Lucy and the Doctors (2 page)

“So soon, Benedict?” Thomas turned back to his friend and fellow physician. “I thought he said it may take weeks.”

“So did I,” Dr. Crane said excitedly. “But this patient recently arrived not a fortnight ago, and according to Dr. Litman, the case is so severe that he believes she is best transferred here immediately.”

Thomas stood. “Are we prepared?”

“We’ll make ourselves prepared,” his colleague replied with conviction. “Dr. Litman will not wait. He worries that the young woman’s unnatural passions will cause her to corrupt the other patients.”

“Is she so afflicted, then?”

“Most assuredly, Thomas. And Dr. Litman is quite concerned. He’s keeping this patient in a room by herself, and with the full moon upon us can ill-afford to spare the space.” He paused. “I know it’s short notice, but a woman of such rare and aggressive appetites is perfect for our study. We must acquire her.”

Thomas stood, running his hand through his sandy blond hair as he faced his friend across the desk.

“And so we shall,” he said. “I quite agree. She’d be perfect, and there’s not a moment to lose.”

Chapter Two: The Perfect Subject

Somewhere, someone was screaming. Somewhere else, someone was laughing. Lucy could hear both conflicting emotions, edged with hysteria, through the wall of her room. The wall itself was stone and cool where she rested her cheek against it. Several times she’d thought it was all a dream—the awful sounds, the bare space, the hard floor, the gray corner in which she huddled. But when she made to pull herself up, the straitjacket stopped her and she was reminded through the haze that this was real.

This will teach you. Bitch.

The haze was overtaking her again. Lucy heard a moan in the dark and realized the sound was coming from her own mouth. She longed for a drink of water and struggled to remember the last time the thin woman in white had been in to steady her head and give her a drink.

She startled at the sound of a clink. Keys. The turn of a lock. The scrape of the heavy door against the hard floor. The squeak of its rusty hinges. She looked up, trying to focus through the strands of hair covering her face. Three figures. One short and squat. Two tall and lean. They were talking. Lucy struggled to make out the words the short man was saying.

“…worst case we’ve seen… her husband put her away… yes, she was newly married to Judge Bonham… completely unaware of her nature when they were wed… she can’t stop touching herself… it’s why she’s restrained… the poor man… so lucky he divined her nature before coupling… she’s had many lovers… she’s likely diseased… he’s petitioned for an annulment.”

Lucy wanted to speak, but could only moan as she struggled to lift her head.

“N-no.” She wriggled within her restraint, frustrated at the binding. If only she could stand; if only she could just face these men. Were they constables?
Oh, Lord, let them be.
If she could just speak, she could explain. She could explain that this was an awful mistake.

One of the two taller men walked over to kneel down beside her. Lucy felt warm fingers push the strands of hair away from her face while his other hand gently tilted up her chin. Now she willed her eyes to focus just as another man knelt beside the first. One blonde, one dark. They were clean-shaven. She caught a whiff of tobacco and tonic over the rank odor of her cell.

“Mrs. Bonham?”

Her mind was like heavy water, but she struggled now to swim to the surface, desperate to beg them to address her as Lucy Priven, and not by the name of the man who had… what had he done? Something horrible. Something horrible. She looked into the eyes of the first man who’d knelt down.

“Help me…”

It was the blond man, the first to kneel, who answered. “We will help you, Mrs. Bonham. I’m Dr. Allard and this is Dr. Crane. Dr. Litman has told us of your condition.”

“No…” Lucy wrenched her chin from his grasp. She could feel the panic welling in her breast.
I’m not sick!
She could hear herself screaming the words in her mind, but they would not be formed in her mouth, and she knew even if they could, she’d not have the breath to expel them with enough force to make them audible.

“Hush now.” The blond man was speaking. Lucy’s eyes adjusted just in time to see a lock of his hair fall over his forehead. “Dr. Allard and I are specialists. We will find a way to cool your blood, to remedy this fever of the loins that vexes you.”

“Please…” She sought to follow it with the words “I’m not what you think” but they would not come.

She was being tipped forward. Hands were at her back, undoing the straps of the straitjacket. As it was pulled free, she whimpered with pain. Her arms had been so tightly bound that moving them hurt now.

“So there will be no objection from her husband?” One of the doctors was addressing the portly man now.

“I can’t see why,” he was saying. “He wants her put away. He transferred custody to me. I’ll transfer it to the both of you. She will be your ward, to do with as you see fit.” He paused. “She’s incurable, vexed as she is with such filthy humors. Once you’ve prodded and poked and documented, I expect to see her returned here. I can only hope by that time I’ll have room to keep her apart from the others.”

Lucy’s heart was hammering in her chest. Memories rushed back.

This will teach you. Bitch.
Harsh words. Rough hands. The choking ether-soaked rag placed over her nose and mouth. Blackness. Judgment. Restraint.

“No!” She found her voice suddenly, panicky. She was flailing now against the two sets of hands that sought to lift her from the floor. She screamed as she was immobilized. The door opened. A nurse was called. More people loomed over her now. Her arm. She could not move her arm. The painful pinch of the needle entering her skin.

Blackness. Again.

Chapter Three: Lucy

She was so light in his arms, and Dr. Benedict Crane found himself missing Lucy’s warmth against his chest when he laid her down on the exam table. It was late in the evening, and she was still unconscious.

“That was far too much morphine, Thomas.” He was holding the young woman’s wrist as he addressed his friend and colleague. Her pulse was light and rapid. He lifted her eyelid and shone a light into her pupil. The iris surrounding it was the color of green sea glass; he breathed a sigh of relief when the dark circle inside contracted.

“She’s best quit of there for sure,” Thomas said, looking down.

Benedict shook his head. “Such a damn shame,” he said, glancing up at Thomas. “Were it not for her affliction she’d be sitting in Judge Bonham’s parlor at the moment, sipping a spot of tea before bed—a gentle young wife basking in the esteem of marriage to the most noted judge in the region.”

“And this couldn’t have been easy for her poor husband. From what Dr. Litman said, he took her to wife sight unseen.”

“Did he tell you more?” Benedict asked as his gaze skimmed the pretty heart-shaped face. In sleep, Lucy Bonham looked vulnerably childlike. It was hard to imagine her in a wedding gown.

“Only that she was orphaned and her father was a friend of the judge. He took custody of her when she was very young, but sent her to be raised by a pastor and his wife in the country. They sent him pictures, and she wrote him letters. When she turned eighteen, his interests shifted from paternal to romantic. He announced his intentions and had her sent for to marry. It seems the whole time she and the guardians who’d raised her managed to keep her true nature hidden. I suppose they were embarrassed.”

Benedict shook his head. “Hmm. Or more likely keen to get rid of her. I can only imagine the judge’s distress at finding the truth. His reputation for morality and religious conviction is well known. The disappointment must have been acute.”

“It’s hard to imagine the depth of his shame,” Thomas replied. “But to his credit, rather than put her out he sent her to where he thought she could at least get help. It must have broken his heart.”

Benedict sighed. “And now it falls to us to study her. And to perchance fix her if we can, although a woman diseased by too many random liaisons can only be remedied to a point.”

Thomas wrinkled his nose. “We should assess her for starters. And it’s best to do it while she’s out cold. From what Litman said, the mere brush of a man’s fingers is enough to have her body respond with demonic wantonness. We should act quickly, Benedict, before she wakes.”

Benedict turned and reached for some scissors on a tray by the table. Lucy wore no gown; when they’d removed her straitjacket, she’d been left in just chemise and pantalets. As he cut the fabric away, Benedict found his eyes gazing on a body as beautiful as the face. Lucy was small, but possessed the body of Juno, with full breasts, a waist that hardly needed the stricture of a corset, and gently flaring hips. The stomach was nearly flat save for the pleasantest of a slight swell just above the v-shaped thatch of blond curls.

“We’ll need to shave her to fully check for blisters and lesions.” Thomas was raising the leg supports on the end of the bed. As he did, Benedict pulled the remainder of fabric away from Lucy’s body and discarded it into a nearby basket. When he looked back, he was seized by the desire to lift her into a protective grasp, but pushed this urge aside. She was a subject to be studied, not a waif to be coddled, and so he returned his interest to the clinical and assisted as Thomas lifted her shapely legs into the supports.

Nurse Lassiter had placed the shaving supplies back in the cabinet, and Benedict fetched them along with a washcloth as Thomas gathered the other supplies he would need for the examination. He was tender as he carefully shaved away the curly blond fleece to reveal the plump outer lips of her pussy.

“No lesions here,” he remarked to his colleague.

Thomas quirked an eyebrow. “Sometimes there aren’t with these things. She’s likely between eruptions.”

He’d pulled up a small stool and now sat between her legs, his gaze fixed on the delicate nether parts of the woman. Benedict watched as his colleague reached out to gently part the outer lips with his fingers, spreading them to reveal the delicate inner folds. Thomas was peering carefully, a quizzical look on his face.

“I’m not…” He peered harder. “Benedict. I see no evidence at all of disease or infection of any kind.” He stood, and Benedict could not help but note that his colleague’s countenance had taken on an expression of unease. “I need to check something,” he said. “And if I’m right…”

“What?”

But Thomas Allard was not answering as he moved to the side of the table. Benedict watched as his friend’s hands moved between the young woman’s thighs, his finger slipping inside of her.

“Good God, Ben…”

“What, Thomas? What is it?” Benedict stepped forward and when he looked down, he instantly knew what his friend was going to say.

“It can’t be,” Benedict said.

“I’m afraid it is.” Thomas withdrew his finger and stepped back. “This young woman is no diseased wanton. She’s a virgin.”

Benedict looked from his friend to the naked Lucy and then back again.

“This makes no sense,” he said.

Thomas turned away. “No. It doesn’t.”

“But Dr. Litman saw…” Benedict began, but his friend interrupted him.

“I think now that Dr. Litman was misled. When I was handling the paperwork, he made a remark to me that now makes sense, Benedict. He told me that she was in such a state of wantonness on her wedding night that Judge Bonham had her sedated for transport to the asylum. I’m now suspecting that she’s been kept sedated since arrival.”

Benedict looked at his friend. “And you think the behavior described to us wasn’t actually witnessed by Dr. Litman, but merely recounted to him.”

“That’s exactly what I suspect.”

“But why ever would Dr. Litman do such a thing? What about his ethical duty to assess a patient before locking them away?”

“Isn’t it obvious, Benedict? Judge Bonham is a man of great influence and power. The asylum must come hat in hand annually to get funding for its operations. He can ill afford to question a man with such connections.” He rubbed his chin thoughtfully as he looked down at Lucy. “Besides, Judge Bonham is known for his principles. It likely never occurred to Litman that his account of this woman’s behavior was anything but an honest one.”

“So where does this leave us?

Thomas shook his head. “It could be that Bonham exaggerated his description. Perhaps she was overly passionate, and he just assumed it meant she was stricken with nymphomania.” He grew quiet, musing on the possibility. “It’s hard to comprehend, though, a pretty young girl exhibiting such excitement over a paunchy old man that she frightens him. We won’t know until she’s awake and we can gauge her reactions.”

Benedict frowned. He was beginning to feel concerned, not just about Lucy, but about the whole situation. There was something definitely amiss. The angelic-looking woman on the table did not square with the stories he and his colleague had been told. And if an exam proved that she was in no way a nymphomaniac, and therefore unfit for their study? He imagined taking her back to the asylum, relinquishing her to Dr. Litman. He recalled how she’d trembled in his arms, her warmth. He needed to feel it again.

“She needs be bathed,” he said. “Would you draw a bath, Thomas?”

His colleague was quiet for a moment. “Of course, Ben.”

As Thomas left, Benedict lowered first one of Lucy’s legs and then the other. As he laid the second one down, she stirred and moaned softly.

“Mrs. Bonham?” He moved up the side of the exam table to take her hand. It was slim and cool and small in the larger one that enveloped it.

“I’m not… please…” Her voice was light, childlike, as innocent as her untouched body.

“Calm yourself, Mrs. Bonham.”

“No… not… please… don’t call me that.” Her speech was slurred, and a tear leaked from the corner of one sea green eye to trail down her cheek. It left a track in the grime coating her face, and Benedict felt a swell of anger to think how she’d languished for so long in that filthy room.