by Joanna Shupe
The bell jangled. She raced to the latch, beating the butler to the door, and ripped the heavy panel ajar. A grim-looking Frank Tripp waited on the stoop. “Good evening, Christina.”
“Come in,” she said and moved aside. “Let’s go into the salon.”
Frank did not even bother to remove his coat, just placed his bowler and cane onto the low table and followed her. When they entered the salon, Frank shrugged off his overcoat and tossed it on a chair. Gill followed, his hands clasped behind his back. “Would you care for a drink, sir?”
“Let’s skip it until I am done. I wish I had good news,” Frank said as he sat down, and Christina’s heart sank. “I have seen the petition and, while it is a complete farce, they have bribed a judge to sign it. Your husband has made some powerful enemies, Christina. Apparently this judge is one of Van Peet’s cronies.”
“Van Peet?” Why would Van Peet have any interest in locking Oliver away?
“Yes. Oliver and Julius Hatcher were making moves to ruin Van Peet and the old man caught wind of the plan. Quite upset over it, too. Milton and his lawyer have used this to their advantage, finding a judge in Van Peet’s pocket to get this judgment through.”
“Dear Lord.”
“Exactly.” Frank crossed his legs. “Now, Oliver should have been evaluated by at least two qualified examiners before being shipped to Wards Island. Those names have been forged on the paperwork—”
“Then we may get him released,” she said, a glimmer of hope sparking to life in her chest.
“In theory, yes. However, proving those signatures were forged may be difficult because the doctors were no doubt paid a handsome sum to lie. Getting them to admit the truth means they lose their medical licenses and their livelihoods. I think we’ll have a better chance getting the judgment overturned. Within thirty days we are allowed to appeal it and obtain a rehearing. I have already filed the appeal on Oliver’s behalf.”
Christina covered her mouth with her hand, stomach twisting with horror. “Are you saying Oliver might possibly remain there for a month?”
“I am doing everything in my power to prevent that,” Frank said, holding up a hand as if he were swearing in court. “I will push for a hearing to take place as quickly as possible, I promise.”
She swallowed, clenching her hands together. This was awful. Just positively awful. Part of her wanted to go to Wards Island herself and demand they let Oliver go. Bang on the door, tear the building apart until she found him and could bring him back here. “What is involved in the rehearing?”
“We hope a judge will review the paperwork and let me plead Oliver’s case. If not, they may summon a jury to decide whether Oliver is sane.”
“And juries are notoriously unpredictable,” Christina said.
Frank nodded once. “Unfortunately, yes. I should also warn you that your marriage is a part of all this. Milton claims Oliver did not possess the mental capacity to agree to a marriage and you took advantage of him, therefore the marriage should be annulled. If that happens and Oliver remains committed, Milton would be appointed guardian of the Hawkes fortune.”
Annulled? Oh, good heavens. A lump formed in her throat. This was all much worse than she had feared. “Am I allowed to see him?”
“He is denied visitors, except his lawyer.”
Her breath shuddered as she exhaled. It was the answer she’d expected but that did not make it easy to hear. “So when will you go?”
“First thing in the morning.” His gaze softened with remorse and apology. “I would bring you if I could, Christina. I know it hardly eases your mind, but if there’s any message you’d like me to pass along . . . ?”
There was so much she needed to say to Oliver, like how much she loved him. How fervently she missed him. That she would never give up. “Yes, please. Tell him we shall not rest until he is released.”
Chapter Nineteen
The asylum was a hundred times worse than he’d feared.
What little food they were given was mostly rotten. There were no blankets or fires, the hospital clothing threadbare. During the day, many patients sat listless and vacant-eyed, either heavily drugged or too far withdrawn into their own minds to be talkative. At night he was grateful for a lack of hearing because he could feel the constant vibration in the walls and floors, the screams and cries of the men trapped inside this horrible place.
Thoughts of the plunging bath still haunted him. In the asylum basement sat a deep pool carved into the rock that filled with water straight from the ocean. During the summer it was used for bathing, but in the winter they used the pool for punishment. Oliver had been repeatedly dunked into the freezing water, held under the surface in a silent nightmare until he thought he’d truly go mad. He had never been so damn cold in his life, the kind of chill that settled into one’s bones for days.
After that, he’d been dragged, naked, to a room only wide enough for a bed. A guard had punched him in the face twice, thrown him on the mattress, and left. It had taken forever for the tremors and chills to subside. When he could finally stand without toppling over, he found the door locked from the outside.
Eventually a guard returned with clothing and told him to get dressed. He had been allowed to roam free for a short period after dinner, until all the patients were sent back to their rooms. Sleep had proven impossible, the fear of not being able to hear an attacker keeping him awake until dawn.
After an inedible breakfast he was taken to an outdoor courtyard full of other patients and large rocks. They handed him a pickax and told him to break the rocks into smaller pieces. He had no idea why or what the rocks would be used for. No one spoke and he asked no questions, having learned his lesson earlier with the plunging bath. The guards carried billy clubs and they were eager to use them. Several men had been beaten for trying to take a short water break.
Oliver kept his head down and kept swinging the pickax. When a hand grabbed his shoulder, he flinched and twisted away. A guard stood directly behind him.
“You Hawkes?”
Bracing himself, Oliver gave a short nod. The guard jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “. . . a visitor.”
He had a visitor. Thank Christ. It had to be Frank, and he prayed his lawyer had good news.
He hurried inside and was led down a series of dingy corridors. At the end, the guard turned a key in a heavy metal door and swung it wide enough for Oliver to squeeze through. In the room beyond were a few empty tables and long benches. Frank Tripp rose, his concerned gaze raking Oliver from head to toe. “Jesus,” the attorney said.
Closing the distance between them, Oliver struck out his hand. “Tell me you have good news,” he said, using his voice.
Frank pulled both hands away, holding them up, and nodded at something over Oliver’s shoulder. Oliver glanced behind him and saw a guard stationed there. He looked at Frank for explanation. “They do not want us touching, not even to shake hands. Have a seat.”
Sighing heavily, Oliver dropped onto the bench across from Frank. “You look like shit,” Frank said as he sat. “May I assume that black eye is courtesy of the guards?”
“There was a communication issue upon my arrival yesterday.”
“Christ, Oliver, I am sorry about all of this. I am doing my best to get the judgment overturned.” He told Oliver what Milton had done, the judge in Van Peet’s pocket, and the falsified signatures of the two doctors. With growing dread, Oliver processed the news about the annulment and the rehearing.
Fucking hell. It would take a goddamn miracle to get him out of this place.
Leaning on the wooden table, he rubbed his forehead with his fingers. Thirty days. He could be stuck here for a month. He thought of the food and the cold. The rocks. The lack of sleep. How in the world would he survive it?
Frank rapped on the table to get his attention. “Christina said to tell you that we would not rest until you are released. And we won’t. I swear it.”
A small smile twisted his lips at the though
t of his wife. He missed her like nothing else. “How is she holding up?”
“Worried but determined. A backbone of pure steel, your wife. She is no weeping wallflower.”
No, definitely not. Christina was the strongest woman Oliver had ever met. No matter what happened to him, he knew she would fight Milton with every breath she took. “And my sister?”
“I did not see her but I will ask during the next visit.”
“When do you think you shall have a new judge?”
“I hope today. I sent the request to someone I have known for years. He is a good man. Cannot be bribed.”
“You have no doubt tried, I assume.”
Frank’s mouth hitched. “I never stop fighting for my clients, Oliver. You know that. No matter what it takes.”
“And as one of your clients, I am damn glad of it.”
Frank’s gaze shot over Oliver’s head and then he nodded once. “He says we are out of time.” They both came to their feet. “I will be back, Oliver, I swear. Even if I do not have news, I shall come to check on you.”
“That is not necessary. Check on Christina instead. There is nothing you can do for me here.”
“Christ, I wish you were wrong about that. Stay sharp. Stay safe. I will do everything in my power to get you out as soon as possible.”
A beefy hand wrapped around Oliver’s bicep and tugged him away. He had one last glimpse of Frank before the asylum swallowed him back up.
“You are quite fortunate your father and I are still in town.” The countess sniffed and raised her chin. “We were told in no uncertain terms to return to London.”
Christina gritted her teeth and kept her stare fixed out the carriage window. It turned out her parents had not left New York because they were unsatisfied with the allowance Oliver had offered them. Today, she planned to use the earl and countess’s petulant resistance to her—and hopefully Oliver’s—advantage. “I am very grateful for your help this afternoon.” So grateful she had agreed to double the allowance originally proposed.
“For the record,” Frank Tripp said, “I am against this.”
Christina, her parents, and Oliver’s lawyer were in a carriage on the way to City Hall. Frank had repeatedly voiced his objections to this outing but Christina did not care. She would try anything—including enlisting the help of her parents—to get Oliver out of that hellhole.
Three days had dragged past. Three days since he had been taken, imprisoned, and subjected to God knew what. Frank would not provide details other than to say Oliver was in good spirits and coping well. What on earth did such a statement even mean?
Christina had tried to keep busy with Sarah as a way of distracting herself, but Oliver was never far from the forefront of her mind. Everything reminded her of him. The house, the gardens, the bed . . . Traces of him were everywhere and she could hardly breathe for all her worry.
Today, she had decided to do something. Against Frank’s advice, she had asked her parents for a favor. She insisted they use their titles as a way of gaining an audience with the mayor of New York. The earl and countess had agreed—for a price—and cabled Mayor Grant once an amount had been settled upon. The mayor had granted them a small patch of time, one Christina planned to use to gain Oliver’s release.
“Hardly surprising you object,” the countess said to Frank. “You have been poisoning your client’s mind about us since the wedding.”
Frank sighed and rubbed his eyes. “How is it that two people are so completely opposite?” he muttered to Christina. “Are you certain she is your mother?”
The earl chuckled until the countess elbowed him in the ribs. “I am her mother and you would do well to remember that. Need I remind you who arranged for today’s meeting?”
“I am capable of arranging a face-to-face with Mayor Grant, my lady. This is not London. We do not need to request an audience at court—”
“Enough,” Christina said. “Frank, I hope that my parents’ titles will be enough to convince Grant to help us.”
“Grant values the almighty dollar, not viscounts and dukes—”
“My husband is an earl,” the countess put in. “His title can be traced back to Edward II.”
Frank rolled his eyes. “A hot corn girl working in the Bowery is worth more than you two.”
“I have no idea what that means,” the countess said to the earl. “Is he insulting us?”
“Never mind him.” The earl pointed at the window. “We have arrived.”
The earl descended first then helped his wife. Christina moved to leave but Frank stopped her. “Do not expect too much from Grant,” he warned. “He is young and corrupt, which is to say he is unpredictable. Understand?”
She nodded once. “I have to try, Frank.”
“I know, but if this fails we will come up with something else. Do not worry. We shall not give up.”
Indeed, they would not. She refused to rest until Oliver was released. “Thank you.”
Once inside City Hall they crossed under the huge rotunda toward the mayor’s office. An assistant showed them to an outer room where they were told to wait. Christina sat on the sofa next to her mother, while the two men took the armchairs. “It all looks so new,” her mother whispered. “Is it not terribly quaint?”
“Mother, please.” The last thing they needed was for someone to overhear and become offended. “Remember our purpose.”
“Of course, of course. You mustn’t worry, Christina. It will give you wrinkles.”
Wrinkles? Her husband had been committed to an asylum and her mother honestly thought Christina cared about wrinkles? Before she could respond, the door opened. A man about Oliver’s age entered, a full beard covering his face. Goodness, he was young for a mayor. Everyone stood and Frank conducted the introductions.
“I am told you are to be called Lord and Lady Pennington,” the mayor said as they all sat. “Is that correct?”
“There’s no need for such formality,” the countess said. “‘My lord,’ or ‘my lady’ will suffice.”
Christina tightened her hands into fists, willing herself patience through these inanities that had nothing to do with Oliver.
The mayor crossed his legs. “This is a first for me, meeting an earl. Though we had a viceroy last year. I hope you are enjoying our wonderful city.”
“We are most definitely enjoying New York.” Her father’s posture was perfect, every inch the English, albeit poor, aristocrat. “The reason for our visit today, however, pertains to my son-in-law, Mr. Oliver Hawkes. We are in need of your assistance.”
“Is that so?”
“Mr. Mayor,” Frank said, “Mr. Hawkes has been wrongfully incarcerated at Wards Island. Some papers have been forged by members of his family and—”
“I am going to stop you right there, Frank. You should know that my hands are tied on this matter.”
“What does that mean, your hands are tied?”
“It means I am not going to be able to help Mr. Hawkes.”
Christina’s jaw fell open. She and Frank exchanged a look while the countess asked, “Well, why not?”
Grant stroked his beard. “Your son-in-law made some powerful enemies. Those enemies happen to be friends of my friends. Do you understand?”
“No, I cannot say I do,” the earl said, looking at his wife. “Have you an idea?”
The countess shook her head and Frank leaned in to explain. “Mr. Grant is backed by Tammany Hall. Think of them as the Whigs. Van Peet is a Whig, a powerful one. So the mayor cannot help us, the opposition, without angering Van Peet and all the Whigs.”
Christina closed her eyes, the sound of her breathing loud in her own ears. Blasted Van Peet. Would she never be free of that man? Poor Oliver. If not for her, he never would’ve been committed to that horrible place.
“Come on, Grant,” Frank snapped. “A man has been wrongfully committed. One letter from you could release him. Tonight.”
“Tripp, you know how this works. I am up for
reelection this year. Van Peet has threatened to pull the support for my campaign if I help you.”
“And how, exactly, did Van Peet learn that you were meeting with us?”
The mayor at least had the grace to appear abashed. “There is not much that happens in these walls without Tammany’s knowledge. Have you tried the courts? I am assuming you are Hawkes’s attorney.”
“We are trying the courts,” Frank confirmed. “But your help would expedite the process considerably.”
“Undoubtedly, but there is nothing I can do.” The mayor turned to Christina. “Mrs. Hawkes, for what it is worth I am sorry. I hope you are successful in gaining your husband’s release.”
“Thank you,” she said. Failure tasted bitter on her tongue. A few moments ago, she had been so hopeful. Now they had to start over, find another route to obtain Oliver’s freedom. Furious at the injustice and corruption preventing Oliver’s release, she snapped, “And for what it is worth, Mayor Grant, I will do everything in my power to see you do not gain reelection.”
Frank made a choking noise then quickly stood, signaling an end to the meeting. Everyone followed suit. The mayor frowned as they exchanged terse good-byes and left.
“I am sorry, Christina,” Frank said as they walked along the corridor. “I did not have high hopes for Grant, but even this failed to meet my low expectations. I had no idea Van Peet got to him first.”
“It is not your fault.” She took a steadying breath. “We cannot give up. There is a way to get him out. We must keep trying, Frank.”
“And we shall. I promise you, Christina. We will get him out.”
She had to remain positive and believe that justice would prevail. However, it was beginning to seem that, for many, justice was hard to come by in New York City.
