Wilhelm Schell, for all his brilliance, had been the one with the touch of mischief, the ability to laugh even at the most serious moments. He could be annoyingly impractical. His mind made strange, unfathomable leaps from one concept to another, seemingly without logic. And he was the one who could explain and reassure on those rare occasions when her emotions got themselves in a tangle.
As they were now, due to Mr. Quentin Forster.
Despite all that had changed, Papa’s presence still gave her comfort. She went directly from the guest room to her father’s room, opening the door a crack to gauge his condition.
He was asleep. If she woke him, he’d only be more confused, and her trivial needs came a distant second to his. She closed the door. The patients had already eaten and were either outside, working in the garden, vineyard, or orchard, or resting in their rooms. She’d have time to make notes on the new patient.
Her office seemed very quiet as she sat down at her desk and took out a notebook. Quentin Forster must have his own set of notes and records of treatments and progress, to join the others neatly stacked in the desk drawer. This record, like May’s, would be written entirely in her own hand, without any contribution from her father. The feel of the pen in her hand never failed to calm her thoughts on those rare occasions when they spun too fast for her to discipline.
Her heart gradually slowed from the rapid pace it had set ever since he touched her. Dipping her pen in the inkwell, she made a cool assessment of her new patient, point by logical point.
Quentin Forster. Age, estimated thirty years. Of English descent, probably aristocratic by his accent and general mien. Apparently in good health, in spite of his recent bout of delirium tremens. Clearly he was not the sort who drank constantly, or he could not be in such excellent condition.
In all likelihood he was here in the United States because he was the younger son of some wealthy landowning family, sent to make his fortune conveniently far from England. Such young men were hardly more than parasites, like the idle children of aristocrats everywhere.
Did he drink because he was in exile, or due to some personal weakness in his nature? No need to speculate; she’d learn that soon enough, during one of their first sessions of hypnosis. If she decided to take his case.
That was the question. He might very easily disrupt what they had here. Disturb the others.
Disturb her.
His laughing cinnamon eyes flashed in her mind. He was charming and handsome, of that there was no doubt. Intelligent, too. Proficient at reasonable conversation, if one discounted his jesting.
How long had it been since she’d had a truly rational conversation? One that lasted more than a few minutes and didn’t leap wildly from subject to subject, or drift off into silence? She’d spoken to a few fellow doctors during the lecture in San Francisco, but they were apt to condescend to her because of her gender, if they paid any attention at all.
Quentin Forster didn’t condescend. Except for his one inquiry about her father, he seemed completely unruffled at being attended to by a woman.
If anything, he seemed to relish the prospect.
And that was the challenge he presented. She must keep a professional distance from him, remain unmoved by his teasing and flirtation—something she could do easily enough with other men. Not so easy, perhaps, with him.
You are a woman, she told herself—something Papa had reminded her of on occasion, in the old days. It is quite logical that you should find a man attractive, sooner or later. In spite of what some male physicians and social arbiters claimed, she had always believed that women were sexual creatures. Even Johanna Schell.
Simple physical attraction explained much of her sense of discomposure. But why this man? Why now?
She shrugged and closed the notebook. There would be a day or two to decide; she certainly wouldn’t turn him out so soon after his initial recovery. She’d make the correct decision…