The doctor inclined his head. “You heard correctly.”
Jane licked her lips. “We… we wish to know how you do that and… and what it is like for those who undergo the process.” She also wanted to know whether this doctor and Neville’s doctor were one and the same. They must be. Surely there were not two such physicians in London claiming to cure a reliance upon opium.
“It’s simple,” Dr. Abbott said. “The drug takes us to new heights, allows many medical procedures to be completed with much less pain than before, and yet it can become a noose about one’s neck, too, ruining where it should save. Those who rely on the drug do so because their bodies need more and more of it to feel its beneficial effects. For some, time brings its own relief, and they no longer need laudanum. For others, they crave relief and can find it no other way than the release of opium. I help them.”
“How… how do you do that?” Jane asked.
The doctor paced away from them, scratching his chin thoughtfully then paced back. “More opium.”
Lillian scoffed. “More?”
“It’s true, little miss.”
Lillian stiffened.
The doctor seemed not to notice. “You start by giving them more, then with each subsequent dosage you give them a bit less. The patient thinks, however, they are getting a larger dosage each time. When it does not work, they lose faith in it and are cured.”
“What happens when you do this? Reduce their dosage?”
“Nightmares, fevers, hallucinations. But these symptoms are mild if the reduction occurs at a slow and steady pace.” The doctor stared into his teacup. “It has happened a time or two that a patient, upon realizing they can no longer attain the heights they previously achieved, spirals into despair. They end up in a dirty den, having spent every last penny to procure enough drug. Sometimes too much drug. They die in search of relief.”
Jane grappled with the revelation. Had George’s uncle ever resorted to such tactics?
“It works or they die,” she said, hearing the toneless hopelessness in her own voice.
“We all die sooner or later, my lady,” the doctor said. “I do my best to make sure those afflicted are masters over the drug instead of the other way around. With me, they need not end up in a den.” He stood and ambled toward the door. “It has been a lovely chat, but I must insist the two of you move on to more appropriate subjects for young girls like yourselves. I hope our paths never cross again. And I do not mean that in an insulting way, I assure you.” He reached to open the door.
Before his fingers could even brush against the handle, it flung open. A well-dressed woman stumbled in, her contorted face stained with tears. “Doctor Abbott! I need more. You must have more for me.” Her words were gasping sobs.
He reeled back. “Lady Stubbins! Please. Restrain yourself. Your destructive sensibilities are showing.”
Lady Stubbins. Jane knew her. She and Tabitha and Lillian had attended her garden party at the beginning of the London season.
But the woman did not seem to know Jane. Or even recognize that anyone other than the doctor existed in the entire world. Lady Stubbins had been nice to Jane that day, introduced her to several handsome gentlemen who’d shown not a flick of interest, matrimonial or otherwise. Lady Stubbins had taken Jane aside and said, “Men are very foolish, my dear. Do not let them shake you.” To see the woman so shaken herself, a ghost, a shadow of the leading matron of thetonwho’d shepherded shy debutants… Jane clutched her stomach. It roiled.
Lillian tugged her toward the door. “We should go,” she whispered.
Jane nodded and tried not to hear the whispered exchange between the viscountess and the doctor. But when Lady Stubbins raised her voice, she could not help it. Likely no one in the house could.
“You dare to deny me? You are a monster! Nothing you give me works anymore. I still hurt”—she tangled her hands together and pounded her chest—“here! You cannot tell me nothing is wrong. I know there is.”
“Hysteria, my lady. But the accepted treatment for such an affliction is changing. I’ve been increasing your dose, as you well know. It’s simply not working. Laudanum is no miracle cure.”
Lady Stubbins snatched a porcelain figurine from a table and threw it against a wall. It shattered against the striped wallpaper. Lady Stubbins ran forward and gripped one of the sharp, fallen pieces. Blood dripped from her hand.
Jane rushed forward. “Lady Stubbins, you’ve hurt yourself!” An absurd thing to say, but what else was there?
The viscountess raised her eyes to Jane and blinked several times before clearing. “Lady… Jane… Crenshaw… is it?”
Jane wrapped her arms around the woman’s shoulder and nudged her toward a couch. “Yes. Precisely. What a good memory you have, my lady.”
“Not so good now as it used to be, I’m afraid.” She met Jane’s gaze. “What are you doing here, Lady Jane?”
Jane thought fast. “Social visit. The doctor is a family friend.”
Lady Stubbins mouth hung open for a second or two. “He… he is a”—she threw a sour look at the doctor—“a dear man. Absolutely indispensable to my nerves.”
“Trying times, Lady Stubbins?”
