Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahil 02] (35 page)

Francesca flushed. “Please. You are brothers. Please.” She hesitated, tears coming to her eyes. “This is too awful,” she said when neither man moved or spoke. “Think of what this would do to your parents, Rathe and Grace.”

Hart made a derisive sound. “I have no parents,” he said. “My parents are dead. Rathe and Grace are
his
parents.”

“They wanted nothing more than to become your parents, but you would not let them,” Bragg said quietly now.

“My lawyers are waiting to hear from you,” Hart returned caustically, his gaze dark. He nodded at Francesca and strode from the room.

Francesca shivered.

Bragg turned away, and she heard him sigh heavily.

Francesca walked up to him. Without thinking about it, she covered his shoulder with her palm. The muscles there were a huge, hard knot. “I am so sorry, Bragg,” she whispered.

He sighed again. “I know you are. He is impossible.” Suddenly he turned. “Listen to me carefully, Francesca, for I know you well enough now to know that you are a rescuer, and I also know Calder, who is a seducer. Calder cannot be rescued. His demons are of his own making. Save your compassion, pity, and time for someone who shall benefit from it.”

Francesca studied him. “That’s not fair. There is always hope and …” She hesitated.

“And what? And he is not bad? He is bad!” Bragg cried.

He had taken the word right out of her mouth. “I think you are right. I think he wants attention and the only way he knows how to get it is by seeming to be bad.”

“He has a cruel side. I warn you, Francesca, I grew up with him. Jesus, he was my little brother. Our mother was always so tired. I was responsible for Calder when we were boys, even when I was no more than four or five. I recall worrying about him, dragging him out of scrapes, maneuvering him out of harm’s way. I remember once he was almost run over by a carter, except that I ran into the street and pushed him aside. I remember he stole a purse, which I replaced before the theft could be remarked. Believe me, he was always in trouble, and it was always of his own making.” Bragg turned away, moving to the mantel, staring at it. No one had bothered to make a fire for the city’s police commissioner.

Francesca felt her heart warming, for she could imagine Bragg as a little blond boy, holding Calder’s hand, telling him what to do and how to do it. Except Calder would have been angry and obstinate, refusing to obey and comply. Instead of adoring and respecting his older brother, he would have fought Bragg tooth and nail.

“I don’t recall this, but Lily told me that she had a difficult birth with Calder and was bed-ridden for several weeks afterward,” Bragg murmured. “I wasn’t much past two years old when he was born, but she said she showed me how to hold him and give him a bottle of cow’s milk. She could not nurse him herself,” he added, looking at her, his gaze somber with the memories he was unearthing now.

“So he is two years younger than yourself?” Francesca asked.

“And a few months.”

“Was Randall in the picture when he was born?”

“No. Her relationship with Randall was a brief one.” His gaze held hers steadily. “And when she realized she was dying, she contacted my father and Calder’s. Rathe came; Randall did not.”

“Poor Calder,” Francesca cried, taking Bragg’s hand. Somehow, it was so natural and right to slip her small palm in his larger one. Briefly their hands tightened around each other. “When was this?”

“ ’Eighty-six,” he said, removing his hand from hers and stepping farther away from her.

She felt more than his need to withdraw; she felt the brief moment of memory and the pain it still caused. “Can you talk about it?” she asked softly.

“Of course.” He sent her a small smile but avoided her eyes. “She died of peritonitis, a cancer of the colon. She knew she was dying for many months—we all knew. My father had no idea I existed, and neither did Randall know about Calder. She sent them both letters. Rathe came immediately. As it turned out, Lily had only just begun to work in a dance hall when she met my father. She was only seventeen, fresh off of a farm, and he took her out of the hall and set her up—for a while.” His smile was brief, strained, sad. “Rathe was a terrible womanizer before he fell in love with Grace. He enjoyed my mother’s company for several months, then moved on and did not ever look back. Lily was proud, even as a young, frightened, and pregnant girl. She went back to work until the pregnancy became obvious, had me, met Randall, who was the second and the last of the men that were in her life. I think becoming pregnant again made her realize she must find another way to provide an income for herself and her new family. From the time Calder was born until she died, she worked in sweatshops as a seamstress. I recall her bringing her pieces home and sewing until she fell asleep in the wee hours of the morning. She would fall asleep at our flat’s single table, by the light of a single candle.”

“That is so terrible,” Francesca whispered. She imagined Bragg as a boy creeping over to that table and blowing the candle out.

He shrugged. “Rathe got her letter and came right away. He was married, and they already had three children. He not only took me; he took Calder when he realized that Randall would not.” He regarded Francesca. “He went to Randall himself, Francesca, begging him to take his own son in. That is the kind of man that he was.”

“I look forward to meeting him—and his wife,” Francesca said earnestly.

“You shall, as they are returning to the city. They are currently residing in Texas, where my grandparents, my sister, and her family live. You will like them. You remind me of Grace. She is a fervent reformer, like you. She has been an active suffragette since the seventies,” he added.

Francesca smiled with excitement. “Oh, we shall get along well indeed,” she cried. Grace Bragg must have some wonderful stories to tell.

“I have no doubt.” His smile was wry. He sent her a glance that seemed very affectionate, and he walked behind his desk and sat down. Francesca watched him steeple his hands and knew he was now thinking about Calder and the case.

She gingerly sat in one of the chairs facing him. How painful it must have been, to watch your mother dying and then to have to leave to join a brand-new family, people who were complete strangers. Bragg would have been twelve years old at the time, Calder ten. Other brothers might have become close in such a circumstance, but that had not been the case with Bragg and Hart. That, too, was sad.

Francesca could not begin to imagine how difficult it had been.

She realized Bragg was watching her. He said softly, “You do not have to look at me like that. There is no need for pity, although some sorrow is in order. It all worked out for the best. If Lily had not died, Francesca, I do not know what kind of man I would have become. And the same is true for Calder.”

She nodded. “But the story still hurts me in my heart. It always will.”

His gaze moved over her face. “And that is why you are so special,” he said.

She stiffened, her pulse beginning to pound. “Am I special, Bragg?”

He looked away, his jaw flexing. Clearly he had spoken without thought, as, clearly, he did not like his choice of words. “You know you are unique.” He continued to avoid her regard.

She bit her lip. Too well, she now recalled his words last night. She did not want to think about them now, as they had sounded so ominous. And Hart had said they were star-crossed. “Am I special to you?”

He jerked, meeting her gaze. Somehow, he was on his feet. “Francesca.”

She was also standing. “You kissed me last night. Again.”

It was a moment before he could speak. “Believe me, I have not forgotten.”

She would have been elated, except that his expression was so daunting, so grim. “What is it? What is it that you wish to say to me? Why do you kiss me as if you cannot live without me and then look at me as if the world is about to end?”

“Because I do not want to hurt you.”

She felt her ears begin to ring. She gripped the edge of his desk. She felt light-headed now. “There is something, isn’t there? There is something between us. Something wrong.”

“Yes.”

Oh, God. She must not faint. “You have a commitment,” she whispered, slowly going into shock. “An understanding. Something.”

“Yes.”

“Oh, God,” she said, realizing her world was about to end. “There is another woman.”

“I did not want to tell you this way. I did not want this to happen.”

“There is another woman?” She gasped in disbelief.

“Yes.”

She stared at him, in shock. He stared back.

“I do not understand,” she heard herself say. But of course she did not understand. She loved Rick Bragg. She had fallen in love with him within moments of their meeting. He was the most honorable and committed man she had ever met. And he loved her. She felt certain of it.

No, she did not understand.

Commitments, understandings, could be broken.

And surely he did not love someone else.

“Francesca,” Bragg said. Suddenly he had come out from behind his desk and he had looped his arm around her waist. “Sit down.”

She looked into his golden eyes and he looked back and she trusted him completely. “Tell me,” she whispered, sagging against his body.

“I am married,” he said.

M
ONDAY,
F
EBRUARY 3, 1902— 3:00 P.M.

Francesca looked at him and knew she had misheard. For this was certainly not a possibility; she had not read one word in the newspapers about a wife, and he had no wife at No. 11 Madison Avenue. No, she had misheard; either that or she was dreaming.

“Francesca?” he asked tersely, his gaze unwavering upon her face.

She turned and found herself in the circle of his arms. “I thought you just said that you were married,” she said unsteadily.

“I did,” he returned unsteadily.

She pushed him away, overcome with disbelief. This had to be a dream of the worst sort, a nightmare! This could
not
be possible. She had expected some kind of understanding, a pre-engagement, perhaps. Something that might, ultimately, be changed or broken. But not a marriage. A marriage was
impossible.

But she had not misheard. He had not denied it.

And last night he had kissed her, wildly, passionately, and uncontrollably.

She stiffened.

“Don’t look at me that way!” Bragg said quickly. “This is not at all what you are thinking.”

In that one moment, she imagined another woman—a wife. Someone beautiful, intelligent; someone who shared his bed, his life. In that one single moment, Francesca felt hatred.

“Francesca,” he said tersely, “I have not seen my wife in four years.”

The hatred, as unfamiliar to her as the air on the moon might be, vanished. “What?” She reached for the arm of the chair; otherwise, she would surely fall down.

“I have never wanted to make this explanation to you,” Bragg said harshly. “Damn it, Francesca, I have never intended for there to be anything between us.”

“Then you should not have kissed me—twice.”

He stared at her. There was genuine anguish in his eyes.

“Are you going to say anything?” she cried. “I mean …” She stopped. She had been about to shout that he had just ruined her life. She had intended to marry him and spend her life with him, fighting the ills of society, fighting for the prevalence of justice, the pursuit of liberty. Of course, he did not know the extent of her feelings; he had only witnessed her passion. “Do you love her?” she heard herself ask harshly.

Something very close to hatred filled his eyes. But it wasn’t hatred, and when he spoke, she heard the distaste in his tone and knew she had just glimpsed revulsion. “No.”

She did not move. She stared at him, beginning to feel her heart ripping apart inside of her breast. Oh, how painful it was. How could this be happening? “You kissed me. You misled me.”

“I did not mean to. It is very hard, fighting my feelings for you. Francesca, you seem to think me a saint. I am not a saint; I am nothing but a man in a moral dilemma of his own making.”

The tears welled, finally. It was becoming difficult to breathe. “Who is she? Where is she? Why haven’t you seen her in four years?”

“Please don’t cry,” he whispered, touching her face.

Fury galvanized her. “Don’t touch me! Don’t ever touch me again!”

He dropped his hand, blanching. “I will tell you everything, but do not hate me. I cannot live with that.”

“I don’t know how I feel right now. No. I know how I feel. I feel betrayed. Crushed. Run over by a lorry.” She felt tears trickling down her cheeks.

“You and I have only known one another a few weeks. We only met on the eighteenth of January,” he whispered.

He knew the exact date they had first met. Francesca hugged herself, biting her lower lip, hoping to keep it from trembling like a mewling baby’s. It did not work. “How could you kiss me when you knew you had a wife waiting for you, somewhere else? My God, I thought you were honorable.”

“My wife is not waiting for me. Although perhaps she is waiting for me to drop dead.” He stared grimly at her.

Her heart felt as if it had stopped. “You don’t mean that.” Did he? Did his wife hate him enough to wish him dead? Should she care? Of course she should not, but she did!

“Oh, I do mean it. Leigh Anne would be free at last if I died.”

Her name was Leigh Anne. “Why isn’t she with you? Where is she? Why haven’t you seen her in years?”

His gaze was searching. “Do you want to sit down?” He gestured at the chair. He seemed afraid to touch her, as he should well be.

“No,” she snapped.

“Very well.” He looked so unhappy now. Was it due to the prospect of sharing this truth with her? Or did merely speaking about his ill-fated marriage bring him such distress?

“She is from Boston,” Bragg said slowly. “I met her in my first year at Harvard Law School. I fell instantly, madly, in love.” He stopped, grimacing. Francesca winced. “I asked her to marry me within the first three months of our having met. Rathe begged me to wait; I refused to listen.”