Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahil 02] (20 page)

“Yes, it will.” Julia studied her closely. “So Mr. Hart has remembered you from your previous meeting at the White party at the Rooftop Garden last night.”

Francesca stiffened with surprise—and instantly she knew where this was leading. And she reprimanded herself for not having realized that Julia would have noticed their meeting the other night at Madison Square Garden. Julia never missed anything! It was as if she had eyes in the back of her head and ears in other people’s purses. “Why do you say that, Mama?” she asked cautiously.

Julia smiled. “He quite singled you out tonight for his attentions. He turned to look at you several times. I did not mistake it, Francesca. In fact, quite a few of my friends have commented to me upon his interest.”

Francesca could hardly believe their conversation. “Mama, you cannot possibly be thinking what I think you are thinking.”

“I am.” Julia smiled. “He is one of the city’s wealthiest bachelors. Do you know that he trades with China? He also owns the city’s largest insurance company. I realize he has a certain rather notorious reputation, but Francesca, he is young—only twenty-six. He is merely sowing his wild oats, and once he has been brought to the altar, I am certain he will settle down.”

How could her mother be thinking, even for a moment, that Calder Hart was taken with her? And that he might marry her? Briefly Francesca recalled Sarah Channing’s comments and wondered if she had somehow missed something. Then she thought about his flirtation with her sister and knew that Julia and Sarah were both wrong. Besides, she wasn’t marrying him—he was Bragg’s half brother. In fact, right now, she wasn’t marrying anyone. “I do not think anyone will bring him to the altar, Mama,” Francesca whispered, but something inside her had become nervous and jittery.

“Nonsense. All men must marry eventually, and he is hardly an exception to the rule. Why not you?” Julia smiled again. Clearly she was thrilled with this most recent development.

Francesca folded her arms tightly across her chest. Julia had to be stopped, immediately. A very vivid image of Bragg was flashing in her mind, and he was angry. Was it only a few hours ago that he had accused her, erroneously, of having fallen in love with Calder? Francesca had not had any time to dwell on that conversation, but now it seemed to her that he had been very unhappy and perhaps even jealous of the notion. Which made no sense, as he only wished to be her friend.

“I have decided to never wed,” Francesca said firmly, thinking not about Calder Hart, but his half brother, Rick Bragg, who had stated that his only intentions toward her were platonic ones. “And you cannot dissuade me, Mama.”

“Please, Francesca, stop it. That is absurd!” Julia exclaimed.

“It is hardly absurd. You cannot force me to wed. I prefer to remain a spinster. I shall live here, with you and Papa, participating in my clubs in the hopes of reforming this city.” Francesca meant her every word. Indeed, the idea was quickly growing upon her. She elaborated, “One day, when you are both old, and I am here, taking care of you, you shall be very happy with my decision indeed.”

“You will not remain a spinster,” Julia said, horrified. “Only you, Francesca, would come up with such a ghastly notion. I simply will not have it.”

“I am not joking, Mama.”

“Neither am I.”

“Besides, you will not succeed in marrying me off, not easily, anyway.” She did not feel quite as triumphant as she had thought she might be as she played a trump card.

“Francesca, are you serious? Do you know how many inquiries I receive, on a daily basis, about you?”

“From your friends?” She shook her head. “Not from their sons.” Francesca usually avoided all thoughts on the subject of socializing for the purpose of marriage. Thinking now about it caused the smallest incision to open up in the vicinity of her heart.

“What is this about?” Julia cried. She touched her cheek. “Dear, what is this about?”

Francesca grimaced. “I am not a fool. I am well aware that I am considered odd. I have been called eccentric, even mannish, not that I care.” She shrugged.

And reminded herself that she did not care. And it was mostly true.

The problem was, inside of herself, there was a tiny part of her that did care and that yearned, quite desperately, to be as idolized and longed for as Connie.

Julia gaped.

“I know what they say about me behind my back.” Francesca smiled bravely. “Connie and I may look like twins, but that does not fool anybody. So you see, you are wrong. Your friends might think me suitable for their sons, but those boys do not find me suitable as a bride. And as for Calder Hart?

Trust me, he is not interested in me, not that way.”

“Francesca, darling, how could you be thinking such things?” Julia pulled her close. “No one is calling you such names behind your back.”

Francesca only smiled. She wasn’t about to argue this point, and she had heard, quite clearly, just a few weeks ago, two young ladies calling her both eccentric and mannish, not to mention snooty as well. Besides, she knew how different she was from other young ladies her age. Even as a child she had always known she was quite different from all the other little girls.

“Francesca, I must get these terrible concepts out of your head. You are a catch. You are beautiful, intelligent, from a fine family, and you have an inheritance. Trust me. There is no issue as far as finding you a husband.”

Francesca pulled away. “Mama. I do not want to find a husband. And you cannot force me to the altar.”

Julia smiled, and it was somewhat sly. “Not even if Calder Hart were the lucky groom?”

Francesca stiffened. “Not even Calder Hart would entice me into wedlock.” She was grim. “Mama, I doubt you will think he is so eligible when I tell you that he is Bragg’s half brother.”

Julia’s expression changed. “But … how could that be?” And then comprehension flooded her face.

“They have the same mother.” Francesca could not feel triumphant, but the fact that Bragg’s mother had been a woman of ill repute and that he was a bastard was the reason Julia had told Francesca in no uncertain terms that he was not for her. “He is illegitimate as well.”

Julia had paled.

“So, you see, Calder Hart is not for me.”

“Perhaps not, but perhaps you are wrong,” Julia said.

“What? You have disqualified Bragg because of his lineage, so surely Hart must be disqualified, too!” Francesca exclaimed.

“I must discuss it with your father,” Julia said thoughtfully.

“I don’t understand!” Francesca cried.

“Bragg is penniless. He is a civil servant—”

“He was a lawyer before he accepted this appointment,” Francesca shot, furious now.

“A lawyer defending hoodlums and crooks,” Julia said. “A lawyer taking on the lowliest cases—and receiving little or no compensation for his work.”

Francesca could not believe her mother had known about Bragg’s past. “How, in God’s name, did you learn about this?”

“When I saw the way you were looking at him, I made it my business to learn more about him.” She shrugged. “And believe me, I know his defense of the poor, the needy, and the insane only makes him more attractive to you,” she said with a sigh.

“He is a champion of the underdog. Of course I find that attractive—the world needs more selfless men like Bragg. But Hart would be acceptable, reputation and all, because he is
rich?”
Francesca was aghast.

“I said I would discuss it with your father,” Julia returned. “But your husband must be able to provide for you in the manner you are accustomed to.”

“Connie married Neil! Montrose was penniless—and Papa gave them a fortune!” Francesca nearly shouted.

“All British noblemen are impoverished. Montrose brought a noble lineage, not to mention his many titles, to the union. And he is a gentleman.”

“So is Bragg. Oh, forgive me! He is penniless, he has no title, and he is a bastard! Shall we lynch him now, Mother? As clearly he is too awful to circulate among
our
kind.” She glared.

“Do not speak to me in such a manner, Francesca,” Julia warned. “I admire your idealism, but in time, you will come to understand the ways of the world. Bragg is not for you. And I am sorry you are still fervent about him.”

“Fervent?” She was near tears. “No. You have no idea how I feel, not about him and not about anything. Never mind. Because this hypocrisy of yours is far too unsettling. I am going to bed!” Francesca turned.

And she heard her mother say, softly, behind her, “One day, you will thank me for all of my efforts, darling. They are all on your behalf.”

Francesca ran up the stairs. She did not think so.

And once within her room, with the door securely locked behind her, she thought about her sister and ran to her desk. She tossed aside her notes and notebooks, but there was no note from Connie on her desk, nor any message lying there hidden among her papers; there was no word at all.

S
UNDAY
, F
EBRUARY 2, 1902—9:00 A.M.

Francesca found her father alone in the breakfast room, where cheerfully papered walls in a canary yellow print provided a sense of intimacy and warmth, and two large windows overlooked the lawns and gardens behind the house, now covered with ice-crusted snow. The sideboard was laden with covered dishes that Francesca knew contained eggs, sausages, waffles, and breakfast rolls. Coffee, milk, freshly squeezed juice, fruit, and jellies and jams also graced the sideboard. Andrew was immersed in the
Tribune;
clearly he was already finished with the
Times.
As Francesca poured herself a cup of coffee from a silver pitcher, he laid the paper briefly aside.

“Good morning, Papa.” She smiled although she remained as worried as ever, wishing fervently for some word from Connie. The sound of silence had become ominous. Francesca did not think she had slept more than an hour or two all night, alternately replaying the conversation with Julia in her mind and worrying about her sister. She remained angry with her mother for her unfairness and hypocrisy regarding Calder Hart and Rick Bragg.

“Sleep well?” her father asked, with a warm smile.

“Yes.” Francesca sat down. There was no point in telling him that she had tossed and turned all night, as she did not want to answer any pointed questions. She took a sip of her coffee and her glance slid to the front page of the
New York Times.
It read:

She set her cup down and scanned the subtitle, which offered little other than the fact that no suspects had yet been identified, although the mistress had disappeared. But then, the
Times
was the least sensational and the most objective of the city newspapers.

“Did you know Mr. Randall, Papa?” she asked.

“I met him some years ago, playing golf, I believe, in Sagaponack. A rather quiet fellow, if I recall correctly, a typical middle-class gentleman.” He sipped his tea. “Apparently Paul Randall was killed Friday night. Shot in the back of the head while at the home of his mistress.” Andrew shook his head. “It is hard to believe that he had a mistress, having met the fellow, although I did hear that he was quite a wild man when he was young.”

Francesca assumed he had been sowing his wild oats, to use her mother’s expression, when he had fathered Calder Hart, and she took another sip of her coffee. Her father thrust a different paper toward her. “Did you see this?” he asked. It was the
Sun.

She saw the leading headline and choked.

“Oh my God!” Francesca cried, setting the cup down and reaching for the
Sun.
“What is this?” And her eyes widened as Arthur Kurland’s name jumped out at her from the byline.

“This reporter certainly did his homework,” Andrew said. “Apparently Randall is the father of Bragg’s half brother, Calder Hart. You met him, I believe, at the Stanford White affair.”

His tone was a bit odd and Francesca tore her gaze from the stunning headline as she was instantly pricked with guilt. She prayed that this terrible headline was not her fault. But how would she have known that Kurland would connect Hart and Bragg? She had only told him that Randall was Hart’s father.

She was sick now, as well as miserable.

And she took one look at her father’s calm expression and knew that he and Julia had had a talk last night before bed.

“Yes, I did,” she managed. She scanned the subtitle and grew increasingly appalled:

“That is quite the story,” Andrew remarked as Francesca began to read. “The reporter is demanding Bragg recuse himself from the investigation, because of his relationship with Calder Hart.”

“It’s worse than that,” Francesca whispered. “Kurland claims that Hart and Randall dined together on Tuesday night at Hart’s club and that they had a huge argument. He claims there were witnesses, and that Hart was so angry he walked out on his own father.” Francesca looked up. She could feel how wide her own eyes were. “He is suggesting, without saying it directly, that Hart might have murdered his own father!” she cried. “And he says directly that Bragg has yet to identify any suspects and Hart has yet to be brought to headquarters for questioning. It is an accusation—of negligence … and more!”

Andrew nodded grimly. “Hart’s reputation won’t help him much, if this begins to snowball. Perhaps Rick had better consider recusing himself from this one, before the gossip turns to recriminations.”

Would Bragg once again be skewered by the press as he worked diligently on an investigation? For Francesca knew better than anyone else did how hard he worked and how determined he was—she knew how committed he was to the attainment of justice. She was frightened, and not for herself.

“I don’t think Hart’s a killer, Papa, and, in fact, I am not sure he even hated his father, as much as he would like the world to think otherwise.”

Andrew regarded her. “And how would you know so much about Calder Hart—when you only met him Friday?” he asked.

She hesitated. Finally, at something of a loss, she said, “Bragg is my friend. Hart is his brother. Need I truly say more?”