, get up you…you proprietor of lies! Have you had your hands on her? Stand up and answer like a man!”
At that instant, an earsplitting shriek came from the parlor’s doorway, followed by a pale-blue flash of fabric and lace.
“What have you done?” the voice screeched. Mr. Meecher was blown aside by the blur sailing into the cupboard. It proceeded to pepper the doctor’s face with kisses.
Stunned, Mr. Meecher looked first at his wife and then at Mr. Caxon, who had since entered the room. “Caxon, who is this woman?”
“I haven’t the faintest notion, sir. She’s been lingering out on the stoop, but got past me when the commotion began. I assumed she was waiting for the doctor to finish his business.”
Dr. Whitcraft managed to sit up and feel for his spectacles, which were crumpled to the left side of his face. “Mrs. Pannade. Really.”
“Don’t trouble yourself, my darling,” she purred into his ear. She whipped around and screamed, “What the hell have you done to him?” Her manner was beyond any normal feminine tenor, and her eyes seemed to spin with an otherworldly possession.
This disturbing display gave even the livid Mr. Meecher pause. He stepped away, unfolding his fist into a flattened palm, as if hoping to relegate this unpleasant sight back in to the cupboard from which it came. “I don’t know what this is,” he muttered to no one in particular.
Just then, Constable Duffart passed through the double doors, looking more perplexed than anyone. “Uh, excuse me,” he said to the crowd. “I have reason to believe that an individual of interest to the law has taken shelter in this house.”
At that, Mrs. Pannade dropped all parts of Dr. Whitcraft, jumped to her feet, and made a mad dash for the open back hall door.
As the officer jumped forward in pursuit of his claim, he caught his large black boot on the leg of the couch. His tumble was not simple, but rather a complicated dance of many phases. Every observer in the room was certain that he would manage to catch himself and recover, but alas, they were to be disappointed. He sailed over the couch, crashed through a mahogany side table, and ricocheted off of the highboy, toppling its cornice. His flailing arm took out a silver service for twelve, which had been prominently displayed on a wall shelf. Forward momentum carried him down, down until he slid along the hardwood before landing under the pianoforte. And there he lay like a blue whale blowing and beached, helpless save for his confused moan.
Everyone was aghast.
“Someone get a doctor!” Mrs. Meecher screamed, frozen in her place.
At that, all heads turned to the cupboard, where Dr. Whitcraft remained. He placed his hands on the floor and crawled out into the chaos of the room, righting himself silently. He straightened, gave the bottom of his waistcoat an authoritative tug, and brushed the dust off of his frockcoat. His right eye had swollen into a magenta wink, but nevertheless he cleared his throat, strode across the room, and commenced an examination of his newest patient.
****
Dr. Whitcraft had nearly mastered the art of perceiving the world with only one eye. Walking presented a challenge, and descending the stairs seemed nearly impossible, but regardless, he had a full schedule today and a responsibility to his suffering patients. He pondered the viability of doing the maneuver in his lessened condition when he heard the distinctive soft sound of a woman’s sobs coming from downstairs. He stopped and listened, fearful that Mrs. Pannade might be waiting to accost him in the reception area.
He crept down the remaining stairs, wondering if another officer had been assigned to follow her now that Constable Duffart had broken his clavicle. Bracing himself for a confrontation, he cracked open the door and was instead much relieved to discover a distraught Miss Faffle heaving great sobs atop her desk.
“Miss Faffle?” he whispered. “My heavens. Is there anything wrong?”
She lifted her head, revealing a face streaked with tears. “Oh, doctor.” She stood up and threw her arms around him, burying her face in his shoulder.
Dr. Whitcraft stood stiff as she clung to him, his remaining eye wide and searching. “Miss Faffle, I’m sure—”
“Oh Dr. Whitcraft! I have…I…have…ruined my…life,” she gasped in spurts, becoming more agitated with each syllable.
He wanted to writhe out of her grasp and escape back up his stairs, but chivalry dictated otherwise. He straightened himself, gripped her by the upper arms and peeled her away from his chest. “Now I am certain that you have not ruined your life. What nonsense are you spouting?”
“He t-told me he would marry me. He promised he would.”
Dr. Whitcraft cringed. The thought of Miss Faffle’s love life was horrific enough, but, oh good Lord, had there been some intrigue with that filthy greengrocer? Had that dreadful man gone and debauched this poor girl?
“All right then. It’s all right. Let’s have a seat.” He led her to one of the chairs, shaking his head, angry at himself. He was the only legitimate male figure left in this girl’s life, and should have thought to warn her about the dark nature of men—especially that man.
He swung his pocket watch into his palm. In less than five minutes, this room would be filled with hysterical women, and his assistant was draped over a chair in the depths of despondency. He had palpitation
s at the very thought of it.
She looked up at him with watery brown eyes. “He told me he would marry me, but now… I heard there’s another girl. Oh, he promised me!”
“Well, that is just, just dreadful. I wish there was something I could do.” He glanced at the front door.
She sobbed in response to his kind words, dropping her face into her hands and bobbing up and down while the distressed doctor watched in silence. Then, all at once, she sat up. “You! You could go talk to him. Tell him how much I love him, and, even if there’s someone else, I don’t care. I’ll be his wife. Please, my mother will throw me out if she discovers.”
Dr. Whitcraft felt as if his blood were being drained from his body. Now was he to be a mender of broken hearts? What on earth could he possibly say to that terrible man? Give him a lecture about the nature of polite society, and his responsibilities to this young woman with whom he had apparently taken liberties?
As his first patient climbed the stairs, he would have promised Miss Faffle the moon and the stars if it would make her take her place behind her desk.
“Yes. Of course, I’ll speak to him. I’d be happy to.”
“Oh, thank you. Thank you!” She leaped up and threw her arms around his shoulders, squeezing him with the force of an executioner’s noose.
“Good morning, Dr. Whitcraft. I’m right on time. I hope I’m not interrupting anything,” the fur-draped woman drawled. She made herself comfortable taxing one of his chairs.
“Good morning, Mrs. Princod. Just a little office business. I’ll, uh, be right with you, then.” He pulled Miss Faffle back to her desk and whispered, “Now, I can’t promise anything, you know. I don’t want you to get your hopes up.”
“Oh yes. Thank you, doctor, I understand.” She wiped the tears from her cheeks, took a determined breath and picked up his schedule for the day.
Relieved, he turned to Mrs. Princod. “Shall we?”
****
The restaurant was full, the tablecloths starched, silver-domed trolleys rattled by, and the tinkling crystal goblets punctuated the muted and appropriate conversation.
“What would the lady care for this evening?” a balding middle-aged waiter asked Miss Reave.
She squirmed in her chair and wore a superior grin on her lips. “I will have the fricandeau à l’oseille, if you please.”
“An excellent choice.” The waiter took the bill of fare from her hands. With an air of indifference only seen in restaurants such as this, he turned to Dr. Whitcraft. “And you, sir?”
“The game bird, roasted if you please. And please bring us a bottle of white wine. I’ll trust your selection.”
“Ah yes.” The waiter’s bland manner abruptly changed into one of grateful deference. Apparently the gesture with the wine meant a great deal to the man. He just hoped it wouldn’t cost him the day’s wages.
He reached across the table and grasped Miss Reave’s hand. How lovely she looked this evening, in the candlelight. She flashed him a fervent smile, but spun back round to continue her study of the other patrons.
“Mr. Grannows ordered the lobster, can you see? I’m sure that’s the most expensive thing they have here. How he can possibly afford that on his solicitor’s salary, I don’t know. His wife is so shabbily dressed, maybe he saves money on her clothes. Oh, I can’t wait to tell Sarah that you took me here.”
“Well, I’m just glad to be here with you tonight. I’m actually going to break my streak and have a glass of wine. What do you think about that? Oh, it has been such a week.”
“Your eye is looking better, poor dear.” She leaned across the table and reached under his glasses, touching the tender shaded skin beneath his eye. “I should kiss it and make it better.”
He reached for her hand, and slid it down across his lips. After a small kiss, she pulled her hand away, blushing.
He took a breath, and sighed. “I haven’t even told you about today’s drama.”
“Not that horrible woman. William you can’t—”
“No, no,” he said, wincing. “Good Lord, let’s not even breathe her name here, please.” The very mention of his ex-patient made him glance around the room, certain she was observing them from behind a potted plant. “No, it was Miss Faffle. Oh, she was in a dreadful state.”
“What was the matter with her?” Miss Reave asked, looking at her fork.
“Well, it’s inappropriate even to discuss this with you, but it seems her beau,” he paused and dropped his voice to a whisper. “Apparently he has taken some liberties with her.”
“Really?” Miss Reave looked up at once, but after a moment’s reflection, she wrinkled her nose. “With Miss Faffle? How did you find out?”
“Oh, you should have seen her. She was utterly distraught this morning and told me so. And now the man has become hesitant about marriage.”
“She told you? Oh, the silly fool.”
“She seems to be under the impression that I can talk to him. Get him to reconsider.”
“Oh, you should do no such thing. You need to get rid of her, William. Turn her out!”
“Well, my goodness,” he whispered.
“William, you’re a physician. People trust you! You can’t have some tainted young woman sitting there in your office representing you. It won’t be long before the whole town knows of her exploits. What will your society women think, then? They certainly won’t want her escorting them into your examination room.”
Dr. Whitcraft was at a loss. He had never considered that aspect of the problem.
“They don’t travel in the same circles. I can’t believe word would get out.”
“Oh, it does. You wouldn’t believe how fast. Papa had to dismiss my first governess when I was a baby. She got mixed up in some intrigue with an Irish man, and everyone found out about it and Papa was humiliated. I’m telling you, this could dampen all of the excitement surrounding your work, and I for one can’t sit back and let your misplaced feelings of compassion for this girl ruin your practice.”
The waiter approached, carrying a dusty bottle of wine. Miss Reave widened her eyes with a slight nod, a sure signal that the discussion of this topic must cease at once. The waiter did not notice, and began a rather dramatic performance of uncorking the wine.
When he poured, Miss Reave drawled, “Sir, I seem to have misplaced my fork. Isn’t that silly? Could you bring me another?” Her smile was sugary-sweet.
“Oh, why of course, Miss,” he replied, charmed.
He bowed at the pair and then ducked by Dr. Whitcraft’s side. “Sir, a Mrs. Anile in the back of the restaurant is asking that I bring the money you are holding for her. She is in a bit of a jam.”
Dr. Whitcraft glanced at Miss Reave. “Is the woman at cards?”
“Yes, sir,” he whispered. “She’s had a bad run at Faro and now owes a rather surprising sum to our scullion.”
Dr. Whitcraft sighed and reached for his wallet, removing two half-pound notes. He handed them to the waiter, who bowed again before scurrying away.
****
The waiter hastened through the restaurant, sailing down two steps to the lower dining room toward the small table all the way in the back. He approached his most peculiar customer of the evening, hoping she would finally be ready to order. Only the feathered tip of her elaborate hat could be seen from behind the large, opened bill of fare, as if an exotic bird were nesting at this table for one.
“Are you ready to order, madam?”
Mrs. Pannade peeked out, not at the waiter, but at some distraction across the room. “Look at how she throws her head back like that. She’s just so affected,” she seethed.
The waiter wrinkled his brow. “I can come back if…”
“No. I’ll take a bottle of wine. Whatever that short man with the spectacles over there ordered. And bring me the plovers’ eggs in aspic jelly. Yes, that will be lovely.”
“Very good, madam.” The waiter reached for the bill of fare, but she whisked it out of his grasp
.
“No, no…I’ll keep it. In case I want to order something else.” She offered a prim smile and shadowed her face behind it, continuing her surveillance.
The waiter glanced over his shoulder at the couple, who appeared to be the object of this woman’s attention, and suddenly remembered the fork. He smiled and hastened toward the kitchen.
Chapter Fourteen
The back door slipped out of Mrs. Minnock’s hand, bounced up and clattered back into its jamb.
“Oh, I’d forgotten how peaceful it is out here,” Dr. Whitcraft said. The lush ivy crawled over the wrought-iron fence and a single linden grew tall from the center of the tiny courtyard. It spread like a leafy parasol, protection against all of the noises and pollution of London.
“Why don’t we come out here more often?” he asked.
“I don’t know, really.” She sat on the bench and watched how he balanced himself on the wooden swing hanging from the linden. “Are you going to tell me that you actually went and spoke to that man?”
“Oh, I did indeed.” He sighed, swaying lightly.
She shook her head, making a tsk, tsk sound. “Oh, Dr. Whitcraft, that was so ill-advised.”
“But I had to do something, Mrs. Minnock. Miss Faffle’s mother discovered the intrigue and has cast her out like dirty dishwater. She can’t continue staying with her friend forever. I had to at least try.”
“What the devil was there to even say to the man?”
“I don’t know, I don’t know. I’d rehearsed a speech in my office about chivalry and the honor of young ladies…I wanted to assure him about Miss Faffle’s character, something like that.” The branches sagged as he planted his feet.
“Tell me what happened.” She stretched her arms out behind her, waiting in earnest for what was sure to be a compelling story.
Dr. Whitcraft’s frown turned under. “The man’s shop was more dreadful than I ever could’ve imagined. I’ve walked past it dozens of times, but frankly the window looked so cloudy, I’ve always suspected I should find my produce elsewhere. I don’t suppose you’ve ever been in there?”
The Five Step Plan Page 12