Twenty minutes later, a hired hack dropped her off in front of a wooden building in the South End. Inside, the office was small but clean, filled with men and women, children, all wounded and ill. She seemed to have found a doctor for the poor. After visiting office after plush office of Boston’s finest doctors, Finnea wanted to flee this one.
But she stopped when a dividing curtain swung back and a man led out a patient. Finnea was sure he was the doctor.
He wore dark trousers, a waistcoat, and a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up. He wasn’t very tall, but he looked strong and kind, with unruly hair.
“Thank you, Dr. Sanderling,” the patient said, clearly indebted.
The doctor smiled and nodded his head, then greeted several of the patients sitting in the waiting room. He knew most of them by name, telling each he would be with them as soon as possible.
“Now, who was here next?” he asked the group.
With no receptionist, Finnea expected bedlam. Instead, several patients looked thoughtful, while the others pointed at an elderly man.
“Jason Fowls is next.”
Doctor Sanderling walked over and helped the man up, and just as he was turning, he noticed Finnea.
He straightened, though never losing hold of his patient.
“May I help you?” he asked, taking in her fine gown, surprise riddling his forehead.
“Yes,” she began, having to clear her throat. “I am Mrs. Matthew Hawthorne, and I have come to consult with you about a certain condition.”
She hated tossing out her married name as if that somehow made her special. But over the past several days she had learned the only way she could get the doctors to see her at all was to say who she was. The Hawthorne name got her out of waiting rooms and into offices so fast, her head spun.
This doctor merely nodded and gestured to the newly vacated seat. “I’ll be with you as soon as I can.”
She liked him immediately.
She liked the wait less.
He saw her two and a half hours later, at three in the afternoon.
“I hope you don’t mind if I eat while we talk?” he began, taking a small tin pot from the top of the heating stove in the corner. “But if I don’t eat now, I won’t have a chance again until late this evening.”
Ever practical, Finnea said, “Well, no, go right ahead.”
“Now, what brings you to my humble establishment?” he asked, placing a linen square in his lap as if he were at a fine dinner party. “A Hawthorne has access to the best doctors in Boston.”
“Do you mean to say you’re not very good?” she blurted out before she could think.
The man chuckled. “I’d like to think that I’m better than most of the doctors in town. I trained with many of them.” He grew serious. “But I can’t sit by and let the poor and indigent go uncared for. Does that help?”
“Well, yes.” She fidgeted.
“Good. Now for your concern.”
While the man ate, Finnea explained her theory. When she came to the end, Ethan Sanderling sat back, his meal finished, his fingers steepled as he considered.
At any moment, Finnea was certain he would stand and accuse her of wasting his valuable time. Already she could hear the sounds of his waiting room growing crowded once again.
“I have to admit that your theory sounds far-fetched. I have no doubt that is why you are here. Everyone else must have run you out.”
Finnea’s heart sank, and she nodded, unable to lie. She pushed up from her seat.
“Hold on,” the doctor said. “I’m not everyone else.”
“Really?” She leaned closer, her gloved hands clutching the edge of the tabletop. “You don’t think I’m crazy?”
He studied her intently. “I’m not sure what I think, Mrs. Hawthorne. But I’ll have to see your husband to make that determination.”
Racing home, her heart burgeoned with joy. But hope was cruelly dashed when she found Matthew in front of his easel, both hands pressed to his head, his face contorted with pain.
“Good God!” she cried, running forward. “What’s wrong?”
He couldn’t seem to talk, and she knew she had to get Matthew to Dr. Sanderling.
Had she been thinking, she would have waited until she had eased his pain to tell him about the doctor she had found. But she was so convinced of her assessment that she suddenly blurted it out. “There is a doctor I think you should see.”
For one long moment Matthew didn’t move or say a word.
He sat there. Then slowly he straightened and met her eye. He was pale and drawn, but his countenance grew dark. “Explain yourself.”
“I found a doctor who is different from the rest.”
“You went to see a doctor about me, without my knowledge?”
“It’s not what you think; he’s not what you think. Matthew, please see him.”
“No.”
“Matthew—”
“I said no. You had no right.”
“But he’s different! He isn’t like the rest of them.”
His expression was dangerous.
“Matthew, you have to see him. I’m certain I understand what is causing the pain. And Dr. Sanderling agrees that it’s worth looking into. With the doctor’s help, I believe we can alleviate the cause of your pain.”
His eyes sparked with hope, battling with his anger that she had gone behind his back. She saw it, felt it.
“What do you think it is?” he said, his voice cautious.
She took a deep breath. “I believe some wood or glass from the accident is still in the wound.”
He stared at her as if she had lost her mind. “What?” The word came out as an outraged burst of sound, his face a terrible mask of disbelief and dashed hope.
“Don’t you see,” she rushed on, “the only time you experience the tremendous pain is when you’ve had pressure against the scar. This doctor agrees it’s possible. But he’ll have to see you to determine if I’m right.”
“You’ve pinned your hopes on some sort of debris?” he roared. His anger built and grew. “What kind of an idiotic idea is that?” He jerked off the chair, stalking across the room, shoving his hands through his hair. “Who in their right mind would believe that there is still something in the wound after so long?”
“Has anyone else come up with a better solution?” she demanded. “Just talk to him, Matthew,” she pleaded. “His name is Dr. Sanderling and his office is tucked away in the South End on Huntington Avenue. No one has to see you go there.”
“Damn it, didn’t you hear what I just said? You’re crazy. Crazier than me, apparently.”
He grabbed her arm and pulled her roughly to him, his face still taut. “Are you crazy? Is that it, Finnea? Outlandish green and gold gowns. Hunter’s clothes in Boston.” He paused. “Sleeping on the floor.”
Her eyes went wide.
“Yes, I know all about your habit of forgoing the comfort of a mattress and bed. I know all about your red hair spilling over pillows.” His eyes grew unfathomable. “About glimpses of soft skin when your nightgown tangles around your legs.”
“Stop this, Matthew,” she said, her voice catching.
He drew her near, bending his head so close that his lips almost touched hers. “Stop what, Mrs. Hawthorne?”
She grew silent, then said, “Why is it that whenever I push into places that make you uncomfortable you try to scare me off by pretending to be someone you aren’t? First after lunch with your father, now when faced with possible answers about your face. Are you afraid, Matthew?”
His eyes went wild with something she didn’t understand. Fury? Fear? “I am not afraid!” he shouted.
Then his lips came down on hers, hard and demanding, as if to prove his words. There was no pleasure, only punishment. With a cry, she jerked her head to the side.
“I am not afraid,” he repeated, his voice harsh. “But what about you? Why are you still pushing me away?” His grip tightened. “Why is that, Finn? Are you afraid? Afraid to tell me why you slip out of my bed at night even though I know you want me—or at least your body does.”
The truth of his words sent mortification sizzling through her veins. Part of her knew that he was angry and disappointed and lashing out. But her heart began to pound nonetheless.
“Let me go, Matthew.”
His eyes went hard and cold. “I asked you once before and you didn’t answer. Answer me now. Did you really love Jeffrey? Is that it? Is that why you hold yourself apart from me?”
Jeffrey? Her stomach clenched. Didn’t Matthew understand? She hadn’t loved Jeffrey at all. That was why it would have been safe to marry him. Because she could afford to lose him.
But how would she survive if she lost Matthew? Or his daughter?
Dear God, how had it happened? She loved this man despite the fact that she couldn’t afford to. Loved him with all her heart and soul. Loved his daughter. Wanted to be a part of their lives.
The truth of it staggered her. And made her feel guilty in turn—as if somehow she was being disloyal to Isabel.
“Damn it,” he suddenly bellowed, crashing his fist into the wall. “Are you like Kimberly after all? Are you in love with another man?”
But she was given no time to answer when the tense quiet shattered. “Stop it!”
They wheeled around and found Mary. Tears streaked her cheeks.
“Stop fighting!” she cried. “I hate it when you fight. Just like you fought with Mama the night of the party.”
Matthew went cold.
“Yes! I saw you and Mama in the cottage.” Mary could barely talk through the sobs that racked her tiny body. “I know I was supposed to be in bed, but I wanted to see you so I snuck out and found you there. And I saw! I saw what Mama was doing with your friend.”
Her cherub’s face was mottled and red as she squeezed her eyes shut, trying to block out the images in her mind. “Now you know. Go ahead, punish me. Or leave me again if you like. But I won’t be afraid anymore! I won’t!”
In a whirl of skirts, Mary raced from the room, and seconds later she slammed out of the house.
For one stunned heartbeat Matthew and Finnea stared in shock.
“Oh God,” Finnea breathed.
They dashed out the door, but Mary was too fast. She ran down the walkway toward the Public Gardens. Matthew and Finnea followed, racing through the gated entrance, then along the path that Finnea and Mary took almost every day.
Finnea’s heart surged, then stilled in her chest when she saw a lone little figure standing before the lagoon, staring, her fingers clenched at her sides.
Finnea’s breath caught because she understood all too clearly. “Please, no,” she whispered, feeling the still-cold but rapidly warming air.
“Mary!” Matthew called out.
The child spun back to look at them. Even from this distance Finnea could see the blue eyes wide with fear and determination, tears streaming down her face.
“Mary, get away from there,” Matthew demanded.
But she wouldn’t move, and they were too far away.
“I’m not afraid!” the child cried out, her tiny voice reverberating in the barren trees.
Finnea broke into a dead run, but she was too late. Mary started to run as well, toward the lagoon that hints of spring had already touched.
“No!” Finnea screamed just as Mary hit the ice.
For one sparkling moment, Mary slid, her arms extended, her blonde hair free and flowing like a flag in the breeze. But in the next, a crack echoed ominously, snaking across the lake until the hard surface split into a million tiny pieces, and Mary broke through.
Matthew’s shout was fierce and haunted, a warrior’s battle cry as he pounded into the lagoon. Water and ice flew, breaking and churning as he made his way to his child.
He went under again and again, frantically searching. Finnea was in right behind him, and just as she reached his side he came up with Mary, her face already turning blue from cold and shock.
They trudged out of the water, then raced back to the house, Mary held securely in Matthew’s arms as he crossed Arlington Street to Marlborough like a man possessed. When they finally entered the house, Quincy had the fire roaring.
“Little Mary,” the older man gasped at the sight of the limp child in Matthew’s embrace.
“We need hot water,” Finnea instructed the butler. “I’ll get dry towels.”
Within minutes, they had the child in a tub to warm her rapidly. Matthew rubbed Mary’s hands and feet with vigor while Finnea held her up. Minutes later Mary started to murmur, the blue receding, replaced by the vibrant red of blood surging.
“We should dry her off now and hold her close to the fire,” Finnea directed.
Matthew pulled the child out of the water and wrapped her in a thick flannel towel. He folded her securely to his chest and sat in front of the fire. He rocked her, even after the intense heat brought sweat soaking through his barely dried clothes.
“I think you should put her in bed now,” Finnea said quietly.
Matthew nodded, and they went upstairs. Finnea quickly clothed her in a thick flannel nightdress while Matthew checked on the fire that burned in the grate. Then he returned to Mary’s side and sat on the bed, ignoring the strain in his intensely aching body.
When Mary opened her eyes, the first person she saw was Matthew. It took the child a second to remember and understand. And when she did, terror swept over her face.
“Oh, Daddy, I’m sorry. Please don’t be mad at me,” she whispered, her lip quivering. “I didn’t mean to see Mama in the cottage.”
Matthew looked stunned by the words. Finnea could see the cords in his neck work until he pulled the child to him fiercely. “No, Mary. I’m sorry you had to see what happened that night. Dear God, I’m sorry I didn’t understand sooner.” He caressed her cheek and looked into her eyes. “Please don’t be mad at me.”
They clung together then, tightly, fiercely. The hug he had longed for, the love he had hoped to regain. Their tears mixing until it was unclear whose tears were whose.
Finnea felt her own tears, felt the tight vise of emotion around her throat until she thought she would break. When she was sure Mary was fine, she started out of the room.
“Finnea,” Mary called out weakly.
Mary’s pleasure was written on her face, and Finnea couldn’t help her answering smile. “Yes?”
“Did you see? I did just like you said. I got out on the ice and I wasn’t afraid.”