The Beauty Doctor

by Elizabeth Hutchison Bernard

  She picked up her palette from the table. Then she took her brush and dipped it into some red, next a little blue, until the mixture was almost purplish, like a bruise. Abigail watched her lean toward the canvas, hesitate, and then place a tiny dab onto Franklin’s left buttock. She played with it a moment, spreading it around just a bit, until it had assumed more or less the shape of a strawberry.

  Abigail stared at it, not sure at first if she was imagining the whole thing. Was it just a shadow, or a drip of paint that accidentally had fallen from the brush? But it was neither. Alexandra had placed the birthmark deliberately, knowingly.

  “There!” she said, straightening up and moving slightly to the side so that Abigail would be sure to have a wide-open view. “Now it’s perfect.”

  Abigail looked at the countess’s smiling face. At that moment, all she could think was how much she despised her.

  “Oh, but didn’t you miss a spot?” she said before hurling her glass with all her strength straight at the canvas, striking it squarely in the middle. The tumbler crashed to the floor, shattering into small diamond-like bits that scattered everywhere. Uncannily, the painting remained on the easel, virtually unscathed.

  “My, my! You do surprise me, Abigail. I wouldn’t have imagined you had it in you. Neither would Frank, I dare say. He often remarks how docile you are, how sweet and pliable. Men enjoy that, I suppose. They like the feeling of power it gives them. But then sometimes, too, they prefer a bit more fire.”

  Alexandra turned toward the open window. The moon was a perfect circle. She took a few steps toward the glass, swaying slightly as if she were sleepwalking, before she turned back to Abigail.

  “Frank and me and that pretty little maid—the one who dresses you—we had a jolly time when he was here last. Have you ever tried a threesome, Abigail? You really must—that is, if you wish to call yourself a modern woman. But, whatever, you mustn’t blame Frank. It was all Joe’s idea. He’s a bit of a voyeur, you know. It started out as a game, a wager, and Franklin lost. Maybe you didn’t know that he likes to gamble. I suppose we’d all had a little too much vodka that night.”

  Abigail felt as if she were underwater, watching Alexandra’s lips move, her voice fathoms away. She stood immobile, aware only of the pounding of her heart and the scene flashing through her mind. The countess, half-naked, swooning in Franklin’s arms in the library. And then she heard Franklin’s voice assuring her that there was nothing between them. They’d never been together, he said, and he scolded her for having doubted him.

  A flood of sickness swept over her. She saw Alexandra still standing by the window, the yellow of her sash and her turban, the red of her lips. It was a blur, a mirage. Nothing was real.

  She turned away, clutching at her robe, nearly stumbling as she fled the room, barely aware of the countess calling out to her, “Come now, you didn’t really believe me about the maid, did you?”

  In the hall, she glanced wildly about, almost expecting to see Franklin on his way to her room. But, no—the hallway was empty.

  She staggered into her bedroom and locked the door. Confronting the bed where she and Franklin had first made love, the thought came into her mind to set it aflame.

  In a fit of rage, she threw back the coverlet, ripped off the sheets. She would have torn them to shreds with her bare hands except she hadn’t the gall. Instead she trampled them on her way to the armoire. She pulled her spring-green gown from its hanger—the same gown Lillian’s lady’s maid had helped to dress her in that very night. She took it to the dressing table, found a pair of scissors in the drawer, and began to cut, slashing the beaded waistband and the long swath of fabric that had trailed her every step only hours earlier. When there was nothing left of it but tatters, she tossed it aside, frantically searching for something else on which to vent her fury.

  But she was exhausted. Her sobs came now in fits and waves of saltiness that choked her so she could barely breathe.

  From the very first night with Franklin, she had known it would end this way. She had feared that passion and pride would prove stronger than common sense and that her frailties, no different from those of any other woman, eventually would come to light. Where was her scientific mind? She seemed to have discarded it as if it didn’t matter anymore, as if she would have no use for it after all. Now she was a slave to emotion, even unmasked as the imposter that it was.

  She found herself standing before the window, not remembering how she got there. The moon looked just as it had through the countess’s glass. It was full tonight, but of course it could not remain so. It had a cycle, a path to follow—one that always returned to the beginning. One that was always the same.

  But, no—that, too, was an illusion. Life requires that everything must change, even if we are unaware of it as it happens.

  Her eyes scanned the velvet sky full of stars. A strange sense of calm settled over her. And then it became clear. Her time with Franklin was over. She would have to find her own light now—one that depended on no one else.

  But first, she must take care of those who still needed her.

  CHAPTER 20

  They were back in the city by three the next afternoon. Abigail knew that Franklin could not have failed to notice the coldness with which she regarded him throughout the entire drive home. Barely a word was exchanged between them. At the conclusion, she instructed him to drop her off at her apartment, saying that her headache from the night before still lingered. Sleeplessness had lent her a pallor that made the claim convincing. She made the further point of asking that she not be disturbed.

  If he wanted to object, he must have thought better of it. He simply wished her a speedy recovery, saying that he would see her at the office tomorrow. It seemed that he, too, had much on his mind.

  By eight the next morning, she was on her way to the offices of the New York World, a newspaper in which Franklin occasionally placed advertisements. It had been her job to make the arrangements for them and, as a consequence, she had become friendly with a young woman who had access to the paper’s “morgue,” a vast biographical file on persons of importance.

  “Samuel Storey?” she repeated after Abigail offered a sketchy explanation of her quest, leaving out the more shocking details of the situation. “You say he’s involved in the newspaper business—in London?”

  “I think so, yes.”

  “Hold on.”

  She disappeared into the adjacent file room. In the minutes that followed, Abigail heard the banging of drawers and a couple of verbal back-and-forths of which she could make out only a few words—something about Carnegie and chains and profits. Perhaps it had nothing to do with Mr. Storey; she couldn’t tell. Then it became quiet. She began to lose hope. Maybe Samuel Storey would be more difficult to find than she’d imagined. Or maybe, though she didn’t want to think it, he might not exist at all.

  Finally the young woman returned. “Samuel Storey owns a bunch of newspapers. Looks like the Sunderland Echo was the first of them, but there’s a whole chain of them now. I wrote down the names. They’re all over England.”

  Abigail breathed a sigh of relief. “So he’s a successful businessman? A person of note?”

  “Seems to be. Here,” she said, handing Abigail a slip of paper. “I wrote down the address for the Sunderland Echo. I’d say that would be the best place to contact him.”

  Abigail glanced at the paper and then at the clock behind the desk. It was almost nine.

  “Where is the nearest telegraph office?”

  It turned out to be only a few blocks away, and Abigail was there in less than ten minutes. After waiting in line, she gave the telegraph operator the delivery information and quickly dictated her message. Considering the expense, it would have to be brief:

  Extremely urgent. Contact me with background and character of Baron Ludwik Rutkowski. Dr. Cornelius Whittaker, Eastern Indiana Hospital for the Insane, Richmond, Indiana.

  Her mission accomplished, she headed for the office
. It was just before ten when she arrived. Franklin was already behind his desk, in his leather chair with his head resting against the high back. She took a couple of steps into the room before she saw that his eyes were closed. Gratefully, she turned to go.

  “Stay here, Abigail. I assure you, I’m not asleep.” There was something ominous in the tone of his voice. “I was only thinking.”

  He leaned forward and picked up something from his desktop, a document that he tossed in her direction. It landed on the floor a few feet in front of her.

  “Go ahead, take a look,” he said.

  She retrieved the paper, wondering at his odd behavior. Was it that he sensed the change in her? Was he expecting a confrontation? Did he imagine she might tell him she was leaving? But how could he know any of that? Unless Alexandra had told him what she’d done . . .

  “Read it,” he said.

  Hastily, she scanned the first of two pages; it was a legal summons. She flipped to the complaint. It had been filed by Mrs. Ethel Stryder, who claimed she had suffered severe injury as a result of paraffin injections performed by Dr. Franklin Rome on July 1, 1907. She was demanding the huge sum of $1,100 with interest and costs.

  “Did you know Mrs. Stryder was having a problem?” she asked, looking up at him.

  “I was about to ask you the same question.”

  “If I knew one of your patients was in distress, don’t you think I would have told you?” she replied indignantly.

  “Idiotic woman didn’t even have the decency to telephone,” he muttered. “She could have given me a chance to fix it before running to her damn lawyer.”

  Abigail was not in a sympathetic mood, at least not as far as Franklin was concerned. She was worried, though, about Mrs. Stryder. Might her condition be as catastrophic as Mrs. Moser’s? And there were at least two dozen other patients who had received injections during the time she’d been with Franklin. Would they all sooner or later suffer the same fate?

  “This is the worst possible thing that could have happened. And just when I thought everything was under control. I’ll have to hire a lawyer. Maybe I can settle quickly, before anybody hears about it.”

  She knew anybody meant Joe Radcliff and that the Rome Institute was the only thing on his mind.

  “As a matter of fact,” he continued, thinking aloud, “I’ll try to get an appointment with someone this afternoon. You can handle that Whittaker fellow, can’t you? Just take him upstairs to the apartment and let him talk to the twins. That’s all he’s interested in. Oh—by the way, we’ll operate on them next Monday. I’d hoped to do it sooner, but I need to sort out these other matters first. I can’t afford to be distracted.”

  Abigail tried not to show her relief. At least now she had an entire week longer to work on reuniting Ludwik and the twins.

  But would that be enough?

  She had no way of knowing when Samuel Storey would read the telegram she’d sent, or if he would read it at all. And, as much as she was determined not to leave her employment with Franklin until she was sure the twins were safe, she knew she could not wait forever—not with tensions between them sure to rise precipitously.

  She was not very good at hiding her emotions—or her suspicions.

  She thought back to Saturday night and what she had almost told Franklin—about Ludwik’s call, her conversation with Lillian regarding the twins, and what she had later read in Dr. Whittaker’s notebook. How fortunate that she’d never had the opportunity to do so. Because now she was starting to think that Franklin already knew everything.

  “How are you feeling?” Franklin asked suddenly. “Your headache . . .”

  “Still there, I’m afraid.” Then, thinking she had best make her condition sound a bit more severe, she added, “I was sick to my stomach this morning. I took my temperature. It’s over a hundred.”

  For a moment, he actually looked concerned. “You probably shouldn’t be here.”

  “No, but I’ll stay until Dr. Whittaker arrives. Then I’ll go home to bed.” She paused. “Needless to say, it’s best if you don’t come by.”

  It was half past three when Dr. Whittaker stepped through the front door of the office. Her impression of him was the same as it had been on Saturday night: serious, self-possessed, quite possibly ruthless.

  “Miss Platford, good afternoon.”

  “Hello, Doctor,” she said, rising from the chair behind her desk. “I’m afraid Dr. Rome was called out on an emergency. He said to offer his apologies for not being here to greet you personally.”

  “That’s quite all right. As you know, I’m here to see—what are their names again?”

  “Valencia and Melilla.”

  “Did anyone tell them I was coming?”

  “Not as far as I know.”

  “Good. I simply want to ask them a few questions. It shouldn’t take more than an hour or so.”

  “I was wondering, Doctor—might this interview have something to do with your research on psychopathic personalities?”

  He eyed her suspiciously. “And how are you aware of my research?”

  “You don’t remember? You mentioned it when we were chatting before dinner at the Radcliffs’ home. Dr. Rome was there as well. It sounds absolutely fascinating,” she added, hoping the compliment would soften him, because surely what she had to say next would not.

  “Ah yes.” He smiled. “I do recall it now.”

  “Of course, you didn’t happen to mention that one of your subjects is Baron Ludwik Rutkowski.”

  Dr. Whittaker’s eyes narrowed. “I would never reveal a patient’s name, Miss Platford. That would be highly unethical.”

  “Dr. Whittaker,” she began in a most earnest manner, “I’m certain that the goal of your research is to uncover the truth. But I fear there may have been a terrible mistake with regard to Baron Rutkowski.”

  “What kind of a mistake?”

  She paused, all of a sudden fearful. Might she be about to make a strategic error? There was that chance, of course. But on the other hand, if Dr. Whittaker himself were to send Samuel Storey a second telegram, it could only increase the chance of a reply. “I have located someone who might be helpful to you. He knows the baron and is a longtime friend of the family.”

  He raised his brows. “And who is this individual?”

  “His name is Mr. Samuel Storey. I remembered that Baron Rutkowski had mentioned him to me once, just in casual conversation. He owns a number of newspapers in England.” She opened her desk drawer, withdrawing the folded notepaper on which she had copied Mr. Storey’s address. She handed it to Dr. Whittaker. “I thought you would want to get in touch with him right away.”

  He opened the paper, glancing at it only a moment before stuffing it into his jacket pocket. “How very enterprising of you.”

  Her heart sank. He did not seem interested. “You will telegraph him, won’t you?”

  Dr. Whittaker eyed her with obvious perturbation. “Anyone who can shed additional light on a patient’s condition may be useful. Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to get on with my interview of the twins.”

  “I assume you won’t be telling them where Baron Rutkowski is?” Abigail continued, not caring anymore what Dr. Whittaker thought of her behavior. “You see, the girls believe that he’s gone to Poland to tend to his ailing father. They think he’s coming back for them. Mr. Radcliff was the one who told them the story. You probably know that he intends to assume guardianship of the girls himself? Or at least, to procure them,” she added caustically.

  “I take it you don’t approve.”

  “No, I don’t. And I’m afraid I can’t agree with your diagnosis of the baron either. He is not a pedophile. I’m certain of it.”

  Dr. Whittaker stroked his sharp beard, studying her curiously. “And how do you know that I have made such a diagnosis?”

  Her throat tightened. “I was merely assuming it, based on our conversation at the cocktail hour. I know pedophilia is an interest of yours—profession
ally, that is.”

  He pursed his lips. “Yes, well, you needn’t be concerned about what I’ll say to the twins. The purpose of my interview is to extract information, not to impart it.”

  “You might want to ask the girls about Mr. Storey. They may remember something, though I don’t know for certain that they’ve ever met him.”

  Dr. Whittaker let out a long stream of air that made a faint whistling sound through his nostrils. “Miss Platford, I don’t believe I’m in need of your assistance in conducting my business with the conjoined twins—or with anyone else, for that matter. Now if we might proceed upstairs . . .”

  She could see it was no use saying more. He would either follow up with Mr. Storey or he wouldn’t. “Very well then. Please come this way.”

  Reluctantly, she led him down the back hall and up the stairs to Franklin’s apartment. Prudence promptly answered the door, stepping aside to admit them. The moment they crossed the threshold into the small foyer, Dr. Whittaker turned to Abigail.

  “Thank you very much, but I won’t need you further.”

  “I can let the doctor out when he’s finished,” Prudence offered.

  Unable to think of an excuse that would justify her continued presence, a few seconds later Abigail was on her way downstairs. She already sensed failure. She had been foolish to imagine Dr. Whittaker might have an interest in contacting Samuel Storey. He didn’t want the truth; all he cared about was publishing a paper promoting his theories of psychopathology. Ludwik was nothing more to him than a particularly titillating case study. It seemed the only hope lay in the telegram she had sent to Mr. Storey herself. Whether he ever received it or, if he did, whether he would feel compelled to respond was as yet unknown. But even if Mr. Storey were to vouch for Ludwik, still it would be up to Dr. Whittaker whether or not to release him. Abigail had the feeling he would be in no hurry to do so.

  She sat down behind her desk, determined to wait for Dr. Whittaker. It wasn’t that she thought he would tell her anything about his interview with the twins. But as soon as he was out the door, she intended to pay a visit to the girls herself, not only to find out what had happened but to make sure they were all right. She did not put it past Dr. Whittaker to have filled their heads with all sorts of nonsense about Ludwik, things that could only upset them.