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“Will Doctor Greene be staying for tea, ma’am?” Mrs. Berry, the housekeeper, enquired.
“Thank you, no.” Mrs. Hulme had a wide-eyed, distracted look about her. It was three days since Captain Hulme had left on deployment aboard the HMS Destrier, after his six weeks of shore leave. Mrs. Berry had privately thought that while Captain Hulme had taken to the vocation of his title like the proverbial duck, Mrs. Hulme had not the humour for hers. When Captain Hulme was not at home, which he generally was not, she oscillated between brief periods of frenzied activity––taking callers from dawn until dusk, visiting the poor and sick, painting, playing her flute and pianoforte, and attending spectacles with the gaggle of lady friends whose society occasionally included her––interspersed between longer episodes of sullen, despairing stillness, when her headaches prevented her from leaving her room or opening the curtains, and she let the breakfast trays sit outside her door untouched. When Captain Hulme was at home, she followed him like a puppy at his coattails, and (Mrs. Berry had privately thought) at twenty-eight years of age to his fifty-seven, she very nearly was.
When she was still Rebecca Chatsworth, she had been a country girl, raised on the wide wolds and fens of Lincolnshire to the north. She was the least and the youngest of her siblings, but her gentleman father had always been a negotiator, Captain Hulme had been in need of a wife, and, so, in the two months that the Royal Navy had harbored in Skegness, Rebecca Chatsworth became one. Now she was mistress of Captain Hulme’s house in London, but because she’d borne him no children yet, and because Mrs. Berry had been performing her office for longer than young Mrs. Hulme had been alive, she hadn’t much to do there. Mrs. Berry, a working woman with four scamps of her own waiting to hassle her at home, privately thought that she didn’t know what Mrs. Hulme had to get headaches over, but there was no accounting for the constitution of a lady.
Captain Hulme had thought that it might be nice to have a lovely young lady to wait for him at home, but the idea turned out to be much more tiresome in practice. He was a grizzled man and set in his ways: when he was ashore, he wanted his pipe, his dogs, and his long evenings at the Beefsteak Club, upon his return from which he wanted not to be disturbed. Mrs. Berry was well aware of his schedule and accommodated it easily. Mrs. Hulme, however, would not have it. For the first two weeks after his return, she twined around him like a kitten, pleading with him to take her to so-and-so’s ball, and such-and-such revue, and why don’t we go out driving, and won’t you introduce me to some of your friends? After enough of this pestering he determined to set her down sharply, after which point she became sullen and cross, and then sullen and miserable. After interminable days in her rooms, Captain Hulme came home from the Beefsteak Club with the card of a doctor in his acquaintance who had impressed upon him over their glasses of port the dangers of female hysteria. Captain Hulme, while not a man whose heart bled for the suffering of young wives in need of entertainment, nevertheless was not the sort of man who wanted his wife to waste away altogether.
Arrangements were made, and the good Doctor Greene agreed to make a house call at his earliest convenience, which turned out to be recently after the Captain was to go away once more on deployment. The night before he left, Rebecca had visited his bedroom late at night, and if he had not already been in ill temper from an evening spent on too much wine, the frenzied look in her eye and the shake in her grasping hands would have put him off. He sent her away, as had become part of his meticulous schedule these last six weeks, and resolved that the doctor had better see her sooner rather than later.
Thus, today, the good Doctor Greene was to arrive at one o’clock that afternoon, and Rebecca said she wasn’t sure how long he would be visiting, so Mrs. Berry had better say that she was not accepting callers. At two minutes after one o’clock, the bell rang at the front door and the welter of anxiety that had been creeping up into Rebecca’s chest eased before promptly surging up again. She sat up very straight in the drawing room, the drapes closed against the midday glare, as Mrs. Berry’s muffled chattering led Doctor Greene in. He was a man of middling height and years, his hair brown and very straight, and his moustaches trimmed and combed. He carried a silk top hat in one hand, his doctor’s bag in the other, and his suit was pleasantly blue, though it fit him too loosely to be very attractive. He was younger in years than the Captain, though maybe not by much––the salt and sun aged a man prodigiously. She rose to greet him, and he bowed and then smiled, and Rebecca decided he did have an attractive look to him, after all.
“Thank you, Berry, was it?” He said, and Mrs. Berry dimpled.
“Thank you, sir, and will you be needing anything?”
“Just privacy, if you please. Mrs. Hulme and I have medical matters to discuss and we must not be disturbed.”
“Yes, sir.” Mrs. Berry bobbed a curtsey and shut the door behind her. Rebecca and Doctor Greene sat on chairs upholstered in yellow silk.
“Mrs. Hulme, may I speak candidly?” Rebecca nodded. The doctor continued, “Your husband called on me to address a concern he observed in your temperament.” Rebecca felt her face go hot, and the doctor smiled, probably hoping to put her at ease. “I understand that there can often be inconsistencies in humour between a man of distinguished years and a young, new wife. But he spoke to me of your suffering long periods of melancholy and isolation, and frequent headaches. Is this the case?”
Rebecca kept her eyes downcast. “Yes, sir. My head troubles me often, as do… my nerves. I am more comfortable when my husband is home, but… he prefers his privacy, and does not often spend time in mixed society.”
The doctor furrowed his brow. “Affliction of the nerves is a common symptom of the condition that I believe you to be suffering. Mrs. Hulme, I am going to read through a list of symptoms, and I would like you to let me know if you suffer from them. You need only nod or shake your head. I understand these matters especially require a certain degree of sensitivity.”
Rebecca twisted her hands in her lap. She heard the doctor shift slightly in his seat, and imagined him gazing at her very earnestly when he said, “Mrs. Hulme, I want to impress upon you the gravity of the situation. One’s personal health must not be taken for granted; it can desert us at a moment’s notice. I entreat you to be forthcoming with me. I assure you: you may be perfectly at ease. Nothing you say to me shall shock me, and the oath of my office prevents me from disclosing anything you might say to me to any other party.”
Rebecca raised her gaze, finally meeting his eyes, and saw that he was looking at her very earnestly, after all. Her nerves settled slightly, and she gave him a small smile.
“Thank you, Doctor. I do appreciate you taking the time to make this visit, and I will do my best to be perfectly frank with you.”
Doctor Green assumed a magnanimous posture. “It is difficult for a lady to think of demanding anything for herself. I am glad your husband cares for you so, to summon me to see to your condition. Now, to business: do you often experience agitation or excitability of the nerves?”
Rebecca nodded her head yes.
“Racing of the heart? Chills without fever? Sweating without fever? Flushing of the face and breast?” Rebecca flushed then, nodding wordlessly to each. Her eyes were fixed again on her lap, and she heard the doctor shift again in his chair as he cleared his throat. “Inflammation of the genitals?” Rebecca’s pulse roared in her ears as she nodded, tightly, once. “Excessive translucent discharge from the genitals?” Rebecca squeezed her eyes tightly closed, nodding. To make such disclosures before a man who was not her husband, who was not even her acquaintance of half an hour! She wished the floor would open up below her. She took a deep breath. He was a doctor. It was all right.
Doctor Greene was scribbling something in his notebook. “Yes, it is as I suspected. You appear to have a mild case of what is dubbed ‘hysteria.’ The womb, you see, requires judicious care. Ladies must take care not to lead lives of too much excitement, nor to engage in very vigorous exercise, as it is a deeply sensitive organ and may be easily set awry. I say the case is mild, now, but left untreated, it can give rise to much more serious symptoms––transports of the body and mind that can leave one quite without recourse.” Rebecca felt her head pounding. “Fortunately, at this juncture, treatment is achievable and ought to provide you with very immediate relief!” The doctor finished brightly.
“Oh, really?” Rebecca burst out, meeting his eyes again. The doctor smiled.
“If you’re amenable to it, I can carry out an initial course of therapy today.”
“Oh, thank you, Doctor!”
Doctor Greene stood, and Rebecca rose to meet him. “The therapy is adapted from Classical massage treatments. The theory is simple, really: muscles and organs that trouble a body may be soothed by manual manipulation. You had better lie down on the chaise, here.” The doctor pulled up a chair to the side of the chaise and set his bag down. Rebecca laid down as, with brisk, efficient movements, the doctor anointed his hands with a strong-smelling tincture from one vial, dried his hands on a kerchief, then removed another vial and dripped the viscous contents onto his right hand. “Because the organ in question is the womb, it will benefit most directly from internal massage. Do you understand?”
Rebecca nodded, only half-listening.
“I will need to palpate your lower abdomen, and then, please forgive the crassness of my verbiage, but I will need you to lift your skirts.”
That brought Rebecca up short, but she forced herself to relax. He’s a doctor, she reminded herself. This will help me.
“If you’d prefer, I can fetch a sheet to cover your legs,” the doctor offered, but Rebecca shook her head. Rather not alert the servants. The doctor seemed to understand. “Please close your eyes, and do your best to breathe deeply and evenly.”
He set his palm over Rebecca’s navel, rubbing in ever-widening circles with increasing pressure. It felt… pleasant. Rebecca relaxed, breathing deeply, as instructed. Her muscled tensed as he moved towards her hip-bones, and she forced herself to unclench them. Doctor, she reminded herself again. Helping.
But it was hard to imagine this therapy helping––rather, it seemed like the closer his hands drew to her more intimate places, the more the symptoms he had listed appeared to plague her. She felt her pulse beating between her legs, and had to fight to keep her breathing even.
“I’m going to lift your skirts now, Mrs. Hulme,” the doctor murmured, keeping blessedly quiet about it.
“Doctor––“ Rebecca blurted out, redfaced. He gave her the grace of not looking at her face.
“The symptoms will grow more intense briefly before they are relieved,” he explained. “You are responding as somebody with your condition would, but the response indicates that the therapy will be effective. Please, to the best of your ability, allow me to work unhindered.”
Properly chastened and more than a little relieved, Rebecca laid back. Heart racing, she resolved to bear the ordeal in good spirits. Meanwhile, the doctor slowly drew up Rebecca’s petticoats. With another flash of humiliation, Rebecca remembered that she had decided it was too hot out to bother with drawers. The doctor did not comment. He merely placed a hand on her mound, the base of his palm cupping under it, and Rebecca stiffened as a jolt ran through her body. Rhythmically, he massaged his hand over it in little circles, and Rebecca realized with another pang that her inner lips were slick with the dew that they produced when she was in the throes of one of her restless melancholies; she could feel them sliding over each other as the doctor carried on massaging, the free air cool against the heat of her. And such heat it was; Rebecca felt a bead of sweat trickle down from the crook of her knee. God above, what must the doctor think of her?
She risked cracking her eyelids open. Between her lashes, she could see him in profile, his gaze fixed intently between her legs. She would have flushed still deeper if she could; she involuntarily clenched beneath his hand as she felt a pulse of energy in her sex. She dug her fingernails into her palms and tried to think calming thoughts: the wind in the grass, clouds scudding overhead in the great chalk meadows. The doctor’s palm rippled against her, Rebecca’s cunt pulsed again, and she felt a knot of tears pressing in her throat as she willed her traitorous mind to think it away, make it stop. But the doctor’s every movement was a bellows to the flame roaring within her, in which lived something slick and openmouthed and wanting, needing, driving her to distraction. It writhed in her, now, taking advantage of every lapse in concentration; now, unbidden, her legs spread wider, her pelvis canted up, begging.
Still the doctor’s hand pressed firmly against Rebecca’s sex; still it ground tortuous circles into her, until Rebecca felt as if she was on the verge of crying out. To her horror, she felt a drop of slickness run down from her slit, and she shivered involuntarily. At this, the doctor abruptly removed his hand, but rather than the relief that Rebecca expected, the welter of heat and shame and need redoubled, and she could not keep herself from arching her back, a minute noise escaping her throat.
Then, blessedly, the doctor’s hand returned, two fingers tracing up and down the slit between her lower lips, and Rebecca could have wept. Maybe she did weep. The thing in her that wanted was a cyclone, a monsoon, howling and tearing at the walls of her. The doctor had promised relief. She didn’t know how much more she could take. His fingers stroked up and down, now pressing at the base of her, now lingering at the apex, which traitorously jumped against his fingers every time he brushed near it. Rebecca’s pelvis, her back still arched, ground into the cushion of the chaise, and the next time the doctor’s fingers lingered at her entrance, Rebecca couldn’t imagine living to the next breath, and unbidden, her hips jerked, spearing the doctor’s fingers into the core of her.
Rebecca let out a breath like she’d been hit but the doctor didn’t move at all, two fingers buried to the second knuckle in Rebecca’s throbbing cunt, and Rebecca squeezed her eyes tight against the shame of it as, jerky and unwilling, her hips rocked against the doctor’s unmoving hand, his fingers slipping in and out, in and out, and a wild euphoria was awakening in Rebecca’s bones, and her cunt clenched and fluttered and she shivered, every muscle tight and singing, and as she began to rut against his hand in earnest, the doctor pulled out, covering her cunt with a firm hand and pressing her down to the chaise.
“Please lie still, Mrs. Hulme.” The doctor said quietly but firmly. And as Rebecca blinked startled tears out of her eyes the doctor resettled himself in his chair and plunged his fingers deep into her cunt. Before her eyes were driven shut again, Rebecca noticed the doctor’s left hand was between his own legs, rubbing slowly at the lump that bulged there, and her cunt clenched traitorously even as her mind shrieked “infidelity” and “betrayal” and “violation” and “sin.” But the doctor’s fingers were spearing and crooking and rubbing at a relentless pace and Rebecca was gasping in time with his thrusts, her heart thrilling in her breast, and a sensation was unfurling in her bones, building under her pelvis, stoked with the doctor’s every movement, and she didn’t even realize she was beginning to make sounds, little, high, keening noises, until the doctor’s left hand closed over her mouth and nose in a vise grip and he said aloud, “Forgive me, Mrs. Hulme, sometimes the examination can be slightly painful, but it won’t take a moment.”
And with the doctor’s left hand cutting off her breath and his right plunging relentlessly into her cunt, Rebecca tensed every muscle in her body and came, shuddering violently, an involuntary cry aborted in the doctor’s palm, tears leaking from the corners of her eyes and her cunt drooling onto her petticoats.
When he was sure she was quite finished, Doctor Greene removed his hands from Rebecca’s face and cunt and wiped them briskly on his handkerchief. Then, gentlemanly, he pulled her skirts down and helped her to sit up. She did so in a daze, remembering nevertheless to fix her hair. Her lips were flushed where she’d bitten them.
“I expect to see rapid improvement in your condition with the application of regular therapy. I recommend sessions on a monthly basis; will the second do?”
Rebecca found her voice. “Yes, I––yes, the second will do well.”
“Excellent. You have my card. Do monitor your symptoms and let me know of any changes in your condition directly. Good day, ma’am.”
They rose, he bowed, she curtsied, and he left. Before he buttoned his coat, she noted the bulge straining against the join of his trousers.