Don't Look Back Read online

  “I see.” The young man glanced thoughtfully at her reticule. “In advance, as it were?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  He gave her a winning smile. “Why don’t you have a seat in the reception room and I will have a look at the appointment book. It may be possible to work you in this afternoon.”

  “I cannot tell you how grateful I am for your consideration.”

  The secretary ushered her into a room across the hall and disappeared. Lavinia sat down, removed her bonnet, and surveyed her surroundings with professional interest.

  She was accustomed to the soothing, calming quality that most practitioners of mesmerism sought to effect in their reception rooms. But Dr. Darfield’s decorator had chosen a more dramatic theme.

  The walls were covered with large murals depicting scenes from a Roman bath. Admirably painted classical columns framed tableaux of voluptuous, scantily draped ladies disporting themselves in the waters.

  There were a number of full-size statues standing in the corners of the room. She recognized them as reproductions, but they were all very nicely modeled figures of nude Greek and Roman gods. Upon closer inspection she saw that they were extremely well-endowed gods. Not unlike some of the statuary that she had sold quite profitably during her sojourn in Italy, she thought.

  Scenes of lovers entwined in various graphic poses were depicted on the red-figure Greek vases that flanked the windows.

  There always seemed to be an inexhaustible demand for naked Greek and Roman gods in the antiquities business, but she was somewhat startled to see such figures here in a mesmerist’s waiting room.

  A low, masculine voice drew her attention to the small group of people in the corner. Three ladies, presumably patients, were gathered around a young man who, if anything, was even more handsome than the secretary. He read to the ladies from a leather-bound volume.

  Lavinia recognized the lines. They were from one of Shakespeare’s more sensual sonnets. Pleased with the prospect of listening to some well-read poetry, she collected her skirts, preparing to rise and move to another chair, one that was closer to the young man with the book.

  At that moment, the door of the waiting room opened again. The blond secretary motioned to Lavinia.

  “Dr. Darfield will see you now,” he said in a low voice.

  “Excellent.” Already out of her chair, she changed direction and went through the door into the hall.

  The secretary closed the door softly and inclined his head toward the staircase.

  “Dr. Darfield’s treatment rooms are on the floor above,” he said. “If you will follow me I will show you.”

  “Thank you.”

  He gave her a charming smile. “But I must ask that you pay the fee in advance.”

  “Yes, of course.” She opened her reticule.

  The business transaction was completed with stunning efficiency. When it was finished, the secretary escorted her up the stairs and down a hall. He opened a door and bowed her into the chamber.

  “Please be seated in the treatment chair. Dr. Darfield will be with you shortly.”

  She went through the opening and found herself in a dimly lit room. Heavy drapes were drawn across the window. A single candle burned on a table. The air was scented with fragrant incense.

  The door closed quietly behind her. When her eyes were adjusted to the low illumination, she saw a large, padded chair with an unusual, hinged footrest and wide arms in the center of the room. A strange-looking mechanical device with a hand crank sat on a small, wheeled cart.

  She put her bonnet aside and went forward to sit down on the padded chair. It proved to be quite comfortable, even with the footrest down.

  The door opened just as she was bending over to see how the footrest worked.

  “Mrs. Lake? I am Dr. Darfield.”

  “Oh.” She sat up quickly at the sound of the deep, resonant voice.

  A tall, broad-shouldered man dressed in exotically patterned blue robes stood in the doorway. The attire marked him as a true student of Mesmer, she thought. She had read accounts written by persons who had been privileged to observe the great man at work. According to them, Mesmer had favored flowing robes, subdued lighting, and background music played by handsome young men. Several of the observers had also taken note of the large numbers of women who had flocked to Mesmer’s rooms for treatments, she recalled.

  Darfield’s brown hair was cut in a fashionable style that set off his deep, penetrating eyes and showed his excellent profile to perfection. He was not quite so handsome as his assistants, she decided, but he was a good deal more interesting, probably because he was not as young as his employees. It occurred to her that she had reached the age when a gentleman with some crinkles at the corners of his eyes and some experience of the world on his face was vastly more intriguing than a smooth-faced younger man.

  She gave him what she hoped was a suitably grateful smile, the sort of smile a lady on the brink of a fit of female hysteria might give her medical practitioner.

  “It was kind of you to see me on such short notice,” she said.

  Dr. Darfield walked into the chamber and closed the door. “My secretary tells me that your nerves are in very bad condition. Something of an emergency, I collect.”

  “Yes, I have been under considerable strain lately and I fear my nerves have not borne up well. I do hope you will be able to relieve me of some of my tension and anxiety.”

  “I will be happy to do what I can.” Darfield picked up the single taper and carried it across the room to where she sat. “May I ask how you learned of my practice?”

  “I saw your advertisement in a newspaper,” she said, not wanting to mention Mrs. Rushton’s name.

  “I see.” He sat down in a wooden chair across from her, his knees very close to her own. He looked at her across the flame of the candle. In the shadows his eyes were even more penetrating. “You were not referred by one of my other clients, then?”

  “No.”

  “Very well. In that case perhaps I should explain a bit about my therapy. It is necessary that you relax and gaze directly at the flame.”

  She had no intention of allowing him to hypnotize her. In point of fact, she was not a good subject, according to her parents, who had run some experiments. But she had been an expert practitioner at one time and she certainly knew what a trance looked like in others.

  A feigned trance would provide her with an opportunity to observe Dr. Darfield at work. Even if it transpired that it provided no particular insight into her investigation, it was always interesting to observe another professional in the field.

  “A lady’s nerves are delicate, in keeping with the gentle, refined sensibilities that nature has bestowed upon her.” Dr. Darfield’s voice was low and deep, with a melodious quality that could have taken him far in the theater. “This is especially true in widows such as yourself, who are deprived of the normal attentions of a husband.”

  She nodded politely and tried to conceal her impatience. The assumption that nervous disorders in women, together with myriad other vague symptoms classified under the label of female hysteria, were due to a lack of regular, energetic sexual congress was common among members of the medical profession. It was, she knew, a very ancient and well-documented tenet.

  “The symptoms of anxiety, agitation, melancholia, and other nervous conditions in ladies are expelled from the body when the patient undergoes a crisis in the course of a treatment,” Darfield explained.

  “Crisis?”

  “Yes. In medical terms it is known as an hysterical paroxysm.”

  “I have heard the term,” she said.

  That much was true, but for the first time she wondered if her scheme to feign an entranced state might have some drawbacks. She had never actually witnessed a subject in the throes of an hysterical paroxysm and therefore was uncertain how to simulate a realistic crisis.

  The problem was that there were vast differences among practitioners of mesmerism when it came
to styles and methods. She had learned her techniques from her parents, who had not put much stock in the business of inducing paroxysms. Her father had often said that the response, while dramatic, was generally a short-lived cure at best.

  “The hysterical paroxysm relieves the congestion in the flow of the waves of the body’s natural magnetic fluids,” Dr. Darfield continued in his deep voice. “There is no cause for concern. It produces what my patients assure me is a very pleasant convulsion followed by an extremely tranquil effect on the senses. Mesmer and many learned doctors believe the crisis to be highly efficacious.”

  “I see.”

  “Now, then, to obtain the full effect of the process, you must be as comfortable as possible.”

  He leaned toward her and grasped a small lever she had not noticed in the side of the chair. When he pulled it forward, the footrest promptly elevated. She was marveling at that clever result when she noticed that Darfield had risen and moved to stand behind her.

  She heard another lever shift and simultaneously the rear section of the chair went back by several degrees.

  She suddenly found herself in a partially reclining position. It was somewhat disconcerting, she decided, but on the whole, quite comfortable. It also altered the angle of her gaze to show her the ceiling. For the first time she noticed that it had been decorated with a scene depicting a twilight sky complete with wispy pink clouds and a scattering of stars.

  “A most unusual chair,” she said.

  “I designed it myself.”

  Dr. Darfield came back around to the side of the chair. He droned on pleasantly in her ear as he continued to discuss the delicate nature of the female constitution and how unnatural it was for an adult lady to be unable to experience healthy, invigorating marital relations on a regular basis. He explained that many married women also suffered from similar symptoms due to a lack of proper attention from their husbands. She recognized the quiet, authoritative tone that was used to induce a light trance and tried to compose her expression appropriately.

  “Please watch the flame now,” he said in a soft but very firm voice.

  He held the candle so that she could see it and began to inscribe a slow circle in the air with it.

  “Think of that most delicate and tender region of the female form,” Darfield murmured. “That is where the congestion that causes nervous disorders occurs in ladies. I must relieve that tight, full feeling in order for you to find relief.”

  She knew that the little blaze was meant to concentrate her attention. Politely, she followed it with her eyes.

  Darfield moved the taper in a slow, steady pattern. Behind the glow of the flame he watched her with riveting intensity.

  “You will abandon yourself to my healing touch, Mrs. Lake.” His voice, still mellifluous, grew more authoritative. He leaned over the chair, the folds of his robes sweeping lightly against her arm.

  “I am going to put down the candle now.” He did not take his eyes off her as he set the taper on a nearby stand. “You will close your eyes and be guided by my voice and my touch.”

  Obediently, she lowered her lashes. But she could not resist peeking.

  “Do not think about anything else except the unrelieved congestion in that delicate, exquisitely sensitive portion of your body.” Darfield reached out and drew the cart on which the mechanical apparatus stood toward Lavinia’s chair. “Feel the blockage and the resulting tension that has gathered there. Do not repress it. Allow it to swell and build. Soon I will release you from the tight, hot sensation that is enfeebling your nerves.”

  Through her lashes she watched him pick up a small unguent jar and remove the stopper. A delightful fragrance wafted through the air. Some sort of flower-scented oil, she decided.

  “I have invented an ingenious device that has allowed me to improve greatly upon the traditional techniques of mesmeric therapy for the treatment of female hysteria,” Darfield said. “It is a highly effective and extremely efficient aid for relieving the congestion in the lower body, as you will discover.”

  I’m getting a bad feeling about this, Lavinia thought.

  Darfield reached down and tugged on yet another chair lever. The footrest promptly divided into two sections and drew apart. She froze when she realized that the device had separated her legs by a space of several inches. It was almost as if she was astride a horse.

  Alarm shot through her. She knew that her limbs were still modestly covered to her ankles by the skirts of her gown, but the position left her feeling decidedly awkward.

  He’s a trained practitioner, she reminded herself. A professional who gives these treatments to ladies on a regular basis. His clients think very highly of him.

  For the first time she wondered just how far she wanted to take her role of patient.

  Dr. Darfield rolled the narrow cart forward and positioned it between her feet. Through the veil of her lashes she saw that there was a soft-looking little brush attached to the end of a long metal arm that extended from the mechanical device. Darfield turned the hand crank a few times, apparently testing to ensure that it moved smoothly.

  The long metal arm with the small brush spun rapidly when he worked the crank.

  “I will now employ my invention to control the waves of animal magnetism in your body,” Darfield said. “Think of those magnetic waves as a cascade of rushing water that must burst through a dam before falling into a calm, tranquil pool. Think of this medical device as the tool that will release that inner flood. Abandon yourself to the therapy, madam. You are in the hands of a doctor.”

  He grasped the hem of her skirts with one hand and started to ease them up toward her knees. With his other hand he pushed the little cart with the mechanical device forward between her legs. She understood now just where he intended to apply the whirling brush in order to relieve her so-called congestion.

  “Dr. Darfield. Stop at once.” She sat bolt upright, snapped her legs together, and bounded up out of the chair. “That is quite enough.”

  She whirled around to face him and found him watching her with an expression of grave concern.

  “Calm yourself, madam. Your nerves are, indeed, very highly strung.”

  “They shall have to remain that way, I’m afraid. I do not care for your methods, sir. I have no intention of allowing you to treat me with that odd mechanical device.”

  “Madam, I assure you that my methods are firmly rooted in sound modern science and centuries of medical practice. Why, every notable man of medicine from the great Galen of Pergamum to the esteemed Culpeper himself has advised vigorous massage of that region of the female anatomy for the relief of hysteria and nervous disorders.”

  “A rather intimate form of massage, in my opinion.”

  He was clearly affronted. “I will have you know that there is absolutely nothing controversial about my therapies. The only thing I have done is to improve upon the old-fashioned manual techniques that have long been in use by doctors. This modern mechanical device affords my patients a far more efficient form of treatment.”

  “Efficiency is hardly the point here.”

  “It bloody well is the point if you’re trying to make a decent living in this business.” His mouth thinned. “I’ll have you know that before I perfected my device, some of my patients took damned near an hour to reach the paroxysm. Do you have any notion of how much manual labor that required on my part? That sort of thing is bloody hard work, madam.”

  “Work.” She swept out a hand to indicate the hinged chair and his machine. “You call this work, sir?”

  “Yes, I most certainly do call it work. Do you think it’s easy to induce a paroxysm over and over again in an endless line of female patients? I tell you, madam, there were days when my arm and hand were so fatigued and so sore from my efforts that I was obliged to apply a poultice at night.”

  “Do not expect me to extend my sympathies.” She plucked her bonnet off the table and started toward the door. “It appears that you are doing quite well
for yourself with your therapeutic treatments.”

  “I make a decent living, but I am far short of making a fortune in this business. Unfortunately, to date I have been unsuccessful in attracting the attention of the fashionable members of the ton. That is where the real money is to be made, you know.”

  “I am well aware of that.” She paused, curious in spite of herself. “Do you mean to say that your excellent advertisements in the papers fail to bring you the more exclusive sort of clientele?”

  “The High Flyers always want references from others who move in rare circles,” he muttered.

  She could not help but sympathize. “References are always a problem, are they not?”

  “Yes.” He paused. “Now, then, if we might return to the subject of your delicate nerves, madam, I assure you, if you will allow me to apply my mechanical device—”

  “No, thank you.” She shuddered and threw open the door. “I do not think my delicate nerves would be able to withstand a treatment with your apparatus. Good day, Dr. Darfield.”

  She swept through the doorway and hurried toward the staircase. In her rush to escape, she nearly collided with the blond secretary in the downstairs hall. He recovered and opened the front door for her.

  She tried to appear casual and nonchalant as she went down the steps to the street. She even managed a polite smile for the woman who passed her on her way to the green door. But the pose was not easy to maintain.

  She was forced to concede that the decision to investigate Mrs. Rushton’s mesmerist had not been one of her more brilliant notions. How fortunate that she had not mentioned her plan to Tobias that morning at breakfast. She was at least saved the necessity of having to provide him with a report of her inquiries.

  She walked briskly past the dark entrance to an alley, not noticing the man standing in the shadows until he moved out. She jumped several inches when he fell into step beside her.

  “Tobias.”

  “A pleasant day for a walk, is it not?” Tobias asked.