2
Olivia awoke slowly, certain she must be dreaming. Never had she felt such a soft mattress, one that smelled of lilac and lavender. Maybe she’d died and gone to heaven. If so, she didn’t want to open her eyes. She’d just float into eternity on this cloud of comfort.
Firm fingers touched her wrist, staying there for a time before moving to her forehead.
Mamma. Taking her temperature as she did when Olivia was young.
She fought to force her heavy lids open. Only for Mamma would she give up heaven.
She blinked, trying to focus on the figure in front of her.
“How is she, Doctor?” a strange woman asked.
Not Mamma.
“Her fever is coming down. The medicine must be starting to work.”
A vest with silver buttons was the only thing Olivia could seem to focus on. She squinted, and the face of a man came into view.
“Hello, young lady. Nice to see you awake.”
“Where am I?” Definitely not in her jail cell and definitely not at home. Nor was she in the church where she last remembered being.
“You’re in my home” came the female voice. “I’m Ruth Bennington. And this is my physician, Dr. Henshaw.”
Olivia’s gaze shifted from the surprisingly young man to a tall, slender woman behind him. Her gray hair was pinned up, her eyes gleamed with intelligence, and she wore an air of authority. Enough authority to make Olivia tremble beneath the quilt. She’d met women like this at the reformatory and had learned to stay out of their way. Because once someone in charge noticed you, there was nothing but pain.
“It’s all right, dear,” the woman said. “I found you in St. Olaf’s Church, almost delirious. Reverend Dixon and I brought you here, and I called Dr. Henshaw.”
The man smiled. “You’ve been here two days, and I think you’ve finally turned the corner.” He reached for the stethoscope he wore around his neck. “If you’ll permit me, I’d like to listen to your heart again.”
Olivia’s breath caught in her chest, alarm spurting through her.
“I’ll give you some privacy.” Mrs. Bennington turned to leave the room.
“No!” Olivia clenched the covers and pulled them higher, the image of the reformatory’s medical clinic springing to mind. Once that door closed and you were alone, unspeakable things occurred.
The older woman turned back, eyebrows raised. “I promise you’re in capable hands with Dr. Henshaw.”
“And believe me, Mrs. Bennington doesn’t say that about everyone.” The doctor winked at Olivia.
“Please stay.” The words came out so softly she doubted the woman had heard.
But Mrs. Bennington nodded. “Very well. I’ll sit over here in the corner.”
Olivia’s hand relaxed, releasing the covers, but she eyed the doctor warily. He was under thirty, she estimated, and quite nice-looking with neatly trimmed brown hair and kind eyes.
The doctor gave her a small smile, then listened to her heart, looked into her eyes, ears, and mouth, and finally sat back with a satisfied expression. “I believe the infection is almost gone. For now, drink plenty of fluids and take the medication I left with Mrs. Bennington.” He rose and picked up his bag. “I’ll be back tomorrow to see how you’re doing. I predict a huge improvement in the next twenty-four hours.”
Olivia’s lips cracked as she tried to smile. Perhaps she had misjudged the man. “Thank you.”
“You’re most welcome. Good day, ladies.”
Mrs. Bennington rose from her chair. “Thank you again, Doctor. I appreciate your diligence.”
“I can show myself out.” He gave a slight bow and left the room.
Olivia released a long breath, and rather than face the woman’s curious regard, she took in her surroundings. The room was enormous, bigger than her parents’ kitchen and parlor combined. Red flocked wallpaper graced the walls, and an ornate mirror sat above a dark wood vanity. On the far right was a large fireplace, where a fire burned in the grate. Overhead, a chandelier with little crystals shimmered, catching the glow from the embers.
“I hope you’ll be comfortable here,” Mrs. Bennington said. “My room is right down the hall if you need anything.”
Olivia nodded, still struggling to comprehend how this stranger had brought her into her home.
“Can you tell me your name?” Mrs. Bennington’s bright blue eyes stared at Olivia expectantly.
“Olivia Rosetti,” she said.
“Olivia. A pretty name for a pretty girl.” Mrs. Bennington smiled softly. “Are you hungry or thirsty, dear?”
Olivia’s first thought was to refuse, so used to going without. But her parched throat and cracked lips begged for moisture. “Thirsty.”
The woman’s features relaxed. “I’ll have some tea and water brought up immediately. And maybe a bit of chicken broth, if the cook has any handy. You rest and don’t worry about a thing.”
At the door, the woman paused and looked back over her shoulder. “I don’t know what circumstances brought you to the church, but you’re welcome to stay here for as long as you need. No questions asked.”
Olivia pressed her lips together. Moisture built behind her lids and she blinked hard. Her throat worked, but no words would come, so she simply nodded, hoping the woman would understand her gratitude.
Seemingly satisfied, Mrs. Bennington left the room.
Dr. Henshaw returned the next day to check on Olivia. True to his prediction, she had experienced a fair improvement in her health. She was able to sit up in bed and had taken some toast and tea.
This time, Olivia allowed the doctor to conduct his examination without Mrs. Bennington in the room. The man’s gentleness and caring attitude inspired Olivia’s trust. She studied him as he opened his bag to retrieve his instruments. He had hair the color of the chestnuts sold in Papà’s store and a mouth that rested in a natural smile. His hazel eyes held warmth and concern, unlike the cold, empty stare of the Mercer’s female physician.
Once Dr. Henshaw had taken her temperature and listened to her heart and lungs, he looped his stethoscope around his neck and pulled a chair closer to the bed. When he sat down and pinned her with a serious gaze, Olivia’s heart began to thump heavily in her chest.
“Miss Rosetti, I’d like to speak frankly if I may.” His tone, though professional, vibrated with concern.
Olivia gripped the blankets. Had he found something else wrong with her? What if the rumors at Mercer were true and the tests they had performed on her weren’t really tests at all? That might account for her contracting this mysterious infection. She glanced at the doctor, attempting to gauge his demeanor, but his handsome features gave nothing away.
Anxiety fluttered in her lungs. “Is the infection back?”
“It seems under control for now,” he said carefully. “But what I wasn’t able to determine was the source of the infection.” He paused. “Have you been around anyone who’s been ill? A family member? Someone in the workplace?”
Heat crawled up Olivia’s neck. Images of several Mercer inmates flew to mind before she could steel herself against them. The persistent hacking coughs that many of the women endured. The rumors of other, nastier infections that some inmates carried. Could she have contracted something life-threatening from them?
“Miss Rosetti?”
She bit her lip. He would need to know her background in order to help her. “I was recently released from the Mercer Reformatory for Women. It . . . wasn’t a very sanitary place.”
His eyes widened, but his expression remained calm. “I see. May I ask how long you were there?”
“Almost eighteen months. I got out early for good behavior.” Ironic when she was deemed incorrigible.
“Was this the only time you were ill while there?”
If only she could crawl beneath the bed and hide. Ignore his inquiries that would only lead to more questions she had no desire to answer.
She shook her head. “I developed an infection after . . .”
“After?” Dr. Henshaw prompted gently.
She lifted her chin and gave him a defiant stare. Bitterness coated the back of her mouth. Let him judge her if he dared. “After the birth of my son. They refused to let me nurse and took him away.”
“You gave birth in prison?”
“In the hospital. I stayed there for several days before they brought me back to the reformatory. Without my son.” Her body began to shake, recalling the grief that had left her debilitated for weeks and the phantom pain of the child no longer in her womb.
“That is most unfortunate, Miss Rosetti. I’m sorry you had to go through that.”
Olivia couldn’t respond, his sympathy suddenly too much to bear. No one except Mamma had shown her the smallest morsel of compassion.
They sat in silence for several seconds, until he cleared his throat. “Other than that, were you healthy? No further complications from the pregnancy?”
“No.”
The doctor folded his hands on his lap. “I don’t know quite how to say this, but I feel I must ask.”
Her stomach tightened, as though expecting a blow. She waited, hardly daring to breathe.
“Were you . . . mistreated in the reformatory?”
All the air left Olivia’s lungs. Mistreated? If only he knew the half of it. The truth begged to be said, but she had no idea how to phrase the words.
“By the other inmates?” he asked. “By the authorities?”
She shook her head. Not in denial of his inquiry, but to let him know she couldn’t talk about the atrocities that had occurred. Could never speak of them to anyone.
“I know this is a delicate topic,” he continued, “but I would be remiss to ignore the warning signs.”
What signs? What had he seen? She curled her arms around her body in a protective manner, trying to shield herself.
Dr. Henshaw removed the stethoscope from his neck and placed it in his bag. “While you were unconscious, I had to conduct an exam to try and ascertain the cause of your condition.”
Heat scorched Olivia’s cheeks, visions of the prison infirmary clouding her mind. The horrid metal bed with the stirrups. The tray of heinous-looking instruments. The soulless eyes of the doctor. Her lips quivered, and she pressed her hands into fists. But no words would come out.
“There are indications from the numerous needle marks and what appear to be random incisions around your . . . private parts,” he said gently, “that you might have been the victim of some unorthodox surgical procedures.” He leaned forward, his forehead wrinkled. “Did someone violate you, Miss Rosetti?”
A sob broke free from her aching throat, unleashing a hot flood of tears. She crumpled back against the pillow, her eyes squeezed shut as every indignity she’d worked so hard to suppress came back in a rush. The leather straps pinning her down, the horrific injections, the slice of the scalpel with nothing to numb the pain, followed by burning chemical treatments. Returning to her cell to suffer alone, praying for death to claim her.
Olivia rocked back and forth on the bed. How could the officials allow the prison doctor to perform such despicable acts? A female doctor, at that. One who should have had compassion for other women. Why hadn’t anyone in charge tried to stop her?
“It’s all right, dear.” A soothing female voice finally broke through Olivia’s anguish. “You’re safe now. No one is going to hurt you again.”
When at last the storm of tears was spent, Olivia opened her eyes. Mrs. Bennington sat beside her on the bed, while Dr. Henshaw hovered by the dresser. The distress on his face made Olivia wonder if perhaps he hadn’t had a chance to impart his bad news after all.
“Am I dying?” she croaked out.
The doctor came forward, his expression grim. “No, Miss Rosetti. You are not dying. I promise you that.”
Mrs. Bennington handed her a handkerchief, sending Dr. Henshaw a pointed look. “I think our patient needs to rest now, Doctor. Could you come back tomorrow when she’s feeling stronger?”
“Certainly, Mrs. Bennington.” He reached for his bag, then turned to Olivia. “You’ve been through a terrible ordeal, Miss Rosetti. Whoever did this should be horsewhipped and jailed for what they’ve done.” A muscle in his jaw ticked, but he made a visible effort to control his emotions. “If you ever wish to talk about it, or if you have questions, please know that I am at your service.”
Darius Reed sat on the side of the bed, sinking into the soft mattress, a picture book in hand. “Were you a good girl for your grandmother today, Mouse?”
Big brown eyes stared up at him. Eyes so much like her mother’s. “Yes, Daddy. I’m always good.”
“So, you deserve a bedtime story, then?”
“I deserve two—no, three—stories.” She held up her fingers. “I was extra good today.”
“I see.” Darius’s lips twitched at his daughter’s negotiating tactics. Maybe he’d make a businesswoman out of her when she grew up, and she’d follow in her father’s footsteps. “What made you extra good?”
She grinned, hugging a ragged teddy bear to her chest. “I helped Pappoú in the garden.”
Darius winced. His father insisted that Sofia call him by the Greek name—not Grandpa or Granddad or Pops, as Darius would prefer—stubbornly refusing Darius’s attempt to become more Canadian.
“I’m sure he appreciated your help.” Darius settled a pillow at his back and flipped open the book. “Ready?”
Sofia nodded and popped a thumb in her mouth, her head resting on Darius’s shoulder.
Warmth filtered through his chest. These were the best moments of his day. Coming home to his tousled-haired daughter, receiving her neck-strangling hugs, drinking in the sweet scent from her recent bubble bath, seeing those eyes light up with that smile just for him—these were the things that made every hour of sweat and stress worthwhile. The long hours at the office were a sacrifice he was willing to make in order to give Sofia the best life possible.
It still chafed his pride that he’d had to move in with his parents following his wife’s death, but in the aftermath of such tragedy, he’d come to rely on their love and support to help ease his and Sofia’s grief. They were the only family Sofia had left, the only ones he trusted to care for his daughter. But the drawback of accepting their help was that his daughter was picking up too many Greek words and customs for his liking.
One day soon, once Sofia was in school, they’d get their own place and he would weed out the Greek traditions as deftly as his father weeded the garden.
Darius set his jaw. His daughter would be accepted as a full Canadian as was her birthright. No cultural sneers or prejudice would ever taint her the way they’d tainted him.
The way they’d destroyed her mother.
“Why didn’t you come home for dinner, Daddy?” Sofia shifted to peer up at him. “Yiayiá cries sometimes. I think she misses you too.”
Darius pressed his lips together. How did a four-year-old turn guilt into an art form? “Grandma cries over lots of things. Like burning the stew.”
That elicited a giggle. “She does. Yesterday she dropped a cup, and she cried when she was cleaning it up. I told her big girls don’t cry, but she didn’t like that.”
“No, she would think that rude. You must respect your elders, remember?”
Sofia’s eyes went wide. “I know, but sometimes things just pop out of my mouth.”
Darius bit the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing. His little girl had that right. The words she said sometimes . . . He sighed and snuggled in closer. “Which story will we read first?”
Of course. He turned the ragged pages and then began to read, thanking God for the precious gift of his daughter, the source of joy that motivated his every waking moment, his every breath.
Don’t worry, Selene. Our baby will have the best of this world. She will never suffer the way you did.