Ah, a cousin. Dr. Pinkton had told her early on in their work to go along with whatever the family said in front of the servants, even if it sounded absurd. They would not know who in the household was aware of their visit’s true purpose, and so it was best to simply affirm everything. A cousin was an easy enough story to attend to.
“Yes,” she said, far too brightly for her usual temperament. “He has long traveled, but finally arrived from up north.” Was that too much information? Did it sound false?
Perhaps she had been a bit cocky in the carriage.
Lord Wallingford did not flinch at her addition to his story. Instead, he invited the pair inside and walked with them to the drawing room, wherein his wife sat in a chair by the window overlooking the gardens.
“Love,” Lord Wallingford said in a far more familiar tone than Augusta had ever heard from the man. “Your visitors are here for you.”
Though Dr. Pinkton had told her that the spouses of their patients may not always be in the know regarding their visit, Augusta knew right away from the soft, concerned tone of Lord Wallingford that he understood precisely who they were and why they had come.
Lady Wallingford, who Augusta had not seen in many months, despite the fact that she had been at the Wallingford ball mere weeks before, looked up at them with bright, curious eyes. She was in her thirties, with thick yellow hair and a pretty face. Not the sallow, sunken kind of patient that Augusta had come to expect, knowing her own penchant for falling into physical disrepair during a spell.
“Come,” the lady said softly, inviting them over to her sitting area.
The trio did as told, taking the available seats across from Lady Wallingford.
“I, erm, am unsure how this usually works,” Lord Wallingford said, oddly bashful. He glanced at the door and lowered his voice. “Should I take my leave?”
“That is up to Lady Wallingford,” Dr. Pinkton said, looking to the woman for her response.
“He can stay,” she said in that same singsong, breathy voice. “He knows everything already.”
For some reason, this made Augusta want to give one of those terrible romantic, girlish sighs of yearning. The idea that someone might know everything and still remain at her side, content to hear it all laid out before them, was such a ridiculous fantasy. And yet, she found herself wanting it desperately.
“Alright,” Dr. Pinkton said, finally seeming to settle in, his previous nerves dissipating as he moved through the role that he had grown so accustomed to. “I am aware that you are acquainted with my colleague, Miss Browning, but would you be able to tell me a bit about your life?”
It took every ounce of control that Augusta possessed not to gasp at Dr. Pinkton calling her his colleague. Instead, she inclined her head and listened intently to her patient, imagining for amoment that this was her life, her profession, with no end in sight.
Lady Wallingford drew in a shaky breath, the kind that told Augusta that the woman had spent much of the day dreading this.
“I grew up here in London,” she said. “Although we often went to Brighton in the winter. I have four siblings. I am the eldest girl. Is this…is this what you are asking, Doctor? Or do you want to know something else?”
“No, this is good. Tell me about your parents.”
“Yes. Well, my father was a bit of a cold man, though I believe he did love us. My mother was an exceptionally warm woman, perhaps to make up for my father in some ways. She doted on us, especially myself and my sister. I believe it was because of her that my sister and I made love matches, rather than the typicaltonmarriage.”
At this, Lady Wallingford glanced at her husband, offering up a small smile, which was returned by his own.
Augusta looked away, suddenly feeling that she was an intruder upon their intimacy. She did not look at them again until Dr. Pinkton spoke.
“Do you recall the first time you noticed your melancholia?”
Lady Wallingford did not have to think long on that. “In honesty, I do not know that I ever would have noticed it myself. I have always had emotional peaks, where I feel…well, indestructible, for lack of a better word. That was often followed by sadness that is greater than what others seem to feel. It was my mother who pointed it out to me, right before I debuted. She asked me if I wanted to see a doctor, but I refused. She let the matter drop, and then I met my husband, and it simply did not seem so important anymore.”
She paused only for a quick breath. “The first few years of marriage were quite smooth, actually. I had very few mood changes. I believe I was so focused on our children and our home, and it was as though my mind was too busy to do anything else. However, one Christmas I simply awoke one morning and could not get out of bed. I believed I was ill, but a doctor said that it was all in my mind. And…I could not believe it. How could something in my mind affect me so?”
Augusta understood, all too well, exactly what Lady Wallingford was attempting to convey. She, too, had often felt so betrayed by the very mind that she was supposed to have mastery over, but which instead seemed to rule over every part of her life.
“I have had other spells like that over the years, but never so severe as the one which befell me back in the Spring. I have spent all of this season attempting to flee it, but no matter what I do, no matter how many balls I throw, or how many events I attend, or how much I give to charity, my mind cannot be alleviated.”
Dr. Pinkton cocked his head. “Do you believe that all of those things ought to alleviate your mind? The charity and whatnot?”
Lady Wallingford thought about this for a while before shaking her head. “No, I suppose not. There was a small part of me that believed if I did good things, then only good things could happen to me. But that is quite silly, now that I say it aloud. We don’t have control over these things, do we?”
This, Augusta noted, marked a shift in Lady Wallingford. Until now, the woman had only been describing her condition. Now, she appeared to be reasoning on it. With a simple question, Dr. Pinkton had elicited logic from a woman in despair. She told herself that she would ask him about it later, and would demand that he teach her the skill.
“I look at something that I once loved, and it is like I am not even seeing it at all.” Tears formed in Lady Wallingford’s lovely eyes,but she deftly brushed them away before they could fall. “It is the cruelest thing, to know what it did feel like to have joy once, but to be unable to conjure it in the moment. I sometimes wish I had just been this way from the beginning. At least then it would be all I know. There would be nothing to compare it to.”
