Her Defiant Heart (2 page)

Chapter 1

December 1866

It was torment, not treatment. How else could one describe the agony of the screams? They echoed hollowly in the room and sent a wave of nausea through the man hearing them for the first time. Christian Marshall closed his eyes, but it was a luxury that he could ill afford. When he realized what he was doing, he opened them and forced himself to watch. He glanced surreptitiously to his left and saw that his companion had not noticed the lapse. Christian's stomach tightened, curled. He could taste bile at the back of his throat. His hands thrust deeper into the pockets of his woolen jacket, and they trembled with equal parts of rage and fear.

A drink. That's what he needed. A tumbler of whiskey, two—no, three—fingers deep. Another scream, as raw and tortured as any that came before it, gradually became a choking sound. There was a struggle and Christian understood immediately that the intensity of the battle was lessening. The attendants would realize it too. They would be able to ease their bruising grip on the slender shoulders of their patient as soon as she became unconscious. A minute or so, perhaps as many as three, would pass before they lifted her out of the tub of cold spring water. Most likely she would vomit again when they revived her.
If
they revived her this time. Her lack of strength against the orderlies had probably saved her the pain of a dislocated collarbone or a broken forearm.

One drink wouldn't be enough when he got home tonight. He would have to sit with the bottle.

Beside him, Dr. Perry Glenn had struck a pose that Christian associated with sea captains rather than physicians. His legs were slightly apart, his hands clasped behind his back, and he rocked forward on the balls of his feet. His demeanor was relaxed, his expression one of profound satisfaction. It was Glenn's expression that was responsible for Christian's fear. The doctor was not unaffected by what was taking place in the treatment room at Jennings Memorial. He was genuinely pleased with it.

The doctor nudged Christian lightly with his elbow and lifted his chin to indicate the scene in front of him. "I wonder how well you understand what you're seeing," he said. "I've observed that you've stopped making notes."

It was true. Christian had put his pencil and leather-bound notepad in his vest pocket when he had been escorted into the treatment room. What he had witnessed since had made him forget that he had a role to play. When he spoke, he was careful to keep the dry, caustic tenor of his thoughts out of his voice. "Notes seem superfluous when I have committed everything I've seen to memory." Memories that he would try to obliterate with drink when he got home. "What I have observed here will be difficult to forget."

"A convenient talent for any reporter." The doctor's hands loosened from behind his back. His right hand found his chin in an absent gesture, and he stroked the wiry steel-gray threads of his beard with his thumb and forefinger. He smoothed his drooping mustache and large side-whiskers, and then went back to rubbing his chin. He stopped the motion long enough to indicate to the orderlies that they should let their patient surface. "The efficacy of terror as a form of treatment is not disputed by the professionals in this hospital any longer," Dr. Glenn said as his patient was placed on her side on the stone floor.

One of the attendants pressed the young woman's head forward so that her chin rested against her upper chest. The other aide slapped her back rhythmically. Christian's expression remained inscrutable, his aquamarine eyes shuttered as he waited for a response from the patient. He kept his voice carefully neutral when he spoke. "I can see that you're a proponent of terror in the treatment of the insane. I believe, however, there are a number of physicians in this country—indeed, in this city—who would disagree with its effectiveness."

Dr. Glenn nodded. "I can't dispute that. It's the primary reason Dr. Morgan thought you should observe the treatment firsthand. You will see for yourself that, far from being inhumane, this method of treatment is the kindest thing one can do for poor creatures like this girl."

Christian managed not to grimace. He had the fleeting thought that Perry Glenn was a pompous ass, and might have expanded on that notion if the patient's distressed whimper had not caught his attention. The pathetic, mewling sound was more suited to an injured alley cat than a young woman. The cotton shift that she wore was merely a wet second skin now and offered no protection against the cold. As she came out of her induced unconscious state, Christian released the shallow breath he had been holding. He felt the tension in his neck and back ease. "Tell me about her," he said, evincing no more than casual interest.

The doctor considered Christian's request for a moment before answering. He could admit to himself that he was not entirely comfortable with this interview or Christian Marshall. He stroked his beard and Dundreary whiskers again as a way of gaining time and taking measure of the man at his side.

Dr. Glenn knew Christian Marshall by reputation. Even if he hadn't known, Dr. Morgan, the hospital administrator, had been quick to address the salient points, ticking them off on his fingers and having to use both hands to complete the list. Artist and architect. Second of four sons and the only one to survive the war—albeit with serious injury. Decorated for valor. Publisher and sole owner of the
New York Chronicle
since the death of his father six months earlier. Reputed to be a hard drinker. Ladies' man. Horse-fancier. High on every important hostess's guest list. And oddly enough, reclusive in his own fashion.

Dr. Glenn would have liked to deny the request for an interview and tour, but it was made clear to him that one did not say no to Christian Marshall. The doctor imagined the supervising board wrestling with the request but capitulating because it was Christian Marshall himself and not merely his paper doing the asking. No one had mentioned "gambler" when discussing Christian Marshall's character, yet that description was very much on Perry Glenn's mind. It was the bored insolence in the pale aquamarine eyes that concerned the doctor. He couldn't shake the feeling that this man was playing his cards very close to his chest. There was an air of implacability about the hard angles and taut planes of Marshall's face, a steely bitterness that went right to the man's core and that no smile ever quite cut through.

Christian Marshall was clean-shaven. Perhaps it was a touch of rebellion against the dictates of current fashion, Glenn thought as he continued to stroke his own whiskers. Or perhaps the man knew the strength of his character could be seen in the rigid thrust of his jaw and the hard line of his mouth and saw no reason to hide behind a mustache stiffened with beeswax and pomade.

The granite-like cast of Christian's face might have altered slightly if he had been privy to the doctor's thoughts. At the very least he would have been dryly amused by Perry Glenn's speculations. Christian's clean-shaven face had nothing to do with his sense of his own character; it had everything to do with a thick head of hair the color of an old penny. Strands of copper highlighted his crown, temples, and eyebrows, but on the few occasions he had been forced to go without shaving, his beard had always come in with the fiery brilliance of red autumn leaves. "It's rather, er, colorful, don't you think?" his mother had once commented delicately. His brothers and father had shown far less tact while making the same point. Christian got rid of the beard and sideburns that same evening.

Dr. Glenn's brows drew together as he made a sweeping assessment of his companion, taking in the breadth of his shoulders, the ease with which the man wore the invisible trappings of power, and the incongruous infirmity which made Christian Marshall favor his right leg while walking or standing. The wound had made the man a hero, elevating him to a stature above other mortals. The limp served as a reminder that no man deserved such a lofty position, in his own heart or anyone else's. Dr. Glenn did not think that Marshall had asked for any of it.

The doctor cleared his throat. "There's not a great deal we know about her," he said at last. "She's a Jane Doe. I make her age to be early twenties, though that's only a guess. She could easily be younger. She carried no identification when she was found wandering Paradise Square, lost and incoherent." He paused and let Christian have some time to put that information into perspective. One didn't have to be a native of New York City to know about Paradise Square.

It was a deliberate irony that Paradise Square was actually a triangle of open land at the center of the most dangerous quarter of Manhattan—the Five Points. Armed policemen only entered the Five Points in pairs, and New Yorkers who cared as much for their reputation as their life avoided the district even in the bright light of day. Tenements and decrepit clapboarded houses lined the filthy, narrow streets of the area. Lodging houses could be found in cellars below the street. They were breeding places for rats and vermin, and in the case of the prostitutes who often rented the rooms, they were a breeding ground for disease and bastard children. The Five Points was also a seedy fortress for one of the most powerful gangs operating in the city. The Dead Rabbits were the authority in the Five Points, rulers of a criminal empire whose loyal subjects were prostitutes, murderers, hoodlums, and thieves.

"Our Jane Doe has been here a little more than a month," Dr. Glenn continued. "About six weeks I think. I was away when she was brought in, but I've worked with her steadily since my return. There was virtually no information available at her admission, but no one seems to have missed her. We've had no inquiries, and none were really expected. It's hard to imagine that anyone in the Five Points will come forward to identify or claim her."

"She was brought here first?" asked Christian.

"Yes, as far as I know. One doesn't think they would put themselves out for anyone, but it was two members of the Dead Rabbits who escorted her here."

One of Christian's eyebrows kicked up. "The Dead Rabbits? Here?"

"Oh, you're wondering why she wasn't taken to one of the city asylums."

"It occurred to me. I wasn't aware that Jennings Memorial even treated the insane. And this woman is indigent as well."

"I'm disappointed that I didn't know, Mr. Marshall. Jennings Memorial has a mandate from its board of directors to treat a percentage of charity cases every year. I thought you had come to Jennings with something of an open mind. I can see, however, that you harbor the same preconceived notions about this hospital as the general public, namely that we're only here to serve the rich." Dr. Glenn cut short his observation just as he was warming to the subject. His patient was coughing violently and a series of convulsive shudders wracked her body. He pointed to the freshly made cot that sat in one corner of the room. "She's had quite enough for today," he said. "Put her to bed. It will be a few hours before I'll know how well her mind has responded to the treatment."

It required only one of the attendants to lift Jane Doe and carry her to the cot. The other pulled back the thin sheet and snapped open the coarse wool blanket that had been folded at the foot. Both of the hospital attendants were large men, heavily built and bull-necked. Their size was unremarkable given the job they were required to do. Christian imagined they were called on frequently to initiate the plunge-bath treatment with patients much less delicate than their current charge. What struck Christian most profoundly was the odd tenderness each of the attendants showed for their patient after very nearly causing her death. One of the men carefully pushed aside the strands of dark hair clinging to Jane Doe's cheek and forehead. The other covered her with the sheet and blanket and tucked them around the shivering contours of her body. Almost in unison they stepped away from the bed and looked at Dr. Glenn for direction. There was a dull, lethargic look common to both men, and Christian was moved to wonder if they were capable of making any decisions on their own or if they could only follow orders. If the latter were true, and Christian suspected it was, then Dr. Perry Glenn had found the ideal men to carry out his treatment.

"Ronald. Billy. She requires restraining." Dr. Glenn's voice softened and the singsong cadence he employed was perfect for gentling animals and thick-witted men. "We've been over this before. You know she cannot be free to move around. She could hurt herself."

Christian saw hesitation on the part of both men, but it was momentary. If Christian had not counted himself a keen observer, he might have been convinced he had imagined their small attempt at mutiny. As they moved to obey the doctor, Christian allowed his eyes to wander about the room. It did not seem conceivable that Dr. Glenn believed Jane Doe could harm herself. Other than the wooden cot and the tub of spring water, the treatment room was barren. Located as it was in the basement of the hospital, it was an airless, windowless room that had more to recommend it as a medieval dungeon. Two lanterns on either side of the oak and iron door provided the room's light. They would be removed—as would the tub—when the patient was left alone, and Jane Doe would have certain darkness as her companion. At some time in the past, there had been one small concession to creating a more pleasant environment, and the damp stone walls had been whitewashed. Now their crevices and niches were a garden for mosses and lichens. No one would ever mistake the effect for classic, green-veined marble.