by Joanna Shupe
“Yes, it is precisely what I said. Oliver, I do not want her to turn out like me. To be honest, I would much rather be like her.”
“What are you talking about? You are intelligent and strong, not to mention beautiful and kind. She would be lucky—”
“No, she would not be lucky. If she were like me she would not ride horses or climb rocks. She would be afraid and anxious. Timid and shy. The opposite of everything she is now.”
“I wish you could see what I see,” he signed. “You are not those things. You have lived your life by someone else’s rules where your parents dictated your choices based on society’s expectations. Yet you survived. You resisted in your own way, biding your time until fate brought you to me. You are a survivor—and now you may embrace whatever challenges life brings at you because you are not alone. We shall face whatever comes together.”
“We shall?”
“I am not giving you up, Christina. Not after a year, not after twenty years. I am afraid you are stuck with me—that is, if you are—”
She launched herself at him, wrapping her arms around his neck. He guided her close and held her. Her reaction gave him hope she felt the same way and their marriage could last. He had not planned on a true marriage with her, but he could no longer imagine not having her in his life.
In a short time, she had become as necessary as air. He had not thought any woman would see beyond his bank account or his condition. Yet Christina had. She was not interested in money or the things she could buy with the Hawkes fortune. Nor was she fixated on her social status, pressuring him to escort her about town, a different party every night. No, she preferred to stay home, as he did.
It was so much more than that, however. She was a kind, giving person, even protecting her parents when they hardly deserved such generosity. Then she had befriended Sarah and helped entertain his sister. She was remarkable, always thinking of others more than herself.
He was dashed fortunate.
No matter how this marriage had started, the silly time limit he’d imposed, this was now forever. Fate had thrown this woman in his path and he had located the perfect other half of his soul. He just had not told her yet.
Perhaps today she needed to hear it.
Leaning back, he captured her face in his hands. “Christina, I love you. Whatever problems we have, we face them together. Do you understand?”
She stiffened but he only held on tighter. When another tear cascaded down her cheek, he brushed it away with his thumb. He’d never told a woman he loved her before. Were they supposed to cry?
She pointed her middle finger toward herself then crossed her arms to form an X in front of her chest. Then she pointed at him. Oliver’s throat closed, warmth spreading around his heart. He’d never expected for her to say it back, let alone in his own language.
Bending, he pressed his mouth to hers, deepening the kiss until she clung to him. Her mouth was soft and lush, and he lost track of time. She fit him utterly and wholly, this complex woman he hadn’t even known two months ago. Now he could not imagine his life without her.
When they broke apart, they were both breathing hard. He held her hand. “You are brave and wonderful. I will never give up on you—or on us.”
Her gaze locked with his. “Do you mean it?”
“I always say precisely what I mean. I love you. That statement does not come with conditions or a time limit.”
“Thank you, Oliver.” Rising on her toes, she placed a kiss on his cheek. “Falling in your garden was the best thing that has ever happened to me.”
“Me as well—not that I want you to do it ever again.”
She smiled—and then her head swiveled toward the door. He glanced over and saw Gill there, the butler as distressed as Oliver had ever seen him. “What is it?”
“Come quickly,” Gill signed. “Your cousin is here with some men.”
Goddamn Milton. Would he never go away? “What men?”
“I do not know their names, but they arrived in an ambulance from the New York City Asylum for the Insane.”
Chapter Eighteen
Asylum?
Christina’s heart stopped as she looked at Oliver. Instead of laughing this off as some joke, his face paled.
That scared her like nothing else.
Without explanation he started for the door. She lunged for his arm, stopping him. “Wait, should you go? Perhaps you should . . . ?” Hide? Run? Whatever happened, she did not wish to lose him.
He gently removed her fingers. “It will be fine. I shall set them straight and send them on their way. Do not worry. Stay here.”
Gill held open the door and Oliver quickly departed, the butler trailing him. Christina hurried after them. No matter what he had said, Oliver would not face this alone.
Though she was English, she had heard of what went on in New York’s asylums. A female reporter, Nellie Bly, had famously written a story about the conditions at the Blackwell’s Island women’s asylum, which had been horrifying. The London newspapers had all carried the piece detailing the rotten food, mistreatment of the patients, and the cruel staff. It had turned her stomach to even read of it.
Why were they here? She could think of no good reason for Milton to bring men from the asylum into Oliver’s home. Perhaps Milton’s motives were not as nefarious as she feared . . . yet somehow she doubted it.
The group was in the entryway. Two men in gray suits flanked Milton, one of whom held restraints in his hands, and a policeman hovered in the background. She moved to Oliver’s side, close enough that their shoulders nearly touched. He began signing angrily, with Gill translating. “What is the meaning of this, Milton?”
“That’s him. You may take him now,” Milton ordered the two men at his side.
“What are you talking about?” Gill kept his gaze trained on Oliver’s hands. “What do you think you are doing, Milton?”
“I have a document here”—Milton shook a piece of paper in his fist—“declaring you legally insane. And it has been signed by a judge.”
“That is ridiculous,” Christina said.
Gill translated, “No judge would sign that without proof.”
Milton lifted a shoulder. “Turns out my word was proof enough against a deaf and dumb recluse. I told them of your dangerous experiments, your hasty marriage to a woman you do not even know . . . and how I discouraged you from investing in a fraudulent alpaca farm. He agreed and now I have asked these fine gentlemen to escort you to your new facilities on Wards Island.”
Next to her, Oliver stiffened. Anger and fear knotted in her stomach, but she was not about to let the others see it. You are intelligent and strong, Oliver had told her. She drew herself up. “This is preposterous.”
A small figure emerged on Christina’s other side. Sarah. “Christina, who are these men?”
She wrapped an arm around Oliver’s sister. “No one to worry about, Sarah. They were just leaving.”
“What are they saying about Oliver?” she whispered.
“A lot of nonsense.” She squeezed the young girl tight. “Why don’t you go back upstairs until they leave?”
“Hello, cousin Sarah,” Milton said. “So nice to see you again. Too bad we are leaving now. Perhaps we will be able to catch up soon. Gentlemen, if you please.” He swept his hand out toward Oliver.
Oliver began signing and Gill said, “Do not dare put your hands on me until my lawyer has had a chance to review that document.”
Milton’s upper lip curled into a sneer. “That is not how it works, cousin. You no longer hold all the power. How does it feel to be at my mercy for once?”
“You have lost your mind,” Oliver signed.
“No, according to the state of New York you have lost your mind.” He nudged one of the hospital officials. “Let’s go. We are wasting time.”
The two men started forward, and Christina stepped in front of Oliver. “Do not touch my husband. Get out of this house.”
Milton slapped the p
aper in his palm. “We may do this the easy way, where Oliver comes willingly, or we shall drag him out of here kicking and screaming like the lunatic he is. Makes no difference to me.”
“Sir, come along peacefully,” the police officer said. “We do not want anyone hurt.”
The staff had gathered in the corridor, their wide gazes taking in the situation. Oliver glanced at his sister before locking eyes with Christina. She knew exactly what he was thinking, that he did not want his sister to see him dragged out of the house like an animal. “No,” she whispered. “Please, Oliver. Fight this.”
His bright green depths pleaded with her to understand. He leaned in to put his mouth near her ear. “Take care of her. And call Frank.”
Frank Tripp, his solicitor. She nodded and hugged him. “Do not do this,” she murmured into his shoulder, even though she knew he could not hear her. “Do not leave me.”
He squeezed her hard, almost desperately, and said, “I shall be fine. Contact Frank and tell him what happened. He will have me home in no time.”
Oh, God. How had this come to pass? She could not breathe at the thought of Oliver in an asylum. What would they do to him?
Much too soon, he released her and went to his sister, who was openly crying now. He started signing to the young girl, his face gentle and reassuring, and Christina’s eyes stung with unshed tears. She rounded on his cousin. “Milton, do not proceed with this. It is not too late to do the right thing.”
“The right thing?” Milton’s brows shot up. “The right thing was for all this to be mine. My father deserved half of all the Hawkes fortune; instead, he got nothing. So I’ve taken matters into my own hands and restitution shall be paid.”
This was all about money? “You are about to ruin Oliver’s life for a few hundred thousand dollars?”
Milton’s eyes nearly popped out of his head. “A few hundred thousand? You really have no idea who you married, do you?”
“I know he is a good man who is of sound mind—sounder than you, apparently. You are perpetuating a grave injustice if you place Oliver into an asylum.”
Oliver’s cousin smiled, an evil twist of his lips that held no remorse whatsoever. “No, madam. I am righting the grave injustice done to my family years ago. Now, let’s go already,” he snapped.
Oliver met Christina’s worried gaze and she saw the fear and uncertainty there. Rushing forward, she used her free hand to cup his jaw. I love you, she mouthed.
He closed his eyes and drew in a deep breath, his forehead touching hers. They stood there a second and then he straightened. Without another word, he took a step forward. The orderlies spun him around and affixed the manacles on his wrists. The group walked out of the house and down the steps, the policeman on their heels.
Heart in her throat, Christina watched as Oliver climbed into the back of the wagon and the heavy metal doors slammed shut behind him. Sarah threw herself against Christina’s side, the young girl clinging to Christina through her sobs.
Milton remained, gloating in his cruelty. “I’d pack your bags, were I you, Mrs. Hawkes.”
Her skin heated, anger licking her insides like white-hot flames. She had never hurt anyone in her entire life but oh, how she wanted to now. She wanted to strike him, to tear this man apart, and her muscles shook with the effort to restrain herself.
She lifted her chin. “However, you are not me, you miserable excuse for a human being. I shall fight you every single step of the way, no matter the cost. You have no idea what hell you have unleashed today. Now, get out of my husband’s house.”
He knew not to struggle with the guards.
It would serve no purpose. Oliver’s hopes now rested with Frank Tripp, who would certainly find a way to have that ridiculous judgment overturned. In the meantime, however, he needed to endure whatever happened here. For Christina and Sarah. For himself.
He’d never forget the terrified look on Christina’s face today, or the way his sister had sobbed at his departure. No matter what happened from here on out, he must bear it. Bear it, and then return home to them.
After a short boat ride, he was loaded into another wagon and driven deeper onto Wards Island, a tiny block of land in the East River where the city shipped its undesirables. He hoped to God that conditions in asylums had improved since the newspaper articles had been printed.
When the wagon doors flew open, he stepped to the ground, ignoring the dour guards frowning at him. Above loomed a three-story Gothic structure constructed out of brick and stone, with a mansard roof on top. The building had one central part and two flanking sections adjoining, almost like wings.
A guard grabbed Oliver’s arm and roughly towed him toward the entry. Oliver did not resist. His goal was to get before the doctors as quickly as possible, plead his case, and pray they saw reason. Surely they would evaluate him upon arrival to determine his level of mental acuity. Then they would understand this was all a mistake and let him go.
He hoped.
They led him into a narrow vestibule and the door shut behind him. His heart pounded a steady beat of terror against his ribs, a cold sensation sweeping through his veins. It took every bit of his control not to shove free of these men and run away. Only knowing it would not serve his purpose—a quick release—prevented him from fleeing. If he tried to escape, he would be caught and they would lock him up where Tripp would certainly never find him.
If they were talking to him, he had no idea. He kept his head down as two guards led him along the bare floors of a never-ending corridor. Most of the guards, he knew from what he’d read in the newspapers, were inmates of the nearby penitentiary. To say he feared mistreatment by their hand was an immense understatement.
They tossed him in the direction of a wooden bench. Oliver caught himself and sat, hands folded nonthreateningly in his lap. Glancing up, he saw a guard’s mouth move, “. . . examination. Wait here.”
He nodded, pressing his lips together to keep from begging, shouting . . . demanding they release him.
Soon. He’d meet with the doctor and he would be released soon.
Several minutes passed, the guards watching over him as he waited. Movement from the corner of his eye startled him, and a man in a long white coat stepped through the now-open door. The doctor. Thank Christ.
Oliver rose and immediately the guards were there, each taking one of his arms. The doctor’s mouth started moving but Oliver was unable read his lips from this angle and the man quickly turned away. The guards shoved him forward, into the doctor’s office, yet he somehow maintained his feet as he stumbled. Then he stood waiting in the middle of the room for the doctor to notice him.
The doctor was an older man, reed-thin. He had long whiskers along his chin and lip and he wore spectacles. There were rings under his eyes as if he’d been deprived of sleep for a few days, no hint of a smile on his face. If one hoped for a kindly, Henry Jacobs-type doctor, this man was not it.
Now behind his desk, the doctor lifted a stack of papers and gestured to the chair opposite. Oliver sat and began speaking, too scared to be shy about his voice. “Sir, I fear this is a misunderstanding. I am deaf, not insane.”
The doctor lifted an eyebrow, his gaze landing directly on Oliver for the first time. “Determining an incoming patient’s mental state is my job”—he checked his papers—“Mr. Hawkes.”
“But this is a ploy by my cousin to have me committed. There is nothing wrong with me.”
“And yet a judge and two doctors say otherwise.” He dropped into his leather chair and picked up a pen. His mouth moved but his head was down, so Oliver could not read his lips.
“I cannot see your face. I have no idea what you are saying.”
The doctor cocked his head, his expression skeptical. “Are you saying you are able to read lips? I have met several deaf people, Mr. Hawkes, and none could read lips as well as to follow a conversation.”
“Nevertheless, I am able to do so.”
Leaning forward, the doctor made
notes on the papers. He began speaking again, his head bent where Oliver could not see, the moustache covering most of the man’s lips.
“Again, if you are not looking at me, I cannot understand what you are saying.”
The doctor folded his arms on the desk and gave Oliver a bland stare. “And so it is I who must accommodate you, Mr. Hawkes?” He shook his head as if the very idea was insulting. “I think you shall learn quickly that it is our patients who adapt while here.”
Oliver kept quiet, merely staring at a doctor who obviously held little compassion for the people brought before his care.
“Now, what is your name?”
“Oliver Richard Hawkes.”
“Where are you from?”
“New York City.”
“How old are you?”
“Twenty-nine.”
“What . . .” The doctor’s head bent, obscuring Oliver’s view.
“What was that last question?”
The doctor’s head snapped up. “I do not care to repeat myself. What year is it currently?”
“Eighteen hundred and ninety.”
“Do you know why you have been sent here?”
“Because my cousin is angling to steal my family’s fortune.”
“Says here that you . . .” He read off the paper, his lips not in Oliver’s line of sight.
Heat suffused Oliver’s entire body, an all-encompassing frustration that replaced his rationality. “I cannot hear you,” he snapped, pounding a fist on the arm of the chair. “Either look at me when you are speaking or write it down for me.”
The doctor’s body stiffened and he sneered. “You must learn your place here.” Addressing the guards, he said, “Show Mr. Hawkes our plunging bath. Make sure he understands—”
That was all Oliver could read before he was jerked to his feet and hauled away.
Christina paced the length of the entryway. She had not been able to eat, sleep, or rest since the moment Oliver was carted away by those men.
Once the wagon had departed this morning, she’d immediately contacted Frank Tripp and informed him of what happened. Now early evening, Frank had phoned thirty minutes ago to say he was on his way with news. She prayed this news was of the good variety. Hadn’t Oliver suffered enough in his short life? Thank goodness Milton had not lingered to gloat. Christina very well may have punched him.
