Out of the corner of her eye, Abigail saw Ludwik reach for a glass of water, his expression taut.
“I’ll be damned!” Joe wiped a trace of cream from his mouth with a napkin. “That would be something, wouldn’t it?”
“Is there any reason it couldn’t be done?” This time it was Ronnie who addressed Dr. Rome. “I mean, I’m just wondering.”
“I honestly don’t know. I’d have to examine the girls, understand their anatomy, and evaluate their overall health. There are lots of things to consider—that is, if one were to consider it at all.”
Ludwik cleared his throat. “Let’s not talk about such nonsense.”
“But why?” Joe seemed to be enjoying himself tremendously. “These girls want to be beautiful. What’s wrong with that?” He glanced from Dr. Rome to Ludwik and back to Dr. Rome.
“Ludwik is right,” Dr. Rome finally said, to Abigail’s relief.
Joe looked disappointed. “I guess I’m overruled. But it doesn’t seem like so very much to ask, just to straighten out a little bump or two. To make a couple of beauties out of these girls—why, I would think any beauty doctor worth his salt would consider it a challenge, if not a duty.”
Abigail was ashamed of herself for not speaking up. Whatever merit there was in Dr. Rome’s work, the ignorance of Joe’s comments only served to belittle it.
But to say so would not serve the purpose for which she had promised to devote herself this weekend.
“I was hoping you might have managed to be a bit more charming tonight.”
It was after midnight, and Dr. Rome stood with Abigail before the door to her bedroom. It was true that she had been quiet all evening, passing up numerous opportunities to bolster his reputation in the eyes of the Radcliffs and their guests. She was sorry for that, but she was far too upset by the behavior of people from whom she had expected far better.
“I apologize, but honestly—I was too shocked.”
“I imagine you were. The conjoined twins—”
“No, it wasn’t the twins. It was everyone else. Did you hear the way they spoke, as if those unfortunate girls were deaf and dumb? I suspect they understand English well enough. And when the countess asked if you plan to cut off one of their heads—how could she have thought such a remark was amusing?”
“I agree it was uncalled for, but remember—our purpose here is not to teach manners.”
“I know that.”
He placed his hand lightly on her arm. “Abigail, Abigail . . . what am I going to do with you?”
His use of her given name startled her, even though she’d heard it all night from everyone else.
“I’ll do better tomorrow,” she said contritely, pulling away and turning toward the door.
“May I come in?”
She paused with her hand on the knob, surprised by his suggestion. To invite a man into her bedroom was certainly not proper. What would the Radcliffs think? But then, how were they to know?
“As you wish—for a minute.”
Abigail entered the room, Dr. Rome close behind her. Softly, he shut the door. As she hurried to light the bedside lamp, she heard the snap of the lock.
“I imagine you must be in seventh heaven out here in the country, surrounded by all this beauty,” he remarked, almost too casually. “You who loves nature so.”
She froze. Was his comment a jab at her earlier attempts at profundity?
“I find it a bit difficult to feel comfortable around Joe Radcliff,” she said without turning. She removed her gloves and tossed them on the bed. “Forgive me, but my impression of him is not terribly favorable.”
“I’m not asking you to approve of any of them. Just remember, they could be important to me. And you must remember, too, that others are entitled to their opinions. Not everyone is as enlightened as you are, my dear.”
So this was what he wanted—just to lecture her further. Perhaps to amuse himself at her expense . . .
She spun around. “I take it that you still think removing the countess’s mole would be such a boon to your practice?” she asked with a hint of petulance.
He smiled. “Actually, I’m not sure I should encourage her to get rid of it. It’s more of a beauty mark, don’t you think? And it rather becomes her.”
Caught off guard by a sudden feeling to which she certainly was not entitled—an emotion that felt shockingly like jealousy—she swept past him to the window. The drapes were open, the sky a vast black ocean littered with pinpoints of light. She wished he would leave. It had been such a trying evening, and he was not making it any easier now.
In the glass, she caught a faint reflection of movement as Dr. Rome silently came up behind her.
“Alexandra is quite a beautiful woman,” he said softly, “but certainly no more beautiful than you.”
He placed his hands at her waist. She stiffened. What was he doing, touching her in such a way? “I’m afraid that—that Countess Alexandra and I could not be more different,” she managed to stutter, embarrassed at how pathetic she sounded.
“That’s very true. And isn’t it wonderful that we live in a world of opposites? It gives one so many choices.”
His hands began to move, slowly following the curve of her hips. “Alexandra’s costume this evening did nothing to flatter her. She should know better. A beautiful woman never allows the sparkle of her jewels to outshine her own brilliance.”
Suddenly she felt his lips soft and warm against her ear, his moustache like the tease of a feather. “You, on the other hand, looked ravishing.” He ran his tongue down her neck, sending a ripple of sensation through her. “I love this gown on you. But I must admit that all night long, I’ve been trying to imagine you without it. As a matter of fact, I could hardly think of anything else.”
With deft fingers, he undid the topmost button of her dress, hesitating a moment before moving to the next and the next—all the way down her back. Remarkably, she did nothing to stop him. He slid the coral-colored silk the rest of the way off her shoulders; it pooled around her waist, leaving her shivering in her corset and shift.
“Don’t tell me you haven’t thought about this.” Turning her around, he ran his finger along the length of her collarbone, his gaze lingering on her half-exposed bosom. “Don’t tell me you haven’t wanted it.”
Somehow she managed to find her voice. “But, Dr. Rome—”
“Franklin,” he said, gently pulling the laced butterfly ornament from her hair. “Say it. I want to hear how it sounds on those gorgeous lips of yours.”
She closed her eyes, terrified to look at him.
“Say it now.”
“Franklin,” she whispered breathlessly.
“That didn’t hurt so very much, did it? And the rest won’t either. I promise you.”
She knew then, beyond any doubt, what he meant to do. She could no longer pretend to be surprised. Hadn’t he hinted at it that night in the Park Avenue Hotel? Hadn’t she been waiting all this time to see when and how it would happen? But despite all that, she could not simply acquiesce—even if she wanted to. There was far too much at stake.
She opened her eyes. “No—I’m sorry. I can’t.”
“You can’t—or you won’t?” He took her hand and lifted it to his lips. “There’s a difference, you know.”
She remembered how he had spoken so openly of his many affairs with women. How he’d admitted to a weakness for beauty. Chances are he would tire of her quickly, perhaps come to loathe the sight of her. And what would that mean to her future? To the work she had come to love?
“My dear Abigail, I know what you’re thinking, but you mustn’t be afraid. Fear is the enemy of passion. The enemy of everything you want but think you can’t have.” He looked at her hungrily. “Do you have any idea how beautiful you are?”
He began again to kiss her neck, and again she didn’t stop him. Shutting her eyes, she was back at the Park Avenue Hotel. His head bent toward her, his dark hair touched with gold from the flickering c
andlelight. A modern woman has the freedom to do whatever she chooses . . . those who are alike always come together . . . a young woman often finds the greatest happiness with an older man . . .
Was it her imagination, or had he said it again, just now?
“She does?” she murmured as his lips caressed the soft swell of her breast.
CHAPTER 9
If I might ask,” the countess said, in that droll manner of hers, “what reason on earth did Joe have for inviting that Ludwik fellow and his little monster to Scarsdale?”
“You’d have to ask Joe,” Lillian replied, spreading a thick layer of strawberry jam on her muffin.
“Where is he this morning? Tinkering with one of his silly machines?”
“No, he and Frank left early. Something about a meeting with the Scarsdale Town Club. He said not to expect them back until this afternoon.”
It had been difficult enough waking up alone, wondering why he’d left her, what he’d been thinking when he did. But the news that she wouldn’t see him until this afternoon sent Abigail into a tailspin. Didn’t he know how anxious she was, how much she needed his reassurance that what had happened was all right? That she had nothing to regret?
She drifted back to last night. How intently he’d watched her, how persistent his efforts to please. She would not have guessed him to be capable of such tenderness. He knew he was her first—or if there had been any question in his mind in the beginning, there could be none now. He had taken the bloody towel with him; the maid would likely think he’d cut himself shaving. She was grateful not to have to deal with it, though surprisingly she felt little shame. But there was still that uneasiness, the questions. The need to know: What were they to each other now?
“Well, it’s disturbing to think of those girls sleeping under the same roof as the rest of us.” The countess was back to her rantings over the Siamese twins. “As far as I’m concerned, they’re not quite human. I’m going to talk to Joe—”
“They’re as human as you or I.” Everyone turned to look at Abigail.
“She’s right,” said Ronnie. “They’re people, just like the rest of us. Just put together differently. I sometimes wonder in fact if all of us aren’t freaks—each in our own way.”
“Or maybe all of us are beautiful in our own way,” Abigail added, vigorously stirring sugar into her tea, remembering guiltily how she’d promised to keep her opinions to herself.
Ronnie grabbed another muffin from the platter. “I believe you really mean that.”
“Yes, I do.”
“But what if we don’t see ourselves as beautiful?” Ronnie smiled ruefully. “I suppose you’ll say we should telephone Dr. Rome, and he’ll take care of it!”
“Well, it’s not quite that simple, but often there’s something he can do.”
“But he can’t change everything about a person, can he?”
“I’m not sure what you mean,” Abigail replied, not wishing to minimize Franklin’s skill in the operating room.
“What’s the expression—you can’t make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear?”
“No, I suppose not. But—”
“I’ve been wanting to ask you,” Ronnie continued, rather urgently it seemed, “about paraffin—they use it for all kinds of things, don’t they?”
“Mostly for wrinkles, sometimes to build up a nose when the bridge is depressed—a saddle nose, they call it.”
“And Frank does that?”
“Paraffin injections are one of his specialties,” she answered enthusiastically.
“What about testicles?”
Abigail thought she must have misheard. “I’m sorry, what did you say?”
“I think I read somewhere that testicles can be fashioned from paraffin. You know, if someone had lost them, maybe in an accident or something.”
“Oh, Ronnie, why don’t you just come right out and say what’s on your mind!” Alexandra broke in. “You see, Abigail, Ronnie has this notion that she’s some sort of unique being, defying all the usual categories. She thinks, in her case, God made some sort of mistake. And she keeps trying to find a way to correct it, but I’m afraid to no avail. Really, I find it hilarious.”
“That’s enough, Alexandra,” Ronnie snapped, her face scarlet.
Abigail’s shock at Alexandra’s cruelty was exceeded only by her sympathy for Ronnie. How she would have liked to tell the countess what she really thought of her—or better yet to break the news that Franklin, with whom Alexandra had flirted so shamelessly, had chosen her last night!
“Oh, very well!” Alexandra replied impatiently. “But my point about the twins was that I don’t understand why Joe would find it necessary to invite them to dine with us. Honestly, Lillian, I don’t know how you manage to live with that man.”
“It’s never dull.” Lillian laughed. “I guess I’m able to put up with it only because I understand him so well.”
“What is there to understand?”
“Well . . .” She sighed. “I shouldn’t talk about him, not like this. But I have to say, Joe has a tremendous drive to achieve something grand. One might even call it an obsession. Maybe it’s only to make himself feel important. We all need that sometimes, don’t we?”
“Sounds like a typical man to me. Always thinking they’re something special. And yet Joe professes such humility! Everybody by their Christian names, he says. No respect for titles, as if they mean nothing at all when, in fact, they mean a great deal.”
“Let’s just say my husband is a mass of contradictions! Always trying to reconcile opposites. For example, he has it in his head that the world would be a better place if only humans could be as predictable as machines! Silly, isn’t it? I told him—”
“Tell him to stop wasting his time,” the countess snapped. “Human beings will never be predictable. And wanting to save the world never gets anyone anywhere, except into trouble. Isn’t that right, Abigail?”
Abigail looked up in surprise. Why would the countess ask her, of all people, such a question? “I can’t agree with Joe’s notions about humans and machines, but I do find the impulse to change things for the better quite admirable. Without it, there would be no such thing as progress.”
“One person’s idea of progress is often another’s treason,” Alexandra shot back with a vehemence that seemed to come out of the blue.
“Alexandra is speaking of her father,” Lillian said, offering Abigail an apologetic smile. “It’s quite a sad story.”
“You see, my dear Abigail,” the countess said, with a bitterness that sounded more like anger than sorrow, “my father was part of an elite group called the People’s Will, which directed the assassination of Czar Alexander the second. Their goal was to incite revolution among the Russian peasant class, but, unfortunately for them, the peasants did not share their zeal. Eventually my father and the others in his circle were arrested and killed. Which is why I say that, for the most part, it’s best to leave things as they are. One person, or even a small group of fanatics, cannot hope to change the world. Especially when it comes to social class, we are what we are. As my late husband, the Count, used to say, Without the rich, the poor would have nothing to complain about.”
Abigail was greatly disturbed by Alexandra’s tale and, perhaps even more, by the somewhat cavalier attitude with which she related it. Losing one’s father to violence seemed the kind of thing from which one would never recover completely.
Though surely it was not as painful as being responsible oneself for the loss . . .
“But come now, one can easily become melancholy from such deep thoughts so early in the morning,” Lillian said hastily, glancing at Ronnie with a worried look. “It’s a lovely day, and I thought it would be fun for the four of us to take a little walk—unless you ladies are too concerned for your complexions.”
“I would enjoy it immensely,” Abigail answered, happy to move on to a lighter subject. She remembered the stunning impression the orchards and gardens had made on her w
hen she and Franklin first arrived. It would be delightful to wander among them for a while.
“I’ll come along as well,” Ronnie said, pushing her chair back from the table.
“And you, Alexandra? Would you be in favor of some fresh air?”
The countess blotted her lips with a napkin. “I’m afraid not. Why don’t the three of you go? I have other things to do.”
“You’re sure you don’t mind if we leave you here alone?”
“Not at all. I’m perfectly capable of entertaining myself.”
Whatever Alexandra’s reason for not joining them, Abigail was glad of it. Though her attitude toward the countess might be somewhat gentler than before—both of them, after all, had lost their fathers under trying circumstances—still she found her behavior unsettling. And yet, for Franklin’s sake, she must remain agreeable, no matter how inappropriate the conduct of others.
After changing into her walking suit, a pair of sturdy boots, and donning a wide-brimmed hat, Abigail joined Lillian and Ronnie in front of the house, and the three women began their stroll down the gravel driveway. From the east, a light breeze carried the fragrance of roses and butterfly bushes. Ahead, the Radcliffs’ private road followed the soft roll of the grassy fields on either side of it. To the west, there was only the deeper green of summer woods—ash and maple and oak raising their branches to the sky in an intricate mosaic.
Abigail tried to picture how it would be to live in a place like this, so different from the gray city streets where she’d spent her entire life. It would be a wonderful setting in which to raise children—that is, if she were so inclined. But being that she was not, she couldn’t imagine a single circumstance under which she might ever reside in such a remote spot. It seemed to her in fact that the whole world revolved around Manhattan—and now, her work with Franklin.
“We’ve a decision to make,” Lillian announced. She had stopped at the edge of the woods, just to the right of where the driveway ended and the private road leading to the public thoroughfare began. Ahead of them, a dirt path wound under the thick canopy of trees, a lovely dapple of sunlight lighting the way into what seemed a haven of tranquility.
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