“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
