14. Percival

14

Percival

T he afternoon was spent planning Mary's funeral. Simon had arrived not long after Stella left us, looking as if he hadn't slept in a week. He came in hot, demanding to know why Miss Sullivan, her name said with a sneer, had been let out of jail.

"You better sit for this," I said.

He looked at first as if he would argue with me, but instead he did as suggested.

"This is going to come as a shock to you. As it did myself and Miss Sullivan." I went on to explain the arrival of Stella's mother's letter admitting to the crime and her subsequent suicide.

"But why? Why would she harm Mary?"

I didn't answer right away, unsure how to say it without admitting to our feelings for each other. Of course, he'd guessed previously, but saying the words out loud made me feel guilty and ashamed.

"Do not answer," Simon said. "She wanted Miss Sullivan to have you to herself."

"Correct."

He cursed under his breath, shaking his head. "This family. They never cease in bringing us tragedy."

"Not Miss Sullivan. Her parents."

He glared at me with glittering eyes before getting up to pour himself a whiskey.

Ironic, I thought, given that his father and Mr. Sullivan killed over the illegal distribution of liquor. How much simpler it would have been if the Eighteenth Amendment had never been passed. Then again, Mr. Sullivan and my father-in-law had been involved in illegal business even before Prohibition.

"Did you hear me?" Simon asked, pulling me from my thoughts.

"No, sorry. What did you say?"

"I said we need to talk about Mary's funeral and burial."

We did so, working it out amicably despite our differences. She was to be laid to rest in the family plot with her father and mother. We agreed there would be no memorial service or wake. There was no one to mourn her but the two of us. When she'd entered the asylum over six years ago, she may as well have been dead already. No one from her previous circles cared to visit. Not after the rumors swept through town. Who knew if any of the gossip discussed the facts accurately. At the time, I'd been too brokenhearted to care.

"Have you been careful to lie low?" I asked Simon when the plan had been decided upon and handed off to Robert to arrange the details.

"I'd planned on taking the boat to England this morning," Simon said. "But as usual, the Sullivans have created more tragedy and trouble for us."

"Will you leave soon?"

"Yes, as soon as we have her in the ground, I'll get on a boat. I'm not sure I'll ever come back. I can't stand around and watch you marry the daughter of my enemy."

My first instinct was to deny that we would wed, but I couldn't lie to Simon. Not after everything we'd been through together. "I'd like to be happy. It's not a crime."

"Enough of those have already been committed against my family." He threw back his whiskey in one swift flick of his wrist.

"I'm sorry for your pain. Truly. And for my own. And for Clara, who was growing up without a mother. But none of that is because of Miss Sullivan. She's been as hurt by Sean Sullivan as we have. Now her mother's dead too, after admitting to a heinous crime. I don't suppose you could summon any kindness for her?"

"Maybe someday. Right now, all I am is angry."

"And I cannot blame you."

He folded his hands under his chin as if in prayer, still peering at me but with less venom. "None of this is your fault either. Or mine. And, I grant you, Miss Sullivan's innocent as well. Why is it our lives have been ruined by the selfish acts of two men?"

"I don't know the answer. I know only that I want to be a good father to Clara—not like my own father who died in the arms of his mistress without a thought of me or my mother." My voice grew husky as I spoke about him. I rarely mentioned him or, for that matter, thought of him at all.

Simon left soon thereafter. A few minutes later, the nanny brought Clara in to see me. My daughter climbed onto my lap and snuggled against my chest.

I hadn't yet told her the good news about Stella, and as I breathed in the sweet smell of her head, I had no idea how to explain. Yes, Stella was out of jail, but her mother had confessed to the murder before ending her own life. It all sounded so sordid and sad. How could a six-year-old understand any of it? I barely did myself.

"Stella has been released from jail," I said. "They've caught the person who…harmed your mother." I hated to say the word murder in front of a child. Was there any hope my sweet little girl would come through her childhood intact? Her young life had been one blow after another since the day she was born.

"Will she come home to us, then?" Clara asked.

"She's gone home to her own apartment."

"Can I visit her?"

"Not today but perhaps another time," I said. "I gave her your letter, and she was pleased to receive it—I think it cheered her immensely."

"Good." She nestled more deeply into my chest. What did she think of in that little head of hers? "Papa, are you sad?"

"I am. Are you?"

"Only because you are," she said.

"I won't be sad forever."

"Then I shan't be either."

Hoping to distract her from unhappy subjects, I asked her questions about her day. How had school been, and was she happy to see her friends now that school had begun for the new year? She chattered on in her chirpy, adorable voice. As low as I was, my daughter never ceased to warm my heart.