He had the house to himself and plenty of time to search for the crystal.
13
THE DREAMS are becoming increasingly vivid,Mrs. Ravenglass.”
Harold Morton leaned a little farther across the table. In the light of the glowing green crystal, his eyes glittered with excitement. “Dr. Goodhew explained that they are due to a congestion of masculine fluids.”
Leona looked at him through the heavy black veil she always wore for her consultations. It had been Uncle Edward’s idea for her to dress as a widow when she worked crystal. At the start of her career the veil and the serious black gown had concealed her youth. She had been sixteen when she had begun working crystals professionally. Edward had explained that few clients would have trusted the experience and talents of such a young woman.
But as she grew older he insisted that she continue the pose. “Adds an air of mystery and intrigue to the whole thing,” Edward said. “The clients want a bit of theater, whether they know it or not.”
“Dr. Goodhew told you that your dreams were due to congestion?” she said warily to Morton.
“Yes, precisely.” Morton’s head bobbed up and down several times. “He explained everything and assured me that you could apply certain therapies designed to relieve that congestion.”
Harold Morton was a lecherous cad, and she was trapped with him in the small consulting room. What on earth had Dr. Goodhew been thinking when he referred him to her?
With his slightly balding pate, well-trimmed whiskers and conservatively cut coat, Morton appeared to be every inch the respectable accountant he purported to be. But she had realized the moment she turned down the lamp and activated the emerald crystal that, regardless of his reasons for making the appointment, he was no longer interested in help for the disturbing dreams with which he claimed to be afflicted. He now had other things on his mind.
“I regret I will not be able to help you, Mr. Morton,” she said briskly. Simultaneously she stopped channeling her own psychical energy into the crystal. The green glow began to fade.
“What’s this?” Morton straightened angrily. “See here. Dr. Goodhew assured me that you used an exclusive therapy in an intimate setting.”
“I’m afraid you were misinformed as to the nature of my therapy, sir.”
“Come now, no need to be coy, Mrs. Ravenglass.” Morton winked. “I paid Goodhew quite handsomely for the opportunity to consult with you in an intimate setting.”
She froze. “You paid extra for the special therapy?”
“I most certainly did.”
“I regret to say that crystal work will not help your problem. Perhaps you should try one of Dr. Goodhew’s tonics to improve manly vigor.”
“Nothing wrong with my manly vigor, I assure you, Mrs. Ravenglass,” Morton said quickly. “That’s why I’m here. An excess of manly vigor, that’s the problem. I need a release, just like the woman in my dreams. We need each other, Mrs. Ravenglass. Desperately.”
“I have no idea what you are talking about.”
“Nonsense.” Morton leaned forward again. His aura of flushed excitement grew stronger. “Let me describe my most recent dream. I have had it several times during the past fortnight and it is very vivid.”
“. . . Remember, Leona, you must control the audience from the moment you take the stage. Never allow your audience to control you . . .”
“I do not want to hear about your dreams, sir,” she said sharply. “I cannot help you.”
Morton ignored her. “The lady in my dream is a woman who was widowed on her wedding night. Her husband died before the marriage could be consummated, and she has been forced to live for years without ever having known the gratification of normal, healthy marital relations.”
“That will be all for today, Mr. Morton.” She made to rise from the table, intending to turn up the lamp.
“The poor, virginal widow endures the most debilitating bouts of hysteria. Everyone
13
THE DREAMS are becoming increasingly vivid,Mrs. Ravenglass.”
Harold Morton leaned a little farther across the table. In the light of the glowing green crystal, his eyes glittered with excitement. “Dr. Goodhew explained that they are due to a congestion of masculine fluids.”
Leona looked at him through the heavy black veil she always wore for her consultations. It had been Uncle Edward’s idea for her to dress as a widow when she worked crystal. At the start of her career the veil and the serious black gown had concealed her youth. She had been sixteen when she had begun working crystals professionally. Edward had explained that few clients would have trusted the experience and talents of such a young woman.
But as she grew older he insisted that she continue the pose. “Adds an air of mystery and intrigue to the whole thing,” Edward said. “The clients want a bit of theater, whether they know it or not.”
“Dr. Goodhew told you that your dreams were due to congestion?” she said warily to Morton.
“Yes, precisely.” Morton’s head bobbed up and down several times. “He explained everything and assured me that you could apply certain therapies designed to relieve that congestion.”
Harold Morton was a lecherous cad, and she was trapped with him in the small consulting room. What on earth had Dr. Goodhew been thinking when he referred him to her?
With his slightly balding pate, well-trimmed whiskers and conservatively cut coat, Morton appeared to be every inch the respectable accountant he purported to be. But she had realized the moment she turned down the lamp and activated the emerald crystal that, regardless of his reasons for making the appointment, he was no longer interested in help for the disturbing dreams with which he claimed to be afflicted. He now had other things on his mind.
“I regret I will not be able to help you, Mr. Morton,” she said briskly. Simultaneously she stopped channeling her own psychical energy into the crystal. The green glow began to fade.
“What’s this?” Morton straightened angrily. “See here. Dr. Goodhew assured me that you used an exclusive therapy in an intimate setting.”
“I’m afraid you were misinformed as to the nature of my therapy, sir.”
“Come now, no need to be coy, Mrs. Ravenglass.” Morton winked. “I paid Goodhew quite handsomely for the opportunity to consult with you in an intimate setting.”
She froze. “You paid extra for the special therapy?”
“I most certainly did.”
“I regret to say that crystal work will not help your problem. Perhaps you should try one of Dr. Goodhew’s tonics to improve manly vigor.”
“Nothing wrong with my manly vigor, I assure you, Mrs. Ravenglass,” Morton said quickly. “That’s why I’m here. An excess of manly vigor, that’s the problem. I need a release, just like the woman in my dreams. We need each other, Mrs. Ravenglass. Desperately.”
“I have no idea what you are talking about.”
“Nonsense.” Morton leaned forward again. His aura of flushed excitement grew stronger. “Let me describe my most recent dream. I have had it several times during the past fortnight and it is very vivid.”
“. . . Remember, Leona, you must control the audience from the moment you take the stage. Never allow your audience to control you . . .”
“I do not want to hear about your dreams, sir,” she said sharply. “I cannot help you.”
Morton ignored her. “The lady in my dream is a woman who was widowed on her wedding night. Her husband died before the marriage could be consummated, and she has been forced to live for years without ever having known the gratification of normal, healthy marital relations.”
“That will be all for today, Mr. Morton.” She made to rise from the table, intending to turn up the lamp.
“The poor, virginal widow endures the most debilitating bouts of hysteria. Everyone
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