“I doubt that very much. You know, the days of labeling a woman’s natural desires as hysteria fortunately are over. There’s no reason in fact that a woman, especially one in the prime of youth, shouldn’t experience as much pleasure from intimacy as a man. That is, if she happens to have a lover who knows a little something about such things.” He paused. “A young woman, you know, often finds the greatest happiness with an older man.”
In the silence that followed, he retrieved the iced champagne from the bucket, waving away the waiter who came rushing over to assist, and filled Abigail’s glass again to the brim while she waited, barely breathing, to hear what he would say next. “I find it refreshing that a modern woman, such as you profess to be, has the freedom to do whatever she chooses, as long as she remains discreet. Wouldn’t you agree?”
Having no idea how to answer him, she lifted the crystal flute to her lips with a nervous smile.
“I’m sorry, Miss Platford—do I frighten you?” Dr. Rome snuffed out the burning tip of his cigarette, the smoke rising in a spiral between them. “It’s just that I thought, at this point, I might be candid with you. Especially since I’ve come to see how very much alike we are.”
His odd declaration jolted her yet again. Her father had often said exactly the same—that the two of them were alike. But to hear it from Dr. Rome! It was difficult to imagine how he could have come to such a conclusion.
“There’s an ancient saying,” he continued, inclining toward her with an air of confidentiality. “Water flows to what is wet. It means that those who are alike always come together, sooner or later.” He smiled. “But maybe you doubt our affinity?”
“You flatter me, Dr. Rome.” Though he’d said that he didn’t wish to discuss work, she thought it now to be the safest subject. “All I know is that I admire you greatly. I wish I had your skill in the operating room—though, of course, that could never be.”
“You’re too impatient for things that necessarily take time. So am I. But I’ve learned to wait—as long as it’s not too long.” He leaned farther toward her. She breathed in his scent—smoke, sandalwood, that acrid hint of antiseptic that had evoked so many memories on the night they met. “Would you like to know a little something about me? What made me who I am?”
She nodded, curious and yet slightly afraid.
“It started with my older brother. People always said I was the handsome one, he was the smart one. I suppose they thought I should be content with that. Granted, my success with the ladies was not an insignificant accomplishment. I’d be lying if I said such pursuits didn’t keep me quite happily occupied for a good part of my youth and beyond. One might say I have a weakness for beauty, and, fortunately enough, beautiful women always seem to have a weakness for me. But there came a time when I decided that was no longer enough.”
The candlelight played on his face, softening the lines and creases, burnishing his dark hair with a touch of gold. Her tension eased a bit. She could imagine him as a young man, just as he had described himself—a bit of a rake, charming and reckless.
“What was it that made you want to pursue medicine?”
“For one thing, I got tired of everybody writing me off. My brother studied hard and became a doctor. It was no surprise to anyone. They didn’t expect so much from me.”
“Surely you didn’t become a doctor just to prove that you could?”
“No, to prove I could do it better than anybody else. To beat them at their own game.”
“Game?” It seemed an odd way to speak about medicine.
He laughed and pulled back from her. “I suppose that’s just the gambler in me talking. I’m rather proud of the fact that I’ve always been willing to take a risk. When I finally found my way and decided I wanted to be a doctor, I was no longer a young man. But that didn’t matter to me. I pursued my goal like a hunter stalks his prey, and once I had it in my sights I went in for the kill.”
“So I shouldn’t think it’s too late for me?”
A look came over him that was at once amused and scrutinizing. “Too late for what?”
She wondered if she might now tell him what had happened to her father, how it had been her fault—despite what everyone said later. How she had given up her dream of becoming a doctor because she was too guilty, too fearful. Too alone.
“I think I told you before, I had planned to go to medical school.”
“Ah yes, I remember.” He crossed his arms over his chest. He seemed very serious, despite the smile that played at the corners of his mouth. “Tell you what—just to show you how much I think of you, Miss Platford, I’m going to arrange a little surprise. Maybe this week sometime, I can’t say exactly when, we’ll have a special lesson. It should be very exciting for you.”
“What kind of a lesson?”
“You’ll just have to wait and see. But I promise—you will be enthralled.” He rubbed his palms together. “And now, the reason for our little celebration . . .”
She could sense his excitement and quickly decided it was not the time to speak further of herself.
“I got a telephone call last night from a friend—actually, more of an acquaintance, but that doesn’t matter. The important thing is that I have received a very special invitation to the home of Mr. and Mrs. Joseph Radcliff, who are hosting Countess Alexandra Gagarin of Russia at their country estate in Scarsdale. It seems the countess has a mole that she might like to have removed and wants to consult with a beauty doctor.”
“A mole?”
The inflection in her voice undoubtedly conveyed disappointment, because he hastily added, “A mole today, something else tomorrow. Who knows where it might lead? The point is, having a countess as a patient is nothing to sniff at. If I can make her happy, she’s likely to send others of her ilk my way. That’s how one builds an exclusive beauty practice, which is really the only kind worth having. Do you see what I’m getting at?”
“Yes, of course. Countess Alexandra will tell her friends, and they’ll tell others.” She wanted to be as enthusiastic as he was, but, in truth, it didn’t strike her as such a very dramatic development.
“But that’s not all.” He smiled, as if the best was yet to be revealed. “You’ll be coming with me.”
She hesitated. “Coming with you where?”
“To Scarsdale. I’ve arranged to borrow a motorcar. We’ll leave a week from this Friday.”
He couldn’t be suggesting that she accompany him to the Radcliffs’ estate! “But it’s you the countess wants to meet.”
“Yes, but Mr. Radcliff encouraged me to bring a guest, and I thought it only appropriate that it should be my esteemed assistant.”
His words were so complimentary, his manner so matter-of-fact. There seemed no question in his mind that she would agree to come. Or perhaps that she had no choice.
“But what will I wear?” she asked, without thinking how foolish it would sound. Dr. Rome had just invited her to spend a weekend with him in the country! And her first concern was what she would wear? “That is, I wouldn’t want to embarrass you.”
“Miss Platford—” Again he looked amused. “Are you uncomfortable about the idea of traveling with me? I will, of course, make it clear to everyone that our relationship is purely a professional one.”
“It’s not that I care what anyone else thinks, but—”
“Oh, you care very much. Especially what I think—even though I’ve told you that I find the old rules stifling and would regard you with no less admiration were you to reject them in total. In fact, chances are I would admire you even more.”
It was then that the waiter reappeared, offering menus and a recitation of the specialties of the night. Abigail was in no mood to pay attention. She was far too preoccupied with thinking about what Dr. Rome had said earlier—that a young woman often finds the greatest happiness with an older man.
It was close to midnight. Open in her lap was a worn volume written in 1816 by the famous European surgeon Joseph Constantine
Carpue, which she had purchased that afternoon from Grumper’s Rare Book Store. Entitled An Account of Two Successful Operations for Restoring a Lost Nose, it recounted not only Carpue’s early rhinoplastic experience but also two of the older methods of nasal reconstruction, the so-called Indian method and the Italian method, dating back to 600 BC and the late sixteenth century, respectively. She hoped, at the appropriate time, to impress Dr. Rome with the depth of her knowledge on such an esoteric subject. Though perhaps a bit far afield from beauty surgery, surely there were parallels to be drawn.
She paused her reading, glancing nervously about the basement room. On the table next to her, an oil lamp flickered, casting shadows that played on the bare brick walls. The constantly changing shapes seemed to her like demons in some wild dance—taunting, threatening. Perhaps laughing at her, too. She had not yet learned to feel comfortable half-below ground, without electricity, surrounded by a hollow stillness—especially late at night, when the sounds of traffic diminished and only a pale light from the street lamps found its way between the bars of her windows.
Closing the cover of her book, she leaned her head against the back of the overstuffed velvet chair, and shut her eyes. Soon she was again reliving her evening with Dr. Rome, two nights ago at the Park Avenue Hotel. Again wondering what it meant. The things he’d said, the provocative remarks he’d made . . . there must have been a purpose behind them.
A week from tomorrow, they were to travel to Scarsdale together and stay the weekend at a country estate among people as wealthy, or maybe even wealthier, than the Hennessys. Among guests that included a countess! It had been kind of Dr. Rome to suggest that she come with him. Unless it wasn’t kindness but something else.
She had never had a lover. She’d always believed, as girls are taught early on, that she must save herself for marriage. But at twenty-two, she was no longer a girl and lately seemed to care less for propriety than she used to. Yes, she had balked at Mrs. Hennessy’s very public insinuations about her relationship with Dr. Rome; but as he’d said, what a modern woman does in private is her own business.
Still, a woman’s virtue is a commodity that mustn’t be squandered. She didn’t quite know what to make of Dr. Rome, though he’d certainly acted as if they knew each other well. Admittedly, it had been thrilling. Slightly indecent. Perhaps he had just been having a little fun at her expense; she shouldn’t take it too seriously.
But neither should she deceive herself. Playing at romance with Franklin Rome would be the most foolish thing she could possibly do. It might easily end as most affairs do—a complete disaster. She would find herself without a position, without a future—at least, not like the one Dr. Rome seemed to be offering her. Sometimes when she was with him in the office, it felt almost like the old days with Father—the way he would explain things to her, smile when she asked a question that was particularly astute. She was learning from him. True, he was a beauty doctor—but he was a doctor. And everything she’d seen so far made her believe he was a very good one.
Her thoughts were interrupted by a sharp knock at the door. Strange. The only person who had ever called on her was Dr. Rome’s maid, Prudence, with a warm plate of supper—but not at this hour. Fearful, she rose from her chair but remained standing where she was.
“Who’s there?”
“Dr. Rome said to come to the office. Now!”
She recognized the voice immediately. It was Shark.
The first thing that came to her mind was that finally he had told Dr. Rome about what happened with the boy on Canal Street—that she’d spoken to the lad and he’d stolen her purse. It didn’t help that she had lied about how she’d lost the key to her room. But she had needed a new one. And it was so long ago now. She’d actually stopped worrying about it.
She took only a minute to ready herself, smoothing her hair and throwing a light shawl over her shoulders. Then, reluctantly, she stepped outside, trying to think of something she might say to make him forgive her. As she climbed the half dozen steps to the sidewalk, she noticed a horse-drawn hansom at the curb, parked in the slightly dim area between the electric street lamps. Shark stood on the sidewalk, waiting. Suddenly the door to the office opened, revealing Dr. Rome haloed in the light from inside, dressed in his butcher’s apron.
Abigail climbed the steps to the entry—now with a different sense of dread, not wishing to look behind her to see what Shark and his accomplice might be doing.
“Step aside,” said Dr. Rome as the two men suddenly swept by her with their long, sheet-wrapped bundle. Once they had passed, he turned to follow them, calling back over his shoulder to her, “Come along!”
She closed the door and grimly made her way to the operating room. The overhead lights were blazing, the bundle already in place on the narrow table but still covered with a sheet. Dr. Rome was handing some cash to Shark, who shot Abigail a sly glance.
“What time you want me back, boss?” he said, turning back to Dr. Rome.
“There’s no rush on this one. I’m keeping the office closed tomorrow. You can come for her tomorrow night around nine.”
“You got it.” Shark gave his partner a rude shove, and the two of them quickly exited the operating room. Abigail heard the front door open and then slam shut.
“Sorry, but can you run out and lock up?” Dr. Rome said, eagerly approaching the operating table.
Abigail didn’t move. Perhaps Shark had said nothing about the boy or the key; she was grateful for that. But the thought of assisting Dr. Rome with another operation like the last, another patient subjected to surgery without his knowledge or consent . . . she had found a way to justify her participation the first time, even to convince herself that it was all for the best; still she wasn’t sure she could do so again.
He looked at her in surprise, then reproach. “I’ve arranged this whole evening for you. So let’s have none of your silliness.”
“Silliness?” He knew how uncomfortable she had felt the last time. It had caused her sleepless nights, made it nearly impossible to perform her duties with the correctness of attitude that they both expected. Why had he forced her into another situation so untenable?
Without ceremony, Dr. Rome ripped away the sheet covering the body. There was no way for Abigail to avoid looking at her, a slender young woman probably only a little older than she was, naked and clearly dead. There was a fresh cut on her abdomen, from the navel down. Abigail knew enough about such things to recognize it as the incision for a Cesarean section.
“What happened?” she asked, her voice barely a whisper.
“Complications of pregnancy. They don’t all make it, you know.”
“And the baby?”
“I wouldn’t have any idea.”
She raised the back of her hand to her forehead and closed her eyes. She was loathe to admit it, but she felt faint. “Why is she here?”
“Because you said you hadn’t spent all that time studying Gray’s Anatomy for nothing. But the fact is, you can’t learn anatomy properly out of a book.”
So he really had done this for her!
“Dr. Rome—I don’t know what to say. I appreciate it so greatly, but—”
“You’re not pleased?”
“Where did she come from?” Abigail recalled what she’d read once about anatomists in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, how they’d procured corpses from professional body snatchers. There were even those who engaged in anatomy murder to obtain the fresh cadavers that medical students would use for their dissections. Of course, Shark had not murdered anyone . . .
“What does it matter?” There was a note of impatience in his voice. “She was on her way to the potter’s field on Hart Island anyway. Far better that she should make a contribution to science.”
Abigail dared now to gaze down on her face. Her eyelids were closed in repose; her long, dark hair cascaded softly over her shoulders. She was only slightly blue, her body not yet stiff. The odor emanating from her was not unpleasant, almo
st like a lightly pungent flower. She could not have been dead for long.
“Now, let’s consider this woman’s lips, which are rather thin,” Dr. Rome said, rubbing his palms together. He seemed over his momentary irritation. “In a few minutes, I’ll show you how to make them a slight bit more voluptuous. We’ll also raise the angle of the mouth, just to give her a pleasant expression. And I’ll let you inject some paraffin. You’d like that, wouldn’t you? As for the nose, you’ve seen me remove a number of humps. This time, we’re going to elevate the tip—even though she has a perfect nose as it is.” He touched it lightly. “A shame, really. She wasn’t at all bad looking.” He ran his hand along her neck. “Then there’s something else I want to try—a way to lift up the neck by way of incisions inside the mouth. I’ve read about it. Novel but apparently there are some problems. We’ll see. You need to understand that operating on a corpse isn’t quite the same as working with living tissue—”
She was trying to listen to him, to focus on what he was saying, but all she could think of was the woman laid out on the table. Did she have a family somewhere? Was there a man who loved her? And her baby—what had happened to it? She wondered if the young mother had even known whether her child lived or died.
“Miss Platford!” Dr. Rome had paused long enough to see that she was not paying appropriate attention. “I hope you realize that our time is limited. A fresh cadaver, especially one as nice as this, is a precious thing.”
She pulled her eyes away from the woman’s ripped abdomen. “It’s just that it’s so sad—and she’s so young.”
He sighed, coming over to her and laying his hands on her shoulders. “You’ve never seen death before, I suppose,” he said gently, perhaps only now recognizing how difficult she might find the situation.
“Actually, I have,” she said as the image of her father’s face—his skin like wax, his mouth open—flashed before her eyes. She dared not think about it now, not when Dr. Rome expected her to act like any eager student should—anxious to take the knife, to make the first cut.
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