The Beauty Doctor

by Elizabeth Hutchison Bernard

  Franklin, positioned at Ludwik’s head, examined a bloody gash at his temple that extended at least four inches into the hairline. He turned to the maids, who were huddled together along the wall. “Bring me some clean towels. And a basin of hot water, soap, and some long strips of cloth, something I can use to wrap his head.”

  “You’re sure he’s breathing?” Abigail asked fearfully, peering over Franklin’s shoulder.

  “I’ve not pronounced him dead, have I?”

  Her eyes traveled the length of Ludwik’s body, searching for any other signs of trauma. He was missing one of his boots, and his pant leg on that side was ripped. She moved away from Franklin to get a better look. Rolling down Ludwik’s long sock, she saw that his ankle was starting to swell.

  “Dr. Rome, look at this.”

  He glanced at the ankle but immediately turned his attention back to the temple wound. “Let me deal with his head first, then I’ll worry about the rest.”

  “Is it serious, Frank?” Joe asked.

  “Any wound to the head can be serious, but we’ll have to wait and see how quickly he comes out of it.”

  The servants quickly brought everything he’d asked for. Using a towel, Franklin applied firm pressure to stop the bleeding, as Abigail had seen him do so many times in the operating room.

  “Run upstairs and get my medical bag,” he commanded her.

  Joe moved away from the table, confronting the three men who had carried Ludwik from the wagon. “What happened to him?”

  She lingered a moment, anxious to hear what they would say. The men looked at one another blankly, as if each was hoping someone else would explain.

  “Well?”

  “We were workin’ in the barn. That’s where we found him layin’ on the ground. Looked like he’d tripped on somethin’, hit his head on a rock. He was out cold.”

  Joe shook his head with a sigh. “Well, it’s nobody’s fault, I guess. It’s just lucky that you fellows happened along to find him.”

  She stared down at Ludwik, thinking how only a few hours before she’d been sitting with him in the gazebo, admiring his photography. She recalled how kind he’d been, how he’d asked if there was anything he could do to help her. The gentleness of his touch on her wrist—how it had unnerved her! She wished now that she had gone with him to the barn.

  She wished she had not been so afraid.

  “I’ll be able to sew up that gash without too much problem, but he may have sustained a concussion,” Franklin was saying to Joe. “In a few minutes, I’ll take a look at his ankle, too. Could be broken.”

  “Broken! But he was going to leave today.”

  “He won’t be going anywhere right away, that much is certain.” Franklin looked over at Abigail, a hint of irritation on his face. “Didn’t I ask you to bring my bag?”

  “I’m getting it now.”

  “That’s some rotten luck,” Joe mumbled as she passed by. “Some rotten luck!”

  Their departure was delayed until the afternoon, but by three o’clock Abigail and Franklin were standing next to the red Ford waiting for the servants to bring their luggage. The only words they had exchanged all day were whatever back-and-forth was necessary for her to assist him in tending to Ludwik’s head wound and setting his broken ankle. But now, seeing that there were two suitcases already sitting in the driveway, neither of them familiar, Abigail thought she had best say something; obviously, someone had made a mistake and brought the wrong luggage.

  She was about to mention it when she felt a heavy hand on her shoulder from behind. She turned to find Joe, grinning and clutching a giant bouquet of fresh red roses.

  “A little of the country life to take back with you,” he said, handing them to her with an exaggerated flourish. He turned to Franklin. “The twins should be here any minute. They’re in the house saying goodbye to Lillian and Ronnie.”

  “Saying goodbye?” Abigail exclaimed. “Surely they can’t be leaving today! Ludwik shouldn’t be out of bed.”

  A look passed between Joe and Franklin. “I guess you haven’t told her.”

  “We’re taking the twins into the city. They’ll be staying at my apartment.”

  “Just temporarily, of course,” Joe added quickly. “It’s best if they don’t see Ludwik right now. Not the way he looks. No sense in upsetting them. But you’re sure everything is all right with him?” he asked Franklin.

  “As long as he stays quiet and in bed with his head elevated. I gave instructions to your maid, Nessa, and she seems capable enough. I expect he’ll have quite a headache in the morning, though.”

  “We’ll see that he’s well taken care of. In the meantime, I appreciate you and Abby watching out for the twins.”

  “We’re happy to do it,” Franklin said, speaking for her without any right to do so. She held her tongue but only because the twins already were loping down the walkway toward them, giggling and chattering as if they hadn’t a care in the world. She thought it was wrong not to have let them see Ludwik. He was, after all, their guardian.

  It was Valencia who spoke first, in English that was surprisingly good. “We ready to go with you to New York!”

  Melilla gave Abigail a shy smile. “Pretty,” she said, reaching up to lightly touch the tip of Abigail’s nose.

  By now, Lillian and Ronnie had joined everyone in the driveway. The countess apparently had decided to ignore their departure. Abigail did not ask after her.

  Joe beamed at the twins, patting each of them on the head like he would his favorite hunting dogs. “Now you two behave yourselves and do whatever Dr. Rome and Miss Platford tell you. I’m sure you’ll have no trouble with them,” he added as an aside to Abigail, as if she were the designated caretaker. “They’re used to traveling.”

  By now all the luggage had arrived. She watched as a manservant strapped her bags, along with the others, to the back of the motorcar. Again Franklin had sprung a surprise on her, something he and Joe had concocted. But why should she care? The girls were to be his guests, not hers. At the same time, she couldn’t help but feel sympathy for them. They seemed eager to go to New York. She wondered what Joe had told them they’d be doing there.

  Franklin assisted the girls into the fold-down seat in the back of the motorcar. Abigail adjusted her black cape and veiled hat and settled herself in front. She was determined to put on a pleasant face, mostly for Lillian, who had tried her best to be a proper hostess. As for Ronnie, she too had been warm in her peculiar way. Abigail wished to offend neither of them.

  And so, with a toot of the horn and hands waving like a family off on vacation, they departed for New York.

  “Excuse me, Doctor, but how many will there be for dinner tonight?”

  Prudence stood in the foyer of Franklin’s apartment, her plump cheeks pink from exertion. The group’s arrival from Scarsdale half an hour earlier had caused quite a commotion. She’d not been prepared for houseguests, especially ones as unusual as Valencia and Melilla. Once she was over her initial shock, however, she was remarkably gracious and eager to make the girls feel at home, fluttering about like a mother hen, asking them what kind of food they liked, how they would be most comfortable in their room. The twins responded to her kindness and already seemed at ease.

  Abigail had been silent all the way home, as had Franklin, but she had relented enough to come upstairs and help the girls get settled in their room. Seeing how capably Prudence had taken over, however, she considered her work done and now was anxious to leave.

  Franklin turned to her. “You’ll join us for dinner, won’t you?”

  “I think not tonight.”

  He frowned. “I guess it will be only the twins and me, Prudence,” he said, dismissing his maid with a distracted nod, his eyes fixed on Abigail. “So you have plans this evening?”

  “Not really. I’m just tired.”

  “I assumed you would want to stay a while and help the girls get adjusted to their new environment.”

  “I’m afr
aid that’s not my responsibility. Besides, they already seem quite comfortable with Prudence. And, as I said, I’m rather tired.”

  Two deep furrows appeared between his brows. “I must say, you don’t seem yourself. You didn’t say a word the entire trip back from Scarsdale. And you look rather peaked. Are you not well? Or is there something bothering you?”

  Was he really so obtuse? She knew, of course, that he couldn’t be. He was not a fool! He was baiting her, playing some kind of a cruel game.

  “Actually, yes,” she said coolly. “It’s about Ludwik.”

  She took some small pleasure in Franklin’s look of surprise. Undoubtedly, he had expected her to say that he was the cause of her melancholy. She would not give him that satisfaction.

  “He’ll be fine—eventually.”

  “Oh, I’m sure he will. But doesn’t it seem awfully strange that an accident like that should befall him just after he and Joe had a big argument? And the workers who found him at the barn—they seemed nervous, as if they were afraid to speak. Didn’t you notice it?”

  “No, I didn’t. You do have quite an imagination.”

  “I don’t think it was my imagination.”

  “You’re suggesting that Joe had something to do with Ludwik’s accident?”

  “You act as if you think it’s impossible! But what do you really know about Joe Radcliff?”

  “I dare say it’s more than you know about him.”

  “Perhaps not. Have you heard the story about how he was able to purchase the asylum?”

  “How he was able? I have no idea what you’re talking about, unless you mean that the fellow who built it died suddenly. That isn’t any secret.”

  “But there was someone else who wanted it. And then some sort of accident befell him, and Joe ended up the only one to bid on the property.”

  “So what? Things like that happen all the time, accident or no accident. People change their minds, or it turns out they don’t have the money. There’s no reason to suspect anything, unless you’re of a mind to pull conspiracy theories out of thin air.”

  An image floated to her mind of Ludwik on the dining table, bleeding and helpless, Joe hovering above, trying to look concerned. Why did she have the feeling it was all an act? Was she right, or was Franklin? Was she doing it again? Assuming the worst?

  “I want to talk to you about the Rome Institute,” he said, gently brushing her cheek with the back of his hand, as if he held some sort of claim to it. “I know you’re concerned, and I don’t blame you.”

  Abigail felt a lump swelling in her throat. What was he going to tell her? That he and Joe already were making their plans, and she could play no part in them? That he was sorry, but going forward he needed someone more qualified to assist him? And what difference did it make anyway? Didn’t she already know that it was over? Hadn’t she known it that night in the library when he appeared out of nowhere to escort Alexandra upstairs to her bedroom?

  “Why don’t we sit down in the parlor?” he said. “It’s a bit awkward standing here like this, isn’t it?”

  “You can dismiss me just as easily standing as sitting.”

  He raised his brows. “Dismiss you? Is that what you think I’m going to do?”

  “Hasn’t Joe commanded it?”

  “Joe does not command me to do anything,” he replied indignantly.

  She looked down at the floor, ashamed of her emotions, her wild irrationality.

  “What I wanted to talk with you about,” Franklin said, “is that Joe believes we can make a handsome profit by developing beauty products bearing my name—soaps, tonics, and such, whatever a woman needs to promote a more radiant complexion. We’ve been talking about having a special section of the Rome Institute wholly devoted to dermatology.” He paused. “I was thinking we might put you in charge of it. After all, what woman wouldn’t want skin as fresh and lovely as yours?”

  She raised her eyes. From the almost triumphant expression on his face, it was clear that he expected her to be pleased. Did he really understand her so little!

  “Selling potions is not my idea of medicine. It’s not what you’ve been training me for. But I understand that everything has changed. There are no more promises to be kept, except the ones you’ve made to Joe.”

  “What promises exactly are you referring to?”

  “I’m not privy to what has gone on between the two of you, remember?”

  “You seem to have assumed some kind of plot against you. I can assure you there is no such thing.”

  “I heard what Joe said—a dozen nurses, a doctor to assist you. Where does that leave me?” She was losing control of herself. “If you hadn’t raised my expectations so, it might be easier now. But—” She choked back a sob. “I didn’t expect the rest of it, no matter what you may think. I didn’t ask for it. I wish I’d refused. But how could I?”

  “If you’re referring to night before last—”

  “So you actually remember it? I’m surprised.”

  “You know that I do. And you were expecting that I’d come to your room last night?”

  “You obviously were otherwise occupied,” she said, remembering again how the countess had swooned in his arms.

  “I don’t believe for a minute that you wish you’d refused. As I recall, my dear, you seemed to enjoy yourself quite a bit. And there’s no reason we can’t continue to enjoy each other, but there can’t be any pressure about it. You do understand that, don’t you?”

  “What you mean is that I shouldn’t allow myself to have feelings,” she said defiantly, though she felt anything but that.

  “Listen to me, Abigail. I don’t want to hurt you, but neither can I allow you to assume too much. Maybe I was wrong, but I thought you were mature enough to handle a discreet relationship, one in which personal and professional interests are combined.”

  She bristled. “Hawking skin tonic is not my professional interest.”

  “I know that quite well. I never meant to suggest that would be the extent of your role at the Institute. But I thought you’d jump at the opportunity to be in charge of something.”

  “Joe doesn’t believe women should be in charge of anything.”

  “Joe will come around. Don’t worry.”

  “Honestly, I’m not interested.”

  He shook his head with a look of disdain. “I’m really surprised at you, Abigail. What young woman in your position would take such a foolish attitude?”

  “I suppose only one as foolish as I.” She turned to go.

  “Wait a minute.” He grabbed her by the shoulders, swinging her back around to face him. “There’s something else.” What would it be now? Another lecture?

  “It’s going to be at least a few months until the Institute is ready for business,” he said. “And I don’t want you living down in that basement room anymore.”

  “Are you saying you want me to leave?”

  “I’m saying that I’ve decided you need a flat of your own. A pretty little one-bedroom on the second or third floor of a nice building. Close by—no more than two or three blocks from here. What would you think about that?”

  Her breath had stopped. “I don’t understand.”

  “It’s time you moved up in the world. Come now, don’t you think you deserve better than to go on living in the servant’s quarters?”

  So much had happened already, so much she hadn’t expected. “Surely you must realize there’s no way I can afford to move—not now.”

  “Oh, but you can. I’m giving you a raise—a rather substantial one.”

  Abigail shook her head, confused. A minute ago he had told her not to assume too much. And now this? Wasn’t it bad enough that she had surrendered her chastity to a man who, the very next night, was chasing after another woman? Now she should allow him to install her in a fancy apartment, with all that such an arrangement implied? Was she to have not a shred of dignity left? “I’m sorry, Dr. Rome. But no, I can’t accept your offer.”

 
; “So we’re back to Dr. Rome, are we?” He chuckled. “Well, you think it over. Sleep on it, as they say. If you change your mind, we’ll start looking tomorrow. I’m rather anxious to get it done.”

  Was it just that he wanted her farther away from him? Did he think it would be easier that way to break things off?

  But she was too exhausted to think anymore, to question. All she wanted was to retire to her solitary basement room, climb into bed, and pull the covers over her head.

  To sleep . . . and forget what she knew she could not.

  CHAPTER 12

  Abigail folded back the top edge of her fresh ivory satin sheets and stepped back to admire how they looked on the gauze-canopied featherbed. It was the only furniture in her new apartment other than a couple of electric lamps and a few shabby but essential items retrieved from the basement room—the overstuffed velvet chair, the battered chest of drawers, the tiny nightstand.

  It had been three days since she moved. Since then, Franklin had spent every night with her.

  The decision to accept his offer had been easier than she at first thought. Her reasoning had taken a practical turn. Why shouldn’t she have a decent place to live? She held a responsible position for which she was entitled to earn a living wage. With the amount of money Franklin’s patients were willing to pay for his services, he could well afford to increase her salary.

  As to why he would want to, why he had suggested it himself—perhaps he felt guilty for his behavior toward her at the Radcliffs’ home. Perhaps he wanted to make it up to her. Or might he even have realized the depth of his feelings for her?

  Whatever his motive, there was no reason for her to feel ashamed. It was her own hard work that would pay for the apartment. The only real gift from Franklin was the magnificent featherbed—which so far had been as much for his enjoyment as hers. And while there remained serious questions in her mind about so many things, for now she had resigned herself to a new equilibrium that seemed altogether livable—as long as she avoided thinking too much about her future.