The Five Step Plan Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  The Five-Step Plan

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  A word from the author...

  Thank you for purchasing this publication of The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

  “Dr. Vorago! Man, I’ve done it!

  I’ve really done it! Tell me you have some hysterics scheduled this morning for pelvic massage! You have to let me at them!” Dr. Whitcraft was still breathing hard. He had run all the way from his office after his second hysteric, Mrs. Fussock, had been successfully dispatched…and in such a grand fashion!

  “Well, no, I only do mine in the afternoons, to save the wear on my—”

  “Oh, well, you won’t have to worry about that anymore! I’m coming back after luncheon and you have to let me do it! I did two this morning already, and they each took less than ten minutes!”

  “Oh, now, come on…” The loose skin under his chin wagged as he shook his head.

  “I’m telling you, you’ve got to see it! The Whitcraft Maneuver! It’s going to revolutionize this whole business!” Dr. Whitcraft clapped his hands together, rocked forward on his toes and then back onto his heels, beaming with the sheer delight of it all.

  The

  Five-Step Plan

  by

  Elizabeth Welsford

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  The Five-Step Plan

  COPYRIGHT © 2015 by Elizabeth Welsford

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  Contact Information: [email protected]

  Cover Art by Debbie Taylor

  The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

  PO Box 708

  Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708

  Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com

  Publishing History

  First Mainstream Historical Edition, 2015

  Print ISBN 978-1-62830-776-4

  Digital ISBN 978-1-62830-777-1

  Published in the United States of America

  Dedication

  To my loving and supportive family

  Chapter One

  “Where is she, then?”

  “Can’t you hear, Doctor? Just follow the screaming up the hall and to the right. She’s destroyed every piece of furniture in her dressing room and has moved on to Mr. Wedfellow’s study.”

  “Good Lord.” Dr. Whitcraft quickened his pace. The butler followed closely behind. Now that he was deeper into the house, he could make out the ravings of his patient, unquestionably in the throes of a hysterical rage. It was likely going to be a difficult morning.

  “Where is Mr. Wedfellow?”

  “I would guess he has stepped out, sir.” The butler rushed past and stopped in front of the closed study door. Inside, it sounded as though a team of laborers were rearranging the room.

  Dr. Whitcraft stepped forward, flattened his palm against the door, and leaned in to listen. He grimaced at a profoundly unfeminine string of curses—and then there was a monumental crash.

  The two men drew breaths and looked at one another with wide eyes. Dr. Whitcraft pursed his lips and placed his hand on the knob. It was locked, of course. “Is there a key?”

  The butler’s frightened countenance turned contemplative. “I believe there may be, sir. In the pantry. I’ll have to see.”

  “Splendid.”

  The butler scurried away. Dr. Whitcraft turned back to the door. What was the best way to go about managing this difficult situation? He had diagnosed this unfortunate woman with hysteria only a few months back, but it appeared that the rigorous treatment regimen he had devised was not exactly doing the trick. A bland diet followed by purgatives, pelvic massage on alternating days, cold water plunges—it was all time-tested, thoroughly researched, and professionally unquestionable.

  Still, something would have to be altered, but before he could attend to that, he had to address her immediate symptoms. Irrational behavior, violence, and rage: all typical manifestations of the disease. What a pity. He knocked on the door.

  The rumblings from within fell silent.

  He cleared his throat. “Mrs. Wedfellow, this is Dr. Whitcraft. Could you please let me in? It is necessary that I—”

  A blast of immense force exploded against the other side of the door.

  “Good Lord,” he whispered, stepping back.

  He collected himself and approached again, bringing his lips up to the door. “Mrs. Wedfellow, you are ill, and this behavior simply won’t do. If you do not let me in…why, you are only going to exacerbate an already dangerous situation. Can you unlock this door, please?”

  “I suppose he sent you? I suppose he would send you!” Her muffled agitation was followed by a horrific ripping, which Dr. Whitcraft surmised to be the end of Mr. Wedfellow’s upholstery. He sighed and stepped back, pleased to note the butler’s hasty return.

  “Sorry for the delay, sir.” He knelt and began fumbling through a large ring of keys. “It’s one of these. I’ll need to try a few…”

  “Certainly, certainly,” Dr. Whitcraft said, and then inquired, “Do you have any idea what prompted today’s bout of…unpleasantness?”

  The butler shrugged as he shuffled from one key to another. “Mr. Wedfellow puts her on a pedestal, you know that. She doesn’t lift a finger around here, he doesn’t let her. She spends her days in a quiet, dimly lit room, as per your orders. Of course her wardrobes are filled with only the latest fashions. She has every bauble and trinket her heart desires, but still, she’s miserable!”

  “Hmm.” Dr. Whitcraft nodded, his eyes searching the floor.

  “Ah...I think…yes…this is the one!” The lock disengaged with an authoritative snap. The butler scuttled back on his haunches and watched the doctor from the floor.

  Dr. Whitcraft grasped the knob once again. “All right, Mrs. Wedfellow, I’m coming in.”

  The door swung wide, revealing what had once been a gentlemen’s well-appointed, wood-paneled study. Now, it resembled a shipwreck of splintered wood bobbing in a sea of shredded paper. Furniture was overturned, the upholstery was torn, and its stuffing strewn about. Book bindings were cracked open like walnut shells, exposed, and cast aside in piles. And there, in the very center, directing the mischief, was the apoplectic Mrs. Wedfellow.

  Her long black hair was undone and swinging in tangled ropes. Her white dressing gown billowed and twisted with every sweeping movement. She looked like an Olympic goddess wreaking havoc on the mortals who had displeased her.

  She stopped moving and glared, her eyes hotly lined in red. “How the h
ell did you get in here?”

  Dr. Whitcraft stepped over a mound of shattered crystal and set his bag on the floor. In his usual calm and scholarly delivery, he said, “I would have been happy to wait for your next appointment, Mrs. Wedfellow, but your husband felt I should be summoned—”

  “Oh he did, did he? Is that what he thinks?” She clawed at the pillow in her hands.

  “I think he has judged the situation correctly, Mrs. Wedfellow.” He studied her over his spectacles. “You are distraught and have let your hysteria get the better of you. You must try to calm down.”

  “So it’s my fault?” She flung the pillow at the wall, then lunged toward him, her skirt raking an assortment of debris as she moved. “All of this?” She made a grand gesture. “This is my fault?”

  “No…no.” He took a step back. “Of course not. You are the victim of an illness, Mrs. Wedfellow, clearly. I am merely suggesting…why don’t we sit for a moment?” He reached for her shoulder, hoping to steer her toward what was left of the couch. “Let’s try to—”

  A sharp crack rattled the room as Dr. Whitcraft’s spectacles sailed from his face and landed in a flutter of paper shreds that took to the air like frightened birds.

  Mrs. Wedfellow stood motionless, her hands covering her open mouth as bits of paper drifted to the floor.

  Dumbstruck, the doctor massaged his stinging cheek and slowly turned back to gape at his patient.

  “Oh! Oh my! I’m…I’m so sorry,” she blurted, and watched in helpless horror as her doctor dropped to his knees and rummaged about for his glasses.

  She burst into tears, but Dr. Whitcraft paid her no mind as he patted this way and that, trying his best to assuage his rising panic. He had only just purchased the eyeglasses, and the thought of them being damaged in this foolishness was enough to make his heart rate triple.

  Finally, he brushed against their familiar steel frame and fished them up through the rubble. He blew the dust from their lenses and held them up to the light. Just as he was about to replace them, Dr. Whitcraft was flattened to the floor. His unhappy patient had draped herself across him like a net.

  “Mrs. Wedfellow.” He flipped himself over and squinted at the back of her sobbing head. “Mrs. Wedfellow, please, you must try—”

  “What the devil is going on in here?” a voice bellowed from above. It was Mr. Wedfellow, of course, clutching the door frame, surveying the madness.

  Mrs. Wedfellow lifted her head from the doctor’s lap at the sound of the offending voice, and through tears extended her arm stiffly. “There’s the man…there! Is it not enough that your intrigues in London include every last under-aged gutter-slush, but now you’ve moved on to include society women in your disgusting parade of debauchery?”

  The man’s pallor blanched. After a moment or two of inward reflection, he muttered, “Well, that’s preposterous. She’s mad, that’s all there is to it.” He nodded for emphasis, although perspiration dotted his forehead.

  “And he’s spent it all,” his wife cried from the floor. “All my father’s money, filling this house with ridiculous nonsense! Did you see his latest acquisition?” She pointed at the fireplace.

  Dr. Whitcraft noted a large porcelain statue glowering from the mantel. It was a rather striking interpretation of Poseidon wielding his trident, posing atop a cluster of sea creatures.

  “God knows how much he paid for that grotesque atrocity, and I have no say in any of it!” She threw herself back to the floor and wept, near exhaustion.

  Dr. Whitcraft replaced his glasses and smoothed his wrinkled frock coat as he climbed to his feet and stepped over his patient. Mr. Wedfellow was speechless.

  “Do you have any spirits?” the doctor whispered.

  “Oh, well, yes, of course, some brandy, I believe.”

  “We need to give her a significant amount. She must calm herself. She’s very vulnerable right now to the female anatomy’s dangerous machinations.”

  “I see.” Mr. Wedfellow dabbed at his forehead with a handkerchief.

  “It appears that I may have to reevaluate my treatment plan for your wife,” Dr. Whitcraft said. “The purgatives, the pelvic massage…it simply isn’t enough for a case this severe.”

  Still regarding the prone figure of his wife, Mr. Wedfellow nodded with a cough of understanding. “Yes. Yes. Of course.”

  “You know, Mr. Wedfellow, it is common for women stricken with hysteria to be…shall we say, rather fanciful in their imaginations. It is quite fascinating, really. The vapors of the afflicted hysterical uterus are dangerous to the mind, often creating delusions that are very real to these women. They are liable to imagine any number of things. You must not take her accusations personally. With the proper treatment, she’ll return to herself—not overnight, of course…but in time, God willing.”

  Mr. Wedfellow adjusted his collar and inhaled. “Well, thank heaven for that.”

  Chapter Two

  Dr. Whitcraft dropped himself down at the table. “I’m sorry I’m so late.” He grimaced as he opened and closed his right hand.

  Dr. Vorago arched his brows as he chewed. “Not at, not at all.” He swallowed and nudged his friend on the shoulder. “Good to see you. I’m afraid I started without you…”

  “Oh, I’m glad you did.” He sighed, signaling the barmaid in the far corner with his undamaged hand. “This week has been an absolute nightmare, and it’s not even half over. Beginning Monday with Mrs. Wedfellow, which I already told you about. Now today—three hours! I’ve just come from performing three hours of pelvic massage on Mrs. Brabble. Look.” He held up the sore hand. “I’ve nearly crippled myself.” He wiggled his swollen fingers as proof. “I have another hysteric scheduled a mere hour from now. Her last treatment took over two hours before a paroxysm was finally obtained. I suppose given the state of my hand I should cancel her outright.”

  “Or you could engage a midwife, just to assist—”

  “Yes, but that would cost me nearly half my fee. It’s ridiculous.”

  “Hysteria is the scourge of our age, I’m afraid.” Dr. Vorago pawed through the basket of rolls. “What the devil are you doing scheduling two of them back to back? It’s your own fault, you know. I only schedule pelvic massages in the afternoon. Otherwise I would be ruined for the rest of the day.” He put the bread aside and reached for his colleague’s hand. He studied his fingers, gingerly articulating the tender second proximal interphalangeal joint.

  “Ouch.” Dr. Whitcraft jerked his hand away.

  “Terrible, just terrible.” Dr. Vorago shook his head, picked up his fork, and plucked another oyster from its shell. He let it dangle before dropping it into his mouth, closing his eyes with ecstasy. When he recovered himself, he continued. “The workings of the feminine anatomy are a mystery, dear sir. Why, I’ve had patients who achieved a paroxysm in less than an hour in one appointment, and in the very next took double or even triple that time. It’s ridiculous.” He waved his tiny fork for emphasis. “You, my friend, are a casualty of your profession.”

  “Tea?” The rosy-cheeked girl behind the counter held the kettle in one hand and an empty cup in the other.

  Dr. Whitcraft nodded. “Yes, please.”

  “And give us another half-dozen, my dear. Two left, William. Have at them. They’re delectable.” He dabbed the corners of his mouth while eying the survivors of his previous dozen.

  “Oh no. I’m in the first week of a dietary experiment. For the next hundred days, I will only allow myself roasted fowl and two servings of bread per day.”

  “Why what the devil for?” Dr. Vorago was positively appalled.

  “I’m toying with a theory that these alterations will be beneficial to one’s regularity and general constitution. I have all the relevant data outlined on a graph in my office, should you be interested in my results.”

  “Well, surely you haven’t given up your nightly glass of brandy and water?”

  “Indeed, I have. Only through the course of my experiment,
however.”

  “Ah, the denials and sacrifices we make for our art. How is your hand?”

  Dr. Whitcraft glanced down, wiggling his fingers. “I believe there has been some improvement. You know, I read an article the other day disputing the necessity of pelvic massage in the treatment of hysteria altogether. It went so far as to compare the female paroxysm to that of the male reproductive crisis—”

  “Preposterous!” he sputtered, nearly spitting out his oyster.

  “It even went on to imply that contact of that nature should be reserved exclusively for a spouse…in the course of…well, you know. Can you imagine?”

  Dr. Vorago wrinkled his nose. “I can guarantee that article was written by a stodgy old academician partitioned off from the real world. Novel academic theories are all well and good, but a hysterical patient must be offered a therapy that will provide her immediate relief. I have seen pelvic massage work time and time again. Ah, here they are.”

  The girl had returned with another plate of oysters, setting it between the men, but slightly closer to Dr. Vorago.

  “You know,” he said thoughtfully, “you’re a clever man. What you should do is give up that dietary nonsense of yours, have one of these sinfully decadent oysters and concoct a method whereby practitioners like ourselves can be relieved of our suffering. Develop some kind of machine, or better yet, some type of method that would cause a consistent, successful paroxysm. Although, if it could be achieved, someone probably would have done it by now.”

  Dr. Whitcraft brought the teacup toward his lips, blowing at the curls of steam before daring to take a sip. All the while, a new sense of determination took hold of his heart.

  ****

  Dr. Whitcraft walked steadily up Bruton Street, back toward his office. This time of day, London’s Berkeley Square bustled with activity. Carriages and wagons shuddered past, their drivers deftly dodging pedestrians, sedan chairs, and bystanders alike. The passing conveyances stirred up an enormous amount of dust. It hung in great billowing clouds among the populace.

  Every class of character could be seen on these streets, but Dr. Whitcraft didn’t pay the slightest mind to any of them as he stepped over a pox-ridden pauper huddled in a doorway, or when he grazed the frockcoat of a beaver-hatted Lord. Rather, the doctor was lost in his thoughts as he recounted his luncheon conversation with the esteemed Dr. Vorago.