"I'm not aware of Miss Wigfall having any upcoming nuptials...or a fiancé, for that matter." Jonah offered a bit of a smile, "I would offer her congratulations should that happen...everyone deserves happiness."

“Oh, that’s such a relief!” sighed Pettigrew, pouring himself a sherry even in Danforth hadn’t indicated an interest in the sweet fortified wine. He wasn’t bothered about the medical man’s love life, just the prospect of losing a hard worker, one who could actually operate the new-fangled sewing machine, to boot, to the altar.

“I’m seeking someone who has some expertise in hypnosis…for a patient who needs to alter a poor habit.” Maybe they could deal with Miss Mudd’s hysteria while they were at it, not that that would be ethical, but then, he wasn’t sure any of this was ethical, nor if he cared!

“A … poor habit?” asked the Louisiana man. His accent made it sound like a “paw habit” Well, how ‘paw’ the habit was depended what the patient was pawing!

Pettigrew poured Danforth a sherry whether he wanted one or not and handed it to him.

“Well, doctor, when I was a young man and in society in New Orleans, I developed a number of parlour tricks to keep me popular and invited to all the best soirees; oh… played a little Schubert at the piano” he waved a hand at a beautiful if seldom played piano in the corner of the room “… read the future in the cards or the stars or the palm… oh, the usual occupations of the bored.”

Oh, to live again in yesterday!

“A young friend of mine, French gentleman I recall, with the most amazing curly black hair and jet back eyes… er, ahem, he showed me the wonders of Mesmer’s methods. Turned out I was quite the natural, but er… well Doctor, I soon found out that with great power comes great responsibility. I’m sure you can imagine… the sort of thing. I swore on my dear Mother’s sweet immortal soul there and then never to misuse the strange and very real powers of hypnosis that have been, somehow or other, granted to me.” He drained the small sherry glass of its contents.

“Therefore, Doctor Danforth, you will understand if I enquire what exactly is the poor habit with which this unfortunate, afflicted soul suffers.” He asked seriously.

"I'm caring for a young woman...a child, actually, who finds she has a preference for her own...sort. Inversion, I believe it's called. She's tormented by the sin, of course, and is seeking answers, if not a cure."

Worchester Pettigrew supped calmly from his sherry glass as the handsome Doctor described a case which, gender apart, could have described himself some fifty odd years ago. He himself had been lucky on a number of counts: he had been effectively ‘outed’ by his vindictive sister to his father, no doubt she had expected a good thrashing, if not total banishment, to have followed. Instead, a stern, frighteningly frank, but bizarrely understanding talking-to had followed: the Commodore had been a man of the world and his experience in the navy provided him with a store of knowledge on the physical and emotional difficulties of men who loved each other as had the ancient Greeks.

Secondly, Worchester had never suffered any agonies of the soul by dint of what either a vengeful and cruel Old Testament God or a gentle and forgiving Jesus might think of him. Thirdly, and most importantly, he had lived in a bustling cosmopolitan port city where finding others of his ilk and proclivities had been easy, and finding many like himself had soon ceased to think of himself as in any way an unnatural freak.

Now he considered this nameless ‘child’ – a young woman, no doubt, in mortal fear for her soul, echoes of the sins of Sodom and Gomorrah were always resonant in these situations; a young woman who knew no others of her nature, and who possibly did not know that any others existed in this world, and certainly not in straight-laced, parochial Kalispell, a hundred worlds away from the demi-monde atmosphere of antebellum New Orleans.

Finally, she had found herself in the hands of the medical profession. He shuddered to think of the fate of some of the companions of his youth who had been handed over to Physicians by their well-meaning families to ‘cure’ them of their fetid sickness. Straight jackets; chastity belts; concoctions of bromide and arsenic; beatings; freezing cold baths and, in one awful case, castration had all been seen as the lesser of two evils. He hoped that his involuntary shudder would be mistaken for horror at the girl’s ‘malaise’.

“A sad affliction, poor child. But I believe that I can help you effect a cure, Doctor.” said Pettigrew, as disinterested sounding as if he was agreeing to mend a tear in the patient’s frock.

"Nothing drastic or harmful," he clarified, "I'm not fully convinced the young woman is actually 'inverted', she's still very young and just starting to realize her awakening, so there is bound to be some confusion."

“Oh, bound to be, bound to be!” agreed Pettigrew, his metaphorical fingers metaphorically crossed. He didn’t like to fib, but it was unlikely to be some bid for attention or cry for help, although some teenaged girls were apt to do that. He suspected that the child would indeed be confused and distressed at these strange feelings: especially if she had started to experiment with boys and found them wanting, or with girls and found them more fulfilling. But, confused or not, feelings, strong feelings, strong enough to make a body seek out expensive medical help of her own volition, they were indicative that the girl had probably been born that way: a barley seed had been sown in a field of wheat and had now grown to a height where the difference could be noticed. Well, they would see, but Pettigrew suspected that the girl was as firmly different as he himself was.

“Still, I am at your disposal Doctor: when would you like me to meet with this poor unfortunate? And, ah, presumably this would be in the environs of your surgery?” he asked, wondering which methodology would be best to use: the magnets, the watch, or the zoetrope.

"Tomorrow morning, if that is all right?" He could send word to her this evening, give her time to plan. "And it's probably best we do this at the clinic."

“Certainly, Doctor, certainly. I will ask Miss Wigfall to come in and watch the store. I will be at your surgery at five to nine promptly and bring along the paraphernalia.” Nodded Worchester seriously.

"I appreciate your help in this, Mr. Pettigrew, I'll have Mrs. Towberman prepare refreshments for you, too. Will there be anything else you require?" Hopefully, it would go smoothly, would solve the problem, and no one else would suspect him of having a romance with Miss Jemima Wigfall!

“No, no, I think I have everything I need. I cannot guarantee a result, of course. For reasons we do not clearly understand, some individuals do not make ready mesmeric subject, whereas others fall under the trance at the mere snap of a finger.” He said, clicking his fingers by way of illustration.

They stood to go.

“I will let you out the back, Doctor, unless you particularly wish to bid your adieus to Miss Wigfall.”

He thought not.

Just as her let the medical man escape round the back of the store like some fugitive, a last thought struck the rotund dressmaker.

“Oh, I suppose it might help me plan for the morning if were to know the identity of the poor mind-crippled creature we are going to attempt to help, if it’s not against your oath to reveal it. I suppose I will meet her tomorrow anyway.” He threw out nonchalantly.

The End