Like a Wisp of Steam (7 page)

"A ch-chicken bone, yes, s-so they say," Dodgson said, shaking his head sadly. "Hardly suh-seems possible. The world will change now, y-you know, in all sorts of ways."

"Have I complimented you recently on those daguerrographs of yours, Mr. Dodgson?" Amelia said lazily.

"They really are delightful, and Mr. Roxby tells me they've exceeded all his expectations in terms of spurring sales."

Dodgson looked genuinely pleased. "Ah, you're tuh-too kind, Miss Lessington."

"You're a man of considerable talents. You know, I wonder that you don't try your hand at a fairy story."

Dodgson shook his head ruefully. "Nuh-not my line, I'm afraid. Oh, I've suh-set down a fancy or two, for the chuh-children of fuh-friends, but I'm much better at puh-puzzles.

Problems of muh-mathematical logic, you see. For example,"

he continued, with the unmistakable air of one preparing to mount an endlessly-ridden, well-loved hobbyhorse. "If one were to take a train from London to Edinburgh..."

"No," Amelia said suddenly.

The daguerrographer managed to keep his oar-strokes smooth, but he turned startled, stricken eyes on her. "I buh-beg your...?"

"I find puzzles most abominably boring." Amelia smiled, scooping up a handful of water and letting it trickle through her long fingers. "Ah, you see, I'm determined to be naughty.

You must tell me a story. I want one this afternoon, of your own invention, for my very own."

"Oh, of, of course. Well..." Dodgson cleared his throat, his brow knitting. "There were once thuh-three luh-little girls who lived in a well..."

"Not a children's story," Amelia said quickly. "A story for ... grown-ups." She smiled again and bit her finger. "If you know what I mean..."

Dodgson stared at her, blushing furiously. Then he laughed, a loud laugh that might have been meant to cover up embarrassment, but which also seemed to have a great deal of pleasure in it.

He isn't sure if I'm serious quite yet
, she thought. But he would be. Because she was. The world truly was different now. Victoria was dead, and the tides of the world were fast changing.

Hysterical Friction

Thomas S. Roche

Victoria Barker shifted nervously in her seat in the waiting room. She could hear her husband's booming voice as he spoke to Dr. Fitzmartin.

"She's a wreck," Arthur Barker was saying. "If I knew what to do, Charles, I wouldn't be coming to you. At the best of times, you see, she's rather a jittery woman. But lately it's nerve-wracking to be around her! The slightest little thing might set her off!"

Victoria heard the low, seductive rumble of Dr. Fitzmartin's voice. Dr. Charles Fitzmartin was a dear, dear friend of Victoria's father, as well as the family doctor. In fact, Victoria had had quite a crush on him when she was younger, though she never would have admitted it, then or now.

"Describe her symptoms, Arthur. Tell me what you mean when you say something sets Victoria off."

Victoria quivered with sudden nervousness as her memories came flooding back to her. It was as if she were mentally predicting what her husband was about to say. She remembered the nervousness, the depression, her tendency to fly into a rage about the slightest things. It had been months—perhaps years—since she'd felt normal. Truth be told, she
never
felt normal any more—certainly not since the marriage. For a time Victoria had thought it was the stress of running the household. But now she knew it had to be more than that. It was like some horrible nervous disease, eating away at her.

But what Arthur told Charles was this: "She's so damn nervous all the time." Arthur seemed to be struggling with a difficult description. Then, all of a sudden, he burst out with,

"She's like a cat that's been buggered something fierce!

Pardon my French."

There was a long pause as Charles Fitzmartin assessed the meaning of Arthur's salty phrase. Dear Arthur's time in the service had left him with a profound vocabulary of rather off-color phrases, though of course he would never have used such language in his wife's presence. But then again, Arthur's booming voice always carried much further than he realized, so Victoria had certainly heard more than her fair share of his naughty talk. Truth be told, she thought it was kind of appealing, in a masculine sort of way. One of the few things she found masculine about Arthur. As a matter of fact, it caused a curious sensation to grow near the back of her brain— but of course that was unacceptable. Victoria ignored the sensation, feeling her hands shake as she did. It simply wouldn't do to be thinking of things like that at any time—least of all when she was at the doctor's to be treated for this profound nervous illness that seemed to be taking her over.

Despair flowed through Victoria and she began to whimper nervously, as if in prequel to a burst of tears.

"Bugger?" came the calm voice of Dr. Charles Fitzmartin, in quizzical response to Arthur's rather earthy assessment of his wife's condition. "A cat that's been
buggered
, you say?"

There was a long silence.

"Oh, for the love of God, Charles, you're not implying—you can't possibly mean—certainly—that's not at all what I meant!

Such a thing would be totally unthinkable, even you have to admit!" Arthur lowered his voice, which was terribly unusual.

But he was unable to lower it so much that Victoria didn't understand what he said. "Not that I haven't—I mean, Charles, you have to understand, I've been in the army, and on numerous hunting expeditions, it's simply not proper to do it the usual way and risk certain ... conditions. But with my wife? Never! Well, what I'm saying is, Victoria would never go for such a thing and you really oughtn't to make such assumptions from everything I say, do you hear me?"

Dr. Fitzmartin laughed. "Of course, Arthur. I meant no offense. I wasn't implying your relations with Victoria were unnatural. Of course such a thing is unthinkable."

Victoria burst into tears, choking back sobs as she quivered uncontrollably in the hard-backed chair.

It was then that the sobbing Victoria noticed Dr. Fitzmartin's assistant—Chloe was her name, wasn't it? Clara, Chloe, something like that. Her last name was Waters, or Rivers, or something similar. The young woman had been moving about the room restlessly—rearranging things and dusting the furniture, that sort of thing. And the girl—Chloe, Clara, Carla—kept pausing in her work to glance over at Victoria and offer a faint, nervous little smile. The first few times it happened Victoria had thought nothing of it. She thought it was just the friendly gesture of a concerned health professional. But as Victoria's breast quivered with the unstoppable onset of tears, she noticed that this time the receptionist—Chloe, Clara, Catherine—was not looking away.

She looked about to say something, but did not.

Victoria took out her handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes as the receptionist returned to her filing. Victoria noticed for the first time that the starched white dress the girl was wearing was just a shade too tight for propriety. It clung quite noticeably to the girl's ample hips, and tugged with some effort across her breasts. Victoria was quite certain the girl wasn't wearing proper undergarments—the outline of her breasts was disturbingly evident, and the girl was blessed with perhaps more bust than was typical for a girl her size.

Victoria imagined that the poor girl must have a hard time keeping herself clothed on receptionist's wages, and this too-tight dress was the result. Victoria experienced a wave of sadness for the girl, which set her quivering and sobbing all over again. Oh, to be so poor that you were forced into too-tight garments ... without the means to afford proper undergarments ... The horror was overwhelming.

"There, there," sighed the receptionist—Victoria suddenly recalled that her name was Clara. To Victoria's dismay, the girl was now standing before her, but try as she might, Victoria could not stop her wave of sobbing.

Victoria almost gasped as the girl put her arms around her.

Victoria collapsed into a series of sobs, giving in to her nervous agony. The curves of the girl's body pressed against her through that too-tight dress—damn that dress—and Victoria realized with horror that she could actually feel the tiny nubs of the woman's nipples, noticeably hard under the thick white material.

"Let me comfort you, my dear," Clara was sighing. She was a girl of perhaps nineteen or twenty, just a year or two younger than Victoria, and Victoria, despite her nervousness, got the sense that this girl could understand her feelings.

"What's got you crying, darling? Tell me all about it."

Victoria realized that this manner of speaking sounded more like something coming from the madam of a bordello than a doctor's receptionist—not that Victoria would know about such things.

But Victoria gave in to her pain and wept bitterly as Clara cradled Victoria's head in her arms.

"There, there," sighed Clara. "The doctor will make it all better. Charles is a genius at making people all better. And I'll do my part, too, you dear woman."

Victoria experienced a curious rush of fear as she heard Clara say that, as if there were some double-meaning that Victoria should understand. But the warmth of the girl's embrace and the softness of her touch soothed Victoria, and she found herself having some difficulty thinking straight—especially with her cheek against Clara's breast. Victoria ached with jealousy: Clara really was blessed—or burdened—with more in the bustline than was typical for such a petite girl. If Victoria had such a figure, perhaps things wouldn't have gone this far...

Victoria pushed that thought away. She shouldn't be thinking of such things at a time like this. Especially not with the soothing touch of Clara's hand stroking the back of her neck, tickling her flesh, and the fullness of Clara's breasts against her face.

Victoria began to sink into a sort of trance. She really oughtn't to be sobbing like this—everything seemed so pleasant at the moment. With the warmth and curve of Clara's body against hers ... Certainly everything wasn't as bad as it seemed, was it?

Then she heard Arthur's booming voice from the next room, and everything momentarily was at least as bad as it seemed.

"For the love of God, Charles, I wish you'd stop bringing everything back to buggery! Didn't I tell you?"

Victoria realized that she hadn't been paying attention to the obviously hushed sound of Dr. Fitzmartin's voice from the next room. Perhaps he was keeping his voice low so that Victoria couldn't hear what was being said. How thoughtful Charles Fitzmartin was!

But now his voice, raised in answer to Arthur's, was quite audible. "Buggery is only one option, Arthur, and certainly there's a number of others! I hope you'll forgive me for saying that you're being rather difficult about the whole thing."

Difficult. Arthur was so good at being that way.

There was a long silence, and Victoria calmed slightly.

Victoria sank deliciously into the sensations of Clara's hand stroking the back of her neck. It was as if Sarah, her dear sister, was embracing her as they used to do. Victoria never wanted it to end.

Clara sighed pleasantly. "Just relax, my dear ... We'll have you fixed up in no time..."

A shiver ran down Victoria's spine.

Arthur and Charles began speaking again, this time in low, hushed tones. Victoria could only pick out a few words here and there—"procedure," "correction," and "vicissitude."

Vicissitude?

Then the doctor's voice, loud enough for Victoria to understand, "No, you certainly need not be present during the procedure!"

Clara put one finger underneath Victoria's chin and lifted her face so that their lips were barely an inch from each other. A curious, warm sensation flooded through her as she smelled Clara's sweet breath, and then felt a tender, sisterly kiss on her lips.

A sisterly kiss. But when the sisterly sensations were over, the kiss did not end, and Victoria's warmth rose as Clara's tongue tickled her own. Was this really proper behavior in the doctor's office? Victoria heard herself giggling, low in her throat, as pleasurable sensations flowed through her and Clara kissed her deeper.

Then, all of a sudden, the door opened.

Victoria realized with fright that Clara had lifted her knee and placed it on the arm of Victoria's chair. Given the tightness of the dress, this tested the strength of the material and all but imprisoned Victoria in her chair. Clara's lips were still against Victoria's, her tongue still in Victoria's mouth, as Charles Fitzmartin cleared his throat remonstratively.

Reluctantly, Clara pulled her lips from Victoria's and turned to face Dr. Fitzmartin.

"The poor dear," sighed Clara, indicating Victoria by ruffling her hair. "She needed some comfort."

Charles gave Clara a disapproving look. "What she needs," he growled, "is a medical procedure. Certainly you, of all people, can appreciate that, can't you, Miss Brook?"

Clara reluctantly pulled away from Victoria, her face reddening. She looked at the floor, but Victoria could have sworn she saw the barest hint of a smile on Clara's face.

"Yes, Doctor," said Clara breathlessly. "I can appreciate that."

Dr. Fitzmartin turned his attention to Victoria, still wearing the stern, unforgiving expression he'd flashed at Clara Brook, and Victoria filled with familiar excitement as she vividly recalled her girlhood crush on the family doctor. She fought the nervous heat that brought to her body and mind as Dr.

Fitzmartin spoke to her.

"Victoria, I'd like for you to come in, please."

"Yes, Dr. Fitzmartin," said Victoria nervously, standing.

She wished suddenly that she had a moment to freshen up.

She felt so hot and sweaty, despite the fact that it was not a warm day.

* * * *

"Your husband has described your symptoms to me," said Charles coldly. "I see a clear diagnosis of hysteria."

"Hysteria?" asked Victoria, uncomprehending.

Arthur waved his hand in dismissal. "There's no need to explain it all to my wife, Doctor. She doesn't have a head for such matters."