19I am not sure if I will get the third part up by next Sunday. It's a busy work week and I have a wedding to go to next weekend that I have to travel a good distance for (I do not want to go). If it's not up by Sunday, I'd look for it around mid-week.
I'm not totally thrilled with the last interaction of this chapter, so I might spend some time tweaking that as well. I will let you know with the next installment if anything changes.
Very questionable consent and some graphic descriptions of sex.
Part II:
He did not put a hand to her. He pulled his hand back and fled from the room, leaving her fully dressed and sleeping peacefully on the bed. A doctor had a duty to his patient, to act on any desires that swelled violently beneath the surface of his fragile control would be an egregious wrong. It was a wrong he could not come back from.
He returned to his room and splashed his face with cold water. He leaned over the water pan in his private bathroom, water dripping from his nose, and shook his head like a hot dog whipping the slobber from his mouth in the dead of summer. He took a small sip of morphine in order to get to sleep that night. She admitted to him rather shyly during their session the next day that she had gone to sleep without changing. He reminded her how important it was to change immediately after her nightly morphine dose, as the amount he gave her was designed to put her to sleep rather quickly. She agreed and promised to remember in future.
She asked that they take a walk in the gardens during their session that day. The sky was clear and the weather warm. He complied, as she was always more talkative in the gardens. He also liked the way her hair looked when the sun shone through it.
"He was childish," she told him as they arrived at the rose bushes. They were her favorite. "Always making jokes and laughing. He seemed so happy."
"He showed no signs prior?" he asked. His hands, one holding is notebook and pencil, were crossed at the wrist behind his back. He walked a few feet behind her. She had a little smile on her face on her lips as she bent down to press her nose to the petals. She raised a hand to the top of her end to keep her had from falling off. A more beautiful creature, he had never seen before.
"For some months. He came home from winter break. He was sullen, short, cold, crass sometimes with his words. We were all concerned." She straightened away from the roses and stared off toward the pond thoughtfully. "Then suddenly his mood shifted. He was happy again for two, three days. He was back to laughing and telling jokes. He read to us after dinner for the first time in years. He gave away hugs and kisses freely. Started giving gifts to the slaves that had chosen to stay. He was happy again."
"He was saying goodbye," Dr. Cecil observed. She pinned him with a stare and he squinted one eye to block from the sun, the other watching her closely.
"But he'd found happiness again… why do it?"
"I cannot rightly say. It is hard to comprehend what would drive a person to end their own life."
"Isn't it your job to know, sir?" she asked him. Her lips curved into a caustic little smile.
"The human mind will take generations to understand. We have not yet scratched the surface of understanding mental health," he smiled back.
"Most doctors are far more confident that you are," she pointed out.
"Confidence is the food of the wise man and the liquor of the fool, Josephine, never forget that," he answered.
"Do you think I can be cured?" she asked. "Do you think I will ever go home?"
Oh, how he prayed not. "I do not know," he answered simply. Much of that would depend upon her father.
"I play the piano," she told him, turning and continuing on to the next row of roses. "I speak French and Spanish fluently. I went to the very best etiquette schools and I have been trained to run a household of over a hundred."
"Impressive."
"It will matter little. One outburst in public. I had one at my brother's funeral. Did my father tell you that? After that, I was kept out of public. One at the funeral could be explained away. A second, a third, a fourth, months after? That cannot. What man would marry a woman with ailment like mine?"
I would. In a heartbeat. "You are young, Josephine. You mustn't worry about such things right now."
"You were raised in New York Society?"
"I was raised in no society," he answered. Her response was a glance back and a frown. "I grew up in a Boston tenement building."
"Boys who grow up in tenements do not grow up to be doctors," she informed him rather haughtily.
"This one did," he answered. He told her about the benefactor that had put him through school in the years prior to the war. During the war, when his son died, he made Dr. Luther Cecil is heir. It was not a grand inheritance, but enough to get him established. He next told her about the woman he had met in that little party in New York city and her husband's grand estate they lived on now.
"God provides," she responded. "You've thirty women on this estate that would be far worse off if He did not put you where you are."
"You speak too kindly," he murmured. They halted at the gazebo.
"I worry," she added. She always returned to what was most important. It was why he never felt the need to steer her back to the topic for the day. She was far more open when left to control the conversation. "If I will ever be cured. At the very least, will I ever feel secure if I am released. Will I spend every moment of my life waiting for something to set me off?"
"I have been thinking of ways we might begin to overcome these episodes. It would be emotionally trying. It would not be easy."
"I trust you implicitly, sir. Whatever you suggest, I am able and willing to make the attempt," she answered, taking a seat.
He leaned against the side of the gazebo and opened his notebook. She was seated on the far side, watching the swans as they glided across the water.
"We know gun fire triggers you, if you might forgive the phraseology," he said. A small smile came to her lips. A little ghost of a smile. She rarely smiled widely, and she never smiled with her lips parted. She had a crooked tooth that embarrassed her greatly. "Gun fire is relatively rare, outside country estates. I am not sure how common it is in New Orleans?"
"Not very."
"But you've also experienced these episodes during any sort of loud, unexpected noise."
"Yes, sir," she said, though he knew it was true.
"I think we should begin exposing you to these loud sounds to try and desensitize you from them."
"That would only cause more episodes."
"Very likely," he answered simply enough. She considered and he continued, "Initially, it would likely create these episodes. We would begin however, with you expecting these noises. I will warn you when they were coming. If we see success, we will then begin to make noises when you are unprepared for them."
She continued to consider. Heat bugs were humming off in the distance. The swans had moved to the other side of the pond. She looked back to him and nodded. "I trust you. If you think it will help, I will try."
"We will begin tomorrow."
She twirled a rose in her fingers. She always brought one back with her. He was content to stand there and take in the sight of her.
"I know you are very mindful to keep distance from your patients. Rumors could destroy everything you have built here but …," she said softly, looking up from the roads. His mouth went dry, his heart began to race. He stood there, ready to confess his love to her. "But no one else in this house plays chess."
He blinked. "I'm sorry?"
"And I had hoped that some evening we might be able to play with one another? In the drawing room or somewhere else public. It has been so long since I've played."
"I see no issue with that," he answered. He brought his handkerchief up to his lips and coughed. "We may begin tonight if you wish."
Her smile brightened his spirits and helped quell is disappointment. He even got a glimpse of that little crooked tooth before she wrapped her lips back down around her teeth.
"Come," he said. "I have a meeting with Elizabeth."
"She bit her fingers right down to the nub," Josephine informed him, though he was well aware. He had put bandages on them last night. "She was bleeding quite badly at dinner."
"Yes, I saw. She suffers from terrible anxiety. I will have James bring you up to have lunch with Penelope? If you still wish to. I asked her this morning. She was quite excited at the prospect of an actual conversation."
"Oh, yes, of course," Josephine answered.
"It brought me great pleasure to see her so happy this morning. A terrible injustice, to have to keep her locked away as she is."
Dr. Cecil held out his hand and guided her up the back garden steps. She did not withdraw her hand once they reached the top and he guided her to the open French doors, her hand in his.
"May I be very bold sir?"
"You may say anything to me, Josephine. You know this."
"Why are you still not yet married?"
He chuckled, "Do you believe me so old?"
"Oh goodness, no!" she cried. "I mean only you are a successful man. Old enough to be married surely."
"My work consumes me," he answered. "But I will be married by forty."
"In… five years?" she asked him. He gave her a look with a quirked eyebrow.
"Six," he answered.
"Dr. Cecil," Mrs. Humphries met them at the back door. He withdrew his hand from Josephine's as though a little boy with his hand caught in the cookie jar. She watched their hands separate critically. "You are twenty minutes late for your appointment with Elizabeth."
The judgment was palpable.
"My patients understand some sessions sometimes run late. Josephine and I were breaking new ground today. Josephine, if you'd like, please go tell James you are ready for lunch."
She nodded, gave a smile to Mrs. Humphries, and then walked toward the main staircase. She removed her wide brimmed hat from her head and gave Dr. Cecil one last glance before she exited the room. Mrs. Humphries remained and she held eye contact with Dr. Cecil for a few long moments. He waited for her to say something. She remained silent and he offered a tight smile, a curt nod, and walked off to his lunch session with Elizabeth.
They played chess that night in the drawing room, left in blissful solitude. In moment's like these, when they spoke of things that brought her joy, he was able to pretend she was a simply a beautiful young woman he had the privilege of courting. They did not talk about her episodes or things that brought her pain. They talked about her childhood, her friends. Her favorite memory, one she went back to often, was hot summer mornings, they'd go out to the creak, a narrow, muddy stream and spend the day in the water. The boys would jump from the trees and when the girls crawled from the muck, their shifts were stained brown with mud. She missed those days. Life had been much simpler then.
One night, he asked her to play the piano for him. He listened, watching her with a little smile on his lips and love brimming in his heart. As the summer stretched on, Mrs. Humphries did what she could to disrupt their moments alone together. She discovered they played chess and so she organized chess lessons so all could join them. She discovered Josephine played the piano, so in the evenings, the girls took turns playing the piano.
Dr. Cecil grew more and more annoyed with her. He would not touch Josephine. He had more integrity than that. If Mrs. Humphries was not so good with the ladies and not so competent a worker, he would have terminated her employment to salvage his moments alone with Josephine.
So, after some weeks of bliss, he had to once again find peace in their session alone. She did well when exposed to loud noises when she was aware they were coming. Knowing the noise was coming did not always prevent an episode, but she was better able to talk herself down. When the noises were unexpected, she struggled. Many of her episodes occurred during his controlled experiments, though she was still having outbursts outside of their sessions.
Ruth did not help. She discovered what upset each lady in the household and made sure to provoke reactions. At one point, during dinner, she slammed a plate down on the floor right next to Josephine. Dr. Cecil had been undressing, readying to read a chapter of his book a glass of scotch, and an early night when Mable began pounding on his bedroom door.
He had bounded down the stairs without his coat or vest, one suspender unpinned. He cleared the dining room and spoke to her tenderly. She came back to him. The sound of his voice always brought her back. She staggered to him, sobbing, and threw herself into his embrace.
"I will never be cured," she wept. Her hand had been bleeding; she had cut her hand on her wine bottle after she broke it. He felt the warm dampness leak through the collar of his shirt. "I will never be healthy."
Perhaps he held her too long, too familiarly. He might have breathed in the scent of her too deeply, pressed his lips to the top of her head as he murmured to her softly. She had nearly fallen asleep in his arms, but Mrs. Humphries soft suggestion that her hand be looked at and brought up to bed separated them.
The very next day he brightened her spirits. He brought her down to the pond to watch the ducklings. The hope he had managed to reinspire in her the next few days was cruelly ripped away when Ruth knocked over Mrs. Humphries sewing kit during class. The sound itself was not what set her off, but Ruth's hysterical, high pitched shrieking that followed.
He had managed to calm her down, but she came in to his office the next day despondent. Ever the southern belle, she came in dramatically, dressed in black from head to toe, declaring that she was in mourning. She was in mourning for her hopes of one day living a normal life. It was futile. She would never be cured.
"Well then," he answered, still behind his desk. "You received a medical degree last night? Impressive. It took me the better half of a decade."
"Do not mock me, sir!" she demanded, chin lifted.
"Josephine, sit, please."
He got up from his desk, notebook and pencil in hand, and walked over to his brown leather chair. He pulled the curtain to the side so the sun would not shine in her eyes.
"Ruth is kept on the third floor because she is difficult. She antagonizes. I've been trying to incorporate her into the group. I've since halted those attempts. You cannot allow her to discourage you."
"Even when you make noises! When you warn me, I still begin to feel that terrible, terrible feeling, and when it is unexpected. And sometimes, a noise is not even required! What am I do to do out the world?"
"This is not something that we are going to cure in a few months' time. It could take years. That does not mean you give up."
She stared at the window forlornly.
"Sir, I am twenty-two years old. I do not have years."
He mused over that for a few moments. He said sternly, "Your health, Josephine, is paramount."
"I will never have children," she murmured sadly.
"Women are capable of conceiving children well into their thirties."
"And who to marry me? Some fat old widower?"
"You are a beautiful woman with a substantial dowry. You will have no troubles finding a husband."
"Beauty fades and my dowry pays your fee," she answered with surprising bitterness.
"Do not lose hope," he said sincerely. "It would break my heart if you did."
She turned her puffy eyes back to his. A small, sad smile came to her lips. She looked back into her lap, her hands clasped there. She rubbed the palms of her hands together anxiously. He waited, very aware that she had something to say, but was too afraid to say it.
"May I be incredibly forward?"
"Please," he answered. He waited, a small part of his brain, for an even smaller moment, hoped she might ask him if he would marry her. He would in a heartbeat. Of course, it was a foolish, hopeful thought, and he discarded it before she even spoke.
"Prior to my coming here, I had done extensive reading about treatment of hysteria."
He smirked and pressed his face to his palm, his elbow on the arm of his chair. "Am I not living up to expectations?" he teased. She did not laugh. She remained very severe.
"I-is it true that some women find relief from… s-stimulation?"
His eyes glazed over a moment. It took some processing for him to understand what she had just asked him. Once he realized what she had asked, he was still unsure exactly how he should respond to it. He cleared his throat and closed his notebook slowly. He placed it on his leg, clasping his hands on top of it, and considered carefully.
"You are, of course, referring to manual stimulation," he hoped to clarify. She looked very earnest and nodded. He answered diplomatically, "There is literature on the subject."
"Do you think it would help me?" she asked.
No. It would not. It was a foolish therapy concocted by those who believed only women were afflicted by this terrible ailment and somehow related it to their sexuality.
"Yes, I think it might," he answered instead. The words tumbled from his lips before he even knew he was speaking.
"Should I try?" she asked him. "Tonight?"
He made a clicking sound with his tongue and swallowed down the bitterness of his disappointment.
"Yes, if you wish to try." He twirled his pencil between his thumb and forefinger. "You must bring yourself to orgasm. It will not work otherwise. Do you believe you will be able to do that?"
"I think so," she answered, though she was clearly uncertain. His eyes darted down her body and then back to her face.
"How familiar are you with female anatomy?"
"Well…" she was as red as a tomato. He rose, opening his notebook, and sat down beside her. He opened to an empty page and quickly sketched up a crude drawing of the female anatomy. She rolled her lips inwards shyly. He kept the trembling out of his hands, and he remained slightly hunched, so he could hide the bulge steadily growing in his trousers.
"At the crest of the vagina is your clitoris," he told her, circling the area that contained the little bud. "Pay it special attention."
She reached across to move the notebook so she could better see. Her fingers brushed against his very briefly. He withdrew his hands and handed her to the notebook.
"After your bath tonight, put on your nightgown and lie down on the bed above the covers. Spread your legs, knees bent in the air, and rub between your legs firmly.
"I will," she murmured. She motioned to the drawing. "May I?"
He ripped it from the notebook and folded it carefully before he put it into her hands. "No one should learn about this. It is not something I recommend. If you wish to try it, I will not stop you. I do not want it coming back to me. Understand?"
"I must try everything," she said softly. "And you think it might work, you said so."
Her gaze was so hopeful and innocent. He did not wish to upset her or dampen her spirits. He said, very honestly, "Some doctors do, yes."
It would not work, and he believed it wouldn't with every part of himself. It was on the tip of his tongue. The right thing to do weighed down on him so heavily, he himself began to have trouble breathing. It was a crushing weight, but he didn't want to make her sad… and he wanted to know she was somewhere in that house, lying on her back, legs in the air, fingers on her cunt.
He slapped his knees and stood. "But, despite your dissatisfaction with my methods –"
"No, sir!"
" – we will continue with our efforts."
"Please do not believe I do not have the utmost faith in you sir. I do not want to appear ungrateful."
He sat down with a little smile. "You do not. Now, in your earlier dramatics, did you remember to bring your journal?"
"I did, sir," she answered. She retrieved it, a smile on her lips.
"Read your last entry."
It was all he would be able to do for the rest of the session. He put his elbow back to the chair, placed his cheek back to his palm, and watched her, a small smile on his lips, as she read to him.
She lied to him for a few days. He asked her if she had been successful in bringing herself to orgasm the beginning of every session. She told him every time that she had.
"And how do you feel?" he'd ask.
"Well," she would answer.
"Do you feel better? Is it calming you?"
"Yes, doctor, I think so."
He did not go into any more detail than that. It was incidental to any success she might be seeing. The very least he could do was continue only with methods he thought might actually help her.
A week after she began, she asked him for a second session in the afternoon. He had to refuse her. He had sessions throughout the day. He could not neglect his other patients simply because he was greedy for any time alone with her he could manage. He asked her if it was pressing. She said it was not and that she could wait until tomorrow. He did send word to her after breakfast the next day that, if she wished to, she could come to his office at ten for an early session. At 10:01, as he was completing a letter to Elizabeth's husband, she gently knocked on the door.
"Please, come in," he said, beckoning her inside. He retrieved his notebook and they both took the seats they preferred. "Tell me. What is it that is distressing you?"
"I have lied to you, sir. You told me when I first arrived that in order to be cured, I would have to trust you completely, absolutely, and that I must be totally honest with you, no matter the secret, no matter the embarrassment. My goodness… we have even discussed my bleeding in detail, and yet I was… too ashamed to tell you…"
His brow furrowed and he leaned forward, "What is it, Josephine?"
"I have been unable to bring myself to orgasm."
He considered that a moment. "Not necessarily uncommon for a woman. Nothing to be ashamed of."
"Am I incapable?" she asked, deeply concerned.
"No, I doubt that, though you may find it difficult bringing yourself to orgasm."
He watched her shoulders sag and her face fall. He closed his notebook as he watched her fall back into the couch forlornly. This was not a subject he would write anything about. He considered her. Once again, words came from his lips, as though beyond his control.
"Would you like me to bring you to orgasm?" he asked her. Blood pulsed loudly through his ears.
"You?" she asked, not outraged, but unsure.
"I am your doctor," he answered simply. "Purely medical. Of course, if that would make you uncomfortable in any way, I will not."
"You see no… moral issues should we do that?"
"I am touching you in a medical capacity, not to derive pleasure." He said it like he meant it. He might have made a fine career in the theater if he hadn't become a doctor.
She mulled this over carefully. "Yes doctor, if you would do that for me."
He almost laughed. She acted as though he were doing her a great favor. He rose and tossed his journal back on his desk. He retrieved the key from the top desk drawer and walked with measure steps to the door. He remained remarkably calm on the outside. He looked as stoic as stone, but his insides were quivering.
"At any point you would like to stop, you need only tell me. Yes?"
"Yes, sir," she answered.
"I will be frank. This is not something you tell anyone about. Your father will come and remove you from my care. It is a practice he would not be comfortable with."
"I will not say a word to a single soul," she vowed. "I only consider it now because of my faith in you."
The guilt should have been enough to make him stop but it was not. He let out a low, steadying breath. He came to stand beside her. "Lift your skirts up to your knees."
She raised up the skirt and the petticoat to reveal the dark grey stockings. He lowered himself to sit down beside her and draped his arm over the back of the couch. He thought better of it and rose to remove his suit coat. He unbuttoned the right shirt cuff and rolled his sleep upward. He took his seat again and draped his arm back over the back of the couch.
Without any more hesitation, he slipped his hand up her skirt. She tensed and took in a small breath.
"Spread your thighs further," he ordered. He gently pressed his fingertips to her inner thigh. Her flesh was warm and soft. He was not a cad, but he had not been a monk either. In his later days at med school, there had been a young widow that he spent most of his nights with. She had hoped for a proposal when he left. He knew that, but she loved him no more than he loved her. They parted as friends. She'd since remarried and had three healthy sons. She had been the last woman he'd touched. That had been over six years ago.
He found the gap in her split leg drawers. The split was large enough that he was able to slide in his hand without having to pull at the draw string wrapped around her waist.
She sucked in a deep breath when his fingers touched her flesh. He prodded gently, trying to orient himself. She jerked against the couch and he looked at her, eyes intently locked on hers.
"That is your clitoris," he told her. Their faces were fairly close. She was a tall woman and so he did not loom over her. "Were you touching here?"
His fingers skirted around the little bud. Her hips jerked away from the touch. He could feel the air on his face from her little gasps.
"Yes," she answered. "It just…" she squirmed as he pressed his thumb into the sensitive spot. She did not squirm away, and he continued to massage the flesh.
He was perspiring. Sweat was budding along his forehead. His mouth was dry. He wanted to bend down and kiss her neck. He swallowed thickly and then took a steadying breath. She did not seem to notice his arousal.
"Do not squirm away," he said curtly. He rubbed his thumb in little circles.
"It just feels –"
"That is why you cannot bring yourself to completion." His voice was inhumanly neutral. With a desperation that he did not think possible to withstand, he wanted to out his lips on her mouth and tell her how magnificent he thought she was.
His fingers prodded, flitting through her pubic hair and finding her opening. She was hot and wet. Gently, his fingers circled the opening as his thumb continued to massage her clitoris.
"Did you put any of your fingers inside of yourself?" he asked.
"Just one finger," she said. "It was very tight."
A groan almost ripped from his throat. He pushed a finger inside of her very slowly, and by god, she was tight. She made a whimpering noise and he hushed her.
"You must be quiet," he urged her. She nodded, looking up at him with those big green eyes. What he saw in her eyes was absolute trust and obedience. He felt the familiar glint of guilt, but then her muscles tightened around his fingers as he slowly bulled it outward, and a violent wave of lust smothered any second thoughts he might be having. He'd marry her right then and there if she asked him to. He pressed a second finger inside of her.
"This is," she panted.
"The theory is that the female orgasm is a kind of hysteria… through regular stimulation and orgasm, you relieve the built-up pressure contained within the afflicted woman's mind. When a woman diagnosed with hysteria is married, many doctors suggest frequent and vigorous intercourse with their husband is the best way to calm the symptoms.
He thrust his fingers in and out of her slowly and steady. His hand was slick with her fluids. Her cheeks were flushed and her lips parted. He did not allow himself to wonder what it might feel like to be inside of her properly.
"You've had sexual fantasies before?" he asked her. She shook her head. "Do not lie to me. Everyone has, even women. Now tell me honestly? Have you?"
"Yes," she panted.
"Close your eyes and think about one of them."
He didn't want her to see his rapidly deteriorating composure. Her eyes fluttered closed and he continued his ministrations. It did not take much longer before he brought her to orgasm. His thoughts were consumed with what she might have been thinking about.
He withdrew his hand and walked away from. He was careful to shift his trousers so he could hide his erection, though if she looked closed enough, it would be quite visible. He grabbed his handkerchief and wiped his hands clean.
She collected herself and stood. He watched her closely. That little gasp, the pressing of her thighs together, she had her juices leaking down her thighs. He wanted to press his tongue to her inner thigh and lick her clean.
"Will you make it to your room?" he asked her.
"Yes, doctor."
"You are well?" he feared she might regret her decision.
"Very, sir," she answered.
"Clean yourself and take a nap. Come here for your regular session at two," he said. She was nodded as he picked up the journal from his desk and slammed it down hard on the table. She stared at him, confused by the action.
"Ah," he mused. "Perhaps there is something to it."
"I did not have an outburst!" she cried, eyes lighting up. "I did not react."
"You did watch me do it," he reminded her. "We have been making great progress before this. Remember that."
"Yes, doctor, thank you," she grinned happily. He pulled his shirt sleeve down and rebuttoned it. "Go on now."
He watched her try to open the door but with the little door jiggle, he remembered it was still locked. He unlocked it and opened the door for her.
"Thank you, doctor. Truly. You are a blessed man."
"Anything for you, Josephine," he murmured. She hesitation a moment, as if sensing the depth of his affection in those words. He added, "As I would for any of my patients."
"Oh, yes, course."
He watched her walk down the corridor and up the stairs until she was out of sight. He returned to the sanctuary of his office and plopped down into his chair with a heavy thud. He plucked angrily at his trousers and reached out for the handkerchief that was resting on his desk. With his hands then firmly within his trousers, he pressed the handkerchief to his nose, and sucked in a deep, wanton, breath.
Mrs. Humphries' sister was terribly ill. She'd not survive the autumn. Mrs. Humphries came to him in tears, begging him to give her leave to go. A few months only, to see her sister to the next word comfortably.
"Of course, Mildred," he said, embracing the older woman warmly. He waited until she collected herself and went to his desk. He counted out cash bills.
"Three month's pay, if you stay away any longer, write, and I will send you your pay."
"No, sir, I ask only you hold my employment –"
"Mrs. Humphries, without you, I could not provide the level of care to these woman as I am able. Please, take the money, travel in good health, and if you require anything, write to me."
"God bless you, Doctor. I go to town at once to find a carriage. I leave as early as I can."
It was not until after she had left that he realized the opportunity he had with Mrs. Humphries. Truly, he cared for her. She was a good woman, stern but caring. His pain at her agony was real. But after his very next session with Josephine, after he withdrew his fingers from her, he asked her, "May I make a rather bold request of you, Josephine?"
"Anything, doctor," she answered, pulling her skirts back down over her knees. He usually pulled her skirts down for her before he rose, he did not want her feeling cheap, but his mind was preoccupied.
"I wish to do nothing that would diminish our relationship as doctor and patient. That is paramount. Do you understand?"
"I do," she answered softly, waiting anxiously.
"And anything I ask of you, that makes you feel uncomfortable, you must tell me."
"I – you've never made me uncomfortable, sir," she answered, leaning forward with a frown.
"I feel that you and I have developed a friendship. As such, I thought I might ask you to join me for dinner tonight. In my rooms, of course, nothing untoward. Simply conversation, but it would allow us to discuss in private, in a less, sterile setting."
"I would like that very much," she agreed happily. A smile spread across his face.
"It is against protocol. We would need be secretive."
"I will say nothing, sir," she vowed.
"Wonderful!" he grinned. "I shall make the arrangements. Now, did you journal yesterday."
"I did."
"I need to see Ruth today, so the rest of our session must be cancelled, but I want you to take the next few hours our session would last, and double journal today. I want you to begin with the moment you walked into the house and go up to the suicide."
She shook her head, anxiety spreading across her face. "Doctor, I –"
"Not a request, Josephine," he said sternly, but gently. "We've gotten you right outside his door. I want you to walk through it and I want you to process it. I will read it tomorrow morning before our next session.
"Yes sir."
He got to the door and opened it for her.
"Do not disappoint me now," he said. He placed a hand on her back and gently guided it out.
"I won't, doctor." He waited for her to get out of sight before he sent for Ruth.
It was delicate work. He did most of it himself. With Mrs. Humphries out of the house it was far easier than he had anticipated. In the afternoon, he allowed Anne, Mable, Janet and Frankie to take some of the higher functioning ladies into town to do some shopping. James remained sleeping in the lodging house, Robert watched some of the other women in the easterly sitting room as they did their needlepoint, and the other female attendants were doing laundry with the remainder of the non-violent patients.
He told the chef he'd be taking his meal in his room at six o'clock and would need two place settings. The cook did not question him.
He found Josephine in the library around 3pm, seated at the little desk by the large bay window. He stopped behind her, reading over her shoulder. She glanced up at him and said, "I am at the door, Doctor."
He nodded thoughtfully. "I need you to walk through it."
"Yes, sir."
He knelt by her side. "I am asking a lot of you. This will be painful. But this," he tapped at the unfinished entry. "is what is going to heal you. It is not about a quick cure. It is about healing. What you saw was horrific. Your mind is injured, the same way a body is injured. It's about building up the scare tissue, processing, and finding a healthy way to cope."
"I was not struck, though. My brain was uninjured."
"It is a mental injury. An emotional wound. Not physical."
"That sounds quite outlandish to me," she said. "But I trust you."
"If you do this, and you are in distress, come to me if you wish. If afterward, you are not up to dinner, you need not come. I will be writing letters in my office for the rest of the afternoon. If you wish to attend dinner, come to my door at six fifteen."
He rose and placed a hand on her shoulder. He was about to pull away, but she brought up her hand and pressed it to his. His hand pulsed around her shoulder gently and then withdrew.
"What if I am seen?" she asked him softly.
"Worry not," he smiled. "I will take care of everything. Just walk straight through the door."
"He left her there and went to finish his letters. He left the door open in case he was needed. Hattie came in to see him when they returned from the store to show him the gloves she had purchased.
"Oh, how beautiful!" he said as she came around the side of his desk. She had the mind of a child. It was the only thing wrong with her. "Powder blue, your favorite."
She nodded at him and chewed on her smiling bottom lip.
"Did you have fun?" he asked. She nodded again. "There is some time before dinner. Why don't you go get your daily reading done, hmm? And tomorrow morning we can talk about the parts you liked most." Her grin widened and she nodded again. She gave him a peck on the cheek and left the office. It was harmless with Hattie. When she had first started it, he was quite stern with her, but every time he reminded her that she could not kiss him, she would look up at him with those big, pained eyes, and burst into tears. She asked him to marry her some days, and other days she asked if she could call him papa. He always said no to both, but reminded her how important their relationship was, and that he would always protect her.
Josephine did not come to see him and so at five he went up stairs to prepare himself. He shaved again. He wanted to have a fresh face. He trimmed his mustache and ran a comb through his hair. He put on some cologne, gently drabbing it onto his neck and face.
He was nervous. A woman like her would never be made available to a man like him in normal circumstances. He was highly educated wealthy, handsome, fit, and not yet forty, but he had no family and no name. Josephine Estelle Leroux Boulanger was born to marry a man with a grand plantation, a family name that went back generations, and at one point at least, owned a few hundred souls.
He did not believe he was preying upon her vulnerability. He would never hurt her, he had no intention of abusing her or playing with her heart. If she told him he had her heart in is hands he'd cradle it and tend to it and build a brick walls around it and never let anyone lay a hand on it. If she asked him too, he'd start to read the bible in Latin, he'd embrace her French religion and denounce his own. How could a person say that someone willing to do that had poor intentions?
He heard a small, timid knock on the door and he hurried to open it. He rushed to the door, but paused just a moment to collect himself. He opened the door and spirited her inside. "Come, come."
She was dressed in one of her better dresses. Not the fancy pink one she wore to the dances, but a gown of stunning blue, clearly made for special occasions.
"I had told you to come straight in," he reminded her. He would have been annoyed but she had ironed her hair for him. She had put on makeup.
"I did it," she told him excitedly. "I got through the door."
He smiled widely. "That is wonderful."
"I did not write about the… it happening, but I filled five pages full. Walking in and calling to him, finding him in the chair, the shotgun across his lap. He was so handsome. Did I tell you that? Have I ever told you what he looked like?"
"I do not believe so. Come sit and tell me. Do you drink wine?"
She explained to him what he looked like in detail. He was tall, had a full but neat beard, plump lips with a little scar from an accident when they were children, and bright blue eyes and black hair.
"I'd forgotten almost," she said. She had a glass of wine she was sipping at. "Since it happened, when I thought of him, I could only see what he looked like… afterward. Now when I think about him, I see him again."
"That is a big step. A big step indeed," he said. He helped her into her seat and poured her a modest glass of wine.
"Did he fight in the war?" he asked. He was sipping on water. He did not trust himself with alcohol in his system.
"He missed it. I was but ten when the war ended. He was seventeen. I think he was angry he missed it. Many of his friends went and came back heroes. Papa would never have allowed it."
He nodded thoughtfully.
"Did you fight?" she asked him. She took a small sip of her wine. Her cheeks were pink, but that very well could have been from the fire.
"I did. Second regiment Massachusetts Volunteer infantry."
"Did you see battle?"
"I was at many battles, but I did not fight. I joined mid-way through my studies and so I worked as a surgeon. I stayed close to but behind the lines. I saved the lives of a huge Johnny Rebs too."
"Any battles I would know?"
"Perhaps. Chancellorsville. Gettysburg. Antietam."
"Truly?" she asked in excitement.
"Truly, as I said, I never saw battle."
"You were just as important as any man on the battlefield," she defended him forcefully. His small grin widened.
"I lost more than I was able to save. Sometimes, when I sleep, I can still hear the saws."
"That must have been upsetting," she mused. He paused. He was unsure this was the wisest course of conversation.
"Tremendously so," he answered.
"How did you move passed it?"
"I journaled," he said and she smiled. "I did everything I am telling you to do now."
"But the episodes… they're continuing."
"They're decreasing," he reminded her. "Dramatically."
"Yet I am still taking morphine every day. I'm having episodes –"
"You walked through the door," he said excitedly. "You are improving. You must give yourself more time."
She twirled the wine glass around with her finger tips.
"Josephine," he said gently. "The only thing you could do that you are not already doing…" he considered. Once it was said, there was no going back. "… is intercourse itself."
She looked up. Shockingly, there appeared to be so sign of horror or surprise on her face, simply a deep and severe thoughtfulness. She had considered this before, that was clear. He tried to collect some saliva in his mouth.
"Frequent and vigorous, is what you said?"
He stared at her intently from across the table. Slowly, he nodded. "Some doctors suggest it, yes."
"And you said that – have you made love before doctor?" she asked. He looked down at her wine glass. She had not had nearly enough wine to be speaking about this.
"I have," he answered. "A woman's orgasm is significantly more intense during intercourse. More similar to that of an episode of hysteria… some doctors say."
His heart thundered in his chest. He took a sip of his water so he could wet his mouth. "Of course, I will not have you engaging in sexual intercourse with a man under my roof, in my care."
"Do you think that would work for me though, if I did such a thing?"
"According to the theory, yes it would."
He finished his water and put the glass down. "Is that something you would like to try?"
"Intercourse?" she asked. He nodded slowly. "With you?"
"With me," he answered. "For medical purposes only."
She considered. Again, she was far from outraged. She laughed nervously, "I cannot imagine how the orgasm could be more intense."
"It can be," he answered. His throat was a bit scratchy. "A different feeling entirely, I have been told."
Again, they sat in silence as he stared at her. "It would be just as the stimulation? Medical only?"
He blinked. "Of course. I would do anything to put your virtue in jeopardy."
"I – yes, doctor, if you think it would work."
"Tonight, then?" he asked. "We may not have another opportunity for some time."
"Tonight?" she asked. Now she appeared hesitant.
"You will not be discovered missing… Josephine, if this is not something you wish to try, we need not. It was my understanding you wanted to do all you could. It is the only reason I suggest it."
"No, I do," she answered. "Yes, doctor. I would like to."
He rose slowly and pushed in his chair. Circling the table, he held out his hand to her. She did not take it immediately. She stared at it, finished the remaining wine in her glass, and only then did she place her hand in his.
He led her toward his bedroom door. He had left it open. He wanted to make sure it was warm for her when he brought her to his bed. The gas lamp sat by the bed, illuminating what was a rather small bedroom. He did not need much. He spent most of his days sleeping.
He had a nightstand, a book shelf, a dresser, and a small desk he did not sue. He pushed her gently. She was walking slowly and needed the encouragement. His blood was boiling with need, his hands almost trembling with his excitement.
"You are a virgin," he told her, closing his bedroom door. "It will be uncomfortable initially. I will do all I can to make sure you orgasm. Of course, we may have to try two or three times before it becomes effective."
"Yes, sir," she said. He was already plucking at the buttons at the back of her dress. With the bodice untied, he slid it down over her shoulders. The gown pooled at their feet and he ran his fingers down the back of her corset.
"How did you get dressed?" he asked. He was suddenly frightened she had told someone where she would be tonight.
"Mable helped me dress earlier today," she answered. "Before I told Anne that I was not feeling well and would not be at dinner."
Her voice was soft. It trembled slightly. He placed his hands on her shoulders and leaned over to look at her profile. "Do not be afraid, Josephine. I would never do anything to hurt you."
"I trust you," she answered. He pulled back and began pulling at the strings of her corset. He was vaguely aware that he should have felt some guilt in that moment. He was keenly aware that he felt entirely justified. He was concerned by these feelings, though that in and of itself, was not true guilt.
He removed the corset from her and dropped it to the floor. He ordered, "remove your petticoat and drawers."
He collected her gown and corset and draped it over his dresser. He looked back and saw her. She was bent over, sliding the drawers down over her ankles. She was clothed now in only her shift and stockings.
"Lie down on your back," he instructed. "Pull your shift up to your waist."
His voice was curt. It was if he was watching the scene from outside of his own body. She obeyed silently. Her movements were timid and slow. She laid back on the bed, head on his pillow, and slowly pulled the shift upward. He removed his coat as he watched her. The shift slowly slid up her gray stockings, then, the creamy, pale skin of her thigh, and then, dark little patch of hair between her legs. He tossed off his vest and then crawled up onto the bed, shoes still on his feet.
It was sheer torture, being unable to tell her how beautiful she was, how long he has wanted this, how perfect she was, how much he loved her. Instead he said, "touch yourself."
Her breasts were partially visible beneath the shift. Her nipples were hard little buds. What torture, to not have the ability to touch them, to put them in his mouth and suck on those hard, pink little buds. If he were a true monster, he would have had her strip down completely. She would have done it if he ordered to. He could convince her to do anything he wanted but he was using restraint.
He pressed a knee to the mattress and placed his hand over hers. He gently moved it out of the way and slipped two fingers inside of her without much more preparation. She gasped, but he was thoroughly pleased to find her already damp. She would be a vixen for the man she married. Once she felt she could be free with her sexuality, she'd be as wanton as any camp whore. Not that he ever partook. He was deathly afraid of contracting those terrible diseases he had read about in his medical books. But a whore's mouth rarely transferred diseases and one needed relief in a battlefield.
He made sure she was well and ready for him. His fingers were slick as he pulsed them in and out of her. His gaze remained heavily focused on his fingers as they moved in and out of her. She was magnificent. Her hips bucked. He feared he might be a bit too rough, but he was unable to control himself. She did not seem to mind. As his gaze moved upward to look at her, her lips were peeled back like a braying horse, her teeth grinding together as she fought to quite her moan of pleasure, her cheeks flushed, her head knocked back into his pillow. He fumbled with his trousers with his free hand. His erection strained painfully in his trousers. He was worried how long he might last once inside of her, and so he made sure to bring her to the tipping point before he climbed up onto the bed.
"You will feel some discomfort," he told her, voice grating. "Remain relaxed."
She nodded. He leaned over her and freed his erection. He let out a low breath as he placed himself at her center. He hesitated, pressing himself at her entrance. This was a moment you only experienced once, taking the virginity of the woman you loved more than all else. He felt her cool hands touched the back of his neck and he pushed himself inside of her with a slow but steady thrust. He watched her face intently.
Her eyes squeezed together, her lips peeled back again and the muscles in her neck strained. He squeezed his own eyes shut. He waited a few moments before he pulled his hips back.
"Does it hurt?" he asked her. She shook her head.
"Just… full," she answered. He pushed back into her. A little noise left her, a little mewing.
"Different feeling, yes?" he asked her. She nodded. He kept his movements slow and steady until he saw the slight discomfort begin to leave her face. He picked up his movements. It took a moment, he found a thrust that brought a cry from her throat. He fell down on top of her in an instant, pressing the palm of his hand to her mouth. His mouth was close to hers, the back of his hand keeping them separated, and their eyes locked.
"You must be quiet," he urged, but he made sure to angle his hips in a similar manner. "Do not fight it," he encouraged. "Surrender to it."
Her orgasm brought about his own. As her orgasm ripped through her, her cry smothered by his hand on her mouth, he managed a few more thrusts to make sure her orgasm was not cut short. He pulled himself out of her just a few moments to late, but the majority of the evidence of his pleasure spilled out onto the bed spread between her legs.
He rose form the bed and placed his spent member back into his trousers. She remained on the bed, staring up at the ceiling, breathing hard. Her shift stuck to her breasts, damp with sweat, and he felt himself stirring again.
"I could fall asleep," she murmured, finally closing his eyes. He wished she could. He wanted nothing more than to put her under the covers and crawl into bed with her, have her soft, warm body pressed against his as they slept.
"How do you feel?" he asked her. He sat down on the bed beside her.
"So wonderful," she breathed. He smiled and reached out to touch her cheek. Her eyes fluttered open. "Thank you."
He ran his knuckles over her flushed cheek. "No one can know, you understand that? You will be removed from care if your father were to find out."
"I won't," she promised. "They wouldn't understand."
He nodded slowly. He allowed himself to stroke her cheek a few moments longer.
"We should get you back to your room."
"I would like to try to sleep tonight without morphine," she said.
"I will give you a weaker dose," he offered. "But you should have some."
She nodded, obedient and trustful as ever. He considered. "Have you kissed a man before?"
She shook her head silently. He lowered his head, hesitated, and then pressed a soft, gentle kiss to her mouth. He kept the kiss short and chaste. It was as pleasurable as being inside of her. He pulled back. "A woman should not lose her virginity and not know the kiss of man."
She smiled softly. "Thank you, doctor."
"Come," he instructed. He gently pulled her up by the hands. She leaned forward and placed her mouth to his. The kiss remained chaste but it was far more forceful on her part. They separated and held eye contact.
"I'm sorry," she whispered.
"It is alright," he murmured. He leaned forward to kiss her again. Their lips remained together for a brief moment before she pulled back. Her gaze was soft and hesitant.
"Just medical," she said. He felt like he'd been struck. He swallowed thickly, blades in his throat, and nodded.
"Forgive me," he said, standing. "Come now."
She got up from the bed and made to collect her things. He glanced at the clock and stopped her.
"Leave it," he instructed. "Walk back in that."
"Sir?" she asked.
"If you are discovered, you were sleep walking. You fell asleep without morphine."
"Oh, yes. My goodness," she said, seeing the clock.
He went to the dresser and pulled out a vial of morphine. He motioned to come closer. He gave her a light dose. Just enough to keep the nightmares away. He brought her to the door and left her inside as he stepped out into the hall. He stepped back inside and ordered her return to her room at once. She did not hesitate. She slipped from the door and left.
He returned to his bedroom, unsure what it was he was feeling. He collected her things from the floor and sat down on the bed with him. He held the dress to him and stared off at the far wall, wondering why he felt no remorse at all.
He was impressed with her journals. She did not yet get to the pulling of the trigger, but she was processing critically. He was proud of her. He only wished she would understand how far she had come and that it was from her own hard work and his guidance that had accomplished it, not daily orgasms.
She had one particularly bad episode at dinner. He was still unsure what her other triggers were. He knew loud noises, yet sometimes she would have outbursts where no noise was present. He was reviewing all of her journal entries to try and find some sort of clue.
With Mrs. Humphries gone, they were able to play chess in the evenings again. One night, she played the piano and sang old French songs for everyone. Afterward they stayed in the parlor until curfew, discussing politics. Despite the distance in which they spent their childhood, the difference in geography and education, they were very agreeable.
They did not like the same books, but both made a promise to make the effort. She gave him a she had brought with her and he provided her with one from his private collection. Begrudgingly, he had to admit he very much enjoyed the book she had given him. On quiet afternoons, when he had no sessions and she had finished her journaling, she would join him in the library. They would sit by the bay doors and discuss the books they were reading.
And of course, nearly every day, he spent a glorious portion of their sessions buried deeply inside of her. Some nights he would sneak her into his bedroom, but that was always risky. Usually, it was in his office, either on the couch or his desk. He did thoroughly enjoy bending her over his desk. She seemed to prefer it as well, as he could get beautiful sounds out of her with his hands on her hips, her fingers gripping his desk tightly. More often than not, when he suggested they engage in intercourse, she rose and walked over to the desk herself. Though she did not bend herself over. Far too scandalous for a chaste catholic woman. She allowed him to bend her over with a soft nudge of his hand. He'd collect her skirts up around her waist, unfasten her drawers and pull them down around her ankles. Usually, before they were finished, he was forced to put his hand over her mouth. It was usually quick, hard, and fast, and while he would enjoy the ability to hold her afterward and place his mouth to hers and tell her how much he loved her, he certainly could not complain. His only nagging fear was that she might come up pregnant. Even then, he was calmed by reminding himself that happened, he could simply marry her, and then have her as he liked.
Sometimes he was overzealous. Once, his hand on her shoulder was so hard, he left bruises on her. She did not complain. She did not even point them out. He noticed one day, in the early autumn, as they walked through the dying gardens in an abnormally warm day, that there was a discoloration to her neck.
"Oh, sir," she laughed nervously. "I believe it was you."
"Me?"
"Yes, last Tuesday when…"
"Ah," he chuckled nervously. "Forgive me."
She was gracious. No apology was necessary. They spent the afternoon in the garden discussing politics. When the sun was blocked by clouds and the day grew cold, he gave her his coat. That night he joined her in her own bedroom. No one would disturb them there and he enjoyed having her in her own bed. But that night he made a terrible mistake. He forgot himself, and afterward, as he lay atop her beneath the blankets, he placed soft kisses to her neck. She ran her hands through his hair, allowing him to place soft kisses up to her jaw and eventually, her mouth.
The kisses were soft and tender. She returned them. Their tongues touched shyly. It was enough to bring tears to his eyes. But then she stopped him, pushing back gently on his chest. "We can't do that," she whispered. "That would be a sin."
He wanted to hit her. What do you think we are doing, you stupid, stupid woman, he wanted to say. Did she truly think that this was designed to cure her? He removed himself from her and redressed angrily. He had struggled to control his emotions. He behaved as a jilted lover, far from the detached doctor he was supposed to be.
"Doctor?" she asked him as he grabbed his jacket.
"Goodnight, Josephine," he snapped. He actually slammed the door as he left.
When she came in to see him the next day, he tried to pretend his little outburst had not happened. He greeted her kindly, asking her to what he owed the pleasure. Sundays were usually the only days in which they did not interact at all. She shut the door softly and entered the room, eyes lowered.
She sat down, face severe. She touched the crucifix that hung around her neck with a pale hand. He remained behind his desk, a frown on his face.
"Doctor, I think we must stop," she said. He blinked.
"Stop?" he asked.
"Yes." She paused, looking down at her hands. "Sir… I…"
She looked to the window. He waited, his heart trembling. "When this started it was to produce a cure. It was not a sin as long as the intent in our hearts was pure. But I… I fear that when we engage in intercourse that… I am enjoying it too much. I am beginning to look forward to it, not because of the help it might bring, but the pleasure it brings it me. I fear that… I am developing feelings for you that go beyond the bond of patient and doctor."
His lips parted. It was everything he had hoped to hear from her, and yet it felt like his world was about to come to a crashing halt.
"It must come to an end. We must resume our relationship as patient and doctor only. And I think that… I think that we should speak only during sessions."
"Why?" he asked rather harshly. She looked at him in surprise. "Why must we stop?"
"I've told you, the intent in our hearts –"
"We've moved far beyond that," he sneered. Her confusion only angered him. His eyes were on fire as his brain raced, trying desperately to find a way to salvage this, but he'd lost control of himself, and the fear of losing her pushed him too far. "What's done is done, Josephine, you can't go back now. You'll never be a virgin again."
"Yes, but… but it was medical," she said. He tried to calm himself. He was shaking it his head. "And recently I–"
"You feel for me," he said rising, trying to take the bite out of his voice. "You said it yourself. And, Josephine, I feel for you," he admitted. "My God do I feel for you. I felt it the moment I first saw you."
He came around the desk and walked toward her on the couch. Horror slowly began to spread across her face. He couldn't understand it. He sat down beside her. He reached up to touch her face. "I love you, Josephine," he whispered. "I love you. Surely you feel it, when we make love. Surely, you feel it too."
"No," she said. "No… you… you said it was purely medical." Tears filled her eyes. "It was yes? That is why we began?"
His lips parted and a pained look spread across his face. Her lower lip trembled as tears fell from her eyelids and down her cheeks.
"You…oh I'm so stupid," she whispered in horror. She brought her hands to her face and shook her head. "What was I thinking? You… you…"
"I never said I thought it would work. I said other doctors did and that it might help. You wanted to try. I'd do anything for you. Don't you see? I would do anything for you. I did it for you. It was what you wanted. Can you blame me? If I found pleasure in it?"
He touched both her cheeks with his hands. He pleaded, "Josephine, we don't need to stop. We don't have to pretend anymore. We don't have to lie to ourselves. And we continue working on your episodes. You've come so far. Think of how far you've come. That's because of me. We can still push forward... together."
His eyes darted over her face rapidly. When she did not say anything, he tried to kiss her, but she got to her feet.
"Did you… this why you did it?" she asked him. "You've been… you've enjoyed me as a man enjoys a woman... this whole time?"
"I love you. I did it to help you. You said it made you feel better, remember." He paused and asked in exasperation, "Am I but a doctor to you? Truly? Is that all I am? Tell me true. Tell me now."
"I'm writing to my father," she answered. He felt the blood drain from his face. His mouth went dry. Tears dribbled down her cheeks. "I'm going home."
"No," he said. "You aren't."
"Yes, I am." Tears spilled down her cheeks. "You're a monster," she spat. "You're a vile man."
She turned to run for the door. He leapt from the couch. She got the door open an inch or so, but rammed his palm into it, followed by the force of his body, and he slammed it shut.
"Let me go," she demanded. She was laying feeble blows to his chest with balled up fists.
"Josephine, listen to me, listen to me," he said, grabbing onto her wrists and holding her still. "I will prove it you. I'll marry you right now. I'll take you to the church and make you my wife. I never did anything to hurt you. My intentions were pure from the beginning. I love you. Don't you see that?"
"You lied to me," she accused. She tried to turn around. She yanked at the door handle, but he kept it shut.
"Josephine, you're going to listen to me," he demanded. He was panicking. How could she not understand? He loved her. He grabbed her arm and tried to pull her back. Her knee landed between his legs with tremendous force. He fell backward. Air rushed out of his lungs and he was crumpled on the floor. When he realized what had happened, the office door was open and she was gone. He ran to the desk and dug through the drawer. He grabbed the chloral hydrate and a rag. He ran from the office and caught up with her half way to the fourth floor. He couldn't have her saying anything. He just couldn't risk it.
She was sobbing and let out a shout when she saw him round the staircase. He closed on her in no time at all. She screeched, kicking and punching, but he did not think it was an episode. Anne came running down the hall. James came bounding up the stairs. He fell to the floor with Josephine, his arm wrapped tightly around her middle. She squirmed as he placed the cloth to her face, covering her nose and mouth with a powerful hand.
He felt the fight begin to leave her. He held her close to him, his cheek pressed to the side of her forehead.
"It's alright, Josephine," he breathed. He rocked her gently. "It's alright."
He gently shifted her to the side so he could see her face. She gazed up at him with tired, puffy eyes. He gently stroked her cheek. "It's alright," he said again. "It's alright."
Slowly, her eyes fluttered closed. He leaned back, hitting his head against the wall hard. He stared up at the ceiling, shaking his head from side to side. By God, what a mess he had made.