The Beauty Doctor

by Elizabeth Hutchison Bernard

  Mrs. Moser looked at her with pleading eyes. “So he’s fixed problems like this before? The patients recovered? They looked fine? Beautiful?”

  Just then Franklin entered the room, bursting with energy. Abigail felt sure that the exuberant spring in his step was manufactured for Mrs. Moser’s benefit.

  “Well, well,” he said brightly, “are we ready to get started?”

  “As ready as I’ll ever be,” Mrs. Moser replied glumly. “What exactly are you going to do to me, Doctor?”

  He came over and laid a comforting hand on her shoulder. “One thing I’m not going to do is trouble you with the details, my dear. You just leave it to me. There’s nothing to fear. I’m going to numb you up so you won’t feel a thing, and soon it will all be over.”

  “I want to know what I’m going to look like after you’ve done whatever it is you’re doing.”

  He hesitated. “Mrs. Moser—” He licked his lips. Abigail heard the first sharp crack in his armor. “Sometimes, through no fault of anyone, a patient has a bad reaction to paraffin. When that happens, the only thing to do is to extract the offending substance.”

  “And afterward?”

  “You can expect to be black-and-blue for a while.”

  “Black-and-blue! For how long? I have an important gala to attend in only a week, after my husband returns from London.”

  “You may have to miss the gala,” Franklin said, his tone suddenly stern. He seemed to have determined that a change in strategy was in order. “I will do the best I can to return your face to its original appearance, but it will take some time.”

  “But I don’t have time! You promised me—”

  “I could not have foreseen this type of reaction. It’s very rare and totally unpredictable. I’m afraid you’re just going to have to accept—”

  “I accept nothing! You never told me there was any possibility of a reaction. You never said there was any risk at all. Yet you knew it could happen at any time, to anyone. Why didn’t you say so? I certainly had the right to know.” She turned to Abigail, her eyes wild with conjecture. “I’d call that malpractice, Miss Platford. Wouldn’t you? A doctor failing to inform his patient of the danger of an operation? And then there’s the matter of incompetence.” She turned back to Dr. Rome. “Perhaps you’re not aware, but my husband owns a good chunk of Manhattan. And my father—he may be almost ninety but he’s still a powerful man; there’s not a judge in this city he doesn’t know.”

  The blood had drained from Franklin’s face. There was nothing he could do that would succeed in satisfying her. Abigail saw that now. She dreaded the prospect of watching him fail—for Mrs. Moser’s sake and for his as well. Franklin’s reputation was everything to him.

  “We can continue this discussion some other time, madam,” he said stiffly, moving in the direction of the hallway. “Miss Platford will see you to the dressing room.”

  Abigail took a moment to place Mrs. Moser’s personal items into the small closet by the front door. When she came out, she turned to the woman with a tense smile.

  “Let me help you get ready,” she said, taking Mrs. Moser’s arm and guiding her toward the hall, afraid at any moment she might again become combative. “Once this is over, you’ll be on your way to recovery.”

  After two hours of poking around Mrs. Moser’s face with a tiny, sharp pick until every last fragment of paraffin had been removed, Franklin finally stepped away from the operating table. Abigail had never seen him so sapped of energy.

  “That’s it. We’re done,” he said, though without a trace of jubilation.

  Looking down at Mrs. Moser’s face, Abigail could see why. It was a mess of tiny incisions, none of them any longer than a sixteenth of an inch, but each one a future scar.

  “Let her rest for a few minutes before I bandage her up,” Franklin said.

  “I have to wear that awful bandage again?” Mrs. Moser cried.

  “Just for tonight.” His throat sounded husky, as if he was so tired that every word was a struggle.

  “Let me have a mirror. Let me see before you cover it up.”

  He glanced over his shoulder at Abigail with a slight shake of his head that only she could see. “It’s best if you don’t bother yourself about it right now,” he said, turning back to Mrs. Moser.

  Angrily, she threw back the sheet as if she meant to leap off the table and go after the mirror herself. “What is this, some kind of conspiracy? I have every right to see my own face. Now bring me a mirror!”

  Abigail waited to see what Franklin would have her do.

  Sighing, he said, “As you wish.”

  She retrieved the hand mirror from a drawer of the medicine cabinet and gave it to Mrs. Moser, who held it up before her ravaged face. There was a long silence while she studied her image. Possibly it would be all right. Mrs. Moser would somehow be able to see past the raw wounds inflicted by the blade and the pick and imagine herself healed.

  “God in heaven,” she breathed, the mirror falling from her hand. It clattered to the floor, shattering on the tiles. The next sound Abigail heard was Mrs. Moser sobbing uncontrollably.

  She rushed to her side. “Please, Mrs. Moser, you need to stay calm.” Looking over at Franklin, she saw that he had opened the medicine cabinet and was rummaging around among the different colored bottles. He pulled one of them out, unscrewed the top, and used the contents to fill a fresh syringe.

  “What’s that?” Abigail asked quietly, gently massaging Mrs. Moser’s shoulders in an effort to pacify her.

  “Just a sedative,” Franklin answered grimly.

  He went to the table. Mrs. Moser was crying so hysterically that she seemed not to notice either one of them. He quickly administered the injection.

  “You stay with her for a few minutes. I’ll be right back.”

  Tossing the syringe onto the counter by the sink, he rushed out of the room. Abigail heard his footsteps running up the back stairs. She couldn’t believe that he would leave her alone at a time like this, with a woman who at any moment was apt to become completely unhinged. But after another minute or so, to her relief, Mrs. Moser’s demeanor changed dramatically. Her tension seemed to evaporate, and her eyes drifted closed. Her breathing was shallow but steady. Abigail remained standing at the bedside, grateful that her charge had quieted down but wondering how long she would stay that way. And, though she tried not to think about it, she couldn’t help wondering, too, whether Mrs. Moser would eventually make good on her threat to destroy Franklin.

  It was then that she heard the telephone ring from the front room. She debated whether she might leave Mrs. Moser alone long enough to answer it. Franklin was adamant about never missing a call; a prospective patient might be lost for good, he always said. She looked down at Mrs. Moser, who appeared nearly comatose, and decided to chance it. She dashed into the reception room, afraid she might already be too late, and grabbed the telephone from the corner of her desk.

  “Dr. Franklin Rome’s office.”

  There was a crackling on the line.

  “Dr. Rome’s office,” she repeated.

  “Miss Platford!” The voice on the other end was distorted, but she could hear it well enough to make out her name. “Thank God it’s you! This is Ludwik Rutkowski. Listen carefully, please! It’s very important. I need you to—”

  The line went dead.

  “Ludwik?” Frantically, she jiggled the cradle. “Ludwik?”

  It was no use. She jammed the earpiece down. Forgetting Mrs. Moser, forgetting everything, she circled to the back of her desk, yanked open the top drawer, and retrieved the office appointment book. Furiously, she flipped backward through the pages until she reached the one on which she had written the Radcliffs’ information. Within a few moments, she was reciting their five-digit telephone number to the switchboard operator.

  “Radcliffs’ residence.” It was the butler, whose name she could not remember.

  “Hello, this is Abigail Platford calling. I just rec
eived a telephone call from Baron Rutkowski, but I’m afraid we were disconnected. Could you please find him for me and put him on?”

  “Certainly, Miss Platford. Excuse me for one moment.”

  She breathed a sigh of relief. It might have been her imagination, or simply the poor connection, but Ludwik had sounded awful. She had to know why he’d called.

  “Abby!”

  Her stomach plummeted. “Good morning, Joe.”

  “Morning? It’s quarter past noon!”

  “Oh, of course it is! Good afternoon, then.”

  “I hear you’re looking for Ludwik.”

  “Yes. He—” There was no way she could admit that Ludwik had just tried to reach her, that he had seemed desperate. “He promised to write down for me the kind of camera he uses. I’m quite interested in photography, you know. But with everything that happened, both of us forgot all about it. I was hoping that before he leaves I might be able to get the information from him.”

  “Unfortunately, you’re too late. He left early this morning for London. Last I saw him, he was all set to board the ship.”

  She hesitated, unsure whether she dared to challenge him. “He’s walking now?”

  “Not exactly. That is, he’s walking with crutches. Hope it doesn’t get too choppy for him out there on the Atlantic. Hate to see him slide right off the deck!” She could picture so well that grinning mouth, the large square teeth. “Frank made it back all right?”

  “Yes, certainly.” She suddenly remembered Mrs. Moser. She had to get back to her. “You’re sure about Ludwik? Might he have changed his mind about leaving?”

  “No, he was anxious to be on his way.” There was a brief interlude of silence, punctuated only by the buzz of static on the line. “Well, good talking to you, Abby. Give my best to Frank—oh, and remind him that we’ve got an important meeting on Tuesday.”

  “A meeting? May I refresh his memory as to what it’s about?”

  “No need for that. Just tell him it promises to be a most enlightening evening.”

  CHAPTER 15

  “What are you thinking about?” Franklin asked, speeding past two or three slower-moving motorcars, one of them driven by a woman outfitted in a duster and matching hat the same shade of cerulean blue as her automobile. “You look very serious.”

  Behind her motoring veil, Abigail forced a smile. “I’m sorry. I was just wondering why the Radcliffs didn’t ask us to bring the twins. I would think they’d be anxious to see them now that the plans for their future have been settled.”

  “I’m sure they have their reasons.”

  Abigail turned away, frustrated. Any other day, she would have enjoyed the scenery along the highway. Despite the scourge of industrialization, the Hudson River was still a thing of wonder. If one looked past the docks, railroads, and other apparatus of burgeoning commerce that lined the shores, and focused on the lush greenery beyond, it was almost possible to imagine what it was like in the days when Henry Hudson made his famous journey.

  But this afternoon her thoughts were far away, her surroundings nothing more than a blur.

  She was surprised when Franklin invited her to accompany him to Scarsdale. Ordinarily, he would never have wished to leave the office unattended on a Tuesday afternoon. But lately he seemed less concerned about such things. He was like a man obsessed, spending all evening in his private office poring over blueprints and diagrams and journal articles detailing the latest advances in hospital design and infection control. Invariably, he would show up at Abigail’s apartment around midnight. They’d make love until he collapsed in exhaustion, falling asleep instantly while she lay awake wondering how much longer it could go on like this.

  She had been optimistic for a short while, back in the beginning, when it seemed Franklin might truly be interested in advancing her education. But her happiness had faded precipitously. First there had been the revelation that Franklin did indeed wish to operate on the twins. But that disappointment paled in comparison to the disturbing news that Ludwik had relinquished his guardianship to the Radcliffs.

  Since that first afternoon when she’d paid a visit to the twins in Franklin’s apartment, Abigail had gone back to see them numerous times. It wasn’t only that she felt badly about their forced isolation; she enjoyed their company. But the more attached she became to them, the more difficult it was to accept how drastically their lives were about to change. She feared it would be for the worse, and there was nothing she could do to stop it.

  And then there was the telephone call from Ludwik. She could not forget it, nor could she convince herself that the desperation she’d heard in his voice had been her imagination. He had wanted to speak with her, not with Franklin. Thank God it’s you, he’d said. He needed her to do something. But what? And where had he been calling from? He could not have been on his way back to London, as Joe had told her. Unless at the time he called he had not yet boarded the ship, or the departure was delayed, or he changed his mind about leaving . . .

  She turned toward Franklin, shouting into the wind, “But why should the girls remain in New York, holed up in your apartment with nothing to do?”

  “It’s best to keep them secluded for now. It will be all the more stunning when they are finally introduced at the Institute’s grand opening.”

  So she had been right! His main concern—or Joe’s—was simply to keep the girls out of sight. “No place could be more protected from prying eyes than the Radcliffs’ estate,” she argued, scrupulously avoiding the topic of the girls’ surgery, which, if she were to get started on it, could only lead to unpleasantness between them. He was edgy enough as it was.

  Franklin had seemed particularly agitated the past few days, and she understood all too well why. It was Mrs. Moser on his mind, she was sure. To see a patient in such emotional anguish was utterly devastating. The pain and regret that Abigail felt was bad enough, but certainly it was magnified many times over for him.

  And yet he was doing nothing to make the situation any better. It had been three days since he sent Mrs. Moser home in a horse-drawn hansom. He should have checked on her. Abigail had volunteered to telephone, just to be sure everything was all right. But Franklin had forbidden it, insisting it would only make matters worse by encouraging her complaints. He wanted to wait until the healing was farther along, he said, and then he would insist she come into the office so he could take a look and see if anything more needed to be done. Abigail supposed there was some sense in that, and so she let the matter drop.

  Perhaps the best way to help Franklin, she thought now, would be to distract him from his thoughts about Mrs. Moser. Perhaps she should tell him about Ludwik’s telephone call. She was hoping that somehow, tonight, she might get to the bottom of it herself. But she certainly could ask Franklin for his advice. Or was she too afraid that he might sense how once, for the briefest moment, she had entertained a silly romantic fantasy about Ludwik, that morning when they sat together in the gazebo poring over his photographic albums?

  She looked across the seat at Franklin in his smart black cap and driving goggles, his long, leather-gloved fingers wrapped around the wheel. She wasn’t sure she understood love, though she suspected what she felt for him at times must be very close to it. Even now, when he seemed so distant, she found herself excusing his behavior more often than not.

  Yet sometimes she was afraid. He had slept with her almost every night since that first trip to Scarsdale—almost every night. The exceptions she preferred not to think about. And it concerned her, too, that his eagerness to move her into her own little flat happened to coincide with the twins taking over his apartment and Prudence being required to sleep there as well in order to watch over them. How did she know that his nightly visits weren’t simply a matter of convenience, because he had nowhere else to go? Would his habit change once the twins were with the Radcliffs?

  “When are Joe and Lillian planning to tell the twins about Ludwik?”

  “Why do you assume I know
so much about what the Radcliffs intend to do?” he replied with the note of irritation that, lately, often crept into his voice.

  “I just thought—”

  “You think too much.”

  “But what purpose is there in letting the girls continue to believe Ludwik is coming for them?”

  “Children’s memories fade quickly. Soon enough they will have forgotten all about Ludwik, and they’ll be happy to be on their way to the Radcliffs.”

  She should have told him that he was wrong; Ludwik would not be forgotten, and the twins would not be happy with the Radcliffs. But of course she couldn’t say such things. What would be the point? He did not seem at all sympathetic to the twins’ plight. Nor had he ever exhibited a liking for Ludwik.

  “Do you at least know the purpose of this meeting Joe has called?”

  “He was rather mysterious about it. Initially, you were not invited, but I insisted that you come along. I want him to get used to the idea of you being involved in the Institute.”

  Abigail was caught off guard. She had been waiting so long for Franklin to say more about her future at the Rome Institute, yet he had seemed too preoccupied for her to press him on the subject.

  “I hope Joe is not still thinking of putting me in charge of selling magic potions.”

  “First of all, that was my idea,” Franklin replied, again with a tone of annoyance. “Second, your reaction was so negative when I first mentioned it that I never had a chance to explain what I meant. You see, I thought you might wish to consider dermatology as your field of specialization.”

  Abigail stiffened. “Yes, you did mention it. Don’t you remember?”

  “Perhaps I did, but we never really discussed it. I think a woman would do very well in dermatology—or a limited version of it. And there’s big money to be made.”

  Abigail thought back to the time when she naturally assumed that practicing medicine and making money were in opposition to one another. Her father barely made enough to cover his bills. But beauty surgery—that was something else. It still astonished her how much Franklin was paid for his work. Though she would never say so, sometimes it struck her as slightly obscene.