“She might, once you see her. It could all begin to come back to you.” Clara added, though ashamed to, “She’s very pretty.”
“You think I want anyone but you?”
“You did want her once. She’s your wife.”
“Clara, ever since you kissed me on that work table I’ve been yours. Whatever else happens between us, don’t you dare doubt that.”
****
“We are here to see Mrs. McMahon. This man is her husband.”
Clara spoke the words in a clear, firm voice. Was Liam the only one who could hear the terror hidden beneath them? She’d got herself up for this visit in her best frock, a high-necked garment of bottle green, and wore a hat that tipped over her brow. She’d insisted, also, that he don yet another suit from Miller’s used clothing shop, bought with his hard-earned, or stolen, money. With Theodore Collwys once more in attendance, they made a small delegation.
The hospital, if such it could be called, stank inside like a daylight boozer. Women wandered everywhere in various states of dress and undress—staring, pacing, moaning, weeping, and even laughing—wild-eyed, wild-haired creatures Liam found it impossible to regard impassively. Which among these wretched souls might be his wife? How could he have wed the woman yet not remember?
He remembered everything about Clara—the curve of her calf, the soft yield of her thighs, the sweet mound of her breast. How she clenched around the length of him when he loved her. He eyed her now, admiring the delicate line her nose made beneath the brim of the hat.
The woman who received them—tall, spare, and gray-haired—regarded him unhappily. “I remember you. You came to see your wife twice after she was admitted, and then stopped coming.”
Liam heard Clara gasp softly, and his stomach muscles clenched at the words, confirmation of his worst dread and nail in the coffin of his future.
The woman went on, “I was told upon her admission you were unable to care for her.” She eyed him dispassionately. “You do not look unable.”
Liam bowed slightly. “I suffered an injury and was incapacitated for a time.” He dared not look at Clara. “May I please see my wife?”
Mrs. Wright, for such was the gorgon’s name, narrowed her eyes. “You may, for five minutes, and on your own.” She glared at Clara and Collwys. “These two upset her mightily the last time they were here.”
Collwys stepped forward, brandishing a mitt full of papers. “Mrs. Wright, I do not think you understand. Mr. McMahon has come to take his wife out of this hospital. Here is the documentation authorizing you to release her.”
Mrs. Wright accepted the papers, donned a pair of spectacles, and scrutinized them. Liam had no idea what words were written there, and he hadn’t signed any authorization. His eyes stole away to the door of the office, which stood open. A woman hovered there, peering in at them, dressed in a long blouse and nothing else. When his gaze found her, she tore the garment open and bared her breasts at him.
A steam unit trundled forward and seized the woman, far from gently. She shrieked as it towed her away.
Mrs. Wright, still inspecting the papers, never so much as glanced up. Jesus, what a place! Clara might be right—if this woman, Nancy, had ever meant anything to Liam, he couldn’t leave her here.
No matter what it might mean to his life.
“Well,” Mrs. Wright said slowly, “this does seem to be in order. By rights I should consult with the hospital’s board of governors before making any release.”
Theodore bent forward and placed his hand on the desk in front of the woman. “On the other hand, you are terribly overcrowded, and you work very hard, Mrs. Wright. Surely you deserve a personal reward? And surely releasing a patient into the arms of a loving relation can only benefit everyone concerned?”
Liam saw a fold of money beneath Collwys’s hand. So did Mrs. Wright. Her eyebrows twitched, and she slid the money out from beneath Theodore’s hand and into her own pocket.
“Let me take you to our Nancy.” She glanced at Liam. “If she recognizes you after all this time, Mr. McMahon, then I’m sure I can see my way to placing her in your care.”
“But what if she doesn’t recognize him?” Clara objected. “She is very ill.”
“Well, then we shall just need to think again.”
And she’ll require another bribe, Liam thought, not without bitterness, as Mrs. Wright stood up and briskly led them from the office.
Clara, head high, sailed after her, followed by Collwys and lastly Liam himself.
They walked into noise and chaos. It assaulted Liam from every side, along with a terrible barrage of emotions. The bare-breasted woman had been towed away, but her sisters all screamed in her stead, or moaned or wept. He thought of Clara weeping in his arms early this morning, like a woman lost. These, though, were truly lost souls.
They passed through one large room, beneath an arch, and into another. Clara reached for his arm and then caught herself; she wouldn’t touch him here while she posed as Nancy’s employer. But she whispered, “There she is.”
“Where?”
Then he saw. The woman to which Mrs. Wright led them huddled in a corner, hunkered down on bent knees, her shoulder half turned to the room. A mass of yellow curls, that would have been pretty if not so tangled, clustered round her head, and Liam just glimpsed a pale, delicate cheek. Clara hadn’t lied. Nancy was very pretty. But the sight of her stirred nothing in Liam’s mind.
“Nancy?”
When Mrs. Wright called her name, she rose to her full height, and Liam saw she cradled something in her arms. No—she cradled the memory of something.
“These people have come to see you,” Mrs. Wright said. “These two were here yesterday. But look at this man. Do you know him?”
Nancy raised pale, wide, empty blue eyes to Liam’s face. Nay, but they weren’t quite empty—it might have been better if they were. Even though he did not remember her, he could only sympathize with her pain.
“Hello, Nancy,” he said, because Clara had told him to, because he must. “It’s been too long. Do you not remember me?”
The creature drew a breath, and her hands flew out, releasing the imaginary bundle. A new, brighter spark entered her eyes.
“Liam!” she cried, and threw herself into his arms.
Chapter Thirty-Two
The summons came at dawn following an endless night. No one in the house had slept. Nancy McMahon wept and cried out endlessly. While Clara and Liam did their best to deal with her, Georgina comforted the children.
The steamcab puffed up to the door while Clara sat at the dining room table with her head in her hands, staring at a cup of tea she felt unable to drink. Liam remained upstairs with Nancy in the room Clara had assigned her, which was Clara’s own. Nancy didn’t want Liam out of her sight.
Neither did Clara, much good it did her.
“Two gentlemen to see you, Mistress.” Dax hovered over her, looking worried—if a steamie could reveal emotions. He lowered his voice to a hiss. “I recognize them from your grandfather’s house. You don’t suppose they’ve come to take me back?”
They hadn’t. As soon as Clara met them in the parlor, she knew trouble now lapped round her ears. Her grandfather had sent not just lawyers but bulldogs, the toughest in his pack.
“We have information,” one of them began without preamble, drawing papers from an attaché case not unlike Theodore’s, “that the man you are calling your husband, one William T. McMahon, was already married at the time you and he exchanged vows. The man is in fact a bigamist and a criminal. In effect, this violates the law, nullifies your marriage, and defies the terms of your bequest.”
Clara accepted the papers and stared half unseeing at them. The one on top appeared to be a record of the ship’s manifest on which Liam and Nancy were listed as having traveled to St. John’s, Newfoundland.
“And this”—the second bulldog presented his own sheaf of papers—“will serve you notice to vacate this premises, since you are no lo
nger entitled to reside herein. Because you are family, your grandfather will be merciful. He allows you five days.”
“Five.” Clara thought of everything—everyone—under this roof, and all requiring her protection. The children. Georgina. Now Nancy. What hope had she of re-housing them?
She raised her eyes to the faces of the lawyers, one after the other. “Is my grandfather willing to negotiate? Will he agree to meet with me?”
The man on the left bared his teeth in a smile that failed to reach his eyes. “Would you like to make an appointment? I believe he is free tomorrow afternoon.”
“Are you saying I must schedule an appointment to see my own grandfather?”
“Mr. Van Hamelin is a busy man. I will carry your request back to him. Let’s say you present yourself at three.”
“There must be some way we can work around the terms of the bequest.”
“I’m sorry, Miss Allen. You are now twenty-one and not in a legal marriage. You have violated the letter of the agreement. Your grandfather regrets…”
“I’m sure he does,” Clara said bitterly. She looked into the bulldog’s eyes. “However, I’m sure this paper”—she rattled the record of the manifest—“is in error. Obviously my husband is not the same William McMahon as is listed here. My lawyer, Mr. Collwys, will file a paper with the court alleging that.”
“Mr. Collwys is of course free to do so. I hope he will then explain to the court why, if the man now living as your husband is not the here-referenced William McMahon, he in fact claimed a woman named Nancy McMahon from the hospital for the insane on Porter Avenue yesterday afternoon, in your presence.”
The second man said, “We have spoken with the administrator, a Mrs. Wright. She insists you had paperwork releasing the woman into her husband’s custody and says she in fact recognized Mr. McMahon and reiterates she never would have been so neglectful as to release a patient to a man not her husband.”
Clara’s head began to pound. For an instant she thought she would be sick all over the bulldogs’ highly polished shoes.
She thrust the papers back at them. “You may tell my grandfather to go to hell. We will not vacate this house. I have responsibilities—many of them.”
“Then your grandfather intends to engage the police force to forcibly remove you and take your husband back to prison. We are still investigating how he came to be released and living here with you, Miss Allen.”
“And there,” Clara said, striving desperately for an air of insouciance, “is the heart of your error, sirs. There are obviously two William McMahons, whose histories have become entangled. My lawyer has told me the other man in question died in jail, while my husband is obviously very much alive.”
They exchanged glances.
“The existence of a second Mr. McMahon will need to be proven, Miss Allen. Meanwhile, I suggest you begin packing.”
Clara trailed them out to the front hallway where, from upstairs, the soft sound of hysterical weeping could be heard.
The first bulldog paused. “A truly curious thing, Miss Allen, how a woman claiming a man for her husband would then liberate his wife from a mental institution.”
“It’s called compassion, sir. Working for my grandfather, you’ve doubtless never before encountered it.”
Dax rumbled up to open the door. The second bulldog shot him a suspicious look, but the improved, polished Dax bore little resemblance to the battered model Clara and Liam had brought home, and the men departed without comment.
Clara turned from the door to see Liam poised at the top of the stairs. Their eyes met for an instant before Nancy called his name, and he turned away.
****
“Five days. We have five days. Less than that now. Theodore, is there anything we can do?”
Theodore, a third of the huddle that included Clara and Georgina, frowned. “I must file a stay with the court on the grounds of hardship—given you’ve a madwoman upstairs.” He shot Clara a careful look. “Does she ever stop wailing?”
“She hasn’t yet,” Georgina answered for Clara, who remained silent. “Not since you brought her into this house. It’s stirred up all kinds of distress with the children. Bad memories.”
“I’m hoping Liam will be able to calm her down, in time.” Clara glanced toward the parlor doorway as if she might see through it. She ached for Liam’s company as with a livid wound. She looked at Theodore. “What chance will a stay have, with the court?”
He shook his head. “Most of the justices are acquaintances of your grandfather, if not in his pocket. But I can try.”
“Do so, please.” Clara licked suddenly dry lips. “But I suppose we should have a contingency plan. What’s to be done?”
“I’ll tell you, if I may.” Theodore drew a breath. “I’ll try and secure another premises for you and as many of the children as possible.”
“I’ve no funds to lease a place.”
“I’ll lend you the money.”
“With no prospect of me being able to repay you?”
Theodore shrugged. “Liam is earning. If”—he scowled—“Liam does not end up in jail. I’ve no idea how that tangle is going to work out. Right now, Maynard is claiming the prison records are in error and he never housed a William T. McMahon, even though he took money for his keep. Frankly, I feel we need to interview the sexton—there must be more to this than meets the eye.”
“Send Liam to see him,” Georgina suggested. “That should shake him and loosen his tongue.”
“Meanwhile,” Clara said heavily, “I will go and seek mercy from my grandfather.”
Theodore snorted. “Based on the likelihood of you finding it, we’d better make whatever other precautions we can.” His hand came out and covered Georgina’s. “My dear, I suggest you bring whichever of the children can’t bear to be parted from you, and come to me.”
Georgina stiffened. “I beg your pardon?”
His eyes met hers, honest and intent. “This isn’t the way I wanted it to happen—I wanted to woo and persuade you, give you flowers and all the other beautiful things you deserve.”
“Mr. Collwys, I am a respectable woman—”
“Highly respectable. Georgina, I wouldn’t ask you to marry me if you weren’t.”
Georgina sprang to her feet. Theodore rose with her, his hand clutching hers.
Beautiful eyes wide, Georgina breathed, “Is that what you’re doing? Asking me to marry you?”
“In earnest. Georgie, dear, you know how I feel about you, and that’s why I broke my engagement. I don’t care if my family remains estranged from me—let them. I want no one but you. We’ll start our family with the children we already have, and soon, please God, our own.”
Georgina stood as if stricken, giving no appearance of a woman receiving an ardent proposal. “I told you before, your career—”
“Damn my career to hell! My heart’s not in the big dollar cases. I’ll be happy helping folks desperate for representation, and even happier if you’re there with me. We may struggle a bit for money, but we’ll make do.”
“It’s a pretty dream,” Georgina said, “but I’m afraid the reality—the snubs, the insults and the hatred—would soon make you sorry.”
“Nothing could ever make me sorry, so long as you’re at my side. Do you want me to beg, Georgie? Because I will.” Hastily, he fished in one pocket and brought out a small red velvet case. “When I broke off the engagement with Roanne, she insisted on keeping the ring. I wouldn’t have wanted to give you that one anyway. Secondhand is not good enough for you. This isn’t much—not as much as you deserve. But I chose it with all my heart.”
He flipped the lid of the box with a thumb that trembled. Inside sat a dainty gold ring set with a cluster of diamonds in the shape of a heart, so perfect for Georgina’s tiny hand that tears sprang to Clara’s eyes.
“Oh!” Georgina breathed.
“If you accept this and the wedding band that goes with it, I promise I’ll add a diamond for every preci
ous year you give me, so long as we live.”
Georgina’s resistance crumbled. A beautiful, radiant smile came to her face an instant before she threw herself into Theodore’s arms and held tight.
“Yes. Yes, yes, yes!”
Clara blinked back tears of joy, tinged with the faintest hint of sorrow. What would she do without Georgina’s steady, gentle presence? They’d been together since the day Clara’s father brought the girl into this house, frail, half-starved, and shattered. Yet this union felt right, and might be the one good thing to come of this awful situation Clara had wrought.
“Thank you,” Theodore whispered into Georgina’s ear, and kissed her. “I can face anything now.” His eyes met Clara’s over Georgina’s head. “We can face anything.”
Chapter Thirty-Three
“Listen to me, lass. You have to stop this weeping. You do yourself no good.”
Nancy clung to Liam’s hands and continued to sob. He wondered wearily where she got all the tears. Exhaustion nibbled at him; he’d been up with her all the night, and she drained his emotions the way a horsefly might drink blood. Add to that the emptiness he felt from Clara’s absence—a debilitating loss—and he now struggled badly.
He knew Clara had acted out of mercy, but he began to wonder if it had been wise to take Nancy from the hospital. Sure and it was a terrible place where he wouldn’t leave a diseased dog, but maybe they could have found somewhere better, somewhere she could get the care she obviously needed. He, dealing with his own demons, felt singularly unable to provide the right support.
He’d tried several times to explain to Nancy that he remembered nothing of the past they shared. She either refused to listen or failed to understand. Caught in a nightmare she continued to relive, she insisted on believing he shared it with her.
“Dead, he is dead.” Her pretty eyes, awash with tears, reached for his. “I did love him, you know, so very much.”
“Sure, and you did. Faith, who would doubt it?” The “him” being her child. Their child. It still amazed Liam he could fail to remember his own son.
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