6. Estelle

6

Estelle

T he baby girl arrived on the first day of May. Mauve had found a midwife in the small town by the seashore who assisted in the birth. From what she told me afterward, I had a remarkably easy time of it. She came shooting out of me like a ball fired from a cannon, weighing in at nearly eight pounds. "Robust and full of life," the midwife, Mrs. Smith, said. I'd done my part, I thought, as I lay in the bed watching Mrs. Smith clean and swaddle the quiet infant.

Mauve, who had been with me during the labor, sat by my side, dabbing my forehead with a damp cloth. "Shouldn't she be crying?" Mauve asked. "Is she all right?"

"She's fine." Mrs. Smith approached with the baby in her arms. "Who wants her?"

"What do we do now?" Mauve whispered. "Do you want to hold her?"

"One time." Despite my exhaustion, tears sprang from my eyes. How could I possibly let her go? I'd carried her for nine months, felt her kick and squirm. She'd heard my voice all these months.

She's also heard Mauve's , a voice reminded me. My sister had been my constant companion these last few months.

"Whatever you want," Mauve said.

"I want to tell her goodbye. And then I shall keep my word to you and Pierre."

"Are you sure you won't change your mind?"

I shook my head and looked the other way. If I were to gaze too long into my sister's eyes I would forget my promise.

The midwife placed the swaddled baby in my arms while she attended to my afterbirth. I barely noticed, gazing at the babe, my heart filling with a love I could not have imagined. This was a staggering love, one that cut me off at the knees. I had to let her go. It was the right thing to do. I knew it, yet doing so was absolutely contrary to every instinct. But I must connect to my higher, less selfish self, I reminded myself. Taking an infant who deserved better than the life of poverty that surely awaited me was not right.

I searched for Connie in her face, but she was too red and wrinkly for me to see what she would become. For that, I would wait for the drawings Mauve had promised to send every year on her birthday. Pierre was a talented artist. He, too, had vowed to send sketches and paintings so that I might have a small part of her with me.

She stared up into my eyes, her expression solemn.

How could I leave her?

"I'm sorry, little one," I whispered. "But you won't even know to miss me." I'd made Pierre and Mauve promise never to tell her the truth. I did not want my daughter to think her real mother didn't love her. She needed to start out in this world without that burden. Her mother had made a mistake, one she would have to pay for. But this darling in my arms? She was innocent and deserved every chance to thrive.

I kissed her wrinkled forehead and breathed in the scent of her head. "You are a perfect angel.

"Here, you take her," I said to my twin, handing her over.

Mauve cradled the baby close to her chest, and the softening of her features told me everything I needed to know. My sister would give her all the love she would ever need.

Mrs. Smith watched us from the end of the bed. When we'd first met her and explained our situation, she'd seemed undaunted. Had she ever experienced this before? Twins swapping places? Only this time it was not to fool anyone for fun but as an act of last resort. Regardless, she was a highly competent woman who kept her opinions to herself.

"I must go now," Mrs. Smith said. "You rest for a few days, Miss Sullivan, before resuming normal activities."

"At home, women convalesce for a month at least," Mauve said, a hopeful lilt in her voice. I knew what she was trying to do. The longer I stayed, the more in love with the baby I would be. She thought she'd be able to convince me to stay, but she underestimated my stubborn resolve. I had nothing to give my daughter except to sacrifice my own feelings for her good. My sister was the one she needed.

"I'll stop on my way home and let the wet nurse know to come over straightaway," Mrs. Smith said. "I told her just yesterday that it would be any day now, so it will come as no surprise."

We'd asked Mrs. Smith to find a wet nurse, so the child had the best chance to thrive. Cow's milk mixed with a little sugar was a poor alternative to the real thing, Mrs. Smith had told us when we first spoke with her. "The practice is becoming less common in some parts, but I highly suggest you give her breast milk if you can," she'd said.

"Take care of yourself, Miss Sullivan," Mrs. Smith said to me. "Although you're doing right by the baby, there's bound to be some grieving on your part. Allow yourself to feel the sorrow of the loss before you move on." With that she took her medical bag and left us alone.

"Have you decided on her name?" I asked my sister.

"Mireille. For Pierre's mother."

"So French," I said. "And elegant."

"She's tiny and perfect." Mauve stroked Mireille's cheek, and the baby turned her head, opening her mouth.

"I'm leaving as soon as I'm able," I said quietly. "I can't stay. It's too hard."

"You don't have to go." Mauve glanced over at me, tears in her eyes. "We'll stay here at the seaside and live happily, all of us together."

"You know it's not possible. Even if I thought it was best for the baby, which I don't, Father would never agree to taking care of us financially. You and Pierre need to stay in his good graces, otherwise all three of you will be out in the cold."

Mauve shook her head. "No one needs to know you're not her aunt. I'd be her mother, but you would be her beloved auntie."

I looked at the babe in her arms for moment, the tiniest morsel of hope expanding in my chest. Could I bear being only her aunt? What about Mauve? Would she come to resent me for infringing on her life? Her family? And what of the baby? If she discovered the truth later, she would hate all of us for lying to her. For me, too—having to step aside and watch my sister raise my daughter would be excruciating. What if I couldn't keep the secret?

No. I was right from the beginning. The baby would stay with my sister. I would leave and let them all live in peace. My presence only muddled and complicated everything.

"Mauve, even it if was the right thing for Mireille, Father has sent me away. He's banished me from the family. You know as well as I that he's vindictive and cruel. He might send you away, too, and then what would happen to Mireille? The best thing for her is to stay with you. You'll raise her as your own, without the complications I would bring. She'll have a beautiful life with you and Pierre."

Mauve's eyes filled. "I've never been in the world without you by my side. I'm not as strong as you."

"You have Pierre now. Together, you will be strong."

"I hope the wet nurse comes soon. I think she's hungry."

"Take her to Pierre," I said. "He'll want to meet his daughter before she eats. I need to sleep."

I rolled over to face the wall, closing my eyes until I heard the door open and close. Then I let tears flow freely.

I woke hours later to Pierre sitting next to the bed. He turned when I sat up to gaze upon me with sad eyes.

"How are you feeling?" Pierre asked.

"Thirsty. Hungry."

He leapt to his feet and poured me a glass of water from the pitcher on the dresser. I drank greedily, then handed him the empty glass. He then gave me a cheese sandwich and an apple, which I ate quickly. When I was done, I set aside the plate and gazed up at the ceiling. The clock told me it was nearing three in the morning. Outside, a cricket chirped but other than that, it was quiet.

"Where are they?" I asked.

"Asleep in the other bedroom."

Tears leaked from my tired eyes. "I need to go. I can't stay here. Not like this. I can't hear her crying or…" I trailed off, not knowing exactly what I wanted to say.

"What do you want to do?" Pierre asked gently. He was a good man—even-tempered and kind. He would be a good father. Not distant and volatile like mine. He loved my sister. I could see that in the way he looked at her. "I put a little money aside from the wedding gifts," Pierre said. "I want you to take it with you."

"Where should I go?"

"New York City? You can start anew there. With so many people, you can blend in—make yourself whatever you want to be."

If only I knew what that was. Right now, I grieved the loss of my daughter and my sister and the life I'd known.

"There's something I want you to know before you leave," Pierre said.

"What is it?" Was there more heartbreak in store for me?

"I've discovered something about your father. As you know, he asked me to join him in the business. My skills as an accountant and financial expert are something valuable to him, especially if he can manipulate me to do what he wants, all of which is illegal. Nothing is what I thought." Pierre paused for a second, looking down at his hands. "Your father owns a textile factory, but only as a front and way to launder money. Your father's involved in organized crime. Racketeering, gambling, loans. That's how he made his fortune so quickly. And it's a dangerous business. Very much so. He sheltered you and Mauve from the truth, leading you to believe he was a legitimate businessman. At this point, I'm unsure how much your mother knows or if she's in any danger."

"I've seen articles in the newspaper about warring crime families," I said. "Surely you don't mean to suggest my father's involved in something so tawdry?"

"That's exactly what I mean," Pierre said.

I stared at him, unable to fully comprehend what he was saying. "You're saying my father's a mobster? Aren't those gangs and such?"

"Right. He's one of them."

"I can't believe it," I said. "When did you learn all of this?"

"It slowly unfolded during the months I've worked for him. I didn't understand what was going on at first. However, it became painfully obvious the deeper I got into his financials. He wanted me to cook the books, Estelle. Hide money. Evade taxes. That kind of thing. I made excuses at first. I told myself, perhaps this was the way the Americans do business, and I must get used to it. Finally, though, I had to face the truth. Your father made his fortune in nefarious ways—as bad as you can imagine."

"Like murder?" I asked, mouth dry. Could this be true?

"Yes, he's had people killed. A lot of people. I saw the payments to hitmen with my own eyes. For months, I debated about what to do. My primary focus is to take care of Mauve and now Mireille, and getting involved in organized crime is not the way to do it. But if I were to stand up to your father, he might do to me what he did to Constantine."

"What are you talking about?" A cold dread made my fingers tingle.

Pierre splayed his hands through his thick, dark hair. "He had Constantine killed."

"No, no. It was an accident." A car accident. On his way to see me. It could happen to anyone driving an automobile.

"Your father's hired killers often make it seem like an accident, but really it's a carefully orchestrated murder."

"Why would he want Connie dead?" I could barely breathe. How could Father have killed the man I loved? Who would do such a thing to their own child? The same man who sent me away.

"I believe Connie threatened to go to the police," Pierre said.

"How did he know, though?" I asked. "Did Father tell him?"

"He must have."

The truth hit me hard. "Oh my God. Before he died, Connie told me he wanted to talk to me about something important. He called the afternoon he died and said he wanted to take a walk alone. He was going to tell me."

"He didn't want any more to do with this than I. Maybe he threatened to take you away if Father didn't comply."

"Father wouldn't have cared about that." Obviously.

"Or he might have insinuated that he would tell the police. You know the kind of man Connie was."

"So, Father had him killed. Then I found out I was going to have a baby and…" And what? Had he regretted his decision?

"I don't know what he thought," Pierre said. "All I know is I want to take my wife and Mireille away from him."

"Yes, yes. You have to," I said, thinking out loud. "But where will you go? You don't have much money of your own, do you? Does Mauve know all of this?"

"For months I debated about whether to tell Mauve. Or should I just shut up and do as I was told to keep the peace? After the baby arrived, I knew I had to make a decision. It became so clear. I didn't want an innocent child to live in the home of a mobster. While you were sleeping last night, I told Mauve everything I knew. We had a long talk and came to a decision. We're returning to Europe. We'll live with my family. It will be a simple life, but we'll be safe. Now that we have a baby, we cannot be too careful, no?"

"No, you cannot." Not with the precious child he would now have in his care.

"My family's financial situation is not what your sister's accustomed to, but she's agreed that she would rather live modestly than have anything to do with your father. My aunt and uncle own a vineyard near Bordeaux. We'll go there. They'll happily take us in. We'll make a new life. One we can be proud of."

"Does Father know you're leaving?"

"No, I can't tell him. I know too much. My desertion will seem like a threat. A loose end. Thus, he cannot know where we are. I can't risk it."

"He's powerful. Won't he be able to find you?"

"The vineyard belongs to my uncle by marriage, which means his name is different than mine. I don't think he can find us. We'll just disappear."

"Poor Mother. Losing us all at once."

"She knows who she's married to," Pierre said. "At least I think she does."

"When will you leave?"

"We're leaving on a boat in two days' time. I made the arrangements last night."

"What about Mireille? She'll need to eat, and the wet nurse is here."

"We've taken care of that, don't worry. Your sister's like a hawk over that baby already."

I leaned back against the pillows. "Will you tell me where you're going? So that I can write?"

"Yes. I've put everything together for you in the envelope on the dresser. There's our information and some money to get started. We don't have much to spare after the first-class tickets overseas, but I gave you what I could."

"It all makes sense now," I said. "Why Father didn't make a fuss about your family's lack of money. He thought he could groom you."

"That's right. Here I was, thinking he was a benevolent man. What a fool I was. It turns out he's nothing but a thug who had his daughter's fiancé killed."

I buried my face in my hands and wept. My sweet Connie, taken from me. Killed simply because of his virtue and strong moral compass.

Pierre awkwardly patted my back but didn't insult me with platitudes. He knew there was nothing he could say to make any of this better.

When I was done with my bout of tears, I dried my eyes with Pierre's hankie and drew in a deep, shaky breath.

"Will you arrange for someone to take me to the train station?" I asked. "Before Mauve wakes? I can't say goodbye to them again."

"Are you well enough?"

"I'm fine." I wasn't, but that didn't need to be said.

"I'll have one of the staff take you to the station."

"Please, will you tell Mauve I've gone and how much I love her and that I'll write when I can?"

He nodded. "She'll want to know where you are. As soon as you get settled."

I reached out and wrapped my hand around his wrist. "Please, Pierre. Keep them safe."

"I'll lay down my life." He patted my hand. "You're strong, Estelle. You'll find a way to make a good life for yourself."

Before sunrise, I slipped out of the house like a thief. By the time my driver reached the station, I'd bled through one rag and had to fasten another into my undergarments. The ache from childbirth hindered my walking, but I managed to buy a ticket to New York City. Unfortunately, it wouldn't arrive until the afternoon.

I huddled in a corner of the station, cold and achy. My body felt depleted of energy. I had no plan. No purpose. My only comfort was knowing I'd done the right thing for Mireille. But God help me, I could still feel the weight of her tiny bulk in my arms.

At this point, I had to trust that God would lead me down the right path.

Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a man in an elegantly draped suit enter the station. Nice looking. Dark hair and striking light blue eyes.

To my surprise, he was headed in my direction, almost as if he knew me. I turned away, clutching my bag on my lap, and prayed he would not take the seat facing mine. I'm sure he was perfectly nice, but I didn't have it in me for idle conversation.

No such luck. That's exactly where he sat.