“Has Evan said something about the children?” Julia asked with her slender brows arched.
“Evan adores your children,” Francesca said. He had been squiring them about the park and to the zoo and even to an indoor bowling lane ever since they had become guests at the house.
“It isn’t fair,” Maggie said softly. Then she flushed. “I am so worried about my employment, Miss Cahill.”
“But Francesca,” she said automatically, “the police commissioner spoke to your manager, explaining the circumstances. You will not lose your work.”
Maggie simply looked at her. “Are you certain? Because I do not think Mr. Wentz cares whether or not the police commissioner wishes me to be employed.”
Francesca hesitated. “Mrs. Kennedy? Let me be singularly bold. Bragg can cause trouble for the factory if you are dismissed.”
She stared. Then, “I do not think he would ever do such a thing, Miss Cahill. Not on my account.”
“Yes, he would. If I insisted,” Francesca said, and then she realized what she had said and how it sounded and turned to face her mother.
Julia wasn’t pleased. Her blue eyes said, We shall talk, and soon, Francesca, and clearly there would be a lecture involved.
Francesca sighed.
Julia said, surprising everyone, “Maggie, you are not well enough to go back to work, I shall not allow it, but on Monday I shall go down to the factory and speak to your manager myself.”
Maggie paled. “Oh, I could not let you do such a thing!”
“Nonsense. And not only shall I go myself; I shall make it clear that I am ordering new uniforms for my entire staff and for the Montrose household as well.” She smiled.
Maggie gaped.
Francesca whooped and embraced her mother in a bear hug. “Mama!”
“Francesca, what are you doing?” Julia said sternly, trying to disengage her daughter, but her eyes were smiling, even if her expression remained firm.
“You never cease to surprise me,” Francesca said, giving her another huge squeeze. “Now, I am off to speak briefly with Evan, and then I am to supper at the Plaza with the Braggs.” She started back down the hall.
“We will speak more later, Maggie,” Julia said. Then, “Francesca!”
She turned. “Yes, Mama?”
Julia approached. “We need to speak,” she said.
Dismay filled her. “Can’t it wait? I must be at the Plaza at seven and I am already going to be late.”
“No, this is about your sister,” Julia said, her voice low so she could not be overheard. “She and Neil were supposed to join us this evening, but apparently she is in her bed with some kind of migraine—yet she refuses to see Dr. Finney.”
Francesca stared. “I saw her this morning.”
“I know. What is wrong? Is she ill?”
Francesca hesitated. “The only thing wrong with her is that she has a broken heart. But perhaps she does have a migraine, Mama.”
“Since when does your sister have migraines?” Their gazes locked. “I feel like I don’t know my own daughter anymore.”
Francesca took her hand. “She seemed quite normal this morning. Except for the fact that it was well after nine and she was in her nightgown. Maybe Connie is changing a bit? Maybe she does have a migraine.”
“I don’t know whether to hope her excuse is truthful or not,” Julia said. “You know I have never interfered in your sister’s marriage. But I am tempted to do so, now.”
Inwardly, Francesca cringed. “She will get through this. I suppose she needs time. She has always loved Neil. I feel certain that has not changed. And … Neil truly loves her. He regrets all that he has done. Give them some time, Mama, to sort out things.”
A look of anger appeared briefly in Julia’s eyes, and then it was gone. “It is a bit late for him to cry over spilled milk,” she said.
Francesca was taken aback. Her mother adored Montrose. In the past, he could do no wrong. But there had been no mistaking the anger she had just seen.
“I am going to have a bit of a heart-to-heart with your sister,” Julia decided flatly. “The two of them have been at odds for too long. I shall put my two cents in.”
Francesca hesitated. She did not know if this was a good idea or not. Her entire life, Connie had been pushed and prodded by Julia to be a perfect child, a perfect debutante, and now the perfect wife, mother, and socialite. On the other hand, if Julia could help Connie regain her happiness, if her relationship could just go back to the way it had been before his affair, it would be wonderful. “Well, tread gently, then.”
Julia gazed at her in surprise. “That is extremely good advice, Francesca.”
Francesca was thrilled with her mother’s praise. It was so rare. “Thank you, Mama.”
Julia patted her shoulder. “So why have you been running about the city all day when you are supposed to rest? And what is this about a dinner with the Braggs?”
Francesca froze.
Julia sighed. “I am entirely suspicious, Francesca. But even you would not be involved in police affairs so soon after your brush with a fiery death.”
“Of course not,” she managed.
“And I am delighted you shall be dining in such good company.” She kissed her cheek. “Wear your new turquoise gown. I am sure it will be a wonderful evening.”
The door to her father’s library was wide open. The room was Francesca’s favorite in the entire house, as it was a warm room with wood paneling and soft gold tapestry cloth covering the walls. The windowpanes were stained glass and the same rich, dark oak wood that formed ribs across the ceiling. Her father’s desk was also dark oak, but with a leather-inlaid top. They kept their telephone there.
Now there was nothing warm about the library, in spite of a fire that roared in the hearth. Because Evan’s face was flushed with fury and he was saying angrily, “And if you do not change your mind, you are the one who shall pay the consequences!”
Andrew was as flushed. “You threaten me?” he gasped.
“Yes, I do,” Evan said coldly. He was six foot tall, with the fair Cahill complexion but raven-black hair. His blue eyes were murderous. “After all, it is a tit for a tat, is it not, Father? Doesn’t blackmail deserve threats?”
Francesca was aghast. She rushed into the room. “Stop! What is happening! What is this?” she cried, reeling from the utter hatred on her brother’s handsome face.
“He dares to threaten me!” Andrew cried, a distinct and unflattering shade of crimson. He was a portly man with a benevolent face and thick whiskers.
“I am simply stating my case. He wishes to ruin the rest of my life by forcing me to marry a woman I will never love—or even like. If he does not change his mind, then rest assured, our relationship as a father and son is over.”
Francesca felt as if she had been struck. Clearly Andrew felt the blow as well, for he seemed to be reeling. She ran to his side and grabbed his arm, as if to steady him. “Evan, you do not mean that.”
“I mean it. In four months he will have me exchanging vows with Sarah Charming. In four months my life becomes one of manacles and chains, of unhappiness and anguish. And I will not take it.” His blue eyes were nearly black.
Andrew Cahill shook Francesca off. “You haven’t spoken to me in almost a month. Now you dare to come in here and tell me that you will cease being my son if I do not call off this wedding?”
“Yes. I dare.” Evan did not back down.
“I am doing this precisely because you are my son! I am doing this because you are almost twenty-five and you have no direction in your life except for gambling halls and dens! And cheap women!”
Evan folded his arms across his chest. “We cannot all be like you, Father. We can’t all grow up impoverished and illiterate but with such a burning ambition that we shake off those shackles with sheer fortitude and wit. I am truly sorry I have not grown up on a farm, milking cows and plowing fields the way that you have done. I am sorry that I did not go to work for a
butcher at the age of twelve and that I did not spend the rest of my childhood working myself to the bone and saving every penny earned so I could buy that damned butcher shop! I am sorry I did not do so, and then continue on to buy my competitors out, one by one, until Cahill Meatpacking was born! I am not you! And I never will be you!” he shouted.
“No one expects you to be exactly like Father,” Francesca began.
“You do not have to grow up on a farm on a diet of milk, butter, and bread in order to have some kind of ambition, some sense of direction, and some glimmer of responsibility,” Andrew snapped. “Or have you forgotten that the reason you are so currently shackled is because you have gaming debts which total almost two hundred thousand dollars?”
Evan’s flush increased.
“Papa, don’t,” Francesca whispered. “He regrets those debts; he truly does!”
“Does he?” Andrew moved behind his desk and almost tore a drawer from it. He held up a handful of papers. “These debts are new and they have just come to my attention. Last week you incurred another eighteen thousand dollars of damned debt!” he shouted.
Francesca turned huge eyes upon her brother. Had he been gambling again? But he had promised that he would never do so again. How could he?
He met her gaze and looked away, with clear guilt. Then he looked up at Andrew. “Do not make me marry this woman. I will pay off my debts, somehow. Over time. But do not shackle me to Sarah Channing.”
Francesca looked at Andrew. “Papa? It is the worst match. I adore Sarah, but she is not for Evan. And she doesn’t even want to marry, not him or anyone. Please, Papa, let them go their separate ways.”
“She is the best thing to ever happen to him!” Andrew cried.
“You are wrong! She is the worst thing to ever happen to me!” Evan cried in return.
“And whom would you have as a wife? That countess Benevente?” Andrew demanded.
Evan stilled. “I hadn’t really thought about it, but she is available and we should do nicely indeed.”
“Over my dead body,” Andrew spat. “That woman would cause you nothing but grief! You are a fool, Evan, a complete fool, ruled by one thing, no, two things. And I do believe you know what those two things are.”
Evan’s face hardened. “You know what? I am done here. I am truly done.” He turned and strode for the door.
“What the hell does that mean?” Andrew cried, not moving from behind his desk.
“Don’t,” Francesca whispered, ready to cry.
Evan paused in the doorway, his smile ugly. “I am finished. I am finished with all of this. I am sick of being your lackey at the office, and I am not marrying Sarah Channing, and as of this moment, I am no longer your son.”
“Please don’t!” Francesca cried, rushing to him.
Andrew strode forward.
Evan did not move.
Francesca found herself trapped between the two men, her father, who was about five-foot-nine but stout, and her taller, slim brother. It was not a happy or pleasant place to be.
“Are you saying that you are leaving the company?” Andrew asked, his tone eerily quiet.
“Yes.”
“And you will not marry Sarah?”
“Yes.”
“Then I am not paying your debts,” Andrew said softly.
“I will find a way to pay them myself,” Evan said.
Andrew hesitated.
“Papa, don’t; enough has been said,” Francesca said into the sudden silence, grabbing his hand.
But it was as if he hadn’t heard her. “Then you may leave this house, for you are no longer my son,” he said.
Francesca followed Evan down the hall. “Go back. Apologize. Don’t do this!”
He reached the stairs. When the Cahill mansion had been built, it had been done so in such a way that his house was attached on the other side. The intention was that one day, after marrying, he would live right next door with his wife and children. Evan’s house was almost as large and grand as his parents’. There was an outside entrance on Sixty-second Street, but he could also enter from within the Cahill home, on the second floor. That was clearly where he was going, now.
Evan paused and faced his sister, still flushed. “I would not be a man if I meekly did as Father ordered.”
She closed her eyes, filled with fear. Then she looked at him. “If you do not pay your debts, you will wind up in debtors’ jail.”
“That’s right,” he said grimly. “And that is a risk I have decided to take, because I am not marrying Sarah Channing.”
Francesca touched his sleeve. “Wouldn’t it be better to pretend to go along with the engagement for now, while raising the money to pay off your debtors?”
He looked at her and sighed. “Leave it to you, Fran, to strike to the heart of common sense. Yes, obviously it would. But I am so furious right now that I think I have come to hate Father.”
“Don’t say that!”
“Why not? He has been disappointed in me since I was born. I have never done a single thing right, not in his eyes.”
“That’s not true!”
“Yes, it is. And you know it. And do you want to know something else? This isn’t just about Sarah. I hate being his lackey, and that is what I have been my entire life. I hate the company. I hate it! I have hated every single day I have worked there, and you know I started working there after school when I was twelve years old.”
She bit her lip. “I knew you didn’t really like the business, but I never suspected you disliked it so much!”
“I do,” he said firmly.
“You will not at least think about retracting some of what you have said?”
He didn’t hesitate. “No. I shall take a room at one of the hotels, look for a new job, and eventually let a place of my own.”
“Oh God,” Francesca said, feeling as if her world were falling apart. “But this is your home.” She meant next door. “Mama and Papa built Number Eight-twelve for you. You have been living there since you were eighteen.”
“You may have it on your wedding day. I don’t want it.”
She sensed he didn’t really mean it. She sensed that within him there was a part that remained loyal to his family, a part that did not want to leave. Or was it wishful thinking on her part? “Please rethink what you are going to do,” she whispered.
“Fran, do you think I have decided to quit Cahill Meatpacking on a whim? Do you think I decided to break off the engagement on a whim? I owe one hundred and ninety-eight thousand dollars! I have some unsavory types breathing down my neck! I am worried that one of these days one of them will break my neck! I have been up at nights, debating my options. I have no choice!”
“You dislike Sarah that much?”
“No, Fran. In fact, as a friend, I rather like her. This is about me, and this is about Father. Sarah is just an unwitting pawn in a much larger scheme of things.”
Tears came to Francesca’s eyes. But she understood. “What about Mama?” she asked suddenly, with dread and concern. Mama adored Evan. For her, he could do almost no wrong. Francesca thought that she was going to be heartbroken but could not be sure.
“Mama will cry. And it will break my heart to be the one to make her cry. But I love her dearly, and I will not let my war with Father interfere in our relationship. We will continue on, somehow.”
Francesca stared at him. He was dark and grim now. Her brother was, by disposition, kind and friendly; in fact, he had a naturally sunny disposition and he rarely lost his temper. She had never seen him so resolved or determined—or so darkly and deeply angry—before. “I will help you raise the money,” she said, meaning it. And instantly Hart’s image came to mind.
He was so wealthy. He had given her a $5,000 check for one of her societies, the Ladies Society for the Eradication of Tenements. Thus far, they were the only two members, as she had not had any time to lobby for her latest cause.
He softened. “I knew you would. I could use the help, Fran.”
“I know. I will never let you down, Evan.”
He smiled then. “I know that, too. I feel the same way.”
They smiled at each other.
Suddenly Francesca saw Maggie in the hall, approaching from the other end, clearly having been in the kitchens. She was paler than she had been earlier and leaning far more heavily upon her cane.
Evan heard her and he turned. His eyes went wide. “Mrs. Kennedy! What are you doing downstairs!” He rushed to her, putting his arm about her. “You should not be downstairs,” he scolded gently. “What are you thinking?”
Maggie had clearly used up most of her strength, and she leaned against him, two bright pink spots of exertion on her cheeks. “The doctor told me I could move about, but I have suddenly lost all of my strength,” she said softly.
“That is obvious, and Finney is a fool,” Evan said. “Do not protest. I am going to carry you upstairs.”
“No,” Maggie said instantly. “I can walk—”
He swept her up into his arms, as easily as if she were a feather. “Where are the children?” he asked, starting up the stairs with boundless agility. Clearly Maggie’s slight weight did not affect him at all.
“They are having dinner in the kitchens. Please put me down, Mr. Cahill.”
“Mrs. Kennedy, I am merely being a gentleman. Do cease and desist.” But his tone was soft and he was smiling down at her.
Francesca’s heart had done a quick somersault. She stared thoughtfully after them. It was simply not possible that Evan would find a seamstress romantically interesting, or would he? She knew him so well. He liked flamboyant beauty, and he frequented women like his mistress, Grace Conway, the actress, and Bartolla Benevente. He never fooled with housemaids or barmaids. He was not that sort of man.
He glanced down toward her. “I will be going to dinner, Fran. Shall we ride over together?”
“Yes.” She hesitated.
He understood. “Sarah and I have agreed to meet at the Plaza. I will speak with Sarah later tonight, or first thing tomorrow.”
She suddenly felt some relief, because the ending of this engagement was a good thing for them both. It was, ultimately, in both of their best interests. “I won’t say a word,” she promised.
Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahill 04] Page 11