Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahill 06]

by Deadly Promise

  “Almost five. Why?”

  He should be there at any moment. “I had better disrobe,” she said, hiding a real smile. “Sarah, your chignon is coming apart.”

  Sarah shrugged, clearly indifferent, but her eyes narrowed. “Is something going on that I should know about?”

  “Of course not,” Francesca said, stepping behind the lacquered screen. As she began to take off her clothes, she listened to Sarah moving about, arranging her palette and brushes, occasionally humming. Francesca had just slipped on the silk kimono when she heard a different set of footsteps —heavier, male. She tensed, but she was grinning.

  “Sarah, good day. I do hope I am not intruding,” Rourke’s pleasant and smooth voice sounded.

  There was silence.

  Francesca stuck her head around the screen. Sarah looked stunned to see him, and now her cheeks were turning red. “Rourke . . . Bragg . . . ” she stammered. “This is a surprise! I thought you were in Philadelphia.” She sounded breathless, and now she was busily fussing with her brushes and avoiding his gaze.

  “I am in town for the weekend. How are you?”

  “Fine. And you?” Sarah glanced up and colored instantly again.

  “I’m very well, actually, thank you. Is Francesca here? She asked me to meet her here. I need to look at her throat.”

  Sarah stared in surprise. “Is Francesca ill?”

  Francesca decided she should come out. She stepped out from behind the screen, smiling. “Hello, Rourke. No, Sarah, I am not ill. But there was a slight incident last evening,” she said.

  Sarah looked at Francesca’s throat, now exposed, and she gasped, paling. “What happened?!” she cried.

  “I am fine, really,” Francesca said.

  “The wound is a superficial one,” Rourke told Sarah. Then he glanced at Francesca, more precisely at her pale ivory kimono. “This should be an interesting portrait,” he murmured. “Do I dare ask whose idea this was?”

  Francesca felt herself blush. “I refuse to tell,” she said lightly. “Do not breathe a word of this to anyone, Rourke. If my mother ever learns I am posing nude, well, I cannot even imagine what she will do.”

  Rourke bit back a smile. “Why would I tell? I guess I will never be able to view the finished portrait.”

  Francesca gave him a stern look.

  Rourke laughed wickedly. “Lucky Calder,” he said.

  “That will be up to Mr. Hart,” Sarah said firmly.

  Francesca started. Surely Sarah did not think that Hart would someday publicly display her portrait?

  Sarah stared back. “I think this will be the most amazing work I have ever done. I hate the idea that it will be hidden in Hart’s closet.”

  “Sarah,” Francesca began, flushing.

  “I know. I am being selfish. But you are so beautiful and the painting will be breathtaking. I am determined, in fact.”

  “Sarah—showing my portrait would be scandalous.”

  She sighed. “I know.” She glanced briefly at Rourke, who was listening with interest to their exchange. “Rourke, perhaps you should examine Francesca, so we can get started.”

  Rourke glanced at her, his face impossible to read, and then he tilted up Francesca’s face. As he inspected the wound, Sarah fiddled with her brushes. “Everything is healing cleanly, and there is no infection,” he said with a smile. “How do you feel?”

  “I am fine,” she said cheerfully.

  “I think you are fine, too. Of course, you are a lucky lady,” Rourke said. He faced Sarah, shoving his hands in the pockets of his suit jacket. “A group of us are going to the opera,” he said casually. “Hart, myself, Francesca, and Nicholas D’Archand.” The last was his cousin.

  Francesca almost gasped. She had forgotten entirely about the opera that night. Hart had mentioned it to her on the drive home last night and she had accepted his invitation.

  “It is supposedly the best production of La Bohème in years. We have a box. You’re welcome to join us if you wish,” he added nonchalantly.

  Francesca’s heart beat hard. Was Rourke being polite and companionable, or was he interested in Sarah? Francesca could not tell, as he was so poker-faced. But Sarah was flushing yet again.

  “We can pick you up,” he added, smiling.

  How could Sarah refuse? The man had two deep dimples, twinkling amber eyes, a cleft chin, and the kind of body any woman would love to become lost in. Francesca smiled happily.

  “I was planning to work tonight,” Sarah said then, avoiding his gaze. “Francesca, we really must get started.”

  Francesca felt like kicking her. Was she a fool? “Sarah, do come! I should die alone in the company of three such rakes!” D’Archand, while only eighteen, was a superior ladies’ man. “Please,” she added.

  Sarah met her gaze. She looked distressed. “I really must work on your portrait,” she said softly.

  Francesca gave her an incredulous look.

  Rourke said smoothly, “That’s fine. I understand. And I do agree—it will be an amazing work of art.” He kissed Francesca’s cheek. “I will see you later, then.”

  Francesca looked him in the eye, but if he felt rebuffed or rejected, it was impossible to tell.

  He nodded at Sarah and walked out.

  A silence fell.

  Francesca turned to Sarah, actually angry with her—then saw how miserable she appeared. “Are you all right?”

  Sarah forced a smile. “I am fine. I was just surprised—to see him here. I hadn’t realized he was in town.”

  Francesca seized her arm before she could turn away. “Change your mind. Come with us.”

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

  “Don’t you like Rourke? Isn’t he gorgeous? And kind?” she cried. “He will soon be a wonderful doctor, Sarah, and while I know you are not interested in marriage, he is a catch! He will not be available for long!”

  Sarah jerked away, wide-eyed. “What are you trying to do? And what do his looks have to do with anything? And you are right—he will soon find the woman of his dreams, of that I have no doubt.”

  “I think he likes you,” Francesca said.

  “That is absurd.” Sarah was terse. “He is kind, just as you said, and nothing more. And we are practically sisters,” she added in a huff. “Which is why he is so polite. Francesca, he is a ladies’ man. It is obvious. I am certain he has left a string of broken hearts in Philadelphia.”

  “I don’t think so,” Francesca said urgently. “In fact, I happen to know for a fact that he is not in love with anyone!”

  “You asked him?” Sarah was incredulous and dismayed.

  “I did.” Francesca grinned.

  “Francesca, please, desist! I know you probably think you are doing me a good turn, but you are not! The only thing that interests me is my art. And I am not going to make a fool of myself running after a man like that. You’re mad, Francesca, to think he even has noticed me as a woman. Now, may we please begin?”

  Francesca knew a brick wall when she ran into one. She nodded but refused to give up. She began to plan.

  He stood staring at his reflection in the mirror over the cherry wood vanity, tying his bow tie. From the dressing room he could hear Katie speaking in soft tones and Dot answering in happy giggles. The girls, he knew, were playing with two new dolls, dolls that Leigh Anne had bought for them recently.

  He glanced out of the dressing room and at the bronze clock on the bureau. It was half past six.

  Where was she?

  They were joining Mayor Low and his wife, the Cuttings, and another couple at the opera that night. The opera curtain lifted at half past seven. By now, Leigh Anne should be beside him in the boudoir, applying makeup and getting dressed.

  There was no gown hanging on the ironing rack, freshly pressed and waiting to be put on.

  Where the hell was she?

  Something sick and angry twisted deep inside of him. Was she late? Or had he finally succeeded in chasing her away?
/>   Had she left him? Again?

  He stepped quickly from the boudoir, suddenly finding it airless inside the small dressing room. His heart raced. If she had left, he was pleased. It was what he wanted.

  After all, why else had he been so miserable to her for the past month and a half?

  Images filled his mind: Leigh Anne asleep in their bed, Leigh Anne reading the girls a bedtime story, Leigh Anne at her secretaire, bent over the desk in deep concentration. Leigh Anne in bed, beneath him, smiling and seductive, encouraging him to move deeper, harder, faster. . . .

  He had known all along that it would come to this, hadn’t he? He had known from the moment she had first reappeared in his life that she simply would not stay.

  He was more than pleased. He was ecstatic, wasn’t he?

  He roared and struck out, smashing an expensive Oriental vase against the wall. It shattered loudly and he realized what he had done; worse, he realized that there was a tidal wave inside of him, rising up, one he refused to identify—one he did not want.

  He was sick. And it was a sickness of the heart.

  She wasn’t coming back.

  The sickness roiled, black, terrible, vast.

  “Mr. Bragg?” Katie whispered from the doorway.

  He whirled, horrified, and saw her standing there, looking skinny and afraid, holding Dot’s hand. For once Dot wasn’t beaming—she looked unhappy, in fact, and confused. Suddenly the toddler burst into shrieking sobs.

  Bragg rushed forward. “It was just an accident!” he cried, stricken, quickly lifting the sobbing Dot into his arms. He tried to smile reassuringly at Katie and knew he failed. “The vase fell. It was an accident.”

  “Where’s Mrs. Bragg?” she asked hoarsely, her huge eyes unwavering upon him.

  He stared, his mind racing—and he could not come up with a single lie.

  Katie hugged herself. “She said she was going out to tea, with that beautiful countess. She said she’d be home by five. It’s not five, is it? It’s way later than that.”

  Hatred surged—it was one thing to do this to him, but another to do it to the children. And because he knew Leigh Anne wasn’t coming back, he struggled to find a plausible lie that would buy him some time so he could decide how to best tell the children the truth.

  “Mrs. Bragg’s father is very ill. He lives in another city, in Boston.” That, so far, was the truth. “She decided to go visit her father,” he added, trying to smile.

  “But she didn’t say good-bye,” Katie said, looking stricken.

  “It was an emergency,” he said, his heart breaking into different parts, and this time it was for the children.

  Katie stared, appearing as if she did not believe him. Then she said, “Our momma didn’t say good-bye, either. She went out and never came back.”

  He inhaled, reaching for her with one hand, but Katie dodged, tears now forming in her dark eyes. He just couldn’t tell her that this was different, that Leigh Anne was coming back, not when he didn’t believe it. And he cursed her then, silently, for doing this to the children—for doing this to him.

  Katie choked on a sob and raced from the master bedroom.

  He ran after her. “Katie, wait! I need to speak to you.”

  Katie dived onto the bed she shared with her little sister and lay on her abdomen, her face buried in a pillow. At least Dot had stopped sobbing. He sat down beside Katie, gently placing Dot on the bed. Dot stared curiously at her sister. “Kat sad,” she announced, looking worried.

  He reached out and stroked Katie’s thin back. It shuddered with her silent sobs.

  “Katie? I just lied to you. I’m sorry.”

  The shudders wracking her thin body stopped.

  “Can we discuss this?” he asked, feeling helpless and wishing he knew how to be a real father. But only instinct and love guided him now.

  Katie nodded into the pillow.

  “It would help if you sat up,” he said softly, clasping her shoulder. “Please.”

  She slowly sat up, turning to face him, her eyes wide and anxious and riveted on his.

  He wondered how it had happened—how and when he had fallen in love with these two children. “I’m so sorry,” he said, and to his horror, his tone broke.

  Katie’s eyes widened.

  He fought for control—grown men did not cry. And not over self-serving wives who were merely glorified whores.

  Katie reached for his hand and held it.

  That almost undid him. He struggled and finally found a degree of composure. He said, “I don’t know where Mrs. Bragg is.”

  Katie gasped in dismay. “But she is coming home, isn’t she?” she begged.

  “I don’t know,” he said.

  Katie whimpered. “Momma didn’t come home because she couldn’t. Momma didn’t come home because she was dead.”

  Dot began to howl, the anguished sound of a wounded animal—as if she understood their conversation. Bragg pulled her into his arms. “I’m sure Mrs. Bragg is fine.”

  “Then why hasn’t she come home?” Katie asked.

  He hesitated. “It’s hard to explain.”

  Katie looked ready to weep. “She’s dead, isn’t she?”

  He gripped her hand. “She isn’t coming home because of me, sweetheart. It’s not because of you. It’s because of me.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  He hesitated, at a loss. “Sometimes, in a marriage, things change. Sometimes wives leave their husbands.”

  Katie stared. “But why?”

  He felt his body stiffen. “Because she doesn’t love me.”

  Katie stared, disbelieving. “No, Mr. Bragg, she does love you. And I thought she loved us, too.” Tears fell.

  He had no more words left. He pulled Katie close to his side and held the girls that way for a long time.

  The pain was blinding.

  “Pulse?”

  “One-ten over fifty, Doctor.”

  Where was she? Oh, God, the pain, it was burning from her legs, burning through her entire body, she was in a fireball of pain, and she couldn’t breathe; there was no air; she was going to suffocate! Oh, God, what had happened? Where was she? Panic began, and it was followed by terror.

  There had been an accident, a terrible carriage accident.

  She had been run over.

  Oh, God. It all came back to her now, the clarity stunning—meeting the horse’s eyes, inches from hers, going down, so slowly, hitting the concrete, twisting, turning, seeing those wagon wheels, coming toward her. . . . .

  She had been run over.

  Was she going to die?

  His image filled her mind, golden and handsome, and he was smiling, his eyes filled with warmth. It was followed by the girls, pretty and smiling at her.

  “Anybody know who this lady is? Clamp.”

  The voice again, the one with authority, cutting through the brilliant pain, the fire, the ice, the blackness.

  She was in a hospital—briefly she was relieved. But the doctor or doctors did not know who she was. She had to tell them! Because she needed Rick . . . .

  “Suction, damn it, Brad.”

  She had to speak. She was Mrs. Rick Bragg. Where was Rick! She needed him now.

  “We’re working on it. There was a runaway coach. Chopped her right up on the sidewalk.”

  “No calling cards?”

  “No, Doc. But she’s a lady from the look of it. Did you see that face?”

  “I don’t have time to look at her face, Brad, get me that number-three scissor.”

  She swallowed, trying to speak. Mrs. Mrs. I am Mrs. Mrs. Mrs. Rick Bragg.

  “Doctor, she’s conscious.” A woman now spoke, briskly, surprised. “She’s trying to speak.”

  “Give her more laudanum. I want her out. Shit. Look at this.”

  A silence fell.

  What was he looking at? The fear was explosive, begging to become terror. Everyone sounded so serious, so worried. How badly was she hurt? Surely she wasn’t going
to die!

  But she had been run over by two carriage wheels. She remembered every moment, every detail. She remembered the incredible pain.

  “Is she going to make it?”

  Leigh Anne strained to hear.

  “I don’t know. She’s in shock. She’s got at least two broken ribs and I think a ruptured spleen. It’s the spleen I’m worried about—Oh, Christ. I take that back.”

  “Oh, God,” Brad said.

  The pain was lessening slightly, becoming tolerable, and she was beginning to float. What were they talking about? What was happening? How badly was she hurt? Why did they sound so dismayed? She tried to listen, but it was so hard, because their voices were fading, because she was fading, quickly now.

  The pain was almost gone. She was floating, comfortable now. Cocooned in fuzzy warmth, in blackness. Was she dying? Was this what dying was like? Because it was so peaceful . . . .

  “Jesus, look at that leg. Jesus, Doc.”

  “Oh, Christ. I need an identification on this woman! I need it now, because from the look of it, this leg is coming off, and I’d really like to speak with her family first.”

  “What a goddamned shame.”

  What? What had he said? Were they amputating her leg? It was so hard to think now, so hard to feel, so hard to be. The sensation of floating increased, She was weightless, drifting, high. God, she could even see the doctor and his nurses; how odd. She was in a hospital room after all, lying naked on the table, covered with a sheet. Blood was everywhere. Then she saw the doctor adjusting the sheet and she saw the bloody pulp that was her left leg and she stared.

  “She’s going into shock! We’re losing her.”

  She closed her eyes.

  Rick, please, come, please, Rick, please.

  I want to say good-bye.

  CHAPTER

  TWELVE

  SATURDAY, MARCH 29, 1902—7:00 P.M.

  “HE’S HERE,” JULIA ANNOUNCED, standing on the threshold of Francesca’s bedroom. She was beaming.

  Francesca felt ill. She couldn’t stop thinking about her interview with Grace Bragg, and now there was no denying that marrying Calder Hart was very wrong. She slowly faced her mother, clad in a pale dove-gray gown that was high-necked and more appropriate for day than night. “I have such a headache, Mama.”