Page 14 of When Stars Dream at Midnight (The Midnight Stars Saga #3)

14

MIREILLE

T he trunk sat in the corner of my room for several months. Every time I walked by it, I debated whether to unlock the latch and lift the lid. My own Pandora’s box? Or simply reminders of my mother that would make me weep? I’d been walking around like a ghost since the news of my mother’s death, going to work early and staying late just to have my mind occupied. I wasn’t sure I had the strength to face what lay within.

Betsy and her mother were worried about me. I could see it in the way they watched me, as if ready to catch me if I fell. Instead, I held myself so tightly wound that nothing could penetrate.

On Christmas Eve, I dressed for dinner early, with a half hour to spare before Mrs. Westbrook had asked me to join them downstairs for cocktails. I paced around the room, staring at that trunk as if it were an enemy. Then I cursed under my breath. I was supposed to be brave. I’d promised Mama and Papa that I would behave courageously, yet here I was, unable to open a trunk with items she clearly felt I should have.

I knelt before the trunk. “Fine. Should we see what you hold?”

I used the key to unlock it and lifted the lid. The scent of Mama’s perfume drifted up immediately. It was so distinctly her, bringing pain and comfort, all wrapped together in the way grief renders us. I pushed the lid all the way open until it fell over the back.

At the top lay our small, worn family Bible, its leather cover softened from years of handling. I ran my fingers over the embossed cross on the front, remembering how my father would read a passage or two out loud to me on lazy Sunday afternoons. His voice, low and resonant, had appealed to me more than the message within the pages of his faith he held so dear.

I opened the Bible, and the pages fell open to the Song of Solomon, where a photo of my parents on their wedding day had been tucked. I studied the photo with care. I’d seen it all my life, displayed on my parents’ dresser, and hadn’t thought much about it one way or the other. The way we do when our safe haven of life hasn’t been torn apart. When we assume everything will always be as it had been, idyllic.

Wasn’t I the lucky one? To have had sixteen years with them, living and loving in a home that smelled of wine and buttery pastries in the winter and hibiscus and jasmine from the garden during warm months? How I’d taken it for granted. The most ordinary of days, as it turned out, were the very best ones of all.

I drew in a deep breath, holding back the sob that rose from my chest as I gazed at that photograph like it was nourishment. They were so young. My mother beamed at the camera, angelic-looking in her formal wedding gown. Papa, tall and slender, wearing a hint of a smile, but the real joy was reflected in his eyes and the jaunty tilt of his jaw. He’d thought himself the luckiest man in all the world.

I turned the photo over to see that Mama had written a verse: The Song of Solomon. My beloved is mine, and I am his; he grazes among the lilies. I imagined what she must have felt on her wedding day, filled with hope and love, looking forward to their future together. Not like my own wedding day, which had been tainted with the knowledge that my beloved was about to leave to fight in a war from which he might not return.

Beneath the Bible were two more photographs. The first was of me as a baby, bundled in a lace blanket, my face round and curious. I turned it over and read the words written in Mama’s tidy script: Mireille, 1922. The second photo was of the three of us, taken on my ninth or tenth birthday. I couldn’t be certain which. We were seated at our kitchen table, a cake in front of me. All of them grinning like fools at whoever held the camera. Probably Maria. She’d often been with us during special occasions.

Next, I pulled out two slim books. Their spines cracked from use. My favorite stories as a child: Le Livre de la Jungle ( The Jungle Book ) by Rudyard Kipling and Sans Famille ( Nobody’s Boy ) by Hector Malot. I smiled faintly, remembering how happy I’d been to curl up on rainy days in our reading nook, losing myself within the stories.

I thought of Peter then. Of our conversation about our favorite books. Had I told him about these two? I would write to him and tell him what my mother had saved.

Finally, at the very bottom, there was an envelope. My name was written on the front in Mama’s familiar hand.

For Mireille.

With trembling hands, I lifted the flap and pulled out a letter dated a little over a year ago.

October 11, 1941

My dearest Mireille,

If you are reading this letter, it means I am no longer with you. As much as I hope you’ll never have the need to read this, I couldn’t leave it to chance. The truth that I’ve carried all these years, your father too, must be shared at long last. I could not bear the thought of leaving this world without telling you the truth. It will be a bitter pill for you. I know that. But you deserve to know.

Though I raised you as my own, and loved you more deeply than words can express, I am not the one who gave you life. Your mother—your true mother—is my sister, Estelle. She and I are twins, not identical. Opposites, in fact. She is dark and tall, whereas I take after my mother, small and fair-haired. You look like Estelle, other than your stature. That you get from me. People always said you favored Pierre, but we knew that wasn’t true. We knew who you really looked like.

Estelle fell in love with a wonderful man, Constantine Harris. They were set to be married but it was not to be. He was killed in a car accident shortly before their wedding. By then, she was already carrying you.

Our father, ever controlling, could not abide the shame he believed Estelle would bring to our family. He sent her away to have the baby in secret, but not before she and I had made a decision together. A choice born of love. I was married to your Papa by then, but we’d been unable to conceive. I’d desperately wanted children all my life but had resigned myself that it might not come to be. When Estelle told me she was pregnant, she begged me to take you. She believed your Papa and I could give you the stable, safe life in which a child could thrive. A single mother in 1921 who had been abandoned by her parents had not a chance in the world to take care of a child alone.

Estelle gave birth in our house by the sea, with me holding her hand. Giving you up was nearly impossible for her, but she did it for you, knowing it was the only way. She held you one time. That was all she’d allow herself. Then she left in the middle of the night. It may sound harsh to your ears, but you must remember what we faced back then.

We returned to France for several reasons. Pierre’s family needed him to run the family business, but there were other reasons, too. My father, your grandfather, was a dangerous man. A mobster, for lack of a better term. We discovered that he’d ordered the hit on Constantine. His reasons for that may not ever be fully understood by any of us, but the outcome was the same. Estelle’s heart was broken. You were without a father. Pierre was terrified to be anywhere near my family after that, thus we returned to Bordeaux.

Our mother died when you were a baby. Our father disappeared, leaving behind nothing but questions. I’ve not heard from him in all these years. I suspect he’s deceased by now.

Estelle built a life in America. She married a great man, Percival Bancroft, a widower with a daughter. The irony of that was not lost on us—both raising daughters that were not our own.

Regardless, I can assure you Estelle never stopped loving you, never stopped carrying you in her heart. I wrote to her as often as I could, detailed letters describing your growth through the years. I tried as hard as I could to give her a glimpse into who you were.

Now, I leave you with a choice. Stella lives in New York City with her husband, Percival, and their three daughters, plus Clara, her stepdaughter. She knows I’ve sent you to America but asked that I not send her details. She said she would be too tempted to find you and that it wasn’t fair to disrupt your life in this way. I agreed. Perhaps it was right. Perhaps not.

Once the war broke out, it became impossible for us to correspond. The last thing she knows of you is that you’re in America, safe and well taken care of.

Most likely, your father is dead. It’s been months and months since I heard anything from him. All I know is that he was captured, and he is of Jewish heritage. I can feel it in my bones. He’s gone. Leaving you without any family. I could not forgive myself if you didn’t know that Estelle was out there, loving you all these years. It is your choice about what you do. Whatever it is, I know you will think it through carefully.

You will find her at 960 Park Avenue, New York, NY. The decision is yours, my darling girl. You’ve been loved so very much by all three of us. You did not come from my womb, but you were mine. My girl. My life. My whole heart. I’ll always be with you, looking down from heaven, perhaps dancing with your dear Papa as we watch over you.

Please forgive us all.

All my love,

Mama

The letter slipped from my fingers, landing softly on the floor as the world tilted. I couldn’t breathe. My vision blurred, and I pressed my hands to my chest, wondering if it was possible for a heart to explode from shock.

How could this be?

My mother was not my mother but my aunt. My mother, this Estelle Bancroft, lived in the city in which I worked. I walked by the address listed in the letter all the time on my way into the office.

All this time, she’d been inside.

I buried my face in my hands, trying to breathe. The walls felt close and the air thick.

I sat on the edge of my bed, shivering, the letter crumpled slightly in my hands where my grip had tightened. My heart thudded dully, as if each beat came from somewhere far away. I read the letter again, though the words blurred through the tears.

A knock at the door startled me. “Mireille?” Betsy’s voice was gentle but hesitant. “Are you all right?”

I didn’t answer. I didn’t know what to say. A moment later, the door creaked open, and Betsy stepped inside. Her brows drew together as her gaze fell on the scattered photographs, the open Bible, and the letter still clutched in my hand.

“You opened the trunk?”

“Yes.” I handed her the letter. “Read it.” She unfolded it and read in silence, her eyes widening slightly. When she finished, she set it aside, almost as if it were hot.

“Oh, Mireille. I don’t even know what to say.”

“They lied to me. My whole life. They’re not really my parents. How could they not tell me? And now she’s gone and probably my papa too, and I can’t even ask them why.” I buried my face against Betsy’s shoulder, letting the tears come. “I could have met her when I first came to America. Even lived with them. Instead, Mama sent me to strangers.”

Betsy pulled me closer, her embrace firm and steady. “They felt like they didn’t have any choice.”

“It doesn’t make it hurt any less.”

“No,” Betsy said softly. “I can imagine. But she was still your mother. She raised you. She gave you a life full of love. That doesn’t change. Nothing can change that.”

“Yes. But it’s…” I sucked in a breath, afraid I would choke on my own tears and snot.

“I know, love. I know.”

“I have sisters. Can you believe that?”

“Do you want to meet them? And Estelle. I’ll go with you.”

“I can’t imagine doing so. What would I say to her?”

“In time, you’ll come to a point of reconciliation between what you believed and what was actually true. When that time comes, you’ll want to meet them.” Betsy spoke, not unsympathetically, but with more surety than I cared for at the moment. What did she know? She had her perfect mother and father. Her life made sense. Mine did not.

Not today. Maybe never again.

On Christmas Day, the Westbrooks and I exchanged gifts and enjoyed a lunch of cold roast beef sandwiches. I’d managed to push aside my mother’s letter as best I could, focusing on work and finding gifts for the Westbrooks. I’d written to George to tell him what I’d learned but had not heard back from him. I could only imagine how surprised he would be. He would say encouraging words. Whatever they were, I had not gotten them yet.

The Westbrooks all seemed at a loss as to what to say about my discovery. Even Mrs. Westbrook, who seemed to have a natural inclination for saying something meaningful and wise about almost any situation, couldn’t come up with anything. I hated that they all worried about me, especially when I was fine, safe, and well-fed, and warm, whereas George and Peter spent every day fighting for our freedom.

One night, I’d written a letter to my mother, telling her how confused and sad she’d left me. Getting the words onto the paper helped. When I was finished, I tossed the whole thing into the fire.

The next evening, I’d just come into the parlor to enjoy some music on the phonograph and a hot toddy when the doorbell rang.

Mrs. Westbrook looked up from the book I’d given her for Christmas— A Field Guide to the Birds of Eastern and Central North America by Roger Tory Peterson. It was a new edition with updates since the original one published in 1934. All color drained from her cheeks. “Who could that be on Christmas Day?”

We all knew the answer. A telegram.

I started to shake. Please, no. Not bad news.

Mr. Westbrook rose from his chair by the fire, his unlit pipe hanging from the side of his mouth. “I’ll see. You ladies stay put.” His hand shook as he set his pipe on the coffee table.

I stared down at my own hands, folded in my lap, and held my breath.

Mr. Westbrook returned a moment later. He seemed to have aged in the minute it took to answer the door. “Mireille…it’s addressed to you.”

George. Not Peter. The telegram about George would come to his wife.

I shook my head. “I can’t. Someone else has to open it.”

Betsy stood, taking the thin, folded piece of paper from her father. I glimpsed the official stamp on the outside. “War Department.”

The telegram fluttered in Betsy’s hands as she unfolded it and read the contents. “It’s George. He’s gone. December 10th.”

“Read it. Please,” I asked, my voice raspy.

Betsy’s voice shook as she read: "The War Department regrets to inform you that your husband, Lieutenant George Winchester, was killed in action on December 10, 1942, in the North Atlantic. Further details will follow by an official letter. Please accept our deepest sympathy for your great loss."

A howl rose up from my belly like that of an animal caught in a painful trap. I wrapped around my middle as if that would keep me from falling apart. I lurched forward in the chair. Darkness washed over me, took me under. George. Dear sweet, funny George. How was it possible to lose him now? When I needed him so desperately.

I looked up, hoping it was all a mistake and they were going to tell me it was only a dream. A nightmare. But they didn’t.

On the couch, Betsy and Mrs. Westbrook clung to each other, shocked expressions plastered on their pretty faces. Mr. Westbrook retreated to a corner of the room and bowed his head, fists clenched at his sides. He sank onto the piano bench, white as an alabaster stone and as silent as one, too.

“I’m so sorry, darling,” Mrs. Westbrook said to me. “He was such a good boy. Our boy.” Her voice cracked, and she drew in a breath that I thought for a moment might break her in half.

Betsy began to cry silently while pressing a handkerchief to her mouth.

“This cannot be,” I said. “I cannot lose him, too. I won’t survive. Not this.”

This seemed to wake Mr. Westbrook from his haze. He got up and crossed the room to me, gathering me into his arms, and let me weep into his coat that smelled faintly of his pipe smoke.