Hattie’s breathing had become shallow, and there was a faint roaring in her ears. Unable to remain seated, she rose and walked to the window that looked down on the front garden.
The picture Mona drew was one she could hardly fathom. It bespoke of a casual cruelty in her husband of which she’d seen no evidence during their short marriage. Though he’d been cold and distant, she couldn’t relate Mona’s words to the man she’d known. She now understood why Frank had refused to give her details.
“I can’t …” She stumbled to a halt, unsure of what she meant to say, then pressed a hand to her stomach.
“If a man beats on me or my girls, he’s not invited back,” Mona continued, seemingly unaware of the depth of her distress. “I had Booth throw them both out. Clive Johnson is no longer welcome at my establishment.”
Mona drank the last of her sherry and placed the empty glass on the table. “Why do you ask about the incident? Is what happened to Isobel related to what Frank was making inquiries about?”
Hattie thought once again about the cash in the library safe, and about the rumors of the white slave trade. But until she established a connection to Longren Shipping, she had to assume the two matters were unrelated. “No, it was another matter entirely. I simply wanted to know the truth about Charles’s visits to the Green Light. You are not the only person to insinuate that Charles had unhealthy appetites.” Hattie shook her head, her mind still reeling. “It seems I didn’t know my husband at all.”
Mona didn’t offer sympathy, for which Hattie was grateful.
“Do you think Clive Johnson was behind this attack on Frank?” Mona asked instead.
“Possibly,” Hattie conceded. “Though I think it equally likely that Michael Seavey ordered the beating—he visited me two days ago to warn me off.”
Mona frowned.
“Hattie?”
Hattie jerked around to find Charlotte hovering at the door to the parlor, her eyes wide and questioning. Dear God, how much of the conversation with Mona had Charlotte heard?
“Dr. Willoughby is on his way?” Hattie managed to ask calmly. At Charlotte’s nod, she turned to Tabitha, who stood behind Charlotte. “Tabitha, please accompany Miss Charlotte to her room and stay with her until I come for you both, is that understood?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Charlotte glanced nervously at Mona. “But … we saw someone carry a man up to the attic. That man who visited you that day in the library.”
“Not now, Charlotte. I will explain as soon as I am able.”
Charlotte nodded, for once not arguing, then turned to Mona. “Thank you for the beautiful fabric, Mrs. Starr.”
Mona smiled. “You’re welcome, my dear.” Charlotte curtsied and left, and Mona said to Hattie, “A charming girl. It would be a shame to see her put at risk because of this business.”
“Yes.”
Mona stood. “It’s best that I leave before the physician arrives—it wouldn’t do to have him notice my carriage. And the longer I linger, the more likely it is that a neighbor could note my presence.”
Hattie sighed. “You’re right, though I don’t like the thought that either of us would be judged for our actions this evening.”
Hattie showed Mona down the stairs and out through the kitchen.
Mona turned, her hand on the back doorknob. “Frank wouldn’t want it known that this has happened, and I know him well enough to know he wouldn’t have wanted me to involve you. If I’d had any other alternative—”
“You made the right decision,” Hattie assured her firmly. “I’ll send word as soon as I know what his condition is.”
Mona continued to hesitate. “And I will send communication of any information I am able to uncover regarding his attack. But please, don’t try to deal with whoever did this on your own.”
“I will take every precaution,” Hattie agreed.
Mona’s expression indicated that she’d caught Hattie’s prevarication, but she didn’t pursue the subject. “As soon as I return to the waterfront, I’ll send one of my men to stand guard.”
“Do you believe that’s necessary?”
“Yes, I do. And don’t worry, he’ll be invisible—your neighbors won’t know he’s around.”
“Very well.” Secretly, Hattie was relieved to know someone would be watching out for them, and for Frank. “I am in your debt.”
“Just take care of Frank—he’s one of our own. We wouldn’t want to lose him.”
Shutting the door behind Mona, Hattie took the water and clean cloths Sara was holding. “I’ve left Mr. Lewis longer than is wise. Please bring Dr. Willoughby up when he arrives.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Hattie climbed the stairs to the attic, pausing just inside the door.
Frank lay where the coachman had left him, still unconscious. He must have shifted while she’d been talking to Mona, because one foot had fallen to the side, dangling off the edge of the cot.
Laying a hand on his brow, she was startled by the heat she felt there. Surely a fever was a sign that his body was trying to heal? She gently brushed the hair off his forehead, as she’d wanted to do yesterday in the library, though this time her reason was to pull the hair away from the bloody cuts and bruises covering his face.
One eye had already blackened, and two long gashes—perhaps made by the steel toe of a boot, she realized, shuddering—ran across his forehead and down his left jaw. His nose was bent and badly swollen along the right side, indicating it had been broken. Yet even as battered as he was, the strength of his character was apparent in the uncompromising line of his jaw and squared-off chin. Her gaze traveled down his body, noting that the knuckles of both hands were split and smeared with dried blood, indicating how hard he’d fought back.
“Who did this to you?” she murmured.
She sank into the chair Sara had set beside the cot. How could she have let this happen?
Tears burned behind her eyes. She’d seen far worse in the Boston clinic, she reminded herself, and she’d be no good to him unless she could keep her emotions in check.
Unlacing his work boots, she gently pulled them off, setting them on the floor at the foot of the bed. Fetching a pair of sewing scissors, she carefully cut away his shirt, revealing a broad, muscular chest marred with reddish-black and purple splotches along his ribs.
She was contemplating whether to leave the removal of his pants to Dr. Willoughby when Sara entered with a second basin of cool water. “I thought if you kept cold compresses on his bruises, it would ease the pain a bit.”
Hattie smiled at her. “Thank you, Sara. As soon as Willoughby arrives, please do me the favor of keeping a close eye on the girls. Don’t allow Charlotte or Tabitha to come up here. Explain as little to them as you can—I will deal with their questions once we know more of Mr. Lewis’s condition.”
“Yes, ma’am.” She hesitated. “Do you think he’ll recover?”
“I pray to God that he does.”
Hattie closed the door behind Sara as much as she dared, to discourage the girls’ curiosity. Then she drew a chair and table over next to the bed. Wetting a cloth in warm water, she began the process of gently cleaning the blood off Frank’s face, hands, and torso, biting her lip each time he moaned. As she worked, the anger that had begun to build within her earlier grew into a burning rage.
* * *
WHEN Dr. Willoughby arrived, Hattie retreated once more to the second-floor parlor, to await word of his diagnosis. After an agonizingly long hour, the portly, middle-aged physician knocked on the door. She bade him enter, rising to fix him a glass of his favorite brandy.