20. Estelle

20

Estelle

T he rest of the night passed in a blur of champagne and dancing. When the clock struck midnight, I was surprised the time had gone so quickly. Percival and I had avoided each other for the most part. He'd not danced or interacted with the girls. Instead he'd sat near the band, smoking cigarettes, drinking whiskey, and from what I could tell, sulking. I didn't know what he had to feel so sorry for himself about. I was the one facing a life on the streets.

Miss Scarlet motioned for me to come to her table. For most of the night, she'd had a revolving array of male guests surrounding her. Did she ever take them to her quarters at the end of a party? Or did she only arrange it for her girls?

I obediently scurried over, heart pounding. Had I done something wrong?

I took the seat next to her. She slipped a cigarette from her gold case, stuck it into a tortoiseshell holder, and motioned to one of the servers. He came running. "May I have a light, darling?"

"Yes, ma'am." He struck a match and leaned close to light it for her. She inhaled; the end of the cigarette glowed red.

"Doctor Bancroft has inquired about your availability." Miss Scarlet tilted her head, cigarette held loosely between her fingers.

What should I say? The truth? Or a version of it anyway? So much for my vow to be honest from here on out.

"Who are you, really?"

I sighed, closing my eyes for a moment. "My father is Sean Sullivan."

"Oh, I see now."

"Is it true?" I whispered. "Did he kill Mary Bancroft's father?"

"According to gossip, yes. I hear a lot on a nightly basis."

"Once they discovered who I was, it was no longer an option to live with them or work for them," I said.

"He's inquired about securing your company tonight."

I gulped. "Company? Tonight?" Did she mean what I thought she meant?

"Yes, in fact, he's asked that you're reserved only for him."

I stared at her in shock. "Is that possible?"

"Anything's possible for the right price." She drew on the end of her cigarette, watching me through wafts of smoke. "You must know his situation if you stayed with them?"

"How do you mean? His wife?"

"That's correct."

"I know she's very ill."

"Terribly sad, isn't it? The poor man." Miss Scarlet tapped her cigarette into the ashtray on the table. "I can remember when it happened—such a shock. The whole sordid affair was in the papers, which was unfortunate, but you know how people love gossip."

"What story is that?"

She flicked the cigarette ash from the end of her cigarette into a ceramic bowl. "He didn't tell you what she did?"

Was she referring to the baby? Or something else? Had there been more to the tale than either of the Bancrofts had shared with me?

"I know she was admitted to the asylum after the birth of her child," I said. "As it was told to me, she suffered a psychotic breakdown after she had the baby. Dr. Bancroft told me she tried to hurt the infant and he had no other choice but to put her into the care of others."

"It wasn't the infant she hurt. She shot Dr. Bancroft with a pistol. Although she had aimed for his chest, the bullet pierced his shoulder instead. He lost a lot of blood—they thought they might lose him for good."

My mouth fell open. "I had no idea." Why hadn't he told me? For the same reason I hadn't told him the truth of my situation? Shame? Fear? Most likely, there were so many complicated reasons and emotions that he might not even know himself why he'd lied and told me it was Clara she'd tried to hurt. "What happened to her afterward?"

"The police were informed, of courses.Typically, she would have been sent to prison, but Dr. Bancroft refused to press charges—claimed it was an accident. Which doesn't make much sense. In fact, it's a bold-faced lie, or he'd never have sent her to the asylum. She's watched closely from what I understand, as she's deemed violent."

"How awful," I murmured. Yet he still visited her every week. However, she was the mother of his child. He'd loved her at some point and perhaps still did, despite what she'd done. Perhaps he understood that her violence was a symptom of her mental illness, not criminal behavior. "How do you know all this?"

"Like I said, kid, it was in the papers. The Bancrofts were once a prominent family in the city and are of interest to people."

"What do you mean by ‘were once a prominent family,'" I asked. "Aren't they still?"

"Not in the way they once were. After the scandals, you know, things changed. First Mr. Bancroft dies in the arms of the wife of a powerful politician."

"I thought it was his mistress?"

"That's what I said." She cocked her head to the side and observed me through narrowed eyes, almost as though I was a little soft in the old noggin. "One of Mrs. Bancroft's enemies—to this day no one knows who—told anyone who would listen what had happened, and the papers picked it up. Instead of an obituary listing his accomplishments, everything was overshadowed by his affair."

"Mrs. Bancroft must have been mortified," I said more to myself than Miss Scarlet.

"I imagine she was." This was said without an ounce of sympathy.

The more I heard, the sicker I felt. Was it any wonder Percival and Mrs. Bancroft didn't trust people? They'd been betrayed by people they loved. As I knew from personal experience, once that happens, one can never see the world in quite the same way as before.

"Does he come here often?" I asked.

"No. He comes with a friend now and again, but never goes upstairs with any of the girls. When I've asked him about it, he says it's not something that he's interested in but enjoys the parties."

Why did her answer bring so much air back into my lungs?

"Which is why it's such a surprise he's asked for you," Miss Scarlet said. "Although, now I've learned of your ties to him, it makes more sense."

"Does it? We've not had that kind of relationship. You might not believe me, but it's true." The corner of one of my eyes twitched with nerves and exhaustion. How did these girls do this night after night? My emotions and nerves were frazzled and confused. I wanted to crawl into the warm bed that awaited upstairs and fall into a deep sleep just so I could forget everything for a few hours.

"Given his past, it's understandable that he seek comfort outside his marriage, wouldn't you agree?" Miss Scarlet asked before taking another drag.

"I daresay, it's not for me to judge, one way or the other."

"Many of our guests tonight have similar situations. Either they have an agreement that he's to seek physical comfort elsewhere, or the union's cold or contentious. Some of them have sick wives, in one form or the other. You look around this room and everyone has a story. Not all of them are victims of bad luck, of course, but many are. I've found, after years in this business, that the human need for physical affection outweighs many things, including reputation and pride. My girls and I provide a service to those in need. There's no shame in it, for either party involved."

I wanted to ask her the reason for this lecture but refrained. Thoughts spun around my mind, unable to land on one subject for any period of time. He wanted to pay for my company? Night after night? Did he mean for it to be in the true sense of the word? For me to give myself to him in that way? If he'd wanted that, why hadn't he pursued me earlier? He knew how desperate I was. If he'd asked, I may have granted him permission to come and go from the guest room as he pleased in exchange for my room and board. I'd sunk low enough that I might have agreed. I was here, wasn't I?

No, that wasn't right. The truth was, I loved him. If I agreed to share a bed with him, it was not out of necessity. I must stop lying to myself. I'd known it for months before I left.

"He wants to speak with you in your room," Miss Scarlet said. "I sent him up, promising you would join him."

"What if I don't want to?"

She flicked her cigarette into the ashtray but continued to gaze at me, with a mixture of contempt and fury. "Do you wish to stay the night? Repay me for the meals you've scarfed down?"

"I'm desperate to stay the night, as I'm sure you guessed. The meals were a gift, no?"

She raised one eyebrow but then motioned toward the door with a dart of her chin. "Go to him. Now."

Feeling I had little choice, I did as she asked. Each step I took felt like one step closer to death. What did he want? By the time I reached the second floor, perspiration dampened the base of my spine. The dress suddenly felt heavier than when I'd been dancing.

What was I supposed to do with Percival once I got to the room? At the top of the stairs, an additional question entered my mind. What if he wanted to take me to bed? What then?