“Dear Dr. Schell,” it began. “I hope that you will grant me the honor and privilege of introducing myself to you: Feodor Bolkonsky, doctor of Neurology from the University of Berlin. I have recently had the great pleasure of becoming acquainted with the theories of your father, Dr. Wilhelm Schell, and your own work in the field of treatment of the insane. I am currently residing in the Silverado Springs Hotel, and would be most grateful if—”
Johanna finished the letter at breakneck speed and then read it through more slowly.
Dr. Feodor Bolkonsky. She’d never heard of him, but that was no surprise. Her life here had been meaningful but insular, set far apart from those theorists and physicians and asylum superintendents whose work was garnering recognition in the rest of the country and abroad.
This Dr. Bolkonsky knew of her. He knew she was a woman, and obviously didn’t care. He was not only familiar with the Schells’ practice, but had made the effort to find and read her father’s scarce papers and was aware that she was carrying on in the wake of Wilhelm Schell’s disability.
He wanted her to come into Silverado Springs to dine with him and review the hypnotic treatment that he himself had begun to explore, comparing his experiences with her own. And he asked as humbly as any student.
Only minutes ago she’d been mourning the lack of physicians who shared her ideas and passion for real cures of insanity. And here, as if sent by fate, was a man who might not only understand, but could conceivably provide her with advice in treating Quentin. Perhaps he, himself, was capable of taking on Quentin’s care should she find her situation too…
Overwhelming, Johanna? When before have you turned coward, simply because a case became difficult?
And when, she answered herself, was it ever so personal?
She carefully refolded the letter and tucked it back in its envelope. She took a number of deep, rhythmic breaths to calm the too-rapid pace of her heartbeat. The prospect of losing Quentin to another doctor was a matter of professional necessity, not of personal needs. It might very well be in his best interest.
If it were possible at all.
“Sufficient to the day,” Johanna thought. And today she must continue to present a tranquil and competent face to the rest of the patients. She went to the dining room to join the others for luncheon.
Half the Haven’s residents were sitting down to lunch in their usual places. Neither Quentin nor Lewis was present. Harper had taken Lewis’s chair, his hair neatly combed and his beard trimmed.
Irene’s eyes gleamed with satisfaction, as if she harbored glorious secrets she delighted in concealing. Her attitude was markedly changed from her brooding conduct earlier in the week. May stood in the kitchen doorway, looking for Quentin. When she didn’t see him, she grabbed a sandwich from a plate on the table and ran outside.
Johanna drew Mrs. Daugherty aside. “Do you think it might be possible for you to come back tomorrow and bring another girl from town? I have an appointment in the Springs and may be gone half the day and into the evening.”
Mrs. Daugherty cocked her head. “Well, I do know of a girl or two who could use the work, if I can convince ’em not to be scairt. How much could you pay?”
Bless the woman for her bluntness. “If the girl is satisfactory and is willing to help you see to the patients, I’ll abide with whatever you think is fair.”
“Just the way you did when I first came here,” Mrs. Daugherty said. “It’s a good thing I’m an honest woman!”
“We couldn’t get along without you. Do you think that you could go back into town this afternoon and let me know by dinnertime if you’ve found someone?”
“Don’t see why not. If I have help, I can do all the washing tomorrow.”
“Excellent.”
“It’s that doctor, ain’t it?” Mrs. Daugherty asked. “The one who sent you the letter. Meeting him, are you?”
“He’s asked to consult with me. I don’t often get the opportunity.”
” ‘Course.” The older woman bustled back to the stove. “I’ll get things settled up here and head back to town.”