by Brenda Joyce
Slowly, pensively, she climbed the front steps. She had debated telling Bragg about locating Joel and his offer to take her to find Gordino, and she had dismissed the notion.
Joel was wary of the police, as well he should be. Francesca felt that Joel would bolt the moment he realized Bragg was involved in their scheme. But she was truly afraid for her own personal safety; not for a minute had she forgotten how foul Gordino was, or the way he had kissed her. Now, of course, Joel’s past words also kept haunting her. Gordino was a murderer, and for a reason she just could not fathom, he had gotten away with his crimes and was not behind bars.
Francesca rang the doorbell, fretting and worrying.
What if Gordino accosted her again? What if, this time, he was successful? The very thought was enough to make her dizzy and faint.
What if she told Bragg and they conceived a way for him to be present at the scene of the rendezvous, without Joel ever knowing?
The problem was, Francesca hated being deceitful. To make matters worse, in an odd way, she was somewhat fond of the “kid.” He might be a pickpocket and a thief, but she could certainly understand how poverty and desperation had driven him to such a livelihood. In the end, she just could not blame him for being what he was.
He had seemed genuinely fond of his brothers and sister.
She did not want to betray his trust.
A footman suddenly opened the front door, startling Francesca, who was so immersed in her thoughts.
She stated her business, presenting her personal card, and was told that Sarah was at home, but occupied. However, she was led inside, and the footman told her that he would inquire as to whether Miss Channing was currently receiving callers.
Francesca handed over her fur-lined coat, her hat, muff, and gloves, and was left alone inside a huge drawing room that was seriously overdone. Cherubs floated amidst puffy clouds on the ceiling, and every bit of wood trim, as well as every piece of furniture in the room, was gilded. She did not sit. She paced.
Would it do any good to honor a confidence with Joel, a boy she hardly knew, if she became badly hurt, or even worse, by the night’s upcoming shady affair? Francesca shivered.
But Jonny Burton’s life was at stake. If he was still alive. And they desperately needed to locate Gordino and make him reveal his connection to the abduction. But how in God’s name could she even hope to do that? The only possible way, Francesca had earlier concluded, was to bribe him—and handsomely. She was prepared to offer him an outrageous sum in exchange for the name of whoever had given him that second note.
A houseman appeared. “Miss Cahill, if you would not mind the informality, Miss Channing is in her studio, but she will see you now.”
Her studio? Puzzled, Francesca followed the servant through the large house. It, too, could have been dubbed “the Marble Palace” as her own home had. But nothing seemed to be in good taste, she thought. Every inch of space was occupied with chairs and tables, sculptures and vases, mirrors and paintings. Mrs. Channing, apparently, had very lavish tastes, indeed.
The manservant led her deeper and deeper into the house. And when he opened a door, allowing her to enter first, Francesca’s eyes went wide.
The large room was at the very back of the house, and two walls were nothing but windows. Even at this late afternoon hour, the room was flooded with light. The views of the frozen Hudson River and the snowy Palisades were fantastic, especially with the sun just beginning to set. But that was not what amazed Francesca.
She was in an artist’s studio. Every available space along the walls was covered with propped-up canvases, some larger than Francesca herself. They were almost all portraits, with very few exceptions. Some of the oils were finished, others in various states of completion. And standing with her back to Francesca, studying one large canvas upon an easel, was Sarah Channing herself.
She was wearing a plain pale blue day dress with an apron. Even the back was smudged with splotches of red, blue and brown paint. Sarah turned, holding a brush, and she smiled slightly. There was a smudge of ochre on her cheek. “Hello, Miss Cahill. This is a surprise.”
Francesca was momentarily speechless. The timid little Sarah Channing was an artist? And a superior one at that, if Francesca was any judge. Superior, and clearly devoted to her work.
For painting could not possibly be a mere hobby for her. Her work was too professional—any one of the portraits could have been hanging on a wall in the Cahill home. There was a dreamy quality to her style of painting, as if each subject were seen through a fine veil, and as Francesca looked from portrait to portrait, she realized that every subject had a completely different expression.
There was a portrait of the mayor. He was unsmiling, and his eyes were burning with his characteristic fervor. A portrait of a pair of young girls showed absolute innocence and gaiety and one child was obviously mischievous. A painting of Sarah’s mother featured a slight, lopsided smile, and her eyes had that faraway quality that Mrs. Channing had in real life, as well. Sarah’s mother was a bit absent-minded and unfocused, and Sarah had caught that quality brilliantly.
“I had no idea,” Francesca heard herself say, unable to keep her eyes on Sarah. There were just too many beautiful paintings to admire.
Sarah laid down her brush and wiped her hands-covered in paint-on her apron. “Few people do. Mother prefers it that way.”
Francesca finally looked directly at Sarah, who had now captured her complete attention. Maybe they had more in common than they had first thought. How deceiving, she thought, appearances were. “Your art is superb.”
Sarah flushed. “Not really,” she demurred.
“I am no art critic, but I do think it is fabulous.”
Sarah smiled again, and her eyes were bright, shining.
Francesca stared. This woman, she thought, loved her work the way Francesca was devoted to the cause of reform. Her eyes had never been this bright on either of the two previous occasions Francesca had seen her.
And suddenly she had an image of her brother, so dashing and jaunty in his evening tails, announcing that he was off for the night—on his way, undoubtedly, to one of his clubs, to wine and dine the night away, with a little gaming thrown in.
She could also see Evan in his goggles and duster, preparing for a speedy drive in the country.
Or in his tennis clothes, on the court, his body covered in sweat, hitting ball after ball, determined to best his opponent. Hopeful ladies were cheering him from the sidelines.
This was, Francesca decided, the most awful of mismatches. She could not imagine Sarah giving up her studio time to cheer him from the sidelines during a tennis match, or joining him for an afternoon outing on the yacht or for a drive in the country.
“I am sorry you have caught me in such dishabille,” Sarah said quietly.
“It is my fault, let me assure you of that,” Francesca said with a quick smile. She took a better look at Sarah, who seemed flushed with the exertion her work had cost her. She was so much prettier caught this way, although her big brown eyes remained her best feature. “I have come to offer you congratulations on your impending engagement to my brother,” Francesca said.
“I thought so. I have some lemonade over there on the table. Would you care for some?” Sarah asked, already leading the way to the one seating area in the room, which was in front of a fireplace with a wooden mantel. It consisted of an old green sofa and two plush yellow-striped chairs, worn and comfortable, and a small table covered with a lace cloth on which was placed a tray containing the pitcher of lemonade and several glasses.
“That would be lovely,” Francesca said.
They sat down and Sarah poured the lemonade, her fingers leaving spots of green paint on the crystal pitcher. She did not seem to notice.
The two women sipped their drinks in silence. Francesca could see why Sarah had fallen in love with her brother—she would not have many suitors, and none like Evan. But she still could not comprehend how and why Evan had
fallen in love with her. He was always dancing attendance on the most beautiful and coy women. He loved a good flirtation. “How long have you known my brother?” Francesca asked, just to make conversation—for she already knew the answer.
“Just two weeks.” Sarah did not smile.
“What a whirlwind romance,” Francesca exclaimed.
Sarah smiled, just a little, and did not reply.
“Evan seems besotted,” Francesca finally volunteered. “There will be hundreds of ladies insanely jealous of you.”
Sarah looked up at her, her brown eyes steady and unwavering. “I am sure there will be many broken hearts in the city; your brother is both handsome and charming.”
Francesca stared. She was quite certain there was an unspoken “but” about to follow that statement. When Sarah did not continue, Francesca said, “And you must be walking in the clouds.”
Sarah set her glass down, which was now covered with green and beige paint, and did not look up for a long moment. When she did so, her face was sober, as it usually was. Except for that moment when Francesca had first entered the studio. Then her expression had been dazzling with animation. “I am very pleased to be marrying your brother,” she said.
Bells went off in Francesca’s mind, bells of warning.
Something was just not right here. She stared. “It is certainly a good match,” Francesca said.
Sarah nodded. “Yes, it is. My mother is thrilled, as are your parents.”
It almost sounded as if Sarah were not thrilled. But she had to be thrilled, didn’t she? Francesca knew she was prying, but she said, “Sarah, is anything wrong?”
“Of course not,” Sarah said.
“Do you like motoring?” Francesca asked impulsively. “Evan has a new roadster. In good weather, he loves to spend entire afternoons driving about Long Island. It is great fun.”
Sarah hesitated. “I suppose I shall learn to like it,” she said.
“He also has a yacht. We have had the most wonderful boating parties in the summertime.” Francesca smiled. “Surely you like boating?”
Sarah hesitated again. “In truth, I get seasick.”
It was as she had suspected. They had nothing in common, except that they were in love. “Well, I was so surprised when Evan told me he had taken the ‘fall,’ so to speak.”
“The fall?”
“You know. The fall into love.” She smiled encouragingly.
Sarah looked at her and said nothing. Then she glanced longingly over her shoulder at her canvas.
It was a work in progress. It showed a young woman in a beautiful peacock-green evening gown, her red hair piled atop her head, and she was looking archly at the viewer. Darker green velvet window treatments were behind her, and she had her hand on the back of an object, which Francesca supposed would emerge into a chair.
“She is very beautiful,” Francesca said.
Sarah brightened, facing Francesca. “Yes, she is. She is my cousin, and she is the black sheep in the family. She is already widowed and she is not even twenty-three, and she has been living most lavishly in Paris since last summer. I began this just before she left—with her husband’s fortune.” Sarah laughed, the first time Francesca had heard her do so. “Her name is Bartolla Benevente. Her husband was an Italian count. She reminds me of Eliza Burton.”
Francesca’s eyes widened. Indeed, she did, but not through any physical resemblance, as Bartolla was a true beauty. But it was there in her saucy, confident expression, and she shared the same vitality that Eliza Burton had.
Francesca sobered, thinking of the missing child and the night to come. Her stomach lurched unpleasantly. If Bragg ever found out...
“I do hope they find the boy, and soon,” Sarah whispered.
“So do I.” Francesca stood abruptly. “I hope I haven’t kept you from your glorious art.”
Sarah flushed and it made her pretty. “You overflatter me, I think.”
“You are too modest,” Francesca said firmly.
Sarah walked her to the door. “Thank you for calling, Miss Cahill.”
“Please call me Francesca, as we will one day be sisters.”
“Only if you call me Sarah,” Sarah said.
Francesca smiled and agreed.
Then Sarah said, surprising her, “I would love to paint you sometime. May I?”
Francesca started. “Well, I... I do not see why not...”
“You are so beautiful, but you have so many interesting layers to uncover. It would be a most exciting project,” Sarah said, smiling fully now, her eyes sparkling. “Please think about it.”
Francesca stared. Her eyes had not sparkled that way when they had been discussing her brother and the marriage. “I shall,” Francesca assured her.
“Thank you.” Sarah dutifully walked her through the house and to the front door.
Francesca remained deep in thought during the brief ride across the park. Sarah was a far more interesting woman than she would have ever thought.
Her parents were at the opera for the evening. Evan was out, as well. He had cheerily announced that he was off to the Metropolitan Club. Things could not have worked out better.
Now, if only the rest of the evening would turn out as well.
Francesca had not bothered with a disguise. She hailed a hansom and within twenty minutes—there was no traffic at such a late hour—she was at 201 Avenue A. Joel was waiting for her, lingering on the front stoop, a brown scarf wrapped around his neck, a worn plaid cap on his head. He jumped into the carriage before she could even call his name.
“ ‘Evening, Miss Cahill.” He grinned.
Francesca’s stomach was upset; she was a bundle of nerves. She could not return his somewhat mischievous smile. “How did you know it was I?”
He guffawed. “How many cabs do you see in this part of town?” He leaned forward and knocked on the glass partition. “Twenty-third, off Broadway.”
The hansom rolled forward.
Francesca could hardly see Joel in the shadows of the cab’s interior. The fact that the street lighting downtown was so poor did not help. “Joel, please tell me where we are going?” she asked, and she could hear the faint note of desperation in her tone. She was now regretting her decision to be so brave. She was regretting her decision not to tell Bragg what she was up to. And now she was wondering if she should have left a note on her bed, just in case something did happen, just in case she did not return home that night.
Joel did not respond. He was on his knees on the seat beside her, peering through the hansom’s back window.
Francesca glanced backward and saw only an empty cobbled street, covered with patches of black ice. And then she realized what he was about. “I have told no one about this ... this adventure of ours,” she said tersely.
“Just makin‘ sure no spots are shadowing us.”
“Shadowing?”
“Shadowing,” he said, sitting down. “Following us,” he exclaimed with exasperation.
“Where are we going?”
“You don’t need to be so afraid. It’s just a small saloon. Gordino likes cards and dice. If he’s out, he’ll be there.”
A saloon. It was as she had thought. How on earth was she going to enter a saloon?
“I’ll go in first,” Joel assured her. “To see if he’s there. You pay the cabby to wait. It will be fine, lady. I’ll bring him out to talk to you.” He smiled.
She was hardly relieved. “I hope so,” she murmured, aware of perspiration gathering along her hairline and at her temples. She reminded herself that this was not a casual lark. This was about Jonny Burton. Gordino obviously knew who was responsible for the second note, delivered by Joel to Bragg at Mott and Hester streets.
Ten minutes later Joel directed the cabby to stop. The street just off the avenue was lined with bars and saloons and what Francesca feared were houses of ill repute. One glance upward at second-story windows, fully illuminated from within, showed her too many scantily clad women to coun
t. “I think I am going to be sick,” she whispered.
“I’ll be right back,” Joel said. “Give the driver a fiver.” He opened the door and jumped down from the cab.
Francesca fumbled with her purse and then with her money. She handed the driver the coins. Her knees were shaking and knocking together. How could she do this?
Suddenly she could taste Gordino’s kiss, and the recollection was so tactile it was enough to make her gag. She was an instant from rapping on the window partition and demanding that the cabby take her home.
But an image of Jonny’s impish grin came to mind. Tears came to her eyes. How could she not go through with this?
But now she knew, she just knew, she should have told Bragg.
Five minutes seemed to pass by. Then five minutes more. And then another five minutes. Francesca peered out of the window at the brilliantly illuminated entrance where Joel had disappeared. What was taking so long? Had something happened to the boy?
“Miss.” The cabby interrupted her thoughts. “I can’t stand here all night.”
“It hasn’t been all night,” Francesca managed. She shoved another dollar at him.
And suddenly Joel was standing outside of the cab, his hands in his coat pockets, shoulders hunched against the cold. “He’s there, all right,” he said. “But he won’t come out. He’s playing stud an‘ he don’t want to talk to you or no one.”
Francesca inhaled hard. “Then I will have to go in.” She had never before realized just how brave she was. She was more nauseous than before.
But before she could put one foot on the frozen ground, Joel plucked her sleeve. “Miss Cahill. I don’t know. It ain’t a posh place. Maybe we should wait a bit, see if he comes out later.”
The street was bright with old-fashioned gaslights. Francesca silently debated the issue. She had to get home before her parents—and she doubted they would come in much later than midnight. The clock was ticking; time was running out. “How bad is it?” she asked.
“Ain’t right for a lady,” Joel said seriously. “It ain’t.”