A Haven for Her Heart

by Susan Anne Mason

Footsteps stomped on the stairs. “Rosina? Sei qui?”

  The spoon in Olivia’s hand trembled, spilling liquid onto the tablecloth.

  Her mother sent her a panicked look. “Go to your room. I will talk to him.”

  Olivia stood and headed toward the bedroom, her instinct to run quickening her pulse. But then she stopped. “No. I will face my father. I will not hide.”

  “Olivia, please.” Mamma’s eyes went wide, darting to the stairs.

  A second later, Papà appeared in the doorway. The moment he spied Olivia, he came to a halt, the rag rug skidding beneath his feet. The color drained from his face, and, for an instant, Olivia thought she saw a flicker of happiness flash in his eyes.

  She took a tentative step toward him. “Papà.”

  He held up a hand, his features hardening, and turned furious eyes on Mamma. “How dare you defy me and bring her here?” he said in Italian. Papà only used English when absolutely necessary.

  “Enrico. Per favore . . .” Mamma cowered behind the table.

  Why had Olivia never realized what a tyrant her father was? How he bullied everyone into submission? Outrage sparked her courage, and she stepped forward, shoulders squared. “It’s not Mamma’s fault. Don’t be mad at her.”

  His dark brows formed a solid line over his eyes. He crossed his arms, his stance combative.

  Her legs shook, from fear or fury she couldn’t tell, yet she didn’t retreat. Ugly words, accusatory words, circled her brain, but before she said something she couldn’t take back, she worked to rein in her emotions. Despite what he’d done to her, despite how he treated her mother, Olivia had to be smart. She needed a place to live. Needed to be with Mamma again. And somewhere underneath her anger and pain, she still loved her father. She had to try to mend the rift in their relationship. Taking a deep breath, she made a deliberate attempt to humble her attitude. “Papà, I’ve come to ask for your forgiveness. And to see if I can please come home.”

  Several seconds ticked by, then her father grunted. “Il bambino?”

  Olivia’s muscles seized with a spasm of grief, now as familiar to her as breathing. Clenching her hands into fists, she held her head high. “They took him from me, as you knew they would. They put him up for adoption.”

  Her mother gasped. Her father remained silent.

  “Un ragazzino?” Mamma’s sorrowful whisper sliced through Olivia’s stoic calm.

  Her throat closed up, and she could only nod. Yes, a little boy. Her son, Matteo, whom she got to hold for only a few precious minutes before he was ripped from her arms.

  Her father shook his head. The coldness in his eyes sent a shiver down Olivia’s spine. “We no longer have a daughter. You are not welcome here.” He turned to point a finger at Mamma. “Rosina, you are needed in the store.” Without a backward glance, he disappeared down the staircase.

  Tears slid down Mamma’s cheeks. “I’m sorry, cara.”

  Olivia’s lips trembled. Part of her wished her mother would stand up to Papà. Tell him that Olivia was their daughter and that of course they would forgive her. But Mamma couldn’t risk the wrath of Enrico Rosetti being turned on her.

  “I’ll just get some of my clothes, then.” Swallowing hard to hold back the tears that begged for release, Olivia went down the hall to her room and pushed open the creaky door. Her jaw dropped. The room had been stripped bare, with nothing but the bed in the middle, leaving it more sterile than her cell at the reformatory had been. All her photos, her bulletin board with her awards from school, all gone.

  She rushed to open the closet. Only barren wire hangers swung there. She turned to see her mother wringing her hands in the doorway. “Mamma, where are my things?”

  “He . . . he got rid of them.”

  “He what?”

  Olivia scrambled to the scarred wooden dresser, yanking open drawer after drawer. Every one empty. Her lips quivered. All her clothes, her mementos from childhood, and—most importantly—all Rory’s gifts to her, gone. Her mind struggled to remember what treasures she’d hidden there. The book of poetry where Rory had inscribed words of love, the dried rose pressed between the pages, and the silver locket he’d given her for her eighteenth birthday. She sank onto the soft mattress, grief fresh in her throat.

  “I managed to save a few things.” Mamma reached under the bed and drew out a cloth bag. She undid the drawstring and revealed a few pieces of clothing and a battered cigar box. Then she drew the string tight again. “You can look at them later. I must go.” She pushed the bag into Olivia’s arms.

  “Mamma, did Rory send any letters here from the army?” She yearned for any word of him. Proof that he was still alive and that he missed her as much as she missed him.

  It had been hard enough not having any member of her family visit her for the past eighteen months. But not receiving any word from Rory had been sheer torture. She had no idea if her letters had reached him, if he even knew she’d been pregnant, or that she’d given birth to their son. In her dreams, she’d imagined Rory leaving the war to come to her rescue. But she’d never heard a single word from him.

  Her mother looked away. “Oh, cara.”

  “Papà destroyed those too?” Why was her father so cruel? But then again, he’d always despised Rory, “a filthy Irishman” he called him, and likely blamed him for leading his daughter astray.

  “Mi dispiace.”

  “Why are you sorry? It wasn’t your doing.” Bitterness coated Olivia’s tongue. Her mind whirled with the unfairness of all that had happened to her. If God was out there, He was certainly exacting His punishment. “I’ll just have to wait for Rory to come home, then. Papà can’t keep us from being together.”

  Mamma shook her head, tears glittering in her eyes. “Oh, Olivia. He isn’t coming home.”

  Olivia’s heart slowed to a dull throb in her chest. “Of course he is. As soon as this ridiculous war is over.” Or maybe sooner. She’d even prayed that he would be injured, just a little, enough to warrant them sending him home to recuperate. Was that selfish of her? Her fingers tightened on the drawstring.

  “No, cara mia. Rory . . .” She hesitated. “Rory è morto.”

  Olivia’s head jerked up so fast she bit her tongue. “Dead? No. That’s not possible.”

  Her mother’s face crumpled. “Sì, cara. Eileen came to the store to tell us. They got a telegram three months ago.”

  “She came here?” Olivia heard her own voice echo in the empty room. If his sister had come to the store, then it must be true.

  Her hands shook, her heart shriveling in her chest as the ache spread outward and the horrible words sank in. Mamma would have no reason to lie. No cause to deceive her. But how had Olivia not known? Surely if she and Rory were soul mates, she would have felt his absence from this earth.

  The distance she’d felt from Rory since he left to join the war now widened into an unending chasm, one that could never be crossed. She’d clung to their unborn child as the one tangible bond connecting them, but when the authorities had torn baby Matteo from her arms, Olivia’s hope had wavered.

  Once Rory is home and I’m with him again, she’d told herself, all will be back to normal. We will overcome this loss together.

  Now that would never happen.

  A keening wail escaped her throat as she bent forward over her knees. “No. No. He can’t be gone. They made a mistake. He’s coming back to me.”

  Mamma laid a hand on her back. “Mi dispiace,” she said again. “May God have mercy on you both.”

  Ruth Bennington stood on the sidewalk in front of St. Olaf’s Church and simply stared at the beauty of the building before her. As usual, the beckoning lights from within penetrated the inky dusk, seeming to reach out and draw her inside. With a weary sigh, she climbed the stairs leading to the front door, grasped the metal handle, and let herself into the vestibule. The calming scent of candlewax and sulfur greeted her.

  “Well, Lord. Will tonight be any different? Or will you see fit to grant my
request at last?”

  Ruth moved farther into the sanctuary until she came to her usual pew. She made the sign of the cross and sat down on the hard bench, relishing the feel of the unyielding wood beneath her.

  On the altar in front of her, two tiny flames flickered. Even in the dim interior, Ruth could make out the stained-glass windows and the paintings of the saints that adorned the pale walls.

  How long had she been coming to this place to worship? Forty years? Maybe closer to fifty. Ever since she and Henry had moved to Toronto as newlyweds. A soft smile curved her lips. They’d been so young back then, so naïve, with no idea where life would take them or when their roads would diverge.

  Almost involuntarily, her eyes moved to the plaque under the window nearest her. In memory of Henry Ward Bennington. Gone from us too soon. From his loving wife, Ruth.

  A lone tear wound its way down her cheek.

  It’s time, Lord. Not that I can tell you how to manage things. But I’ve been alone for years now. I’m tired. I want to see my Henry again.

  With a gloved finger, she wiped the moisture from her face and began her prayer ritual. If she were fortunate and tonight was indeed the night God chose to grant her request, she’d make sure she was ready.

  Two hours later, Ruth hauled her stiff frame up from the seat, disappointment her usual companion. God had not let the life seep from her while she prayed. If only she could muster the courage, she’d do the deed herself, but images of hellfire and damnation kept her feet firmly rooted to this earth.

  “Thy will be done,” she whispered, as she did every night when leaving the church.

  The depressing prospect of returning home alone made her bones ache. At least when Henry had first passed away, she’d had her grandson, Thomas, living with her, so the mausoleum of a house hadn’t felt so empty. But since the boy had moved out two years ago after they’d quarreled, Ruth had done nothing but pray for her own death. A prayer that maddeningly had gone unanswered.

  She shuffled past the pews, almost too weary to lift her feet. If she hadn’t paused for a brief moment at the last row, she likely wouldn’t have heard the soft moan that drifted through the air. Ruth froze, straining her ears. Had she imagined the sound?

  A second later, a slight movement caught her attention. She swiveled, peering down at a huddled figure lying on the bench. Long dark hair spilled over the woman’s face, obscuring her features. She shuddered and moaned again.

  Was she ill?

  Ruth glanced around the empty building, a shiver of nerves rushing through her. Maybe the woman wasn’t in her right mind. Maybe she had some contagious disease.

  Or maybe, like Ruth, she’d come here to pray for death.

  Ruth gathered her courage and approached her. “Hello? Are you in need of help?”

  The woman moved, swiping her hair from her face as she attempted to sit up. “Sì, per favore.” She was hardly more than a girl. But her eyes were glassy and her cheeks feverishly red.

  Ruth took a step back. “Are you ill? Can I call someone for you?”

  The girl leaned back against the pew, head lolling. “No one to call.”

  No one? How could that be? Such a lovely young thing. Or she would be when she was cleaned up. “Where do you live, dear?”

  The girl shook her head. “Nowhere.”

  Ruth straightened. She may have led a somewhat sheltered life, but she knew when someone was in trouble, and this girl was hanging on by a thread. “Wait here. I’ll be right back.”

  She rushed out of the church, a new energy to her step. Tonight the pastor would earn every penny of his meager paycheck and leave his warm bed to give them a ride to her house.

  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.
<
br />   “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.