[Hope Chest 01.0] Mesmerist

by Pam McCutcheon

  But surely he could be excused for a bit of abstraction. Finally, he had arrived at the culmination of months of searching for just the right place to put Dr. Mesmer’s theories into practice. The Chesterfield seemed ideal. Not only was it a popular convalescent spot for invalids, but the resident physician, Dr. Ziegler, was well known for his interest in the diseases of the mind.

  Following the directions the tipsy porter had provided, Drake made his way down the long hallway through the west wing to the bathhouse. He liked what he saw. Though the scent of sulfur was strong in these rooms, the entrance itself was light and airy, with a profusion of potted plants lining the walls and staircases to take advantage of the ample light and humidity.

  He climbed the stairs to the second floor and was gratified to find the doctor’s office just where the porter said it would be.

  Drake knocked on the door and a male voice bade him enter. This is it. My big chance. Drake ignored a flurry of movement behind him and, straightening his jacket and tie, he stepped into the room and closed the door.

  A small, spare man with graying hair sat at the desk and blinked at him owlishly through his spectacles. “Yes?”

  “How do you do, Dr. Ziegler? I’m Drake Manton.” As Drake shook the man’s hand, he could tell his name had sparked no recognition in the older man. “I wrote to you last month, about the possibility of using mesmerism on your patients. You indicated you might not be averse . . . ?”

  “Ah, yes. Please, sit down.”

  Drake sat in the chair indicated. The man had recognized his name, but the frown on his face was not encouraging.

  Fingers steepled, Dr. Ziegler pursed his lips, then spoke. “I found the notion of using mesmerism to cure patients interesting, particularly the magnetic aspects, but I have initiated more inquiries into this theory. While Dr. Mesmer has gained some followers, others claim he is a charlatan.”

  Drake sighed in exasperation. This wasn’t the first time he’d heard these accusations. He opened his mouth to speak, but paused when he heard some scratching sounds at the door. When Ziegler ignored them, he shrugged and said, “Dr. Mesmer himself may be . . . eccentric, but his ideas are positively revolutionary. His ability to use his own body’s natural magnetism to affect the patient’s body and cure them of mental illness is amazing. Since you have an interest in that area, I thought you would be eager to try new techniques that might heal your patients’ suffering.”

  Dr. Ziegler scowled. “I don’t experiment on those entrusted to my care. I prefer more conventional, tried and true methods to treat my patients.”

  Drake’s hopes sank. It was the same old story, with a new storyteller. Everywhere he went, he met stodginess and a reluctance to try anything new. Of course, he could try to set up his own mesmerism practice in a large city, but building a practice was a slow undertaking at best without the support of a local physician.

  He was impatient to begin right away, which was why he had approached Dr. Ziegler. People would be more likely to trust Drake if he was supported by a physician they knew. Then he could finally help people . . . as he had promised himself after his complete failure to help Charlotte.

  Unable to let his dream wither and die, Drake said, “Many other prominent men and women have studied mesmerism and found it beneficial.”

  “Such as . . . ?”

  “Charles Dickens for one—”

  Ziegler waved his hand in dismissal. “A mere scribbler.”

  Rather than trot out more names and give the man the opportunity to discredit each of them, Drake changed his tack. “I assure you, this is a major breakthrough in the science of mental illness. If you would approve my lectures here at the resort, I’ll be more than happy to explain all the ramifications of mesmerism in theory and in practice.”

  Drake detested the necessity to ask for permission, but the pompous hotel manager had refused to allow him to even lecture on the subject unless he obtained the resort doctor’s approval.

  “No, I—” Dr. Ziegler broke off as the noises at the door became more pronounced and turned his scowl from Drake to the door.

  Raising an eyebrow, Drake rose and swiftly jerked it open.

  A young woman with dark chestnut hair tumbled inward with a yelp, landing in a flurry of gray material in front of him.

  Dr. Ziegler frowned and rose from his desk to peer down at the maid. “What is the meaning of this?” The girl blushed and scrambled to her feet and Drake thought he saw a flash of something dark and furry beneath her skirts. “I’m sorry, I was just trying to find Mr. Manton. I didn’t mean to bother anyone.”

  How odd—this was the maid he had almost run down in the hall. Why had she followed him? And how did she know his name?

  “So you eavesdropped at my door?” Dr. Ziegler demanded.

  “I couldn’t hear anything,” she assured them ingenuously. “I just wanted to talk to him.”

  “Perhaps another time,” Drake suggested, and made to close the door on her. He couldn’t fathom why this strange girl would want to talk to him, but now was not the time.

  “Wait,” the doctor said, halting him with a suspicious glare. “I’d like to hear what she has to say. Explain yourself, young woman. Why do you want to speak to Mr. Manton?”

  Anger kindled in Drake’s breast. It was obvious the old man suspected he had dallied with this woman and was now trying to discard her. Granted, she was very attractive, but Drake had given up women since Charlotte had died. And though other men found it amusing to trifle with members of the servant class, he wasn’t one of them. Stiffly, Drake said, “I assure you—”

  “No need,” Dr. Ziegler interrupted. “I would like to hear it from the young lady herself. Your name, my dear?”

  She glanced uncertainly at both of them. “Gina. Gina Charles.”

  “And your purpose in seeking out Mr. Manton, Miss Charles?”

  She looked flustered. “Oh, nothing important. It’ll wait.”

  The old doctor’s visage turned kindly. “Has this young man treated you improperly?”

  Drake stiffened, but the obvious horror on Miss Charles’s face put the lie to the doctor’s suspicions.

  “Good Lord, no,” she exclaimed, flashing an apologetic glance at Drake. “I just wanted to talk to him about . . . mesmerism.”

  Dr. Ziegler cast a surprised look at Drake. “You’ve heard of him and are familiar with mesmerism?”

  “Oh, yes,” Miss Charles asserted, waving her hand airily. “It’s quite well known where I come from.”

  “And that is . . . ?”

  “The fu—” She broke off, coughing. “I mean, uh, the few . . . wise people of Richmond.”

  Her manner of speech was not convincing. Evidently, Dr. Ziegler felt the same, for his scowl returned as he said, “Perhaps you would be so good as to explain mesmerism to me, then.”

  She shrugged. “Sure. Those who practice hyp—Uh, mesmerism, put their patients in a trance-like state that allows the mesmerist to determine what’s bothering them and help them get over it.”

  It was a strangely worded yet simplistic explanation that left out a great deal of the scientific theory, but it fit the facts. Oddly enough, Dr. Ziegler seemed intrigued.

  “Go on,” the doctor said. “What sort of ‘bothers’ has mesmerism assisted them to ‘get over’?”

  “Oh, lots of things,” Gina said, more confidently than any servant Drake had ever met. “It has helped people break bad habits, lose fears and phobias, and regain lost memories.”

  Granted, she knew a great deal about mesmerism, but there was something about her that didn’t ring true. She didn’t act like a servant, and he suspected she was lying, but he couldn’t discern for what purpose.

  Dr. Ziegler shot a chiding glance at Drake. “You didn’t mention this ability to regain lost memories.”

  That was because Drake wasn’t aware of the possibilities, though now that she had brought it up, he could see the application clearly. “I simply hadn’t mentioned it yet
,” he demurred.

  Ziegler turned back to the young woman. “And why have you sought out Mr. Manton? Do you have one of these ills you spoke of?”

  The woman bristled, then apparently recalled that she had asserted she was looking for Drake. “Nothing very serious,” she assured them. “Just a . . . memory loss I thought he could help me with.” She paused, then elaborated, “There are a couple years of my life missing, and I thought he could help me get them back.”

  What a plumper. If she had any memory loss at all, Drake would be very surprised. But he kept his suspicions to himself—Dr. Ziegler seemed to accept her story at face value and was even looking favorably upon mesmerism.

  “Do you think you can help her? “ Dr. Ziegler asked.

  Drake gave the pert baggage a once-over. “I have no doubt of it.” He didn’t know what she was up to, but he would soon find out.

  “Very good. Then take Miss Charles as your patient and keep me informed of your progress.”

  The maid looked triumphant, and Drake once again wondered what her true game was. “And the lectures?” he prodded. “Will you approve them?”

  “Certainly,” the doctor said. “After Miss Charles’s description, I am anxious to hear how this mesmerism works, and the resort guests may find it entertaining.”

  Entertaining! Drake’s purpose was to illuminate, to elucidate, to educate . . . not recreate. But he bit his tongue and thanked the doctor. With the interview at an end, the doctor showed him out the door, the impudent Gina right behind him.

  She grinned. “So, I helped you, huh, doc?”

  It went against the grain to admit it, but this saucy chit had succeeded where he had failed. Unfortunately, now he had to live up to the outrageous claims she had made for mesmerism.

  Chapter 3

  Gina smiled at Drake, feeling quite pleased with herself. She had helped him already, so she must be well on her way to saving his life.

  “Don’t call me ‘doc’,” Drake said and nodded toward the closed door. “That honorific is reserved for physicians such as Dr. Ziegler.”

  Jeez, was this stuffy guy the same one who’d groped her only last night?

  Then his words penetrated and Gina felt the blood drain from her head. “Doctor . . . Dr. Ziegler?” She glanced at the door. Sure enough, there was his name, big as life. She’d been so intent on following Drake and listening at the door that she hadn’t paid attention.

  “Yes, Dr. Ziegler, the resort’s resident physician. Is something wrong?”

  Of course there was something wrong—she had just run into the one man she had vowed to avoid at all costs. Quickly, Gina ran through their conversation. Had she done or said anything to make the man believe she might be a candidate for the loony bin? No, thank heavens, all she’d said was that she’d lost her memory. Surely they didn’t lock people up for that.

  She turned her attention back to Drake, only to see him turning away. “Wait!” She took a step toward him, and tripped over Scruffy who yipped at the indignity.

  Drake turned with an eyebrow raised and gazed down at her feet. “I’ve heard that yelp before. Either your shoes have an unusual squeak, or . . . ?” He trailed off, inviting an explanation.

  She looked down. The feathery black tail wagging out from the hem of her skirt was a dead giveaway. “It’s my dog,” she said unnecessarily. At first, she’d assumed Scruffy had chosen to stay under her skirt to hide, but there was no reason for that now. She suspected he was playing some kind of strange dog game of his own invention. “Scruffy, come out.”

  Obedient as always, he emerged with a canine grin. But his grin disappeared and his jaws snapped shut when he looked up at Drake. Cocking his head, he stared at the mesmerist with an expression of perplexity on his furry face. Gina grinned. Scruffy was probably trying to associate the ghost he’d barked at with this more physical specimen.

  “Well, there’s a fine fellow,” Drake said as he bent down and scratched the dog’s ears. His face softened, making him look more human, not to mention gorgeous. That heart-stopping smile gave Gina butterflies in her stomach.

  Luckily, Scruffy chose to like this flesh and blood version of Drake Manton and licked the man’s hand enthusiastically. In fact, he practically drooled all over him. Gina couldn’t remember Scruffy ever showing such affection for another person besides herself. Any moment now, he’d be humping the man’s leg.

  Strangely enough, it made the handsome but stuffy Drake even more appealing. It was hard to resist a man who loved dogs. Evidently, Gina wasn’t the only one who thought so—several women eyed him admiringly as they passed.

  Then again, maybe his strong physique and good looks had something to do with it.

  Oblivious to their scrutiny, Drake chuckled, then rose and gave Gina a quizzical look. “I didn’t realize it was customary for maids to bring their pets to work.”

  She rolled her eyes. “I’m not a maid, I’m a dog trainer.”

  “I see. That accounts for the dog and your—” He broke off, as if regretting what he had been about to say.

  “My what?” she asked belligerently, hands on her hips.

  “Your . . . less than demure attitude.”

  Gina wasn’t about to be held to some nineteenth-century standard of behavior. “My attitude is none of your business, buddy.” And she was tired of people telling her what to do.

  His face impassive, Drake inclined his head. “As you say. Now, if you’ll excuse me?”

  Ah, heck. He was leaving again. Smooth move, Gina. Drive him away, why dontcha? “No, wait.”

  He paused again, raising a sardonic eyebrow. “Pardon?” She could tell he was annoyed, but he hid it well. At least men were more polite in these times. “May I ask why?”

  “Because . . .” Darn, she had just blindly skipped on after him with no plans on what to say or how to keep him from getting killed. “Because I have to help you,” she finished lamely.

  “I appreciate the sentiment, but I don’t require assistance.” He was still polite, but he was getting impatient as well.

  Shoot, she was going about this in the wrong way. Casting about for some way to delay him, she said, “Look, I helped you before, didn’t I?”

  “If you can call that help. You almost had me accused of trifling with your person.”

  Well, technically, he had trifled with certain portions of her “person” . . . but not until after he was dead. And, speaking of being dead, she had to make sure he didn’t get that way.

  What could she do? She couldn’t tell him she knew when and how he was going to die—he’d make sure Dr. Ziegler committed her. “Hey, I helped you with the doctor, didn’t I?”

  “Only because Dr. Ziegler believed the truth.”

  “And now I’m your patient,” she added triumphantly.

  He paused. “But you weren’t exactly telling the truth about two years of lost memory, were you? And you don’t really need a mesmerist?”

  Gina toyed with the idea of lying and insisting she needed his help, but she had just realized that the best way to ensure he wasn’t killed here at The Chesterfield was to make sure he got the hell out of Dodge . . . er, Hope Springs. So, she didn’t want to say or do anything to encourage him to stay. The sooner he left, the sooner she’d be able to go home.

  “No, I don’t really need a mesmerist. I just said that so you’d listen to me.” She paused and took a deep breath. “Look, I can’t tell you why, but it’s imperative you leave this hotel right away.”

  He raised an eyebrow and said in a low, dangerous tone, “Is that a threat?”

  Gina retreated. Oh, my, he was a lot more intimidating in the flesh. “No, no,” she said in horror. “I just know you’re in terrible danger if you stay.”

  “I must stay. After all, you convinced Dr. Ziegler to let me lecture on mesmerism.”

  Had she really done that? Dismayed, she resolved to be more careful in the future.

  “Not only that, “ Drake continued with a steely tone in h
is voice, “but you have convinced him that I must take you on as my patient.”

  “Well, heck, I’ll just get well real soon, then, so you can leave.”

  “On the contrary, Miss Charles. I won’t be a party to this charade. You must confess your deception to Dr. Ziegler and accept the consequences.”

  Not if the consequences involved her winding up in the madhouse. “I don’t think I—”

  “Ah, Gina, there you are,” Esme cried as she entered the bathhouse. “You left before I could inform you of your duties.”

  With an expression of relief, Drake bowed and said, “I’ll leave you to it, then. Good day, Miss Charles.” Then, with a last scratch on the head for the ecstatic Scruffy, he left.

  “Darn,” Gina muttered and turned a baleful eye on Esme. “Do you know what you just did?”

  “Never mind. Your conversation wasn’t going all that well, anyway, was it?” Then, without waiting for an answer, Esme said, “Come along, I’ll show you to your room.”

  She took off walking at a brisk pace and Gina had no option but to follow her. “But you—”

  “Not now,” Esme said with an admonishing look over her shoulder. “Wait until we’re in your room.” Okay, that made sense. Besides, Gina needed all her breath to keep up with the housekeeper and avoid tripping over Scruffy as she hurried down the stairs and out of the bathhouse into the spacious hallway. When they had almost reached the lobby, Esme took a sudden right turn and went up another set of stairs, to a set of rooms above the hallway they had just sprinted down.

  Taking a large set of keys from somewhere, Esme opened a door and gestured Gina in. “This is your room. Ordinarily, you would share with another girl, but we are a bit shorthanded this season, and under the circumstances,” she glanced down at Scruffy, “I think it best if you have one to yourself.”

  Thank heavens—Gina had been afraid she’d have to leave Scruffy in the stables or something. She glanced around at the small room. Two beds, two dressers, one washstand, and several other pieces of furniture all crowded into one small space. Okay, it was small, but she didn’t need much for the short period of time it would take to convince Drake to leave.