10. Estelle

10

Estelle

I awakened to the scent of whiskey and leather. Opening my eyes, I was surprised to see Percival by the window, bathed in the last orange light of the day. He must have sensed my waking, because he turned. Seeing that I was awake, he rushed to my side.

"Stella, how are you feeling?"

I tried to lift myself up to a seated position, but I felt as if a boulder lay upon my chest. My head ached, and the light hurt my eyes. However, the pain from childbirth had dulled some, feeling more tender than the throbbing pain that I'd felt earlier.

I fell back to sleep. Some time later, I woke to Percival sitting next to the bed. He placed his warm, dry hand on my forehead. "Hello there. Are you feeling better?"

"Yes, a little. How long have I been here?" I managed to croak out.

"I brought you here yesterday. You've been in and out of consciousness since yesterday evening."

"Am I dying?" It certainly felt like it.

"You had me worried earlier. Whoever helped deliver your baby did a sloppy job. Some of the placenta was left inside your uterus and you developed an infection, which caused a high fever."

"Placenta. Is it still in there?"

"No, I was able to clean everything up. You're going to be fine now. It was touch and go over the last twelve hours.

"Thank you." I closed my eyes, mortified. What had Dr. Bancroft had to do down there? What had he seen? "You know I had a baby."

"That's right. It was obvious when I examined you."

I nodded, not trusting myself to speak without crying.

"We kept you as cool as possible with cold compresses. You came in and out of delirium. Do you remember anything?"

"No." Had I said anything embarrassing? "What was I saying?"

"You asked for your sister. And someone called Mireille. Who is that?"

I turned away, overcome. Mireille. My baby girl. She was very much alive. Not stillborn as I'd told Penelope. Ashamed of my lies, I couldn't look Percival in the eyes. "My baby."

"I suspected as much."

I stared up at the ceiling, avoiding his gaze.

"Your fever broke just an hour or so ago," Percival said in a soothing tone. "Since then, you've been resting peacefully."

Mrs. Bancroft scurried into the room, her heels clicking across the hardwood floor. "She's awake?"

"Yes, and much improved," Percival said.

Mrs. Bancroft hurried over to the other side of the bed where another chair had been placed. "Miss McCord, you've given us quite a scare."

"I'm sorry," I said. "Thank you for taking care of me."

"No need to thank us," Mrs. Bancroft said. "The important thing is that Percy found you and brought you home. Otherwise, you might have died."

I could have died. I'd gotten out of bed and run away before my body was ready. Maybe that's what I wanted. To be punished or put out of my misery? Either one would be reason enough. I shifted slightly and almost howled in pain. My breasts were heavy and full and painful.

"What is it?" Mrs. Bancroft asked.

"My chest hurts."

"Your milk will dry up in a day or so," Mrs. Bancroft said. "Until then, we'll keep you bound. I checked earlier and Penelope did an excellent job. I'll have one of the maids bring ice, which will help with the pain. It did for me, anyway. After I lost Molly."

"You lost a baby?" I asked before I could take it back.

"Yes, dear." She paused, drawing in a deep breath that told me everything I needed to know. The pain of losing a baby had stayed with her. There was strange comfort in knowing I was not alone, even though I would not have wished it on my worst enemy. "You mustn't push yourself too hard. Let us take care of you."

"I'm grateful. Truly. I don't know what would have happened to me if your son hadn't gone out of his way to help me."

"I told her you would not have forgiven me if I'd not tried to help someone in trouble," Percival said.

"We're Christian people," Mrs. Bancroft said. "What would it say about us if we turned you away? Jesus certainly wouldn't have."

"Even though I'm a sinner?" I whispered more to myself than them.

"We're all sinners," Percival said.

"Unfortunately, yes," Mrs. Bancroft said.

"You need nourishment if you're to make a speedy recovery," Percival said. "Do you think you could stomach some warm broth?"

"I think so," I said.

"Good girl," Mrs. Bancroft said. "You must build up your strength." She rose to her feet. "I'll be back with a tray of food and tea." She brushed a clump of my damp hair from my forehead. "We're so glad to see you looking a little better."

"Thank you," I said. "I can say it a thousand times and it wouldn't appropriately convey my gratitude."

"No need, dear. Just rest and get better. That's all the thanks I need."

"I'm sorry," I said to Percival after she left. "I've caused you all so much trouble."

"Nonsense. I'm a doctor. This is what I do." He rose up to pour a glass of water from the pitcher. "Now, I need you to sit up and drink this. I'll help."

I was too weak to fight. He adjusted the pillows and then helped me to rise up enough to sip from the glass. Water had never tasted as sweet or as refreshing.

"Your recovery's somewhat of a miracle," Percival said. "There was a lot of praying going on in this house."

"You were praying for me?"

"That's right," Percival said.

Touched, tears filled my eyes as I whispered, "Maybe it would have been better if I'd died. What do I have to live for?"

He clucked his tongue and drew closer, smoothing the quilt that lay over me. "I can't answer that for you. We all have to find our own purpose. My guess? God clearly has more plans for you. Once you heal, physically and emotionally, you'll know more about what you're to do next."

"I wish I knew what that was now," I said, wiping my eyes with the sleeve of my dressing gown. "At the moment, I feel utterly lost and alone."

"I understand. It's easy to say to someone else, and God knows, I've struggled with this myself, but you must have faith. Even in the darkest of hours, we have to believe light will find us again. Sometimes it's all we have to cling to."

My hands were outside the quilt, resting at my sides. He placed his hand over the one closest to him for a few seconds. "You're not lost. I found you. My mother and I are here."

"And brought me home like a stray puppy?" I asked, smiling through my tears. "I still don't understand why."

"As I said before, Mother and I have both experienced loss and heartbreak. None of it was because of anything we did or didn't do, which makes it hard to understand. When we sense tragedy in someone else, our natural instinct is to help. Perhaps this is the best part of us. The only good that comes from heartbreak. If everything had always been easy, we would not be as sensitive to others' pain."

He left me soon thereafter, only to be replaced by Penelope with a tray of beef broth and a chunk of soft, warm bread. Although I wasn't hungry, I forced myself to eat the broth and a portion of the bread.

Soon, I fell back asleep.

I woke in the late afternoon to the sound of feet clicking on the hardwood floor. Rolling to my side, I saw Mrs. Bancroft shut the bedroom door behind her and then come sit in a chair next to the bed.

"Ah, you're awake," Mrs. Bancroft said. "Some of your color has returned." She sat in the chair by the bed, folding her hands in her lap as if she were afraid they might fly off and do something on their own. She was an attractive woman, tall and angular, with a proud countenance. I'd not noticed before, but her gown was simple, made of gray wool like that of a shop worker or teacher. "How do you feel?"

"A little better, thank you," I said.

She took a glass of water from the bedside table and brought it to my mouth. "Please, drink. It's important you get a lot of fluids."

I took two dainty sips, the water cold and refreshing, before sinking back into the pillows.

"Penelope told us about your fiancé dying shortly before your wedding," Mrs. Bancroft said. "Did you love him very much?"

"I did. He beguiled me from the first moment I ever met him."

I watched her carefully. Now that I was better, would she ask me to leave? An unwed mother wasn't exactly welcomed in her social circles.

"Penelope told me the baby was stillborn." She said this bluntly, which I appreciated. It was easier that way.

"That's correct."

"I lost my husband when Percy was only two years old. He died in the arms of his mistress while I was pregnant with Molly."

"No, really?"

"All quite sordid and embarrassing. Then, shortly after his death, I had Molly. She came early and didn't make it more than a few hours. I'd never felt more alone." Mrs. Bancroft patted my hand that had escaped from under the blankets. "It does get easier with time. Regardless, there's a part of you that goes with them."

"You must have been in agony."

"Yes, I was." Mrs. Bancroft's gaze drifted toward the window, her eyes unfocused. "But I had to pick myself up and keep going for my son's sake. Now, tell me more about yourself so that I may be of assistance."

I hesitated, unsure if I should continue with the lie about the stillbirth. My instincts told me she was the type of person who did not suffer fools. Thus, the truth might be better in the long run. Or would it? Was it better to pretend that I'd not abandoned my child? No one but my own family would know about the child they forced me to give to my twin. I could carry on with the lie and no one would be any the wiser.

"What is it?" Mrs. Bancroft asked, eyes sharp.

"I haven't told you the exact truth about what happened to my baby."

"I can forgive almost anything, but not a lie."

Fine. I would tell her everything. The worst had already happened to me. I'd lost everyone I loved. There wasn't much more that could hurt me. Now it was about survival.

"I'm afraid you might not feel the same if I tell you the truth, but I have nothing left, so it won't much matter if yet another person tosses me aside like the trash. She was born yesterday, out of wedlock. My fiancé did die—that part was true. However, my daughter was born healthy. But since I was not married, I had no choice but to give her to my twin sister. No one will know that Mauve and her husband are not her biological parents, and my family will avoid scandal."

"How convenient for them all," Mrs. Bancroft said under her breath.

"I didn't want to give her away." Tears crawled up the back of my throat. "But no one cared what I wanted. They just wanted to get rid of me. I was a problem, and now I'm not."

"What about your mother? Is she alive?"

"Yes, she agreed with my father. She wanted me to go away. My sister's a good person and will be a wonderful mother. Up until the last moment, she was trying to convince me to stay and be the baby's aunt, but I knew I couldn't do it. I couldn't watch her grow up thinking I was only her spinster aunt. I'm too selfish."

"Well, as you said, what choice did you have? There are few for unmarried women. Especially those who find themselves in your predicament."

"I feel like there's nothing left of me except shame and regret. Everything good about me died with Constantine."

"You loved him very much?"

"I did. Enough that I no longer cared about seeing the world. That had been my plan as a child."

"The world's not going anywhere. It'll be there when you're ready."

I started to cry, no longer able to keep my despair inside. "No, all ambitions to see the world died with Constantine. Anyway, I don't deserve anything good to come my way. Not after what I've done to my family." And to myself, I thought. I was the one who had to leave my daughter behind. The rest of them would not suffer. With me out of the way, life could resume in its neat package for everyone but me. Mireille would have a mother and father who loved her. She'd never know that she'd been born out of wedlock.

Mrs. Bancroft handed me a hankie, scented with rose oil. I used it to dry my eyes.

"Dear girl, you mustn't think that way. It'll drive you to madness if you let it. Guilt, shame, and regret—they're insatiable in their quest to devour a woman's soul. You sacrificed your own happiness for the child. It was a true act of selfless motherhood. You gave her a better life, even though it hurt you to do so. This will sustain you in the years to come."

"How do you know?"

"Because I've lived a lot longer than you," Mrs. Bancroft said. "And made many more mistakes than you could imagine."

I nodded, unsure what to say. She didn't seem like someone who would make even a small blunder.

"You'll need a job," Mrs. Bancroft said, "if you're going to make it on your own."

"Yes, ma'am. I don't have many skills, unfortunately."

"What education do you have?"

"Private tutors," I said. "Then, finishing school."

She peered at me long and hard. What did she see? A lost cause? Someone worthless, without skills or talents? Or could she see possible redemption? A way for me to exist in a world that no longer wanted me?

I pressed cold fingers to my forehead. "I never thought I would have to worry about much of anything. Yet here I am. Whatever hopes I had for a life filled with love and family are no longer possible. I want only to survive. I've no money or plans or family and find myself at the mercy of kind strangers such as you and your son."

Mrs. Bancroft tugged at the bedcovers, smoothing them over my legs. "Percy's always been that way. Some might say he's kind to a fault. He can never give up on anyone, stranger or loved one. I suppose that's why he chose to study medicine. He wanted to help people, even though he didn't have to. We have no financial worries, thanks to my father and my late husband. Percy didn't need to attend university and medical school, but he craved meaning in his life. In fact, he served in the army during the war and then returned home to open a private practice." Her tone of voice clearly communicated the pride she felt in her son.

"I'm sure he's an outstanding doctor," I said.

"Yes, he is. And a wonderful son. After his father died, it was always just the two of us—which has made him protective of me. Now, of course, we have darling Clara, which makes us a family of three."

"Percival mentioned that his wife is very ill. May I ask what ails her?"

Mrs. Bancroft looked down at her lap. "My daughter-in-law's afflictions are of the mental kind. She believes she's sixteen years old. Has no idea that she and Percy are married or that Clara's her daughter. Sadly, we had to admit her to an asylum up north. Percy takes the train up to visit her every Saturday morning. Which is why he was on the train yesterday."

"How awful. Did something happen that triggered her illness?"

"Her father was murdered, and she saw it happen. Shortly thereafter, she had Clara, and became completely delusional, thinking a demon lived in Percy and the baby. She became violent and volatile."

"But why? How could something like that happen?"

"The doctors think it was the trauma of her father's murder and the hormonal effects of childbirth that created some kind of psychotic break. We would have liked to care for her here at home, but delusions and hallucinations made her too unpredictable. The doctor agreed that she was a risk to the child. All of which has Percy's heart. He suffers great guilt about putting her into the asylum, but we had no other choice. I naively thought the doctors could cure her, but she's not recovered. They have little hope that she will.

"But we have Clara." Mrs. Bancroft's expression brightened. "She's the light of our lives. Even though her birth made Mary sick, we cannot imagine life without her. My son's a very modern father—he spends a lot of time with Clara. Unlike my husband, who couldn't be bothered to hold his own son." She blinked and clapped her hands together. "But that's neither here nor there. We're supposed to be talking about you."

I wanted to know more but kept my curiosity in check. My head swam with all this information. Poor Percival and his sick wife. The little girl must miss having a mother around. Although, clearly Mrs. Bancroft was involved with the child, perhaps providing the maternal nurturing a young girl needed.

"You're not well enough to start a position straightaway," Mrs. Bancroft said, as if we'd not veered from the subject of my employment. "You'll need to recover first. You must stay with us for as long as it takes you to fully heal."

Her kindness brought new tears to my eyes. She blurred in front of me like an impressionist painting. "I'm grateful. I thought I'd be spending the night on the street."

"How could they send you away without anything at all?" Her expression sharpened. "They should be ashamed."

"Pierre, my brother-in-law, slipped me a little money before I left, but he didn't have much to give me. Everyone's reliant upon my father, thus no one can challenge his decisions or risk his wrath."

"I imagine someday he'll be sorry."

"Why do you think so?" I asked.

"I don't know, other than to say that time has a way of changing our perspectives."

"I knew it was better for the baby if I was out of sight and mind. She deserves the chance to have a family without the stigma of illegitimacy."

"Do you recall the story of Solomon and the baby from the Old Testament?" Mrs. Bancroft asked.

"Yes, I think so."

"Two women claimed a baby as their own. However, the real mother was revealed because she was willing to sacrifice her own happiness to save the child."

"Yes, but in the end, that woman got to take her baby home," I said.

"Correct. However, my point is—you did what you thought was best for the child. It's a sacrifice larger than any you'll ever be asked to do again."

"They let me hold her for a bit. She was perfect." Her little finger and toes. Her chubby cheeks. Sobs overtook me. "How can I miss someone I don't even know?"

"Because a woman does know her child, no matter how much time she gets with them. Whether they're inside you for a few months or nine, your souls are intertwined. Dearest, believe it or not, you will survive this."

I dabbed at my cheeks. "I don't know how."

"There are not many freedoms given women. However, no one can touch what's in here or here." She tapped her chest and then her temple. "They cannot take away our thoughts or feelings."

She paused for a moment, rubbing the palm of one hand with her thumb. "When I lost Molly, I remember thinking my pain was meaningless. What purpose did my suffering serve? I asked God why to show me how I could use my hurting to serve his purposes."

"Did he answer?" I asked.

"I believe he did. It wasn't all at once, but slowly my heart began to change. Instead of carrying around the burden of my anger toward my husband and grief over Molly, I became more sensitive. I started to notice things I never had before. The plight of the poor as I passed through neighborhoods grew more vivid. I could see that which my eyes had purposely avoided. One day, on the way to the park with Percy, it occurred to me that a woman of wealth, such as myself, had the luxury of mental anguish because my belly was full and my bed warm. If I were trying to survive, for example, or feed a family, I would have to move on with things, not sit around feeling sorry for myself. I sat and watched Percy play that afternoon with the sun on my face and vowed to do what I could for others. I sought out situations where my gifts could be useful to others. That act saved me from myself and the insidious resentment and anger that wanted to own me. Instead, I embraced my sadness and loss and used it for good. I found meaning in service to others. I cling to it like a blanket on a cold night. In that way, my good deeds do more for me than the people I help."

"I need something to cling to," I said. "I'm lost."

"For today and the foreseeable future, your only job is to grow physically strong. Our Lord brought you and Percy together for a reason. Have a little faith."

"I'll do my best."

"That's all I can ask." She squeezed my hand. "Keep the hankie. I must go now. I have several appointments I cannot break. I'll check on you upon my return."

"Thank you." It was all I could think to say, even though I'd uttered those same words many times in the last few days. I could only hope she understood how genuine my gratitude was.