She found it with little problem and began to read. ‘There are two different recipes.’
‘I make a different type for children. Less opium in view of their size and a great deal of sugar because it tastes foul and they take it better when it is sweet.’
‘Yet you add no sugar for adults?’
‘I want the taste to be unpleasant because...?’
‘They are less likely to become dependent on it if it’s awful on the palate.’ She had a way of smiling and shaking her head when she worked out something. ‘Which one shall I make?’
‘A batch of both. Be careful not to put your fingers near your mouth after you handle the opium. It will make your head spin.’
Joe did not need to tell her to weigh and measure the ingredients meticulously. He already knew her well enough to know she would check each measurement at least twice. Bella didn’t cut corners or approach tasks in a slap-dash manner. She did everything logically and in an impressively practical manner. He began to mix more of his honey salve while keeping a close eye on her. To his amusement she sniffed everything before adding it to her mixture, her small nose wrinkling in disgust at the over-perfumed smell of the opium resin. ‘It is a mystery to me why some people take this stuff for pleasure.’
‘Me, too, although I doubt it gives them much pleasure when they come to depend on it. Everything I have witnessed and read leads me to conclude the euphoria of opium is brief. In no time at all, it plunges the body into melancholy, often one so deep that it is difficult to claw out of without the complete cessation of the drug. Even then it takes the mind a time to heal.’
‘Do you believe the mind can heal?’ She stopped grinding the resin in the mortar to stare at him. ‘If it is broken, I mean, rather than addled by laudanum. Lunatics, melancholiacs...hysterics?’
‘An interesting question and one I do not completely know the answer to.’
‘But if you had to speculate?’ She had leaned closer as if his opinion was of great import and Joe found himself frowning in thought.
‘I suppose it entirely depends on what is wrong with the mind and how advanced the illness is. I have seen some of the poor unfortunates in the asylums and confess I would not have the first clue as to how to help them. They seem to be locked inside their own heads and oblivious to the world around them. Those suffering from diseases like syphilis are quite tragic and I fear there is no hope for them. Whatever the illness does, it appears to alter the human brain and send it on a slow and irreversible decline into madness.’
‘Say, for instance, the illness is caused by trauma. Something dreadful which changes the person. I have read accounts of soldiers’ minds damaged by the horrors of war. Can those minds be fixed or is the damage irreversible?’
Something Joe had a first-hand account of. His brother Jamie had come back from the Peninsula changed and prone to violent outbursts in the night. However, talking about his beloved elder brother’s ordeal with anyone outside the family was disloyal, so he would have to choose his next words carefully. ‘I believe the human brain is the most powerful organ in the body and, like any organ, can be damaged by trauma and sometimes heal itself afterwards. I believe the mind can construct horrible and entirely believable scenarios to trick its owner into believing them as reality. A person can build giant walls in their minds which can imprison them. The key to the cure in such cases depends on the patient and the particular demons which haunt them. They need to find a way to circumvent or demolish those walls to see clear sky rather than their fears.’
She was nodding in assent, almost as if relieved to know this. ‘Hypothetically speaking then, say you encountered an individual who had suffered horrifically at the hands of another and had—how did you put it?—locked themselves inside their own heads and built enormous prison walls in their mind. What if that person was irrationally terrified of everything and everyone? What treatments would you prescribe to help them demolish them?’
Jamie had needed time, patience and understanding. He had also, it turned out, needed the love of a good woman to begin to forgive himself for being broken. He had confided his deepest, darkest fears to Cassie and in doing so had faced his demons. Five years on and his brother no longer thought himself a danger to society and was happy. He still had the occasional nightmare and still had a gun hidden in his bedchamber, but now it was consigned to the highest shelf of a cupboard rather than under his pillow. ‘I believe, in the first instance, I would encourage the patient to talk to somebody they trusted.’
‘Talk?’ This appeared to astound her.
‘Why, yes. A problem shared is a problem halved. I believe talking through fears and anxieties allows the owner of those problems and anxieties to take them out and examine them for themselves. Perhaps a little more dispassionately. See them through somebody else’s eyes. I think the first step has to be to face their fears in order to control them.’
‘I see.’ She picked up the pestle again and began to slowly grind the opium resin into a powder. ‘What are your opinions on water treatments for the insane?’ She certainly knew how to test his knowledge and was apparently in fine form today.
‘Again, I suppose it depends on the water treatments. Taking the waters, sea bathing...anything which relaxes the body and mind are always beneficial. If the mind is stressed, it stands to reason relaxation must be a good thing.’
‘In my readings, I have encountered physicians who advocate more severe kinds of water therapy for those suffering from ailments of the mind. Cold-water treatments, for example, are supposed to shock the patient out of their impaired mental state.’
‘Good grief! Do physicians still do that? I don’t have much cause to experiment with diseases of the mind here in my practice, but I should imagine restraining a poor soul and then subjecting them to—or submerging them in—freezing water is tantamount to torture. I see no benefit in traumatising a traumatised patient further.’
This answer appeared to please her and she smiled at him. Like all her smiles it transformed her pretty face into a thing of sheer beauty which made his breath catch and those damn tingles play havoc with his nerves. ‘I’m glad you think so. I think they are barbaric also.’ She looked away then to check his recipe and a companionable silence descended. For several minutes they worked side by side, content to say nothing at all.
When her laudanum tincture was steeping, she spoke again, perhaps a little tentatively. ‘Do you believe female patients with addled minds might need different treatments to male patients?’
‘Why would they?’
‘It is a widely held belief, is it not, that because of their physiology women are prone to hysteria...a condition which impairs their mind and...and must be treated...accordingly?’ He glanced at her, a little stunned that she would want to talk about such a delicate subject, and was not surprised when she refused to meet his eye. Her cheeks were already rosy and her embarrassed blush made her swanlike neck blotchy.
‘I...um...I have read about it.’ Good grief, were they really going to talk about this? He sincerely hoped not. Joe began to focus intently on mixing his honey salve into a smooth paste in case he also blushed. Men of science shouldn’t blush over scientific topics.
‘Have you ever had to treat a patient for...um...hysteria?’
‘No.’ Joe wanted to hide his face. Or leave. Quickly.
‘Do you believe treatment for hysteria is necessary, Dr Warriner?’
The temptation to change the subject was overwhelming, because what she was asking involved discussing the parts of a lady which a gentleman shouldn’t mention in the normal course of a conversation—but she was also a scientist. A woman, undeniably, yet a scientist first. Were she a male assistant asking the same question, Joe would happily engage in the debate. Share his knowledge of female anatomy—both as a physician and a man—and laugh at the absurdity of the proposition. The double standard bothered him. ‘Ah...well...firstly, I think I would have to subscribe to the theory that hysteria—as a medical
condition—actually exists.’ And that the only way of curing a woman with the condition involved intimately massaging those parts he really did not want to mention. He’d heard ridiculous tales of London doctors earning a fortune out of the procedure.
‘And you don’t?’
Some things were less painful in the long run if you just did what was necessary quickly to get it over with. Be brave, Joe. Answer the question like the cool, calm, collected academic you pride yourself on being. ‘Can I assume, Bella, you are familiar with the theory and treatments of hysteria?’ Because if she wasn’t, Joe was certainly not going to apprise her of them. Another glance to the side confirmed she was now quite crimson everywhere, a hue he suspected he also shared. She nodded curtly and stared at the tabletop. The obvious hideous embarrassment did confirm she was fully aware of what they were about to talk about. The culmination of sexual gratification! Le petit mort—the little death. The ridiculous, yet common, idea that females became hysterical and went out of their wits because of the lack thereof. ‘I am wholly convinced it is complete nonsense. I fail to understand why a woman would need the paid services of a physician to achieve what any decent lover would happily provide her for free.’ Something he instantly regretted saying the moment the words escaped as Joe silently prayed she wouldn’t ask him how. In case she did, he bumbled on. ‘The idea that illness of the mind can be cured by treating the...um...nether regions with vigorous pelvic massage makes no scientific sense whatsoever.’
‘I see.’ She still refused to look at him. ‘Good to know... Very good to know... I believe my laudanum is ready to be bottled, Doctor. Where do you keep the bottles?’
* * *
Two hours later and Dr Warriner’s medicine shelves were pleasingly full. After the abrupt conclusion to the difficult conversation she had instigated, things had been awkward for a full five minutes before he had started to laugh, clearing the air. ‘I cannot remember the last time I blushed like a beetroot, Bella. You certainly know how to confound a man.’
‘I was merely curious.’ For herself, although she could hardly confess to that shame. ‘I didn’t mean to embarrass you.’ He shrugged and continued to grin, which in turn made her smile, too. ‘If it is any consolation, I also embarrassed myself in the process.’
‘I saw the blush. It was very impressive.’
‘I’ve always excelled at blushing. I wish I didn’t.’
‘It suits you. Makes you seem less formidable.’ He nudged her playfully with his arm and his deep blue eyes twinkled behind the lenses of his spectacles. Bella wished he would take them off. The combination of easy genius and wickedly handsome man was unnerving and made it difficult to concentrate.
‘I’m hardly formidable.’
‘On the contrary, when I first met you I found you almost frightening. Very serious. Very studious. Very unapproachable. However, now I know you are really none of those things. Apart from studious—you are brilliantly studious.’
At the time, she had been flattered by the compliment, because to be thought brilliant by him was astounding, but had been unable to think up any response other than blushing again. Instead, she began a discussion about another medical topic until the blush faded. ‘What made you become a doctor?’
‘The need to fix things. My younger brother, Jake, despairs of my good nature, but I cannot seem to help myself. If somebody needs my help, I have to help them, even if they don’t want or deserve it.’
Something Bella understood only too well and ultimately to her detriment. ‘I suppose it would have been easier to set up a practice anywhere in the country, somewhere where the name Warriner doesn’t mean anything.’
‘Of course it would have. But I am also, apparently, a glutton for punishment and determined to always seek the good in people—or hope for some good in people.’
‘Why do you think that is?’ As they had been talking about the workings of the human mind, a topic she was now determined to understand, Bella wanted to know what had shaped his character. Because events did shape a person’s character, whether they be in a negative or a positive way. Aside from how the incident had changed her, she had also seen how being declared an Incomparable had affected her sister. Clarissa now needed constant affirmation that she was still an Incomparable and could not see the label was ultimately nonsense.
Joe stopped what he was doing and gave the question some serious thought, as if he had never paused to consider it before. ‘I suppose it stems from having such an awful father. I know he was a bad man with few redeeming qualities, but as a child I needed to make excuses for him, almost as if those excuses would explain why he was so wretched.’
‘You wanted to fix him.’
‘I did. I suppose I still do. Even now I try to convince myself he was a drunkard because he was heartbroken over my mother. It irritates all of my brothers, as they hate him unreservedly.’
‘But you don’t hate him?’
‘I can’t bring myself to. Don’t get me wrong, I cannot love the man either. I just choose to believe he was human underneath it all. Lost, perhaps, but still there somewhere.’
Exactly how Bella saw herself. ‘What about your mother?’
‘She’s an enigma. I don’t really remember her at all.’
‘How old were you when she died?’
He answered without hesitation. ‘Twelve.’ Then he promptly picked up a jar and began filling it with salve, the motion suggesting his mother was not a topic he felt particularly comfortable talking about. Odd when he was so open about his father.
‘Twelve? Yet you don’t remember her?’ If he had said five, six or even seven, she would have accepted his explanation, but twelve—Bella had very clear memories of being twelve and younger. ‘Do you remember nothing about her at all?’
‘I remember she was very beautiful. She had lovely golden hair which was so different to the rest of my family. The four of us all take after our father in appearance. She was very graceful, very well spoken. Not really the usual sort of woman one would expect in deepest, darkest, dankest Nottinghamshire.’ He sealed the final pot of honey salve decisively and pushed it to one side. ‘Is your laudanum ready to be bottled yet?’ Before she could answer, he was striding across the room to fetch the tiny bottles. ‘We will need to measure out the dosage exactly. I make sure there is never enough in one bottle to kill a person.’ The quick change of subject said a great deal. His mother had shaped his character far more than even he knew.
* * *
It was close to six before Bella reluctantly acknowledged she needed to go home. ‘I should send for the carriage. My mother will send out a search party if I am not home for dinner.’
‘No need. I could drive you home in my curricle. It will be quicker than sending a message and waiting for the carriage to get back here.’
She dithered, suddenly nervous, and he laughed at her. A delicious warm sound she felt everywhere. ‘Are you going to worry about propriety when we have been huddled up here alone all afternoon? Or are you terrified to be seen with me?’
Not exactly—but terrified still. He was watching her intently for her reaction. ‘Let me put your mind at rest. The streets will be deserted at this time on a Sunday evening, and if I take the lane behind the square, I doubt we will encounter a soul. It will be lovely and quiet. Nobody will see you with a vile Warriner.’
Quiet and deserted. And he was a man. Three excellent reasons to say no. The last time she had been dragged to a quiet and deserted place by a man...
Bella took a deep breath and forced the memory out of her head. She had to face her fears, and would do so with logic. Refusing would seem churlish and unfriendly after he had been nothing but generous to her with his time and his knowledge. Part of her was coming to believe he was purposefully training her in the art of medicine and he had just called her brilliantly studious. He respected her brain. Nothing more.
He has no intention of hurting you.
His wise words also still resonated. She did n
eed to face her fears and being alone in a quiet, tree-lined country lane with a man would certainly do that. What exactly was there to be afraid of? Logically, she understood if Dr Warriner harboured any intentions of attacking her, then he could have done so at any point over the course of the afternoon, secure in the knowledge nobody would come to her rescue because they were safely ensconced in the back of his house. All alone. The addition of fresh air and a few bushes would hardly turn him into a monster. Besides, he was too kind and gentle to hurt a fly. She knew that inside. At least his driving her home would allow her to pick his magnificent brain further while taking another decisive leap forward on the road to recovery. ‘If you don’t mind, that would be lovely.’
‘Of course, I don’t mind. I always dine at Markham Manor on a Sunday evening, so I would need my curricle soon regardless. I’ll go and fetch it and meet you out front in ten minutes.’ With that, he was gone, leaving Bella all alone in his house hoping she would not come to regret her decision. She tidied away the last of the bottles and equipment and then located her discarded bonnet, deciding to wait for him at the front door. But on the short walk down the hallway, curiosity got the better of her and she found herself wandering into his private rooms instead.
A Warriner to Tempt Her Page 10
