Page 92 of A Fearless Heart
“I don’t think it’s that simple.”
“Certainly it is. Why be afraid when there’s nothing to be afraid of? When a man has a fear of spiders and sees a spider, his reaction is logical even if it may be extreme. When a woman is afraid of heights, and you walk her to a cliff, her panic is understandable even though she ought to trust you. But fear for no reason, just out of the clear sky? That’s hysteria.”
“But then whatishysteria?” Gabe pressed.
“Oh, it’s a common female complaint that used to be considered the result of a wandering womb. Which is nonsense, of course. The Greeks were geniuses in many ways, but their understanding of anatomy was woefully underdeveloped. Still, the condition is undoubtably linked to the female sex, and in a sexual way. There’s no question that women who suffer from hysteria are also usually unable to conceive and are also frigid.”
“Hmm” was Gabe’s response. Cady definitely didn’t fit the last parameter.
“Happily, the treatment suggests itself.”
Gabe couldn’t see how there was any obvious treatment for undefined terror. “It does?”
“Yes. Hysteria inhibits a woman’s natural capacity to become a mother, or to act as a woman should. Hence, regular sexual engagement between a husband and wife, hopefully resulting in pregnancy, will cure her. Or at least give her something else to think about. In a lot of cases a woman thinks she’s hysterical, but in fact she’s merely bored.”
“I see. Excuse me, won’t you?” Gabe removed himself from the conversation. As he walked away, he realized he should have asked which of the colleges in Oxford the man had attended, so he could make sure to never go to a doctor with a degree from there for the rest of his life.
The party was so densely packed with guests that it was difficult to move quickly through the crowd, or to keep track of any one person if you happened to see them across the room. This meant the event was actually well suited for discreet meetings—for example, with one’s spymaster and his factotum.
Gabe found Julian Neville and Miss Chattan standing at the edge of the side gallery of the ballroom. Since the gallery was raised by about three feet from the main floor, it provided an excellent view of the dancing and general carousing.
“Aries,” Gabe muttered on joining them.
“Capricorn,” Julian returned.
Chattan frequently appeared just this side of unkempt at the Zodiac offices (slovenlywas too strong a term, but she often sported a rather messy hairstyle and had ink stains on her fingers). Now, however, she was the picture of feminine grace. Her ash-blond hair was bound in a high twist, and she wore a pale blue satin gown with an empire waist than made her look quite tall and slender. Gabe said, “Miss Chattan, you look lovely tonight.”
“Why, thank you.” She smiled winsomely. “Isn’t it gratifying to see how many good friends have come to wish your brother felicitations of the day?”
Gabe rolled his eyes. “It’s certainly gratifying for him. Now, would you like to hear what I’ve learned?”
Julian glanced around just long enough to assure himself that no one was close enough to overhear. “Go ahead.”
So Gabe reported the most recent developments. He explained about meeting Trevor Osbourne, and the confirmation that he’d disposed of the only bottle of clephobine known to exist in England. He related how he investigated the home of the last victim, Huxley, and the tenuous but tantalizing connections of a few of the victims to the Osbournes.
“But you have not yet identified the killer?”
“I’ve got a few theories, but nothing I’d offer with certainty. What’s clear is that there must be another source of the chemical beyond what was made at Calderwood. When I can find that, I think it will lead me directly to the kill—”
Just then, he saw Cady enter the room. She wore a green gown. This was a perfectly accurate statement which conveyed nothing of the actual impression she made. The top of the gown was pale green silk, with tiny cap sleeves that just covered her shoulders. As the fabric descended, the color deepened. At the high waist, it was a true green, but then darkened to a deep emerald and then to near black at the lower hem, so that when she walked the tips of her black leather slippers couldn’t even be differentiated. She was wearing the de rigueur long gloves, but instead of the usual white, hers had been dyed the same shade of brown as tree bark. Her dark hair was curled, but little sprigs of pale pink flowers had been tucked in here and there. The effect was to make her appear as if she’d just stepped from a forest glade, perhaps after seven years trapped in a faerie realm.
“Not exactly following the rules of fashion, is she,” Julian murmured. “If there was any question about whether she’s half-plant, she’s put it to rest.”
“Most women wouldn’t be able to carry that look off,” Chattan noted. “In a field of cultivated blossoms all striving to look the same, she’s willing to be different. And of course, it helps to be beautiful. Don’t you think, Gabe?”
“She looks very nice,” he allowed. The words sounded grudging and ungracious. But the truth was he was lucky he could talk at all. Cady wasn’t beautiful, she was bewitching.
Chattan shot him a disgusted glance. “Very nice?You’ve got all the soul of a discarded sock.”
“I wasn’t asked to join the Circle for my poetry.”
“Thank God for that. You’d better go to her and secure a dance before everyone else does. She may be a botanist, but she can’t make herself a wallflower. Men will be fighting for the opportunity to say they’ve danced with the most beautiful new face in London.”
Gabe took a last slug from his glass. “Excuse me.”
Gabe strode up to Cady just as a dance ended. A young man who’d dutifully filled out his name on her card for the next one took one look at Gabe and conceded the field, retreating back into the crowd. Gabe felt pity for him for one moment, but then the music started again, and Gabe took her in his arms, and no one else mattered.
“And it just happens to be a waltz,” he murmured. “Good thing you endured the patronesses, hmm? I was hoping you’d be allowed to dance this.”
