7. Estelle

7

Estelle

D uring the last hours of 1922, I tossed and turned, unable to fall asleep. Although Percival had tried to reassure me my father had nothing to do with Mary's disappearance, I was not at all certain he was correct. There were too many connections between my family and the Prices for me to feel confident that this latest incident was unrelated.

I just couldn't figure out why. Why would my father want to harm Mary? She was innocuous, locked away in an asylum, and not mentally capable of hurting my father in any way. On the other hand, Simon had snooped around and visited the police—it made sense that this would have worried Father. He didn't want to go to jail for murder or for the dozen other crimes he'd most likely committed. Keeping Simon quiet made sense. Abducting Mary? Not at all.

But then again, maybe I was incorrect. It could be that Mary got confused and wandered outside. Or she might be hiding somewhere in the building, scared and delusional.

What had transpired during Simon's last visit to her? Had he told her he was leaving for an indefinite amount of time? If so, had that caused her to become sufficiently agitated enough to run away?

Finally, around two in the morning, I fell asleep, waking around six to the sound of footsteps in the hallway. Percival readying himself for his trip to the asylum. I yearned to accompany him and support him in what would be a horrific day. However, I knew it was not my place to go.

Instead, I decided to go home. Confronting my father, asking him for the truth, was the only path I could take. I would be brave and firm. He would give me answers, one way or the other.

After I'd bathed and dressed, I went downstairs to speak with Mrs. Bancroft. I found her in the dining room, drinking a cup of coffee and reading the newspaper. As always, breakfast was laid out on the buffet.

"Good morning, dear," Mrs. Bancroft said. "You look tired. Were you unable to sleep? I had a terrible night myself."

"Not much, I'm sorry to say." I poured myself a coffee and placed a roll and a dab of scrambled eggs onto my plate. "I can't stop thinking my father has something to do with this."

She looked at me sharply. "I have other theories."

"Meaning Simon?"

"Perhaps. But then again, why?"

"I want to go see my father today," I said. "Confront him face-to-face."

"Wasn't the visit the other day enough? Do you really need more abuse?"

"I need to look him in the eye and ask him if he did something to Mary. I'll know. I have to know. I can be there within hours if I take the train."

"And if he did have something to do with her disappearance?"

"I haven't gotten that far," I said.

"Fair enough." She splayed her hands on the table. "I'll go with you. We'll have Joseph take us to the train station the minute he's back home from dropping Percy."

The idea of Mrs. Bancroft meeting my parents made me feel lightheaded. What would she think of me then? "I won't be welcome, thus, it may be ugly. I've no idea how my mother will react."

"I'll be there with you. If that will make it easier?"

"It will, yes."

"Then that's what we'll do."

On the mostly empty train, Mrs. Bancroft and I sat quietly, both of us pensive. I kept my eyes on the scenery outside the window, pressing rising panic inward. My stomach churned as we headed north, past the dense urban environment with rows of apartment buildings, warehouses, and factories. Automobiles and horse-drawn carriages rambled along busy streets. We crossed the Harlem River, which was filled this morning with boats. The scenery transitioned into residential areas as we traveled through the Bronx and Yonkers. Small houses, parks, and suburban streets presented a quieter life than the one we'd left in the city.

Soon, the landscape shifted to more open spaces, with occasional glimpses of golf courses and small towns.

As we entered Connecticut, the train passed through the affluent suburban towns of Greenwich and Stamford where the sight of large estates, manicured lawns, and tree-lined streets should have calmed my nerves but instead elevated them. The palms of my hands and the nape of my neck dampened with perspiration, despite the chill of the afternoon.

"Do you think about the baby?" Mrs. Bancroft asked me.

For a second, I didn't answer, surprised by the question.

"You don't have to talk about it," Mrs. Bancroft said. "I'm curious, that's all."

"I thought the pain would fade, but it hasn't. There's not an hour in the day that I don't wonder how she is or what she's doing. I did the right thing. That gives me comfort."

Mrs. Bancroft looked out the window, longing etched across her pretty features. "Perhaps someday you will have another child."

"It's unlikely. I've had to accept that."

"If only Percival…well, never mind," Mrs. Bancroft said. "You know what I think."

I squeezed her gloved hand with my own. "I do know."

We quieted as the landscape turned rural, with rolling hills, forests, and farmland. Occasionally, I spotted a farmhouse or a barn, as well as fields with crops and livestock.

We arrived at the Litchfield depot before noon. The station bustled with travelers and goods. Were any of them headed toward a destination that made them feel as if cement had baked into the soles of their shoes, making each step harder than the next?

"Courage, love," Mrs. Bancroft said. "I am here." She left me to speak with the attendant in the ticket box, and soon, a young man named Jack arrived, offering to take us up to my father's estate in his motorcar.

"You're headed to the Sullivans'?" Jack asked, touching the rim of his newsboy-style cap. "Do they know you're coming? I heard they're none too friendly to strangers."

"I'm Estelle Sullivan," I said. "Sean Sullivan's my father."

"Ah, yes." Jack's cheeks flushed but he smiled politely. "I thought I recognized you. Have you been away?"

"I live in New York City now," I said. "So, yes."

A flicker of recognition sparked in his eyes. He'd suddenly remembered the story of my dead fiancé. Word traveled fast here in the quiet countryside. "I'm sure your family will be happy to see you," Jack said. "I know my parents always are, and I live just down the road from them."

If only it were as simple as that.

Mrs. Bancroft and I dipped our heads to crawl into the back seat of the motorcar. Jack drove us down the dirt road toward home.

Hoarfrost covered every branch, shrub, and blades of dead winter grass, creating a crystalline coating that lent the landscape a sparkling, otherworldly appearance. Mauve had always marveled at mornings such as these, thinking them magical. I ached with missing her. How could I have known how losing her felt like the loss of a limb or major organ? I imagined her holding Mireille, bouncing her on her lap, covering her cheeks with kisses. Mauve was the embodiment of love. I should know. I'd been the recipient all my life.

"It's a winter wonderland," Mrs. Bancroft said.

Surprised to see it so icy this late in the morning, I asked Jack about the weather.

"Yeah, the temperature dropped to well below zero overnight," Jack said. "And without sun or rising temperatures, nothing's melted."

Mrs. Bancroft and I exchanged a look. If it were this cold here, then the area around the asylum would be, too, as it was not far from here. If Mary had somehow gotten outside overnight, she would not have survived. Not in this weather.

A hollow, horrible feeling made me feel almost dizzy. What would Percival face today? He'd had so much pain in his life, and I feared more was coming. If she were dead, he would be overwhelmed with guilt and remorse. Would it debilitate him for years to come?

I couldn't think about the future. Not today. I owed it to Percival to do what I could to discover the truth. That was the only way to help him.

We were now at the wrought iron gate, with its swirling scrollwork and delicate filigree. Our family monogram crafted in gold leaf adorned the center of the gate's doors. Tall, robust stone pillars with lions' heads placed atop stood on each side.

I took it all in with eyes that had been reborn during my absence. The opulence of the metal gate and lion marble statues had seemed ordinary to me, but I now saw them anew. I was not the same woman who had left in shame. I was now a survivor, a fighter.

As was typical this time of day, the gate had been left open for deliveries and the comings and goings of staff. Jack drove down the meticulously maintained gravel driveway lined with trimmed hedges and stately trees that curved gracefully toward the mansion.

Made of finely cut limestone, with a series of grand arched windows, each framed with ornate stone carvings and topped with decorative keystones, my father's home was indeed a sight to behold. At the center of the facade, a magnificent portico extended outward, supported by a row of Corinthian columns carved with acanthus leaves and fluted shafts. Above the portico, a balustraded balcony provided a vantage point overlooking the manicured front gardens. My father had often stood there, looking out upon his estate like a benevolent leader of a small country.

My gaze traveled up to the roofline of the mansion, adorned with a series of dormer windows, each with its own decorative gable and trim. Ornate cornices ran along the edge of the roof, and stone quoins accentuated the corners.

"I never saw it this close-up," Jack said under his breath.

"Stunning," Mrs. Bancroft said in a tone that belied the compliment.

Until this past year, I'd not thought much about my family's wealth. I'd not known where it came from or how easy it had made my life. Yet none of this had ever been mine. Not really. This was my father's world.

We stepped from the car, gravel crunching beneath our feet. Today, the manicured lawns, dormant flower beds, and carefully pruned topiaries were covered in the same hoarfrost we'd seen on the way.

I needed only to close my eyes to see the back gardens with the lush foliage, fountains, and winding pathways. A reflecting pool, our private tennis court, and a stable for horses that had been available to Mauve and me every day of our lives. How I'd taken them for granted. There was our secret garden, too, where we'd spent so many hours together playing among the flowers and trees.

And Robbie. Before we'd lost him, how we'd fussed over and petted our cherubic baby brother. He was the first of a series of losses. All of which seemed to have defined my life. How could I hold so much loss in one body? And heart.

I took Mrs. Bancroft's arm as we climbed up the wide stone staircase to the mahogany front door. Upon our arrival, I glanced at her for courage. She gave me a slight nod. "You'll be fine."

The door was answered by the butler, James, who had been with my family for years. His eyes widened in surprise to see me standing there before his usually stoic expression shifted into a warm smile. "Miss Estelle. How good to see you."

"Thank you, James. I'm here to call on my mother and father. Are they available?"

"Come in from the cold." He gestured for us to step inside. "While I inquire."

We stepped through the grand mahogany door, and the opulence of my childhood home enveloped me. The polished marble floors and the grand staircase that swept upward felt strange as if they belonged to someone else's family instead of my own. The scent of beeswax polish filled the air, mingling with the faint aroma of woodsmoke from distant fireplaces. The high ceilings adorned with ornate plasterwork and crystal chandeliers should have cast a warm, inviting glow, but instead, the light seemed harsh and cold.

"Please wait here. I won't be a moment." James hurried off, his heeled shoes clicking on the marble floor.

Mrs. Bancroft's eyes, sharp and discerning, appeared to take in every detail with a mix of admiration and scrutiny. "It's certainly grand," she murmured.

"Indeed."

James reappeared, asking us to follow him to the library. "Your mother will be right down and asked if you would care for refreshment."

"That won't be necessary," I said. "How did she seem? Mother?"

"I can't say exactly. Surprised?" James asked.

The moment we entered the library, the rich aroma of leather-bound books and polished wood greeted me as familiar as an old friend. Had James brought me here because he knew it was my favorite room in the house? Perhaps he'd remembered that this had been a quiet refuge and a place to lose myself in the pages of countless stories. As a child, I'd felt invisible most of the time. Mauve's shine had been so bright that I'd melted away in the glare. Yet maybe someone had noticed me. Even if only because he was paid to do so.

I took it all in for a moment. The tall mahogany bookshelves lined the walls from floor to ceiling, their shelves bowing slightly under the weight of countless volumes. Soft amber light from brass sconces cast a warm glow. An ornate Persian rug, its intricate patterns and rich colors softened by years of footsteps, covered the polished hardwood floor. How often Mauve and I had frolicked there as children, making up games or playing with our marbles or dolls.

My gaze moved to the comfortable leather armchairs, their cushions worn and softened by years of use, each accompanied by a small side table, perfect for resting a cup of tea or a stack of books. As we'd grown older, we'd slowly given up our childhood games in favor of reading. I'd known even then what a privilege it was to have so many books at our disposal.

Had I known the true nature of my father's business, would it have made any difference in my enjoyment? If I'd imagined he would have the man I loved killed, would I have run away screaming? The questions that plagued me now could never be answered. Now that I understood the true nature of my father, everything had changed.

A large, intricately carved desk stood in one corner of the room, its surface cluttered with inkwells, quills, and a collection of neatly stacked papers. A green banker's lamp cast a pool of soft light over the desk, its glow reflecting off the polished wood and the brass fittings.

Mauve and I had sat there together in the afternoons doing homework, content to be together, despite the strangeness of our mother.

Nothing had changed, it seemed, except for me.

"Did you study here at the desk?" Mrs. Bancroft asked.

"Yes, often." I smiled, remembering those happy afternoons. "My sister too. We'd pull two chairs up to the desk and study as if we were one person."

A rolling ladder attached to a brass rail allowed access to the highest shelves. The windows, draped with heavy velvet curtains, let in slivers of light that danced across the room, highlighting the dust motes that floated lazily in the air. In one corner, a small fireplace crackled softly.

Mrs. Bancroft moved toward one of the armchairs and sat down. "I can imagine this was your favorite place in the house," she said softly, her eyes scanning the rows of books with appreciation.

"It was. Losing myself in books were some of the happiest times of my life. It was safe inside a book."

"Yes, isn't it the grandest way to spend your time?" Mrs. Bancroft asked.

While we waited, I ran my fingers along the spines of the books, feeling the texture of the leather and the raised gold lettering that hinted at the treasures within.

A few minutes later, Mother arrived, wearing a modest day dress that matched her blue eyes. She stood near the entryway, staring at me as if I were a ghost from the past. I supposed I was.

Mother glided over to me—mere walking was for peasants. However, as elegant as she was, there was something wrong. She'd always had an air of fragility, mostly to do with her slender build and fair skin, yet today, it appeared heightened. She'd grown thinner, and her face seemed drawn and tight. Her eyes, which had at times sparkled in a similar fashion to Mauve's, seemed to have permanently dimmed.

"Good afternoon, Mother." I drew in a breath, trying not to cry. As complicated as my feelings were—and goodness, they were complex—she was still my mother, and I loved her. Regardless of the past, I craved her love and approval, even though I knew I would never get them. Was there anything sadder than knowing one's own mother has abandoned you?

"Hello, Estelle," Mother said, then glanced at Mrs. Bancroft, who had stood to greet her hostess.

"This is my friend, Mrs. Bancroft," I said. "She kindly agreed to keep me company today."

"It's a pleasure," Mother said, holding out her hand. No matter what, her manners were impeccable.

"The pleasure's mine," Mrs. Bancroft said. "Forgive our intrusion upon your afternoon."

"Not at all. What may I do for you?" Mother turned back to me, speaking casually, as if I merely lived down the road and frequently visited. So much so that if Mrs. Bancroft hadn't known the truth, she might have thought there was nothing hurtful between us.

"I came to talk to Father," I said.

Before Mother could answer, a maid came in with a tray of tea and pastries. After she'd poured, Mother dismissed her and turned to me. "What is it you want with your father?"

I stiffened at the cold tone of her voice. "It's rather complex," I said tightly.

"Well, I'm afraid it's impossible. He's out. In fact, he rarely comes home. He has an apartment in the city. Of late, he prefers to stay there." Mother plucked at an imaginary crumb from her skirt. "He liked for us to be out here in the fresh air, but much of his work is conducted in the city."

Work? She said it with reverence, as if criminal activity were a vocation.

"He came by to see me the other day," I said.

"I'm aware." Mother folded her hands in her lap and let out a long, martyred sigh. "However, he came back to me with no more information than when he left."

My stomach churned at her pious tone. She would never forgive me for having a child out of wedlock. That was as clear as the row of bookshelves behind her. It was as if I'd never been part of this family. I drew in a deep breath before speaking the lie that had become so familiar. "Mother, I don't know where Mauve is. Truly. Otherwise, I would have written to her. I'd like to know how they're doing as much as you. You're not the only one missing a daughter."

That seemed to take the breath out of her. She clutched the collar of her dress. "Before they disappeared, Mauve wrote to me. She told me the baby was a girl and what she'd named her. That was all."

"I'm sorry," I said. "But for a variety of reasons, she thought it best they go away."

"It must have been terribly painful to let go," Mother said. "Of your sister and Mireille."

Was that a hint of sympathy in her voice?

"It was. Regardless, I knew it was better if Mauve and Pierre raised her. It was an act of sacrifice for my baby's sake. I may not get to be her mother, but I can act as if I am."

Mother nodded. "It was a brave thing to do. You were right. If only Mauve could find a way to forgive your father, we could be together again."

"Without me, that is." I looked her directly in the eyes.

"No one sent you away, you know," Mother said. "You chose to do so."

"Mother, that's a lie. Father said I was no longer welcome. Even if he hadn't, Father made sure of that when he had Connie killed. How could I possibly live under the same roof with a man who murdered the man I loved? His selfish, ruthless act ruined my life."

"You sound like a lunatic," Mother said. "Or, at the very least, like a woman with a very active imagination."

"I'm not mad," I said without emotion, even though the pain was so intense I could barely breathe. "I'd just like you to admit the truth about what went on in this house."

I glanced at Mrs. Bancroft, who sat quietly, with one eyebrow raised imperviously and her shoulders squared as if poised for an attack, like a mama bear protecting her cub. Only she wasn't my mother. My mother had paled and stared down at her hands. She would not protect me. She never had.

For a split second, an image played before my eyes. It was a day or two after Robbie's death, and the nanny had sent me outside to play, as I had been acting like a caged animal all morning. Mauve, on the other hand, had sat quietly in her mourning dress, discreet tears gathering at the corners of her eyes but without drawing attention to herself. In fact, she'd barely said a word since we'd been told of Robbie's death. Glad to be free of the stuffy house that now smelled of death and lilies, I'd run out to what Mauve and I called our secret garden.

I'd curled into a ball between two trees, not caring about the dirt or bugs or anything but feeling close to the spot where I'd recently played with my precious little brother. With my cheek pressed into the dirt, sobs had racked my body until I'd worn myself out. I'd gone inside, suddenly yearning for Mauve. Our nanny had taken one look at me and sent me upstairs to wash up and change my dress.

As I'd walked down the hallway to our nursery, I passed Mother's room, knowing I was not welcome. However, the sound of an animal howling in pain had stopped me in my tracks. My heart had pounded in my chest, and my pulse seemed to beat from the pit of my stomach in throbbing spasms. It was not an animal but rather my mother, crying for her baby boy. A primal sound that came from the very essence of her grief—it had frightened me more than anything ever had. To hear one's mother in that kind of agony shakes one to the core. It was as if I were on a swaying ship with nothing to hold on to.

All of this ran through my mind in the moments before Mother surprised me by lifting her gaze toward Mrs. Bancroft. "Mrs. Bancroft, would it be possible for you to give me a few minutes alone with my daughter?"

"Is that all right with you?" Mrs. Bancroft asked me.

I nodded in agreement, as my mouth was too dry to speak. Mother called for James and asked that he escort Mrs. Bancroft to the sitting room.

"I shall wait patiently. Please, take your time," Mrs. Bancroft said kindly before following the butler out of the room.

Once she was gone, I expected Mother to say whatever it was she wanted to say to me, but she didn't. She merely gazed blankly into the fire.

"How much do you know about Father's work?" Perhaps she had been in the dark as Mauve, and I had been?

"I know enough to know how blessed we are with material wealth. Anyway, it's not a woman's place to question her husband's business. My job is to take care of his children and his home."

Take care of his children?

I'd had enough. My temper flared out of my belly, unleashing words I never would have thought I'd have the courage to say. "Mother, how can you live this way? Knowing he's the one who caused all of this to happen? You simply look away, letting him take everyone you love?"

She looked me straight in the eyes. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

I studied her with more intent than I'd ever done anything in my life. Was she speaking the truth? She'd not known?

"Tell me," Mother said. "Tell me what you think he's done."

"He approached Connie before the wedding and told him about his business and that he would expect Connie to work for him. I don't know the details of the interaction because, on his way to talk to me, he was killed. It wasn't an accident, Mother. Father had Connie killed. I'm assuming Connie refused the job offer, such as it was, and perhaps even threatened to go to the police. Because of that, Father had my fiancé killed."

Mother didn't speak or move for at least a minute. During a second of madness, I thought she might have fallen asleep with her eyes open.

"How do you know this to be true?" Mother lifted her gaze to me, her eyes appearing more flinty gray than blue. "Is it speculation, or do you have proof?"

"Pierre told me everything he knew, which added up to an unbearable truth. It's the reason he took Mauve and Mireille away."

"Because of this supposed thing your father did?"

Annoyed at what appeared to be purposeful obtuseness, I almost snapped at her, but then I realized she was genuine. She'd been here all these months with no communication from either of her daughters. For the first time in a long time, I was filled with pity for her. She'd lost everything because of Father. Surely she could see this? "Pierre didn't think he could keep his family safe if they continued to live here. How could he really, when he knew that Father had ordered the hit on Connie?"

"This cannot be," Mother whispered. "Surely this cannot be."

"You didn't know?" I hated to admit to myself how desperately I hoped she hadn't known. At least then, I could tell myself that she loved me. She'd been kept in the dark, that's all.

"There is much about your father's life and work I'm not privy to," Mother said, lifting her chin. "And I can tell you—this horrible thing he did—I did not know. But I understand now. You and Mauve worked it out between you without any thought to my feelings."

"You could have earned the right to be part of our lives, but you refused," I said quietly.

"How did I refuse?"

"By going along with him. By pushing the truth to the side in exchange for all of this." I waved my hand around to indicate the mansion in which she currently resided. "If Father hadn't ordered Connie's murder, we would all still be here. I'd be married, raising our child."

"I see now. I do." Mother pulled her hankie from her sleeve and brought it to her face. "I'd not thought him capable of taking Constantine from you."

"Why did he put money ahead of me? Of us?"

"I can't say I understand him, but these are dangerous men he runs with. Clearly, he felt he had no choice but to protect himself."

"How much have you known?" I asked.

"He keeps it away from me. Just as he did you girls."

"Maybe I saw only what I wanted to see," I said. "I've been thinking about that since I found out who he really is."

"You know as well as I that, as women, we have little power over anything in our lives. First, we answer to our fathers. Then to our husbands. Sean made sure I knew it was not my place to ask questions."

"It's the easier path for everyone, it seems," I said.

"Do you think he would have had Pierre killed?" Mother asked.

"I don't know. But Pierre thought it was enough of a possibility that he left, with no plans to return."

Mother's face crumpled, and she began to cry into her hankie. "I've lost you all, haven't I?"

"I didn't think you cared about me or even Mauve. Only Robbie."

She stared at me through watery eyes. "Is that what you thought? Truly?"

"You left us after he died. Not physically, but in here." I patted the side of my head. "You were a ghost in this house." We'd been raised by nannies and the house staff. I didn't say that out loud, afraid to hurt her further. As angry and bruised as I was, my instinct to take care of Mother was stronger.

"Yes, I suppose I was. The grief overpowered me—stripped me of motherly instincts. What you say is true, and I'm sorry. I'm not strong like you, Estelle. Or your sister. Life has proven too much for me."

I had no idea what to say. Again, the echo of her howls played between my ears.

"When Robbie died, we all changed," I said finally. "Mauve and I adored him too."

"I remember." A ghost of a smile appeared, but only for a second. "Why did you come here today?"

"I need to talk to Father."

"Have you changed your mind about telling him where Mauve and Pierre are living?" A flicker of hope sparkled in her reddened eyes.

"Oh, Mother. I'm sorry, but I'm telling you God's honest truth. I don't know where they are." Still no lightning strike from the Lord above. It had to be this way. God help me.

"Then what do you want with your father?"

I hesitated, closing my eyes as I gathered my thoughts. How much to tell her? That was the question. It would be easier to just walk away. Leave all of this behind. Thank her for her time and depart to my new life. But then I remembered the expression on Percival's face when he got the news of Mary's disappearance. I had to do this for him. He needed to know what had happened to his wife.

"It's complicated, but I'll try to explain. Percival's wife lost her mind after the birth of her daughter, and he had no choice but to admit her to an asylum. She was dangerous to the baby and Percival, as well as herself. But right before that, Father ordered the death of Percival's father-in-law. He had Mary Bancroft's father killed over some kind of business dispute."

I went on to tell her about how I'd met Percival that awful day on the train. "I was sick with complications from birth, and he and his mother took me in," I told her the rest of the story, including how they'd asked me to leave once they discovered my true identity. I left out the part about the brothel but described how Percival had changed his mind and offered to take care of me.

"Your father told me of your arrangement. I'm assuming you're his mistress?" Mother asked.

"No, I'm not that. I told Father that when he came to see me, but he obviously doesn't believe me. Percival and I are friends. That's all. Even though no one seems to think so, it's the truth. Percival's a man of great principle and faith. He would never offer the kind of arrangement you speak of. He simply doesn't have it in him."

"How unusual. Men do not often display such honor."

"I suppose they don't." I thought of Mrs. Bancroft's late husband. He'd died in the arms of his mistress. Father clearly had liaisons of his own that Mother seemed to accept as part of marriage. Percival would not be that kind of man, even if it meant depriving himself of someone he truly wanted.

I explained my work at Mrs. Bancroft's side and the time I spent with Clara. "I hope this repays them a little for their kindness, but mostly, they've kept me from…giving up. Percival, well, he's simply the finest man I've ever known."

"You're in love with him," Mother said. "Don't bother saying you aren't because, despite my terrible failings as a mother, I know you. But surely you see that this is doomed."

It was as if someone suddenly punched me in the chest. I lost my ability to breathe for a few seconds. My mother knew me. "Believe me, I understand that. Mary Bancroft's very much alive. Or, at least, we think she is. She disappeared last night. No matter what I want for myself, I could never wish anyone death."

"Isn't it strange what good people you and Mauve are?" Mother asked, sounding wistful and contemplative at the same time. "Despite your parents? You're able to stay dedicated to your values, even though you desperately want him."

Another moment of muteness overtook me. I'd not thought my mother ever paid enough attention to me to understand me at all, let alone to this depth. "It doesn't matter what I feel or not, he's not mine to love."

"My poor girl."

"Do you know the first thing I thought of when Percival received the telephone call last night? That Father had something to do with it."

Mother's color vanished from her cheeks. "Why would he do such a thing?"

"I don't know. I hope I'm wrong. But they were rivals who fought over distribution territories. Did you know that?"

"I'm not involved in your father's business, but yes, I was aware of their…relationship."

"I can't imagine why he would want to hurt the daughter, especially if she's so unwell, but it seems too coincidental."

"Don't speak to him about any of this," Mother said. "Please. Asking him questions will only cause us more trouble."

I nodded, knowing that unleashing more of his rage would not be easy on anyone. Maybe most of all, my mother.

"Anyway, you don't know what's happened yet," Mother said. "Perhaps she's only lost? If your father was involved, no one will ever uncover the truth. He has ways of making sure."

"Mother, are you all right? Does he…hurt you?"

"No, no, nothing like that. I mean, he would never hit me or do bodily harm. His punishment is more of the silent variety. Since he's been in the city, I've had some peace. Or loneliness, depending on how you look at it."

"I'm sorry," I said. "I understand what it's like to be lonely."

"It breaks my heart to see what's happened to our family. I wanted only for you and Mauve to have good lives with good men. Not marriages like mine. But it's not wise to wish or even pray for such a thing. Not when you're married to Sean Sullivan." Her eyes grew glassy and unfocused. "Do you think they're safe? Wherever they are?"

"Pierre promised me he'd take care of them, and he will."

She reached over to take my hand briefly before returning it to her own lap. "I know what it's like to lose a child. It's the worst pain in the world."

"Yes, it is." I started to cry.

"I wish it had all been different for you. But maybe you'll have your chance with Percival. A new baby. A fresh start."

"Mother, there's nothing in the world I'd like more, but it's not meant to be. He's a married man."

"Yes, of course. But I'm your mother, and I'd like to remain hopeful that you will have a happy ending. I'm afraid I must rest now." Mother rose to her feet and stared down at me with the saddest eyes I'd ever seen. "Despite everything, it was very good to see you."

I stood, and she took both my hands in hers, peering at me as if she searched my very soul. "Please know how proud I am of you for making such a hard decision to leave Mireille. You're going to have a good life. Soon, everything will fall into place. I know it will." She pulled me into an embrace. I was much taller than her, but her arms felt strong and tight around me. I drew in the scent of her rosewater cologne. "I've not said it enough, my dearest, but I love you. Don't forget that. No matter what happens."

"I love you too," I whispered, fighting yet more tears.

Mother gave me one last weak smile and left, her shoes click-clacking down the hallway until there was no sound in the room but the crackling of the fire and my rapid breath.

Soon, Mrs. Bancroft appeared in the doorway. At the sight of her, I burst into tears. She took me in her arms, and I wept into the fabric of her dress until it was as damp as my eyes. When I'd gotten control of myself, I pulled away, dabbing at my face with a hankie.

"Darling girl, shall we go home?" Mrs. Bancroft asked. "Clara will cheer us, I'm sure."

I only nodded, following her meekly out of the room. James offered to have one of the men drive us back to the train station. Grateful for the help, we agreed.

As I stepped out of the front door, like a visitor instead of a family member, I wondered if it would be the last time I did so.