The Beauty Doctor

by Elizabeth Hutchison Bernard

  He appeared almost bashful. “I wasn’t really in all that much danger. Them fellows, they look worse ’n they are.”

  “I’m afraid I lost my purse. But I can pay the driver tomorrow. And I’ll have something more for you, as well,” she added, thinking she would ask Dr. Rome for an advance—that is, if she had the nerve to face him.

  “Aw, forget it.” Shark pulled from his pocket the coins that Abigail had bribed him with earlier. “This’ll cover it, I reckon.”

  Despite her distaste for the man, she couldn’t help but find the gesture touching. Perhaps she might have judged him too harshly.

  The driver already had opened the door to the cab and was waiting for her to step down. Waving away the hand he offered so as not to befoul him with her soiled glove, she exited the cab and rushed down the short flight of steps to her door, praying that Dr. Rome had not seen them from his window.

  It was only when she stood in front of her door, thinking her ordeal was almost over, that she realized what she was missing. The key to her room! It was in her purse!

  She turned and flew up the stairs, frantically waving her arms to attract the attention of Shark or the driver or both. “Stop! Please!”

  Shark opened the door of the cab. “What’s the matter?”

  “How are you at picking locks?”

  He seemed pleased at the invitation. “Pretty feckin’ good, ma’am, if I do say so myself!”

  CHAPTER 6

  It was eight o’clock sharp on Tuesday morning when Isabelle Hadley walked through the front door of the office. She looked exceptionally pale. Her mother held her by the elbow, as if otherwise she might collapse.

  “Good morning, ladies.” Abigail approached them with her most reassuring smile, though she doubted it would help much.

  “Hello, Miss Platford.” Mrs. Hadley seemed nearly as beside herself as her daughter. “Is the doctor ready for us?”

  “Actually, Dr. Rome suggests that you go back home, Mrs. Hadley. You may telephone the office around noon, and I’ll let you know when Miss Hadley can be discharged.” Seeing the woman’s look of dismay, Abigail added gently, “I assure you we will take very good care of her.”

  Mrs. Hadley seemed reluctant to let go of her daughter’s arm. “Would you rather that I stay?” she asked, searching the girl’s anxious face.

  Miss Hadley glanced at Abigail, probably hoping she would say it was all right, but the slight shake of Abigail’s head told her clearly that Dr. Rome’s orders stood. “No, Mother. It’s all right. Go home, as Miss Platford said.”

  Mrs. Hadley took a deep breath, gave her daughter a light peck on the cheek, and proceeded to the door. She paused with her hand on the knob, turning around for one last look at her darling Isabelle. “You’re sure you want to do this?”

  Miss Hadley nodded, her lip quivering slightly.

  “Then I’ll be back in a few hours. Be brave.” She hastily made her exit.

  Abigail, grappling with her own uncertainty, turned to the patient. “If you wouldn’t mind following me, please . . .”

  She led Miss Hadley down the long hallway and into a small room with a sofa and two chairs, a dressing table and mirror, and an armoire. She instructed her to remove all her clothing except for her knickers, hang everything in the armoire, and put on what she authoritatively called the surgical gown, which, she explained, should be tied loosely at the neck, open in the back.

  She patted Miss Hadley gently on the arm. “I know you’ll be glad when this is over.”

  “But Miss Platford—” The young woman’s eyes were wide and searching. “Is there really nothing to worry about? I mean, could anything go wrong?”

  How Abigail wished to put her mind at ease! But how could she possibly tell Miss Hadley something that she didn’t know for certain herself?

  “Have faith in Dr. Rome.” Then, remembering the question that had stymied her at Mrs. Chapman’s tea party and grateful she could now answer it, she added, “I’ve seen him operate. He has excellent hands.”

  Abigail entered the operating room wearing, according to Dr. Rome’s instructions, her oldest and plainest dress, covered with the same butcher’s apron she had worn before. She went over to the long metal sink against the wall and, as he had reminded her, thoroughly scrubbed her hands and arms with soap. She donned a pair of rubber gloves.

  The harsh lights above the narrow operating table shone down on their patient, who lay flat with a white sheet covering her from the chest down. Dr. Rome, his clothes also protected by an apron similar to Abigail’s, stood by Miss Hadley’s side. Abigail took her place across from him.

  “What we are going to do today for Miss Hadley is to remove that bump on her nasal bridge so that, when we’re done, she will have a straight, pretty nose like she’s always wanted,” he said in a professorial tone, undoubtedly designed to put his patient more at ease. Miss Hadley looked up at him, offering a nervous little smile.

  “Now, you remember,” he continued, “a little while ago I gave you that injection so you won’t feel what we’re going to be doing next.” He touched her nose with his finger. “It’s already numb, isn’t it?”

  She nodded.

  There were several gauze strips and a bowl filled with a soapy solution atop a small wooden stand next to the operating table. Abigail watched as Dr. Rome thoroughly cleansed the front portion of Miss Hadley’s nasal cavity.

  “Miss Platford, please remove the instruments from the autoclave.”

  She hastened to do as he asked, retrieving the instrument tray and then setting it onto a second wooden stand that was positioned on her side of the table.

  “All right, we’re ready to begin. Hand me the blade, please.”

  Abigail felt terribly important as she picked up the small blade and, taking great care not to drop it, passed it to him. She watched as he poked the sharp instrument deep inside Miss Hadley’s nose. The patient cried out, and Abigail gasped in alarm. Dr. Rome shot her a stern look.

  He patted Miss Hadley’s arm and said he would inject more of the numbing medication. Earlier, he had shown Abigail how to prepare the solution of boiled water and cocaine. Now he filled a syringe and administered another dose, promising Miss Hadley that soon she would feel nothing at all.

  The second try went much better. She gave no indication of pain. After making the incision, he passed the blade back to Abigail.

  “Chisel,” he said.

  She handed it to him, and he inserted it into the same nostril. “I’m positioning the chisel just beneath the portion of the nasal hump that we want to reduce,” he said quietly, this part of his commentary clearly for Abigail’s benefit. “Hammer.”

  She gave him the small hammer and watched as he used it to lightly tap the chisel. “I’ll be able to feel the bone give way,” he explained. After several taps, each of which sent a tiny shiver through her, he seemed satisfied. “Forceps.”

  Abigail took the chisel and hammer from him, then gave him the forceps, which he used to remove the piece of bone he’d broken off. He laid the fragment on the sheet that covered Miss Hadley’s chest.

  Abigail surveyed the tiny piece of bone. At first it was difficult to imagine that such a small morsel could make any difference at all. Yet, when she looked at Miss Hadley’s profile, she immediately saw the change. She could imagine how that little bit of bone would no longer be a distraction from the sparkle in Miss Hadley’s eyes or the sweetness of her smile. Was it fair to say what had brought Isabelle Hadley to Dr. Rome was nothing more than vanity? Might it be, in fact, a sensible desire to make the most of the other fine attributes with which she had been blessed?

  But how suddenly and easily her sentiments were shifting to be more in line with those of Dr. Rome! For a moment she worried that such a change in her thinking might be more a matter of expediency than evolution.

  “Miss Platford, pay attention! Wipe up that blood.”

  Abigail grabbed a clean cloth and dabbed it beneath Miss Hadley’s nose. O
ut of the corner of her eye, she watched Dr. Rome’s face, trying to gauge whether this amount of bleeding was excessive. He appeared to be not the least bit concerned. Soon after, he calmly moved her hands aside, applied pressure to the nose, and eventually the flow subsided.

  She had thought they were finished, but he surprised her by asking for what he called the rasp. When she hesitated, he pointed to it on the tray. It was nothing more than a metal file. He explained that he needed it in order to smooth the bone. Inserting it in the same way he had done with the chisel, he moved it back and forth over the area from which he had chipped off the fragment. Then he handed it back to her and ran his finger along the bridge, saying that he was checking for any irregularities he could detect through the skin. A second time he asked for the rasp, smoothing a little more. Finally, after studying the nose from every angle, he appeared to be satisfied.

  They moved Miss Hadley into the recovery room to rest for a little while; she promptly fell asleep. Abigail was astounded that their patient seemed none the worse for her ordeal. And she was elated that everything had gone so splendidly—especially her own performance. She’d made no glaring errors. Her hands had been steady, her responses for the most part quick. She was too engrossed in Dr. Rome’s every maneuver to be disturbed by the thought of what it means to cut into tissue, chip away at bone, allow that which sustains life to trickle out like water from an open faucet. If anything, she wished it had not been over so soon. She could easily have continued with never a thought of wanting to be anywhere but there, standing across from him, making a mental note of each step in the procedure, each nuance of Isabelle Hadley’s transformation.

  Determined, for the future, to make herself indispensable.

  CHAPTER 7

  New York City was fast entering the season when ladies of means depart in droves for Newport and other beachside getaways, where the monotony of idleness can be assuaged by cool breezes and the sound of waves lapping at the shore. In the month that followed Isabelle Hadley’s surgery, there were few social events to attend, which might have called into question the value of Abigail’s services as Dr. Rome’s foil. Realizing this, she took it upon herself to periodically make the rounds of a few of the local beauty parlors, chatting up the owners and any patrons within earshot and leaving behind her business cards touting “The Power of Beauty.” This strategy resulted in numerous consultations and half a dozen surgeries during an otherwise slow period. Advertisements in the New York World and other city papers also drew potential patients from a much broader pool, many of whom were unprepared for the exorbitant fees at which Dr. Rome’s more affluent clientele barely batted an eyelash. But for some, the desire for beauty was so great that, by whatever sacrifice, they found the means to pay for it.

  From the middle of May to the middle of June, Abigail assisted with nearly twenty procedures on noses, ears, lips, undereye bags, and jowls. She observed Dr. Rome perform a great number of paraffin injections to fill in facial wrinkles and folds. She watched him prepare the mixture of paraffin and goose grease, listened as he debated with himself each time whether to slightly modify the formula, perhaps try mixing it with white oak bark instead. Though he cared nothing for her opinion, it made her feel important that he would share his thought process with her—like her father often used to do.

  For the first time in so long, she was happy. If her life might be lacking in some of the simple pleasures that others took for granted—the comforts of a home and loved ones—she barely noticed. Her thoughts were constantly on surgery. She even dreamed about it—that is, when she wasn’t dreaming of Dr. Rome himself. Dangerous dreams that she regretted when she awoke, even as she tried to remember every shocking detail.

  In her hours away from work, too, she endeavored to expand her knowledge of medicine. Her collection of used textbooks burgeoned to more than a dozen, and she spent many an evening in her basement room poring over them with the zeal of someone who, without any definite plan, still believed she would someday have occasion to put to good use the information they contained.

  As for how Dr. Rome occupied himself on the growing number of nights when there were no parties or banquets to attend, Abigail had no idea. Then one day toward the end of June, he surprised her with an invitation for dinner at the Park Avenue Hotel’s exclusive restaurant, one of the city’s very best. He called the evening a celebration.

  They arrived at the restaurant around eight, the head waiter greeting them as if they were his most important guests of the night. Abigail was confident they looked the part. She wore her one and only Parisian gown, silk in a light coral shade, trimmed in gray chiffon and lace. The off-the-shoulder neckline exposed the graceful curve of her collarbone and the smooth whiteness of her skin. She knew Dr. Rome noticed such things with a keen eye. He had been the one, in fact, to insist on this particular dress for her when they shopped together at Bergdorf Goodman, that first morning of her employment when she had feared he would try to make her into something she could never be. The frock had set him back a pretty penny, but it did make an impression, as did Dr. Rome in his perfectly tailored black tuxedo, his top hat and white gloves—an outfit no different from that of any other man in the restaurant, but on him it looked particularly splendid.

  They were seated with a flourish at a lovely table for two, not tucked away in a corner but out in the open where they were bound to be noticed. He wasted no time in ordering an expensive bottle of champagne. The sommelier poured each of them a glass and put the rest on ice. Abigail sat stiffly in her chair, not quite sure how to behave in a setting so intimate. Though they had often gone out together in public, she had never spent an entire evening alone with Dr. Rome. She found the prospect a bit intimidating.

  “To success!” he said, raising his glass. She did the same, their crystal flutes touching with a delicate clink.

  She kept telling herself there was no reason to feel nervous. Over the past two months, she had spent five days a week with Dr. Rome, and quite a few evenings as well. He was not so frightening. Not really . . .

  Almost immediately, the champagne exerted its effect. Warmed by golden candlelight, soothed by the hypnotic murmur of voices woven like silk into soft strains of music from a balcony above, she began to relax. She watched as Dr. Rome reached into an inner pocket of his jacket for a cigarette case. The waiter rushed over to offer a light and then quickly stepped away, out of earshot. Bringing the cigarette to his lips, Dr. Rome inhaled deeply. He fixed his gaze on Abigail’s face.

  “A penny for your thoughts,” he said.

  The openness of his query caught her by surprise. There was so much she might have said. She could have described to him the sheer joy and relief of once again having a reason to get up in the morning. She could have, and should have, thanked him for giving her such an opportunity, more than she would have dared to ask for. But suddenly she was tongue-tied, reluctant to expose her feelings for fear he might find them maudlin.

  “I’m very much looking forward to Thursday’s operation on Miss Vanderbout. You mentioned that you might try a slight variation of your usual technique for the ears. What is it that you have in mind doing differently?”

  He puffed on his cigarette, still watching her intently. “If it’s all right, Miss Platford, I’d rather not talk about work. There’s time enough for that in the office.” He flicked an errant ash from his lapel. “I don’t mind telling you what I was thinking, if you like.”

  She was grateful to let him steer the conversation. Apparently she had done a poor job of it so far. “Yes, of course. Please do.”

  He drew in smoke, let it out. “I was trying to picture what it is that you do at night, when you’re alone downstairs in your room.”

  Abigail was so stunned that it took her a moment to recover herself. “I doubt that would be very interesting.”

  “Oh, but I would find it fascinating.”

  She reached for her champagne and raised it to her lips, stalling for time. Did she dare tell hi
m how last night she’d been reading one of her old journals, from a time when she still thought of a doctor’s work as a heroic struggle between the joy of health and the calamity of sickness and death? A time when she’d felt disheartened by the difficulty of saving for her medical education, with so many of her father’s patients too poor to pay him anything at all for his services. A time when two hundred dollars a year for tuition seemed like a fortune, and when she would never have dreamed how easily one might earn that, and more, performing a single beauty surgery.

  But she doubted he would understand. Worse, he might think she was questioning the value of his work, drawing a comparison between her father and him.

  “Mostly I read. And I study my medical textbooks—hoping they’re not too out-of-date.”

  “Ah, studying.” He nodded slowly. “So you’re telling me there isn’t another side to Abigail Platford? Maybe an imaginative side? A romantic side?”

  She shifted uneasily in her chair. “I like to think that I’m rather imaginative. And what woman doesn’t have a romantic side? Yet I guess I’ve always had a more scientific bent than most.”

  “So you never fantasize about having a lover?”

  Embarrassed, she looked away. He had no business asking such questions, and she was confounded that he would. This was a side of him she had not seen before.

  “Arthur Hennessy couldn’t have been your only beau,” he continued casually. “Not an enticing girl like you.”

  “I can assure you that I don’t have a beau, and neither am I in the habit of entertaining such fantasies as you suggest. And if you don’t mind, couldn’t we speak of something else?”

  “Come now, I assumed you were a modern woman,” he said, brushing aside her minor indignation. “You certainly seem like one in many respects.”

  “And so I am, but I’m sure you would agree that a woman can be modern in her thinking without sacrificing her morals. And besides, a woman’s needs are of a different sort, I’m sure, than what a man imagines.”