Connie’s breathing was shallow. “I’m fine. I’ll see if Neil wants to stay or leave.”
Francesca nodded. “All right.”
Suddenly Connie squeezed her hand and leaned close. “And don’t worry. The fat lady hasn’t sung yet.” She smiled. “Bragg will be back.”
Francesca thought about Bragg and her heart sank. “Thank you,” she said. But Francesca knew Connie was wrong.
Half the crowd had decided to leave, and from the murmurs and whispers around her it was clear that White’s departing guests were shocked and scandalized. Some, like Julia, were very angry at being duped into attending such an immoral and lax display.
The elevators were full. Francesca found herself in one corner, her parents in another. Evan had decided to stay. Julia was very angry with him.
Francesca wondered if Connie and Neil would remain for the rest of the evening. As angry as she was with Neil for having taken Eliza Burton as his lover, she doubted he would be so disrespectful of Connie now as to spend the rest of the evening with her in the throes of such immoral entertainment. Francesca felt certain Neil would take his wife home.
As the elevator cage was opened, the crowd surged out. “Francesca?” her father called.
“I’m fine, Papa,” Francesca said, following the crowd through the exit doors. She couldn’t see her parents but knew they were somewhere on her left.
Outside, a blast of cold air enveloped her in spite of the fur-lined cape she wore. It hadn’t snowed in days; it was too cold. The city was breaking its own record low temperatures.
Horses and carriages lined Madison Avenue between 26th and 27th Streets. The broughams and coaches were double-parked, along with a few motorcars. Hansoms cruised the avenue, looking for or carrying fares. Pedestrians swarmed the sidewalk in front of the Garden, but the surrounding blocks were rather deserted, due to the cold. Francesca slipped on a patch of treacherous ice as people pushed past her, looking for either a cab or their coach; she did not see her parents in the crush. “Papa?” She righted herself carefully and gingerly made her way to the curb. The Cahill brougham was just ahead.
Someone grabbed her arm, hard.
Francesca whirled, knowing it wasn’t either of her parents. A pair of black eyes met hers from beneath a huge fur-trimmed hood.
For one instant Francesca stood there, shocked that someone would grab her and unable to determine whether the person was a man or a woman. She was about to demand that she be released when the person said, “Miss Cahill?”
It was a woman. Francesca relaxed slightly. “Yes?”
“Please.” The woman’s single word was an emotionally distressed plea. “Please. Please help me” she said.
TWO
FRIDAY, JANUARY 31, 1902—10:00 P.M.
Astonished, Francesca could only stare. As she did so, the woman pressed something into her hand and begged again, “Please.” She turned, slipping and sliding away as she fled into the crowd.
“Wait,” Francesca began, coming to her senses.
“Francesca?” her father called from the street behind her.
Her heart was racing and she was breathless. Francesca opened her palm, keeping her back to Andrew as he called for her again. The woman had crushed a card into her palm, and even with all of the street lamps, it was too hard to read in the dark. Francesca quickly slid the card into her beaded purse.
She inhaled with excitement and turned, moving toward the waiting brougham. Her father regarded her closely as she approached. “Did that woman accost you? Are you all right?”
Francesca smiled at him, and it was genuine. “No, no, it was a case of mistaken identity,” she said.
A woman was in trouble. Desperately so, if her tone was any indication of her straits. And she wanted Francesca’s help.
It was not until she had reached the sanctuary of her bedroom that Francesca could dig into her purse and produce the calling card. On the front was the woman’s name, Miss Georgette de Labouche, and her address, which was 28 West 24th Street. She lived only a few blocks from Madison Square.
Francesca turned the card over, and the laboriously printed words, all in block letters, leaped out at her. There were four.
HELP.
COME IMMEDIATELY.
TONIGHT.
Francesca exhaled harshly, amazed. What was this?
She finally removed her elbow-length white evening gloves, kicking off her delicate high-heeled green satin slippers. Was this a trick?
She knew no one except, perhaps, Evan, who might play such a prank on her, and he would not do so at such an hour. For clearly this note was urging her to return to Madison Square then and there. Francesca glanced over at the large bronze clock set on an ebonized maple bureau. It was ten past ten.
For a single gentlewoman, it was late. Single gentlewomen did not rush about the city alone and unescorted at such an hour. If they were out, they were at a dinner party or a ball, or perhaps the opera or ballet.
Of course, she was not like the other young single women in this city.
Why had Miss Georgette de Labouche singled her out for her pleas? God, even her name, which meant “Georgette of the mouth,” was a joke.
Was she an actress? Francesca began to pace, her mint green evening gown, a combination of silk and chiffon, rustling about her legs. Then she halted. Dear God, that woman had been frightened and terribly distraught. Francesca would bet her life on it.
Which meant she must respond to the woman’s plea for help.
Francesca hurried to her closet, throwing it open. Their home, built only a few years ago, had all of the most modern conveniences, including electricity, closets, indoor plumbing, and one telephone—which was in her father’s study downstairs. Set back behind a large circular drive and huge lawns on Fifth Avenue, facing Central Park, it had been dubbed the Marble Palace by someone in the press, for the vast use of that particular stone. There was no marble, though, in Francesca’s large and beautifully appointed bedroom, except for the mantel over the fireplace and one marble-topped table in front of the beige damask sofa and blue-upon-blue sitting chairs.
She pulled a dove gray suit from her closet and fumbled with the buttons on the back of her dress, not wanting to call for a maid. The house’s single telephone was downstairs. Was her father in the library even now? It was his favorite room, his sanctuary, and he might be reading a journal there before bed. Francesca was thinking about calling Bragg.
Of course, he was not at home. He was at the Rooftop Garden—wasn’t he?
Somehow, Francesca just knew he would not have remained for very long at Stanford White’s shocking fete. Perhaps he had gone to his office at 300 Mulberry Street, to work well into the night, as she knew he so often did.
Still, if she called Bragg, she might be relinquishing her very first case, giving it into his control. Trembling with worry and excitement she struggled out of her evening gown. She had to do this, and she must not tell Bragg—who had rebuffed her anyway. Still, she could not help recalling what had happened last week when she had gone out late like this, alone.
Evan had discovered her delinquency and to this day remained skeptical of her, thinking her to have a tendre for someone she had dared to go out to meet. Bragg had actually caught her in the act of returning home well past midnight, and he, too, had assumed the worst. And to make matters even worse, earlier in the week Neil had caught her coming in on Sunday dressed in the disguise of one of the maids’ clothing. He, too, assumed her to have taken a lover.
Francesca had to smile a little, because her reputation was rapidly turning into shambles, yet that was the furthest thing from the truth. Except, of course, for the kiss she and Bragg had shared.
Francesca forced it from her mind. Going out alone at this late hour was not a good idea for far more basic reasons than the damage it would do to her reputation.
The city was crawling with the worst, most offensive, and most dangerous elements at night. It was no place for any lady, no
matter her new line of work.
It crossed Francesca’s mind that, given her new although somewhat secret profession, she must immediately purchase a gun.
Francesca finished dressing. Georgette de Labouche’s plea could be a trick or a trap. And while Francesca didn’t really think it was a trap, she had to consider the possibility. Therefore, it would be so much better to wait until the morning to venture back to Madison Square. Yet Francesca knew she would not wait, because she believed Georgette de Labouche to be truly in trouble.
Therefore, she needed help. She just could not go out and about alone in the late-night hour. Joel Kennedy would be perfect for the night’s work. Even though he was only ten years old, he knew the city intimately and was brilliant at getting out of jams.
She would fetch Joel on her way downtown.
Relieved, Francesca smiled to herself.
Joel lived with his mother, a seamstress who worked for the clothing manufacturer Moe Levy, and his two younger brothers and his younger sister on 10th Street and Avenue A. He was a little hoodlum, adept at picking pockets and cutting purses. He was even in Bragg’s Rogues’ Gallery, an album of photographs of the city’s most wanted criminals, male and female, begun by one of Bragg’s notorious predecessors, Tom Byrnes.
Francesca and Joel had met purely by chance when she was investigating Jonny Burton’s abduction, and when Joel had saved her from a thug, exposing his true nature, an odd bond had been formed between them. In fact, as he knew the ins and outs of the city so well, especially the slums of downtown, Francesca had turned to him repeatedly for guidance and help. Francesca wasn’t sure she would have ferreted out the madman who had abducted Jonny without Joel at her side. And she had grown fond of the little boy in the past two weeks. He was hardly all bad. If he ever gave up his life of crime, he would be a wonderful child. Of that she had no doubt.
However, Francesca had seen the poverty in which he and his family lived. She had seen how hard his young mother, Maggie, worked to support her four children. She had seen how much Joel cared for his two brothers and sister, although he would never admit it. Francesca knew he would not give up a lucrative, if risky, way of life anytime soon.
The cab, which she had flagged down on Fifth Avenue after sneaking out of the house through the kitchens, paused in front of No. 201, the building where Joel and his family lived. Francesca hesitated. Was she to go up and knock on the Kennedys’ door? Maggie would be angry. What mother would let her son out and about at this hour?
Francesca realized she had no choice but to try to explain. In any case, a woman in trouble was waiting desperately for her, and that spurred her on as little else could.
She gave the driver a dollar. “Please wait,” she said firmly, “as I will be but a few minutes.” She had run this game before, with no success. After she had paid her last driver to wait for her, and handsomely, he had taken off anyway, stranding her in the worst section of bordellos and gambling halls. She smiled. “If you are here when I return, I shall pay you a double fare at my destination.”
His eyes widened. “I’ll be here, ma’am,” he said.
Francesca knew he would. She was proud of herself—she was not the kind of woman to make the same mistake twice. She slipped from the hansom, sliding on the ice beneath her feet, and somehow made it to the front door of No. 201. Once inside the tiny cramped entryway, which could not allow more than three bodies at once, if crammed together like sardines, she was faced with severe blackness and many foul and obnoxious odors.
Francesca climbed the stairs, wishing she had a candle or even a match, it crossing her mind now that she needed to travel about the city with a small cache of useful items in a larger purse. Mentally, she added matches to her list of one small gun. And she resolved to find a way to help the Kennedys.
She found their apartment and knocked.
The door was opened almost instantly, and to Francesca’s surprise, she realized that Maggie hadn’t been sleeping, in spite of the long hours she kept at the factory. One light was on in the single room that was a living room and a kitchen. A tub in the corner told Francesca it was also where everyone bathed; a mat on the floor told her Maggie also slept there. A single open door was to the rear of the room, where the three children must be sleeping.
Francesca saw a pile of beautiful fabric on the kitchen table, along with a sewing machine, a pincushion, and several spools of thread. A paper pattern was on the second of two chairs, folded in half.
Maggie Kennedy’s tired blue eyes registered surprise as their gazes met through the cracked but still-chained door. “Miss Cahill?”
Francesca smiled. “I am so sorry to call at such an hour,” she said, stunned to realize that Maggie was working and clearly not for Moe Levy at this hour.
“Is something wrong? Are you … alone?” Maggie was glancing behind her into the dark hall. She did not remove the chain or open the door and invite Francesca in.
“Yes, someone is in trouble. Dire trouble, I fear.” Francesca hesitated. “I am afraid to run about at this hour alone, and my parents would murder me directly if they ever knew I was not safely at home. Is there any chance I might employ Joel as a guide?” That last request was a sudden inspiration. She would pay Joel handsomely for his efforts, she decided, pleased. It would, to use a common saying, kill two birds with one throw.
“He isn’t here,” Maggie said, anguish briefly flitting across her face. “He keeps his own hours. Paddy says he left just before I got home, which was an hour ago. I’m afraid I can’t help you.” She hesitated, as if uncertain what to do or say next.
Francesca’s heart lurched and she realized how dearly she had been counting on having Joel at her side while she investigated Georgette de Labouche’s plea for help. She would have to go on alone. There was no other choice.
“Then thank you very much,” Francesca said on a deep breath. Her gaze slipped past the red-haired woman with the pretty but tired face to the beautiful sky blue satin on the table. “That will be a lovely dress.”
“Yes, it will.” Maggie did not smile. “If you ever need a gown custom-made, please call. My work is superior and my prices are cheaper than anyone else’s in this city, I assure you of that.”
Francesca started, realizing that Maggie worked for herself with serious resolve when she was not at the factory. In that moment, she decided to have several gowns made. “I do need some new gowns for the spring, and I will call, immediately.”
Maggie’s eyes brightened. “You will not be sorry,” she said. Then, “Let me get you a candle so you can make your way downstairs. You may return it another time.” She closed the door abruptly.
Francesca was cloaked in darkness. This woman was so destitute that she would only loan her a penny candle. It broke Francesca’s heart.
The door opened, this time without the chain, and Maggie handed her a small lit candle, and perhaps the barest smile passed over her face. “Good night, Miss Cahill,” she said, and the door closed abruptly again.
Francesca murmured to the sheet of scarred and ill-painted wood, “Good night.” She turned and hurried downstairs, the candle, no thicker than her pinkie, shedding only the tiniest pool of light on the narrow and uneven stairway. But it was enough for Francesca to avoid someone’s rotten and half-eaten potato.
Her cabbie was waiting. Francesca was briefly exultant—her play had worked! She climbed into the hansom and gave the driver Georgette de Labouche’s address. The cab moved forward, the horse’s harness jingling, his hooves clopping on the cobblestones. In the distance, somewhere, Francesca heard the horns of a fire wagon. The plea was odd. She prayed she was not walking into some kind of trap. Her intuition told her that all was not as it should be.
Suddenly something banged hard on the side of the hansom. Francesca flinched, as did the driver, glancing over his shoulder. The black mare in the traces paid no heed. “Hey! Bugger off!” he shouted to someone or something on the running boards.
An opulent carriage dr
awn by four matching bays passed them on their left.
Francesca was amazed as the door beside her opened and a small bundled-up figure she recognized catapulted himself onto the seat beside her. “Ow, it’s cold!” Joel cried.
Francesca reached across him to close the door firmly. “Driver, it is a friend; we are fine.”
The driver said something incoherent and unpleasant beneath his breath. The horse’s hooves clattered on the cobblestones as they turned onto 14th Street, heading west. The traffic was light now, consisting of a trolley and a few other cabs, moving in both directions.
Francesca faced the dark-haired boy with the strikingly white skin. “Joel?”
He was rubbing his hands, wrapped in rags, together. He grinned. “Who else, lady, would be driving around my ward in a fancy rig like this?”
She beamed. “I have been looking for you.”
“Of course you have,” he said, a proud boast. He grinned at her.
“No, really. I need to hire you, Joel. I need your services,” she said, and even as she spoke it hit her then that she did need him, and badly, but as far more than a guide. She needed him to help her as a guide but also in so many other ways! Francesca didn’t want to call upon his unique talents in her new avocation, absolutely not, but he was shrewd and street-smart, and in just two weeks she had already learned so much from him.
“Joel, I am offering you employment,” she said. This was not the time to think about her mother’s silver, she reminded herself. A week ago Joel had briefly worked in the Cahill stables and her mother’s finest silver had disappeared. Both Julia and Mrs. Ryan were furious and certain Joel was to blame. He denied it.
“I hate horses,” he said.
“No, you are scared of them,” Francesca corrected gently.
He sighed. “Don’t like working in no stable, lady.”
“Did I say anything about working in a stable? I wish to hire you as my assistant,” she said.
Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahil 02] Page 3