The first time she and Papa had witnessed what she called “mental retrogression,” she’d been treating Andersen under Papa’s supervision. While Andersen was hypnotized, he began to speak, spontaneously and unpredictably, of events that had occurred in his past—events that had clearly contributed to his illness.
Papa had been fascinated, ready to pursue this new avenue with his customary impetuosity. But Andersen had come out of his trance, and they’d had to postpone a second attempt. Papa’s attack stopped any further exploration of their discovery.
But Johanna had never forgotten. During the past year she had taken it up again. She began cautiously, meticulously guiding Andersen into a past he was unwilling to speak of outside the hypnotic state. She walked with him through the very ordeals that had twisted his mind into its present illness.
And the treatment was working. Slowly, step by painfully slow step, it was working. Lewis had improved. Her tentative theory came into being, fragile as a new grape in spring.
The mind hid from itself. It was able to conceal its own darkest desires, its greatest fears, those most unpleasant memories it did not want to remember. And when it did so, it inevitably warped the personality out of its proper channels. Until those thoughts and memories were exposed to the light of the conscious mind.
Johanna had become more and more certain that her new method, based upon Papa’s work, was the right one to pursue. Why, then, did she question herself when she thought of treating Quentin Forster with that same method? As if by fate, he had appeared on her doorstep—a man who might prove to be the perfect subject: easily hypnotized, suffering from unbearable memories of his past, but clear-minded enough to cooperate. And to wish for healing.
But he was not a “subject.” He was as real and important to her as any of the others, for all the briefness of their acquaintance.
Johanna unclenched her fingers and let the crushed leaf fall. This idle speculation was unproductive; she’d already made the decision. She’d assured Quentin that she would help him, tried to allay his natural fears. She must not doubt herself if she was to succeed.
She went back to the house, pausing to throw feed to the chickens. That was usually May’s job, as was collecting the eggs, but the girl had neglected her duties this morning.
Reminded of the letter in her pocket, Johanna drew it out and opened the envelope. Mrs. Ingram’s missives from Europe were infrequent, always sent general delivery and without a return address, but at least the woman made some inquiries after her daughter’s welfare, and expressed the intention to come for her eventually. What she did across the ocean she kept to herself, except for her occasional hints about working to make sure that she and May need never live in fear again.
Johanna kept the letters hidden from May. Until Mrs. Ingram actually arrived, there was no point in getting the girl’s hopes up. Two years had passed; many more might do so before May’s mother saw fit to come for her.
She scanned the first lines of the letter and inadvertently crumpled the edge of the paper. The promises in this one were much more explicit than any before. “Please keep my daughter safe,” the last lines said. “I will return for her very soon.”
The statement might even be true. But if it were not, Mrs. Ingram need have no fear for May’s safety.
She pushed the letter back in her pocket and looked up to find the subject of her musings only a few yards away. May was standing at the border of the garden in her plain, loose-fitting dress, poised on the edge of flight. The object of her riveted attention was Quentin Forster.
He stood as still as she, with the absolute motionlessness of a wild animal. He and May regarded each other minute by minute, as if in silent communication. Then Quentin held out his hand and spoke. Johanna couldn’t hear his words, but the tones were low and soothing. He smiled. May flinched, eyes wide, and stared at his hand.
Of course Quentin didn’t know any better; she’d failed to properly warn him. May was terrified of strangers, men especially, and Quentin was, in spite of his leanness, an imposing figure. Johanna felt an instinctive need to protect May from any discomfort he might inadvertently cause her. She prepared to go to the girl’s rescue.