"The examination is simple enough," he said rea.s.suringly. "I trust you've experienced one before?"

I could only nod.

"I will try not to embarra.s.s you unduly. But you understand, I do need to know these things to treat you effectively."

His gaze did not waver. I felt imprisoned by it.

"I understand," I managed.

"Good." He went to the door and called out for the girl, who came hurrying in. He said, "Irene will a.s.sist you. Please undress to your chemise. There's a screen just over there-" He pointed beyond the wooden cabinet and chairs, and I saw a red-and-black-lacquered j.a.panese screen.

He rose and went to the table that served as his desk, turning his back to me, and I slowly went behind the screen and let Irene help me. When I was ready, she gave me a small smile and left again. I crossed my arms protectively over my chest when I came out from behind the screen, clad only in my chemise. He was waiting by the table, his suit coat off, his shirtsleeves rolled up to reveal his bare forearms. The sight of that, along with the tangle of shining instruments gleaming beside him, made me hesitate, but he nodded rea.s.suringly and gestured to the examination table. "Please," he said, and as I stepped onto a small stool and sat gingerly on the edge of the table, he took up the first of his instruments.

Notes from the Journal of Victor Leonard Seth Observation 38 Diagnosis: Hysteria (Neurasthenia?), possible Uterine Monomania January 14, 1885 Mrs. C., thirty years old, consulted me for general hysteria. Married for four years, subject to hysterical bouts occasionally before then but with increasing attacks, especially in the last three years, probably related to an inability to conceive, though she has normal menstrual cycles. Has consulted ten doctors during this time, with diagnoses ranging from uterine monomania to displaced ovaries. Took water cure with mixed results. Laudanum at night (possibly more often) for the last year. According to her husband, she has developed an increased reliance on it, which resulted in an overdosage the night before, producing a deep, comalike sleep lasting fifteen hours.

Mrs. C. received an average education, comes from a wealthy and socially prominent family. Mother died from undisclosed causes when Mrs. C. was ten. Normal childhood. No siblings. Father is still alive. She is rather thin, of average height and normal intellect. Dark hair, face without color, white skin, with deep circles beneath her eyes belying her claim that she sleeps often and for long periods.

Mrs. C. is not completely forthcoming regarding her present medical condition, though she seems to desire help. She complains of a frequent inability to breathe, which no amount of relaxation or loosening of corset stays seems to relieve. Often has the sense of something blocking her throat-"suffocation," as she calls it. Complains of restlessness and the inability to experience joy or even contentment, along with frequent irritation and agitation that grows into "fits" during which she feels unable to control her emotions.

Present Condition:Temperature 99F. Pulse 74, regular. Tongue slightly coated, whitish color. Thoracic and abdominal examinations revealed nothing abnormal. She complained of no tenderness or pain, yet I very easily created a painful spot beneath the xiphoid process and a corresponding one on the back by insisting she would feel such. Having thus established that the patient was suggestible, I did the customary v.a.g.i.n.al examination.

There was no ovary pain. v.a.g.i.n.a has normal sensitivity on both sides, with no evidence of abnormalities in coloration or tissue. l.a.b.i.a majora and minora are of normal sensitivity. c.l.i.toris insensitive when not erect but becomes acutely sensitive during erection, which can be produced easily, with pleasant sensations, flushed cheeks and throat, and rapid breathing. Having determined that she had normal sensitivity, I then told her that cases of her type often came accompanied with numbness on the left side of the v.a.g.i.n.a and the corresponding side of the l.a.b.i.a majora. I explored her sensitivity again and found a well-characterized hemianesthesia at both places.

Mrs. C. suffers from the usual malady of her cla.s.s: spoiled, self-indulgent ennui, easily managed. Since she ap- pears to be suggestible, I told her I thought she would benefit from hypnosis. She was not enthusiastic about the suggested treatment, and in fact seemed wary. When I called in her husband, he was highly opposed to the treatment, calling it "little better than phrenology." I a.s.sured him that the French were embracing the science, but he was not rea.s.sured. "We came here for real medicine, Doctor, not c.u.mberlandism." I told him that I was highly trained, but he did not relax until I told him I would be combining the hypnosis with electrotherapy treatments, and that-as with most other patients of Mrs. C.'s type-I expected a radical improvement in his wife's temperament in a short period of time.

The electrotherapy will soothe them both; they believe in it. It's far better that I establish credibilite in Mrs. C. es- pecially, than tell her that I believe hypnosis can achieve results without the use of electrotherapy. Bernheim's maxim! Suggestion is everything.

I expect Mrs. C.'s results to be no different from those of my last several patients. A few visits, and she will be gone from my office completely, restored to her usual uncomplaining, parasitic existence. Though her husband desires discretion, they will both laud my accomplishments and recommend me to another bored invalid. These are the times I begin to despise the turn my practice has taken. Though I am adequately rewarded financially, these women only provide fodder for my critics and keep me from pursuing real knowledge.

I cannot turn my back on the money, but of late, it becomes wearying, and I must ask myself again: Is it possible for true science to exist and flourish in these conditions? I confess I despair of it.

Chapter 5.

When we left Seth's office, I saw hope in William's eyes again, and I had to confess that I felt it myself. I determined not to-I knew already how this would end, the terrible disappointment, the paralyzing despair-but it was there nonetheless. Here was a treatment we had not tried, and Dr. Seth was a neurologist, a word I'd never heard before but which now sounded scientific and important. Despite my distrust of him, I wanted to be well. I wanted to believe that this time might work. I wanted it more than I could remember wanting anything. To see love in William's eyes again, instead of concern and despair, to ease my own sense of emptiness. . . . It was as William said to me: I had been willing to risk surgery to feel those things once before. I could do no less now.

So I didn't disagree with William when he said to me later, "I trust him, Lucy." His voice was full of yearning, as if he needed my rea.s.surance. "Don't you? I believe this might just work."

"Neurology is a new science, as you said. There have been such advances-"

"Yes, there have been, haven't there?" he said eagerly. "It's impossible for one to keep up on all the different new theories."

"He's just come from Leipzig."

"Yes. Yes, he has. And this hypnotism, it's not the same as mesmerism at all."

"So he's said."

William looked satisfied. "I believe him, Lucy. I do. I think we're in good hands now."

"Of course we are," I said to him, wanting it to be true. "I'm quite sure we are."

It wasn't until the next morning that I realized how much I wanted to believe my own words.

I went downstairs to find my father breakfasting in the dining room. It was so odd to see him there that I stopped in surprise.

"Papa! What brings you here this morning?"

He was helping himself to eggs and toast from the sideboard while Moira hovered nervously behind. He glanced up when I entered, and his gaze swept me from head to toe. His thick mustache quivered; he frowned. My hand went reflexively to my hair; I forced myself to lower it.

"Lucy, my dear. How late you've slept this morning."

"Late? Why, it's only ten."

"The best of the day is long gone."

"Then you've missed it as well. You're only just now helping yourself to breakfast."

"This would be my lunch, since Cook cannot bring herself to roast a joint before noon."

I forced myself to smile. "You should have told me you would be here this morning. I could have instructed her to make something to your taste."

"I hardly need you to announce my presence in my own house," he said, turning from the sideboard. He went to the long mahogany table and seated himself at the end, William's usual place. "And I doubt you could have persuaded her to change her routine, in any case."

I hurried to the sideboard, where ham swam in juices already gelling into grease, and the white of the eggs was curling at the edges. I turned from both of those and took a piece of cold toast. Thankfully, the coffee was still hot.

My father was busily downing his breakfast, seemingly oblivious to cold eggs and greasy ham, but when I sat down, he gestured to his plate.

"Can't you do something about this, Lucy? G.o.d knows we pay that woman enough. You'd think she could make sure the food is hot, if nothing else."

"As you said, it's quite late," I told him. I tried to b.u.t.ter my toast; it crumbled beneath my knife, and because I was not the least bit hungry, I left it on my plate.

"It's no excuse. You should not let them be so lazy." He abandoned his breakfast to lean back in his chair. He was growing heavy, I noticed. His vest was pulling at the seams.

"You look well, Papa. Life at the club agrees with you."

"It suits me," he said. He poured another cup of coffee. "It's always clean there. Which reminds me-"

"The coffee's hot, at least." It was a futile attempt to distract him from what I knew must be coming.

"A man should have his comforts, Lucy. An oasis of peace from the world. When your mother was alive, I had that."

I looked down at the bits of toast on my plate, the nearly white lumps of b.u.t.ter.

"You should do more to help William, my dear. This house should be his castle, at least until he builds his real one." Papa chuckled. "Ah, I see that look on your face. I told William you'd like the idea. If you're anything like your mother, William will be looking at piles of bills. Grecian urns, stained gla.s.s . . . I hope to G.o.d you've inherited her taste."

I looked at the thick draperies, the heavy candlesticks on the mantel, turned and gilded, the endless display of gold and porcelain, and the suffocation started in my chest again. I could only murmur, "Yes."

"He deserves to be a king in his own house. The way I was until your mother died. That was one thing she was good at, anyway. If I wanted a roast at three in the morning, and a cook refused, she was gone by daylight. None of this tantrum-throwing nonsense. Your mother knew how to handle servants."

"I know, Papa. You've said so many times before."

"Pity you haven't retained her genius for running a household. You're too sensitive, Lucy. You must be more a.s.sertive."

"So you've said."

"If you hadn't spent so much time painting flowers and those silly little scenes-"

"Italian ruins."

"Ah yes." He nodded. "Thank G.o.d you've outgrown that. And the poetry-reams of wretched verse, I must say. I suppose I've that silly school to thank for all that, don't I? The Misses Graham, wasn't it? You'd think they could teach a girl her place in the world."

"Yes, Papa."

"Well, that's enough of that. You've taken my point, I a.s.sume?"

"Yes, Papa."

"Good. You make him happy, Lucy, or you'll regret it, that's all. Take my advice. Be a wife to your husband. If you make his world a comfortable one, that'll go a long way toward calming your nerves. William tells me he's been staying at the office late. I saw him at the lunch counter just yesterday, so I know he's not coming home then either. You will lose him, Lucy, mark my words, if you don't do something, and then where will you be? Back on my charity, that's where. And I can't live forever, you know."

"Yes, of course. Such a pity."

He frowned again and eyed me. "Yes, well . . . I'll tell you why I came over this morning. William tells me you've been ill. You do look peaked, but perhaps that's just your gown. You should not let yourself look so pale. You should not wear brown, I think. You're a pretty thing, Lucy, when you've a mind to be."

"I'll change after breakfast."

He nodded with satisfaction, and I looked away. His smug expression, his perfectly trimmed dark hair that was only now beginning to turn gray, his aged face that showed hardly a wrinkle-why should he be so young-looking, so arrogantly sure, so vibrant? It was as if he sucked the life from this room, from me.

"It's something more than your dress, I think, isn't it?" he asked. "What are you pining for now, Lucy? Music lessons? Travel?"

"No. There's nothing."

"I've seen that look in your eyes before. Go see another doctor, if you must. I've a friend in Philadelphia who tells me-"

"I am seeing another doctor," I blurted.

He looked surprised. "You are?"

I wasn't sure why I'd told him. To stop his diatribe, if nothing else, to end the ceaseless run of those words, their painful repet.i.tion. But now that I'd said it, I wished I hadn't. Reluctantly, I said, "William made the appointment. I've another one next week."

"Oh. Good. That's very good, in fact. Who is this man?"

There was no point in lying to him. He would find out, as he found out everything. "Just a doctor," I said. "On Broadway."

"On Broadway, eh? I hope he's discreet."

"I've no doubt of it."

"What's his name?"

I spoke as quietly as I could, hoping he would not really hear the name, would not really pursue it. "Dr. Seth."

My father had excellent hearing. "Seth? Seth? I've heard that name before, haven't I? Seth . . . Good G.o.d, Lucy, you don't mean Victor Seth?"

"Why-why, yes."

"What in G.o.d's name is William thinking?"

"He specializes in treatments for women, Papa."

"In cheating women, you mean."

My hand curled tightly around my cup. "I don't know what you mean."

"His own colleagues disparage him. Even that Dr. Moore of yours says he's a fraud. A dangerous one, no less, with all his talk of mesmerism and such."

"Hypnotism," I said softly.

"What? What did you say?"

"Hypnotism."

"Hypnotism?" Papa visibly struggled with his outrage. "Hypnotism?"

"And electrotherapy."

"Electrotherapy? With wires and such?"

"I suppose so."

"Electricity?"

"Ella Baldwin has nothing but praise for it. I understand it can be quite helpful."

"Helpful? I suppose so, if you've a mind to be a lamp. What's next? Spiritualism?"

I could not meet his gaze. "Now, really, Papa, how would talking to the dead possibly help me?"

He was quiet. When I looked at him, his lips were thin, his nostrils white. "Good G.o.d, Lucy, how can you not see the man's a fraud? Listen to your own doctor. Moore says he's irresponsible. That this is some kind of occult nonsense."

"Perhaps because it's a new science."