Asylum?

Christina’s heart stopped as she looked at Oliver. Instead of laughing this off as some joke, his face paled.

That scared her like nothing else.

Without explanation he started for the door. She lunged for his arm, stopping him. “Wait, should you go? Perhaps you should . . . ?” Hide? Run? Whatever happened, she did not wish to lose him.

He gently removed her fingers. “It will be fine. I shall set them straight and send them on their way. Do not worry. Stay here.”

Gill held open the door and Oliver quickly departed, the butler trailing him. Christina hurried after them. No matter what he had said, Oliver would not face this alone.

Though she was English, she had heard of what went on in New York’s asylums. A female reporter, Nellie Bly, had famously written a story about the conditions at the Blackwell’s Island women’s asylum, which had been horrifying. The London newspapers had all carried the piece detailing the rotten food, mistreatment of the patients, and the cruel staff. It had turned her stomach to even read of it.

Why were they here? She could think of no good reason for Milton to bring men from the asylum into Oliver’s home. Perhaps Milton’s motives were not as nefarious as she feared . . . yet somehow she doubted it.

The group was in the entryway. Two men in gray suits flanked Milton, one of whom held restraints in his hands, and a policeman hovered in the background. She moved to Oliver’s side, close enough that their shoulders nearly touched. He began signing angrily, with Gill translating. “What is the meaning of this, Milton?”

“That’s him. You may take him now,” Milton ordered the two men at his side.

“What are you talking about?” Gill kept his gaze trained on Oliver’s hands. “What do you think you are doing, Milton?”

“I have a document here”—Milton shook a piece of paper in his fist—“declaring you legally insane. And it has been signed by a judge.”

“That is ridiculous,” Christina said.

Gill translated, “No judge would sign that without proof.”

Milton lifted a shoulder. “Turns out my word was proof enough against a deaf and dumb recluse. I told them of your dangerous experiments, your hasty marriage to a woman you do not even know . . . and how I discouraged you from investing in a fraudulent alpaca farm. He agreed and now I have asked these fine gentlemen to escort you to your new facilities on Wards Island.”

Next to her, Oliver stiffened. Anger and fear knotted in her stomach, but she was not about to let the others see it. You are intelligent and strong, Oliver had told her. She drew herself up. “This is preposterous.”

A small figure emerged on Christina’s other side. Sarah. “Christina, who are these men?”

She wrapped an arm around Oliver’s sister. “No one to worry about, Sarah. They were just leaving.”

“What are they saying about Oliver?” she whispered.

“A lot of nonsense.” She squeezed the young girl tight. “Why don’t you go back upstairs until they leave?”

“Hello, cousin Sarah,” Milton said. “So nice to see you again. Too bad we are leaving now. Perhaps we will be able to catch up soon. Gentlemen, if you please.” He swept his hand out toward Oliver.

Oliver began signing and Gill said, “Do not dare put your hands on me until my lawyer has had a chance to review that document.”

Milton’s upper lip curled into a sneer. “That is not how it works, cousin. You no longer hold all the power. How does it feel to be at my mercy for once?”

“You have lost your mind,” Oliver signed.

“No, according to the state of New York you have lost your mind.” He nudged one of the hospital officials. “Let’s go. We are wasting time.”

The two men started forward, and Christina stepped in front of Oliver. “Do not touch my husband. Get out of this house.”

Milton slapped the paper in his palm. “We may do this the easy way, where Oliver comes willingly, or we shall drag him out of here kicking and screaming like the lunatic he is. Makes no difference to me.”

“Sir, come along peacefully,” the police officer said. “We do not want anyone hurt.”

The staff had gathered in the corridor, their wide gazes taking in the situation. Oliver glanced at his sister before locking eyes with Christina. She knew exactly what he was thinking, that he did not want his sister to see him dragged out of the house like an animal. “No,” she whispered. “Please, Oliver. Fight this.”

His bright green depths pleaded with her to understand. He leaned in to put his mouth near her ear. “Take care of her. And call Frank.”

Frank Tripp, his solicitor. She nodded and hugged him. “Do not do this,” she murmured into his shoulder, even though she knew he could not hear her. “Do not leave me.”

He squeezed her hard, almost desperately, and said, “I shall be fine. Contact Frank and tell him what happened. He will have me home in no time.”

Oh, God. How had this come to pass? She could not breathe at the thought of Oliver in an asylum. What would they do to him?

Much too soon, he released her and went to his sister, who was openly crying now. He started signing to the young girl, his face gentle and reassuring, and Christina’s eyes stung with unshed tears. She rounded on his cousin. “Milton, do not proceed with this. It is not too late to do the right thing.”

“The right thing?” Milton’s brows shot up. “The right thing was for all this to be mine. My father deserved half of all the Hawkes fortune; instead, he got nothing. So I’ve taken matters into my own hands and restitution shall be paid.”

This was all about money? “You are about to ruin Oliver’s life for a few hundred thousand dollars?”

Milton’s eyes nearly popped out of his head. “A few hundred thousand? You really have no idea who you married, do you?”

“I know he is a good man who is of sound mind—sounder than you, apparently. You are perpetuating a grave injustice if you place Oliver into an asylum.”

Oliver’s cousin smiled, an evil twist of his lips that held no remorse whatsoever. “No, madam. I am righting the grave injustice done to my family years ago. Now, let’s go already,” he snapped.

Oliver met Christina’s worried gaze and she saw the fear and uncertainty there. Rushing forward, she used her free hand to cup his jaw. I love you, she mouthed.

He closed his eyes and drew in a deep breath, his forehead touching hers. They stood there a second and then he straightened. Without another word, he took a step forward. The orderlies spun him around and affixed the manacles on his wrists. The group walked out of the house and down the steps, the policeman on their heels.

Heart in her throat, Christina watched as Oliver climbed into the back of the wagon and the heavy metal doors slammed shut behind him. Sarah threw herself against Christina’s side, the young girl clinging to Christina through her sobs.

Milton remained, gloating in his cruelty. “I’d pack your bags, were I you, Mrs. Hawkes.”

Her skin heated, anger licking her insides like white-hot flames. She had never hurt anyone in her entire life but oh, how she wanted to now. She wanted to strike him, to tear this man apart, and her muscles shook with the effort to restrain herself.

She lifted her chin. “However, you are not me, you miserable excuse for a human being. I shall fight you every single step of the way, no matter the cost. You have no idea what hell you have unleashed today. Now, get out of my husband’s house.”

He knew not to struggle with the guards.

It would serve no purpose. Oliver’s hopes now rested with Frank Tripp, who would certainly find a way to have that ridiculous judgment overturned. In the meantime, however, he needed to endure whatever happened here. For Christina and Sarah. For himself.

He’d never forget the terrified look on Christina’s face today, or the way his sister had sobbed at his departure. No matter what happened from here on out, he must bear it. Bear it, and then return home to them.

After a short boat ride, he was loaded into another wagon and driven deeper onto Wards Island, a tiny block of land in the East River where the city shipped its undesirables. He hoped to God that conditions in asylums had improved since the newspaper articles had been printed.

When the wagon doors flew open, he stepped to the ground, ignoring the dour guards frowning at him. Above loomed a three-story Gothic structure constructed out of brick and stone, with a mansard roof on top. The building had one central part and two flanking sections adjoining, almost like wings.

A guard grabbed Oliver’s arm and roughly towed him toward the entry. Oliver did not resist. His goal was to get before the doctors as quickly as possible, plead his case, and pray they saw reason. Surely they would evaluate him upon arrival to determine his level of mental acuity. Then they would understand this was all a mistake and let him go.

He hoped.

They led him into a narrow vestibule and the door shut behind him. His heart pounded a steady beat of terror against his ribs, a cold sensation sweeping through his veins. It took every bit of his control not to shove free of these men and run away. Only knowing it would not serve his purpose—a quick release—prevented him from fleeing. If he tried to escape, he would be caught and they would lock him up where Tripp would certainly never find him.

If they were talking to him, he had no idea. He kept his head down as two guards led him along the bare floors of a never-ending corridor. Most of the guards, he knew from what he’d read in the newspapers, were inmates of the nearby penitentiary. To say he feared mistreatment by their hand was an immense understatement.

They tossed him in the direction of a wooden bench. Oliver caught himself and sat, hands folded nonthreateningly in his lap. Glancing up, he saw a guard’s mouth move, “. . . examination. Wait here.”

He nodded, pressing his lips together to keep from begging, shouting . . . demanding they release him.

Soon. He’d meet with the doctor and he would be released soon.

Several minutes passed, the guards watching over him as he waited. Movement from the corner of his eye startled him, and a man in a long white coat stepped through the now-open door. The doctor. Thank Christ.

Oliver rose and immediately the guards were there, each taking one of his arms. The doctor’s mouth started moving but Oliver was unable read his lips from this angle and the man quickly turned away. The guards shoved him forward, into the doctor’s office, yet he somehow maintained his feet as he stumbled. Then he stood waiting in the middle of the room for the doctor to notice him.

The doctor was an older man, reed-thin. He had long whiskers along his chin and lip and he wore spectacles. There were rings under his eyes as if he’d been deprived of sleep for a few days, no hint of a smile on his face. If one hoped for a kindly, Henry Jacobs-type doctor, this man was not it.

Now behind his desk, the doctor lifted a stack of papers and gestured to the chair opposite. Oliver sat and began speaking, too scared to be shy about his voice. “Sir, I fear this is a misunderstanding. I am deaf, not insane.”

The doctor lifted an eyebrow, his gaze landing directly on Oliver for the first time. “Determining an incoming patient’s mental state is my job”—he checked his papers—“Mr. Hawkes.”

“But this is a ploy by my cousin to have me committed. There is nothing wrong with me.”

“And yet a judge and two doctors say otherwise.” He dropped into his leather chair and picked up a pen. His mouth moved but his head was down, so Oliver could not read his lips.

“I cannot see your face. I have no idea what you are saying.”

The doctor cocked his head, his expression skeptical. “Are you saying you are able to read lips? I have met several deaf people, Mr. Hawkes, and none could read lips as well as to follow a conversation.”

“Nevertheless, I am able to do so.”

Leaning forward, the doctor made notes on the papers. He began speaking again, his head bent where Oliver could not see, the moustache covering most of the man’s lips.

“Again, if you are not looking at me, I cannot understand what you are saying.”

The doctor folded his arms on the desk and gave Oliver a bland stare. “And so it is I who must accommodate you, Mr. Hawkes?” He shook his head as if the very idea was insulting. “I think you shall learn quickly that it is our patients who adapt while here.”

Oliver kept quiet, merely staring at a doctor who obviously held little compassion for the people brought before his care.

“Now, what is your name?”

“Oliver Richard Hawkes.”

“Where are you from?”

“New York City.”

“How old are you?”

“Twenty-nine.”

“What . . .” The doctor’s head bent, obscuring Oliver’s view.

“What was that last question?”

The doctor’s head snapped up. “I do not care to repeat myself. What year is it currently?”

“Eighteen hundred and ninety.”

“Do you know why you have been sent here?”

“Because my cousin is angling to steal my family’s fortune.”

“Says here that you . . .” He read off the paper, his lips not in Oliver’s line of sight.

Heat suffused Oliver’s entire body, an all-encompassing frustration that replaced his rationality. “I cannot hear you,” he snapped, pounding a fist on the arm of the chair. “Either look at me when you are speaking or write it down for me.”

The doctor’s body stiffened and he sneered. “You must learn your place here.” Addressing the guards, he said, “Show Mr. Hawkes our plunging bath. Make sure he understands—”

That was all Oliver could read before he was jerked to his feet and hauled away.

Christina paced the length of the entryway. She had not been able to eat, sleep, or rest since the moment Oliver was carted away by those men.

Once the wagon had departed this morning, she’d immediately contacted Frank Tripp and informed him of what happened. Now early evening, Frank had phoned thirty minutes ago to say he was on his way with news. She prayed this news was of the good variety. Hadn’t Oliver suffered enough in his short life? Thank goodness Milton had not lingered to gloat. Christina very well may have punched him.

The bell jangled. She raced to the latch, beating the butler to the door, and ripped the heavy panel ajar. A grim-looking Frank Tripp waited on the stoop. “Good evening, Christina.”

“Come in,” she said and moved aside. “Let’s go into the salon.”

Frank did not even bother to remove his coat, just placed his bowler and cane onto the low table and followed her. When they entered the salon, Frank shrugged off his overcoat and tossed it on a chair. Gill followed, his hands clasped behind his back. “Would you care for a drink, sir?”

“Let’s skip it until I am done. I wish I had good news,” Frank said as he sat down, and Christina’s heart sank. “I have seen the petition and, while it is a complete farce, they have bribed a judge to sign it. Your husband has made some powerful enemies, Christina. Apparently this judge is one of Van Peet’s cronies.”

“Van Peet?” Why would Van Peet have any interest in locking Oliver away?

“Yes. Oliver and Julius Hatcher were making moves to ruin Van Peet and the old man caught wind of the plan. Quite upset over it, too. Milton and his lawyer have used this to their advantage, finding a judge in Van Peet’s pocket to get this judgment through.”

“Dear Lord.”

“Exactly.” Frank crossed his legs. “Now, Oliver should have been evaluated by at least two qualified examiners before being shipped to Wards Island. Those names have been forged on the paperwork—”

“Then we may get him released,” she said, a glimmer of hope sparking to life in her chest.

“In theory, yes. However, proving those signatures were forged may be difficult because the doctors were no doubt paid a handsome sum to lie. Getting them to admit the truth means they lose their medical licenses and their livelihoods. I think we’ll have a better chance getting the judgment overturned. Within thirty days we are allowed to appeal it and obtain a rehearing. I have already filed the appeal on Oliver’s behalf.”

Christina covered her mouth with her hand, stomach twisting with horror. “Are you saying Oliver might possibly remain there for a month?”

“I am doing everything in my power to prevent that,” Frank said, holding up a hand as if he were swearing in court. “I will push for a hearing to take place as quickly as possible, I promise.”

She swallowed, clenching her hands together. This was awful. Just positively awful. Part of her wanted to go to Wards Island herself and demand they let Oliver go. Bang on the door, tear the building apart until she found him and could bring him back here. “What is involved in the rehearing?”

“We hope a judge will review the paperwork and let me plead Oliver’s case. If not, they may summon a jury to decide whether Oliver is sane.”

“And juries are notoriously unpredictable,” Christina said.

Frank nodded once. “Unfortunately, yes. I should also warn you that your marriage is a part of all this. Milton claims Oliver did not possess the mental capacity to agree to a marriage and you took advantage of him, therefore the marriage should be annulled. If that happens and Oliver remains committed, Milton would be appointed guardian of the Hawkes fortune.”

Annulled? Oh, good heavens. A lump formed in her throat. This was all much worse than she had feared. “Am I allowed to see him?”

“He is denied visitors, except his lawyer.”

Her breath shuddered as she exhaled. It was the answer she’d expected but that did not make it easy to hear. “So when will you go?”

“First thing in the morning.” His gaze softened with remorse and apology. “I would bring you if I could, Christina. I know it hardly eases your mind, but if there’s any message you’d like me to pass along . . . ?”

There was so much she needed to say to Oliver, like how much she loved him. How fervently she missed him. That she would never give up. “Yes, please. Tell him we shall not rest until he is released.”