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Sarah gave her name and her mother’s name, then stood rigid as the woman plodded up a short set of polished stairs. The maid knocked on the first door and waited until a male voice called out before she disappeared inside.
She’d been afraid of the doctor as a girl. Would he frighten her now? Would he even see her? Perhaps her mother’s name meant nothing to him.
All her doubts spun around her, weaving a tight net that slowly squeezed the air from her lungs. The room seemed to recede until all she could see was a wide square of sunlight where it struck the landing.
“Mrs. Hood?”
She blinked, and he was there, at the top of the stairs. He smiled as he descended, and she was relieved to see that he grew smaller with each step. He’d seemed a giant for a moment, but when he stood before her, her eyes were even with his.
“Mrs. Hood, I’m honored that you’ve come to see me.” His gaze seemed to devour her. “Why, you are the very image of your mother.” His smile widened until she could see his back teeth. She had expected someone older; he had seemed so intimidating in her youth. But in truth he must have been a very young man then, for he looked only a few years older than her husband.
“Doctor Whitcomb,” she finally managed to say.
“Please come up to my office. I’d imagine that you didn’t stop by simply to chat about the weather.”
“No.” She drew a deep breath before she took his arm.
His office was very much like the man himself, clean, simple, attractive. Not the least bit intimidating. A large desk sat in front of the window, faced by two delicate chairs. A chaise longue dominated the rest of the room, remarkable only because of the linen sheets folded at the foot of it and the chair snug against its side.
“Please,” he said, indicating the desk area. “Have a seat.”
He held a chair out for her before rounding the desk and taking his place behind it. His short blond hair gleamed in the sunlight. “What can I help you with today, Mrs. Hood?”
Sarah cleared her throat, shocked to find that she actually wanted to talk to him. “I’ve read your book.”
He nodded and rubbed a hand over his close-clipped beard.
“My mother . . . I suspect that her illness was described there?”
“Yes, of course. She was one of my most tragic cases.”
“It was . . . It was nymphomania.”
He dipped his head in assent. “Yes, and hysteria leading to dementia, of course. I tried my very best to help her rise from those depths, but her illness . . .” He sighed. “It was too severe. I’m sorry.”
Her heart thumped hard against her throat, and she felt startlingly ill for a moment but pressed on. “If it had been caught earlier, do you think that would have helped?”
“It’s very possible. Her symptoms began after your birth. As I stated in the book, I believe that the very same illnesses that can be brought on by the shock of a female’s introduction to intercourse can also be brought on by the brutality of childbirth. With slightly different manifestations, of course.”
He leaned back in his chair and stared thoughtfully at a little ceramic figure. Sarah realized with a start that it was a nude female form.
“Your mother became quite listless after giving birth. She was lethargic and morose for nearly a year. When she emerged from that melancholia and resumed her marital duties, the mania began to set in. Restlessness. An interest in conjugal relations that superseded the fact that she wanted to avoid another pregnancy. Over-arousal. Her husband—your father—did not recognize any danger, as most men do not. This went on for nearly four years between bouts of sadness and depression before she happened into my office.”
Stunned, Sarah sat staring at him for several heartbeats before he raised his gaze to her and blinked.
“I apologize. Perhaps I was too graphic.”
“No.” She had wanted honesty and it seemed she’d come to the right place.
“When I confronted her with her symptoms and made my diagnosis, she became obstinate, but I continued asking questions.” He leaned forward now, eyes locked with Sarah’s. “Did she have trouble sleeping? Did she encourage unusual acts in the bedroom? Did she find that her . . .” His gaze flickered down and then up again, “feminine parts became congested at the mere thought of marital relations?”
“Congested?” Sarah breathed.
“Swollen,” he answered. “Wet.”
Oh, God.
She wanted to leave, but Dr. Whitcomb’s eyes held her frozen.
