by Brenda Joyce
There was also no doubt that Eliza Burton and Rick Bragg were far more than mere acquaintances.
Chapter 9
Tuesday, January 21, 1902—8:30 A.M.
They were lovers.
Francesca stared through the opera glasses, her hands shaking so badly that the glasses wobbled up and down, hardly giving her a clear view. But Bragg had stroked Eliza’s hair. She was certain of it.
And a man and a woman just did not hold one another the way that they were doing, not unless they were intimate.
Suddenly they leapt apart, and there was no mistaking the guilt associated with the action. Francesca inhaled hard, steadied the opera glasses, and saw Eliza walk away from Bragg. She was speaking to someone, and a moment later Francesca’s suspicion was confirmed. Burton had entered the room.
She was sick. Sick enough to think about trying to retch.
How cozy, she managed to think.
Then, Did Burton even suspect that his wife and the commissioner of the New York City police were having an affair?
Francesca could not seem to think straight. How could this be happening? Given all of the circumstances? She walked away from the window to sit down on the first piece of furniture she came to. She had never been this upset, it seemed. What was wrong with her? Who cared if Eliza was Bragg’s mistress?
Tears came to her eyes. She cared. Goddammit, she did.
She covered her face with her hands and then surprised herself, for briefly she wept.
She hardly ever cried. She was a sensible sort. Crying accomplished little; besides, Francesca hardly admired those women who seemed to have water spigots in the place of eye ducts. Francesca wiped her eyes with resolution, when suddenly absolute and complete comprehension struck her. She was on her feet.
There must be dozens—no, hundreds—of young men in this city who openly admire and perhaps secretly love Eliza Burton.
Wasn’t that exactly what Bragg had said?
And suddenly she recalled the way he had insisted the boy was not dead when they had found the fourth note. She recalled how he had insisted that the ear had come off a corpse that was not Jonny Burton’s. And she recalled how angry he had been with her for suggesting that Eliza might be lying about inappropriate suitors in order to protect her marriage. Suddenly, Francesca knew why he was taking this case so personally, why he refused to believe the boy dead, and why he had protected Eliza’s reputation so fiercely.
All of his behavior thus far indicated just how involved he was with Eliza; every word, every action, signified that he was the one who was in love with her.
And now here was the proof, proof she had witnessed with her very own eyes.
Francesca wondered just how long they had been carrying on.
She wondered how Eliza could live with herself, deceiving her husband the way that she was doing.
And what about Bragg? Francesca stiffened. She could hear her mother’s voice in her mind as if she were actually speaking. Julia would say, “Did I not tell you? An apple, my dear, does not fall far from the tree!”
Francesca almost clapped her hand over her ears, as if that would shut off her mother’s smug voice, taunting her in her mind.
There was a knock on her door. Francesca called out, “One moment, please,” and rushed into her bathroom. Her eyes were a bit red from that sudden burst of tears. She smiled grimly at herself, pinched her cheeks, and tucked some tendrils of golden blond hair behind her ears. It did not help. The curls jutted free instantly. And her eyes remained suspiciously pink.
Worse, she remained nauseous, with a horrible hollow feeling in the pit of her stomach—or was it in the center of her chest?
Francesca opened the door herself, to find a housemaid standing there.
“The commissioner is here to see you, Miss Cahill,” the young woman said.
Bragg had been shown into the drawing room adjacent to the much larger reception room. Francesca paused on the threshold and had one instant in which to study him without his knowing it. He was staring unseeingly into the fireplace. He appeared exhausted, and although freshly shaven, he looked as if he hadn’t slept in days. His anguish was so tangible she thought that she could feel it.
She felt a twinge of sympathy for him and shoved it determinedly aside. He was a liar himself. God, he had appeared such a noble, moral man. She was so disappointed. She had every right to despise him now. And he must take her for a fool. Actually, he must take most of New York society for fools.
“Francesca,” he said, coming forward.
She moved back a step, causing him to pause with surprise. “Miss Cahill,” she heard herself correct him, as if she were a prude, as if they had not spent hours together discussing the case—as if some kind of unspoken partnership had not evolved during the investigation. She flushed upon hearing her own curt tone.
“I beg your pardon,” he said, his gaze searching her face. “Is something wrong?”
“No. Yes. Of course something is wrong.” Her smile felt brittle. What would he say and what would he do if she accused him of being Eliza’s lover? And it was at that precise moment that she thought of Evan and his last mistress—who had not been the first. She grew uncomfortable. She adored her brother. She did not consider him an immoral man, not in the least. In fact, now that he was about to get engaged, she knew he would abandon his love affairs.
She reminded herself that there was a huge difference between Bragg and Evan. Bragg was carrying on with someone’s wife. Evan was not.
“Fran ... Miss Cahill?” He approached her, golden eyes filled with concern.
“Is there any more news?” she asked, crossing her arms tightly over her fitted shirtwaist. Somehow she did not back away when her entire being screamed at her to do so. She was aware now of feeling betrayed. It was a horrid feeling to have.
“No.” His mouth firmed. “Have you seen the papers?”
She hesitated. “Unfortunately, I have.” How could she feel betrayed? They were almost strangers; he owed her nothing, nothing at all.
His eyes darkened. “So has all of New York City. So have the Burtons.”
“Eliza must be in hysterics.” How wooden she sounded to her own ears.
“I have just come from the Burtons,” he told her, studying her frankly and with some confusion again. “She is convinced her son is dead.” He added, “Are you certain something is not amiss?”
Francesca’s heart was wrenched uncontrollably by his last words. How dare he be so kind and compassionate toward her now. And even though Eliza was not what she appeared, that did not change the fact that she was a mother with a missing child, one who might very well be dead. Francesca could not despise Eliza. “Have you called Dr. Finny?” she asked. “Should I go over to see what I can do?”
He seemed relieved by her response. “She has retired to her rooms. I doubt she will take any callers,” Bragg said.
Ah, but she has seen you, Francesca thought uncharitably.
“I have called Finny. Whom did you tell about the fourth note?” he asked. “Or rather, the envelope with the ear?”
She was taken aback. “No one,” she said firmly.
He studied her and nodded, relaxing. “I’m sorry. I had to ask. I am very angry about the Times running such an article, one with the vast potential of damaging my investigation.”
His investigation, she thought. Never mind that he was the police commissioner and the ultimate authority on this and any case. “I swear to you, I never breathed a word about what was in the fourth envelope,” Francesca said.
“I believe you.” He sighed. “Unfortunately, I have little doubt the leak—both of them—came from within my own department.” He sighed again.
She continued to hug herself. “What makes you so certain?” Francesca felt quite certain herself that Beth Anne had told the world about the third note.
“Although this is a high-security case, which means that only a handful of detectives are working on it, sworn to absolute secrecy
, there are technicians involved. Any one of whom might take a bribe.” He frowned. “I handpicked the detectives, but only three of them are men I recently promoted for their honesty and character. I cannot even be certain that the leak did not come from one of the detectives.”
“I’m sorry,” Francesca said, and she did mean it.
There was a moment of silence then. It quickly became awkward, heavy. Francesca had no comment to make— she kept replaying the scene she had just witnessed at the Burtons’ in her mind’s eye. He kept studying her, his scrutiny far too intense for comfort. He seemed bewildered by her behavior. Clearly he had noticed that she was dismayed and oddly put off. He should not care.
Finally he said, “I must be going. Francesea, if something is wrong, please feel free to raise the subject.”
Her smile was arch. Too arch. “Why ever would you think that something is wrong? Other than the fact that one innocent child is missing under ghastly circumstances?”
“We have only just met,” he said with a slight smile, and it seemed rueful, “but I do believe we have become friends, of a certain nature, in a manner of speaking. And I am quick when it comes to understanding and judging character. Something is amiss. I am certain of it.”
She smiled and said, “Nothing is amiss. You have made a mistake, this time, Commissioner.”
He eyed her, for her tone was too sharp to be sociable. Then, “I do hope it is not something that I have somehow, inadvertently, done.”
Francesca almost gaped.
“Well, good day.”
“Good day,” she said. And she did not walk him to the door.
She would skip her class. There was simply too much to do and a little boy’s life was at stake. Francesca had realized that until they discovered otherwise, she must assume that Jonny Burton was alive.
She slipped on a fitted charcoal-gray jacket, one that matched her custom-made skirt. Both garments were beautifully detailed with black soutache at the cuffs and hem.
She adjusted a black hat with jaunty ostrich feathers, grabbed her purse, and hurried downstairs. She was determined not to think about Bragg’s affair with Eliza Burton.
She had not even set foot on the ground floor when the front door opened and Connie came inside, her infant daughter bundled up in her arms, followed by Mrs. Partridge and three-year-old Charlotte.
Charlotte looked exactly like her mother, except that her blond hair was still so pale that it was almost white. She saw Francesca and her blue eyes lit up. “Auntie! Auntie!” she shrieked.
Francesca grinned and held out her arms. “Come here, Cinderella.”
Cinderella was Charlotte’s favorite fairy tale, and somehow, the nickname had evolved from that and stuck. Charlotte tugged her little gloved hand free of her nanny’s, and still shrieking, she hurled herself at Francesca.
“Hello,” Connie cried happily. “We decided to come over and have breakfast with you, Fran.”
Her short navy blue coat, skirt, and petticoat flying above her knees, Charlotte leapt up as Francesca caught her and lifted her high into the air. Charlotte laughed. “Higher, Auntie Fran!” she ordered.
“Any higher and you’ll be up in heaven, sweetie pie,” Francesca said, hugging her a bit too hard and then letting her down to the floor. She eyed her sister in surprise. Then she glanced at her sister again. Connie looked tired, indeed. “Con, you had a dinner party last night. We left at midnight! Why aren’t you still loitering in bed? Maybe with hot chocolate and Harper’s Weekly? Better yet, the new catalogue from Sears?” Her intuition told her that all was not as it should be.
Connie gave her a look. “Since when I have ever slept late? Or have you forgotten? Besides, the girls are up at seven, little sister.”
Francesca walked over to her sister, to peer past the bundles of blankets at the tiny sleeping infant. Lucinda was only eight months old. She smiled at the sight of the perfect, chubby face. Oddly, Lucinda had red hair and the alabaster complexion to match. “Dinner was wonderful, Con. The food, the company, everything was perfect.” She stroked Lucinda’s smooth little cheek.
Connie smiled then. “Thank you. I really appreciate that. You know, Mama never said a word.” Her smile faded.
Francesca patted her back. “Mama told me that it was a lovely affair,” she said truthfully. “You know how she is. It is not her nature to praise us, Con.”
“I know, but I wish she would have told me,” Connie said with a sigh, shifting Lucinda in her arms.
“May I?” Francesca said eagerly, and a moment later she was cradling the baby to her breast. But even as she relished the moment, an image of Eliza in Bragg’s arms came to mind. How was she ever going to forget about their affair?
“Francesca, why are you scowling?” Connie asked.
Francesca started. “I am not scowling. Connie, I cannot recall a time when you came over at such an hour to have breakfast with us.”
And she also wondered how she would get out of the house in order to find Maggie Kennedy if Connie stayed. Because she had a plan. She would go to the Moe Levy shop on Broadway, and learn the location of the factory.
“Has Papa left yet?” Connie asked, handing her fur coat, hat, and gloves to a houseman while ignoring Francesca’s comment.
Charlotte, who had run out of the hall, came running back in. She was still wearing her navy blue coat and matching hat. “Grampa isn’t home,” she wailed.
“Miss Charlotte, come here and remove your coat and hat,” Mrs. Partridge said firmly.
Charlotte scowled but obeyed, walking over to the short, plump woman with the unruly gray curls. “And you act like the lady your mama is,” Mrs. Partridge scolded in a whisper.
Charlotte nodded then shouted, “Auntie Fran! Let’s go shopping! Can you buy me a doll? Today?”
Before Francesca could begin to reply, Connie took her daughter by the hand. “You have two dozen dolls, Charlotte. You may wait until your birthday for another one.”
Charlotte gave her mother an annoyed look.
Francesca caught her eye and gave her a wink. Later, she told her silently.
Charlotte grinned, clapped her hands together, and then looked up at her mother guiltily to see if Connie was aware of the conspiracy forming behind her back. Connie sighed. “Oh, Fran. I wish you would not spoil her. You need one of your own. Trust me.”
“I’d love one of my own,” Francesca said, handing Lucinda to Mrs. Partridge, “but I don’t want all that goes with it.” She smiled. “I am too young to get married.”
Connie smiled serenely at her. “Now that Evan is getting engaged, you have about six months’ respite. Once he’s wed, my dear little sister, you are next.”
Francesca looked at her for a long moment without speaking. “Don’t tell me. A June wedding?” She was almost but not quite disbelieving.
“If Mama has her way.”
Francesca rolled her eyes, but she was more than dismayed. Because Connie was right, and because she still had not adjusted to the fact that Evan was getting engaged, much less married. And in such a rush!
“Have you eaten?” Connie asked.
“Actually, I have. I was on my way out,” Francesca said, her thoughts veering to Bragg, Eliza, Maggie Kennedy, and the case.
“At this hour?” Connie lifted both pale, groomed brows. In fact, her hair was pulled back into a flawless chignon, she was wearing the simplest pearl necklace above the collar of her blouse, and her lips were delicately rouged. Francesca wondered if she looked as perfect when she went to bed and when she first woke up in the morning. She had the feeling that she did.
Connie said, “And pray tell, Miss Up-to-Something-Once-Again, just where are you going and what are you up to, this time?”
Francesca smiled. “I am hardly up to anything, Con. I was going to go to the public library, to read. That is all.” She lied as easily if she had been born a liar. But she hated deceiving her sister.
Connie clearly did not know whether to believe her or not.
Then she grabbed her arm. “Well. Keep me company for a while. Let’s have waffles with pounds of maple syrup and hot chocolate with whipped cream and let’s get so deliciously fat no man will look at us again.”
Francesca stared after her sister as she walked away. What an odd comment to make.
“Miss. Are you going to get out of the cab?”
Francesca stared out of the window of the hansom. The Moe Levy and Company factory was on the fourth floor of the building she was regarding, on Thirty-second Street between Seventh and Eighth avenues. The four-story brick building seemed terribly run down, but so did the entire street. There were potholes everywhere, the buildings had broken windows, and the few workers passing by looked as worn down as the world they lived in. “Of course I am getting out,” Francesca said, already having handed the cabby his fare. As she stepped down to the sidewalk, taking care of her footing on the frozen, blackened snow, she wondered how she would ever find a hansom to take her home. The street was empty except for two passing wagons, loaded with merchandise Francesca could not identify. The hansom departed. Francesca clutched her muff in one hand, her purse in another. Two men in baggy, poorly made jackets and caps eyed her as they passed. A stray dog urinated on the wheel of a parked wagon. Shouts were emanating from one of the buildings—it sounded as if a huge fight were breaking out. Francesca’s heart pounded far too swiftly for comfort.
What am I doing here? she wondered uneasily.
Then she shook her head, as if she might shake herself free of fear and doubt. This was where Maggie Kennedy worked. Francesca had no choice but to confront her there, for time felt as if it were running out. And having Jennings or another coachman drive her was far too dangerous. One question from her mother and he would dutifully spill all. Francesca imagined that if Julia ever learned where she had gone that day, or the past few days, she would not be allowed to set foot out of the house for the next six months.
The front door was unlocked, its heavy, rusting bolts unlatched. Francesca pushed the heavy, scarred and scratched door open, peering into a shadowy, unlit hallway. Dark, nearly black stairs faced her.