by Brenda Joyce
“Nope.”
She sank back against the seats, then strained forward again. “Surely you looked at the note. What did it say?” And she found herself holding her breath.
“I can’t read,” he said simply.
Chapter 5
Sunday, January 19, 1902—4 P.M.
Francesca paused after stepping out of the kitchens. Joel had been left there in the hands of the Cahill housekeeper, Mrs. Ryan, with explicit instructions. He was currently being fed from a potted roast—and eating ravenously—and afterward, he would be shown to his cot in the attics above the stables, adjacent to the newly constructed garage. Tomorrow he would begin his employment as a groom, never mind that he knew nothing about horses—having never even petted one in his entire young life.
Francesca’s brief moment of satisfaction vanished. She stood just outside the kitchen door, which was closed, still clad in Betsy’s black dress, Betsy’s cloak over her arm. On the drive home, she had tried to twist her hair up into a knot, but she had lost all of her pins, and it had proven impossible. As a result, her hair was still hanging down her back to her waist. She imagined she was quite a sight.
A challenge faced her. Could she make it undetected through the house to her room? Leaving had been easy enough—her parents and Evan had been in the drawing room, debating the Burton affair. It was hours later now, and it was also a Sunday afternoon. Evan was undoubtedly out and about. But her parents often spent Sundays at home, especially in this kind of weather. Currently she was in a back hallway, but it did not go upstairs to her room. The back stairs only led to the servants’ quarters.
She had no choice, and she dreaded running into her mother. But she had to change; she had so much to do. She wanted to interview the staff about last night’s affair; in fact, tomorrow she would confront the mailman. She also wanted to peruse the guest list she had taken from her mother’s secretaire as soon as she had finished copying it. But most importantly of all, she had to find out what the second note said.
Francesca started forward, refusing to recall Bragg’s warnings, hurrying down the corridor, passing the empty dining room, its solid doors closed. When she reached the very back of the entry hall, which was in the center of the house, she glanced around. It was empty. Francesca strained to hear and heard nothing and no one.
Everyone must be out. Either that, or upstairs in their private apartments.
Francesca darted for the stairs. She was on the landing midway between the first and second floors when she heard someone in the front hall behind and below her. She ducked flat against the wall, certain that it was Julia.
“Francesca?”
It was too late, she had been remarked, and it was none other than Connie’s husband, Montrose.
Francesca managed a smile, turning, as he came toward her.
Connie and Montrose lived around the corner on Sixty-second Street. They often stopped by to call, and as frequently dined with them. Montrose was a very big man. He was a few inches over six feet tall, and Francesca had seen him in his polo clothes, his swimming costume, and his golfing tweeds—there was no fat on his large, muscular frame. She was five feet five, but he dwarfed her—around him, she felt feminine and petite. He was also extremely attractive. His hair was thick and black, his eyes brilliantly blue, his cheekbones high, his nose straight, his jaw strong. He had a cleft in his chin.
The ladies adored him. He was always the object of their whispers and stares.
He and Connie had married four years ago. He had been widowed for some time; his first wife had died in a carriage accident just a year after their marriage. It had been a terrible tragedy. Francesca would never forget the first time she had met Montrose. He had been presented to Connie, who had been just seventeen at the time, and everyone had known the match would be made. For he needed the Cahills’ wealth and Connie needed the Montrose heritage. It was as simple as that.
She had been fourteen and utterly tongue-tied. She hadn’t even been able to say hello properly and it had been mortifying.
Montrose paused below her, clad in a leisure suit, his gaze sharp, taking in every inch of her appearance. “Good God. Francesca, what is going on?” he exclaimed.
Francesca felt her mouth stretch wider. She opened it, but no words came forth.
“Are you all right?” he said, eyes intent upon her, and suddenly he was on the very same landing as she was.
Francesca nodded. Why did she have to become a speechless idiot in his presence? It was still mortifying. “Hello ... Neil.” Not only did she rarely speak to him, she hardly ever uttered his name. “I’m fine ... uh ...”
His gaze moved over her again. Francesca felt herself flush—she hated his having caught her wearing an ugly black housemaid’s dress. He might be married to Connie, and she might not be vain, but around him, she did want him to think her somewhat pleasing. Instead, undoubtedly, he thought her homely, and probably he also thought her to be a dolt.
Flustered, wanting to escape, she suddenly realized he wasn’t looking at her dress. Before he glanced aside, she caught him staring at her mane of wild, golden-blond hair.
He was grim. His eyes seemed to shutter, hiding whatever he was thinking.
“What has happened, Francesca?” he asked, in a tone of voice he had undoubtedly used many times before. It was a tone of voice few who were not blue-blooded British aristocrats could ever emulate; it was the kind of tone that made one want to stiffen and salute. His regard found hers again.
Francesca wanted to come up with an elaborate lie, but her mind was failing her now, because she wondered if he had been admiring or despising her untamable hair; Connie’s hair was much shorter, just to her shoulders, and it was as fine as silk. Connie had the most beautiful hair. She avoided his eyes. Determined to fabricate, she opened her mouth, but all she did was inhale. “Nothing,” she managed.
His jaw tightened. “Just tell me that you are all right. Otherwise, I am going to have to speak with your father.”
“No!” she cried, gripping his arm without thinking about it. As instantly, as if burned by a hot iron, she dropped her hand. Desperation fueled her words. “Please, Neil, do not mention to my father that you have seen me like this!” For Andrew would tell Julia everything.
He gripped her arm. “I thought so,” he said, his face darkening.
Francesca looked down at his huge hand engulfing her wrist. She was trembling. An image of her sister crossed her mind. And she thought, helplessly, life is unfair. What if she had been the older sister?
“Are you certain you are all right? Have you been hurt?” he demanded.
“I am not hurt,” she said, amazed at the extent of his concern.
He nodded and then seemed to realize he was holding her wrist. He released it. His cheeks flushed. “Francesca, you cannot do this again.”
She stared. Why was he blushing? She drew back a bit, crossing her arms tightly beneath her breasts. His gaze followed her movements. And he could not possibly know what she had been up to, could he? “I won’t,” she said carefully. What was he talking about? She decided to play along. “Not ever again.”
“I want your promise,” he returned steadily. A slight pink flush still mottled his cheekbones.
She stared and their gazes collided yet another time. She could not deceive him. She could not make a promise that she might not be able to keep. Yet she felt certain that they were not communicating clearly with one another.
“Good God!” he cried, flinging his hands up. And when they found his hips, they were fisted. “Francesca.” He leaned close. “You are very young. I must tell you, and you must listen to me, whoever he is, do not rendezvous with him again.”
It took Francesca a moment to realize just what he had said and just what he meant. She blinked in shock. He thought her disguise was the result of her having met a lover for a tryst!
“Well?” he demanded.
Francesca managed to shake her head. “Neil. This is not what you are thin
king.” But now she was aware of just how hard her heart beat. In a perverse way, she was glad he was thinking she had met a man. Perhaps he might think of her as a more interesting woman than merely Connie’s odd little sister who was never coherent in his presence.
“Francesca. If this ... bastard ... was a gentleman, he would be courting you openly. I can only assume he is some ill-bred sort, with the worst of intentions. Look at you!” His eyes flashed.
Gentlemen did not use such language in front of a lady, and Francesca realized he was genuinely concerned for her welfare. But then, he thought of her as a sister, which was natural and right. She knew she must correct his mistaken assumptions, but instead, impulsively, she said, “Neil, I will never meet my lover again.”
And the moment she had uttered the words, Francesca did not know who was more shocked, he or she herself.
For he just stood there staring at her as if she had spoken Greek.
Whatever had come over her? Francesca could hardly think. Absurdly, she wanted him to think her womanly enough to have had a lovers’ tryst. Absurdly, she was elated because he thought her womanly enough to be someone’s paramour.
Suddenly he said, “Tell me his name.”
She felt her eyes widen. “What!”
His smile wasn’t pleasant. “Someone needs to beat him into a bloody pulp. And clearly, that someone is myself.”
Her hand covered her chest. She knew she was gaping; she could feel her mouth hanging open. He would beat this legendary lover of hers into a pulp to avenge the loss or near loss of her innocence? Francesca felt as if she had somehow entered a fairy tale.
His smile was a baring of teeth. “Francesca, the day I married your sister you became my sister, and I must tell you, right now, I am in shock.”
“Nothing really happened,” Francesca managed.
He tilted up her chin, forcing their eyes to meet. Francesca could not move. And finally he nodded. “I can see the truth in your eyes.”
Francesca pressed back against the wall. He let her go. There was an odd, electric tension between them.
But she had never really spoken to him, and they had never, ever, been alone before.
“This is the end of it, then, as far as I am concerned, but you must abide by your word.” Montrose cut into her thoughts.
She nodded. Speech escaped her once more.
His jaw flexed. “You had better get upstairs. Before Andrew or Julia remark you in such dishabille.”
Francesca nodded, and she started cautiously past him. He stepped back so that her skirts would not touch his legs. She was very careful to walk as far to the side of the landing as possible, also intent to avoid contact. But on the next step she paused and looked back.
He was staring at her. His expression might have been carved in granite, and it was impossible to read.
“Thank you, Neil,” she said with what she hoped was vast dignity and a matching maturity. And then she felt her face turn beet-red, ruining the effect.
He merely nodded, then he turned, and she watched him enter the hall and stride through it.
She watched him until she could see him no more.
She changed with lightning speed. Then she glanced at the guest list, which remained upon her desk. The biology textbook was there, as well.
She could not study now. Not with Jonny Burton missing. But she would fail biology if she did not study soon, and hard—the examination was tomorrow. And she could be tossed out on her backside if her grades were not above average, no matter that there were only fourteen girls in her class. The president of the college had been very clear when he had spoken to the entering class earlier in the fall. Barnard College aspired to be one of the finest institutions in the country for the higher education of women. He expected all of the freshmen women entering that year to uphold those very high academic standards and to set an example for all those women courageous and determined enough to follow in their footsteps.
It had been a terribly rousing speech. Francesca had been stirred, as had all the other young women in her class. But that had been months ago, in September. That had been before the terrible abduction of Jonny.
He must be frightened to death. She hoped he was being well cared for. She hoped he was safe, unharmed, well fed, and warm. Every time she thought about him, she felt sick inside, imagining his fear and loneliness.
And what about poor Eliza and Robert? She had been grief-stricken earlier, what condition must she be in now? And Robert did not seem to be in much better form. Francesca decided she must speak to Julia; they must at least bring the Burtons some supper and cake that evening.
Of course, if the note Joel had given Bragg had been a ransom demand, Jonny would be home very soon— wouldn’t he?
Francesca rubbed her temples. She could not go visit Eliza, not yet, because Bragg had promised to interview everyone at the Cahill mansion, and he had yet to do so— preoccupied as he had been all day with the blossoming Burton affair and, recently, that risky business on Mott and Hester streets. Her bedroom was at the corner of the house. She walked over to the windows there.
Both windows faced south, and Francesca found herself looking directly at the Burton house. An expanse of snow-covered lawn separated the two residences, as did a high limestone wall. Francesca had excellent vision, but she couldn’t see very much even though the other home was but a football field distant.
She turned, raced to her armoire, found her opera glasses, then ran back to the window. She trained them intently at the Burton house. She ignored any guilt she might feel for being so crass as to invade the Burtons’ privacy.
She could see into a room on the ground floor, and it was empty. She thought it was a small, intimate parlor. She raised the glasses to the second story. And she was faced with a clear view of a lavish bedroom that was also set at the corner of the house. It also seemed to be empty. Was it a guest room? It seemed far too large to be intended for guests. She wondered if it was Eliza’s room.
“Blast,” Francesca said. Yet what had she hoped to see? She stood there, dismayed and impatient, when something flickered and caught her eye. She raised the glasses again. A light had gone on in the second-story bedroom. Francesca was rewarded with the sight of Eliza Burton moving about the room. An instant later she saw Robert Burton, pausing before Eliza, and then the two of them seemed to be talking, Robert gripping Eliza’s arms.
They seemed to be in love, Francesca thought, lowering the glasses, not wanting to see any more. Every single time she had seen them while out, he doted upon her. Earlier, he had been kind and caring. She wondered what it would be like, to have someone love you so much—to always have someone there.
She couldn’t help thinking about Connie and Montrose. Then, as always, she shut off her thoughts, because her sister deserved Montrose.
A moment later Francesca saw a handsome motorcar stopping in front of the Burton house. She did not have to raise her glasses to recognize the figure in the tan overcoat and brown bowler hat with its satin band as he got out of the car. But she did.
Bragg walked up to the house, followed by a detective. Francesca began to prepare herself for the audience that would surely follow. Trying without success to remain composed.
Francesca edged over to the threshold of the library, so she could glimpse her father and Bragg, standing and carrying on a conversation. The tall, beefy detective from earlier that afternoon—the one who had hit Joel—stood aside, taking notes. “I’m afraid that is all I know,” Andrew Cahill was saying. “I cannot imagine any of the guests being involved in such a base affair.”
“I cannot dismiss the possibility, not yet. Please have the entire staff summoned to the hall. I will interview everyone independently, one by one,” Bragg said. “Which room may I use?”
Francesca crossed her arms uneasily as Andrew told him he could use the dining room for the interviews. Francesca took a small breath, more for composure than courage, and stepped inside.
He did not see
m surprised to see her. He nodded, as if they had not been at headquarters earlier that day. “Good afternoon, Miss Cahill.”
Francesca murmured an identical greeting.
“Show me exactly where you found the note,” he said.
Francesca nodded and hurried forward while her father excused himself to round up the staff.
“Hickey, go with him,” Bragg ordered.
The big detective obeyed.
Francesca walked over to the desk, aware of the two of them being awkwardly alone together in the library—just as they had been so awkwardly alone in the very same room last night. “There is nothing more for me to say,” she said, looking at the desk while sliding her hand over the smooth, worn wood. “I found it here, amidst all of the mail.” She looked at him eagerly. “You know, it seems more plausible that someone slipped it into our mail slot. That makes more sense. It would have been an easy mistake to make.”
“Only for an intolerably stupid man,” Bragg returned evenly. He seemed exhausted. She had the urge to reach out and comfort him.
Instead, she hugged herself.
“Are you certain you did not see anyone leaving this room, or in the hallway outside, as you were entering?” he pressed.
Francesca was about to say no, and then she stopped herself. She replayed the moment of the night before in her mind. She remembered how unbearably tense she had become when first meeting Bragg. Could she have somehow failed to notice someone leaving the room? She slowly lifted her gaze and found him staring at her with a scrutiny that was unsettling. Francesca felt herself flush. “The truth is,” she said, so hoarsely that she had to clear her throat, “I was upset when I came in here, and it is possible I did not notice someone leaving the room.”
She strained to recollect exactly what had happened after leaving the reception room. Had she brushed someone upon entering the hallway?
He moved closer to the desk. Francesca found it impossible not to watch him, dreading his asking her why she had been distraught, but he did not, much to her relief. She realized that he was staring, and she followed his gaze.