He did not care for strangers.
Oliver strode across the terrace and entered the house. A footman emerged from a side room, his eyes instantly popping open. It was not every day that the staff saw their master carrying an unconscious woman.
With his hands otherwise occupied, Oliver forced out a voice he himself had not heard since boyhood. “Ring Dr. Jacobs.”
The boy nodded, running off to the telephone in the front entry. Oliver continued with the girl, twisting and turning through the labyrinth of rooms, until he reached the study.
He placed her on the long sofa then covered her wound with a clean handkerchief. Her cheeks were bitten with cold, her lips blue. Exactly how long had she been outside? After wrapping her in a wool blanket, he marched to the bell pull and yanked. They needed hot water and clean bandages, now.
Movement in the doorway caught Oliver’s eye. His butler, Gill, stood there. “Sir, I understand there is an injured girl,” the butler signed. Gill had learned how to sign along with the Hawkes family when Oliver lost his hearing fifteen years ago. It had taken time but most of the staff had picked up quite a bit of sign language as well, though Oliver also excelled at reading lips. And when all else failed, he could write in the small ledger he carried in his pocket.
Oliver signed, “She fell outside. Her head is bleeding.”
Gill’s brows lowered in concern. “Oh, the poor dear. I shall bring clean water and bandages. Anything else?”
“Not yet,” Oliver signed. “I sent Michael to ring Jacobs.” Gill nodded and hurried from the room.
The wait seemed interminable. During his breaks in pacing the floor, Oliver placed a small pillow under the girl’s head and adjusted her limbs to make her more comfortable. Some color had returned to her face, thank Christ. She was actually quite pretty, with chestnut hair and creamy skin. Classic features of strength and fortitude, like a strong nose and high cheekbones. Her clothing conveyed former wealth, the fine wool of her coat well constructed, if a little on the shabby side.
The young woman stirred. Panicked, he glanced toward the door. Where the hell was Gill? Better for her to wake with calming words from the butler rather than a silent, surly man looming over her. Unfortunately, the damn servant was nowhere in sight.
What in God’s name was Oliver to do? Rub her forehead? Pat her shoulder? Tap her cheeks? He’d never cared much for society’s ridiculous rules but even he knew there were boundaries as far as touching a strange young lady. He settled for standing a few feet away, just in her line of vision. It would have to do. If she wished for coddling and niceties, she had fallen outside the wrong house.
He had no idea how long he waited but it felt like forever, long enough for the fire to start dying in the hearth. Finally her lids fluttered open, and large eyes focused on his face. “Where am I?”
He hesitated. He rarely used his voice, well aware the sound came across as different. Not at all what he’d sounded like when he was still able to hear. A multitude of shocked expressions and cruel snickers from strangers in his late teens had made that perfectly clear. Instead, he reached into his pocket and withdrew the tiny ledger and pencil he carried. You are safe, he wrote. You fell and hit your head outside in my gardens.
He offered her the paper, but she just blinked and squinted at it. “I apologize but the words are fuzzy. Please, tell me where I am.”
She tried to sit and he held up his palms, motioning she should stay put. Thankfully, Gill entered at that moment, supplies in hand. Breathing a sigh of relief, Oliver signed to Gill, “You had better answer her questions and reassure her before she gets agitated.”
Gill frowned as he signed, “What have you told her?”
“Nothing,” Oliver signed. “She is your problem. I merely brought her inside.”
The woman shrank further into the sofa and carefully watched the two of them. Her chest rose and fell quickly as if she were truly scared, so Oliver motioned for Gill to get on with it.
As the butler began to address the young woman, Oliver moved to where he could see both their faces, allowing him to read their lips. Gill told her Oliver was deaf and communicated by using his hands. She blinked a few times in response then cast Oliver a curious glance. Surprisingly, her expression held genuine interest, not the mocking derision he expected from the outside world. Well, at least not yet. Give her time. She’s had a nasty bump on the head.
“You mean he cannot hear?”
“No, but he reads lips quite well.”
She gave no outward reaction to that information, instead gazing about the study. “Where am I? How long have I been here?”
“Please, remain calm,” Gill responded. “No one will hurt your ladyship here. And this is the home of Mr. Oliver Hawkes.”
Ladyship? The girl was an aristocrat? Oliver hadn’t expected that. “Ask her where she is staying,” he signed.
Gill relayed the question. Unfortunately the girl stared at her lap while answering, preventing Oliver from reading her answer. He snapped his fingers at Gill. “Tell her to look up when she speaks,” he signed to the butler. “Otherwise I cannot read her lips.”
Her cheeks flushed when Gill translated—was that embarrassment?—and she trained her gaze on Oliver’s forehead. “With my cousins, the Kanes.” She turned back to Gill. “Does he know them?”
Annoyance rippled across Oliver’s skin. He snapped his fingers at Gill once more. “Tell her that he is able to answer for himself seeing as he is not an idiot,” he signed, his hand movements sharp.
“She clearly meant no harm, sir,” Gill signed, but Oliver held up a hand to stop him.
“Just tell her,” he instructed.
Though Gill did not use Oliver’s exact words, he informed her that she could speak directly to Oliver, reminding her he could read her lips.
Her throat worked as she swallowed and her gaze landed on Oliver’s forehead again. “I apologize.”
Why could she not look him in the eye? Was she scared of him? Repulsed? He squared his shoulders and told himself he did not care. She’d soon be gone and he could return to his quiet life of experiments and learning. The people of this city could all go to hell, as far as he was concerned.
“Was it your dog that knocked me down?” she asked.
Apollo had caused this? Guilt swamped Oliver but he squashed it when she continued to avoid his eyes. He quickly signed, “I apologize for your injury, but he does not appreciate trespassers. Nor do I. What were you doing in my gardens?”
Gill flashed Oliver an unhappy look but nonetheless translated. The woman’s bottom lip trembled. “I am sorry. I was not expecting to see a dog and I lost my balance when he approached me.”
“That does not explain—”
A footman strode into the room, a tall black-haired man behind him. Oliver immediately went over to Dr. Henry Jacobs, his hand extended in greeting. The two had known each other nearly two decades, since an illness took Oliver’s hearing at the age of thirteen.
In fact, it had been Henry who taught Oliver to speak using his hands. Most American doctors and schools limited deaf instruction to speaking and reading lips, believing the deaf should assimilate to the hearing world whether they wanted to or not. The French, however, had developed a manual communication system using hands, and a school in Connecticut had adapted the system for American use. Because Henry’s father was deaf, Henry had traveled to Connecticut to learn this signing system. He quickly became renowned in the city for teaching sign language to others, and Oliver’s mother had hired him when the doctors finally gave up on saving Oliver’s hearing.
Now he was the closest thing Oliver had to a friend.
“You are looking well,” Henry signed after placing his bag on the ground.
“Must be all the whoring and boozing,” Oliver answered. “Thank you for coming so quickly.”
“Happy to help,” Henry signed. “I was at the hospital uptown today.” He turned toward the sofa. “And you are the injured woman I have b
een told about. Are you able to recall what happened?”
“I was knocked down by a dog. Apparently I hit my head on a bench when I fell.”
“May I take a look at your injury?”
“Of course,” she answered, fingertips gingerly touching her wound. “Though I cannot imagine there is much to see other than a bump on my head.”
“Oh, you would be surprised.” Henry gave her a kind smile, the one Oliver knew the doctor used to put patients at ease. Henry knelt by the side of the sofa and put his black bag on the ground. “What is your name, miss?”
Oliver wasn’t certain he’d read her answer correctly so he glanced at Gill. His butler spelled each letter. Christina. A pretty name. It suited her.
Henry performed a quick examination, focusing mostly on her coordination and vision to look for signs of impairment. During this time, Gill had a tea tray brought up. Oliver helped himself to a few scones while he attempted to curb his impatience. It was not easy. The sooner she left, the sooner he could get back to his workshop.
Finally, Henry finished cleaning and bandaging her wound. “I cannot see there are any serious injuries, miss, but you should take it easy for a few days. You have a nasty gash on your head. Make sure to rest and drink plenty of liquids.”
“Oh, I am certain there is no cause for concern.”
Henry presented her with a card. “A head injury is not to be taken lightly. Send for me or your family physician if you start to see double.” After she nodded and thanked him, Henry threw a meaningful look at Oliver. “May we speak privately?” he signed.
The two of them walked into the corridor. Henry placed his bag down and began signing. “Why was she in your gardens?”
“I have no idea. I’ve never met her before today.” At Henry’s disbelieving expression, Oliver signed, “You think I am lying.”
“I think there is a young pretty girl wandering about your estate. Dare I hope you have decided to secure future generations of Hawkeses?”
“I am not courting her. The idea is preposterous. And my sister is welcome to carry on the family legacy.”
“I think it is a marvelous idea,” Henry signed. “First, Sarah is only eleven. Second, you need to rejoin the rest of the world.”
This was an old battle. Oliver’s hand movements grew sharp. “I am perfectly fine just as I am.”
This was not a lie. He’d tried to carry on with what gentlemen considered a “normal” life after school. It had resulted in being called “dumb” and “broken” at every turn. Why should he try to fit into a society that so readily dismissed him? That would sooner see him locked away in an asylum before allowing him into the Metropolitan Club? As far as he was concerned, the uptown set could go hang.
Henry’s mouth tightened but he did not argue. “I shall send you my bill.” He clapped Oliver on the shoulder and departed.
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How the Dukes Stole Christmas Page 40