Chapter 2
His mother waited in the morning room. Richard stood beside Siobhan, close enough that her sleeve brushed his arm. Mrs Hudson stood behind his mother’s chair. The clock had just finished its last sound when the door opened.
Mr Smythe, the butler, stood there, tall as the door itself.
“Dr Whitcombe, my lady.”
There was a pause. A throat cleared.
“Dr Percival Whitcombe the fourth, my lady.”
Richard looked at his mother. She touched beneath her eye.
His pressed his lips together.
The man came in. His coat lay flat and smooth. He spoke slowly. Every word stopped before the next began. The buttons caught the light. They stayed where they were. He carried no bag. Instead, he produced a rolled scroll and held it out.
“My letters of introduction,” he offered.
His mother regarded it. “Did you not present them to Mr Dolan?”
“I did. But one cannot be too thorough.”
Mrs Hudson stepped forward and accepted the papers. They made a soft sound when she took them.
“My lady,” he said, bowing deeply. “I am much honoured.”
His mother gestured to the chair opposite. He sat immediately, laying the papers on his knee and keeping one hand on them.
“I understand you wished for a consultation,” he said. “I lecture on the most recent continental theories of sensibility and childhood constitution.”
“I am told so.”
He smiled. His mouth moved first, his eyes followed. “The Germans, you see, have advanced well beyond our insular habits. English medicine remains—how shall I put it—overly attached to experience.”
His mother said nothing.
He spoke again. The sound went on.
He opened the papers. They were very white. Richard watched them. He watched the man’s finger move across the lines.
“The nervous system of a child is an instrument of extreme delicacy. Mishandled, it may be dulled. Overstimulated, it may be distorted.”
Richard held still. Siobhan’s hand stayed at his shoulder.
The man withdrew a folded sheet. “In my Observations on Juvenile Composure, published last year, I demonstrate that excessive calm in infancy is not a disorder, but refinement.”
He glanced up. Siobhan’s hand settled more firmly at Richard’s shoulder. “Such children,” he continued, “are often spared the vulgar agitations of the nervous system. They do not cry because they are not compelled to.”
He leant back. The chair did not creak. “Clergymen. Scholars. Men of principle.”
His mother folded her hands.
Dr Whitcombe rose. “Now—” He began to pace, hands clasped behind him. His shoes made the same sound each time. One. Two. One. Two.
“If one consults Dr Wilkes’s Treatise on Sensibility—a text I assume you know by reputation—”
She did not respond.
“—one finds ample support for the notion that pain, as commonly understood, is a construct of expectation.”
He stopped and turned. He looked at Richard then. Only once. “A child who anticipates pain will express it. A child who does not, will not.”
Richard looked back. He did not smile.
The man tapped the air with one finger. Nothing was there. “There is also the moral dimension. A child indulged in his difference grows indulgent of self. A corrected child grows vain.”
He paused. “Observation is the only prudent course.”
He waited. Then he spoke again. “At a distance.”
His mother rose.
Her chair touched the floor once and stopped.
The man halted at once and turned toward the door.
“Ah,” he said, brightening. “Has his lordship arrived?”
“No.”
He blinked.
“I have heard all I require,” she continued. “Mrs Hudson will see that you are attended.”
The man gathered his papers. They slid together neatly. “My lady, should you wish a written summary—”
“I do not.”
She turned slightly away.
The man bowed again, deeper than before. Mrs Hudson showed him out.
His mother looked down at Richard.
“Well?” she said.
Richard held his nose.
The door closed. The latch clicked.
* * *
Richard stood beside Siobhan, close enough that her hand rested on his shoulder. Mrs Hudson set a folded sheet of paper on the table. A footman stepped back, hands clasped behind him.
His mother came in. No one spoke. She did not look at Richard.
“I do not see Dr Harrow.”
Mrs Hudson turned. She held up the paper. “Mr Dolan sent word ahead.”
His mother blinked. Her lips pressed together.
Mrs Hudson opened the paper. “He requires light, space, quiet and—”
She frowned, then folded the note.
“And—,” his mother said.
Mrs Hudson did not answer at once.
“He assumed there would be two.”
His mother did not turn.
“He assumes too much,” she said.
“Show Dr Harrow in when he arrives.”
Mrs Hudson closed the door behind her.
The clock struck the hour. Richard felt it in his chest.
The door opened again. Mrs Hudson stepped aside. “Dr Harrow, my lady.”
The man entered in a hurry. His shoes made sucking sounds.
He stopped. The sounds stopped.
He looked at Richard, then around the room.
He turned towards Richard’s mother.
“One is missing,” he said.
His mother did not answer at once.
She smoothed her glove.
“Your patient is present.”
Mrs Hudson stepped forward. “The earl’s son must not be kept waiting.”
Dr Harrow bowed. “Of course not.”
He stepped forward and set a case down, then opened it. Richard turned to look.
Inside were small things. They caught the light. They did not move.
“I begin plainly,” the man said. “Set the child here.”
Siobhan lifted him; they moved forward.
Richard sat where she placed him. His feet did not reach. The table was cold.
The man came closer. Too close. There was something dark inside his nose.
Two fingers touched Richard’s knee.
Then the other knee.
Richard watched the fingers.
They came again. They stayed longer.
Something pressed beneath his foot. Hard.
“Hmm,” the man said.
A hand on his arm. Then his shoulder.
“No withdrawal,” the man said.
Something tapped his ankle. Once. Then again.
“One expects a start,” the man said.
He leant nearer. Richard smelled wool. And something sour.
“Unless nothing arrives at all.”
The man straightened. The sour smell stayed.
Something hard and cold pressed Richard’s wrist. Once.
And again. Harder.
He pulled his hand back.
“Still nothing,” the man said.
His mother spoke. “You said you would begin plainly.”
“I am,” the man said. He did not look at her.
The thin thing went away.
A thumb pressed hard into Richard’s foot.
Richard looked at him. He pressed his lips tight. He did not like him.
“Extraordinary,” the man said. His voice moved faster now.
The man turned away. Took a step. Then another.
“Heat would tell us,” the man said. “Or a cut.”
“Dr Harrow.”
The man stopped.
His mother rose. Her skirt brushed Richard’s knee as she stepped between them.
“Smythe.”
The door opened at once. Mr Smythe came in with Johns and Long.
They did not speak.
“My lady, this is unnecessary.”
“You will leave.”
The man closed the case. He bowed. Too fast.
Mr Smythe and the footmen followed him out. The door closed.
“Take him,” his mother said.
Siobhan lifted Richard at once.
Her arms were warm.
Richard shifted backwards, pulled on his lip.
Siobhan smiled.
* * *
Richard stood upon the stool at his mother’s side. She smelled like flowers. A candle sat on the table. The light danced in the mirror. His mother’s face smiled above it.
She wiggled the brush and drew it down.
Richard watched the bristles go through her hair.
She looked at him in the glass. He looked back. He loved her purple eyes.
She waited.
He held up one finger. “One,” he said.
Her eyes stayed on him in the mirror.
She brushed again.
“Two.”
The bristles whispered. He liked the sound.
“Three.”
A sound came at the door. A knock. Soft. His mother did not stop.
“Four.”
“Come,” she said. She brushed again.
His father entered. In the glass, Richard saw him pause.
She tilted her head.
“Five.”
She brushed again.
“Six.”
His father’s hand closed over the brush. His mother moved his hand down, then let the brush go.
“Seven,” his father said.
She leant back, her head resting where his father stood behind her.
Richard stepped down from the stool.