by Brenda Joyce
Neither one heard her. Julia pointed her finger at him. "I warn you, Andrew, if he leaves this house, then I shall, too."
"Mama!" Francesca gasped, rushing forward.
Andrew turned white with shock. And without another word, he turned his back on his wife. A window faced him. But the draperies were drawn.
Francesca grasped Julia's hands and saw the tears in her mother's eyes. "Mama, come outside. Let's talk," she said, at the same time wanting to rush over to her father and hug him and reassure him that all would be well.
Julia nodded, casting an angry and tearful glance at Andrew's rigid back, and the moment they were in the hall, she collapsed on a tufted settee, set against one wall. "How could he do this? How could Andrew let Evan walk out?" She covered her face with her hands and her small shoulders shook.
And for one moment, Francesca was simply frozen, stunned to see her mother so distraught, in such emotional pain. Then she wrapped her arm around her and held her close. The two women were exactly the same size, with Julia being but a few pounds heavier. "Mama," Francesca said urgently, taking her hands. Julia looked up. "Evan threatened Father. It's true. And of course that wasn't right. But he was desperate to get out of his engagement, and can we truly blame him? When Father would not back down, Evan made good on his threats."
"I do not blame Evan for any of this," Julia said heavily.
"But don't blame Papa, either! He only wants Evan to cease gambling and begin a family."
"I know what your father wants," Julia said. "Your father wants Evan to be exactly like him, a one-woman man, a family man, a success, and a reformer."
Francesca stared.
"Evan is not like your father, Francesca. He is far more ..." she hesitated, then said, "ebullient than your father ever was. He is young. He is only twenty-four going on twenty-five. This is my fault, too! I should have never agreed to this match." She closed her eyes tightly.
"Do not blame yourself for anything! After all, it is Evan's fault, too, for incurring those terrible debts. But let us look at the bright side," Francesca tried.
Julia opened her eyes. "There is no bright side."
"Yes, there is. I mean, what has happened is truly terrible, but it is certainly for the best that he and Sarah do not wed, even if it had to happen this way."
"I cannot lose him," Julia said, and Francesca knew she meant her son and not Andrew.
"Mama, you will not lose Evan! He loves you so! He even told me that he would never allow this argument to affect your relationship."
"He simply cannot move out, Francesca," Julia said, her eyes wide with fear.
"I tried to talk him out of it. He will not change his mind. I have never seen him so resolute," she said, and did not add "or so angry."
"But what if he never returns?" Julia asked.
Their gazes locked. "Of course he will come back. But for now, he feels he must make a stand. In a way, I am proud of him. Aren't you? He has never gone up against Father before."
"Proud of him? You are proud of him? How can you be proud of him when he has walked out on his familial obligations?" Julia gasped. "He has walked out on us!"
Francesca would not back down. "I am proud of him. Mama? Please, don't fight with Papa over this. He is hurt, too."
Julia seemed to be recovering her near iron composure. "I have just set a terrible example, Francesca. One never argues with one's spouse as I have done. There are other ways to achieve one's objectives."
Francesca blinked.
"One always gains more with honey than with vinegar." Julia appeared grimly worried now.
"Of course," Francesca said.
Julia gave her a look. "Of course, after twenty-four years, it is only human to make a mistake."
Francesca nodded. "And what about Papa?"
"He must go to Evan and tell him that we will end the engagement, but Evan shall agree to find another, suitable, bride."
Francesca stared. "He will never back down. Papa is a benevolent man, but beneath those whiskery cheeks is a will of steel."
"If he wishes for peace in this household, why, that is what he shall do," Julia said firmly, standing.
"He is never going to change his mind," Francesca said with dread.
Suddenly Andrew came out of the salon. He did not look at them as he approached and then passed them. He said, "Francis, my coat, hat, and walking stick."
Julia stood. Her tone was now calm. "Where are you going, Andrew? We have a conversation to finish."
For the first time that Francesca could ever recall, her father did not answer her mother. He stood before the front door, his back to them, patiently waiting for all that he had asked for—as if he had not heard them.
"Papa," Francesca whispered.
"Andrew! Where are you going?" Her tone became strident.
His shoulders tensed. He did not turn. "Out," he said.
Francis handed him his coat and hat and then, after he had donned his coat, his silver-headed cane.
"That is hardly an answer," Julia said, her eyes wide. "I apologize for how I have argued with you but not for what I have said. I must insist that we finish our conversation."
He turned. "There is no such thing as having a conversation with you, Julia, when the children are involved." He turned and walked out of the house.
Francesca was stunned. Had a two-by-four fallen from the sky and smashed down on her head she could not be more stunned. How could this be happening?
Julia whirled to her. "My home is falling apart!"
She fought for composure. "Mama, nothing is falling apart."
"My home, my family, my life is falling apart!" she cried. "Did you see that? He walked out on me! He has never treated me in such a manner."
"He's coming home. He'll be back. And then you can calmly come to terms," Francesca tried valiantly. But she did not think they would come to terms on this particular subject. And then what?
Julia stared at her as if she had grown two heads. She began to shake. "Oh, dear God. Andrew has walked out on me. Evan has left home. Connie is in her rooms, refusing to come out. And you!" Julia leveled accusing eyes on her. "You fancy yourself in love with the commissioner, who is married. That I have had enough of, Miss Francesca Louise Cahill!"
Francesca dared not speak.
"Oh, I do know you! Once you have convinced yourself of something, there is no arguing with you! It is like taking a bone from a terrier! Well, I do have news for you! Just because you have decided he is 'the one,' that does not mean it is true! He is not 'the one,' obviously, as he has a wife, my dear. So I expect your nonsense to cease!"
Now was not the time to argue. "Mama, I know all about Bragg's wife."
Tears filled her eyes. Clearly she had not heard. "Oh, God. I so love Andrew. What have I done?"
Francesca tugged her hand. "Go after him. Now!"
Julia seemed about to do so, and then she stiffened. "I cannot," she said.
Bartolla entered the hotel lobby, unable to contain the soft thrill of anticipation that washed over her in warm, almost sexual waves. She glanced around and saw the restaurant where she was expected. Smiling, she crossed the parquet floors, which were covered with Persian rugs.
She was aware of heads turning her way as she passed. She knew she left a wake of interested men craning their necks to get a better look at her.
She had dressed with extreme care for her engagement. The royal blue suit exposed her trim waist, her womanly hips, and a larger expanse of bosom than was usual for day. She had found a new lip rouge at the Lord & Taylor store. Instead of the usual crimson, it was a darker, berry-colored stain. It did amazing things to her fair complexion, and it made her green eyes sparkle. But then, she had carefully applied kohl to the rims, and she had used it on the tips of her lashes as well.
A pale blue fox stole completed her look. She knew she looked elegant, sensual, and wealthy, but not in that order. In fact, she had to look twice at a young six-foot-tall bellman who ogled her as
she passed. He was a superb male specimen, all muscle, blond and blue-eyed, his features strong and pleasant. She sent him a soft smile. God, it had been too long!
She wished Evan Cahill were not engaged to her little cousin. But even if he were not, she could not lead him into her bed anyway—the stakes were simply too high. She felt faint now, thinking about him.
They hadn't even kissed.
And then there was all that Cahill money.
She was still smiling as she stepped into the dining room. She was purposefully late, a half an hour late, as she wished to be the one to make the entrance.
But her party was not present. Dismayed and then annoyed, Bartolla was led to a small table set for two, where she took a seat, ordered a tea, and then tried to appear indifferent to the fact that her grand entrance had been denied.
To amuse herself as she waited, she allowed several gentlemen to make eye contact with her, in spite of the fact that they were with their wives or sweethearts. One gentleman went so far as to drop his card by her feet as he walked by on his way to the men's cloakroom. Bartolla picked it up and tucked it into her bodice for use on a rainy afternoon.
She straightened.
Every male head in the restaurant turned.
Bartolla looked at Leigh Anne Bragg and sighed. Nothing had changed. The tiny woman remained impossibly beautiful—perhaps because she was as small as a child yet as curved as a woman. Or was it the flawless face with the huge green eyes that always seemed to look slightly bewildered and perfectly innocent? Added to those assets was a perfect rosebud mouth, which was perpetually swollen, and Bartolla knew exactly what men thought of when they looked at those lips. She sighed again. In spite of the fact that she was the tall one, the red-haired one, the statuesque one, Leigh Anne always turned more heads when they were together. Bartolla had decided it was her air of innocence that was the most enticing of all her charms.
Leigh Anne Bragg saw her from across the room and waved airily, smiling.
Bartolla smiled back and stood. She knew there was nothing innocent about Leigh Anne Bragg, but that only made her an extremely interesting woman. And the fact that Leigh Anne was so clever that she never confided anything about herself only made their friendship more challenging. Bartolla could never be certain what the other woman was really thinking or feeling, even though they had spent entire afternoons together last summer in the south of France, even though they had briefly run in the same circles in Venice and Florence.
Every man in the room turned to watch as the two extremely beautiful women hugged.
"You are more beautiful than ever!" Leigh Anne exclaimed as she took her seat. She wore a dark green suit that matched her eyes, trimmed with mink, which Bartolla suspected had cost her a small fortune, as the material was clearly Chinese silk and extremely expensive. Had Bartolla been wearing the same suit, she would have worn it with every emerald she owned. Leigh Anne wore a single diamond pendant on a black ribbon, which nestled in the hollow of her throat. Her long jet-black hair, which was thick and straight, fell unfashionably to her shoulder blades, like a cape. She had not one stitch of makeup on. She did not need any. Her lashes were thick and black, her cheeks tinged with pink, her lips ruby red. If Bartolla were less secure, she might hate and envy the other woman.
But Bartolla had never been jealous of another woman. She was simply not jealous by nature.
She saw that Leigh Anne wore her small engagement ring, the diamond being perhaps a carat and a half. She also wore her wedding band.
"Thank you. Widowhood suits me, I am afraid," Bartolla laughed.
They both laughed.
"And you have not aged a day. You are as lovely as ever," Bartolla said, smiling.
Leigh Anne's face fell. She leaned anxiously forward. Bartolla felt rather certain that she had not one anxious bone in her entire body. "Do you think so? I have been so distressed, Bartolla, so terribly distressed, ever since I heard the news." Her eyes were wide and innocent and fearful all at once. Tears seemed to moisten them.
How delicious this is, Bartolla thought. It was going to be such an interesting winter. "Yes, I am so sorry."
"They say he is dying," Leigh Anne managed. "My father is dying, and my mother is beside herself, as is my sister." She cast her eyes down at the table. "If he dies, I shall be responsible for everyone."
Bartolla hadn't even known there was a sister, and she hadn't realized they were going to discuss Leigh Anne's father. "I am so sorry," she repeated, instantly bored. And then she had a thought. "I am sure your husband will feel some responsibility toward your family, dear."
Leigh Anne smiled brightly. "I do not know what I shall do," she said, looking on the verge of tears. Clearly she had no interest in biting the hook Bartolla had cast. But then she said, "And now there is this woman."
Bartolla straightened, trying to look surprised, inwardly amused. Oh, yes. It would be such an interesting winter, not that she had anything against Francesca Cahill. In fact, she truly liked her, as she was a very independent woman, just like Bartolla.
And just like Leigh Anne. "What woman?" She blinked.
"Why, Cecelia Thornton was the first one to tell me about her—and then you sent me that letter!" Leigh Anne took her hand. "Bartolla, thank you so. For being such a dear friend and for having that letter hand-delivered, or it might have been weeks before I learned of her."
"What else could I do?" Bartolla murmured.
Leigh Anne straightened now, placing both hands, apparently, on her lap. Her demeanor was demure. She murmured, glancing up from under her long lashes, "Now. You must tell me everything there is to know about this Francesca Cahill."
Chapter Eleven
SUNDAY, FEBRUARY 16, 1902 — 7:00 P.M.
Francesca was rigid with tension, which could not possibly be a result of nerves, as their supper guests arrived. Julia was greeting Rathe and Grace Bragg as they stepped into the hall, but Francesca stood at its far end, on the threshold of the salon where they would sip a cocktail before their meal. She had refused to dress with care for her mother's miserable effort at matchmaking; then, at the last moment, when it was far too late to tong her hair, she had had her maid, Bette, help her tear off an old and boring dove gray gown, replacing it with her new turquoise one, which she had worn the night before to the Plaza. She had managed to loosen her chignon and pull a few wisps of hair out so they feathered her face and neck. She had even dabbed rouge lightly on her lips. She knew damn well what she was doing. She wanted Hart to think her beautiful, as foolish as that desire might be.
Julia and Grace were embracing, but not warmly, and their exchange was both cautious and polite. Francesca could imagine why, for what common bond would a wealthy socialite share with a crusading suffragette? Rathe was saying that Hart and Rourke would be there at any moment, as Hart had gone to pick up Lucy at the Plaza and Rourke was checking up on Sarah Channing.
Her father had just come downstairs and he paused beside her. "You are so beautiful tonight, Francesca," he said, but he wasn't smiling. His eyes were sad.
Instantly, Francesca recalled the terrible argument she had witnessed that afternoon. She took his arm and kissed his cheek. "Please make up with Mama. Please."
He said, "This is not your affair, Francesca," quietly, but still, his words were a shock.
And he was wrong. "Papa! It is my affair! You are my parents—and Evan is my brother!"
He patted her shoulder, smiled firmly, and left her standing there. "Rathe! It is so good to see you!"
Rathe strode forward and the two men clasped hands, smiling now, their expressions as warm and friendly as their wives' had been cautious and wary. Suddenly Lucy stepped into the house, devastatingly beautiful in a Persian lamb coat that had been dyed burgundy to match her dress. Hart was behind her.
As she and Julia clasped hands and exchanged greetings, Hart's gaze found Francesca instantly. She felt more tension overcome her and she forgot to breathe.
His gaze found her,
slid over her, and then he was smiling at Julia and murmuring a polite and charming greeting. Oddly, Francesca felt her cheeks warming. She quickly turned and stepped into the salon, needing to compose herself.
What was Julia thinking? Why couldn't she leave well enough alone? Why were reputable young women expected to marry and bear and raise children? How could she convince her mother to leave her alone!
Francesca crossed the opulent room, which was a smaller version of the grand salon, and she pushed open the terrace doors. It had remained frigidly cold all day, but she was somewhat numb inside of herself to begin with now, as she had decided not to think too much in order to get through the evening. So what difference would it make if she became numb on the outside as well? She felt a bit like a poor player in an even poorer stage drama. But far worse was the fact that, even with her emotions carefully on hold, she had a feeling of real dread, which she just could not deny. She simply knew that the evening was going to be a terrible fiasco.
She tried not to think about it.
She walked to the edge of the slate-floored terrace and stared up at a sliver of moon. A million stars danced in the sky overhead—it was far too cold to snow. Which was fine— they'd had a record year for snowfall, anyway, and the winter had just begun.
She closed her eyes, shivering. Bragg was probably in his library at No. 11 Madison Square, alone, a glass of brandy at his elbow, immersed in police paperwork. Thinking about him now caused a hurtful pang in her heart. The girls were probably finishing up dinner in the kitchen, the table and floor a mess, unless Mrs. Flowers, the new nanny, had somehow taught Dot that throwing food was not a form of play. And was Katie still sulking? Had she begun to eat like a normal child? Peter would be at the sink, playing housemaid as well as cook. She smiled at that particular image, picturing him in an apron. How her heart wished that she were there. The scene was such a domestic one.
But she was not his wife, and now, it did not appear that she would ever be his wife.
