12. Estelle

12

Estelle

J une and July passed quickly, filled with work during the days and time with the Bancrofts in the evenings. Before I knew it, we were in the middle of August. One evening, Mrs. Bancroft, Percy, and I retired to the drawing room. Clara usually ate early with her nanny. I would have loved to hear her chirping during the evening meal, but Mrs. Bancroft insisted she be in bed by half past seven. We didn't eat until eight, and the meals were not meant for a child. However, the little one often joined us for our midday meal with Mrs. Bancroft and me before we headed out for our daily house calls.

Percival poured us each a brandy and then sank into his favorite chair. The nights brought relief from the heat.

Earlier that day, Percival had gone to visit his wife. It didn't take a keen observer to see that his visits took a toll on him. He was unusually quiet those evenings. His thoughts he kept to himself, as I did mine. Instead, we talked about the patients and what we'd learned during our visits.

Tonight, however, both Percival and Mrs. Bancroft were quiet. I sipped my brandy and watched the fire. I was startled when Mrs. Bancroft excused herself for an early night.

"I find myself wearier than usual this evening. I'll leave you two young people to enjoy your drink."

We bade her good night and then fell back into silence. I had a book nearby that I'd planned to take to bed and reached for it, thinking it would be nice for Percival to have an hour or two in which he did not have to converse with anyone. As much as he loved his work, and clearly found purpose in it, I could see how the conditions of his patients and the neighborhoods they lived in nagged at him. How could they not?

As I reached for the book, he stirred, as if I'd awakened him from deep thoughts. "Stella, my apologies. I'm clearly not good company tonight."

"Please, don't apologize. You deserve an evening where you can just be, without anyone requiring anything of you."

"That's very perceptive of you. And kind. Thank you."

"Considering everything you've done for me, there are no thanks necessary." I returned his smile. "I shudder to think what would have happened should you not have taken it upon yourself to help me."

"I'm a doctor. It would have been criminal not to."

"Still, I'm forever indebted to you."

"You've more than repaid us with your hard work. Mother says you're a natural and that the patients have grown fond of you."

"Really? That's nice to hear. I have to be honest, that first visit with Mrs. Caldwell shook me to the core. This will sound terrible, but I'd never seen people live that way."

"It changes a person."

"Yes," I said.

"You're looking very well," Percival said. "Strong. Mother says you're tougher than you look."

"Do you mean to say I do not look tough?" I asked, pretending offense.

He laughed. "No, I cannot confess that you look particularly tough. Your slender stature does not tell the story of your inner strength."

"I feel physically stronger than I do here." I tapped just above my heart.

"Ah, my dear. I'm sorry." He cocked his head to the right, empathy reflected in his eyes.

"I'm still bruised. Perhaps forever broken. Even a talented doctor such as yourself cannot heal the wounds to my soul." I smiled to take the edge from my words.

He sat up straighter, his gaze sharp upon me. "Do you intend self-harm?"

"What?" I asked, startled. "No, nothing like that. I meant only that I'm still grieving my losses."

"To be expected, I'm afraid. Considering what you had to give up. Life is hard. I don't know why." Percival sighed, his shoulders lifting momentarily before he seemed to relax again.

We sat in silence for a moment before I asked a question that had been on my mind for some time. "Do you think ill of me? For what I did?"

"You did what you had to," he said.

"No, you misunderstand me. Not leaving the baby. Having her in the first place. Doing what I did before marriage."

"I'm a doctor but also a man with instincts of my own. One who has seen many things in my work. Also, I'm certain I'll not be considered for sainthood any time soon. It is not for I to judge."

"Thank you," I whispered, embarrassed but touched. "That is nice of you."

"You were in love. You expected to marry. It's not such a terrible sin. Not enough for the punishment you've received, I can assure you."

"I'm not sure. Maybe God's punishing me for what I did? He took everything from me. My sister and mother. My child. Why else would God do such a thing?"

"I don't have answers," Percival said. "But I don't think he's the punishing God they've taught us he is. I think he weeps with us. Every slash and cut, he feels with us."

My arms pricked with goose bumps as I imagined God's tears falling from his eyes to earth. "Does that explain the rain? It is merely God weeping with us?"

"Tears falling from heaven? I suppose we could take comfort in the rain, then? A sign that he's there? Or a gesture meant to heal our sadness?"

"I'd like to think so," I said.

"If drops of rain could heal this ache in my heart, I'd move to the dampest place on earth." Staring into the fire, he lifted his glass to his mouth to finish his brandy.

"I wish it was not so for you," I said softly. "You deserve better."

After a moment, he said, "How much has Mother told you about my wife?"

"Not much, other than she's very ill."

"Yes, she is." He got up and poured himself another brandy before returning to sit.

Instinctively, I waited for him to continue. After another sip of his drink, he did.

"When she first showed symptoms of psychosis, I thought it would be temporary. I'd learned about mental illness in school, obviously. The type of illness that comes after childbirth often dissipates after a time. However, the doctors have told me the shock of seeing her father's murder in combination with childbirth so soon afterward caused irreparable harm."

"What happened to her father?" I'd not heard this part from Mrs. Bancroft. "He was murdered?"

He didn't answer for a few seconds, as if deciding whether or not to share. "My father-in-law was involved in some less-than-legal enterprises. The authorities didn't look that hard into his death. They knew it was a rival that ordered his killing. I guess they figure they can all kill one another, and no one will care."

"Ordered?"

"Organized crime."

"Oh. I don't know anything about that."

"Why would you? Let's just say it's a dangerous business. The warring gangs and families do not mess around."

"Your wife was with him?"

"They were coming back from a weekend in the country. I had stayed behind to take final exams. They were ambushed and driven off the road. They gunned him down. Multiple bullet wounds through his chest. He died in Mary's arms."

"How awful."

"She'd shown signs of instability before then, but it was too much. She reverted back to when she last felt safe. That's why she thinks she's sixteen. She's stuck in time."

He went on to tell me she no longer remembers who he is. "She has no recollection of Clara, either."

"Is that why you don't bring her with you?" I asked.

"That and it would not be good for her to see the way…they are. Also, at one point she tried to harm Clara. She was under the misperception that we were possessed by the devil."

I shook my head, feeling sick. The poor woman.

"I knew after that—if I didn't get help, my daughter and my wife could end up dead. God help me, I couldn't allow her to hurt our child. No matter how much I hoped she would get better. Mother and I researched the best institutions. We visited a few. One here in the city. They were awful places." He shuddered and paused to take a drink. "The screaming was the worst. You can't imagine. The sounds of hell. Tortured souls crying out for help. However, the asylum where she is now—it's not terrible. I pay for a private room and give the nurses a little extra to ensure they look after her."

"No one would blame you for doing what you did," I said.

"For years I held on to hope. Finally, though, it became more and more clear that she would not return to us. My wife's not coming back to me. Furthermore, she's no longer the woman I loved and trusted with my life. The vibrant young woman I fell in love with is gone. I can accept it for myself, but for my daughter? It breaks my heart that she will never know her mother."

"Clara has her grandmother," I said gently.

"Yes, strangely enough, my daughter's suffered less than I. She knows no other way—does not realize what she lost because she never had it. As much as I wish it were different, I'm grateful Mother can provide the nurturing and love my wife cannot."

"Clara's a happy little thing," I said. "Sweet and smart. You and your mother have given her a great life. Anyway, it doesn't have to be a biological mother who raises you as long as you have someone to fill that role. Their bond is strong. She knows she's loved." I looked away, swallowing the lump in my throat. The waves of grief drowned out all else for a few seconds.

His eyes softened. "I'm sorry. I'm an idiot."

"Don't be," I said. "I can't avoid the subject of children the rest of my life, can I?"

"I wish things were different for you."

"I wish the same for you," I said.

His sympathetic expression and the gentle tone of his voice brought tears to my eyes. Why did kindness evoke such emotion? I dabbed at the corners of my eyes with a hankie.

"You know what I think?" Percival asked. "It was very brave. Giving her up like that. You could have run off with her. Done what you wanted instead of what was best for her. That shows great character."

"I'm not sure about that. If I'd had the means to do so, I might have. I fantasized about taking her out west where no one knew us, and no one would care if I was unmarried. I could make up a story that my husband died. But then reality hit. I had no funds. No skills. How would I have taken care of her?" I folded my hankie into a square, smoothing the corners with my thumb. "My twin sister's a good person. She'll do right by my girl. Give her everything I wished I could."

Percival took another drink of his brandy. "Tell me about your fiancé. What was he like?"

I drew in a deep breath. "I don't know if I can describe him adequately. Our time together feels like a dream. As if it happened to someone else."

He nodded, glancing toward the fire. "I understand perfectly. Mary and I were married only a month when we found out we were expecting. The joy I felt when she told me—it was what I imagine heaven is like. Sadly, that time in my life fades a little with each passing day. I can't remember much. I try, too. I lie there at night sometimes and I do whatever I can to conjure a new memory, but none come."

"How did you meet her?" I asked.

"She was a debutante. I found her enthralling, as did many other men. But she chose me. I never understood exactly why. Other than my family's money, I wasn't sure what she saw in me."

"How could you say that? You're more than your money."

He lifted one shoulder. "She never understood my desire to practice medicine. In fact, she tried to convince me there was no reason to work so hard. We bought a home in the country, and she wanted to live there full time once the baby came. My plan was to be a country doctor. There are sick people everywhere."

"I can't imagine you without your work."

"Thank God I have it. I'm not sure what I would have done if I had idle hours day after day." He shifted slightly, drawing one ankle under the other. "During the days the loneliness doesn't overwhelm me as it does at night."

"It's the same for me," I said softly.

"I wish I could share my life with a woman I loved. It's such a simple thing, isn't it? The desire to love and be loved?"

"You have love," I said gently. "Clara and your mother adore you."

One side of his mouth twitched into a half smile. "Yes, this is true."

"But I know what you mean. I thought I'd be happily married to Constantine by now. When I think of what my life could have been like—almost was—the bitterness is enough to bring me to my knees." The lump in my throat grew too large for me to continue.

"Good Lord. We're quite the pair, aren't we?" Percival asked.

I laughed despite the tears that leaked from my eyes. "We truly are."

"In all seriousness, you'll have another chance for love," Percival said. "A man will come along and sweep you off your feet."

"Who would want me? After what I did?"

Percival looked at me for a few seconds, in a way that made me feel like a newly peeled, delicious orange. Like he saw the best part of me.

"What is it you think is so unforgivable?" Percival asked. "The gift you gave to the man you love? Or is it the baby?"

"Both? One couldn't have happened without the other."

We sat in silence for a moment, sipping our drinks. The brandy burned my throat like a punishment, but I liked it. If only it would burst me into flames and take me away from all this pain.

After a good thirty seconds passed, Percival said, "My best friend, Michael Higgins—he thinks I should divorce my wife. I could get one, probably. She's insane and institutionalized."

"But you don't want to?"

"What kind of man would abandon the woman he once loved? The mother of his child?"

"I abandoned my child for the sake of all of us. Is it different? I don't know."

"Over the years, I've thought about what was best for all of us, especially Clara. What would she think of me if I divorced her mother and left her to rot in an asylum? Most of the women in that place have been left there. Abandoned. No visitors. No kindness shown to them other than from the staff. And I have to wonder what goes on there after all the visitors leave."

"Divorcing her does not mean you've abandoned her. You could still take care of her."

"But could I live with myself?" Percival asked. "Look my daughter and mother in the eyes?"

I had to wonder if his stubborn moral code was actually the right choice for him or his daughter. If he were to remarry and give his child a stepmother and perhaps more children, would it be advantageous for all of them? What would his wife have wanted for him before she succumbed to insanity? These were questions impossible to answer. Just as mine had been. Yet we'd been forced to make a decision. God help us, we did the best we could with what we had. Was there solace in that? Perhaps.

"I spend a lot of time thinking about what kind of man I am. Good or bad? Generous or selfish?"

"No one is that simple. We're a mixture of many nuanced qualities. That said, would a man without goodness or generosity even think to ask himself these questions?"

"That is an extremely insightful question," he said, smiling at me.

Miss Lisk appeared, as if out of thin air. She cleared her throat and glared at me, before turning her attention on Percival.

"Yes, Miss Lisk?" Percival asked drily.

"I cannot find your mother and wanted to let someone know that I am retiring for the night," Miss Lisk said.

"Thank you. Good night." Percival gave her a curt nod.

Miss Lisk turned on her heel and headed out of the room. When we could no longer hear her footsteps, Percival turned to me, sighing. "She's a frightening woman, that Miss Lisk."

"I don't think she likes me."

"It's nothing personal, I'm sure. Miss Lisk was Mary's nanny when she was young. She's been with my wife's family a long time. She looked after Mary and her brother Simon."

"Where's Simon live now?"

"Not far from here." Percival downed the rest of this drink. "You'll like him. Everyone does. Mama and Clara adore him. He's charming and clever—effortless with people."

"How is that different from you?" I asked.

"He can capture an entire room's attention. People find themselves unable to look at anything but him as he entertains with tales of his adventures. I've never met a woman who didn't succumb to his charisma. A bit of a scoundrel, if the rumors are correct. Nothing I could share with a proper young lady such as yourself." His eyes twinkled with humor. "Regardless, he's good to have around for entertainment."

"It must be difficult for him to see Mary so ill," I said.

"I believe it is. With him, I'm never certain. He hides his feelings behind his ebullient personality."

"He lost his family. I'm sure he's suffering," I said.

"We all cope with grief in different ways. Apparently his is to bed every woman in Paris."

I gasped. "Really?"

"If rumored reports are correct, then yes." He stretched his legs out in front of him. "I've been thinking—we should spend the next few weeks at the beach house in Montauk. Clara loves it there, and the heat's stifling here in the city."

"What about our patients?"

"We can come into the city when we're needed," he said. "Regardless, Clara should have some fun before she's no longer a child. I can't spend all of my efforts on others. My daughter needs me as well."

"Time at the beach sounds like heaven," I said, truthfully.

"Have you spent much time by the ocean?"

I pressed my hankie against the back of my neck, feeling uncomfortably warm. "My family owns a cottage up north. It's not large or grand, but we loved it there as children. Mother's family had owned it for decades when she married my father. It was the place I was most content as a child. We would usually go with just Mother, leaving Father behind to work. When it was just the three of us, we could all relax without worrying about Father's temper. My sister and I stayed there while I was expecting. Or, rather, Father sent us there for the duration of my embarrassing problem."

"Has your recent time there soured you for the beach?"

"Goodness, no. Nothing could turn me against the ocean."

"Then it's decided. We'll leave in a few days," Percival said.

"Will Mrs. Bancroft agree to go?"

"Oh, yes. She loves the ocean. It's the only time I ever witness her slowing down. Like your family, my mother's people owned the cottage, and she's held on to it since her parents passed on. We spent the entire month of August there when I was a boy. We spent many happy days combing the beach and enjoying cool evenings."

"I'll look forward to it," I said.

Percival rose to his feet. "Now I must retire as well, or I'll have another brandy and give myself a headache in the morning. Thank you for an enjoyable evening. It's always lovely to converse with you."

"It is for me as well." I couldn't stop myself from smiling back at him.

He bobbed his head in my direction and bade me good night. I sat alone for a few minutes, thinking through what I'd learned about my benefactor. Percival Bancroft, despite his reservations, was indeed a good man. He was also tortured and lonely, as was I. A friendship might develop between us that could perhaps offer comfort. As much as I missed my family, Percival and his mother had provided warmth and companionship when I desperately needed it. For that, I was grateful.

This was not the life I'd expected, but I would make the best of it. After all, what choice did I have?