by Brenda Joyce
She gingerly sat in one of the chairs facing him. How painful it must have been, to watch your mother dying and then to have to leave to join a brand-new family, people who were complete strangers. Bragg would have been twelve years old at the time, Calder ten. Other brothers might have become close in such a circumstance, but that had not been the case with Bragg and Hart. That, too, was sad.
Francesca could not begin to imagine how difficult it had been.
She realized Bragg was watching her. He said softly, “You do not have to look at me like that. There is no need for pity, although some sorrow is in order. It all worked out for the best. If Lily had not died, Francesca, I do not know what kind of man I would have become. And the same is true for Calder.”
She nodded. “But the story still hurts me in my heart. It always will.”
His gaze moved over her face. “And that is why you are so special,” he said.
She stiffened, her pulse beginning to pound. “Am I special, Bragg?”
He looked away, his jaw flexing. Clearly he had spoken without thought, as, clearly, he did not like his choice of words. “You know you are unique.” He continued to avoid her regard.
She bit her lip. Too well, she now recalled his words last night. She did not want to think about them now, as they had sounded so ominous. And Hart had said they were star-crossed. “Am I special to you?”
He jerked, meeting her gaze. Somehow, he was on his feet. “Francesca.”
She was also standing. “You kissed me last night. Again.”
It was a moment before he could speak. “Believe me, I have not forgotten.”
She would have been elated, except that his expression was so daunting, so grim. “What is it? What is it that you wish to say to me? Why do you kiss me as if you cannot live without me and then look at me as if the world is about to end?”
“Because I do not want to hurt you.”
She felt her ears begin to ring. She gripped the edge of his desk. She felt light-headed now. “There is something, isn’t there? There is something between us. Something wrong.”
“Yes.”
Oh, God. She must not faint. “You have a commitment,” she whispered, slowly going into shock. “An understanding. Something.”
“Yes.”
“Oh, God,” she said, realizing her world was about to end. “There is another woman.”
“I did not want to tell you this way. I did not want this to happen.”
“There is another woman?” She gasped in disbelief.
“Yes.”
She stared at him, in shock.
He stared back.
“I do not understand,” she heard herself say. But of course she did not understand. She loved Rick Bragg. She had fallen in love with him within moments of their meeting. He was the most honorable and committed man she had ever met. And he loved her. She felt certain of it.
No, she did not understand.
Commitments, understandings, could be broken.
And surely he did not love someone else.
“Francesca,” Bragg said. Suddenly he had come out from behind his desk and he had looped his arm around her waist. “Sit down.”
She looked into his golden eyes and he looked back and she trusted him completely. “Tell me,” she whispered, sagging against his body.
“I am married,” he said.
EIGHTEEN
Monday, February 3, 1902—3:00 P.M.
Francesca looked at him and knew she had misheard. For this was certainly not a possibility; she had not read one word in the newspapers about a wife, and he had no wife at No. 11 Madison Avenue. No, she had misheard; either that or she was dreaming.
“Francesca?” he asked tersely, his gaze unwavering upon her face.
She turned and found herself in the circle of his arms. “I thought you just said that you were married,” she said unsteadily.
“I did,” he returned unsteadily.
She pushed him away, overcome with disbelief. This had to be a dream of the worst sort, a nightmare! This could not be possible. She had expected some kind of understanding, a pre-engagement, perhaps. Something that might, ultimately, be changed or broken. But not a marriage. A marriage was impossible.
But she had not misheard. He had not denied it.
And last night he had kissed her, wildly, passionately, and uncontrollably.
She stiffened.
“Don’t look at me that way!” Bragg said quickly. “This is not at all what you are thinking.”
In that one moment, she imagined another woman—a wife. Someone beautiful, intelligent; someone who shared his bed, his life. In that one single moment, Francesca felt hatred.
“Francesca,” he said tersely, “I have not seen my wife in four years.”
The hatred, as unfamiliar to her as the air on the moon might be, vanished. “What?” She reached for the arm of the chair; otherwise, she would surely fall down.
“I have never wanted to make this explanation to you,” Bragg said harshly. “Damn it, Francesca, I have never intended for there to be anything between us.”
“Then you should not have kissed me—twice.”
He stared at her. There was genuine anguish in his eyes.
“Are you going to say anything?” she cried. “I mean ...” She stopped. She had been about to shout that he had just ruined her life. She had intended to marry him and spend her life with him, fighting the ills of society, fighting for the prevalence of justice, the pursuit of liberty. Of course, he did not know the extent of her feelings; he had only witnessed her passion. “Do you love her?” she heard herself ask harshly.
Something very close to hatred filled his eyes. But it wasn’t hatred, and when he spoke, she heard the distaste in his tone and knew she had just glimpsed revulsion. “No.”
She did not move. She stared at him, beginning to feel her heart ripping apart inside of her breast. Oh, how painful it was. How could this be happening? “You kissed me. You misled me.”
“I did not mean to. It is very hard, fighting my feelings for you. Francesca, you seem to think me a saint. I am not a saint; I am nothing but a man in a moral dilemma of his own making.”
The tears welled, finally. It was becoming difficult to breathe. “Who is she? Where is she? Why haven’t you seen her in four years?”
“Please don’t cry,” he whispered, touching her face.
Fury galvanized her. “Don’t touch me! Don’t ever touch me again!”
He dropped his hand, blanching. “I will tell you everything, but do not hate me. I cannot live with that.”
“I don’t know how I feel right now. No. I know how I feel. I feel betrayed. Crushed. Run over by a lorry.” She felt tears trickling down her cheeks.
“You and I have only known one another a few weeks. We only met on the eighteenth of January,” he whispered.
He knew the exact date they had first met. Francesca hugged herself, biting her lower lip, hoping to keep it from trembling like a mewling baby’s. It did not work. “How could you kiss me when you knew you had a wife waiting for you, somewhere else? My God, I thought you were honorable.”
“My wife is not waiting for me. Although perhaps she is waiting for me to drop dead.” He stared grimly at her.
Her heart felt as if it had stopped. “You don’t mean that.” Did he? Did his wife hate him enough to wish him dead? Should she care? Of course she should not, but she did!
“Oh, I do mean it. Leigh Anne would be free at last if I died.”
Her name was Leigh Anne. “Why isn’t she with you? Where is she? Why haven’t you seen her in years?”
His gaze was searching. “Do you want to sit down?” He gestured at the chair. He seemed afraid to touch her, as he should well be.
“No,” she snapped.
“Very well.” He looked so unhappy now. Was it due to the prospect of sharing this truth with her? Or did merely speaking about his ill-fated marriage bring him such distress?
“She is from Bo
ston,” Bragg said slowly. “I met her in my first year at Harvard Law School. I fell instantly, madly, in love.” He stopped, grimacing. Francesca winced. “I asked her to marry me within the first three months of our having met. Rathe begged me to wait; I refused to listen.”
His every word was cutting into her like a little, finely honed knife. “She must be very special,” Francesca said bitterly. “For you to have been so smitten so instantly.”
“She looks like an angel, a blue-eyed, dark-haired angel. I could not see past her face and form. Francesca, there is little angelic about her.”
His wife was so gorgeous that she looked like an angel. Another knife wound. Oh, well. Maybe this conversation would kill her. That might be the proper ending to this oh, so sordid and ugly affair.
She must not weep now.
“I am hurting you. I am sorry.”
She shrugged. “So you married her right away.”
“By the end of my first year at law school.” He studied her. “I was a fool.”
She stared at him, wishing he would expound upon the why and how of it, but he did not. “What happened?”
“Simply? I refused an offer in one of the nation’s top legal firms, an offer that would have taken us to Washington, D.C., and I opened up a private practice instead. A practice of criminal law, one that was not very lucrative.” He smiled sardonically. “The poor and the indigent cannot afford legal fees, you see.”
Her heart tried to move her with love and compassion; Francesca refused to heed it. “And?”
“Leigh Anne told me I was a sorry fool, and she left me. She packed her bags, went to Europe, and has been there ever since.”
Francesca stared. “I am not sure I understand,” she said slowly.
“She expected a life of wealth and glamour. After all, she was marrying a Bragg. She knew I had political aspirations as well. Somehow, she failed to truly understand me. She could not accept a life of genteel poverty, with her husband working long into the night to defend people she would cross the street to avoid. She did not like going to parties alone and being asked where her husband was. When she went to Europe she told me, very explicitly, that she would come back when I accepted the position I had turned down, or another of similar prestige and economy.”
Francesca’s eyes felt wide. “She blackmailed you?”
“Yes, she did. That August, three months after she had left, I went after her, truly thinking her a good-hearted person who had committed a folly, erroneously believing that she loved me and that she had missed me and that she would come back.” His eyes were now impossible to read. “I found her in the south of France, with her lover, and I returned home.”
Her heart won. “Oh, Bragg!” Francesca cried, appalled. She reached out to touch him, realized what she was about, and dropped her hand before making any physical contact.
“Do not feel sorry for me. I am paying for my stupidity and my rashness, for my complete lack of judgment.” He shrugged. “She remains in Europe. Although we do not communicate, we have an understanding. She does as she pleases and I pay her bills.”
Francesca stared. “She is an awful woman,” she heard herself whisper.
“Do not pity me, as I cannot stand her and I prefer that we remain separated. I am sorry she spends so much of my money, but that cannot be helped.” His eyes were dark. He jammed both hands in the pockets of his trousers.
Francesca wanted to ask a dozen questions. Did he have any feelings for her? Did she still have a lover? Would he ever consider a divorce? She wet her lips and asked, carefully, “But you did go to Washington. I seem to recall an article I read that clearly stated you were practicing in the capital before accepting this appointment.”
“I took on a partner in Boston and left my practice there in his capable and fervent hands. I moved to D.C. to continue the very same work, but at the same time I could also devote my spare time to the politics of this nation. You know I am invested in public service, Francesca,” he said.
She nodded. “Your father took a position in Cleveland’s first administration, did he not?”
He smiled briefly at her, pleased. “Yes, he did. He was secretary of commerce. My first years with Rathe and Grace were in Washington, D.C.”
Clearly the memories were good ones. Francesca had almost smiled. “Why didn’t she come back? Why doesn’t she come back now?”
“I still live in genteel poverty, Francesca,” he said evenly. “I did not take lucrative cases in D.C, where much of my work was done gratuitously, and my position now pays very little, as I am sure you must know.”
Francesca just could not understand a woman so motivated by wealth and position. On the other hand, she saw it every day, for the debutantes seeking husbands in her social circle all were determined to marry either money or a title. “Maybe she will see the light, one day,” Francesca somehow offered.
He stared at her. “I do not want her here. Not now, not ever.”
“So you would never forgive her?” Did that mean he still loved her?
“I could forgive her the dozens of lovers. I could forgive her for spending every cent I earn. Yes, I could forgive her, easily, in fact. I may never forgive myself for ruining my own private life, but her character is defective and she I can forgive. But I do not love her, and what is even worse, I do not like her, and worse than that, I have no respect. We have nothing in common. Living apart is the best solution to a terrible mismatch.”
She couldn’t help thinking about Connie and Montrose— but they were not a mismatch.
“Do you hate me, Francesca?”
His soft words, uttered firmly and without hesitation, cut into her thoughts. She looked into his eyes. Damn it, her heart still trusted him. Her heart would not take this for an answer, for the answer, and it seemed to have a will of its own, beating inside of her breast with compassion, understanding, and love. “I could never hate you,” she heard herself say.
He did not move.
Nor did she.
The silence had become infused with tension. And the tension of betrayal and anger had changed. Francesca was breathless and disbelieving. He had just told her that he had a wife, yet she was standing there, and for her, nothing had changed. Dear God, he remained a man she admired, respected, trusted, and still loved. He remained the man she wanted, not just with all of her heart but with her treacherous body as well.
“I have to go.”
“You must.” he agreed tightly.
Francesca turned, felt more tears welling, and, somewhat blinded by them, moved to the door. Before she could open it his hand pressed upon it, so she could not open it if she had tried. Francesca froze.
“I can’t let you leave, like this, after this,” he said roughly.
She turned and was so close to being in his arms. “I don’t want to leave like this.” Their eyes met and held. “But you are forbidden to me now. You will never divorce her, will you?” The question just popped out. But the moment was too intense, the stakes too high, for her to regret it.
He hesitated. “No. A divorce would never allow me into a significant public office.”
“One day, you will run for the Senate.”
“Yes. One day. In the future.”
She started to cry. “And I will be proud of you.”
“I know you will,” he whispered. “Francesca, please.”
“No.” She shook her head. “I have to go.” She turned blindly, tugging at the door.
He opened it for her, as she could not seem to do so. “When will I see you again?”
She fled into the corridor. She didn’t know, but that wasn’t why she did not answer him. She simply could not speak.
She paused on the wide front step before the house where she lived with her husband and her daughters, the house that Papa had built for them as a wedding gift. Connie stared at the front door, trembling and trying to breathe properly. She reminded herself that this was her house as well as Neil’s and that she should have gone h
ome last night, as she had promised Mama she would do, and that everything would be fine, just fine—that everything was fine. But she saw not the gleaming teakwood door she faced, which was closed in front of her; instead, she saw Neil.
And in her mind’s eye, he was with the beautiful Eliza Burton.
What was she doing? Why was she there? This no longer felt like home.
“Lady Montrose?” Mrs. Partridge asked, standing behind her with Charlotte at her side and Lucinda in her arms. “Shall we go in?”
Connie heard her, but only vaguely, as if from a distance, or as if she were in a dream. Last night she had intended to do as Julia had asked. But when she had gone to her room she had sat down in front of the fire, staring mindlessly at it, and the dancing flames had reminded her of hell, and that had frightened her enough to take a small dose of laudanum. No, what had frightened her had been the eeriest and most horrifying thought—what if she were dead and her life, exactly as it was, with a treacherous husband, was hell?
Of course, the laudanum had soothed her and caused her to lie down. She had not risen again until the following morning, and somehow, it had taken all day to pack up the single trunk she shared with the girls.
“Lady Montrose?” Mrs. Partridge’s voice was soft with concern. “Let us go in. Lucinda must be fed.”
Images of her life rolled through her mind, all of them having occurred from the moment she had met Neil. That first heart-wrenching introduction, his first kiss, the whirlwind of parties and balls, their wedding celebration, their wedding night. Connie started, as Mrs. Partridge tugged on her hand.
“What?” she said, fixing a smile upon her face.
“We should go inside,” Mrs. Partridge said. She was a tall, thin woman with kind blue eyes, and her gaze, behind her spectacles, was so worried it gave Connie a moment’s pause.
What was she so worried about? “Of course we must go inside.” Connie pushed open the door. Mrs. Partridge was acting strangely, she decided, as if they had been loitering on the front step.
A doorman instantly held the door open as Charlotte raced past everyone, shrieking, “Daddy! Daddy!”
