by Brenda Joyce
Suddenly he was standing in front of her, his expression inscrutable.
"Peter!" she cried in relief. "Is everything all right? How are the girls?"
"Everything is fine," he said, glancing past her. Then he added, "You did not bring the nanny."
She blinked at him, as they had never had a conversation before. Did this mean he was eager to relinquish his temporary job as the girls' caretaker? "I haven't had time to hire one," she said. "I am meeting Bragg here shortly."
"Where are they?" she asked, stepping inside.
"The kitchen." He closed the door behind her.
Francesca could guess where the kitchens were, and she walked through a small dining room that had been painted a soft moss green, a dark oak table and six chairs in the middle of it. She opened the kitchen door and faltered.
Both girls sat at the small pine table, which was a mess. Clearly Dot had been playing with her food, and applesauce, peas, and mashed potatoes were smeared everywhere. Katie sat beside her, potato clinging to her hair, a plate of food in front of her, which, while mushed and mashed, was so full it could not have been touched.
Katie sat like a soldier at attention, neither moving, smiling, nor speaking. In fact, she might have been a porcelain doll.
Dot saw them in the doorway and shrieked happily, then flung a drumstick at them.
Francesca ducked and the drumstick ricocheted off of Peter's broad chest.
She bit her lip and looked at him. "Oh, dear."
He said, "The brown-haired one won't eat."
"Her name is Katie," Francesca said, now realizing that milk had been spilled on the floor. It lay in a puddle by Katie's feet and Dot's chair.
Peter picked up the drumstick and walked past the girls and deposited it in a trash container by the large iron sink.
"Bragg is going to be home shortly, Peter," Francesca said with real fear. "If he sees this mess, he will never agree to let the girls stay here!" Then she realized that Peter might not want them, either, and stared at him as she hurried forward, but his attention seemed to be on the mop he was reaching for. "Peter? Are you certain you are all right?"
He gave her a brief look, one impossible to read as it was completely detached, and he approached the puddle.
As he began to mop, Francesca smiled at both girls. "Hello, Katie, Dot."
Dot clapped her hands and grinned, mostly toothlessly, and then she dug her fist into her sister's mashed potatoes.
Katie acted as if she had not heard Francesca's greeting. But her brow was knit, with either anger or determination.
"Dot, we do not play with food," Francesca said, removing both plates at once and depositing them in the sink. She found a rag and returned to the table as Dot laughed and threw food on the floor. "Katie, you did not eat."
Katie turned sullen eyes on her and said nothing.
"Miss Cahill, I will do that," Peter said.
"That is quite all right, as I am partly responsible for this mess and their behavior." She quickly wiped up all the food.
"Miss Cahill, I shall clean the kitchen. You take the girls," Peter said.
Francesca was about to argue when she realized that it would be faster this way—as the girls did need some cleaning up. "All right. Here we go, Dot," she said, lifting the small two-year-old up into her arms. Dot wrapped her skinny arms around Francesca's neck and said, "Nice. Mmm. Nice."
Francesca smiled against Dot's greasy cheek, suddenly hugging her a bit. "Yes, this is very nice, and you are a very sweet little girl."
Dot giggled.
"Except for the food throwing. We do not play with or throw food." She tried to sound stern.
"Sh ... sh ... sh ..." Dot said.
"Sh?" Francesca returned.
"Sh!" Dot cried, and it was a demand.
"I do not know what 'sh' means, but I am certain I will find out. Katie? Let's go. Bragg will be back, and we must clean up."
Katie did not move. Her lower lip seemed to protrude even more.
"Katie? I am speaking to you," Francesca said, trying to be both stern and kind at once.
Suddenly Katie leaped to her feet and ran from the room.
Francesca stared after her in amazement.
"Kay-tie!" Dot shouted. "Kay-tie!" Clearly she was upset.
"Miss Cahill? The motorcar," Peter said, wiping the now-spotless table with a wet towel.
"He is back?" Francesca whispered, aghast. Their gazes met. Francesca did not wait for his reply; she dashed to the kitchen sink, reaching for a faucet. "Be a good girl, now," she tried.
"Kay-tie?"
Francesca shoved one hand after another into warm water, somehow lathering them with soap. She heard the faint sound of the roadster's door slamming.
Dot made a whistling sound, smearing Francesca's cheek with soap.
Francesca slid her to the floor and with a clean wet towel tried to remove food from the child's face and hair. Dot grinned at her and grabbed one end of the towel, tugging on it.
"Not now," Francesca managed, wetting another piece and scrubbing her mouth. Mistakenly, in her rush she was too harsh.
Tears filled Dot's big blue eyes.
"Don't cry," Francesca whispered, dismayed, as she heard footsteps in the dining room.
"Peter?" Bragg's voice drifted to her.
Peter gave her a look; then he hurried from the kitchen, clearly waylaying his employer to give Francesca more time.
"I am sorry; don't cry," Francesca whispered, her finger brushing the child's golden curls.
Dot slapped Francesca's hand away, her lower lip pouting.
Francesca glanced wildly around, and to her amazement, the kitchen seemed fresh and clean—except for the gooey dishes in the sink.
Bragg stepped onto the kitchen's threshold. "So you are here."
She whirled, pulling Dot to stand in front of her, smiling. And then, as their eyes met, her tension vanished. Suddenly acutely aware of the child she held by the shoulders, the man facing her, and the kitchen they stood in, she was struck by the domesticity of the scene. "Hello, Bragg."
But this scenario would never belong to them.
He was smiling at her, and then his gaze went to Dot. His eyes softened even more. "What a pretty child," he said.
"She is very ... sweet," Francesca returned, praying Dot would return to her normal, ebullient self.
"Why is she crying?"
"I was washing her face," Francesca said.
"I see."
"Kay-tie!" Dot suddenly screamed. And her voice was so loud it was as if a siren had gone off in the room.
Bragg winced. "What the hell was that?"
Francesca lifted Dot into her arms. "She wants her sister. Let's go find Katie, Dot," she said brightly.
Dot grinned brightly, the mood change instantaneous. "Find," she ordered. "Find!"
"Yes, we will find Katie now," Francesca said. She approached Bragg with the child clinging to her neck. As he fell into step beside her, she saw Dot's expression change. Suspicion covered her features as she stared at him.
"This is my friend, and his name is Rick," Francesca said quickly, afraid that Dot was about to become upset. "He is a good friend, Dot. Katie?" she called.
There was no answer. They were crossing the dining room, Dot continuing to regard Bragg darkly.
"I do not think she likes me," he said.
"She likes everyone," Francesca said quickly. "She is an adorable little girl. Katie?" They paused in the entry hall as she tried again.
"It is odd, seeing you with a child this way," Bragg said.
She started and their eyes connected. "Why?" she managed. Had he felt as she had?
"It makes me think of you as a mother," he said, and he seemed rather grim.
Her heart turned over, hard and uncomfortably. "Do you want children, Bragg?"
"I did. Not anymore," he said.
His answer was hardly a surprise. But he would be a wonderful role model for a son and a wonderful father to a
little girl; Francesca just knew it. Still, she was too selfish to advise him to have children, although surely one day he would. Perhaps by then she would be accustomed to the fact that he had a wife.
"I wish she would stop glaring at me," Bragg remarked.
Francesca realized that Dot was glaring at him, and she stroked her hair. "Dot? Bragg is my friend. He is your friend. Friend. Do you know what that means?"
"Find," Dot cried angrily. "Find find find!"
"We had better find her sister. Katie?" Bragg called.
They walked down the hall, toward the parlor. Two wall sconces illuminated the way. "On that subject, what did you find out at Kathleen O'Donnell's?" Francesca asked.
"That she worked hard, that she was a good mother to her child, that she attended church every Sunday," Bragg said. He shoved open the parlor door. "Katie?" But the salon was empty. "She was also a seamstress by trade."
Francesca halted and stared at him. "Two murder victims, both seamstresses? Is this a coincidence?"
"I don't know."
"Did you learn who Mike O'Donnell is?" Francesca asked.
"He is her husband," Bragg said.
Francesca felt her eyes widen. "Well, that is getting us somewhere."
"But apparently, they have not lived together as man and wife in several years," Bragg added.
Her mind sped. "So she was a seamstress raising a child alone? But that is just like Mary!"
"Yes, it is quite similar," Bragg said.
"Do you know, where her husband is?" she asked after a moment.
"He is a longshoreman, but no, no one knows his place of residence or employment. I have put men on it already. We will find him eventually if he is anywhere in the vicinity of the docks."
His study door faced them. It was solidly closed. "She would not be in there," Francesca began. "Katie?" she called toward the upstairs, now becoming worried.
"Kay-tie, Kay-tie, Kay-tie," Dot chanted. She started to sniffle, as if about to sob.
"We will find Katie," Francesca said quickly, stroking Dot's back, as Bragg pushed open the study door.
"No one," he began, and stopped.
Francesca knew he had found Katie, and peered past him.
The study was cast entirely in shadow, as not a single light was on. A small human form was hunched over in the far corner by the fireplace, and it was Katie, sitting absolutely still, hugging her knees to her chest.
"Katie," Francesca said, saddened by the sight. She entered the room, Bragg following her and turning on a lamp.
"Katie? Are you all right?" Francesca asked softly.
"Kay-tie!" Dot screamed.
Katie might not have heard them, she was so still and motionless.
Francesca felt Bragg regarding the tableau from behind her. She slid Dot to her feet, praying Katie would act like a normal child—at least for now. "Hello, Katie. My, it is dark in here. What are you doing by yourself? Would you like some company?"
Katie lifted her head and stared coldly at her. She did not speak.
"Kay-tie!" Dot whooped. She swooped in on her sister.
"I can see this shall not be an easy night," Bragg said flatly.
Francesca glanced at him. "They are no trouble, really, Bragg."
He just looked at her, not angry, but clearly not pleased. "I am hardly a fool, Francesca."
"They just need some time to adjust," she tried.
"One night," he warned. Suddenly his expression changed. He paled. "What is she doing?" he cried.
Francesca turned.
Dot was squatting, and as she peed on the Oriental carpet, she beamed at them both.
"I am so sorry about that," Francesca said, a good half an hour later. Both girls were tucked together into blankets and sheets on the floor in a small, unfurnished spare bedroom. Peter was reading them a story—unfortunately, it was from the Iliad. However, Dot seemed rapt even if she did not understand a word, while Katie had yet to speak.
"So am I. I liked that rug," Bragg said as they entered the foyer.
"The rug is hardly ruined," Francesca returned.
"Well, it was an accident. I am sure it will not happen again." He carried her coat in his hands.
Francesca smiled at him. How to tell him that Dot clearly was not used to a toilet? To prevent future accidents, behind Bragg's back she had found a napkin, intending to use it as a diaper, but Dot had taken one look at the white fabric and she had screamed, giving in to a two-year-old temper tantrum. She had won; Francesca had not pinned the napkin on her. "They have just lost their mother. Katie is grief-stricken, I think. But Dot is adorable, in spite of her little accident. Isn't she?"
Bragg sighed. "Please try to place them tomorrow," he said, helping her on with her coat.
Tomorrow was Saturday. Francesca knew she needed a good week to find them a proper home—at least. "I will do my best," she said staunchly, shrugging into the sleeves. She was standing beside a small table that contained a lamp, a mirror above. As she found her sleeves, something fell to the floor. "Oh, I am sorry," Francesca said, glancing down.
Bragg was already retrieving what was clearly the day's mail. He stood, a handful of envelopes in hand. "Peter is not himself today," he remarked. "He always puts my mail on my desk."
Francesca merely smiled about him, thankful no end that he had not seen the kitchen before it had been cleaned up. Then she realized one more envelope lay on the floor, and she quickly scooped it up. As she did so, the stamp on the front caught her eye; the letter had been posted from Le Havre, France.
Was it from Leigh Anne? It was addressed to Bragg, obviously, and the cursive was so elegant it could only be from a woman. Francesca turned over the envelope and the words on its back swam in her eyes:
Mrs. Rick Bragg
It was from his wife. Francesca could only gawk at the envelope. In fact, she could not even seem to think.
She felt as if someone had landed a rude blow between her eyes.
She was stunned.
"Francesca?"
"Oh!" She smiled and handed him the envelope; suddenly her hand was shaking.
"What's wrong?" he asked sharply.
"Nothing," she said, the smile plastered on her face. Now her mind raced. It hardly mattered if he had received word from his wife. For all Francesca knew, Leigh Anne wrote to him on a regular basis. Or perhaps the envelope contained her bills. Or a request for more funds. It did not mean anything at all!
They despised each other, and they had not seen each other in four years, Francesca reminded herself.
"Come, let me get you a cab." He took her arm and they left the house. "Are you certain you are all right?"
"I am fine," she lied, because a sick and terrible feeling consumed her now.
She knew, she just knew, that the letter was significant—and that no good would come of it.
In fact, quite the opposite.
SIX
Friday, February 7, 1902—7:30 P.M.
Julia was waiting for her.
Her mother always dressed for supper, and she walked out of the yellow salon as Francesca left the hall. Tonight Julia's gown was a watered-beige silk, so simple that it was marvelously elegant. Francesca smiled, acutely aware of the gun inside her purse. But she was not about to relinquish it to a maid; she was afraid the purse might fall or somehow come open, revealing its contents.
Julia studied her and said, "You are just in time. I am afraid to ask where you have been all day."
"I have been making plans for the Ladies Society for the Eradication of Tenements," Francesca said. The excuse just popped into her mind. She had founded the society a month ago, and thus far there were only two members, herself and Calder Hart.
Julia's expression softened. "I heard that Calder Hart gave you a very generous donation, Francesca."
For one moment, Francesca could not believe her mother had somehow learned of his check, but then, Julia knew everything of importance in the city's uppermost circles. Then Francesca realiz
ed that Connie had been with her when he had handed her his stunning gift. "Connie told you?"
"Yes, she did." Julia smiled. "You know, Hart is an avid supporter of the arts—he donates generously to several of the city's museums, and he has given to the public library twice, I think. He also gave a scholarship to Columbia University for their Beaux-Arts program last fall. But he does not give political contributions, and it is a fact. He adamantly refuses to join any party or support any political candidate—much to everyone's frustration. He also does not support reform. Many have sought aid from him for their various causes. I even approached him for a contribution to the Lenox Hill Hospital, and he politely refused."
Francesca flushed. "Well, he has decided to support this cause."
"He must be taken with you, Francesca," Julia said, pleased.
"Oh, balderdash."
"He gave you five thousand dollars. That is a tremendous sum."
"Mama, please! Hart is not taken with any one woman; his reputation is based on fact, not fiction. He is a ladies' man, Mama," Francesca said. She plopped down on the closest sofa, still clutching her purse too tightly, still too aware of her new gun. She felt like telling her mother that Connie was his next prey, but of course she would never do such a thing.
"Well, I for one am pleased that you have met him and somehow captured his attention," Julia said. "But you have been gone all day. Surely you were not making plans for your newest society the entire time?"
Francesca blinked at her. Was her mother now tracking her movements? If she was, Francesca was in trouble indeed. She hesitated. "The commissioner has taken in two orphans. He asked me if I would look in on them as he could not get home to do so, and I did."
"Two orphans!" Julia exclaimed. "Rick Bragg has taken in two orphans?"
"He also asked me to hire a nanny. Mama, might you recommend an agency?"
"Of course I shall. There is only one that you should go to, as they have the finest help in the city. It is called Mansfield's Butlers and Maids. Most of the servants they represent are British, and they are impeccably trained."