“I did. He beguiled me from the first moment I ever met him.”

  I watched her carefully. Now that I was better, would she ask me to leave? An unwed mother wasn’t exactly welcomed in her social circles.

  “Penelope told me the baby was stillborn.” She said this bluntly, which I appreciated. It was easier that way.

  “That’s correct.”

  “I lost my husband when Percy was only two years old. He died in the arms of his mistress while I was pregnant with Molly.”

  “No, really?”

  “All quite sordid and embarrassing. Then, shortly after his death, I had Molly. She came early and didn’t make it more than a few hours. I’d never felt more alone.” Mrs. Bancroft patted my hand that had escaped from under the blankets. “It does get easier with time. Regardless, there’s a part of you that goes with them.”

  “You must have been in agony.”

  “Yes, I was.” Mrs. Bancroft’s gaze drifted toward the window, her eyes unfocused. “But I had to pick myself up and keep going for my son’s sake. Now, tell me more about yourself so that I may be of assistance.”

  I hesitated, unsure if I should continue with the lie about the stillbirth. My instincts told me she was the type of person who did not suffer fools. Thus, the truth might be better in the long run. Or would it? Was it better to pretend that I’d not abandoned my child? No one but my own family would know about the child they forced me to give to my twin. I could carry on with the lie and no one would be any the wiser.

  “What is it?” Mrs. Bancroft asked, eyes sharp.

  “I haven’t told you the exact truth about what happened to my baby.”

  “I can forgive almost anything, but not a lie.”

  Fine. I would tell her everything. The worst had already happened to me. I’d lost everyone I loved. There wasn’t much more that could hurt me. Now it was about survival.

  “I’m afraid you might not feel the same if I tell you the truth, but I have nothing left, so it won’t much matter if yet another person tosses me aside like the trash. She was born yesterday, out of wedlock. My fiancé did die—that part was true. However, my daughter was born healthy. But since I was not married, I had no choice but to give her to my twin sister. No one will know that Mauve and her husband are not her biological parents, and my family will avoid scandal.”

  “How convenient for them all,” Mrs. Bancroft said under her breath.

  “I didn’t want to give her away.” Tears crawled up the back of my throat. “But no one cared what I wanted. They just wanted to get rid of me. I was a problem, and now I’m not.”

  “What about your mother? Is she alive?”

  “Yes, she agreed with my father. She wanted me to go away. My sister’s a good person and will be a wonderful mother. Up until the last moment, she was trying to convince me to stay and be the baby’s aunt, but I knew I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t watch her grow up thinking I was only her spinster aunt. I’m too selfish.”

  “Well, as you said, what choice did you have? There are few for unmarried women. Especially those who find themselves in your predicament.”

  “I feel like there’s nothing left of me except shame and regret. Everything good about me died with Constantine.”

  “You loved him very much?”

  “I did. Enough that I no longer cared about seeing the world. That had been my plan as a child.”

  “The world’s not going anywhere. It’ll be there when you’re ready.”

  I started to cry, no longer able to keep my despair inside. “No, all ambitions to see the world died with Constantine. Anyway, I don’t deserve anything good to come my way. Not after what I’ve done to my family.” And to myself, I thought. I was the one who had to leave my daughter behind. The rest of them would not suffer. With me out of the way, life could resume in its neat package for everyone but me. Mireille would have a mother and father who loved her. She’d never know that she’d been born out of wedlock.

  Mrs. Bancroft handed me a hankie, scented with rose oil. I used it to dry my eyes.

  “Dear girl, you mustn’t think that way. It’ll drive you to madness if you let it. Guilt, shame, and regret—they’re insatiable in their quest to devour a woman’s soul. You sacrificed your own happiness for the child. It was a true act of selfless motherhood. You gave her a better life, even though it hurt you to do so. This will sustain you in the years to come.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because I’ve lived a lot longer than you,” Mrs. Bancroft said. “And made many more mistakes than you could imagine.”

  I nodded, unsure what to say. She didn’t seem like someone who would make even a small blunder.

  “You’ll need a job,” Mrs. Bancroft said, “if you’re going to make it on your own.”

  “Yes, ma’am. I don’t have many skills, unfortunately.”

  “What education do you have?”

  “Private tutors,” I said. “Then, finishing school.”

  She peered at me long and hard. What did she see? A lost cause? Someone worthless, without skills or talents? Or could she see possible redemption? A way for me to exist in a world that no longer wanted me?

  I pressed cold fingers to my forehead. “I never thought I would have to worry about much of anything. Yet here I am. Whatever hopes I had for a life filled with love and family are no longer possible. I want only to survive. I’ve no money or plans or family and find myself at the mercy of kind strangers such as you and your son.”

  Mrs. Bancroft tugged at the bedcovers, smoothing them over my legs. “Percy’s always been that way. Some might say he’s kind to a fault. He can never give up on anyone, stranger or loved one. I suppose that’s why he chose to study medicine. He wanted to help people, even though he didn’t have to. We have no financial worries, thanks to my father and my late husband. Percy didn’t need to attend university and medical school, but he craved meaning in his life. In fact, he served in the army during the war and then returned home to open a private practice.” Her tone of voice clearly communicated the pride she felt in her son.

  “I’m sure he’s an outstanding doctor,” I said.

  “Yes, he is. And a wonderful son. After his father died, it was always just the two of us—which has made him protective of me. Now, of course, we have darling Clara, which makes us a family of three.”

  “Percival mentioned that his wife is very ill. May I ask what ails her?”

  Mrs. Bancroft looked down at her lap. “My daughter-in-law’s afflictions are of the mental kind. She believes she’s sixteen years old. Has no idea that she and Percy are married or that Clara’s her daughter. Sadly, we had to admit her to an asylum up north. Percy takes the train up to visit her every Saturday morning. Which is why he was on the train yesterday.”

  “How awful. Did something happen that triggered her illness?”

  “Her father was murdered, and she saw it happen. Shortly thereafter, she had Clara, and became completely delusional, thinking a demon lived in Percy and the baby. She became violent and volatile.”

  “But why? How could something like that happen?”

  “The doctors think it was the trauma of her father’s murder and the hormonal effects of childbirth that created some kind of psychotic break. We would have liked to care for her here at home, but delusions and hallucinations made her too unpredictable. The doctor agreed that she was a risk to the child. All of which has Percy’s heart. He suffers great guilt about putting her into the asylum, but we had no other choice. I naively thought the doctors could cure her, but she’s not recovered. They have little hope that she will.

  “But we have Clara.” Mrs. Bancroft’s expression brightened. “She’s the light of our lives. Even though her birth made Mary sick, we cannot imagine life without her. My son’s a very modern father—he spends a lot of time with Clara. Unlike my husband, who couldn’t be bothered to hold his own son.” She blinked and clapped her hands together. “But that’s neither here nor there. We’re supposed to be talking about you.”

  I wanted to know more but kept my curiosity in check. My head swam with all this information. Poor Percival and his sick wife. The little girl must miss having a mother around. Although, clearly Mrs. Bancroft was involved with the child, perhaps providing the maternal nurturing a young girl needed.

  “You’re not well enough to start a position straightaway,” Mrs. Bancroft said, as if we’d not veered from the subject of my employment. “You’ll need to recover first. You must stay with us for as long as it takes you to fully heal.”

  Her kindness brought new tears to my eyes. She blurred in front of me like an impressionist painting. “I’m grateful. I thought I’d be spending the night on the street.”

  “How could they send you away without anything at all?” Her expression sharpened. “They should be ashamed.”

  “Pierre, my brother-in-law, slipped me a little money before I left, but he didn’t have much to give me. Everyone’s reliant upon my father, thus no one can challenge his decisions or risk his wrath.”

  “I imagine someday he’ll be sorry.”

  “Why do you think so?” I asked.

  “I don’t know, other than to say that time has a way of changing our perspectives.”

  “I knew it was better for the baby if I was out of sight and mind. She deserves the chance to have a family without the stigma of illegitimacy.”

  “Do you recall the story of Solomon and the baby from the Old Testament?” Mrs. Bancroft asked.

  “Yes, I think so.”

  “Two women claimed a baby as their own. However, the real mother was revealed because she was willing to sacrifice her own happiness to save the child.”

  “Yes, but in the end, that woman got to take her baby home,” I said.

  “Correct. However, my point is—you did what you thought was best for the child. It’s a sacrifice larger than any you’ll ever be asked to do again.”

  “They let me hold her for a bit. She was perfect.” Her little finger and toes. Her chubby cheeks. Sobs overtook me. “How can I miss someone I don’t even know?”

  “Because a woman does know her child, no matter how much time she gets with them. Whether they’re inside you for a few months or nine, your souls are intertwined. Dearest, believe it or not, you will survive this.”

  I dabbed at my cheeks. “I don’t know how.”

  “There are not many freedoms given women. However, no one can touch what’s in here or here.” She tapped her chest and then her temple. “They cannot take away our thoughts or feelings.”

  She paused for a moment, rubbing the palm of one hand with her thumb. “When I lost Molly, I remember thinking my pain was meaningless. What purpose did my suffering serve? I asked God why to show me how I could use my hurting to serve his purposes.”

  “Did he answer?” I asked.

  “I believe he did. It wasn’t all at once, but slowly my heart began to change. Instead of carrying around the burden of my anger toward my husband and grief over Molly, I became more sensitive. I started to notice things I never had before. The plight of the poor as I passed through neighborhoods grew more vivid. I could see that which my eyes had purposely avoided. One day, on the way to the park with Percy, it occurred to me that a woman of wealth, such as myself, had the luxury of mental anguish because my belly was full and my bed warm. If I were trying to survive, for example, or feed a family, I would have to move on with things, not sit around feeling sorry for myself. I sat and watched Percy play that afternoon with the sun on my face and vowed to do what I could for others. I sought out situations where my gifts could be useful to others. That act saved me from myself and the insidious resentment and anger that wanted to own me. Instead, I embraced my sadness and loss and used it for good. I found meaning in service to others. I cling to it like a blanket on a cold night. In that way, my good deeds do more for me than the people I help.”

  “I need something to cling to,” I said. “I’m lost.”

  “For today and the foreseeable future, your only job is to grow physically strong. Our Lord brought you and Percy together for a reason. Have a little faith.”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  “That’s all I can ask.” She squeezed my hand. “Keep the hankie. I must go now. I have several appointments I cannot break. I’ll check on you upon my return.”

  “Thank you.” It was all I could think to say, even though I’d uttered those same words many times in the last few days. I could only hope she understood how genuine my gratitude was.

  11

  Estelle

  Several weeks passed. Each day I felt a little better than the day before. By the end of the third week, I felt ready to return to normal activities. My milk had dried up by the fourth day of binding, just as the ladies had said it would. I no longer looked pregnant.

  Despite being bedridden, I’d developed a routine. Mrs. Bancroft visited after breakfast, and we would chat for a few minutes. It was during those times that I learned more about Mrs. Bancroft’s work with the poor.

  After she left for her appointments, I napped or read until Penelope brought my lunch and sat with me for a few minutes. From her I learned a lot about the household, including the antics of one little girl named Clara.

  In the late afternoons, Dr. Bancroft dropped in on me and often stayed to visit. During that time, he told me more about his life, including his years at medical school and stories from his practice. He didn’t speak of the war much, but that wasn’t unusual for the boys who were blessed enough to come home. Still, I could see the memories of those horrid days and nights lurking in his eyes.

  Mrs. Bancroft and Percival seldom mentioned his wife. I came to understand as the weeks unfolded that she had been at the asylum for the entirety of Clara’s life. In fact, she’d never met her mother. Although Mary Bancroft still existed, she was absent from conversation.

  At the beginning of my third week of convalescence, I was allowed to get out of bed for more than just a bath. In fact, Percival encouraged me to walk up and down the hallway several times a day. I was only too happy to follow his direction. The idleness of being bedridden was enough to drive me mad.

  To occupy my time during the long days of recuperation, I read novels from the family library. Mrs. Bancroft brought me a leather-bound journal as a gift, encouraging me to write down my feelings. At first, I resisted, thinking it was nothing more than busy work. However, after a few days of jotting down random thoughts, I found it somewhat addictive. Talking about oneself when no one could hear proved to be therapeutic.

  I wrote about Constantine a lot, detailing our time together so that I would not forget. An urgency to catalog our memories had become almost an obsession. One I could not let go of until I’d written about every last moment we’d spent together.

  During these musings, I asked myself difficult questions about my own behavior. Would it have made a difference if I’d not succumbed to desire that afternoon? Would he still be alive if we’d acted differently? The outcome was impossible to predict. Still, I found myself contemplating the chain of events that had led to my current circumstance over and over again.

  Was it fate or the result of bad decisions? I would never know. That troubled me most of all. If only I could make sense out of what happened. Find something good. Was it enough to know I’d given my sister the gift of a precious daughter? In my darkest moments, I had to admit to myself that Connie and I were the ones who had lost while my sister and Pierre won. But I didn’t allow myself to dwell upon it overly long. Jealousy and bitterness hurt only me, not them.

  When I finished writing about Connie and me, I spent a day reading through my entries, crying and laughing. Although my grief remained fresh, a sense of gratitude for the time I’d had with him had embedded itself within me. Albeit short, we had enjoyed every moment together. Now I would have the memories to sustain me for the rest of my life.

  I also wrote about Mireille. Sometimes I wrote letters directly to her, telling her about how her father and I had met and what a good man he’d been. I told her about the Bancrofts and their kindness and of Penelope’s entertaining stories of her family. Mostly, though, I told her about myself. Knowing I would never send them gave me a sense of freedom. I could write without fear of anyone ever reading my words. I surprised myself with the details of my life that came to mind as pen was in hand.

  One afternoon, I asked Percival if I might explore more of the house. “Beyond my excursions up and down the hallway?”

  “Are you growing bored?” Percival asked, sitting in his usual chair next to the bed.

  “Growing? I would say that I have grown bored.” I smiled at the raising of his eyebrows. “Not that I’m complaining. You have all taken such good care of me.”

  “If you feel up to it, by all means, explore the rest of the house. The more you’re up and about, the better.”

  “Are there any rooms I’m forbidden to explore?”

  He laughed. “No, we have no rooms with buried secrets. Other than my bedroom and Mother’s, you’re welcome to go anywhere you like.”

  The next morning, Mrs. Bancroft came to see me after breakfast. “I’ve good news. Our favorite doctor has given me permission to invite you to lunch. You may get dressed and join me for lunch downstairs today. Clara’s home for school holiday and is anxious to make your acquaintance.”

  A thrum of excitement rushed through me. “I’d love to come downstairs for a meal with you and Clara.”

  “We’ve caught her peeking through the keyhole several times. The child’s as curious as a cat.”

  “I’m curious about her too,” I said.

  Mrs. Bancroft sat in the chair next to the bed. “There’s something else I’d like to talk to you about. I’d like to offer you a position here. Working as my assistant.”

  “With you?” Was she serious? “But I don’t know how to do anything.”

  “You will soon enough. For the most part, the role involves accompanying me to my various engagements and helping me during my visits to the sick. I can teach you everything you need to know.”