“If we take a shortcut through these woods, it’s about a mile to the asylum.”
“Asylum!” Abigail thought Lillian must be joking.
“Are you up for the walk?”
“Of course, but—”
“Then let’s go.”
The path was just wide enough to walk two abreast; after a minute or two, Ronnie fell back, trailing far behind. Abigail slowed her pace accordingly until Lillian assured her that Ronnie often liked to wander off alone, and they should leave her be; she would catch up.
As they continued walking, silence settled over the two of them, broken only by the occasional crunch of a twig beneath their boots or the scurrying of a squirrel among the leaves. Abigail found her thoughts turning back to Franklin. Suddenly, the fact of their intimacy felt awkward, and she wondered whether she had made a mistake. Might she prefer things the way they were before?
Fondly, she remembered them together in the operating room that night when he had given her the anatomy lesson, how he had taken her step by step through the dissection. How he’d explained his philosophy of beauty, recounted his favorite stories from Paris. Since then, she had thought of him less as an employer than a mentor. Less a stranger than an ally.
Now that he was her lover, would everything have to change?
“So would you like to hear about the asylum?”
Abigail came back to herself with a start. “Oh—yes, of course.”
Lillian pulled a lace handkerchief from beneath the cuff of her shirtwaist and blotted her forehead. “Well, it all began seventeen years ago, in 1890. Dr. Hans Schwann came here from Germany and spent two years planning and building what was to be an institution for the treatment of the insane and the mentally deficient. Then, just before the facility opened, the poor fellow died. The building sat there for another six years, until Joe came along and bought up forty acres to build our house, including the five that were part of Dr. Schwann’s estate. I think everyone assumed Joe would knock the place down, but he’s always wondered if there wasn’t something he could do with it.”
“Surely you wouldn’t want it used for its original purpose.”
“It’s funny you should say that. There was a psychiatrist who made an offer at the same time Joe did. I remember bumping into him one afternoon when we came out to take another look at the place. He and Joe got into a terrible argument. Joe has quite a temper at times.” She laughed lightly. “Oh my, he does. But turns out he needn’t have spouted off like that. As luck would have it—actually, not luck but misfortune—the other fellow had some kind of accident soon after, and he dropped out of the bidding. Joe was the only one left. Our neighbors in Scarsdale were relieved. The town wasn’t terribly pleased at the idea of a mental institution in our midst. A lot of strange folks wandering about, and one never knows how good the security is at such places.” Again she laughed. “I’m afraid they think Joe and me strange enough as it is.”
“Certainly they don’t,” Abigail objected politely.
“I’m not ashamed to admit it, though Joe wishes I wouldn’t, but neither of us comes from money. As for education, I haven’t an awful lot of it, and neither does Joe, though he reads everything he can get his hands on. He’s not literary, mind you, but very practical. If you look in our library, you’ll see what I mean. It’s full of how-to books, a bit of history, and not much else. He’s always been good with machines, good at figuring things out for himself, or at least knowing where to look for the answers. I suppose that’s what has made him so successful.”
“May I ask, what is his field?”
“I thought you knew. Joe is an inventor.”
An inventor! At least that helped explain his eccentricity; creative people often could be unorthodox.
“How fascinating! What kinds of things does he invent?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Lillian said, waving her hand dismissively. “Just things—mostly for industrial purposes. Rather boring, I’m afraid. I think that’s why he’s so keen on branching out. You can only do so much with machines before you tire of them. Human beings are vastly more engaging—and complex. He’s recently become obsessed with the field of medicine, how it might be used to actually alter the course of human destiny.”
“Well yes, if someday we could find cures—”
“No, not exactly. Of course, curing disease is important. But Joe is more interested in changing human beings themselves. He’s just not sure yet how to go about it—though he’s definitely fascinated by Frank’s work.”
“A lot of people are intrigued by Dr. Rome’s work, but very few really understand it. I suppose if they did, it might lose a little of its glamour,” Abigail said, brushing off Lillian’s comment. Something about it made her uncomfortable. She was glad they would be leaving tomorrow. There was really no reason to have come at all—not if Franklin planned to dissuade the countess from having her mole removed.
She was about to ask Lillian whether she knew if Alexandra was still considering the procedure when the trail ended abruptly, and they stepped from the shelter of the woods into the heat and blinding sunlight. Stretched out before them was an open field of tall, reedy grass. At the far end, partially hidden by a tangle of trees and overgrown shrubbery, a huge structure rose up against the cloudless blue sky. The three-story Gothic-style building was constructed of blood-red brick, with tall, arched windows and a circular tower capped by a domed peak.
“There’s something spooky about it, don’t you think?” Ronnie said, having caught up with them. She raised her arm to wipe her sweaty forehead with her cotton sleeve.
“Ronnie knows the story. The reason the workers won’t come out here. When Dr. Schwann passed away suddenly, there was a rumor that he’d hung himself from the tower. Completely false, but you know how those kinds of tall tales get passed along. Maybe that’s one reason Joe was able to buy the property for a bargain price.” Lillian tossed Ronnie a questioning look. “Would you mind if we take Abigail for a closer look?”
“It’s fine with me.” Immediately Ronnie started off, tramping through the high grass with her heavy boots like the leader of a jungle safari. Lillian fell in behind her, and Abigail brought up the rear, taking advantage of the flattened path that the other two forged as they went.
As they drew closer to the asylum, the more foreboding it seemed. Abigail had once read the famous account of Nellie Bly, her exposé in 1887 on the Blackwell’s Island Insane Asylum. The horrors had made a lasting impression on her. She recalled in particular how dozens of women inmates were forced to bathe in the same filthy tub of water, one towel to share among them. They were given rotten food to eat, forced to endure the freezing cold, condemned to torturous punishments. If they were sane—and some clearly were—it didn’t matter. The authorities defined their mental status and decided their fate. They were utterly powerless.
She shivered to think of it. But how much more enlightened society was about mental illnesses in 1907! Besides, Lillian said Dr. Schwann died just after the construction of his hospital was completed; apparently the asylum had never housed a single patient. There was no history of suffering here. It was only an empty shell.
Hot and weary, they finally reached the gravel driveway that wound in a circle in front of the building. Weeds had overtaken it—and everything else as well. There was a rusty wheelbarrow, a rake, and a hoe off to the side as if someone had thought to make a start at cleaning the place up. But obviously no work had been done here for a very long time. She recalled now what Lillian had said: the workers were afraid.
As Abigail stared up at the massive edifice, she could understand why they felt intimidated by its looming presence. It seemed a relic from another age, a monstrosity. All the windows were boarded up, the massive double doors at the entrance secured with a heavy chain. And the tower—her eyes were drawn to the peaked dome, the black spiral. Yes, one might easily conjure up the image of Dr. Schwann’s lifeless body swinging back and forth in the breeze, the poor doctor a vi
ctim of some deranged patient’s maniacal rage or perhaps simply his own despair.
Abigail was just about to comment on it when she heard the sound of an automobile. A moment later, a black Stoddard-Dayton touring car came lurching around the curve of a dirt road off to the right, barreling toward them at top speed. Joe was at the wheel.
Franklin was with him.
Her pulse quickened. She’d been waiting all morning for this. How would it feel when their eyes met? What secret message would she read in his smile?
Joe pulled up in a flurry of dust. He shut down the engine and, with some difficulty, extricated his stomach from behind the wheel. Abigail saw all this, but only in the periphery; the focus of her attention was Franklin, handsome in his well-tailored suit, the jacket left open to reveal a smart burgundy-and-gray striped waistcoat.
She waited breathlessly for his approach. What would he say to her? Would they touch—a brush of the hand that no one else would notice?
“Ladies, if I may have everyone’s attention,” Joe shouted, hurrying toward the three women as if they’d been expecting him and he was late. Sweat dripped from his brow. When he reached where they were standing, he paused only long enough to plant a swift kiss on Lillian’s cheek and then clapped his hands like an excited child.
“Listen up, everybody! I have big news! Are you ready for this?”
“Go on, Joe,” Lillian prodded. “Don’t keep us in suspense!”
“All right, all right! I’m delighted to announce that Dr. Franklin Rome and I have just consummated the deal of the century.” He turned to Franklin with a toothy grin. “I trust I’m not overstating it, am I, Frank?”
“Not in the least.”
Coming up beside Joe, smiling, Franklin acknowledged Abigail with barely a nod. His gaze was fixed on the building rising to the sky behind her, casting its giant shadow over them all.
Joe raised his eyes to the peak of the circular tower, placing a hand over his heart with a look of reverence. “Dr. Schwann, I know things didn’t turn out exactly as you’d hoped, but all is not lost. Meet Dr. Franklin Rome, my new partner and the proprietor of your little hospital—henceforth to be called the Rome Institute of Transformative Surgery!”
CHAPTER 10
“I hope everybody’s hungry for lunch!” Lillian took her seat at the round table on the wide porch overlooking the rear estate property. Joe assumed his post opposite her. “I thought it would be pleasant to eat out here. Abigail, why don’t you sit next to Frank? Alexandra, Ronnie—over here.”
Silently, Abigail went to her assigned chair. She did not look at Franklin. They had not spoken. They had not touched.
Her head was pounding. He must have known this was coming, even before they left for Scarsdale on Friday. He’d hinted at something important—more important than Alexandra’s mole. And Lillian had seemed aware of it, too. It seemed Abigail might be the only one for whom the Rome Institute of Transformative Surgery was a complete surprise.
But why hadn’t he told her?
Was it because now he would have no use for her?
“What do you think about this Typhoid Mary person?” Joe said, addressing Franklin with a mouthful of salad greens. “The one they say made all those people sick? I say they should put her away. Can’t have her running all over the place, infecting everybody. It’s in the public welfare to lock her up. Don’t you agree, Frank?”
“Apparently she shows no symptoms herself, but at least some period of isolation would seem mandatory,” Franklin responded, putting on his most judicious air.
“As I’ve always said, you can’t be too careful when it comes to the help,” declared the countess, “especially if they’re Irish.”
Abigail had just picked up her fork but now set it down abruptly, her frustration finding a suitable enough target in Alexandra. “Typhoid fever is neither a matter of class nor nationality.”
“Oh my, seems we have a reformer among us.” Alexandra reached for her wine, her lips curled in a half smile. “Unless what I said offended you personally, Abigail, in which case I do apologize. I didn’t realize Platford was an Irish name.”
“I’m sure Abigail was only trying to clarify the situation,” Franklin said hastily, shooting her a sideways glance. “However, there’s no denying that the woman’s occupation as a cook in various households might offer ample opportunity to spread the disease.”
“Precisely my point!”
“Well, if we’re looking for something to worry about I’d say this latest recession is a lot more likely than typhoid fever to do us in!” Lillian exclaimed, perhaps hoping to circumvent any further disagreement among her guests.
“Don’t be ridiculous!” Joe broke open a hot roll and slathered it with butter. “These stock market ups and downs are inevitable. You either have the stomach for it or you don’t. And if you don’t, you shouldn’t be in it. Besides, I doubt the recession is going to last too long. And even if it does, I’m not worried.”
“That’s good to hear,” Franklin said, tossing Joe a meaningful smile—a smile between partners, Abigail thought bitterly.
“Of course it’s going to take a boatload of cash to finance this new institute, but I’m looking forward to getting started. I’ve already got an architect in mind for the renovation. And it’s not too early to think about personnel, Frank. This isn’t going to be some hole-in-the-wall place like you’re in now. It’s got to be run like a hospital, with only the best and the brightest. How many nurses do you figure you’ll need?”
“Well . . .” Franklin seemed caught off guard. “Off the top of my head—maybe two or three.”
“Come on, you’ve got to think bigger than that, my friend! I’m anticipating at least a dozen. And I’m sure you’ll want to bring another doctor on board—not as a partner, of course. We’ll limit that to the two of us. But you’ll need an extra pair of hands, won’t you? Someone to assist you, maybe take some cases of his own when you get too busy? We’ll take a percentage of everything he brings in. Not that I’m looking to make a barrel of money on this enterprise. That’s your bailiwick. My interest is purely scientific. I want you to teach me everything you know, Frank, and then I’ll figure out how I want to use it. Which reminds me—I want you to examine those girls this afternoon. Where are they, anyway?”
His comment momentarily distracted Abigail from the morose contemplation of all that she’d just heard. Why did Joe want Franklin to examine the twins?
“They went somewhere with Ludwik this morning,” Ronnie offered.
“But they’re back now,” added Lillian. “Ludwik said they weren’t interested in lunch. I believe they’re out in the gazebo, reading.”
“Splendid!” Joe beamed at Franklin. “You can head over there when we’re done eating.”
“Why should Frank want to see those little monsters again?” The countess crinkled her nose in disgust. “I should think once would be enough for anyone. It’s horrible to imagine living like that, isn’t it?”
“They actually do very well for themselves,” Joe replied. “I admit to being thoroughly fascinated with them. I’d like to study them, test their physical capabilities, their intelligence. How they handle duress.”
“I suspect you were one of those awful little boys who like to capture centipedes and then pull their legs off, one by one,” the countess said, laughing.
“But, Frank,” Joe began again, ignoring her comment, “I really think we’re onto something here. Wouldn’t this be just the thing to catapult you onto the front pages? ‘Beauty Doc Operates on Two-Headed Freak.’ I love it!”
“I don’t know, Joe—”
“Well, you’ll examine them anyway,” Joe said, motioning to one of the servants to remove his salad plate. “I’ll be anxious to hear what you think after that.”
“Ordinarily, removal of a nasal hump is both safe and predictable. But for them—” Franklin shook his head. “Normally one wouldn’t consider them candidates for beauty surgery. Or probably any
surgery. But certainly an operation that’s unnecessary—”
“Is beauty surgery ever really necessary? Of course not! Nevertheless, I’m sure you’re not in the habit of turning patients away. I’d be willing to bet that you have no qualms about operating on virtually anyone who walks through your office door with cash in hand. Am I right?”
Franklin seemed mildly insulted. “Well, I wouldn’t say that. But it’s true that what one person considers unnecessary can be of the most vital importance to another. That’s what makes beauty surgery so different from other branches of medicine. The impetus can be as much psychological as physical.”
“A very important point! It seems to me that it would be of great benefit to our little enterprise if more people understood that need takes many forms. Which is why performing beauty surgery on the Siamese twins is probably the greatest publicity stunt ever conceived!” Joe leaned back in his chair with a self-satisfied smile. “If we’re going to be partners, Frank, you’re going to have to trust me on certain things. I’m a businessman. An entrepreneur. I know what sells.” He pulled a cigarette from his pocket and lit up. “Listen, nobody goes overnight from being an obscure doc in a tiny Manhattan office to being the world’s most acclaimed beauty doctor—not without doing something pretty jaw-dropping. An opportunity like this, operating on probably the rarest Siamese twins on the planet, doesn’t come along every day, you know. We’d be fools not to take it.”
Abigail sensed already that Joe was no fool. There seemed to be only one idiot among the group seated at the Radcliffs’ table—and that was she.
“Joe is right,” offered the countess. “Why, you’ll have every woman in the world beating down the door of your institute, wanting you to fix her face. Because after all, not being as beautiful as one could be is its own kind of tragedy, isn’t it?”
The Beauty Doctor Page 13