The Beauty Doctor

by Elizabeth Hutchison Bernard

  Abigail ducked her head, hoping her hostess would not notice. But it was too late. Mrs. Chapman bent down with a look of concern, speaking in a whisper. “Is there something wrong, Miss Platford? Have we tired you with all our questions?”

  The other women had risen to greet Mrs. Hennessy and all were preoccupied for the moment. Abigail knew that if she was to avoid a scene, or at least an uncomfortable encounter, she would need to act right away.

  “I—I’m so sorry, but I really must be going,” she apologized, getting up from her chair. “Please offer my regrets to everyone.”

  “But, my dear, we were looking forward to hearing more about Dr. Rome’s work.”

  “I’d be happy to return another time,” she replied weakly. “But I’m afraid I feel a bit faint.”

  “Oh my! I’ll walk with you back to the house. My driver will take you home.”

  Mrs. Chapman stood up, looking genuinely worried as she linked her arm with Abigail’s. They had just started off when Mrs. Edwards called out, “Miss Platford, where are you going? You mustn’t leave without answering a few more of our questions about Dr. Rome!”

  Out of the corner of her eye, Abigail saw Mrs. Hennessy’s head turn sharply in her direction. “Abigail Platford!” she exclaimed in a piercing voice. “And what, may I ask, is she doing here?”

  Mrs. Chapman froze, the rest of the ladies looking at one another and then at Abigail, their faces conveying a lurid curiosity.

  “You know Miss Platford?” asked Mrs. Monroe with a raised brow, perhaps wondering if Mrs. Hennessy had already availed herself of Dr. Rome’s services.

  “Do I know her? I should say that I do, and most unfortunately so!”

  Mrs. Chapman, having no idea of the circumstances, might easily have assumed the worst about someone of whom she had so little personal knowledge. Abigail sensed, however, that her hostess was less concerned with passing judgment than effectuating a rapid exit. “Miss Platford was about to leave. I was just seeing her off. So if you’ll excuse us—”

  “I will not!” Mrs. Hennessy cried, nearly beside herself now. “Do you ladies know anything about this young woman? Anything at all?”

  “She’s the assistant of Dr. Rome—the beauty doctor,” someone said.

  “Ha! Is that what she told you?” Mrs. Hennessy seemed about to burst out of her corset. “It doesn’t surprise me. Not a bit. A girl like that will lie about anything.” She puffed herself up like a rooster ready to crow. “Miss Platford is not Dr. Rome’s assistant. She is his—his—” She sputtered for a few painful seconds. “His trollop!”

  There was a horrible silence during which all Abigail could hear was the blood pounding in her ears. She waited for someone to come to her defense. She had come there invested with a certain authority and, though she may have failed to deliver what was expected of her, neither had she comported herself in a fashion that would in any way support Mrs. Hennessy’s allegations. But when Mrs. Chapman spoke again, the chill of her tone was clearly directed toward the guest to whom she felt the least loyalty.

  “Miss Platford was just leaving.”

  Abigail’s mortification was second only to her fury toward Mrs. Hennessy, who had done nothing but belittle her from the very start of their association. Yes, she had allowed Abigail to take up residence in her home, an uninvited guest, but she had never thought her good enough for Arthur. And while, admittedly, the manner of Abigail’s departure had served to confirm her worst opinion of her, it hardly justified the kind of accusation she had just made in front of everyone.

  As for the rest of them—these women who most likely had never done a hard day’s work in their entire lives—what gave them the right to assume so much about her, simply on the say-so of one of their own?

  “If I might clarify the matter—” Everyone turned toward Abigail, astonished that she would dare say anything having been so unequivocally dismissed. She swallowed, her throat suddenly parched, and continued. “Mrs. Hennessy is egregiously misinformed about my relationship with Dr. Rome. As he himself explained to Mrs. Chapman, I am his assistant—a responsible position for which I am to be paid a monthly salary.” She glanced about, trying to gauge if her words were having any effect, but all she received were blank stares. “All of us here being modern women, no doubt we can agree there is no dishonor in such an arrangement,” she continued, though struggling now. “I dare say there is no way for a woman to get ahead and make something of herself other than honest employment—unless she wishes to be nothing more than an extension of her husband.”

  She thought she detected a slight gasp from one or two of the ladies, which gave her a momentarily sweet satisfaction. She tilted her hat back to its original jaunty angle. “It was a pleasure meeting you, ladies.”

  Abigail hurried from the garden, letting herself out the side gate. Ordinarily, she could easily have walked the few blocks home, but the moment she closed the gate behind her, she was overcome with a violent shaking in her knees. Luckily, a hansom had just deposited a passenger across the street. She signaled for the driver to wait until she felt steady enough to proceed. Once inside the cab, she gave him his orders, leaned back, and tried to gather her senses.

  She had made a mess of things, probably ruining Dr. Rome’s reputation among Mrs. Chapman’s influential set, and she was sorry for that. If she had been able to demonstrate her expertise on the topic of beauty surgery, even a little bit, Mrs. Hennessy’s charges against her would have seemed preposterous. But as it was, she had little credibility on which to stand, nothing more than a calling card with her title and a catchy slogan meant to titillate the curiosity of unsuspecting women like Mrs. Chapman and her friends.

  The whole situation was absurd. There was nothing in it for her—nothing but disgrace. Whether it was Dr. Rome’s fault or her own, whatever might become of her, she could not continue like this. By the time the hansom pulled up in front of the office, she had made up her mind. If Dr. Rome wanted a foil, he would have to find one somewhere else.

  CHAPTER 4

  Dr. Rome’s reception room was decorated much like an upper-class parlor, with heavy velvet drapes, brocade upholstery in deep shades of blue and burgundy, Tiffany lamps, and an array of interesting curios displayed in a gleaming rosewood-and-glass cabinet, mirrored and lit from inside. On the walls were a series of gold-framed etchings, reproductions of Leonardo da Vinci studies of the female face. In this room, also, was Abigail’s desk, mahogany with turned legs and a burgundy leather top embossed around the edges with a delicate gold leaf design. Sitting smartly at the corner was a Strowger dial telephone. In the nine days since she had commenced her employment as Dr. Rome’s assistant, it had yet to ring.

  She was seated at her desk. This morning, she had chosen to dress in one of her old frocks, not the prettily tucked white shirtwaist and elegant pleated skirt that Dr. Rome had bought for her to wear in the office. Her hair was pulled into a simple bun instead of the more sophisticated pompadour and chignon that he preferred. Her only concession to his taste was her perfume, essence of gardenia, which he had insisted was the perfect scent for her. Its exotic aroma, heightened by the nervous heat of her body, was slightly intoxicating.

  As she awaited the sound of Dr. Rome’s footsteps on the wooden staircase down the hall, she wondered again how he would take the news that she was resigning. She had written him a letter, just to make it official, which she signed now with a decisive flourish. If she did not extricate herself from a situation that clearly required a compromise of her integrity, then in the future she would have no one to blame but herself.

  “So how did things go at Mrs. Chapman’s tea party?”

  Startled, she looked up. Dr. Rome was leaning in the doorway, dapper in a black morning coat paired with gray-and-black striped trousers. He flashed a smile brilliant as his starched white shirt. “Sorry if I caught you by surprise. You were deeply engrossed in your writing. May I ask what you’re working on?”

  “It’s a letter.” />
  “Ah, a letter,” he responded dismissively. “Well, let me interrupt you long enough to—”

  “A rather important letter.”

  “I doubt as important as the news I have for you,” he said, with that cool self-confidence that she suddenly found terribly annoying.

  “If you don’t mind, I’ll tell you my news first. I’m resigning my position as your foil.”

  Abruptly he drew himself up. “And what is this all about?”

  “Dr. Rome, forgive me, but I find it difficult to understand how you could send me out to address a group of women without equipping me properly to answer the questions you knew would come my way.” She was surprised by the vehemence in her voice. She’d meant to be firm, not abrasive. But did it matter now what he thought of her?

  “Are you talking about Mrs. Chapman’s tea party?”

  “What else could I be talking about? Did it ever occur to you that you have yet to thoroughly explain to me precisely how you intend to deliver on the promises you seem willing to make to anyone who will listen? You expect me to promote your expertise when I haven’t the slightest proof of the abilities you claim.”

  “Now wait a minute—”

  “Yet you’ve asked me to provide assurances, to instill faith and trust in your skill and experience. I’m sorry, but I can’t. Ignorance can be no excuse for misleading others.”

  “Are you finished?”

  “Yes, I suppose I am.” She could have gone on to tell him about her encounter with Mrs. Hennessy and how her virtue had been maligned. Though that part was possibly the worst of all that had happened, she couldn’t bring herself to admit to it, perhaps because she feared there might be a kernel of truth in what Mrs. Hennessy had said. Hadn’t she accepted shelter and clothing from a man she hardly knew, a man who had been quite open about the fact that he intended to use her as nothing more than decoration? She supposed one could make the argument that there was little substantive difference between a woman who would agree to such an arrangement and a so-called trollop. But there was no need to go into all that now.

  “What I mean to say is that I can’t be what you want me to be, Dr. Rome. I can’t pretend to know things that I don’t, and I doubt anyone would believe me if I tried. There is something immoral about—”

  “Hold on, hold on!” He raised his hand to silence her. “There’s something I need to tell you.” He paused to pull out his watch, glanced at it, and then quickly put it back into the pocket of his waistcoat. “We have only five minutes to get ready.”

  “Ready? For what?”

  He folded his arms over his chest. “If you assumed that your participation in Mrs. Chapman’s tea party yesterday was to no avail, you are wrong. I happened to come downstairs early this morning, around nine, when the telephone rang. It was Mrs. Hadley, who said that she and her daughter had met you through Mrs. Chapman and were curious to know if there was anything that could be done regarding the young Miss Hadley’s rather prominent nose.”

  Abigail was stunned. “They’re coming here? Now?”

  “Yes, in five minutes. Well, now it’s four minutes.” He smiled benevolently. “I’m very proud of you, Miss Platford. This is exactly how it’s supposed to work.”

  Despite the vociferousness of her earlier protests, Abigail suddenly felt giddy. Her first effort had been a success! In a way, it seemed too easy. “But what should I do when they get here?”

  “You’ll greet them, thank them for coming. You’ll complete the brief form that we composed the other day, if you recall—name, address, and so on. You’ll ask them to wait a moment, and then you’ll come back to my office to inform me that the patient has arrived. You will then return to tell them Dr. Rome is ready to see you, and you’ll bring them to me, after which I will take over.”

  She glanced down at her outfit. It was drab and out-of-date. She should not have worn it; but at least the way she looked now, she could hardly be mistaken for a trollop.

  The bell rang, and Dr. Rome gave her an encouraging nod before retiring to the back. She hurried to open the door.

  “Good morning, ladies,” she said cheerily, stepping aside for them to enter.

  Miss Isabelle Hadley looked elegant in a pale blue walking dress of linen and lace, detailed with cluster tucks at the collar, shoulders, and sleeves—quite the latest fashion and obviously expensive, which only made Abigail feel all the dowdier in her plain frock. The young woman greeted her with a self-effacing smile, no hint of disrespect. Abigail had no idea what had taken place after she left Mrs. Chapman’s party, but apparently the Hadley mother and daughter had decided that Mrs. Hennessy’s accusations against her were not all that important.

  “Good morning to you, Miss Platford,” Miss Hadley’s mother replied, smiling at Abigail beneath her wide hat, on which several stuffed hummingbirds nested among an elaborate decoration of silk flowers, chiffon, and ribbon. “We’re here to see Dr. Rome.”

  “Yes, of course. He told me you were coming.”

  After seeing to their comfort and politely gathering the necessary personal information, as she and Dr. Rome had discussed, Abigail escorted the Hadley women into his private office at exactly quarter past ten. When the three of them emerged half an hour later, Dr. Rome was smiling as he led them over to her desk.

  “Miss Platford,” he said, “Miss Hadley would like to make an appointment for a procedure. Please find a time that would be convenient for her. I realize I’m scheduled already through this week—” He gave Abigail a look that meant she was not to contradict him. “But after that, I believe there should be several slots available. Please block out an entire morning, beginning at eight.”

  And with that, he turned to Isabelle Hadley and her mother, made a slight bow to each, and retreated into the hallway.

  They agreed on a date, in two weeks. Seeing the nervousness in Miss Hadley’s face, the tightness of her mouth and the intensity of every blink, Abigail realized how much courage it had taken for her to come today. She admired her for it and wondered, were she in the other young woman’s position, would she be as brave? She wondered, too, if there was anything specific in what she said yesterday that had encouraged such confidence. The thought troubled her. Though it was satisfying to imagine her powers of persuasion so finely tuned, she was uncomfortable with the responsibility such influence implied. Yet, as Dr. Rome had said, this was exactly how it was supposed to work.

  As they were leaving, Mrs. Hadley suddenly turned around with an attitude of apology. “Oh, I almost forgot,” she said. Opening her small handbag, she pulled out a checkbook. “May I borrow a pen?”

  “Certainly.”

  Likely noticing Abigail’s look of surprise, Miss Hadley said, “Dr. Rome requested a deposit. Is that not customary?”

  “Oh yes. Very customary,” Abigail replied, aware that the color had rushed to her cheeks. How could she have neglected to ask for a deposit, as she’d been instructed? But Dr. Rome had not told her how much it should be.

  Before she could figure out what to say next, Mrs. Hadley had already handed over the check. “We’ll see you in a couple of weeks,” she said, and then mother and daughter quietly left.

  Abigail glanced down at the paper in her hand. At first, she thought that she must have misread the amount. One hundred dollars! Most people labored for months to earn that amount! And this was only a deposit? She realized with a jolt what had attracted Dr. Rome to his new field. Clearly there was an inordinate amount of money to be made from it—though she supposed it wasn’t fair to assume that as his primary motivation. For a surgeon, there must be a certain challenge in pursuing a field still in its infancy. Dr. Rome, if she read him correctly, seemed the type to thrive on adventure.

  Maybe in her own way, she thought, she was as well.

  That night, Abigail awoke to the screeching of a siren somewhere not far away. She sat up, felt around for the matches, and lit the lamp by her bed. It was eleven thirty. She had been asleep for only an hour. Sighing
, she extinguished the light and lay back down. Rolling onto her side, she pulled the comforter over her head.

  She wondered if she would ever get used to living in this musty-smelling basement room with the bars on the windows. But maybe she wouldn’t have to stay here too much longer. Hadn’t Dr. Rome said they would find someplace else for her—someplace more appropriate? Now that she had seen what his patients were willing to pay him, she should have no compunction in asking for a wage that could support her. Though she supposed it was a bit early to be haggling over money. He had, after all, supplied her with a place to live and several expensive outfits. And his elderly maid, Prudence, had even brought supper to her a few times.

  She wondered what Dr. Rome did in the evenings after he left the office. Perhaps he had dinner out with friends. Or with a lady . . .

  She contemplated, not for the first time, why a handsome and successful man like Franklin Rome was unmarried. Recalling what he’d insinuated about Arthur, and how he claimed to have a pretty good eye for that kind of thing, she allowed herself a moment to consider whether Dr. Rome might himself have a hidden predilection. But no, that was impossible. She remembered the little flutter in her stomach that night at the banquet when he first smiled at her and then later, again, when he leaned close, saying that she intrigued him. She couldn’t deny that he was immensely attractive.