My stomach rumbled. I hadn’t eaten since I’d left home that morning. I’d come up on an earlier train than I normally did, as I’d woken before sunrise and could not fall back asleep. It was strange, actually, the way in which I’d awakened with the thought—I must go to Mary early today. So much for intuition. She’d not been happy to see me. It would have served me better to stay in bed and read.

  I reached into my leather briefcase for the sandwiches our cook had packed for me—ham and cheese on sourdough bread with a dab of sweet mustard. My favorite. The women in my house spoiled me. They felt sorry for me, witnessing how alone I felt since Mary grew ill. Regardless, the small kindnesses with which they bestowed me were appreciated, no matter the reason.

  I untied the string that held the parchment paper together and brought the sandwich to my mouth. While chewing, I felt a gaze upon me and looked up to see the woman staring at me with hunger in her eyes.

  “Would you like a sandwich?”

  “What? No. No, thank you.” She flushed and looked away. Her voice had a honey sweetness. Soothing and nurturing. Almost like a lullaby.

  “I have another one.”

  Her gaze flickered back my way. A quiver in her chin told me was struggling to decide if she should accept my offer. Her pride said no, yet she was clearly hungry.

  “Please, take it.” I pulled the second sandwich from my bag and held it out to her. “My cook always packs too much for one person. She’s trying to fatten me up, I think.”

  “I don’t imagine it’s working too well.” A flicker of a smile twitched at the corner of her full mouth. “If you insist, I would be grateful. I got here hours early for my train and have had to wait.”

  I handed her the parchment-wrapped sandwich. She set her satchel at her feet. The buttons on her coat strained against the movement.

  That’s when it hit me. She was either pregnant or had just given birth. I could see the fullness of her middle, even though her long limbs appeared slender.

  If she’d just given birth, where was the baby? Had he or she died during childbirth? Stillborn? Or complications during labor? There were many scenarios, and I’d seen them all in my line of work.

  We ate in silence for a few minutes. I was happy for the distraction from my own life as I sat there trying to guess who she was and what had brought her to a train station alone and in her condition.

  When we were finished, she folded the empty paper into a square and handed it back to me. “Thank you very much. I feel better already.”

  “Are you headed to the city?” I asked, sticking our empty wrappers into my bag.

  “Yes, sir, I am.”

  “I’m headed that way myself,” I said. “Do you live there or just visiting?”

  “Visiting, I guess. I’m not sure if I’ll stay or not. Do you live there?”

  “I have a town house on Riverside Drive. I also own a cottage by the ocean but unfortunately, I don’t get there as often as I’d hoped.”

  “Hoped? Past tense? Do you no longer have hope that you’ll spend more time there in the future?”

  I chuckled. This was an odd girl who said surprising things. She must keep it interesting for whoever spent time with her. Did she have a husband? No ring evident under her glove as far as I could tell. Had she given birth out of wedlock?

  “No, I simply meant that I’m busy with work and family. My daughter attends school in the city, which keeps us from traveling during the term.”

  “How old is she?”

  “She’s six. Although precocious enough to be far older.”

  “An old soul?”

  “Is there really such a thing?” I asked.

  She lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “It’s a turn of phrase, but I’ve often thought there might be something to it. I heard a teacher describe me that way once. I took it as a compliment, even if it wasn’t intended to be.”

  “Why wouldn’t it have been a compliment?”

  She hesitated before answering, as if deciding how forthright to be. “Miss Walker was not particularly enamored with me, so I assumed the worst. My twin sister was the one they liked. Everyone liked her. Likes her. She’s not dead.”

  “Are you identical?”

  A smile, both sad and sweet, lifted her mouth. “No. We look nothing alike. She’s small and blonde. And I’m…not.”

  “I’m a medical doctor and always find twins absolutely fascinating.”

  “You’re a doctor?”

  “Yes, are you surprised?” I asked.

  “A little.”

  “Why, may I ask?”

  “You seem like a wealthy man of leisure, living off his family’s money.”

  I laughed, delighted with this strange, outspoken creature. “That is exactly what was expected of me. My father died when I was young, leaving my mother and me very comfortable. I could have chosen to live that way, but medicine called to me instead. Thus, I went to school and became a doctor.”

  “What did you mean by—live that way?”

  “I mean, useless. A man who takes up space and not much else. I’ve always found that type of person repugnant. One should be useful, don’t you think? Employ one’s talents for good?”

  “I’ve no idea. I’m a woman. Which means no one cares if I’m talented or intelligent as long as I’m pretty and well-mannered and do as I’m told.”

  It was the truth. I could hardly argue with her when all evidence was to the contrary. “You don’t seem like a woman who does what she’s told.”

  Her eyes widened. “How do you know that?”

  “Merely a guess.”

  “I was the twin who did all the wrong things, whereas my sister was perfect.”

  “Are you exceptionally close, like some twins?” I asked.

  “Not in the way you mean.”

  “How do you think I mean?”

  She fixed her gaze directly upon me, a slight lift of her thick eyebrows transforming her. “We’re fraternal twins—we don’t have a secret language.”

  “That’s a relief,” I said, smiling.

  “Why?” she asked, deadly serious.

  “I was only teasing.”

  “Oh.” She flushed and looked down at her lap, flexing her glove-clad fingers as if preparing for a fight. “I usually have a good sense of humor. I’m not myself today.”

  “Did it bother you that your teachers liked your sister better?” I surprised myself with the question. But what harm could it do? I’d probably never see her again. For whatever reason, she evoked my curiosity in a way people seldom did.

  “Everyone likes her better. It’s all I’ve ever known, so I never questioned their judgment, just naturally assumed they are right. There was something wrong with me. Mauve was always pretty and delicate, with light blond curls and a sweet nature. I’m sure what you say is true—some children are easier to raise than others.”

  “Yes, but it shouldn’t be that way, no matter what your personality or challenges. Children should be loved by their parents. Do you feel resentful? I wouldn’t blame you.”

  She shook her head. “No, not resentful. Resigned is a better word.”

  There was something profoundly sad about this girl. My chest ached, thinking about how lonely it must have felt to her growing up.

  She continued to gaze at me, cocking her head to one side. “It’s interesting. Most people make excuses for my parents or pretend like I’m imagining the discrepancies.” She chuckled, deep and throaty. “That it’s all in my imagination and everyone loves us equally, even though it’s not.”

  “I’d not insult you with such platitudes. You’re clearly a woman who knows her own mind and isn’t afraid of the truth.”

  “Have you seen it in your work? One sibling loved and adored while the other one is merely tolerated?”

  “I have, actually.” It was rare that a parent’s preference was so obvious, but there were times when they didn’t bother to hide it. “Sometimes it’s for a practical reason. As in, boys are perceived as more valuable because of what they can do for the family.”

  “What about with sisters?”

  “I’m not sure. Perhaps some children are easier to raise, less demanding or curious and happy to do what they’re told without question. My mother’s more perceptive about that kind of thing. She often lectures me about paying more attention to my patients’ psychological needs and feelings. I’m too focused on making them well. Under difficult circumstances for the most part. My patients are poor. Immigrants mostly.”

  “Really?” She lifted both dark eyebrows.

  “It’s where I can do the most good,” I said, hoping it didn’t sound pretentious.

  Her gaze traveled the length of me, perhaps taking in the expensive cut and fabric of my suit.

  “And have you? Done good?”

  “I’d like to think so.”

  She placed a hand over her mouth, stifling a yawn.

  “You’re tired. If you’d like to rest, I’ll wake you when we get to the city,” I said.

  “You’re my savior.” She yawned, this time outright. “A sandwich and a nap are just what I needed.”

  “Happy to be of service, Miss…what is your name?”

  Her gaze darted upward and to the right. “Stella. McCord. But you may call me Stella.”

  A shiftiness in her eyes made me wonder—had she made up the name on the spot? What did it matter? I would never see her again. Anyway, I was probably imagining it. Inventing something that wasn’t there.

  “I’m Dr. Bancroft but please, call me Percival. Or Percy.” I smiled. “Only my mother calls me Percy.”

  “Thank you. I shall call you Percival. Percy should be saved for your mother and not given to a stranger.” She gave me a weak smile. “Percival. Such a nice name. It suits you.”

  “How so?”

  “It’s a smart name. Elegant, too. A name for a great man. Do you feel any pressure to live up to it?”

  I shook my head, chuckling. “I’ve never thought about it before.”

  “That’s probably best. The less expectations we have of ourselves, the better.”

  I didn’t reply for a moment, thinking about this unusual girl with the mournful eyes. How was someone so young so jaded? What had happened to her?

  She shifted, wincing.

  “Are you unwell?” I asked.

  “I’ve been…I had surgery recently but I’m fine. A little sore is all. No need to call a doctor.”

  I laughed softly. “Thank goodness for that.” A second later, I asked, “May I inquire as to the nature of the surgery?”

  She looked out the window, gazing at the passing landscape, green and lush this time of year. “It’s something private.”

  I knew it. She’d had a baby. “Well, you let me know if I can be of any help, all right?”

  “I will, thank you. I’m very tired, though. The bone-weary kind. Have you ever felt it?”

  “More than once, I’m afraid.” I took a thick scarf from my bag. “Here. Roll this up for your head and take a rest. I’ll keep a close watch on you.”

  “Thank you.” She took the knit scarf from me and wadded it into a pillow-like shape, then placed it between her head and the glass window. Within seconds, her breathing told me she was already asleep.

  Whatever her name or circumstances—she looked tragically angelic, as if she’d fallen through the clouds to land on earth, lost and bewildered.

  I remained seated for the rest of my travels, anxious to keep close watch on Miss Stella McCord. On occasion I went to the dining car for coffee or a drink, depending on the time of day. However, I couldn’t leave her alone and vulnerable to predatory men or thieves.

  I took the book I’d brought with me from my bag but found I couldn’t concentrate. Instead, with an unfocused gaze, I faced the window.

  A few minutes later, the train slowed and came to shuddering halt. Several passengers got up to exit. A few came aboard to take their place. This was the second-to-last stop before we reached Grand Central Terminal. Miss McCord would not have long to rest. Where would she go after this? Would there be someone waiting for her? For that matter, where had she come from?

  We were approaching Grand Central Terminal. I glanced over at Miss McCord. As if she felt my gaze upon her, she stirred and opened her eyes.

  “We’re arriving at our destination,” I said.

  She didn’t answer, simply stared at me as if I were completely unfamiliar. Had sleep wiped me from her memory? Seconds later, she appeared to remember our previous conversation. “It’s you. My guardian angel.”

  “If I’m the one God sent, you might be in trouble.”

  8

  Estelle

  My eyes felt as if a layer of dust covered the lenses. At first, I had not remembered the dark-haired man who peered at me from a pair of light blue eyes. Then, however, the memories from earlier slipped into my consciousness. This was Dr. Bancroft. Percival. Despite the woolliness of waking from a deep sleep, our pleasant conversation from earlier returned. He’d been kind, offering me a sandwich and to look over me while I slept.

  I smiled, pushing stray strands of hair from damp cheeks and forehead. The train’s car was stifling hot, and I felt as if I’d not stopped sweating since I went into labor. “Thus far, you’re doing an excellent job. Thank you again for the sandwich and sleep.”

  “You’re most welcome,” Percival said.

  Now what was I to do?

  “Are you feeling all right?” Percival asked, watching me carefully with eyes that held deep sorrow. Pain he tried to hide, but as the poets say, the eyes are the mirrors to the soul.

  “I’m well enough.” A lie. I wasn’t well. I’d been hot but now I felt cold, shaky, and disoriented. Was this typical after having a baby? Thinking of getting to my feet and walking into the station and then out to the world made me want to burst into tears.

  “Is there someone here to fetch you?” Percival asked.

  “There is not. Sadly.” I clamped my teeth together to keep them from clattering. I was so cold.

  “You’re shivering,” he said.

  “Yes, I’m a little chilled.” He was polite enough not to mention that it was a warm afternoon and stuffy on the train.

  “Please, allow me to be of service.” His expression was one of sympathy. Not predatory. This was not a man who would hurt me. I don’t know how I knew that, but I did. “You shouldn’t be carrying anything heavy after surgery. I believe you may be feverish.”

  “I only have the one bag,” I said lamely, gesturing toward the one stowed at my feet. Feverish? Did that mean I had an infection?

  He stood and offered me his hand. “Allow me to escort you from the train. I can arrange for a cab to take you to your destination.”

  “I don’t have one. A destination.” I gave him my hand, grateful for the assist to my feet. The pain had not lessened while I slept—it felt as if a sharp rock had smashed into my private parts. “I’m new to the city and have yet to secure lodgings or work.”

  “I see. Perhaps I can be of some help.” His eyes crinkled attractively at the corners. As I’d noticed before, he was quite handsome, blessed with a strong jawline and high cheekbones. Although a lonesome quality clung to him like tobacco smoke in a tweed jacket. I guessed him to be in his late twenties or early thirties.

  Earlier, when he’d addressed me with such kindness, I’d been relieved to see he wore a wedding ring, which meant he was only offering assistance out of compassion, not for seduction.

  The lie about my name had rolled surprisingly easily from my tongue. I must remember that I was Stella McCord now. Stella had been a nickname Mauve had called me when we were small. Where I’d come up with McCord, I could not say. As I’d noted before, creativity was an elusive little muse. Who knew from whence it came? Regardless of the answer, I was venturing into a whole new way of life—one built from lies and sorrow. I was a liar.

  “Let’s get you out of here and somewhere comfortable,” Percival said.

  I was too tired to resist and merely nodded my consent.

  We disembarked and then walked slowly toward the main part of the station. My typical quick gait wasn’t possible. Percival seemed to intuitively understand, tucking my arm close to his side and walking with care while holding my bag in his other hand.

  We entered the bustling Main Concourse, grand and elegant. A mural of constellations and stars in gold against a blue background had been painted on the ceiling. Early-morning light coming in the large east-facing glass windows highlighted the marble floor, classical columns, and arches. The four-faced opal clock atop the information booth brought memories of an enjoyable lunch at the Oyster Bar with my mother and sister. We’d come to the city for a shopping excursion before our season had begun. How happy I’d been that day. How naive.

  A dart of grief almost brought me to my knees. Instead, I stumbled slightly. Percival steadied me, then led me away from the congested pathway of hurried people.

  “Stella, although I fear you’ll think me impertinent, you have me worried. Even if I were not a doctor, I can clearly see you’re in pain. You have no place to go. Leaving you seems reckless and cruel. In any event, my mother would not forgive me if I left you alone.”

  “You’re very generous, but I’ll be fine. I’ll rent a room in a boardinghouse and find a position somewhere.” All I wanted was to sleep for days. But that would not be possible. I had to find work. Unfortunately, I had no skills other than knowing what kind of sandwiches to serve at a tea party.

  “Do you know the city at all?”

  “A little,” I said.

  “Please, accept my invitation to come home with me. My mother will look after you. In fact, she can assist you in finding a place to live and perhaps even a position.”

  “I’m not educated in anything. Other than finishing school.”

  His eyes glittered with curiosity, but he didn’t ask further questions. “Mother’s a resourceful woman.”

  My mind raced. Should I take him up on his offer? He could be a killer. Maybe he picked women up on the train and took them home to kill them.