The Beauty Doctor

by Elizabeth Hutchison Bernard

  “Well then?” He gave her an encouraging pat on the arm and took a step back. “I suggest you ready yourself, and we’ll get started.”

  She looked again at the body—the woman. What they were about to do felt somehow irreverent. Perhaps it was only the way she had been brought there, by Shark and his partner, wrapped in a dirty white sheet. Or maybe it was simply the fact of seeing her laid out on the same table where Isabelle Hadley’s surgery had taken place. Miss Hadley—so lovely, so full of hope, her whole life ahead of her . . .

  “Miss Platford, I’m going to ask you once more, and that will be the last time.”

  With difficulty, Abigail reined herself in. How could she refuse such an opportunity? If she did, Dr. Rome would never again take her seriously.

  Donning her apron and readying the instruments helped to distract her and somehow made everything feel more clinical. And once they got started, it was no less than the discovery of a whole new world, like nothing she’d ever experienced—as Dr. Rome had said, impossible to know or imagine simply from the pages of a book.

  He proved to be a wonderful teacher, giving her ample opportunity to make the mistakes he knew she inevitably would. She got the distinct impression that he enjoyed teaching her; he seemed eager to demonstrate the depth of his knowledge, to dazzle with the quick precision of his hands. She had recognized his skill before, watching him day after day in the operating room, but this was different. He was allowing her inside his mind, explaining every movement of the knife. And when she finally took the blade into her own hands—when she could not only see the cut, but feel it—it seemed not to matter anymore that it was only beauty surgery.

  “When you evaluate a face for beauty,” Dr. Rome explained, “you need to understand that the great philosophers and artists have already agreed on a certain criteria, a certain ideal form and proportion. But the truly great beauty doctor does not stop there. He brings his own unique vision to bear on every case so that the result is far more than a mere replication of some theoretical standard of perfection. What I envision and ultimately achieve is the ideal for my patient, a person unlike any other. One does not use a cookie cutter on the human face! One molds it by hand, with the greatest attention to nuance. And that, my dear, is the difference between a crass technician and an inspired artist.”

  “But how do you know that what you think is beautiful will also please your patient?”

  “I know because already I have made her believe in me more than she believes in herself.”

  Abigail considered this for a moment, wondering if he assumed the same of her.

  It was after one o’clock in the morning when they undertook the gross dissection, peeling away the facial skin to expose the crisscrossed muscle layers underneath. Dr. Rome showed her the nerves that run along the sides of the face, like the branches of a tree, pointing out the ones that control movement and expression and those responsible for sensation. She saw the facial artery just lateral to the corner of the mouth and one of the salivary glands nearby, structures that no knife must ever transgress, he warned. “These particular nerves and muscles,” he said, pointing to those he had identified as responsible for expression, “are the ones that cause deformities of the face, meaning those wrinkles and creases that too soon turn a woman into her grandmother. If one is very careful, they can be dissected subcutaneously—that is, beneath the skin—and no one will ever see the slightest sign of it, except that the expressions of the face will be pleasantly subdued.”

  Another hour went by as he entertained her with stories from his days in Paris, about the women who had come into the clinic seeking treatment. His descriptions were not always kind. “Ah yes, I remember one of them saying, I used to be so beautiful and now—well, I’m not sure why I’m not anymore. Perhaps you can tell me. I have the same nose, same eyes, same lips. But when I look at them all together, nothing is the same.” He laughed. “It was an apt observation. Fading beauty can be subtle. One day a woman is lovely and desirable, the next day she simply isn’t anymore. It takes the eye of a beauty doctor to figure out what’s out of place and, with enough skill, put everything back where it belongs.”

  Abigail listened to it all with mixed emotions. It was fascinating, of course, but a bit disconcerting as well. She couldn’t help imagining the day when she would no longer have the bloom of youth with which to draw Dr. Rome’s approving eye. But to think in such a personal way about matters that were purely clinical was not to think like a doctor.

  By two thirty, Dr. Rome announced he was ready to quit, promising they could have another round or two tomorrow. Abigail stood silently while he spread formalin-soaked cloths over the body, finally covering it with a rubber sheet like a cold black shroud.

  She hoped they had shown the young woman proper respect. Perhaps, under the circumstances, it was impossible.

  But of one thing Abigail was absolutely sure.

  She would never forget her.

  CHAPTER 8

  Dr. Rome switched into neutral, throttled down, and put on the park brake. He removed his goggles and leather gloves. Then, with an abundance of energy, he leaped from the driver’s seat of the open-top Ford.

  “What a place this is!” he said, shrugging off his black motoring coat and flinging it onto the seat.

  “Yes,” Abigail replied distractedly, looking with awe upon the Radcliffs’ stately home, three stories tall with long wings spreading to the left and right. It was built of brick in the Georgian style, the front veranda embellished with four massive white pillars, and surrounded by bed upon bed of artfully arranged blossoming flowers and fruit trees.

  He came around to the other side of the motorcar, opened her door, and helped her out. Carefully, she removed her black cape and the stiff-brimmed hat, veiled and adorned with a couple of silk peonies, that had been tied onto her head throughout the windy ride. She pinned into place a much more elaborate millinery creation matching her afternoon frock. Then they made their way up the flagstone walkway to where their host stood waiting on the veranda.

  Mr. Radcliff was not at all what she’d expected. Rather than tweed and knickerbockers, or perhaps a summer suit and tie, he wore something more akin to the uniforms of Theodore Roosevelt and his Rough Riders—khaki pants and a belted jacket, boots, and a wide-brimmed canvas hat. He was a big man, not in height but girth, with a wide, ruddy-cheeked face.

  “Welcome, welcome! Nice to meet you, Doctor.” Mr. Radcliff took a single step forward and shook Dr. Rome’s hand before turning to Abigail. “And this must be the lovely Miss Platford,” he said, his expansive grin revealing tobacco-stained teeth that were large and square. “I can see already that this is going to be an extraordinary weekend.”

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Radcliff. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

  “It was very gracious of you and Mrs. Radcliff to issue the invitation through my friend, Mr. Harber,” said Dr. Rome. “He had nothing but wonderful things to say about you, of course, Mr. Radcliff.”

  “First off, you’ll call me Joe. Around here, we’re what they like to call avant-garde. First names only, preferably two syllables or less! It’s so much more efficient.” He let out a booming laugh.

  “By all means,” Dr. Rome replied. “Then it’s Franklin”—he turned to Abigail with a smile—“and Abigail.”

  “Very good. As for our mutual friend, Mr. Harber, he’s done a fair job with some investments of mine. I’ve no complaints as of yet. I see he even loaned you his motorcar,” Mr. Radcliff said, casting an admiring glance at the red Ford with its brass side lamps in the front and rear, red wheel spokes, and black leather seats. “I’m an automobile enthusiast myself. Got three of them in the garage in back that I’ll show you later, Frank. You, too, Abby—that is, if you’re interested. But then I’m sure you’d probably rather be sipping Veuve Clicquot with the ladies than sticking your nose under the hood of a car.”

  She smiled. Though his joviality struck her as a bit forced, Mr. Radclif
f—or Joe, as he’d insisted they should call him—could not have given them a more welcoming reception. Still, she wasn’t at all certain she could accustom herself to such overfamiliarity, especially with people of distinction like the Radcliffs and their guests.

  “I’m afraid I know nothing about motorcars except that this one gave me quite a drafty ride.”

  “Well, it beats the train any day. But listen, everyone is anxiously awaiting your arrival out at the gazebo. Unless you two would like to be shown to your rooms now—”

  “No, that’s not necessary,” Dr. Rome replied quickly, though Abigail would have appreciated a few minutes to freshen up.

  “All right then, come this way,” he said abruptly, beckoning them to follow with a sweeping gesture of his arm. “The servants will take your bags upstairs in the meantime.”

  Engaging in an animated monologue about how tiresome it was to be the sole man in a household full of women, Joe Radcliff led them around to the back of the house and then down a long path and through a field of yellow and blue wildflowers. After another five minutes, they arrived at a maze-like configuration of high hedges. In the center, flowerbeds bursting with masses of red roses were arranged in a circle around a large white gazebo with arched openings and a gently sloping green roof. As the three of them approached, Abigail could hear a murmur of voices followed by a peal of high-pitched laughter.

  Joe stepped aside to let her pass through the arches. Two women were seated together on a white wicker settee, a third in one of several matching chairs arranged around a low round table. As Abigail entered they stopped talking, their eyes fixed on her as if she were some rare bird that had alighted on a nearby branch. Then one of the women rose to greet them.

  “Miss Platford, welcome!” She warmly grasped Abigail’s gloved hands with her bare and lightly freckled ones. “And, Dr. Rome,” she said, turning to him. “We’re so glad you both could make it.”

  “We’ve already agreed, dear, to use our given names. Frank and Abby, this is my wife, Lillian,” Joe said, nodding toward the short, chubby woman who stood before them. Outfitted in an embroidered linen shirtwaist and pleated walking skirt, her graying hair pulled into a frizzy knot, she was not at all as Abigail would have imagined the mistress of such a palatial estate. Perhaps the only clue as to her status was the gigantic diamond she wore on her left hand. Abigail had never seen a stone so large.

  “And comfortably arranged on the sofa, in her usual outlandish style,” Joe continued, “is Countess Alexandra Fedosia Gagarin. Quite a mouthful, isn’t it! You can forget what I said about two syllables. Countess Alexandra takes great pleasure in ignoring all the rules of the house. She believes a title gives one that prerogative.”

  Even if the countess had not acknowledged Joe’s remarks with a droll smile, Abigail needed no one to tell her which of the two remaining women she was. She could have picked her out among a hundred, so distinctive was her bearing. Her hair was fashionably brunette, almost black, and she wore it piled on top of her head in a mass of ringlets, some of which had either broken loose or were purposely arranged that way to make her appear reckless. Her features were delicately beautiful, her porcelain skin so white it could have been enameled. Abigail barely noticed the tiny black mole by her upper lip. If anything, it made her even more interesting.

  Perhaps the strangest thing about her was her costume. She wore an embroidered Japanese kimono with long, flowing sleeves, beige with tiny pink and yellow flowers, bound tightly around the waist with a yellow sash. Abigail was shocked to notice that her feet were bare, the toenails stained with red oil and buffed to a shine.

  Alexandra offered an imperious smile. “You may call me Countess.”

  “It’s a pleasure,” Abigail said, suddenly feeling overdressed and prudish in her lavender-dotted batiste trimmed with lace. “And I go by Abigail,” she added, hoping Joe would take note.

  “And this,” the countess continued, reaching over to touch the hand of the woman sitting next to her, “is my dear Ronnie.” She raised her dark eyes, lined with lampblack, to Dr. Rome. “How lovely to meet you, Doctor.”

  “All right, everyone, enough of pleasantries,” Joe said. “Take a seat, and let’s pop open another bottle of bubbly. It’s not too early for you, is it Abby?”

  He gestured toward a wicker chair across from the countess to indicate where he wanted Abigail to sit. Dr. Rome took the seat next to her. Lillian tooted on a little whistle that she wore around her neck, and almost immediately a servant appeared carrying a silver tray with a fresh bottle of champagne and a set of chilled crystal flutes.

  “I was just remarking to Ronnie how spoiled rotten I’ve become, since having the good fortune to be a guest of her magnanimous brother and his wife,” the countess said, smiling warmly at Lillian. Though she spoke with an accent, her English was impeccable. “You will find, Abigail,” she continued, “that there is nothing you can think of that hasn’t occurred to them already. I guarantee Joe has planned all sorts of clever surprises. He always does.”

  “Wonderful ones, I’m sure.”

  “But tell us—” Now it was Ronnie who spoke, which gave Abigail an excuse to look at her more closely. She bore a strong resemblance to her brother, intense gray-blue eyes and large, slightly protruding teeth. Her hair was cropped in a short, blunt style quite unbecoming for a woman. She wore a shapeless tan skirt and white cotton blouse. The soles of her boots were caked with mud as if she’d been tramping across the fields. “What’s the most shocking thing you’ve ever seen in Dr. Rome’s operating room? I’m sure he wouldn’t tell us. Probably none of it is shocking to him. But we’ve never met a beauty doctor before, and we’re curious.”

  “What exactly do you mean by shocking?” Abigail replied, glancing nervously at Dr. Rome.

  “I believe what Ronnie means,” interjected the countess, “is that there’s a certain—” She paused, searching for the proper word. “Forgive me, but I’d have to say ghastliness about the idea of cutting people up, moving things around, and then sewing them back together. I’m fascinated by it. We all are. But one has to wonder, how far can it go?”

  “I’m afraid that’s something you’d have to ask Dr. Rome,” Abigail replied. “He is, after all, the world’s foremost expert. When it comes to transformative surgery, if Dr. Rome can’t do it then I assure you no one can.”

  “Transformative surgery?” echoed the countess, crinkling her brow.

  “Beauty surgery, that is.”

  “Yes, do tell us, Doctor,” piped up Lillian. “Will we soon be able to change anything we want about the way we look? For example, might you make me very tall and very slender?” She laughed.

  “I believe your husband prefers you exactly as you are, and I concur with his taste,” Dr. Rome answered diplomatically. “But as for the limitations of transformative surgery, we don’t yet know what they might be. I feel confident in saying we’re just at the beginning. And what we ultimately achieve may be limited only by the imagination.”

  “The famous Dr. Frankenstein started out wishing to create something of beauty,” said the countess, pulling out a cigarette from beneath the sash of her kimono. Ronnie was quick to offer her a light. “But, of course, the result was not as he imagined.”

  “Ah, the perils of invention!” said Joe.

  “But surely, Doctor,” the countess insisted, “you must have had a disaster or two in your career. No one could expect otherwise. I’ve heard some awful stories. I remember something once about a young woman, a dancer. Apparently all she wanted was a prettier pair of legs. Of course it wasn’t you, Frank, but one of those other beauty doctors—he did something to her, I don’t remember what or I probably never knew. But it didn’t work. It was such a complete failure in fact that, in the end, they had to cut off her legs entirely. Can you believe it? A dancer without legs!” She burst into laughter. “It isn’t funny, I know, but it is ironic.”

  “The keys to avoiding such unfortunate occurrences are skill
and restraint,” Dr. Rome said, seemingly undisturbed by the countess’s story or her behavior. “Never push beyond what is prudent. One can always do a little more, if necessary, but undoing a mistake already made is often impossible.”

  “And have you ever?” This time it was Ronnie.

  “I’m sorry? Have I ever what?”

  “Have you ever stretched the limits, pushed beyond what’s prudent? Have you undertaken something that you wished, in retrospect, you hadn’t? Or maybe taken it further than you should have? Further than a reasonable man might.”

  Dr. Rome smiled. “I can assure you I’ve not done anything unreasonable. As for having regrets, I’m afraid I don’t indulge in that kind of thinking. It does more harm than good. It leads to timidness, and in my profession one must always remain fearless.”

  “That’s what I like to hear!” Joe exclaimed. “Fearless! Today’s imperiled world calls for nothing less.”

  “And what about you?” The countess turned toward Abigail. “Are you fearless as well?”

  She could feel her heat rising. “The requirements of my position are very different.”

  “But I’m sure you must be quite a Florence Nightingale. Otherwise, you’d not be working for a man with such exacting standards as your Dr. Rome.”

  “If Abby is really that tough,” Joe interjected again, “I swear you’d never know it from looking at her. Why, that face is right off the cover of a magazine. Like one of those Gibson girls.”

  Abigail shifted in her chair. “I assure you that I look quite unglamorous dressed for surgery.”

  “Well, it’s a good thing. Otherwise, I don’t know how Frank could keep his mind on his blade.”

  “Joe, you’re embarrassing Abigail,” Lillian chided. “You’re forgetting she’s a professional woman.”