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Chapter One: A respectable houseMartha Wharton surveyed the unspoken, hidden chaos of her house. It wasn’t actually her house, of course. She was a cockney immigrant to New York. She had arrived as a fifteen-year-old in 1857, and started as a chambermaid in a grand house in Murray Hill. Hard work, charm, a capacity to put up with no end of shite, and, most importantly, a gift for exploiting the weaknesses of others, had allowed her to thrive.Now twenty years on from her arrival, the Archer’s was her sixth house, and she had run it like a dictator for over five years. It was a beautiful, huge town house on Fifth Avenue. Like most of the grand houses of Manhattan, it was built on a firm foundation of lies, graft, and exploitation.Spencer Archer was a respectable businessman who ran a trading house and a string of warehouses. His father had built the business, as well as purchased the land to put up the warehouses on South Wharf and at the Brooklyn yards. The hard work had all been done. Spencer’s job was simply not to screw it up. He achieved this by meeting with his general manager and cost accountant for an hour or two each day, and entertaining his customers and bankers several nights a week.His reputation was impeccable among the other respectable men of New York City. Martha knew that this meant only that they showed discretion when they saw one another at the upscale brothels of Midtown, did not sleep with one another’s wives, and only cheated foreigners and southerners in business deals.At this very moment, the ‘respectable’ Spencer was plowing the new German wash girl in her attic dormer. Martha always had a pretty young thing on staff for just that purpose. She preferred an all English staff, but that was becoming more and more difficult. For lower positions like wash and chamber maids, she had to resort to Germans, Italians, blacks, or when she was truly desperate, the Irish. She shuddered at the thought.The lady of the house, Mrs. May Archer, was in her sitting room, as she nearly always was, these days. The doctor was set to arrive by mid-morning. Martha gathered a coffee tray and went up the main staircase and into May’s suite to check on her progress. May had made it to her daybed, but was still in her dressing gown. Edith, Mrs. Welland’s personal attendant, was brushing May’s long, chestnut hair. Martha shot Edith a disapproving look as she carried the silver tray across the room.“Good morning, Mum,” Martha began in her thick accent. “Running a bit behind aren’t we? The doctor will be here, soon. We want to be at our best don’t we?”“The doctor is worthless,” May uttered in a sad whisper.“Now, now. We mustn’t say things like that, Mum. I have the shortbread biscuits you like, and fresh cream for your coffee. Edith, let’s get the Mrs. put together, shall we?” Martha said this with a pleasant voice, at the same time she glared daggers at Edith.Martha went up the back staircase, past the third floor where her room and the guest rooms were, and up to the cramped, stuffy fourth floor staff rooms. She walked down the narrow hallway and stood at the bottom of the tiny spiral that led to the attic. She could hear the grunts of Mr. Archer, and the moans of the young German.“Ja! Ja! Das fühlt sich gut an … aah, aah, aah.”Martha smiled. The little German cunt has already learned how to fake it. She might make it, after all. When Martha heard a long groan from Spencer, followed by silence, she had her moment.“Greta! Greta! What are you doing in your room, girl? I need your help on the main floor. The doctor will be here any minute and I’ll need to greet him. I need you to help the cook while I do that,” Martha shouted into the attic opening.It was an absurd fib. Martha never helped the cook. But, Mr. Archer would take the hint. Such was the mendacity of the Archer house, and indeed, most of New York society. Everyone knew about the bad behavior of others, but it was never acknowledged or addressed, directly. One spoke around the evil, then spread gossip without attribution, later.Doctor George Beard arrived just as the clock in the foyer chimed for the tenth time. Martha smoothed her Bostancı Escort white uniform and checked her hair. She greeted him as he stepped through the vestibule. He was older, and married, but quite handsome. As usual, however, he could not see past her uniform, and showed no interest. She took his hat and coat.“Miss Wharton. How’s the patient?”Martha’s silence told him all he needed to know. She escorted the doctor to Mrs. Archer’s room, primarily to check on how well Edith had done. As it turned out, she had pulled off a minor miracle. May’s hair was up and presentable, held in place with tortoise-shell combs. She was in a chair, rather than the daybed, and she was wearing a dress. It was just a simple housedress, but Martha was aware that even that had likely been quite a challenge. Martha gave Edith an approving glance.“Pull open the drapes, please,” Dr. Beard directed. May squinted and tried to pull away from the light. “I know, Mrs. Archer. It’s bright. I just need to get a look at you.”In the light, for a moment, Martha saw the women who had once been the most pursued debutant in Manhattan. Her violet-blue eyes, the full lips, the purity of her skin, were beautiful. She had retained her narrow waist, despite two (lost) pregnancies, and her full breasts and buttocks were still the envy of New York. It was so sad that she was practically locked away now.“Alright, Edith. Let’s leave the doctor to it.”Chapter Two: The good doctorDoctor Beard held May’s wrist. He opened his railroad watch and compared it against May’s rhythm. It was neither alarmingly slow, nor alarmingly fast. He assessed her color. He asked about her sleep. He was concerned about her bowel movements. May answered his questions with the same flat affectation.“You have followed all of my directions? You have taken the quicksilver pills? And the caster oil each morning? You have avoided noise and excitement?” Dr. Beard asked as he wrote in a black leather journal.May nodded at each question. She had been a dutiful patient, despite her total lack of confidence in the doctor’s advice. He had been treating her for months with no apparent change. She was as sad, and tired, and fed up with her life as ever. The doctor stroked his salt and pepper whiskers and looked at May as if she was an injured foal, rather than a grown adult.“Good, Mrs. Archer. I’m going to go talk to your husband, now, about your treatment plan. We may make some changes,” Dr. Beard said as he packed up his black satchel. May started to say something, but the doctor went on as if he couldn’t see or hear her. “Good day, Madam.”Martha led the doctor to Spencer Archer’s den.“George,” Spencer said with an extended hand.“Spencer,” the doctor greeted in return. “Let’s chat.”They sat on a large, tufted leather sofa. Spencer offered Beard a cigar, which he readily accepted,“There is no improvement, is there?” Spencer asked. The doctor shook his head.“It is a very stubborn case of neurasthenia. There are no positive signs. The medicines are not helping. The weekend visits to your country house have had no apparent effect. The trip to the warm spring last month…nothing. Correct?” Beard asked. Spencer affirmed his assumption.“I wish I could say that she is my only patient like this. May’s condition may be somewhat worse, but she is not alone,” Beard offered between puffs of his cigar. “This melancholy, this distant nature, it is spreading through Manhattan, most especially among women.”“But why? What is the cause?” Spencer asked.“It is almost certainly the noises and smells of the city,” the doctor explained. “The nerves are weakened by the constant noise, allowing the ethers generated by the city’s noxious smells to invade the body. Women are more susceptible due to their inherent weakness. These causes cannot be questioned. The science is irrefutable.“Temporary removal from the city usually works or, at least, it used to. I’m seeing more and more stubborn cases like your May. And, many relapses from patients that I thought had been cured,” Dr. Beard explained.Spencer nodded as he watched the blue smoke from his cigar rise toward Bostancı Escort Bayan the ceiling. “What am I to do, then, George? I cannot go on like this.”Beard ran his hand across his whiskered chin. “I think your best option is to send her away, Spencer. Really away. There is a sanitarium upstate. It’s very nice. You could take the train to see her once a month. There’s a shooting club up there. It would not be a complete waste of your time.”Spencer shook his head. “I could never do that.”“I understand completely, of course. You love your wife,” Beard offered.“No,” Spencer said. “I mean, yes. But, I worry that my reputation in the City would be damaged.”“You could send her to Europe,” the doctor offered.“I don’t like that option, either. People might think I cannot control my wife. I couldn’t have that,” Spencer replied.They puffed their cigars.“Spencer,” Dr. Beard began, “I don’t recommend this option, but I should make you aware. Do you remember Anne Welland?”Spencer hesitated, and then said, “Oh, of course. Yes, David Welland’s daughter. Very pretty. A dark brunette. She went to Europe, years ago.”“Yes. She is back. She is a countess now. She married — and then divorced — Count Olenski of Poland. She remains a handsome woman. She is also very rich. She inherited her father’s fur trading money. She renovated and moved back into her father’s mansion in East Harlem.”Spencer nodded with increasing recognition. “Yes, yes. I recall someone mentioning this. Especially the divorced part,” Spencer said with a salacious smile and a wink. “But, what does this have to do with May, my good man?!”“Countess Olenski has started something she calls a ‘spa.’ Sanitas per Aquam,” Beard explained.“Aquam. Water. So…baths? In New York? That’s it? We tried the warm springs, already. They didn’t work,” Spencer said, incredulous.“There is more. But no one is quite sure exactly what. Her patrons are hand selected and they keep very quiet. Her staff is also highly curated. No one will reveal what goes on in there. But I have had several patients who swear by whatever Countess Olenski is doing. They don’t even have me do house calls anymore.”Chapter Three: The Countess OlenskiSpencer Archer stepped from the carriage and offered a hand to his wife. After a moment’s hesitation, May climbed from the black lacquered coupé. She had not been to this part of the Island since she was a teen, when she would ride her horse along the country lanes.She looked up at the large brick manor. She glanced around at new brownstone townhouses that had begun to fill-in the open land that surrounded the mansions and farmhouses of this once rural part of Manhattan. The smell of fresh sawdust and wet grout still hung in the air. They walked up the granite steps and pulled the bell of the huge house. They were greeted by an immaculately dressed black man.“Good morning,” the towering man said. “Who may I say is calling?”“Spencer Archer. I’m here to meet with the mistress of the house.”The dark man looked at Spencer blankly, then turned toward May. “I assume you are Mrs. May Archer, then? The Countess told me to expect you,” he said warmly. Returning a dismissive gaze to Spencer, he said politely, but firmly, “I will escort Mrs. Archer to the Countess. The first visit takes several hours. The Countess will dispatch one of her carriages to return Madam, when she is ready.”Spencer looked as if he had been jabbed in the nose by a pugilist. “My good man, I will be meeting with Countess Olenski,” as he tried to step around.The man placed his large, white-gloved hand on Spencer’s shoulder, stopping his progress. “No, sir. The Countess only meets with patients.”“This is outrageous. I demand to speak with your mistress immediately!” Spencer said, loudly.“That won’t be happening,” the man said, slowly and quietly. “Mrs. Archer will be well taken care of, if she chooses.”Spencer’s outrage faded in the face of the doorman’s resolve. It was clear the large man was not about to budge. And, what was the loss? No one had seen him back down to a colored man. His reputation would remain intact with anyone that mattered. Escort Bostancı If he left now, he would have hours to himself. There would be no brooding wife. He had already cleared his business calendar. The prospect of spending unscheduled time at one of Madam Woods’ uptown brothels, or perhaps the option to head downtown to a Chinatown ‘Theatre,’ quickly began to outweigh his husbandly responsibilities. He looked at his wife, as if seeing if she would be alright being left alone.May found herself intrigued. She had enjoyed seeing her husband wither. The large, handsome black man’s quiet power was calming, somehow. She had little idea what was on the other side of the door, but she was confident that this day would be different from yesterday. And, different might be better. She gave Spencer a nod and stepped through the door.“I am Robert, Ma’am,” the man said as he walked May across an expansive foyer to a salon. The room was large, bright, feminine, and filled with art and decor of a wide variety. There were paintings of various styles, most featuring women in beautiful settings. Some of the images were scandalous. There were also artifacts that looked to be of African, Muslim, and Oriental origins. “The Countess will join you, shortly,” Robert said. “I’ll have some tea brought in.”May sat on a yellow settee. She was nervous, but not anxious. She realized it was excitement — a feeling she hadn’t experienced in recent memory. A young woman entered carrying a tea tray. May was taken aback at the maid’s appearance. She was not in a uniform. Instead, she was in a white, silken robe that barely reached her knees. She was bare-legged and wore slipper-sandals with a slight heel. How odd, May thought. The woman had brilliant red hair, which she wore loosely piled, as if the removal of a single hairpin would send it cascading down her body.“Hello, Madam,” the girl said with a thick Irish brogue. “Robert asked me to bring in some tea.” She bent to set the tray on the coffee table. May noticed the woman’s breasts moved freely under the robe. It was shocking. The woman poured a cup. Her fingernails were manicured and polished. This is no ordinary maid, May thought.“Oh, thank you, Mary!” a voice said from the foyer. A tall, lovely woman with raven hair arranged in an elaborate, layered braid walked into the room. She, too, was in a simple silk dressing gown, though hers was royal blue. She greeted ‘Mary’ with two European kisses, followed by a peck on the lips. Definitely not an ordinary maid.May stood and extended a hand. “Countess Olenski, I presume.” The Countess took May’s gloved hand, but then leaned in to kiss the air adjacent to each cheek.“Mrs. Archer. I am so very pleased to meet you. I was lightly acquainted with your husband, many years ago. If I’m not mistaken, he was at my coming-out party. And I saw him at Columbia socials, and the like, before I left for Europe. You seem younger than he and I.”As they sat down next to one another, May confirmed that she was just twenty-six, and that she had married Spencer when she was eighteen.“That rogue,” the Countess said with a smile. “Snatching babies like you in his late twenties. I married an older man, as well. It was wonderful. For a time,” the Countess added. May returned a nervous smile.“He’s a very lucky man. Does he know it?” The Countess asked. May’s slight smile disappeared.“Of course, he doesn’t,” the Countess huffed. “They seldom do. They think we should be the ones grateful for our good luck that they deigned to marry us and squirt us full of ‘their’ babies. Babies that they pay no attention to until they are sixteen. The fools,” the Countess snickered with disgust as she patted May’s thigh. “Why are you here, pretty young lady?”May opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out. She sat uncomfortably on the edge of the sofa as her bustle poked into her lower back. She looked around the room in silence and took in the collection of exotic and erotic objects. “Doctor Beard…he says —”“George Beard! The ‘world’s greatest medical expert on neurasthenia’?! The man is a quack. Especially when it involves women. Why are you here, May?”“My husband—““I’m not concerned with your ‘sporting man’ of a husband, my dear. Why are you here, May?”May looked into the dark brown eyes of her inquisitor. They were warm and welcoming. May’s own eyes watered slightly. She cleared her throat. “I’m…I’m dead inside,” she finally stammered.