The Beauty Doctor

by Elizabeth Hutchison Bernard

  “I’m terribly sorry for all that. Her behavior was bloody disgraceful. I doubt she knew what she was saying. It was all such rubbish.”

  She was grateful for his diplomacy but, nevertheless, anxious to change the subject. “I hate to think of what she’ll feel like in the morning. Her head will be pounding like a sledgehammer.”

  “I suppose it will.” He took a deep breath, pressing his palms together. “Well, now that all the excitement is over, I’ll wish you a good night. Unless—” He hesitated, eyeing her with a look of concern. “You’ll be all right?”

  “I’m fine. Perfect, actually.”

  He smiled—mercifully, she thought. “I wish you the best, Miss Platford. Though we’ve only just met, I won’t soon forget you.”

  Before she could decide whether it was proper to return the compliment, he was already gone.

  CHAPTER 11

  Abigail awoke before five o’clock, the lamp at her bedside still lit. Franklin had not come to her room last night. She was ashamed that she’d left the door unlocked for him. After what she’d seen in the library, how could she think anything but the worst? He had offered no explanation. He’d ignored her completely, as if she wasn’t there watching every moment of the disgusting little drama as it played itself out.

  Yet she’d left the door unlocked. She had wanted him to come. She needed to know if he still desired her. She longed to hear him say that he did, that she had no reason to worry; he cared for her and would never let her down. The Rome Institute meant nothing to him without her.

  But all that was far too much to ask. She had been crazy to think that she might actually be important to him. Undoubtedly, he thought of her as not much more than a child, someone he’d taken pity on—that is, before he’d taken her innocence. And her pride. To know he had desired her once but no more was worse than if he’d never wanted her at all.

  She had lain awake half the night, trying to imagine a way she could carry on, pretend that it had meant as little to her as it did to him. Act as if she had never expected anything to come of it. Go back to being nothing more than his assistant, standing across the operating table, passing him instruments with gloved hands while she so desperately longed for the warmth of his touch.

  Such a scenario seemed impossible. As did the alternative: a future without Franklin Rome as her mentor or her lover. At that moment, she wasn’t sure which of the two roles that he had assumed in her life was more vital, but having arrived at such an impasse was perhaps the most frightening thing of all. Had she lost all reason?

  Her heart was heavy as she pushed back the covers and rose from the bed. In the bathroom, she sponged herself down, brushed her teeth, and rinsed her mouth with Odol. She pulled her hair into a loose chignon, then donned her underthings, a skirt and shirtwaist, and her sturdiest boots.

  She opened the bedroom door, glancing in all directions to be sure no one was around, and then tiptoed down the hallway, careful not to make a sound. She wondered if she would encounter some of the help downstairs, but the first floor was as quiet as upstairs, and she managed to escape without need of an explanation for anyone.

  The sun was still low in the sky. Even the birds had not yet left their nests. The only sounds were the faint rustling of trees blowing in the breeze and an occasional cricket’s chirp. She tried to let the calm and simple beauty of nature lift her spirits, as she knew it should, but her mind kept turning back to Franklin.

  An honest accounting of their professional relationship could only lead to the conclusion that she had gained more than she’d given. She had learned a great deal from Franklin over the course of their work together. But as much as she would have liked to consider herself indispensable, she recognized that she wasn’t; he could get on quite well without her, as he had before she arrived. He had no obligation to keep her on—except that an honorable man doesn’t take a thing as precious as a woman’s virtue without paying the proper respect. He does not create expectations without any intention of fulfilling them. Nor does he leave in tatters a heart that has opened itself so trustingly after being assured there was nothing to fear.

  “Good morning!”

  She spun around, her hand flying to her chest. Ludwik was behind her on the path, not more than a few yards back. He carried a black leather bag over one shoulder and a camera in his hand.

  He came up beside her, his face glowing with a light film of perspiration.

  “Good morning.” She nervously poked a loose strand of hair back into her chignon, hoping she didn’t look too unkempt. “I didn’t expect to see anyone out here this early.”

  “Nor did I.” He held up his camera, a black box with an accordion-like extension at the end of which was a round lens. “I wanted to get a few more shots of the landscape before the girls and I leave. I like the way things look in the early morning light.”

  “So you’re a photographer!”

  “It’s just a hobby. They’re doing so much with cameras these days. I’m even starting to play around with color—just so I can pretend, every once in a while, that I’m something more than an amateur. But I like my trusty little folding camera. It’s easy to carry around, and it’s enough of a challenge.” Squinting, he pulled down the brim of his straw boater. “What brings you out so early?”

  “I just wanted to take a final look at the rose gardens, the gazebo. Everything is so beautiful here. I don’t want to forget it.”

  He gave her a curious look. “You sound as if you don’t expect to be back. But aren’t you going to work at Mr. Radcliff’s new institute with your Dr. Rome?”

  “He’s not my Dr. Rome,” she replied, a bit too forcefully. “And I don’t know if I’ll be continuing on at the Rome Institute.”

  “And why is that? I thought you enjoyed your work.”

  She hated having to think about it, to speak about it. “I do, of course, but I’m afraid it would be quite impractical for me to stay on. I’m too accustomed to the city life.” She touched his leather bag, wanting to change the subject. “What’s in there? Your film?”

  “Yes, and a few of my albums.”

  “Albums?”

  “I like to make up books with some of my better photographs. The albums always have a theme. The several that I have with me are landscapes. Nothing too exciting,” he said modestly.

  “Could I see them?”

  He seemed surprised and pleased by her request. “Why, of course—if you really want to.” He glanced around and, apparently seeing no place where they might sit down, suggested that they walk the rest of the way to the gazebo.

  Along the trail, they kept the conversation light, talking mostly about the extraordinary beauty of the countryside. He stopped a couple of times to take photographs. Abigail was interested by what drew his attention and that he seemed able to visualize how something rather ordinary might translate into a spectacular photographic image.

  “I try to suggest a story with my pictures,” he said as they walked the final stretch to the gazebo. “To convey emotion. Now, the emotion that a particular image inspires in me might not be the same as it inspires in you. But that’s not important—as long as it inspires something. Because otherwise a picture is just a moment in time, with no connection to anything else, no significance. Like the tree in the forest that crashes to the ground with no one around to hear it. Does it make a sound?”

  “I think it does. Why must human beings always be at the center of everything? Nature takes its course without us, and it does quite well.”

  “Yes, I suppose you’re right. But without us to appreciate it, nature might be rather lonely.”

  She smiled. “I would be lonely without nature, that’s for certain.”

  “But I thought you said you’re a city girl.”

  She blushed. “I’m afraid I don’t know what I am anymore.”

  Arriving at the gazebo, they settled themselves on the white wicker sofa. Ludwik removed four leather-bound albums from his bag, stacking them on the floor
in front of him. They proceeded to pore over them, one by one, losing all track of time.

  The photographs were stunning. Ludwik had an unusual way of capturing scenes that made them appear eerie and dreamlike, as if they were floating in mist. He said it was all in the lighting and insisted he was only occasionally so lucky, that most of the photographs he took had to be discarded because they were too dark or too bright or out of focus. But Abigail thought the ones he’d kept showed real talent, and she told him so.

  “I always wanted to be a sculptor,” he said. “Turns out I wasn’t bad—but I wasn’t very good either. I suppose, if I was serious, I should have undertaken studies at the university.” He closed the cover of the final album. “So now you’ve seen my hobby. But tell me, what do you do for fun?”

  “Fun?” She was suddenly reminded of her long-ago conversation with Franklin, when he so pointedly asked her about the other side of Abigail Platford. She hadn’t much of an answer then, and perhaps she still didn’t. “I’m all about work, I’m afraid,” she said, at the same time wondering if it was really true anymore, now that she had allowed other things to interfere.

  “Then what are you going to do if you’re no longer assisting Dr. Rome?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I take it you don’t really want to leave him.”

  The tears started to build and she turned away, trying hard to blink them back. For the most part she succeeded.

  “Maybe it’s not as bad as you think,” he said, hastily pulling a handkerchief from his pocket and offering it to her. Without looking at him, she waved it away. “Maybe things will work out.”

  “I suppose they might.”

  “I hope so. But if not—if there’s anything I can do to help . . .”

  Suddenly, she felt the touch of his hand on her wrist. She jumped up from the sofa.

  “I suppose I should be getting back,” she said, her face reddening. How awkwardly she had responded to what was undoubtedly nothing more than a sympathetic gesture. She struggled to regain her composure. “Will we see you later this morning, at breakfast?”

  Ludwik started gathering up his albums, shoving them into his black bag. “No, I’m afraid not,” he replied, without looking up. “I’m going to stay out a while longer. The Radcliffs have some outstanding-looking horses down at the barn. I thought it might be interesting to photograph them.”

  She was glad he didn’t offer to walk her back to the house. She didn’t know what silly thing she might have said to him, what she might have done. Twice already she’d proven herself far too eager to throw herself on the mercy of a man she barely knew; she mustn’t make the same mistake again. “Good luck. I hope the pictures turn out well. It’s a shame I won’t get to see them.”

  She stepped down from the gazebo onto the grass. “Oh, by the way,” she said, pivoting to look at him, feeling safer at a distance, “did you ever find Joe last night?”

  Ludwik raised his eyes. “Yes, I did.”

  “And the two of you reached an understanding?”

  “More or less we did. I can’t say he was happy, especially about me leaving with the twins today. He’s awfully taken with the idea of them having surgery at this new institute of his and Dr. Rome’s. I’d say it’s become a bit of an obsession and an absurd one at that. But he’ll get over it, I’m sure.”

  “He has no other choice.” She smiled. “Well, goodbye—and thank you,” she added, her wrist still tingling where he had touched it.

  “Goodbye, Miss Platford. And good luck to you.”

  She turned and started up the path, sure that his eyes followed her.

  She had expected that Alexandra would take a breakfast tray in her room, too indisposed to get out of bed. But when Abigail arrived at the back porch around ten, after a change of clothes and a complete toilette, she was dismayed to find the countess already there.

  Alexandra was dressed in one of her elaborate kimonos, the only sign of her intemperance being a slight puffiness around the eyes. Franklin sat across from her, quietly sipping his coffee. He looked extraordinarily tired; Abigail tried not to imagine what had kept him from his sleep.

  “Good morning, Abigail,” Lillian chirped.

  “You’re looking bright-eyed and bushy-tailed,” Joe boomed from his place at the head of the table.

  Franklin raised his eyes to look at her, offering a halfhearted smile, his eyes conspicuously bloodshot. She quickly looked away and headed for a seat as far from him as possible. Unfortunately, the only setting other than the one next to him was beside Alexandra.

  She sat down and immediately a servant came with a platter of French toast and another of scrambled eggs, both of which she politely declined.

  “I had a few more thoughts early this morning, Frank,” Joe announced. “Made a couple of revised sketches I want to show you before you head back to New York.”

  Abigail took a cup of tea. She added sugar—much more than she needed. She watched it dissolve.

  “Don’t you ever sleep, Joe?” Alexandra asked glibly.

  “As little as possible. Seems I’ve always got too much to do. You see, with me the shortest distance between two points is seldom a straight line. Lillian says I change my mind more often than my socks, but it’s not without good reason. Just when I’ve decided to do things one way, I start to think another way might be better. And sometimes things that seemed to fit just don’t, and then I have to modify one or the other—or even start over completely. But then, that’s what an inventor is all about, no matter what it is that you’re trying to invent. Trial and error, that’s what it takes.” He scratched at his thinning hair. “To tell the truth, I never know myself if what I’m thinking really will work until it does, and then I’m as surprised as anyone.”

  Abigail thought about asking him if his museum of human oddities was one of those many things about which he’d suddenly changed his mind, and whether the Rome Institute might be next. But there seemed no point to it. She was starting not to care—or, at least, to tell herself she didn’t. Whatever Franklin and Joe might be planning, it seemed not to include her.

  “Has anyone seen Ludwik and the girls this morning?” Lillian asked. “I assumed they’d be joining us.”

  Joe’s expression turned sour. “Ludwik and I had it out last night. I doubt he’ll be showing up for breakfast.”

  “What do you mean—had it out?”

  “It doesn’t matter now. Forget it.”

  “If it’s about those girls having surgery—”

  “If you ask me,” the countess interrupted, “I think the twins would be lucky to have Frank operate on them. There could be no one better.”

  “I’m sorry if Ludwik is upset,” Lillian said, with a worried frown. “Maybe I shouldn’t have told everybody that the girls wanted surgery on their noses. I didn’t think it would cause such a fuss.”

  “It’s not your fault,” Abigail exclaimed with a burst of indignation. “Joe doesn’t understand the risks of surgery.”

  “Abigail, I believe I’m the doctor here.”

  She felt her color rise. “Of course you are, Dr. Rome, but even you insinuated that there were too many unknowns as far as the twins are concerned.” She heard the countess stifle a giggle. It infuriated her, as did Franklin’s patronizing attitude. It wasn’t as if he intended to operate on them. “I was simply pointing out that—”

  “You’ve already made your point.”

  “You know, Abby,” said Joe through a mouthful of blueberry muffin, “that’s exactly why women shouldn’t be allowed to practice medicine. It’s a risky business, there’s no doubt. But nothing ventured, nothing gained. A man takes it all in stride. But women—oh, there’s so much to love about them! But when it comes to real guts, they just don’t have what it takes.”

  She waited for Franklin to object, to say something that would put Joe in his place. He didn’t.

  She rose decisively from her chair. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to go upstairs and g
et my things ready.”

  She swept past Franklin and into the hall, then up the stairs to her bedroom. She shut and locked the door behind her. Crossing the room, she threw open the armoire, ripping out her dresses and gowns and flinging them onto the bed in a careless heap. Why had she ever allowed him to buy them for her? Did he believe that he owned her now, that he could take her or leave her as he pleased? And Joe Radcliff—he’d certainly shown his true colors, and it wasn’t the first time! How could she ever work with someone who held an attitude like that toward women? Even Franklin—had he only been pretending to respect her? Only long enough to carry out his devious seduction?

  In a huff, she started toward the bathroom to gather the rest of her things, but stopped short. There were shouts coming from outside.

  She hurried over to the window, parted the drapes, and peered out. A horse-drawn cart careened across the wide expanse of lawn just outside her window. The driver, who appeared to be a gardener or field hand, yelled something that she couldn’t quite make out. As he sped by, she caught a glimpse of a long bundle laid out in the back. It took only a second for her to see that it was a man and to recognize the straw boater that someone had placed over his face.

  Her heart pounding, Abigail ran to the door. She flung it open and rushed into the hallway and down the stairs, reaching the foyer just as three of the Radcliffs’ workers burst through the front entrance carrying Ludwik, who appeared to be unconscious. They had no stretcher; one of them had grabbed his legs and another his shoulders as the third attempted to provide some support to his neck and head.

  Franklin and Joe came rushing past her, Joe already barking orders.

  “Put him in the dining room! Lay him out on the table.”

  He threw open the double doors. A couple of housemaids, busy with their mops and cloths, looked up in alarm and then scurried out of the way. The workers moved Ludwik inside and laid him atop the polished walnut slab. Franklin, Joe, and Abigail gathered around him.