The Beauty Doctor

by Elizabeth Hutchison Bernard

  For a moment, she thought that by us he meant the two of them. But then she realized he was talking about himself and Joe. “You had no right to them, either one of you.”

  “How did you know about this Storey fellow—that he used to be in partnership with Andrew Carnegie?” Franklin demanded.

  She thought back to that morning in the newspaper office—banging file drawers, snippets of conversation floating through the open door. Chains and profits and Carnegie. At the time she hadn’t realized what it meant.

  “I’m afraid that’s none of your business.”

  “Damn you!” He slammed his fist on the desk. “I suppose you remembered Genworth saying that Carnegie is his biggest donor, too. Well, your precious Ludwik is on his way to being released. The twins are going back to him. They won’t be having surgery at the Institute. All thanks to your treachery!”

  So Mr. Storey must have enlisted the help of his friend Andrew Carnegie! Carnegie’s connection to Genworth was nothing more than a fortunate coincidence, but she was not about to admit that to Franklin. She lifted her chin, emboldened to the point of recklessness. “Someone had to show Joe that he can’t have everything he wants. You were too much a coward to do it. I imagine you even helped him to sabotage Ludwik. But you weren’t content to stop at that, were you! You had to go after poor Mrs. Moser, too. You had to make sure that she couldn’t tell anyone what you’d done to her, so that Joe wouldn’t change his mind about the Institute. You’d sooner see your patient dead than your precious hospital go up in smoke.”

  It was then that Franklin came out from behind his desk, moving swiftly toward her, his features contorted with rage. “You ungrateful little whore! When I think of all I’ve done for you—”

  A sharp blow fell across her cheek. It was followed by another.

  “You betrayed me!” he shouted. “You and that miserable so-called baron! He deserved everything he got.”

  He raised his hand to strike her again. And then he stopped. Slowly, he backed away, a look of bewilderment on his face.

  “My God, what is happening to me?”

  Stumbling like a drunk, he made his way to the chair. He collapsed into it.

  “Get out,” he said, so softly that she could barely hear him.

  Abigail was stunned, her face burning from the hard slap across her cheek. She had been a fool to tell him what she suspected he’d done. She should have realized how dangerous he was.

  She must leave right away—while she still could.

  “And I’m not your damn father either,” Franklin called as she fled through the door and down the hall. “I’m not anything to you. And you’re nothing to me. Do you hear me? Nothing!”

  Her heart pounding, she ran to her desk, yanked open the drawer, and swept up her Gray’s Anatomy. Also the pen her father had given her and the clinical journal in which she’d written every step of every procedure she and Franklin had performed together over the past three months. Clutching them to her chest, she hurried to the closet for her hat and parasol. There was nothing else. Except for the twins . . .

  “Good afternoon, Miss Platford.”

  Startled, she spun around.

  Dr. Genworth rose from the sofa. “There was no one here, so I let myself in. I hope that’s all right.”

  He approached her, his bowler in hand. She did not offer to take it from him. Though it was her habit to be cordial, there was no call for it now. She was finished with correctness for its own sake.

  “I assume you’re here to see Dr. Rome. He’s in his office, down the hall,” she said, indicating the general direction with an inclination of her head.

  “You don’t intend to announce me?”

  “I’m afraid not. I no longer work here. In fact, I was just leaving.”

  “I see.”

  “Good afternoon, Doctor!” Franklin stood at the entrance to the hallway, all smiles. “I wasn’t expecting you until later.”

  “I know, but I just got out of my meeting with Mr. Carnegie, and it seemed best to come right over.”

  “Yes, certainly. Well, please come this way to my office. We’ll be more comfortable there.”

  “Actually, I won’t be staying long,” Dr. Genworth said. “What I have to say requires only a minute.”

  Franklin shifted uneasily. “At least you’ll have a seat. I can have my maid bring us some tea.”

  “No, thank you. Let me get straight to the point. Mr. Carnegie is entirely in agreement with my assessment that the Radcliff Institute would be an exceptional facility for our eugenics research. He does not, however, believe it to be in our best interests to appear to be affiliated in any way with your little enterprise—your beauty surgery institute.”

  Franklin went pale. “Believe me, Doctor, we’ve only scratched the surface of what transformative surgery can achieve. I think I can prove to you how perfectly it complements your efforts if only—”

  “The only true perfection,” Dr. Genworth interrupted, in a tone that was shockingly contemptuous, “comes from eliminating inferior elements, not disguising them. That’s what is wrong with your ideas, Dr. Rome. They, and many other things about you, don’t hold up to scrutiny.”

  “Mr. Radcliff obviously feels differently.”

  “Not anymore, he doesn’t. Not after all that’s happened. You see, this whole matter with Baron Rutkowski left a bad taste in Mr. Carnegie’s mouth. I assured him it was only an unfortunate misunderstanding. Nevertheless, he instructed his investigative people to poke around a bit, and they came up with some interesting findings.” He turned to Abigail. “Miss Platford, do you know anything at all about the man you’ve been working for?”

  “Please leave Miss Platford out of this,” Franklin broke in. “As a matter of fact, I would prefer that she be on her way. This is a private conversation.”

  “I don’t see why it should be private,” Dr. Genworth said, seeming to enjoy Franklin’s growing agitation. “You told Joe Radcliff that you studied medicine at Hopkins, isn’t that so?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “There are no buts about it, Dr. Rome. There is no record of you ever attending Johns Hopkins or any other institution. Which perhaps explains why you’ve never bothered to apply for a license to practice medicine in the state of New York.”

  Abigail stared, incredulous, at Franklin. It was impossible. The diplomas were on his wall. And surely if he were not legitimately credentialed, he would never have had the audacity to proceed with so bold a plan as the Rome Institute.

  Dr. Genworth turned his gaze toward her. “You didn’t know about this, Miss Platford? You, who worked with this man day in and day out?”

  From his tone, Abigail wasn’t sure if he was remarking on her startling ineptitude or accusing her of being an accomplice.

  “No, I didn’t know any of it.”

  Seemingly satisfied with her response, he resumed with Franklin. “I’ve already informed Mr. Radcliff, and he asked me to convey his bitter disappointment at such a flagrant abuse of trust. Needless to say, the Rome Institute is off the table.”

  Franklin’s hands were clenched into tight balls. “I’ll believe that when I hear it from Mr. Radcliff himself. As a matter of fact, I was just about to telephone him with the news that we have an additional investor in our project. Someone who might be interested in your work as well. Someone with very deep pockets.”

  Abigail looked from Franklin to Dr. Genworth and back. Surely he was bluffing about having another investor. Was there no end to the lies?

  “I suggest you keep that investor of yours on a very tight leash, Dr. Rome. Because if he were to find out that you are no more qualified to perform surgery than the local barber, I doubt he would be interested in opening up those deep pockets.”

  “And what about you, Dr. Genworth?”

  He looked at Abigail, his brows arched in surprise. “I beg your pardon, Miss Platford?”

  She hadn’t intended to speak. She hardly knew what she wanted to say—or why
she felt the need to say anything. It was certainly not in defense of Franklin. But all of a sudden, her pent-up rage toward Joe and the eugenicists came bubbling to the surface. “You believe yourself and your colleagues to be so far above everyone else. You act as if you are the only ones who know the truth, the only ones worthy of being saved. What you propose to do to the weak and the sick and the helpless is despicable, sir. And yet you call yourself a doctor! You disgrace the title.”

  Dr. Genworth drew himself up, regarding her through his round spectacles with a look of pure enmity.

  “Miss Platford, yours is exactly the kind of ignorance that the eugenics movement must contend with far too frequently, I’m afraid. All I can say is that someday you will thank me for what I’m doing. Someday your children will thank me.”

  “I sincerely hope not,” she said, picking up the bag with her possessions. “If you gentlemen will excuse me, I have two sick girls to attend to.”

  She approached Franklin, having to pass him in order to make her way toward the stairs. She had made a decision about the twins; she was taking them to the hospital, as quickly as she could.

  “When I’m finished, I want to speak with you,” Franklin said in a low voice. “Please.”

  Once upstairs, Abigail called for an ambulance to transport the girls to Bellevue Hospital. But it was not to happen so soon. There had been an accident, she was told. The crash of an electric train in the Bronx, with seventeen dead and as many as sixty injured. All of the ambulances were in use. There was no choice but to wait. She could only hope that she and the girls might be gone before Franklin came looking for her.

  She went into their room. They were both asleep. Exhausted, she collapsed on the bedside chair. She closed her eyes.

  It was really over. Today was her last day as Franklin Rome’s assistant. She would never again sit at her mahogany desk with its embossed leather top and elegant turned legs. Never again would she pass Franklin the blade or the chisel, witness the unveiling of a perfect nose or a dimple in the cheek of a blushing debutante. Never would she and Franklin share their morning tea in his private office, surrounded by his official-looking diplomas—none of them worth any more than the paper they were printed on.

  The revelation that he wasn’t really a doctor—it was shocking, of course. There was no justification for having deceived his patients—having deceived her. But the fact remained that, however he had learned his craft, he was indeed a technically superb surgeon. Was it wrong to think, even for a second, that the waste of such talent was itself a crime?

  But it didn’t matter now. He was finished.

  As for her future—what it might have been . . . It was unlikely that beauty surgery would ever be counted among the great achievements of modern medicine. It could hardly be compared with the work of doctors like her father, called on to render service to patients who were gravely ill and often contagious, some with incurable diseases. She had always thought of medicine that way, as a matter of life and death. Yet beauty surgery had come to hold its own fascination for her. To sculpt from flesh and bone took admirable skill and aesthetic judgment; it was both science and art. Franklin had taught her to appreciate it in a way she surely wouldn’t have otherwise.

  She could not deny that he had taught her a great deal.

  About many things . . .

  And now he was gone from her life.

  If it was only a matter of his affair with Alexandra, it might have been a bittersweet parting. She might eventually have been able to look back on it with some measure of equanimity, remembering the good, glossing over the bad. But, with all that had happened, forgiveness was out of the question. The list of Franklin’s transgressions was too long, the nature of them far too serious. Dear God, what if he was a murderer? It was still difficult to think of him that way—but not impossible. His ambition had become toxic, an insidious evil, a poison deadly to the soul.

  And it was too late for the antidote.

  “I want to apologize.”

  Her eyes flew open. Franklin was standing in the doorway, his tie loose, his jacket askew.

  “I was angry, but I shouldn’t have slapped you. That was out of line.”

  “What difference does it make now?” she said, glancing nervously at the twins. She had wanted to be gone before Franklin could even think about trying to stop them.

  “Does that mean that you forgive me? That we can forget about it? Because, Abigail—” He looked at her imploringly. “I want you to stay.”

  She stood up. Her legs felt wobbly. “I don’t want these girls disturbed. They’re ill.” She came toward him, fearful that he might grab her. He was obviously unstable. He might do anything.

  But he stepped aside, letting her pass into the hall. She shut the door.

  “You have to understand, Abigail. This is all some sort of conspiracy. Genworth and Sorrel—they want me out of their way. They want Joe Radcliff’s money all for themselves. So let them have it! But they’re not going to stop us. We’ll go someplace else and start a new practice. Maybe Chicago. Or how about California? You’d like that, wouldn’t you? San Francisco?”

  She could hear the desperation in his voice, but she felt no pity. He cared nothing for anyone but himself. He’d not even asked what was wrong with the twins.

  “You’re not a doctor, Franklin.”

  He managed a look of indignation. “You despise those eugenicists and everything they stand for. Yet you’re willing to take Genworth’s word over mine?”

  She heard the chiming of the grandfather clock in the foyer. It was already twenty minutes since her phone call. When would the ambulance come?

  “We don’t need Joe Radcliff. It’s my fault,” Franklin continued. “I should have realized who I was dealing with and never gotten us involved. But it’s not too late. We can pack our bags, be on our way, and this unfortunate chapter will be behind us. And Abigail”—he paused as if on the edge of a precipice—“if it would make a difference, I’ll marry you. You know that I care for you deeply.”

  His sudden ardor was too astonishing to ignore. Was everything just a game to him, an opportunity to prove how well he could play? It angered her now to think how he had taken advantage of her innocence, her trust. “You’re proposing marriage? But don’t you think you should ask Alexandra first? Or maybe you already have. I understand the two of you are very close.”

  “Alexandra?”

  “I know that you’ve slept with her. Not that I care anymore.”

  “Is that what’s been bothering you? Damn, I should have known.” He snapped his fingers. “So that’s why you went behind my back about Ludwik! You were jealous!”

  Abigail had stopped listening. She could only stare at him. How terribly dissipated he looked—not at all like the dashing Dr. Rome who had drawn the eye of every woman at the Hennessys’ banquet, or the one who had escorted her through the aisles of Bergdorf Goodman to select the extravagant outfits that would transform her into the perfect foil. Neither was he the same man who had so deftly slipped the Parisian gown from her shoulders that night in the Radcliffs’ mansion nor the one who had guided her through her first dissection, delighting in her every discovery as if it were his gift to her. No, this was an entirely different person. This was someone Abigail didn’t know.

  “Believe what you like,” she said, straining to hear the sound of a siren.

  Suddenly there was a banging at the front door. Prudence came from the kitchen, scurrying past them. A few moments later, Detective Baldwin stood behind Franklin, a determined look on his face.

  Franklin turned to confront him. “I don’t recall that we had an appointment, Detective.”

  “You’re right, we don’t.” Detective Baldwin acknowledged Abigail with a nod. “Well, Doctor, it seems the trail of Mrs. Moser’s disappearance leads back to you. A surprising bunch of fellows you associate with, sir. Too bad one of them has a weakness for Parisian hats and Lower East Side whores. The combination of the two proved to be your und
oing, I’m afraid.”

  Beads of perspiration had blossomed on Franklin’s forehead. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Well, I’ll explain everything once we get to the station. You’re coming with me now.”

  Franklin looked at Abigail, panicked. “You’ll come with me. You’ll help straighten this out.”

  “I’m taking the twins to the hospital.” She looked at Prudence, who was standing in the foyer, bug-eyed. “Why don’t you come with us, Prudence?”

  It was only when Officer Gerhardt came through the front door wielding a pair of handcuffs that it hit Abigail full force.

  Franklin was going to jail.

  And she was the one who had turned him in to the police.

  “If you’ll excuse me—” she said, asking Detective Baldwin’s permission with her eyes. He nodded, and she turned away, slipping back into the twins’ bedroom.

  She closed the door and leaned her back against it, her head down, shaking uncontrollably.

  No, it’s all right, she told herself. It wasn’t her fault. She had no choice but to go to the authorities. If he was responsible for Mrs. Moser’s disappearance, then he deserved to go to jail. What he had done was a crime, heinous beyond anything she had ever—

  “Miss Abby, what is it? What’s wrong?”

  Her head snapped up. How could she have forgotten about the twins?

  “Nothing’s wrong, Valencia,” she said, suddenly fighting back tears she thought she’d left behind—in her bedroom at the Radcliffs’ mansion, on that night when Alexandra forced her to see the light. “Nothing at all, dear. Go back to sleep.”

  CHAPTER 23

  It was morning in the open ward at Bellevue Hospital. Sitting on the edge of the bed where Valencia and Melilla lay sleeping, Abigail had a perfect spot from which to observe the constant stream of activity, the sick and injured being wheeled in and out on carts, doctors making rounds, nurses delivering medications and retrieving bedpans. This would be her fourth day at their bedside. By now, she was used to the commotion, the unruly patients, the sharp screams and muted sobs. It was an atmosphere far removed from the pristine operating room where she had assisted Franklin for the past several months—and into which she would never set foot again.