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“Mrs. Hood,” he said gently. “This disease is very often hereditary. Medical science has proven the familial connection with no doubt at all. Did you come to me because you are suffering these same symptoms?”
“I . . .” She couldn’t think what to say, much less force it from her throat.
“By the time she came to me, your mother was very ill. It had gone on too long. When confronted with the truth, she sank into another depression. Her maid realized that she was suffering and sent for me. I started intensive treatment right away, but despite the many months she was under my care, you know what happened. She grew irritable, then inconsolable. She vacillated between restlessness and lethargy. When she decided she could not be helped, she went to the river and threw herself in.”
Sarah had known this. She’d always known how her mother’s life had ended, with stones weighing down her pockets as she sank to the bottom of the Thames. Still, she shuddered to hear it said aloud.
“But yes,” he continued, voice so soft it barely crossed the distance between them. “I believe I could have saved her if she had come to me earlier. Are you suffering, Mrs. Hood?”
Tears clogged her throat. She dragged a handkerchief from her reticule and pressed it to her lips. She couldn’t help but think of the woman she’d seen leaving, the woman who had looked so calm and happy as she wiped a touch of perspiration from her brow.
Dr. Whitcomb offered a sympathetic smile. “We shall do an exam. I can see you’re clear-eyed and that’s an excellent sign that you have not let this go too far.”
Nodding in relief, she stood and moved toward the chaise to perch on the very edge of it while Dr. Whitcomb stood above her.
“First, your pulse.” He took her wrist in his hands and watched the clock on the wall. “Tell me about your symptoms.”
“I’ve been restless. Nervous. Sometimes I have difficulty sleeping.”
“When were you married?”
“Two months ago.”
“And you were a virgin?”
She jerked a little at the word. “Of course.”
“When your husband took you, was it painful?”
“Yes, but—”
“How often do you engage in sexual congress?” He dropped her wrist and indicated she should recline against the back of the couch. His fingers pressed against the sides of her throat.
“Um, three or four times a week until recently.”
His hands froze on her skin. “Recently?” He crouched down to look into one eye, then the other.
“Recently, yes. It’s become more, um, frequent.”
“How frequent?” One of his hands pressed her stomach, just below her breasts.
She closed her eyes. “More than once a day.”
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“I see.” The hand moved lower, to her belly. “And do you become congested when he touches you?”
A tear leaked from the corner of her eye, but she admitted the truth. “Yes.”
Dr. Whitcomb stood. “I will leave you alone to undress. My maid will be in to provide assistance. She will cover you with the sheet before calling me.”
“Pardon? No! No, I cannot . . . My husband . . .”
“Mrs. Hood, I am a physician. How am I to examine you past whalebone and petticoats?”
“Can you not . . . ?” Her tears started in earnest. “Can you not simply give me the medicine to try?”
He sat in the chair and took her hand. “Mrs. Hood, there is no medicine, there is a physical treatment. Your pulse is elevated, and I suspect from your description that your uterus is inflamed and congested. The treatment involves manual relief of the congestion and pressure. We do not need to begin treatment today, but I must palpate the uterus to be sure of diagnosis.”
