The Beauty Doctor

by Elizabeth Hutchison Bernard

  “Most certainly, it is,” agreed a stylish woman sitting two seats to Mrs. Kilroy’s right, who had been studying Dr. Rome with a keen eye.

  “The pleasure is all mine,” Dr. Rome replied. “Miss Platford and I were just discussing time machines, and I was thinking that, were I a time traveler, I could hope for no better place to land than a royal banquet in eighteenth-century France. For one who enjoys excess in all things, it surely is the perfect setting.”

  “Excess, Doctor?” replied the same woman, who’d not taken her eyes off him. “But I thought those in your profession most often preach moderation.”

  He chuckled. “My particular calling undoubtedly is not quite what you imagine. Nevertheless, how a doctor advises his patients and how he behaves himself are often two very different things. We are, after all, only human.” Turning to Abigail, he leaned close to whisper. “I must admit you’ve intrigued me, Miss Platford. We’ll have to discuss Gray’s Anatomy in more detail later, all right?”

  Arthur appeared the next moment, slipping into the chair to her right with a mumbled apology. She’d never been happier to see him, his absence having left her vulnerable to not only the curiosity of others but her own curiosity about the handsome doctor on her left. She hadn’t spoken of her interest in medicine for so long. She’d not even dared to think of it. What had made her suddenly bring up the subject—and to a total stranger?

  Of course! It was that smell!

  Antiseptic.

  The meal proceeded uneventfully, if one could call a feast with eight separate courses uneventful. Abigail had never seen so much food all in one place, every inch of the table occupied by some extravagant culinary creation, wave after wave of bowls and trays and platters piled high and steaming with the scents of tarragon, thyme, rosemary, and sage. There were four different soups, three kinds of salad, stuffed pheasant, roasted duck, veal, ham, and several whole fish, each entrée accompanied by its own exotic sauce. The procession of French champagnes of every variety and vintage was unending, the pop of a cork sounding every few minutes from somewhere in the room.

  In the midst of it all, she merely picked at her food, unable to enjoy any of it, too apprehensive about what was to come. Soon there would be a hundred pairs of prying eyes trained on her. The flowery toast would be followed by discreet whispers and polite applause, Mrs. Hennessy’s frozen smile fooling no one. Abigail who?

  Abigail was grateful to Mrs. Kilroy for dominating the conversation so completely that, throughout the meal, she scarcely had to speak. And she was careful to orient herself slightly to the right, toward Arthur, hoping not to have to engage further with the doctor on her left, though she wasn’t entirely sure why she dreaded doing so. It might have been that nervous flutter she’d felt when she first saw him; even now, she found the recollection of it vaguely disturbing. More likely, though, it was the bittersweet memories he had inadvertently evoked. She could remember Father quizzing her on anatomy and how hard she would try to impress him with her knowledge, incomplete as it was. She recalled the warmth of his smile, his words of gentle encouragement. Someday they would practice medicine together, he’d often say. Someday they would be a team.

  Mr. Hennessy rose from his chair and tapped a knife against his glass. The others seated around Abigail joined in, understanding that he wished to speak. The clamor from the head table quieted everyone around the room. In the sudden hush, Abigail could hear the urgent thumping of her heart.

  He straightened his wig and began. “I hope everyone is having a wonderful time tonight. My lovely wife never ceases to amaze me with her talent and imagination!” He paused for the applause as Mrs. Hennessy dipped her head in a gesture of humility.

  “In addition to a desire to host our many dear friends at a banquet to end all banquets, I must admit that we have another reason for inviting you here tonight—a reason that we have kept entirely secret until now.” Mr. Hennessy looked over at Arthur, beaming. “Our only son, Arthur, has long been our pride and joy. Besides being a young man of exceptional abilities, as evidenced by his accomplishments of the last several years at the helm of one of our family’s banking enterprises, I have always believed him to be a gentleman of refinement and taste. I am delighted to say that I now have irrevocable proof of these very qualities, as evidenced by his selection of a most charming young lady to be his future wife.”

  There was an audible gasp from all corners of the room.

  “It gives me great pleasure,” Mr. Hennessy continued, “to introduce her to you now.” He turned again to Arthur. “Son, please assist Miss Platford to rise and let our guests get a good look at the two of you together, the future Mr. and Mrs. Arthur Hennessy!”

  Arthur stood up and offered Abigail his arm so that she could rise and display herself next to him while the elite of New York City acknowledged their impending union. Those at the head table were the first to stand, but soon all were on their feet, giving the couple an ovation more suitable, Abigail thought, for the stars of an opera or a nominee for political office. It seemed to her that it went on forever, but actually it was less than a minute before the guests were again in their seats, gossiping among themselves, admiring the decadent assortment of multilayered cakes, cream-filled pastries, and chocolates that were being delivered to the tables on huge rolling carts.

  It was then she noticed that Arthur seemed to be in a heightened state of agitation. She could tell by the way he kept fingering the ruffles of his shirt, eyes cast down, mouth drawn tight. He had lost the easy grace that she’d so admired earlier in the evening. Now he seemed more like a man awaiting execution.

  “Arthur? Are you all right?”

  He glanced uneasily toward the door leading into the hallway outside the banquet room. Abigail followed his eyes. There was a young man standing there, rather handsome in a delicate sort of way, with a look of distress about him that mirrored Arthur’s distracted air.

  “You’ll have to excuse me,” Arthur said, rising abruptly from his chair.

  She watched him leave, feeling rudely abandoned. Had she embarrassed him somehow? Had she done something wrong?

  She quickly arrived at the conclusion that he must be having second thoughts about his affections, or at least the wisdom of marrying someone of such little note. His proposal, after only a short acquaintance, might seem overly impetuous to him now. Despite her own ambivalent feelings toward the marriage, it was intolerable to her that Arthur might be similarly torn. He was to have been, if nothing else, her rock. But might he so easily crumble? Was he no stronger, no surer, than she?

  “It seems that congratulations are in order.” Dr. Rome leaned toward her, speaking in a confidential tone. “I didn’t realize I was sitting next to the evening’s guest of honor.”

  “I’m hardly that,” Abigail replied, aware that her heart was again thumping wildly.

  “And here I thought perhaps you aspired to practice the medical arts. Or was that only a passing fancy?”

  “It was a long time ago,” she said, suddenly so very weary. The effort to explain was simply too great. She felt ill. She could not bear to be there another second. “I apologize, but I really must excuse myself.”

  She pushed back her chair, ignoring the inquisitive glances from others seated at the table, and hurried out into the hallway. She found the stairs. Gripping the banister for support, she dragged herself up to the top. The ladies’ room was only a few steps away. She burst through the door, collapsing in disarray onto a tufted-velvet chair—praying that no one would come along or, if they did, that she would have the presence of mind to blame her condition on the champagne.

  Not her sudden realization that somehow she must escape.

  CHAPTER 2

  There was only blackness before her eyes as the ominous ticking of the bedside clock marched toward dawn.

  She had been awake since her head touched the pillow, hours ago. She pulled the soft, warm blanket tighter around her shoulders, filled with self-loathing. She deserved non
e of the luxuries of which she had partaken over the past two months. She had in fact become the most odious form of parasite, the kind that feeds on the coerced sympathy of others. Mr. and Mrs. Hennessy had never truly welcomed her into their home; they had merely tolerated her presence.

  But at least she had been safe for a while.

  And Arthur—how would he take the news? She remembered the look of shock on his face when she first told him of her stepfather’s late-night intrusion into her bedroom. In her eagerness for solace, had she mistaken his sympathy for love? Had he accepted her gratitude in much the same way? She would be sorry to hurt him—though it was odd, she wasn’t sure he would be so very upset. She recalled the way he had appeared after his father’s announcement of their engagement, the nervous fidgeting and the sudden pallor to his already pale complexion. Then the hasty manner in which he’d excused himself. The young man who appeared to be waiting for him in the hallway . . .

  She was ashamed now to admit how she’d convinced herself it was possible to love almost anybody if you only put your mind to it. She and Arthur had never been right for each other; she’d known it all along. His generosity, coupled with her despair, had clouded her better senses.

  But then her senses had been clouded, or at least dulled, for a very long time.

  She thought of the doctor who’d been seated next to her at the banquet, Dr. Franklin Rome, and how he’d wondered if she aspired to the medical arts. An odd way to put it! To her, medicine had always been more akin to a religious calling and a doctor not so different from a modern-day saint, rescuing countless poor souls from neglect, sickness, and death. When her father was alive, that’s what he had done. Whatever dream she had of doing the same had ended that dreary afternoon when he fell to the floor of his office in an apparent seizure and she blindly rushed to administer treatment. There had been no time to think, only to act. Still, how could she have been so wrong?

  She wasn’t meant to be a doctor. It had taken her two years to finally accept it. But last night, the talk of Gray’s Anatomy . . . it had reawakened something. Not the old ambition; that was gone. Perhaps it was only a longing for her father, to again watch him caring for his patients with that sureness of hand and calmness of spirit. How she loved assisting him, in whatever small ways she could, and how special it made her feel to win his praise. She could almost hear him now, saying she had an aptitude for medicine, that someday she would make a fine doctor.

  She sat up suddenly, thinking there was a knock at her door, but then she realized it was only a branch from the huge oak tree outside her window scraping against the glass. She remained attentive for a while, hoping for some hidden message in the faint tap-tap-tap—guidance from beyond, perhaps from Father, who had always directed her in everything. But there was no message, no guiding spirit, and she reluctantly conceded that there would be no easy escape from her predicament—only a very messy one that surely would sully her reputation.

  But then, she really hadn’t a reputation, not among the Hennessys’ set or any other. And though it might be cruel and ungrateful—and, in Mrs. Hennessy’s eyes, proof of her deplorable lack of breeding—she was running away. But first she had to find Dr. Rome.

  She felt awkward breakfasting with the Hennessys that morning, knowing what she planned to do. It was doubtful, however, that anyone noticed her peculiar discomposure. Mrs. Hennessy, seated at the head, seldom spoke to her anyway, though she always had plenty to say to everyone else. Sarah was openly hateful, as usual, glaring at Abigail as if by doing so she might cause her to disappear in a puff of smoke. As for Mr. Hennessy, he was pleasant enough, but it seemed his mind was elsewhere.

  Nevertheless, through a bit of artful conniving, Abigail was able to find out where Mrs. Kilroy lived, and, on the pretense of having an early appointment, she hurriedly excused herself and left the house before anyone had an opportunity to question her. Hoping that Dr. Rome was still attending to Mr. Kilroy, she lay in wait. Though he was clearly surprised to find her loitering in front of the Kilroys’ townhome, he seemed pleased to see her. Quite forthrightly, she told him that she planned to call off her engagement and was in need of immediate employment. His response was encouraging.

  It wasn’t until they were sitting across from one another at Café Le Jour on Forty-sixth Street that Abigail began to think perhaps she’d made yet another terrible mistake.

  “You are a very beautiful young woman,” he said, smiling at her over his coffee cup. “I suppose people tell you that all the time.”

  “Not so often, actually.” That he had begun on such a personal note, and with the same overabundance of charm he’d so readily displayed at the Hennessys’ banquet, had an unsettling effect on her, as did his gaze, which was direct and insistent.

  “I’m sure you’re only being modest, but you need not be around me. I appreciate beauty for what it is and for the entitlements it brings to those lucky enough to have it.”

  She raised her chin, hoping to suggest a confidence she did not actually have. “I’ve never been one to think much about entitlements. I was taught that if you want something you need to work for it. Which is why I wanted to speak with you—”

  “There are lots of women who work very hard at being beautiful and still they can’t hold a candle to you. I’d even go so far as to say that you, Miss Platford, are the embodiment of everything I hope to achieve for my patients. That’s why you may actually be the perfect one to assist me with my new practice. You see,” he proclaimed, a note of excitement in his voice, “what I really need right now is a foil. A stunningly beautiful foil.”

  “A foil?” She wasn’t sure what the word meant but didn’t like the way it sounded.

  “Yes. Someone to make the rounds with me at parties and events, anywhere we can meet women—the kind of women with not only the desire but the means to avail themselves of my services.”

  Abigail was puzzled. This certainly was not what she’d expected nor was it a welcome development. Her purpose in approaching him was a far more serious one than his words seemed to imply. She had dared to imagine herself working at his side as she had done with her father, helping to put patients at ease, assisting him when he administered medicines. And though it was not her favorite duty, she would readily have consented to manage his schedule and fulfill the minimal required paperwork, if he were to ask her. But this business of attending parties and events—what did it have to do with doctoring?

  “You speak of meeting women in need of your services, but surely you plan to take care of men as well. Mr. Kilroy is your patient, isn’t he?”

  “For the moment, yes—though that was only a favor. But let me explain.” He took a hasty gulp of his coffee, set down the cup, and continued, leaning toward her with a sense of urgency. “I’m about to embark on a new facet of my career, a new field. It’s called transformative surgery. Have you heard of it?”

  “I don’t believe I have.”

  “Some call it beauty surgery.”

  A beauty doctor! She instantly recalled any number of splashy advertisements she’d seen in the newspaper for practitioners who claimed to specialize in straightening noses, pinning back ears, and puffing up wrinkles with paraffin. Such solicitations had always struck her as tasteless, at best. At worst—well, might Dr. Rome be nothing more than a charlatan?

  “Oh—you’re a beauty doctor.” The inflection in her voice no doubt came across as somewhat disparaging. She dipped her head in an effort to obscure the visual evidence of her skepticism beneath the plethora of ostrich feathers emanating from the brim of her blue velvet hat.

  “Just imagine it for a moment, Miss Platford,” he said, seeming not to have noticed anything disturbing in her reaction. “Your mere presence by my side would stimulate in any average woman an intense longing for beauty; then, arising quite naturally from that, an urgent curiosity. With just a hint, she would be eager to learn what I offer in the way of beautifying procedures. That’s how one goes about building a thriving be
auty practice. Stimulate the need, offer the solution. Or, if you prefer, think of it this way—you would be helping to enlighten women about advances that can greatly enhance their lives. It’s no different than selling a product—a product that people would certainly buy if they only knew its benefits.”

  So he wanted her to help him sell the concept of beauty surgery to other women? That was not what a doctor does! To participate in such activities would be a compromise of everything she believed in. “So your idea is to use me as a sort of walking advertisement?”

  “I wouldn’t put it exactly like that.”

  “Forgive me for being blunt, but are you really a doctor?”

  He gave her a scorchingly indignant look, shoving aside his coffee cup, nearly knocking it over in the process. “Would I call myself a doctor if I wasn’t one?”

  “I don’t mean to offend you,” she said, again regretting her lack of decorum. “It’s just that I don’t know of any other doctors who are engaged in your kind of work.”

  “That’s because no medical school in this country has yet had the foresight to embrace transformative surgery. That’s why it was necessary for me to receive advanced training in Europe. As a matter of fact, I returned from Paris only recently.”