A crystallineping-ping-pingclanged from the head of the table, drawing all of their gazes. Mr. Peckwood continued dinging his glass with the back of a spoon as he rose from his seat. “May I have your attention, please?”
He stood imperially, shoulders thrown back, chin held high, until the chatter melted into respectful silence. “Thank you. Now, as you all know, I have not merely invited you here to partake of a delicious meal—my compliments to your cook, Mr. Waldman”—he nodded at the big-bellied warden sitting at his right hand—“but I requested your presence for a demonstration of a new procedure.” His chest swelled as he paused. “However, in its stead, I have a little surprise for you that’s so much more than a medical presentation. This evening your eyes will be opened to a whole new era.”
Mr. Peckwood’s gaze swept from person to person—quite the dramatic effect, one better suited to gaslights and a stage than to a dining room. “Tonight I give to you a glimpse into a world without madness.”
Whispers whooshed like an unholy whirlwind around the room. Even Amelia couldn’t help but lean aside and ask Mr. Lambert, “How can he make such a claim?”
Mr. Lambert shook his head, his low voice a warm hum in her ear. “I have no idea.”
Mr. Peckwood lifted a hand, quieting the murmurs. “I realize such a statement sounds mad in and of itself. But it’s true. I am close to perfecting a technique that will eradicate the need for asylums by restoring the mentally infirm to full and complete sanity.”
Objections popped like roasting chestnuts from those seated at the table.
“Preposterous!”
“Can it be?”
“Maybe it’s Peckwood who needs to be committed.”
All these rumblings and more gained in speed and volume until Mr. Peckwood once againping-ping-pingedwith his spoon—so forcefully that Amelia winced lest the glass break.
“Now, now, gentlemen, I hardly expect words will convince you. Rather, you shall see with your own eyes. And so, without further ado, I must beg your pardon for a few minutes while I prepare. In the mean-time, pass the sherry and enjoy the good company until Mr. Waldman directs you otherwise.”
Amelia turned to Mr. Lambert. “I thought he was going to exhibit the treatment you’ve been administering to my brother.”
Mr. Lambert balled his napkin on the table. “So did I.”
“Excuse me, Miss Balfour.” Mr. Peckwood paused near her chair. “May I have a word with you?”
Though she didn’t need his permission, her gaze drifted unbidden to Mr. Lambert, who nodded his agreement.
The older doctor led her to the door, where barely past the threshold, he stopped in the hall and faced her. “Simply a formality, my dear. I thought you ought to know the order of the evening. Before my demonstration begins in full, I shall ask you to say a few words about the treatment I’ve been giving your brother—how it’s prepared him for a successful surgery. How your trust in me has been worthwhile.”
Palms suddenly clammy, she ran them along her skirt. “But he hasn’t had the surgery yet. How can we know it will be successful?”
“What’s this?” Peckwood rocked back on his heels as if she’d struck him. “Do you doubt my capabilities? Have I not extended the utmost care to your brother?”
She pressed her lips tight. It was Mr. Lambert who tended her brother daily, who provided for his headaches and his dizziness—though technically he was following Mr. Peckwood’s orders, was he not? Perhaps she was being pettish.
Dipping her head, she peered up at the doctor through her lashes—a penitent look she’d mastered on her father all those times he expected her to agree with him, when at heart, she didn’t. “I mean no disrespect, Mr. Peckwood. My brother has been very well cared for indeed.”
His sharp blue eyes glimmered. “Then that is all you need say, my dear. Your personal endorsement of my skills will do much to aid the poor souls who inhabit this institution. These men and women need to be cured—nay,deserveto be cured—and I am the one who will do it.”
His voice rose so zealously a few of the gentlemen inside the dining room craned their necks to see what was going on.
Amelia shrank away from the door, out of their line of sight. Most men—doctors, even—did not care a mite about those who were shut up in asylums and wouldn’t spend two minutes trying to better their lives. What made him different?
“You are very fervent about the plight of the insane, Mr. Peckwood. Not that I don’t commend you for it. I do. But I can’t help but wonder why.” She tipped her head and studied him. “How do you explain such passion?”
For a long while, he said nothing. Just stood there, mindlessly staring. At length, his sharp little eyes focused on her. “Did you know I was once married to a woman with a mind as quick as yours? Or so I thought. Tell me, Miss Balfour, do you know what it’s like to watch the one you love slowly slip into lunacy? An inappropriate burst of laughter at odd times. A string of nonsense when least expected. At first you brush it off”—his hand fluttered in the air—“thinking you’ve missed a jest or perhaps heard wrong. But then it continues, building in frequency, until you drop to your knees and beg God to banish such insanity.”
His gaze hardened. “But He doesn’t. And she dies. So yes, Miss Balfour, you must forgive me for such passion, as you call it. Since the demise of my wife, my mission has changed from tending broken bodies to fixing damaged minds. And I am very close to doing so. But that takes funding, which is what tonight is all about.” The impassioned flush on his face deepened until he inhaled audibly. “So can I count on you to help me persuade these gentlemen to open their purse strings?” He lifted his chin towards the men congregating in the dining room.
She fidgeted with the cuff on her sleeve. He’d shared so much personal information with her, how could she not honour his request? “I will do what I can, Doctor.”
“Very good.” He patted her on the arm. “Then I shall see you in a few minutes.”
He strode down the passageway, coattails fluttering. She turned to find Mr. Lambert, but with every step, her stomach pinched tighter—yet not from the meal. Something else didn’t sit right in her belly. She felt like she teetered on a three-legged stool and one of the legs was cracked. But why the unease? Mr. Peckwood was trying to achieve a commendable thing. His heart was clearly grieved over losing his wife, his desire to fix broken minds perfectly understandable, but she couldn’t help thinking there was something more to it than that. Information he wasn’t telling her.
