Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahill 05] (7 page)

Hart raised a brow. “Sunday night, before dinner, you told me that they were at odds,” he said.

She grimaced in more despair. “They are not fighting now. They love one another, Hart; they do.”

He shrugged. “I prefer not to mold your thoughts. You are free to believe as you choose. I only expect that same graciousness from you.”

She stared at him. “Of course I am free to think as I choose,” she said, thinking about how her mother would argue that point, and then adding the concept of an entire society determining what one could, or should, and should not do. “I can’t marry you. I am not marrying you. I am sorry, Hart, but that is my final answer.”

He stared.

The urge to cry vanished. She tensed, not liking his far too speculative and watchful regard. “Hart?” She sensed he was about to pounce.

He began to smile. “Francesca, you may protest, rationalize, fantasize, until you are old and gray—I will not change my mind.”

She stiffened even more. “Then we are at an impasse, you and I.”

“I doubt it.” He started toward her. She did not move. But he didn’t touch her, instead, he paused beside her, close enough that she could smell his cologne, and breathed, “I always get what I want, my dear.”

She was about to refute that, but he moved behind her and said, “Whether the object of my desire is a painting. . . .” And his breath feathered her nape. “Or a sculpture.” He moved beside her. “Or a lucrative shipping contract.” He paused in front of her, tucking a tendril of hair behind her ear, his fingers grazing her skin. “Or a woman,” he finished.

She had become paralyzed. It was rather how she imagined it felt to be caught in a spider’s sticky, fatal web. The terrible part was, she believed him. She knew this man could
move a mountain should he decide to do so. “No, Hart. Not this time,” she finally said.

He looked at her and stared, unsmiling, no longer amused, confident, and very, very intense.

She wet her lips. “Because if you insist upon this course of action, you shall lose our friendship.” The words had popped out of their own accord.

His eyes widened. In that moment, as she saw the rush of anger, she knew she had gone too far. “You threaten
me
?” he demanded.

She leapt backward, away from any proximity with him. “No!”

“Oh ho, I know a threat when I hear one!” he cried, closing in on her.

She backed up, hit a chair, and fell into it.

He loomed over her and placed both hands on either arm, imprisoning her there. “Do not ever threaten me, Francesca,” he warned.

“It wasn’t a threat. But you are placing me in a terrible position!”

“And to think I thought you valued our friendship as much as I do,” he said harshly.

And she saw the hurt in his eyes. “I do!” she cried desperately. “It was so foolish of me to say such a thing! Hart! I didn’t mean it!” And it was she who now reached up to cup his face in her own hands. “Hart! I didn’t mean it!”

He shook her off. “Never threaten me, my dear. And know this: I am a very willfull man. And I am also a very patient one. If you think it through, you will realize that we should do very well together—and that I am offering you a way out of the miserable mess you have made for yourself.” He straightened and gestured at the door, a demand that she leave. “It has been an entertaining morning, but I am afraid I have a full agenda today. Good day, Francesca.”

She somehow got to her feet, unaided. “Hart—” She hated ending their conversation this way. In fact, she simply could not. She needed to have him smile at her, even if it was smug, and call her “my dear.”

“Good day.” He was firm. “Alfred! Show Miss Cahill out.” And after Alfred appeared, opening one of the two teak doors, Hart strode out with long, hard strides, the anger still etched upon his face, although it was fading now.

Francesca hugged herself. Why did they always come to odds? The answer was obvious. Because he was more than stubborn and he felt he was always right.

But she had stupidly threatened to end their friendship. How could she have said such a thing when she hadn’t meant it? What if he remained so angry that he ended their friendship? Real fear paralyzed her then.

In such a short time, his friendship had become irresistible to her.

“Oh, dear. Miss Cahill, here.” Alfred handed her a freshly laundered handkerchief.

Francesca took it and dabbed at her eyes. “He is so very angry with me,” she whispered, and it struck her then how unbearable this impasse was. She needed Hart, as oddly as it seemed, as a dear and a staunch friend. But he clearly was not going to come around to her way of thinking. Dear God, he still intended to marry her. What should she do?

She closed her eyes. Marrying Hart would be like throwing oneself in front of a runaway locomotive. It would be suicide.

She looked at Alfred. “I think I must go after him,” she said hoarsely.

“There, there, Miss Cahill, no harm has been done,” Alfred said kindly.

“I am afraid you are wrong,” Francesca said.

“Mr. Hart cannot stay angry with you for very long, Miss Cahill,” Alfred returned, smiling as if he knew something she did not. “I do promise you that.”

Francesca looked at him through rising tears, panic, and confusion. “He wants to marry me, Alfred.”

“I know.” Alfred beamed. “He told me so last night.”

W
EDNESDAY
, F
EBRUARY 19, 1902—9:00 A.M.

F
RANCESCA HAD JUST HANDED
off her coat and was about to dash down the hall, in order to then amble into the breakfast room as if she had just come downstairs for the first time that morning. But her father chose that moment to appear in the entry hall, carrying the
Herald
. His eyes widened with surprise when he saw her. “Francesca? Where have you been at this early hour?”

She looked at him with a bright smile, her mind racing. He would hardly believe her if she told him that she had been out for an early-morning stroll, as it was freezing outside. “Good morning, Papa,” she said, noting that he looked tired and not at all like his usual self. “Is Evan awake? And how is he this morning?”

“You did not answer my question,” Andrew said, coming forward. He was of medium height, a bit portly, but with a kind face and even kinder eyes. He did not appear to be the king of a meatpacking empire. However, he was the smartest man Francesca knew. His kind expression hid a razor-sharp
mind, his easygoing attitude a character with determination and willpower.

Francesca sighed. “I had some personal business to attend to, Papa. Could we not leave it at that?”

Andrew reached her side. “Please do not tell me that you have been out and about this morning with Rick Bragg.”

“No, I have not,” she said honestly.

That softened him. “I am glad to hear it. Although I fear you are still carrying a torch for that man.”

“Papa, you admire and respect him as much as I; he is your good friend. Would you truly blame me if he did keep a piece of my heart forever?” she asked simply.

He patted her arm. “No, I would not, not when you put it that way. But a piece of your heart is something we can all live with—it is something you can live with, too, in time. What other personal business could you have possibly had at this early hour?”

He disliked Calder Hart—he had said that he did not trust him and that he did not like his casual womanizing ways. Francesca smiled. “I am twenty, Papa. Surely I can keep some of my affairs to myself?”

He sighed, kissed her cheek, and said, “I am going down to the office, but only for an hour or two. Evan is up, and he seems a bit better this morning. Your mother is with him.” Now worry was reflected in his eyes, and with it, Francesca saw guilt.

She hugged him, hard. She adored her father and she always would. “This is not your fault! The row you both had is not why Evan has been so badly injured! Do not blame yourself!”

He nodded at her grimly, clearly continuing to feel responsible for the plight his son was now in, and accepted his coat from a servant. “Have a good morning, Papa,” Francesca offered.

“I shall try,” he said.

She did not watch him go. She already knew that Bragg was not yet present, as neither a coach nor his motorcar was outside in the drive, and the doorman had not said he was
waiting for her. Francesca hurried upstairs and to Evan’s room.

His door was open. Maggie Kennedy was seated on the bed at his side, apparently reading the newspaper to him. The pretty seamstress, who remained at the Cahill home recuperating from a knife wound, had proven herself to be an angel of mercy where Evan was concerned. Francesca hesitated in surprise, for Julia was also present. She had pulled up a heavily upholstered chair and sat close by the bed.

Julia Van Wyck Cahill remained a beautiful woman, and Francesca had often been told that she looked so much like her mother. She had a small oval face, high cheekbones, a slim and pretty nose, and thick, waving blond hair. Francesca’s complexion was tinged with gold and apricot and her hair was the color of rich honey, unlike the fairer complexions and lighter hair that her mother and sister shared. The Cahill women were universally acclaimed to be beauties. Francesca thought her mother and sister were great beauties, but she herself was too serious and too intellectual to ever be put in that category. She hardly minded. She had more important issues to deal with every day.

Julia never left her rooms before noon. Francesca knew that she got up around nine but took care of household affairs in the privacy of her suite before coming out. But Julia adored her son. Francesca doubted she had left his side all night. Now Maggie stopped reading and everyone glanced at Francesca.

“Good morning,” she said, too brightly. Her gaze was on Evan, who was propped up against numerous pillows, the eye he had almost lost bandaged like a pirate’s, the skin around the patch a vicious purple, green, and blue. His lower lip was cut and swollen, and his left wrist was in a cast. But he seemed to smile at her.

“Ow,” he then said, scowling. “God, I cannot even grin!”

Julia stood, unsmiling. “Good morning, Francesca. Are you just getting up?”

At least her mother did not know that she had been out.
But she didn’t want to lie now. “Mama, is everything all right?” she asked cautiously, noting now that in spite of her mother’s perfect ensemble, a dark gray double-breasted suit in pebbled cheviot, trimmed with antique moiré and silk braid, she looked terrible indeed. Circles of fatigue marred her complexion, and grim lines had formed around her mouth, pulling it downward. Her Van Wyck blue eyes were hazy with worry and grief.

“I could not sleep. I tossed and turned all night. I checked on Evan a dozen times. But he is better today, thank God,” Julia said.

Francesca went to her and took her into her arms. She held her as if she were the mother and Julia the child—something she had never done before. “It will be all right. Evan is on the mend,” she said, glancing past her mother at Evan and Maggie.

Hurt and with a black patch over his left eye, Evan still was dashingly handsome. The pretty redhead was offering him a sip of water, holding it to his mouth while supporting his head with one hand. Evan smiled and then grimaced at her. “Thank you, Mrs. Kennedy. You really do not have to play nursemaid; I am quite fine this morning.”

“Hush,” she murmured, setting the glass down on his bedside table and standing. “You are not well yet.” She smiled softly at him, but like Julia, her expression was filled with worry.

Evan gazed up at her. “You have been too kind. Do you always treat barroom brawlers so graciously?”

She smiled more naturally now. “Never, as I do not approve of fisticuffs, Mr. Cahill.” She softened even more. “But you and your family have been nothing but kind to me and my children. It is the least that I can do.”

Evan smiled again and then grunted in pain.

“I shall leave you all alone,” Maggie said softly, and she swished past them in her little fitted navy suit, which she undoubtedly had made for herself. A mercerized lawn shirtwaist peeked out from behind her suit jacket, starkly white, and the color was wonderful on her. Since coming into the
Cahill home, Maggie had seemed to age in reverse until she looked her actual age, which was mid- to late twenties. When Francesca had first met her she had been so worn with the ordeal of her life that she could have been twenty or fifty—it had been impossible to tell.

Francesca wondered once again about her brother. He was a gentleman. Yes, he had kept an actress for a mistress, but he had not a lewd bone in his body—she knew he would never carry on with a housemaid. Maggie was hardly a housemaid, but she was a seamstress—during the day she worked at the Moe Levy Factory. Their social circles did not conjoin or overlap. It was as simple as that.

And currently Evan was smitten with Bartolla Benevente, a strikingly seductive and widowed countess.

But Maggie seemed rather drawn to Francesca’s brother. She worried now. Evan was kind and charming, it was his nature, and maybe she had better advise him to be a bit more cautious in his responses to the pretty redhead. Francesca liked Maggie very much and did not want her casually hurt.

“Thank you for reading me the newspaper, Mrs. Kennedy!” Evan called softly after her.

Maggie paused at the door. “It was my pleasure, Mr. Cahill.” She smiled at everyone, ducked her head, and left.

Julia now sat at Evan’s hip. She took his right hand in her own but did not speak.

“I am fine, Mother,” Evan said, smiling now without a grunt of pain in spite of his cut lower lip.

“You are not fine. And you are a gentleman who does not brawl, much less in saloons,” Julia said flatly, with distress.

“I have made another grave mistake. Due, undoubtedly, to my fatally flawed character,” Evan said.

“Evan, don’t,” Francesca said, knowing he mocked what Andrew seemed to think of him.

“Is that not what Father is saying?” Evan demanded with a flash of anger. “And all because I will no longer jump through his hoops and be his lackey.”

“Evan, you must speak more respectfully of your father,” Julia said, remaining distraught.