13. Estelle

13

Estelle

A fter a lunch of watery potato soup and a stale roll, I lay on my cot in my jail cell, wishing I could shut off my worried mind. I was about to ask the guard if he had any books lying around when he came to fetch my lunch tray.

"You have another visitor," he said.

I leapt to my feet. "Who is it?"

"A Mrs. Bancroft."

The sound of her name almost started me weeping, even though it seemed impossible to have more moisture still left to spring from my tear ducts.

I followed the guard back to the room I'd been in earlier with the attorney and Percival. Mrs. Bancroft was already on her feet by the time I arrived. She wasted no time pulling me into a fierce embrace.

"Darling girl, are you holding up? Have they harmed you in any way?"

"No, I'm fine. The food's terrible, but at least there is some."

We sat across the table from each other as the guard left us alone in the locked room.

"How's Clara?" I asked. "I've been so worried."

"She's resilient, so you mustn't worry about that. Because she doesn't know her mother, Mary's death has not been as hard as one might think. Clara wishes for you to return to us, however. She sent you this." Mrs. Bancroft pulled an envelope from her bag and handed it to me. "It was dictated to her nanny, but she signed her name."

"I'll save it for later," I said. "Something to help pass the time."

"Speaking of which, I brought you the book you had open on the coffee table as well as two others I thought you might enjoy." She slid them toward me. "The ghastly guard looked through my bag as if I might be carrying a gun. Can you imagine?"

"They think I'm a murderer, so it's less hard to envision than I would have thought possible."

"Dearest, what are we to do? I've been frantic with worry."

"I wish I knew. We have to pray they find the real killer. Is the funeral planned?"

"We will lay her to rest in her family plot, as were Simon's wishes."

"He must hate me," I said.

"Simon? No, he knows you didn't do it."

"Really?"

"Simon loved his sister, but he's a rational man. He knows you were with us that night and that your limited funds would not give you the opportunity to hire someone. None of us can understand how the police don't see the obvious."

"The lawyer thought they might actually be after Father. They're using me as a way to get to him."

"That theory's not without merit."

"If they think he cares enough to help me, they're wrong. He'll be glad to have me out of the way."

"How is it possible? A father should naturally love his daughter."

"I've vexed him all my life," I said. "And he didn't love me enough to spare the man I loved, so really, can we be surprised?"

The guard entered, saying our time was up.

Mrs. Bancroft hugged me tightly. "Do not despair. There will be a way to prove your innocence. I have to believe that, and you should too."

"I'll do my best." I picked up the novels from the table before turning to the guard. "I'm ready."

I held the books against my chest as he slammed the door to my cell shut, leaving me alone once more.

I sat on my cot and pulled the paper from the envelope to read Clara's note.

Dear Stella,

I miss you. I hope you're coming home soon. Today I played with my dollhouse and wished you were there to play with me. Papa and Grandmama have been crying a lot. I am sad too. Mostly because you're not here.

Love,

Clara

As Mrs. Bancroft said, Clara had signed her own name. At the sight of the childish handwriting, yet more tears flooded my eyes. I traced her signature with my finger. Oh, Clara, it seems you and I need each other more than ever. If only I could be your mother.

A feeling of guilt choked me. Was it wrong to love another woman's child when my own baby was with someone else, albeit someone who would love her as if she were her own? It was wrong—this pairing of the wrong woman with the wrong child, yet it was what women did. Our motherly instincts were not far below the surface, easily tugged from us when a child in need presented herself.

If only that had been true of my own mother. She'd been able to love Robbie with her whole heart. For Mauve and me, she saved only a small part of her capacity for affection to bestow upon us. Was it because he was a boy? Or her youngest?

But what if that were it? Mother could not love us after she lost a child. Her heart had been too shattered to love again. Did his death make her worry about losing us and if so, had she purposely shut down her feelings?

I thought of all the mornings after we lost Robbie that Mother stayed in her room, presumably in bed, if we were to believe the hushed mutterings of the servants. Had the sadness taken over her life? Pushed away any capacity for joy and love? If so, that was as sad as the fate of poor Mary Bancroft. They both suffered from ailments not apparent to the naked eye but debilitating just the same.

What part did my father have in Mother's retreat from the world? Had his coldness and cruelty contributed?

All these questions about my family were likely never to be answered. Was part of growing up accepting that we could not understand everything? Some things must be put aside in order to live the life we're yearning for. Otherwise, the endless loop of questions smothered a person.

None of it mattered anyway if they hanged me for a murder I didn't commit.

You're not alone , I reminded myself. The Bancrofts loved me. They wanted me to come home.

God, please make it so.

I slept through the night on my hard little cot with only the thin blanket to keep me warm. When I woke to the dim light of morning, I yearned for a decent meal and a bath.

I didn't bother to get up, I simply rolled to my other side. Facing the wall, I stared at the indentations in the cold cement. Defeat and fear battled for dominance in my soul. I didn't want to die, but I also wouldn't make it long if life continued this way. A trapped and wounded animal. That's all I was now.

What would my sister think if she saw me now? Would she help if she could?

Those questions were shoved aside when the guard brought my breakfast. Despite the unappetizing look and smell of the pale, slimy porridge, I ate it all. Knowing that another meal wouldn't come soon and it would be small when it did, I could not be particular. After all, I was lucky to be fed.

I'd finished my meal and used the heinous bucket by the time the guard returned. He didn't flinch as he came inside to take both the tray and bucket. Still, I flushed at the sight. Could I endure more humiliation?

To my surprise, he returned about ten minutes later, carrying the dress I'd had on when they booked me.

"Good news, Miss Sullivan. You're being released."

I nearly fell off the cot in my haste to stand. "What? Did they agree to bail?"

"No, you're being cleared of all charges. Don't know why. But gather your things. I'm to walk you out to the lobby, where someone waits to take you home."

Sure enough, Mrs. Bancroft waited for me in the lobby. I expected her to joyfully embrace me, but instead, she gave me a somber look before squeezing my hand. "Come home. I'll explain everything there."

I nodded, feeling numb. This was not the reception I'd imagined. But I was free. I was going home.

Had Father confessed? No. He would never do so unless they'd questioned him and gotten him to confess somehow.

Mrs. Bancroft didn't say much as we headed home in the motorcar with Joseph at the wheel. By the time we arrived at the front door, I'd become almost lulled to sleep by the warmth of her body next to me. I'd been cold the entire time I was in my jail cell, and to be warm again felt like the best luxury in the world.

Soon, we were inside. Charlie came running into the foyer, wagging his tail so hard I worried it might fall off. I knelt to pull him into my arms, both of us giving kisses.

When Charlie had settled down, Mrs. Bancroft told me Penelope was waiting upstairs for me. "She has a bath prepared for you. Why don't you go up now and clean up while I speak with our cook about lunch. Percy's on his way home. He had an emergency with a patient this morning." She caressed my cheek. "You've been through too much for someone so young and innocent. Thank God you're home safe."

"I'm glad to be home with you. More so than I could ever say. Where's Clara?"

"She went out with her nanny. I wanted you to have a chance to bathe and dress before she leapt upon you. She's missed you terribly."

"I missed her."

"Go on now," Mrs. Bancroft said. "I'll see you in an hour or so."

Charlie and I hurried up the stairs to my room. Penelope greeted me tearfully. "Miss, I was frantic. I can't tell you how good it is to see your face."

"It's good to see yours too."

"How could they think you'd do something so awful?" Penelope asked. "They must be a bunch of idiots down there at the police station."

"I'm not sure what's happened, but I hope to have answers soon."

"For now, I have a hot bath ready for you. Leave your clothes in the hamper inside the bathroom, and I'll take care of washing them for you."

I happily sank into the hot, soapy water, grateful for the warmth that spread through my limbs and into my fingers and toes. Charlie, clearly afraid to be parted from me, refused to leave the bathroom, sitting next to the tub with his chin resting on his front legs. After a good soak, hair washing, and scrubbing, I stepped out to towel-dry and slip into my robe.

Penelope fixed my hair and helped me dress while she told me about Mrs. Landry and our kind neighbor Mr. Foster. "He's come by to take her for a walk every morning. I think they're smitten."

"How nice for her," I said. "She's been lonely since she lost her husband."

"Yes, but what will we do without her? If she marries, that is."

"We'll take it as it comes. What choice do we have, after all?"

"None at all, miss. After everything that's happened, we surely know that."

In no time at all, I was presentable and headed downstairs. I felt almost like my old self by the time I was seated at the dining room table and eating a bowl of the cook's delicious clam chowder and hunks of sourdough bread. Mrs. Bancroft ate with me, but Percival had not yet returned.

"Something bad's happened, hasn't it?" I finally asked after my stomach was full.

"When Percy arrives, we will sit down and talk through everything. Until then, let's retire to the sitting room. The cold seems to have crept into my bones."

While we waited, she filled me in on some of our patients. She'd had to call on them without me, and with everything on her mind, it had not been easy.

Finally, Percival arrived. He looked worse than the last time I'd seen him, with dark circles under his bloodshot eyes. I stood and gave him a tentative smile. "Hello, Percival."

He rushed to me and kissed my hand. "Thank God you're home. Thank you for waiting for me. I wanted to be here when we told you."

My stomach dropped. "Told me what?"

"Please, sit." Percy gestured toward the chair.

Once we were all seated and Percival had sent Robert downstairs, he turned to me. "I have bad news. Your mother's died."

My hands flew to my mouth. "What happened?"

"She took her own life," Percival said. "After confessing to killing Mary."

I couldn't understand what he meant—his words sounded almost like a foreign language. "Say that again." Charlie, sensing my distress, pressed against my leg.

"Your mother went to the asylum and led Mary outside. It was all laid out in her letter to the police. Which was delivered after her body was discovered by her maid."

"My mother killed her? But why?"

"She did it for you," Mrs. Bancroft said. "As misguided as it sounds, she wanted you and Percy to have a chance of a life together."

"But…but I don't understand. She wouldn't do that." I looked at each of them in turn, utterly bewildered.

"She sent you a letter as well," Mrs. Bancroft said, drawing an envelope from her pocket. "To this address." She handed it to me. "Would you like to read it alone?"

I stared at the envelope with my name written in Mother's perfect handwriting. "No, please stay." With trembling fingers, I unsealed the envelope and pulled out one of Mother's embossed pieces of stationery. My hands shook so badly that I could barely unfold it.

I had to force myself to look down at the final words my mother had written to me.

Dear Estelle,

By the time this reaches you, I will have done what I had to do. I have sent a letter to the police confessing to the murder of Mary Bancroft. I would like to tell you her murder was an accident, but that would be a lie. Here at the end of my life, I wish to tell you the truth.

I went to the asylum with the sole intent to lure her into the forest and leave her there. It may sound cold-blooded, and I suppose it was, but really, what kind of life was she living there? The situation was untenable for all. You and Percival are obviously in love. That you've chosen to do the honorable thing tells me a lot about the man he is as well as the woman you have grown into.

I have not been a good mother to you. Since we lost Robbie, I have not been able to engage in life as I should. Thus, you and your sister have been neglected in ways I'm deeply ashamed of.

You will ask yourself why. Therefore, I will say it clearly. I cannot live with the shame of my failures as a mother. I've lost you all. Living one more day with your father is not something I can face. In addition, I certainly do not want to go to prison. This is the only solution for all of us. Mary will be out of the way, carving out a path for your happiness with Percival and his family. You can be the mother to Clara that she needs. Mrs. Bancroft can be the mother you need.

This all will be a shock to you. I suppose you'll wonder how I could do such a thing. My only explanation is this: I am your mother, and I want your happiness more than my own. As they say, still waters run deep. That's always been true for me. The demons in my mind have outpaced my good intentions. For years, I've warred with myself to stay strong, but the overwhelming sadness only grows worse with time.

Be well, my dear daughter. I may not have said it enough, but I love you and I am proud of you. Please tell Mauve, should you ever see her again, how much I love her and how sorry I am. For everything.

Love,

Mother

Tears fell from my cheeks and landed on the paper, splashing the ink into puddles of regret and remorse. "She…she says she's sorry. For everything."

"Dear me, you poor thing." Mrs. Bancroft came to sit next to me on the sofa and pulled me into an embrace. "But she did the right thing. No good mother would let her daughter be convicted of a crime she didn't do. Especially one that could come with the death penalty."

"As you know, I went to see her yesterday," Percival said, appearing as stunned as I. "She gave me no reason to think she'd killed Mary. I think of myself as a man who can easily read people, especially given my line of work, but I had no idea it would come to this."

"I can't believe she did this," I whispered, pulling away from Mrs. Bancroft to gaze down at the letter I still held in quivering hands. "I'd not imagined she had it in her to protect me. Or to do something so drastic. For me, no less."

"Or maybe you didn't know her as well as you thought you did," Mrs. Bancroft said. "She's clearly struggled over the years."

"Married to a beast. Then losing Robbie. It was no wonder she couldn't get out of bed. But murder?" I shook my head, still utterly dumbfounded. "How can you not hate me? Either of you?"

"How could we hate you?" Mrs. Bancroft asked. "None of this is because of you."

"That's correct," Percival said sternly. "You're as innocent as we are."

"My family has caused yet more harm to yours," I said.

Percival shook his head, his expression grim. "Your family, but not you. We're all victims of this tragedy that began with a war between two criminals. And the truth is—Mary was very sick. I don't believe she was ever going to get better. As much as I hate this for Clara, I have to agree with your mother—what kind of life did Mary have there? All locked up. At the mercy of the staff." His eyes filled, and he swiped at them with the edge of his handkerchief. "My poor, troubled wife. What an end to a tragic life."

"I'm sorry," I whispered. Shame flooded me. Was God punishing me for coveting another's husband? "I'd like to return to my apartment."

"Are you sure?" Percival asked.

"I need time to think," I said.

"Will you go home for your mother's funeral?" Mrs. Bancroft asked.

"I don't know. I don't know anything."

Mrs. Bancroft looked at me and then Percival, a determined set to her mouth, before rising to her feet. "I'm going up to see Clara. While I'm upstairs, I'll ask Penelope to pack your things."

I rose from the couch on shaking legs. "Thank you."

"I'll be over to check on you tomorrow." Mrs. Bancroft squeezed my shoulders. "All will be well. It may take some time, but we're all going to be fine."

After she left, I looked down at my hands, unsure what to do or say now that Percival and I were alone.

He came to stand beside me. "How tangled we are. Love is messy. Complicated."

"Never more so than between us. How can I look Clara in the eyes, knowing my mother took hers from her?"

"We've kept Clara protected for a reason. She'll not grieve a woman she never knew. Perhaps later, when she's an adult and can understand better what happened, she'll have questions. For now, she wants only for you to be part of her family." He brushed his knuckles against the apple of my cheek. "We must give it some time. All of us."

"Time for what?" I whispered.

"To grieve. To sort through all the complicated feelings we both have."

I nodded. "Yes. Time."

"Heals all wounds, right?" Percival asked.

"I certainly hope so."

"Please, let me know if you need anything."

I promised I would before leaving him to stand alone by the fire. As I walked through the doorway, I glanced back. He'd already turned to face the hearth, his head bowed and his shoulders slumped.

Penelope and I returned to the apartment soon thereafter. She suggested I rest in my room until supper, and I didn't disagree. After helping me out of my dress and into my dressing gown, she tucked me into bed as if I were a child.

I had set the letter next to the bed and took it out to read it once again. Then I turned onto my side, curled up into a ball, and cried myself to sleep.

When I woke, no light was visible between the cracks in the drapes that covered the windows. I got up and drank a glass of water Penelope had left for me before sitting in the wingback chair with a blanket covering my legs. My loyal maid had lit a fire earlier, but it had died down, leaving only a few red embers. I placed several logs into the hearth and pulled back the curtains. The city's lights glowed and sparkled cheerfully but did nothing to lift the darkness inside my soul.

A few minutes later, Penelope arrived and asked if I'd rather have my supper on a tray than come downstairs. "Yes, that would be nice."

"Mrs. Landry's made your favorite—chicken potpie."

Normally, I would have been thrilled at the thought of the buttery crust and creamy filling, but I was too sad to care much about food. "Please thank her for me."

"Yes, I certainly will. I'll be back shortly," Penelope said. "Unless there's something I can get for you?"

I smiled up at her. "You're rather like a mother hen."

She flushed prettily. "I want only to comfort you but don't know how."

"Your mere presence is enough. Always."

Her eyes misted before she scurried out of the room, clearly embarrassed by her show of emotion.

She returned not long after, visibly shaking.

"What is it?" I sat up straighter, alarmed.

"Your father's here."