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?”
“The princess one.”
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.
3
Four days later, Olivia finally felt strong enough to venture out of her room. She’d found the drawstring bag Mamma had given her on the tufted bench at the foot of the bed and had plucked out a blouse and skirt, horribly wrinkled but at least clean. For the past few days, Mrs. Bennington—or Ruth, as she insisted Olivia call her—had helped her to the lavatory down the hall, and now Olivia knew her way. The modern convenience of a large claw-foot tub, porcelain sink, and flush toilet had apparently been added several years ago in an attempt to modernize the house for Ruth’s grandson, who lived with her at the time. Only one of many stories the widow had entertained Olivia with while she recuperated.
After freshening up, Olivia used the hairbrush she found in her room to tidy her hair and, with no hairpins available, simply braided the tresses into a thick plait, tying it with a string pulled from the hem of her blouse. Before she put her bag away, she reached inside to assure herself that the knitted blanket she’d put there—the one tangible reminder of her son—was safe. Bringing the wool to her nose, she inhaled the faint baby scent that still had the power to rip the air from her lungs. Then, with a shaky breath, she tucked it back inside. She didn’t care if she lost everything she owned as long as she still had that blanket.
Her nerves now steadier, she made her way down the wide staircase to the main level. Though she felt uneasy wandering around a house that wasn’t hers, she couldn’t resist lingering in the foyer to admire the beautiful woodwork. Carved arches marked each doorway in the hall. The staircase railing and ornate newel posts were themselves works of art. Countless paintings graced the walls, a mixture of landscapes and portraits. Ruth must be an avid art collector, or perhaps her late husband had been the connoisseur.
“There you are, my dear. How wonderful to see you up and about.” Ruth appeared in the hallway. Tall and elegant in a simple gray dress and pearls, she reminded Olivia of royalty.
“I’m still weak, but overall much improved. Thanks to you and Dr. Henshaw.”
Ruth came forward to take Olivia’s arm. “I planned on having breakfast in the sunroom. So much more cheerful than the stuffy dining room.”
Olivia murmured some sort of agreement, unsure what a sunroom or the dining room looked like.
“I’m glad you’re able to join me. My cook has prepared some lovely hotcakes. Served with butter and maple syrup, there’s no better treat in the morning.”
They had reached the end of the hall and entered a room that took Olivia’s breath away. Floor-to-ceiling windows surrounded the space, flooding the area with sunlight. A round table and chairs sat in the center of the room, while several seating areas flanked the surrounding windows. Plants and flowers overflowed everywhere, almost like a gardener’s greenhouse.
“It’s beautiful,” she whispered.
“I knew you’d like it. Come and sit. Would you like coffee or tea? Or perhaps orange juice?”
“Coffee, please.” She took a seat, noting the covered platters in the middle of the table, the gold-edged plates, real silver utensils, and white linen napkins. She folded her hands in her lap. Nothing about this seemed right. She didn’t belong in such a fancy place. She should be back in the cramped apartment over the grocery store that smelled of spices and cured meats.
“Is anything wrong, Olivia?” Ruth was staring at her, a frown marring her high forehead.
“You’ve been so kind to me, and I don’t wish to—”
A woman in a black-and-white uniform came in. “Are you ready, ma’am?”
Ruth’s attention shifted. “Yes, Anna. You may serve us.”
The maid proceeded to lift the lids from the platters. An enticing aroma filled the air as she served the fluffy pancakes and poured maple syrup from a glass jug. Then she filled the cups with coffee from a silver urn and quietly left the room.
“Why don’t we eat first,” Ruth said as she laid her napkin on her lap, “and later we can have a long-overdue conversation.”
Olivia nodded, shoving her anxieties aside for the moment and succumbing to the pure pleasure of eating. For the first time in over two years, she actually savored her food, lingering over each bite.
After breakfast, Ruth poured them more coffee and they went to sit on one of the sofas with a view of a lovely back garden.
Ruth set her cup on a side table and settled back against the cushions. “Now then, why don’t you tell me what’s on your mind?”
Olivia glanced at the older woman. Ruth had been so kind, yet if she knew she’d offered shelter to a recently incarcerated woman, Olivia was sure she’d order her out of her house immediately. “I don’t know how I can ever repay you for all you’ve done,” she said quietly.
“No payment is necessary. I was happy to help.”
“But you don’t know anything about me.”
Ruth held up a hand. “My dear girl, I don’t need to know what unfortunate circumstance brought you to St. Olaf’s that night. One day, I hope you might trust me enough to tell me the whole story. In the meantime, let me tell you what brought me to that church.” She lifted her chin. “I’ve been going there almost every night for years, begging God to take my life.”
Olivia jerked so hard that coffee sloshed onto the saucer. “Why would you do that? You have everything you could possibly want.”
“It might seem that way, but trust me, all the money in the world doesn’t make up for being alone. Losing my husband. Being estranged from my family. Having many acquaintances but few real friends.” A flash of emotion passed over her features. “Almost every night, I go to that church and pray for hours, yet every time, God sees fit to deny my request. Then one night, as I prepared to leave and wallow in my misery once more, I came upon a young girl in need of help. And so I acted.” Ruth shook her head. “This might sound fanciful, but I believe you were an answer to my prayers. Instead of taking my life, God gave me a reason to live.”
The coffee churned in Olivia’s stomach. This was too much. She could not be Ruth’s reason to live, not when her own life was in shambles. “I don’t believe that,” she said. “And you shouldn’t either.” She pushed up from her seat. “I have to go.” She headed blindly down the hall toward the entrance.
“Olivia, wait.” Ruth caught up to her at the foot of the staircase. “Let’s finish our conversation, and then if you wish to leave, I won’t stop you.”
Olivia gripped the railing, indecision pulling at her.
“You said you didn’t know how to repay me. If you tell me what brought you here, I’ll consider us even.” Ruth’s features, though firm, radiated sincerity.
Olivia closed her eyes, then opened them on a sigh. Perhaps it would be best to get it all out in the open. And once she’d spilled her secrets, Ruth would
be the one who wanted Olivia to leave. “All right. But I’m warning you, it’s not a pretty story.”
“And that’s when you found me in the church.” After Olivia finished her confession, her eyes burned with unshed tears, and her chest felt hollow from reliving some of her worst moments. She inhaled and risked a glance at Ruth’s face.
The woman’s lips were pursed, and the lines around her eyes appeared deeper. A moment of silence passed, then Ruth rose and walked to the wall of windows. The morning sun spattered the room with light—a direct contrast to the gloomy mood inside.
Olivia’s stomach twisted into knots. Just as she’d feared, her angel of mercy had lost all respect for her. How could she not? Even her own parents would have nothing to do with her.
Olivia stood and straightened her spine. It was clear there was no one she could rely on except herself. She would have to forge her own way in the world.
Alone.
“I’ll get my things and be on my way,” she said. “Thank you again for your hospitality.”
Ruth turned around. Tears streaked her wrinkled cheeks and anguish darkened her eyes. “Please stay a moment longer. I have something I’d like to tell you. Something I’ve never told anyone except my dear husband, God rest his soul.” Her thin lips quivered.
Olivia raised a hand to her throat. She’d expected anger and disgust, not tears. She returned to the sofa and waited while Ruth took her seat.
The older woman removed a handkerchief from her pocket and wiped her cheeks. “First, let me say how sorry I am for everything you’ve been through. No woman should ever have to experience such demoralization. It’s reprehensible.”
Olivia’s chest tightened. “Thank you for saying that.”
Ruth nodded, her gaze direct. “I can empathize with your tale because I went through something similar in my youth, though my experience was nowhere near as horrific as yours.” She drew in a shaky breath. “I too had a child out of wedlock. And like you, my child was taken from me.”
A Haven for Her Heart Page 3