Everyone laughed. What the hell? Why were they laughing when Ronald was lying in his casket a few feet away? He’d braced himself for the sad task of describing her husband’s death, but Bernice and her friends didn’t seem interested. She wasn’t a grieving widow, that was for sure. He’d had enough. Would make a quick excuse and leave. He glanced toward the door. She must have read his thoughts because her face clouded and she let out a tragic sigh. “Oh, Yancy, you must forgive me. I’m only joking to cover my grief. I can’t believe Ronald’s gone. Such a shock. I am brokenhearted.”
He would give her the benefit of the doubt. “I understand, Bernice.”
“And I want to hear all about what happened, but first you must come and meet my friends.” Bernice led him to her friends, all on the young side, well dressed, sitting at ease with their wineglasses. If they were aware of Ronald lying in his casket, they showed no signs of it. She introduced them, one by one. All of them dear friends, it seemed, come to console her in her grief, although judging from their expressions, none looked the least mournful.
“Please do sit down, Yancy. Would you like some wine?” He sat and said no to the wine. She continued on in a voice that often sounded bright and bubbly. “As you can see, I’ve spared no expense. The funeral will be tomorrow. All of San Francisco will be here.” She threw a triumphant glance at a blond young man dressed in a cutaway coat with velvet trim. “Isn’t that so, Reggie? Did I not invite the mayor himself and he said he’d come?”
Reggie sat slumped in an indolent posture in his chair, legs sprawled before him. “Everyone who’s anyone is coming, my dear. Ronald had a million friends.”
For a while, the conversation centered on who was coming to the funeral and how important they were, what refreshments would be served, and the excessive cost of Ronald’s casket. The more Yancy listened, the less he thought of her friends, all of them frivolous at best, more interested in lively chatter and the supply of alcohol than anything else. Fine wine and brandy appeared to be the beverages of choice. Bernice preferred Courvoisier L’Esprit. Pretty fancy. Considering the red spots on her cheeks and her slightly slurred words, she’d had more than enough.
Yancy’s thoughts soon drifted. Much as it pained him to think about it, Mother would be gone soon. The minute she was, he’d be on the train home, to his cabin, his lake, his contented life free of fools like Bernice and her friends. He’d about had enough of the mindless chatter when Mrs. O’Brien came in and spoke to Bernice. “About dinner, I need to know how many are staying.”
They were all staying.
“And what about the children?” Mrs. O’Brien asked.
Bernice gave an indolent wave of her hand. “They’ll have dinner upstairs, Mrs. O’Brien, like they always do.”
The children. Richard and Beth. He could still see that proud gleam in Ronald’s eyes when he spoke of them. Where were they? He should have seen them by now. He got up and spoke to Bernice. “I want to see them.” Not waiting for her answer, he spoke to Mrs. O’Brien. “Can you show me the way?”
A slender boy of around eight was sitting by a window looking out when Yancy walked into his room. A fine-looking boy, Yancy thought. Straight brown hair. Big brown eyes. Nicely dressed in a wool tweed suit with a vest and short pants.
Yancy strode across the room. “Hello, Richard, I’m your uncle, and I wanted to meet you.”
The boy immediately got to his feet and held out his hand. “It’s an honor to meet you, sir. My father talked about you all the time. He was proud of what you did in the war.”
Yancy bent to shake his hand. “I only did what I had to do. I’m sorry about your father, Richard. He was a fine man. I was always proud to be his brother.”
The boy gulped. His eyes watered. He made a quick swipe at them in an effort not to cry. “My dad was the best dad in the world.”
“Yes, he was, Richard.”
“My dad…” His voice broke. The tears spilled over, and he began to sob.
Yancy knelt, gathered the small, trembling body of his nephew and pulled it firmly against him. For a time he remained silent, holding the boy tight. When the sobs let up, he reached in his pocket. “Looks like you could use a handkerchief.”
Richard took it and blew his nose. “I’m sorry, sir. Men don’t cry. It’s not manly to cry.”
“Whoever told you that? I’ve cried many a time.”
His eyes widened. “You have? Even when you were a soldier?”
“Especially when I was a soldier. Bravery has nothing to do with tears. You just lost your father, so of course you’re going to cry. I’d think less of you if you didn’t.”
The boy actually managed a faint smile. After a time, they sat on the bed together, Richard listening intently while Yancy racked his brain, bringing up all the good things about Ronald that he could remember from when they were boys. Eventually they talked of other things. To Yancy’s surprise, Richard knew all about every battle he’d fought in, and that included all the generals’ names, who won, and who lost. “Father knew in detail every battle you fought in,” Richard said.
Eventually Mrs. O’Brien appeared, holding the hand of a little girl. “This is your niece, Beth,” she said.
So this was Ronald’s daughter. No wonder he was so proud. Yancy felt a tug at his heart as he looked at the pretty little girl with blue eyes, rosy cheeks, and hair the color of corn silk. “Are you my uncle Yancy?” she asked.
When he said he was, she threw her arms around him and hugged him tight. “Daddy loved you, and I do, too. Please don’t go away.”
Mrs. O’Brien reached for Beth, but Yancy stopped her. “That’s all right.” He swung the little girl to his lap. She cuddled against him. “Let her stay. We should get better acquainted.”
“I’ll be bringing their dinner soon,” the housekeeper said. “Mrs. McLeish wants you downstairs.”
He didn’t hesitate. “Please inform her I’ll be dining with the children tonight.”
“Of course.” Mrs. O’Brien didn’t lose her straight-faced expression. A spark of pleasure lit her eyes, though, and Yancy didn’t miss it.
Chapter 11
That night Belle slept in a small bed with Angeline, Rosa’s ten-year-old daughter. She didn’t sleep well, partly because the little girl tossed and turned all night, but mostly because the wonderful new life she’d dreamed of had become a disaster, and she didn’t know which way to turn. I keep going around in circles, she thought, like a dog catching its tail. When morning came, she dreaded getting up. This was her wedding day. In hours she would become Mrs. Roberto Romano, reluctant wife, part-time fish gutter, third-in-line daughter-in-law expected to produce babies without delay. She hadn’t unpacked her wedding dress from the trunk. If she was going to wear it, it needed to be pressed, also the veil. She’d better go to Robert’s bedroom and get the dress right now. That is, if she was going to go through with the wedding, and maybe she should. Wouldn’t that be the easiest thing to do by far? No big scene. No awful confrontation with Robert. She’d gotten herself into this mess, and it was far too late to get herself out. She should just keep her mouth shut until she said, “I do,” and let the rest of her life take care of itself.
So fine, she’d made up her mind. This would be her wedding day. In approximately ten hours, she was going to marry Roberto Romano. Mother used to say, “You’ve made your bed, now lie in it,” and that’s exactly what she was going to do. She retrieved her wedding dress from her trunk in Robert’s room, relieved he wasn’t there, and carried it downstairs. The kitchen was a busy place, what with Rosa setting the table for breakfast, Giana squeezing oranges, and Mama stirring a big batch of eggs in a skillet. Seeing the dress, she waved toward the pantry. “Good morning. You’ll find the ironing board and flatirons in there.”
If Belle were home, a servant would have taken her dress to be pressed, but that wasn’t going to happen here, an
d she’d better get used to doing things for herself. So how did one iron? She retrieved the board and two flatirons that were way heavier than she’d thought. She watched as Mama tossed more wood into the stove and set the flatirons directly on two of the burners. So that’s how it worked. Use one iron until it cooled; set it back on the burner and pick up the other one. As if she knew what she was doing, she draped her dress over the board and began to iron, not an easy task, what with the row of tiny buttons on the bodice that must be avoided, and the dozens of small satin bows that circled the skirt, each surrounded by white satin rosebuds, fastened in a circle of delicate lace. A big white satin bow decorated the bustle in the back, surrounded by more of the small ones. She did her best but soon her wrist began to ache. Ironing was harder than she’d ever imagined, but she wouldn’t dream of complaining. She was a Romano woman now, ready and willing to do her part, as she would be for years and years and years to come. Best not to think about it.
During the morning, Mama and her soon-to-be sisters-in-law talked about nothing but the wedding. San Francisco had never seen such a grand wedding, they declared. The banquet room had been more beautifully decorated than ever before. Wait till Belle saw it! The two hundred guests would swoon with delight when they drank the specially ordered French champagne and were given a choice of stuffed lobster tails or porterhouse steaks.
Belle listened quietly and couldn’t keep her eyes off the clock on the wall.
In ten hours she would be married....
In eight hours she would be married...
In six hours....
In the early afternoon, she bathed, took a nap in Rosa and Marco’s bedroom, and actually slept. She awoke to find Rosa and Giana standing by the bed, carefully holding the wedding dress between them. “Only two more hours,” Rosa said. “It’s time to put it on.”
By now, she was beyond all thought. She would do what she had to do, and the less she dwelled upon her miserable fate, the better. Her about-to-be sisters-in-law helped her into the dress. Giana, who seemed to have a knack for it, swept her hair atop her head, fastened it with a big pearl comb, letting a few tendrils dangle fetchingly around her face. When the two stood back and took a look at her, they seemed beyond delight at what they saw. How beautiful she was, how stunning. No bride in the world could ever be more gorgeous. Roberto would be speechless with joy when he saw her. Belle took a good look at herself in the full-length mirror. The dress fit to perfection. The bustle in the back made her waist look tiny and gave elegance to the sweep of the train. Not that it mattered. She didn’t care what Robert thought. If it were Yancy, she’d feel totally different, but it wasn’t Yancy. She’d been a fool and her fate was sealed.
Roberto walked in. His sisters-in-law shrieked when they saw him dressed for the wedding in full formal attire. How elegant he looked, they exclaimed. How very handsome. Belle didn’t think so. He could dress up all he wanted, but with his thick, stocky body and arrogant expression, he was not an attractive man and nothing would make him so.
He nodded with satisfaction when he saw her. “Very nice. I like the dress.” He jerked his head toward the door and spoke to his sisters-in-law. “I want to talk to her.”
They left immediately. No surprise there. Easy to see who ruled the roost in that household. After they left, she remarked, “You look quite elegant, Robert.”
“It’s not every day I get married,” he said. “By the way, my name’s not Robert. It’s Roberto, and you may as well start calling me that right now.”
She’d decided to say nothing more about how he’d deceived her, but the words flew from her mouth before she could stop them. “All right, but I do not appreciate how you—”
“You can stop right there. It doesn’t matter now, does it? This is your wedding day, Belle. Be happy. Make the most of it.”
How galling, but she let it go. Had to let it go. She’d made the commitment and by God, she’d stick to it. “I shall do my best, Roberto. I want to make you a good wife. We’re practically strangers now, but who knows what the future holds? In time, it’s possible an affection might grow between us, and—”
“Love? Forget about love, Belle. Stay in your place and give me lots of sons. That’s all I care about.”
She gasped. Stay in her place? Like some kind of obedient servant? “This is not what I bargained for. We need to talk.”
“Why? There’s nothing more to be said.” He rolled his eyes upward and spoke again, looking amused. “You Southern belles are all alike, so desperate for a husband, you’d crawl clear across the country to find one. I’ve spared no expense to give you a wedding to be proud of, and believe me, you’ll find nothing finer in all of San Francisco. Isn’t that what every girl dreams of? What else matters? We leave for the restaurant in an hour.”
After he left, Belle turned back to the mirror, too stunned to cry, too stunned to do anything except stand unmoving, gazing at the foolish woman in the fancy wedding dress who had just ruined her life. All her own fault. Her incredible stupidity had led her to this, and she deserved her fate. But did she? What had she been thinking? What, really, had she done wrong? She’d been honest and forthright, and she didn’t deserve this. The undeniable fact was, Robert Romano was a callous, thick-skinned tyrant who would make her life a misery. No way in the world would she marry him.
“I’ve got to get out of here,” she whispered and reached for the fancy, satin-covered buttons of her wedding dress.
* * * *
Yancy found his sister-in-law alone in the small parlor across from the dining room. She was sitting on a settee. Judging from the full glass in her hand, she’d just poured herself a sizable slug of cognac. She smiled when she saw him and patted the cushion beside her. “Do come sit down, Yancy.” She held up her glass. “Would you like some?” When he shook his head no, she pursed her mouth into a little moue. “I suppose you think I drink too much.”
He chose to sit across from her. “It’s not for me to say.”
She gazed down at the black silk dress she was wearing. “I hate black. It’s not the right color for me. I’ll wear it for the funeral, but after that, out it goes. I don’t care what people say.” She tipped her head in that flirtatious, attention-getting manner she had. “Are you shocked?”
“Why should I be? You’re free to wear whatever you want.”
“Well, that’s a relief. I value your opinion more than you know. Ronald idolized you. He had you up on a pedestal. I can’t tell you the number of times I heard about your exploits during the war and what a hero you were. So of course I want you to think well of me.”
“Why would I not?”
“Because…” She hiccupped, giggled, and daintily touched two fingers to her mouth. “Excuse me, it’s the cognac. For one thing, I’m not the best mother in the world.”
Apparently she wasn’t. He would choose his words carefully. “Ronald loved his children. He was proud of the both of them, and now that I’ve met them, I see why. Their father’s death has disturbed them deeply, especially Richard. The boy seems lost without his father and could use some special attention.”
“Well, my goodness, he gets plenty of attention, and so does Beth. Mrs. O’Brien sees to all that.”
He refrained from pointing out Mrs. O’Brien was a busy woman and only a servant. “My mother was concerned—”
“Her.” Bernice bristled but caught herself and gave him an apologetic smile. “Forgive me, but your mother isn’t too fond of me, I’m afraid. She thinks I neglect my children. I love her dearly, don’t get me wrong, and I know how very ill she is, but I think she should mind her own business, even though she’s right.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, I do neglect my children, and I don’t intend to change.”
He must have looked surprised because she laughed and declared, “Oh, I know I’ve shocked you, but you don’t understand.”
“I guess I don’t.”
“Then I shall explain. I have no reason to hold back now.”
“Go ahead.” He couldn’t imagine what she was going to tell him, but it couldn’t be good.
“You need to understand how I felt about Ronald. When he first came to San Francisco, my father took him under his wing, taught him the banking business. Ronald was his special pet, although to this day, I never knew why. Daddy’s gone now, so I’ll never know. To me Ronald was always—well, I know he’s your brother and all, but to me he was always so loud and obnoxious there were times when I could hardly stand him.”
“Then why did you marry him?”
She took a healthy swig of her cognac. “My mother died when I was only four, so my father pretty much raised me. I was an only child, and it seemed as if he spent all his waking hours ordering me about, telling me what to do. I resented it, of course. I was a teenager when I turned rebellious. Sometimes I’d sneak out at night to meet men I knew he’d disapprove of. One thing led to another, and I got myself in a spot of trouble, if you know what I mean. I had to tell Daddy. He gave me two choices. Either marry Ronald McLeish or”—her nose wrinkled in distaste—“he’d pack me off to one of those horrible homes for unwed mothers where you’re treated like dirt, and then they take your baby away. So what could I do?”
Bay City Belle Page 11