“But you did train in medicine? Here in America?”
“Certainly, though that doesn’t make me any more enamored of our system. The medical establishment is very set in its ways, I’m afraid. It resists anything that might challenge the status quo. And that is exactly what transformative surgery does. The social implications are immense. It represents, in fact, possibly the greatest force for the empowerment of women in all of human history.”
“Empowerment of women?” Despite her disappointment, she had to smile. “I’m sorry, but I don’t see what your transformative surgery could possibly have to do with the movement for women’s rights.”
“Maybe you’ve never thought of it this way but, simply put, beauty is power,” Dr. Rome said, with the calm certainty of a man who knows he speaks the truth. “And with enough power, Miss Platford, one can achieve anything.”
She remembered what her father had always told her: as a woman, her looks meant she would need to work doubly hard to convince others that she had a brain. “I’m afraid I can’t agree. Besides, I wouldn’t feel comfortable encouraging vanity. It’s not a trait that I find admirable.”
“Rubbish!” He leaned back in his chair with an exasperated sigh, as if weary of confronting attitudes like hers. But when he spoke again, his tone and manner were conciliatory. “That’s fine for a Sunday school lesson, but in the real world, appearances are everything. Beauty is a woman’s greatest asset and the most reliable predictor of her future happiness. What you naturally possess, my dear, many others covet and believe impossible to attain. But what do you think they would give if they could achieve it? Not entirely, of course. But maybe half your beauty? A third? Maybe just enough to feel there was, after all, hope?”
“So your patients will be paying you for hope. If that’s all they stand to gain, I doubt they’d feel it money well spent.”
“Hope is only the beginning. Ultimately, what I offer is happiness. They say money can’t buy it, but I’m here to prove them wrong.” He paused, exuding a sense of drama. “Consider as well that my success will be your success. That is what you want, isn’t it—to feel a sense of accomplishment?”
She thought about telling him that her idea of accomplishment was very different from what he described. She could have reminded him, too, that curing the sick was the highest calling of a doctor, not pandering to the vain aspirations of the wealthy. But she was hardly in a position to preach, and the reality of her situation loomed over her like a dark cloud. If Dr. Rome was really a doctor, as he claimed, might she not find his work at least somewhat interesting? Might it not be a start—a readily available opportunity from which she could later move on to something more meritorious?
“And if you don’t mind me saying so,” he continued, “I’m not at all surprised that you’ve called it off with Arthur Hennessy. I could see right away, the two of you were not well matched. To be honest, it seems to me that Mr. Hennessy would be uncomfortable in a conventional marriage. I have a pretty good eye for that kind of thing.”
Abigail was startled by this shift of topic but couldn’t stop herself from asking, “What kind of thing do you mean?”
“Let’s just say it wouldn’t be the first time a fellow has married simply to disguise his true proclivities. On the other hand, life as Mrs. Arthur Hennessy would certainly have had its advantages,” he added with a sly smile. “And now here you are—in need of employment, you say. But is it really a need, or a desire?”
She avoided his question, perhaps unsure herself of the answer. She hadn’t truly desired anything for so long. “I’ve worked in a doctor’s office before. My father was a physician—until he passed away.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.”
“It was some time ago. I had planned to go to medical school.”
He raised his brows. “Is that so?”
“I suppose it doesn’t matter now, but I imagined you might teach me a few things, the way my father did. He was always very pleased with how fast I caught on. He said I had a natural knack for medicine. He said someday I might—” She stopped, that same arresting image again before her eyes. Her father lying on the floor of his office . . .
“Miss Platford?”
For a second, she felt herself unable to breathe. “Forgive me, I was only remembering—”
“You need not apologize,” he said gently. “But sometimes it’s better to look forward rather than back. As far as your immediate future, I would be more than happy to offer you a position.”
“I thank you for your consideration,” she said, nearly overcome again with that familiar feeling of hopelessness. Wouldn’t a position with a beauty doctor be worse than no position at all? “But what you’ve described isn’t what I had in mind.”
“I’m not saying that’s all there would be to it. I have a practice to run, you know, and I could use the help of a capable assistant.”
She paused, all the arguments on both sides playing out in her mind. It seemed there was something intrinsically shameful in the idea of working for a beauty doctor, even one as highly trained as Dr. Rome claimed to be. But what other options did she have? Where was she to go, without a penny to her name? She could not continue her residence at the Hennessys’ nor could she return home. She might look for a position with another doctor, of course, but if and when she would find one was uncertain. And though there surely were other types of labor at which she might excel, when she tried to think of a single place she might go in search of honest employment, her mind went blank.
He waited, clearly expecting her affirmative response. “You can start right away,” he finally said. “I’ll give you an advance on your salary, if that would help. I can even suggest someplace for you to stay—that is, if you’re in need of it.”
Was her desperation so obvious?
Giving up, she sighed. “Yes—to all of it. And thank you,” she said with a wan smile, trying not to think about her father rolling over in his grave.
When she arrived back at the Hennessys’ home, she was elated to find that Mrs. Hennessy was not in. She dashed up to her room and was finished packing within ten minutes. She had come with very little, and that was how she would leave. There were half a dozen exquisite new gowns hanging in the armoire that could have been hers for the taking. But they had been intended for Arthur’s future wife. The realization that she no longer held that title was momentarily exhilarating, though what followed was a sense of how dreadfully she was behaving and what the Hennessys—especially Arthur—would think of her.
She found a pen and paper and hastily scribbled a note of thanks to the woman who would have been her mother-in-law, leaving it on the dressing table. She knew that Mrs. Hennessy would be outraged but ultimately relieved by her departure. A second note to Arthur was more penitent. She asked his forgiveness, saying that extended grief over her father’s death had taken its toll on her emotions, that she believed him deserving of more than she could possibly offer. She said nothing about Dr. Rome, nothing about her plans except that she had secured a well-paying position. She asked that he not try to find her. I will be all right, she wrote, and somehow I am sure that, ultimately, you will be better off without me.
Downstairs, Abigail found one of the footmen and asked him to fetch her suitcases and then summon a cab. Dr. Rome had given her an address on a side street off Madison Avenue, not far from the center of town, and told her that she should come there when ready. He had recently rented a two-story maisonnette, he said, with the main level to serve as his office and the second as his living quarters. He had offered her the use of a furnished basement room intended for the help; since his maid left every night after supper, it was vacant. It would only be temporary, he explained, as she’d soon be able to afford something else. That is, if things worked out.
She stared out the cab window as the horse plodded along Fifth Avenue, eventually leaving behind the splendid mansions guarded by iron gates. The weather had changed suddenly; dark clouds were gathering, and the wind m
ade whistling noises through the cracks around the windows. Abigail pulled the lap rug tighter, thinking of the many poor souls in New York City who tonight would have little or no shelter from the impending storm. She felt fortunate, after all, not to be among them. She was instead on her way to a new life—very different from what she would have had as a Hennessy, and far better suited to her temperament. Now that she had made her escape, it was difficult to believe that she’d ever been willing to sacrifice everything for the promise of comfort and security. But then, people often do things that later seem out of character, simply because they’ve forgotten for a while what matters to them.
She must not make that mistake again.
The cab pulled up in front of the address Dr. Rome had given her. It was a lovely brick-and-limestone building with tall windows and two small stone balconies on the second floor. The elegantly corniced doorway was at the top of a short flight of steps.
The driver pulled the lever to release the cab doors. Abigail disembarked, and he withdrew the two suitcases that had been stacked on the seat beside her, depositing them on the sidewalk. She was about to pay him, from the small amount of cash that she had left, when Dr. Rome came up behind her.
“I’ll take care of that.” He took a few coins from the pocket of his trousers and dropped them into the man’s outstretched palm. “Will fifty cents cover it?”
“Yes indeed, sir.”
The driver nodded his thanks and departed as Dr. Rome turned to Abigail with an expectant smile. He picked up her bags, one in each hand. “Are you ready?”
She nodded, feeling suddenly less sure of herself. She and Franklin Rome would be living under the same roof, not exactly together but not so far apart either. She knew him barely at all. But the time for second thoughts was past. All she needed to do was keep her wits about her, and everything would be fine.
He motioned for her to follow him. “The only access to the basement level is from outside,” he said over his shoulder.
They took a short flight of steps leading down to a plain door painted black. Abigail saw to her relief that the basement was only partially below street level and it had windows, though they were small and square and protected with iron bars. He unlocked the door, and they entered a damp-smelling room with brick walls and floor. There were several colorful rugs scattered about, an obvious attempt at brightening up the place, and a few simple pieces of furniture—a narrow bed, a wooden night table, an overstuffed chair and matching ottoman in moth-eaten green velvet. Above a tiny stove and an enameled metal basin with a ewer for washing dishes were several open shelves where a few mismatched plates and cups were stacked. Abigail fleetingly thought of her former room at the Hennessys’ Fifth Avenue mansion, with its polished floors and flowing drapes and intricately patterned Persian carpets in muted shades of blue, gold, and persimmon. How drastically her life had changed in a matter of hours!
“There’s a small bathroom behind that door,” Dr. Rome said, nodding to the left. He set down her bags. “I’m sorry, there’s no electricity down here. But there are several oil lamps.”
“All I need is enough light to read.”
“We’ll find you someplace more appropriate, but for now—”
“It will do fine—for now,” she replied, hoping he would not sense her dismay. She didn’t know exactly what she’d anticipated, only that this was worse. She tried to console herself with the thought that a few homey touches might transform the dismal space into something more inviting. Lace curtains at the windows, a few pictures on the walls, maybe a patchwork quilt—it wouldn’t take much.
“Of course, I could put you up in my apartment temporarily. I have an extra bedroom, and you’d be a good deal more comfortable . . .”
Instinctively, she took a step back. “Thank you, but I’ll manage here.”
She saw a slight smile flicker beneath his dark moustache. He had known that she would refuse, which undoubtedly was why he’d offered. Such an arrangement would be unthinkable—quite different from Arthur’s invitation to shelter her in his parents’ home, though some might have raised an eyebrow even at that. It disturbed her that Dr. Rome would venture to make the suggestion, however insincere, as it implied the possibility of moral laxity on her part.
“There are fresh linens on the bed—soap and towels and that kind of thing in there.” He nodded toward a rickety-looking chest of drawers shoved into a dark corner. “The lock on the door is sturdy. I tested it myself.”
There was an awkward silence.
“If you need anything, you’ll let me know,” he said.
There seemed nothing else for him to do but leave. Abigail dreaded the moment when he would shut the door behind him and she would be alone. Soon it would be evening. She glanced nervously through the bars of her tiny windows. The storm that had threatened all afternoon was beginning now, tiny droplets already beading on the glass. She shivered to think of being down there, by herself, all night—the wind howling, rain pounding on the sidewalk. And inside, only the flickering of an oil lamp, a mouse scurrying silently along the wall . . .
Dr. Rome was looking at her rather pityingly, as if he could read her mind.
“What about your mother?” he asked kindly. “Couldn’t you stay with her?”
Abigail thought of what her mother had said, how hatefully she had accused her. You were always your father’s, and he was yours. And now you want to take my new husband from me, too?
“I’ll be fine here. Honestly, I will.”
“All right then, take tonight and Sunday to get settled. As for Monday, we’ll meet upstairs in the office at nine. I’ll show you around the place, and then we have some work to do. There’s an important event coming up, and I want you dressed up to the nines.”
She pictured the outfits she’d brought with her, none of them very chic. “I’m afraid my wardrobe is rather limited,” she said, embarrassed to admit how destitute she was. The gown in which he’d seen her at the banquet, though only a costume, had been extraordinary, and the diamond choker was worth a fortune; he must realize both had been borrowed.
“Don’t concern yourself with that,” he said, smiling. “I have my own ideas, anyway, about how I want you to look. I’ve planned for us to go shopping together on Monday.”
“But—”
“I understand your circumstances, Miss Platford,” he said, with no hint of disrespect. “Whatever you may need in order to perform your duties will be my responsibility to provide.”
She couldn’t help but feel the humiliation of her situation. She knew it was important that she dress appropriately, and she must temporarily rely on Dr. Rome’s money for whatever might be needed, but did that give him the right to dictate how she would look? She’d been through that once already—with Mrs. Hennessy.
“I’ll pay you back as soon as I can,” she said. “I expect to provide for myself from now on.”
Again there was an amused twitch at the corners of his mouth. “I’m sure you will. But you needn’t be in such a hurry. Give yourself a little time.”
He turned to leave, tossing over his shoulder as he passed through the open doorway, “You know where to find me. In the meantime, have a pleasant evening.”
Abigail closed the door softly, as if afraid of the sound it would make. And then suddenly the finality of everything seemed to press in on her. Had it been a mistake to abandon Arthur? She had behaved so selfishly, and what had she accomplished besides stirring up scandal and placing herself at the mercy of yet another man? She supposed she was lucky to have obtained a position as Dr. Rome’s assistant; but in the long run, where would that take her? Might she have been better off as Mrs. Arthur Hennessy, wealthy and secure, devoting herself to an array of worthy causes? She would have done more good that way than she could ever hope to do now.
She removed her light cloak and tossed it onto the bed. Sitting on the edge of the hard mattress, she gazed through the bars of her tiny windows, craning her neck for a glimpse of the
darkening sky. It seemed she hardly knew herself anymore. How she missed the girl who had so ardently believed in her mission to become a physician dedicated to the poor! That girl of long ago who never would have resigned herself to grasping at straws, never would have put her fate in the hands of a virtual stranger—a beauty doctor no less!
But it was no use thinking that way. Things could be worse, and her present situation was temporary. For now, she must make the best of it.
And try not to worry about what might happen if she failed to live up to Dr. Rome’s expectations.
CHAPTER 3
Her debut as Dr. Rome’s foil, only six nights later, took place at the famous Delmonico’s. It was the spring banquet hosted by the private and posh social group the Governors of the Cotillion of Eighty, a much-anticipated event among that particular set, which, according to Dr. Rome, included names associated with some of the city’s oldest money. The huge reception room had been transformed into a flowering garden with red wisteria, pink carnations, and yellow daisies, the flowers woven into trailing green vines of Southern smilax, which trimmed multiple arbors positioned around the room. Somewhat ironically, it reminded Abigail of how Sherry’s had looked on the night of her engagement party, when she’d stood with shaking knees next to Arthur and received the blessing of a similar cadre of New York’s elite for their ill-fated union. She wondered if some of that group might be present tonight. Likely they had not yet gotten a whiff of the scandal but would no doubt find her presence on the arm of another man ample fodder for gossip—that is, assuming they even remembered who she was.
As soon as she and Dr. Rome entered from the foyer, two elderly patronesses rushed over to intercept them at the door.
“Ladies, how delightful to see you,” Dr. Rome gushed, lifting a gloved hand from each, in succession, to his lips. “I’m Dr. Franklin Rome and”—he turned to Abigail with a broad smile—“this is the charming Miss Abigail Platford.”
The Beauty Doctor Page 3