by Joanna Shupe
Dedication
For Steve and Cindy,
the best in-laws a girl could ever ask for.
Much love and thanks.
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Epilogue
Author’s Note
Acknowledgments
About the Author
The Four Hundred Series
By Joanna Shupe
Copyright
About the Publisher
Chapter One
“Character cannot be developed in ease and quiet. Only through experience of trial and suffering can the soul be strengthened, ambition inspired, and success achieved.”
—Helen Keller
New York City
January 1890
Lady Christina Barclay was officially trespassing.
Yet as she stepped out of the mews and into the magnificent empty gardens behind this large Fifth Avenue home, she could not bring herself to care.
The home belonged to her cousin’s reclusive neighbor, a man Christina knew very little about. Since arriving in New York three weeks ago from London, she had learned his parents had died some years ago and that he never left his house. Her cousin Patricia hadn’t ever clapped eyes on the man, not once in her eighteen years.
None of that mattered to Christina. She had no interest in the man’s life or his problems, only the tranquil gardens behind his home. The space was full of winding paths, alabaster statues, and utter quiet. It had become her slice of solitude in a busy modern city filled with noise and smothering crowds every which way she turned. Not to mention the gazes that brimmed with judgment and scorn following her every movement. In this peaceful place, Christina could be alone, away from the rest of the world.
So yes, she was trespassing but for a noble cause. Namely, her sanity.
Early every morning she escaped her cousin’s home to stroll about these gardens. Here, she could forget the scandal that had brought her family to America, as well as the pressure from her parents to marry a rich man, thereby solving all their financial troubles.
The future of the Barclays rests on your shoulders, her mother often said.
Heavens, the mere idea caused Christina’s stomach to clench. She had never been comfortable around people, let alone men. There had been no friends or family around during her childhood in London. Of course years had passed before she realized the problem was not her; it was her mother. Lady Barclay was widely disliked in society, even before their money disappeared. Still, this did not help Christina’s confidence when it came to meeting people.
You have the beauty to attract a rich man if you would only smile, her mother said. I had the eye of every gentlemen in the room when I debuted. Of course, you are not as pretty as I was at your age . . .
Christina dug her nails into her gloved palms. How she hated when her mother said that. What was there to smile about when you were being paraded about like a lamb for slaughter?
The bitter wind whipped across her skin as she ran a hand along the top of a short hedge. Even in winter, the carefully manicured paths were pretty, just empty plots where flowers would soon bloom. Trellises and arches abounded, the stone fountains dry and dormant. There was even a hedge maze. Perhaps she’d attempt it in the spring, if she were not married by then.
A shiver unrelated to the outside temperature went through her. Her American cousin, Patricia, told Christina not to worry, that marriage would not be so bad, but Christina doubted this. She brought no dowry to a marriage, no social standing. Instead, she would bring scandal and debt. What man in his right mind wanted as much?
She rounded the next bend and something large darted out from the bushes then stopped on the path. It was a dog. A very large dog. She froze. Suddenly, it spotted her, its head snapping up. Small dark eyes pinned her to the spot.
She had no idea what to do around a dog. The countess had never allowed pets in the Barclay household. Was she supposed to speak? Run? Kneel?
“Good boy,” she said, hearing the tremor in her voice. “I mean you no harm.”
Unfortunately, the only way to reach her cousin’s home was to cut through the gardens. She had to find a way to get around the dog unscathed.
There were iron benches along the path, hedges beyond that. No one was nearby. Perhaps she could lose the animal in the hedge maze. Legs shaking, she inched backward, never taking her gaze off the dog’s large teeth. At her movement, the dog’s tail started wagging. That was a positive sign, correct? “See, everything is perfectly well. I’ll just turn around and—”
The dog bounded forward as if chasing prey. Panic shot through her limbs as fear clogged her throat. Oh, dear Lord. It was coming straight for her. She could not move, her muscles clenched in absolute terror. Just as the dog leaped to rip her to shreds, Christina screamed. Giant paws landed on her chest, pushing her down, and she felt herself tipping over, falling toward the stone path. Her arms flailed but came up empty.
A flash of pain erupted on the side of her head . . . and then everything went black.
Oliver Hawkes was hard at work on his latest prototype when something nudged his leg. He glanced down and found Apollo, his dog, looking at him expectantly. Oliver signed for the animal to sit.
Apollo obeyed then prodded Oliver with his snout once more before trotting to the main door. That was odd. The dog had an entrance of his own that allowed him to come and go as he pleased. Why was he trying to gain Oliver’s attention?
Putting down his soldering iron, Oliver rose and opened the door. He motioned for the dog to keep going, to show Oliver what he’d found.
Apollo darted through the door. Oliver followed, the frigid air slapping his face and blowing through his thin shirt as if he were naked. He hunched his shoulders and hurried after his dog. Hopefully, this would not take long; otherwise he might suffer hypothermia.
Shoving his hands in his trouser pockets, he watched as Apollo loped toward the maze. Oliver knew every inch of these gardens; he’d played in them often enough as a boy. His mother had loved it out here as well, taking him on adventures every chance they had, and the memory caused a dull ache in his heart. Even fourteen years after his parents’ deaths he missed them terribly.
When he rounded the bend to the sitting area, his stomach dropped. Jesus . . . A figure was on the ground, unmoving.
And it was a woman.
Oliver dashed forward, his heart pounding as he fell to his knees. Her skirts had twisted around her legs, her body slumped under an iron bench as if she’d tried to catch her fall on the seat but had missed.
He reached out, desperate to assess how badly she’d been hurt. Blood streamed from a cut on her brow. Damn it. She must have hit her head on the way down.
Was she dead? With two fingers, he searched her neck for a pulse. Relief cascaded through him when he felt a weak, but discernable, heartbeat. Her chest rose and fell, her breathing even. She was alive.
He needed to send for Dr. Henry Jacobs. This woman could very well be concussed. Sliding his hands under her, he li
fted her into his arms and started for the house. Henry would know what to do. The doctor would quickly set this woman to rights and then Oliver would send her on her way.
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. “Send for 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 bellpull 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 quite a bit of sign language up 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.
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 up 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 quickl
y.”
“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 been 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 injury. “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?”