2. Percival

2

Percival

O n a morning three days after Christmas, I took the train up to see Mary at the asylum. The visit was uneventful. Of late, she seldom acknowledged my presence at all. The nurses said she had grown quiet the last few weeks. A depressive state, they'd called it, as opposed to the mania that she often exhibited.

I didn't stay long. As I left to take the train home, a deep melancholy made me heavy and weary. Was this to be my life? Weekly visits to a wife who no longer knew me while the woman I loved waited in an apartment like a caged bird?

By the time I arrived back to the city, it was nearing three. I decided not to go home straightaway but to take a walk in the park despite the chill in the air and the promise of snow. There were many people strolling or walking dogs, carriages full of merrymakers, and several food vendors with the scent of sausages filling the air. However, I barely registered anything, a crushing sadness like the blinders forced upon a horse, keeping my world insular.

When I arrived back at my home, I was dismayed to see that Mary's brother Simon awaited me in my den. He sat by the fire, nursing a whiskey and reading a novel.

"Ah, there you are." He set aside his book on the nearest table. "Your mother said you'd be home an hour ago."

"I took a walk after I got off the train." I handed my coat and hat to Robert and joined my brother-in-law by the fire. "What brings you by?"

"Can't a brother stop by for a visit?"

"Yes, of course." I'd once welcomed his company, but anger over what he'd done to Stella had taken away any past warmth I felt for him. He'd forced my hand, which I didn't like. No man or woman liked to be manipulated for another's gain.

"How was my sister today?" Simon asked.

"Not one of her best days. She didn't know who I was, simply stared at the wall behind me."

He didn't comment or react, his face betraying no emotion.

"I've come from my gentleman's club," Simon said. "I heard something interesting. Something I must speak with you about."

"Yes?" Where was he going with this? Surely, he hadn't heard that I'd moved Stella into an apartment?

"Is it true? You've moved Miss Sullivan into an apartment?"

I didn't answer for a moment. My mind searched for an excuse, something to explain my decision without telling the exact truth. Which was I loved Stella. I could not have her the way I wished. However, I could not live with myself if I'd let her become a prostitute. She may not be my wife, but I'd decided without reservation that it was my duty to look after her. Seeing her in that world, I'd been desperate to keep her safe from ruin. And other men. I shuddered, thinking about any of them touching her.

I didn't pretend to understand why, but she felt like mine to take care of. If not me, then whom? Every man in her life had abandoned her at some point. I was not going to be the next one who betrayed her, letting her starve on the streets of New York City or selling her body for survival. But how to explain this to my wife's brother? Impossible.

"I found her on Christmas Eve at Miss Scarlet's," I said. "Contemplating a life as a prostitute." He would know what I meant by Miss Scarlet. Any man in our circles knew Miss Scarlet ran a popular brothel.

Simon had the decency to flinch. "I see."

Anger flared deep in my belly. "You did it to her."

"She did it to herself."

"No, you made it happen. You ruined what was a good situation for her here with my mother and me. She had no place to go when we took her in. When you forced my hand—and I sent her away—she barely survived."

"How can you blame me? After what her family's done to mine? To ours?" Simon glared at me.

My brother-in-law had discovered a horrible connection between our families. In short, Stella's mobster father had put a hit out on Simon and Mary's father. A hit that sent Mr. Price to an early grave, followed soon thereafter by his wife. Simon believed that Mary's mental stability had been compromised because of it. Between the death of her parents and the psychosis that followed after the birth of our daughter Clara, my wife's sense of reality had been ruined. I'd been forced to put her in an asylum after she became too violent for me to take care of her properly. I'd feared for the safety of my mother and daughter, as well as for myself.

"I simply exposed Miss Sullivan for who she truly is," Simon said. "What happened to her after you very rightly sent her away is none of my concern. It should not be yours either. You're a married man."

"That's where you're wrong. She is my concern. She has no one but me. I will not let her die of poverty. For whatever reason, God put her in my path, and I cannot shirk my human responsibility toward a woman in need." I could still remember seeing her for the first time, wan from childbirth, the loneliness, and despair like a cloud around her. She'd needed me then, and she needed me now.

"That would be all good and well if you were not a married man," Simon said, his placid demeanor shifting slightly into hostility. "And if her family hadn't destroyed mine. Including sending my sister into madness."

"The sins of the father are not the sins of the child," I said, loosely quoting the Bible. "Anyway, what I do with an apartment I own is not for you to worry about. I've done right by your sister and will remain doing so for as long as she's alive. Surely you know that by now."

"Is Miss Sullivan your mistress?"

"She is my friend, nothing more. In addition, she'll be working with my mother as she was before your interference. She was doing a lot of good. It's not right to keep her from helping others."

"I don't like it," Simon said.

"I don't care."

Simon tossed back the remaining whiskey in his glass and stood. "The woman's trouble. If you cannot see that, then I cannot help you." He straightened his tie. "I'll show myself out."

After he left, I remained seated, staring into the fire, until Robert roused me from my stupor with an announcement of another visitor. "It's a boy named Stefano Rossi. Asking for the doctor. His little sister's very sick."

"Please have him wait in the foyer, out of the cold. It will take me a few minutes to gather my equipment."

"Yes sir," Robert said.

I rose to my feet, happy for the distraction, if not for the news of one of the Rossi children's falling ill. There were five children altogether, and they lived in one of the poorest sections of the city, where I spent a lot of my time giving free care to those in need. My medical degree did little to provide income, but it didn't matter. The inheritance from my father had set us up nicely, leaving me to carry out my life's purpose of caring for the destitute.

I asked one of the maids to fetch a fresh loaf of bread from our cook, as well as some slices of ham. The Rossi family could use them far than my own, I felt sure.

Clara, my six-year-old daughter, came running into the room, followed by her elderly nanny. They'd clearly been out for a walk. The cold air had stained Clara's cheeks the color of raspberries. Her dark curls bounced as she flew across the room to hurl herself into my arms. "Papa, we saw the most exciting thing in the park."

"And what is that?" I set her back onto the floor.

She gazed up at me, her nose wrinkling. "Are you going out? What about our game of checkers?"

I knelt, tugging locks of her hair behind her ears. "I'll be back soon. Little Maria Rossi is very sick, and I must tend to her." Between my mother's work and my own, Clara often heard us talk about the families we cared for. Like Mother, she had a great capacity for remembering details about people.

"Oh dear." Clara brought her hands to her mouth. "Will you be able to save her?"

"I hope so." I kissed the top of her glossy head and stood. "I'll be back as soon as I can."

"Papa, do you think they had presents at Christmas?" Her bottom lip trembled. "I've not thought of it until just now."

"I'm not sure, love."

She ran to the Christmas tree in the corner of the room and dropped to her knees, coming back to me with the checkers set I'd gotten her for Christmas.

"Papa, since we already have one, shouldn't we give this one to them?"

A lump developed in the back of my throat. It was true that we had another set, but it was worn and shabby, having first belonged to my father. Regardless, the game could be played just as easily on a worn board as a new one. "I think they would like that very much." This girl of mine had her grandmother's heart.

"Will they know how to play?" Clara asked, brow creasing.

"I'm sure they can learn. I must go now. I'll see you soon."

"Yes, Papa. Godspeed."

I stifled a smile. Godspeed? Where had she heard that?

A few minutes later, medical bag in hand, I followed young Stefano out to the street. My personal life might be in shambles, but providing medical care to the sick? This I could do.

Stefano was the oldest of Mrs. Rossi's five children. At sixteen, he had taken on the role of father and provider after Mr. Rossi's death several years back. He didn't speak as my chauffeur, Joseph, drove us through the busy city streets until we reached Little Italy, where the Rossis lived.

Stefano and I hopped from the motorcar. I instructed Joseph to wait for me and then hurried through the battered tenement door, the dim light from the gas lamp flickering weakly in the cramped hallway. The narrow corridor, lined with peeling wallpaper and grime, smelled of mold mingled with the aroma of grease and the sharp tang of coal dust.

Stefano pushed open the creaking door. "Mama, I've got the doctor."

I stepped into the cramped living space. The room was dimly lit by a single flickering oil lamp. The scent of a thin stew simmering on the stove filled the air, barely masking the underlying smells of dampness and illness. The Rossi family's few possessions were neatly arranged and the room clean, despite the evident poverty.

Mrs. Rossi, her eyes shadowed with exhaustion, wore a threadbare dress. Her once vibrant hair was tied back in a hasty bun. Despite her obvious fatigue, she offered me a grateful smile from where she sat by little Maria. "Thank you for coming, Dr. Bancroft," she said, her voice strained but warm. "I don't know what else to do. She's having trouble breathing."

The middle children, Antonio and Sofia, huddled together at the small rickety table, a shared schoolbook spread before them. Six-year-old Luca quietly played with a battered wooden train car near the corner of the room. Maria, the youngest, lay on a worn-out cot by the window, her small frame shivering under a thin blanket.

Setting the basket with the bread, ham, and checkers game on the table, I went to her, kneeling on the floor near her cot to get a better look. Maria's cheeks flushed with fever, and her eyes had a glassy look to them. Her breathing, indeed, sounded labored. When she coughed, a harsh, rattling sound came from deep in her chest.

I gently placed a hand on her forehead. The heat radiating from her skin was cause for alarm. Using my stethoscope, I listened to her lungs but detected no fluid. "Not pneumonia. Bronchitis, more likely."

"Thank God," Mrs. Rossi whispered.

For the next few minutes, I continued my examination. "I'd like you to soak some rags with water and hang them over the stove. She needs moisture in the air to help her lungs. Keep a cold compress on her forehead until the fever breaks." I took a bottle of acetylsalicylic acid from my bag and spoon-fed it into Maria's mouth to help reduce her fever. "You'll give her this every four hours. It should keep the fever from getting any higher." God willing. "Send Stefano to fetch me if there are any significant changes. Regardless, I'll come back to see her tomorrow morning."

I stood, remembering the food I'd tucked into my bag. "I've brought something from my mother." I put the loaf of bread and ham, wrapped in parchment paper, onto their rickety table. "And this is from my daughter." I set the checkers game next to the food. "For the children."

"Please thank her for me," Mrs. Rossi said, wiping the corners of her eyes with the back of her hand.

As I stood to leave, I felt a tug on my coat. I looked down to see Luca gazing up at me with wide, frightened brown eyes.

"Is Maria dying, Dr. Bancroft?" Luca asked. "Like Papa?"

I knelt down, placing a hand on the boy's shoulder. "I certainly hope not. You help your mother look after her."

"I will, Dr. Bancroft," Luca said.

"I brought some treats in the basket for you," I said. "Make sure your mama eats some of it."

Luca nodded solemnly. "I'll try. Sometimes, she won't eat if she thinks we need it."

I set a hand on his shoulder. "Because she's a mother. That's what they do. But she needs her strength if she's to remain strong for all of you."

I bade them farewell and then walked down the hallway and out to the fresh, cold air. The previous day's snow lay over the ground and trees, sparkling in the bright sunlight. Joseph waited in the car, and I made haste, not wanting to disappoint my Clara.

Several blocks from home, moving slowly through traffic, I spotted Stella walking along the sidewalk. At first, I thought she had her hands encased in a muff, but then realized she held a small black-and-white dog in her arms. Her head was bent over the dog, her mouth moving as if speaking with him. Where had she found him, and what was she doing with him? Then I noticed the man behind her. He kept pace with her, his gaze fixated on the back of her head but stayed about six feet behind. When she stopped to look in a window, he stopped. When she hesitated in front of a bakery, he hid behind a streetlamp, watching her. Narrowing my eyes, I took in the details of his personage. He wore a dark coat and top hat over silver hair.

Why would anyone be following Stella?

Many reasons.

Some of which might be explained by my earlier conversation with Simon. Did he have someone following her?

Or was it her father's doing? Had he discovered where she was and wanted to know more details of her life?

I couldn't explain it, but something told me there was something nefarious afoot. Was she in danger, and if so, why?

"Please, pull over," I said to Joseph.

He did as I asked, moving out of traffic to come to a stop next to Stella. I leaned my head out of the car. "Stella, here." I waved my hand to get her attention.

The moment I did, the man in the top hat shuffled off in the other direction. I knew it.

Upon seeing me, Stella's eyes widened, and a smile spread over her face. "Percy?" She walked toward the car, still holding the dog. When she reached me, she nodded toward the mutt with her chin, a delighted sparkle in her eyes. "I found a dog. He's skinny and dirty but very sweet."

More concerned over her than the dog, I merely nodded. He was a scruffy little thing with matted fur and dirty paws. I spoke without moving my lips. "Do not react, but there was a man following you. He may still be watching. Or there may be others."

"I don't understand."

"Please get in the car with me. Don't make a fuss. Act as if I meant to come pick you up."

"Yes, all right."

When she and the dog were settled next to me, I asked Joseph to take us to her apartment. "You'll leave me there and return home."

"Yes, Dr. Bancroft," Joseph said.

"Are you sure someone was following me?" Stella held tight to the dog despite his muddy paws staining her coat.

"Quite sure."

Soon we were at the entrance of her apartment building. I helped her and the mangy mutt out of the car and into the building. Benny, the doorman, greeted us with a friendly smile.

"Good afternoon, Dr. Bancroft. Mrs. Wainwright."

"Good afternoon," I said.

"What have we here?" Benny peered into the lump of fluff in Stella's arms.

"I found him in an alleyway," Stella said. "He's starved."

"Indeed," Benny said. "May I help in any way?"

"No, I'm going to take him upstairs and bathe him," Stella said. "And feed him, obviously."

"Yes, Mrs. Wainwright. Very wise, I'd say." Benny signaled to the elevator operator to escort us upstairs.

By the time we reached the floor of Stella's apartment, I'd decided this was not only a mangy little mutt but a smelly one too.