Fortune is a Woman (13 page)

With a wail of despair she tugged off the beautiful diamond tiara and flung it against the wall. She tore off the fabulous lacy dress and ripped away the rustling silk petticoats and stomped on them. She flung off the fine kid gloves, the embroidered satin shoes, the achingly tight corset, and sobbing and cursing her father, she looked at herself again in the mirror, half-naked, her long blond hair in disarray, her face pale with anger and her eyelids swollen from crying.

"This
is who I am,"
she told herself,
"this real person in the mirror. Not a dressed-up doll to be given away to an old man with a title who doesn't want
me—
only my father's money."
And then she flung herself on the bed again and cried some more.

When all the tears were finished and the first pain and anger had subsided she remembered the poor waiter who had helped her. He had grabbed her arm as she had run blindly through the hall, pulling her onto the terrace. She had been shaking so badly her teeth had chattered, and he had taken off his jacket and flung it over her shoulders. Then he'd put his arms around her and held her tight.

"It's all right," he'd said soothingly. "It's all right, miss. Nothing can be this bad. I know, because I've been through it too. It only hurts for a while and then things get better again. Come on now, miss, stop crying and tell me about it. Maybe I can help you."

But she just shook her head, too choked with tears and humiliation to speak. He kept on holding her, stroking her hair and talking to her reassuringly until the tears ceased to flow and she looked up at him and saw him properly for the first time.

His hair was as blond as hers and his eyes were dark and long lashed. His nose was as fine and straight as a Greek statue and his brow was broad. He was so beautiful and his expression and smile were so sweet, she thought she must be looking into the face of an angel.

"Who are you?" she whispered, leaning back in his arms.

"I'm nobody," he replied. "Just a waiter."

Tears of sympathy spilled from her eyes as she said bitterly, "I'm a nobody too."

"Francesca!" She turned and saw Mrs. Brice Leland and her father's shocked faces and then she was dragged from her savior's arms and her father was punching him and that beautiful good angel was covered in blood. He was on the ground and her father was kicking and cursing him and then he turned on her. He grabbed her arm, dragging her through the servants' entrance and up the back stairs to her room. With a thrust that sent her sprawling to the floor he said in an icy whisper, "You are not fit for decent society. You are insane, a slut, a whore... I'll see to it you are locked away forever."

Then he slammed the door and turned the key and she realized what he intended to do. Oh, he wouldn't lock her up here, to be forever the skeleton in the closet in the Harrison house. No, he would commit her to the state insane asylum near San Jose, where they locked up the
real
crazy people. And then he and Harry need never see her again. No one would see her. She might as well be dead.

Petrified, she ran to the barred window and peered out into the night. The moon was pushing through the mist and faint strains of music still came from the ballroom. A few servants lingered in the courtyard for a surreptitious cigarette, and a horse whinnied in the stables. She remembered Princess's sad puzzled eyes when her father put the gun to her head, and she wished he would just shoot her too. But she knew he wouldn't. He would beat her. And from that there was no escape.

She was summoned to her father's study at seven the next morning. He was as immaculately dressed as ever, freshly shaved, and smelling faintly of bay rum cologne. He was standing by his desk, waiting, the old leather dog lead in his hand.

His eyes were chips of ice as he said, "You know what to do."

Francie stood straight and absolutely still by the door. She had bathed her red swollen eyes, brushed her hair and tied it back with a ribbon, and she wore her old, sensible dark dress. She had prepared what she had to say very carefully, but now that the time had come to say it she was terrified. She took a deep breath—it was now or never.

"No, Father," she said quietly. "I am not a child anymore. You will not beat me again."

His implacable expression did not change. "Bend over the stool, Francesca," he said.

She stared at him as he flexed the leather strap across his palm; it was as though she had never spoken.

"No," she said loudly. "I told you, you will never beat me again."

He closed his eyes as if trying to control himself, then his face dissolved into a mask of hatred and rage, and seizing her by the hair he dragged her across the room. He hurled her across the stool and lifted the strap and brought it down on her with all his strength. She screamed but he whipped her again and again, each lash harder than the last in a frenzy of anger until her screams stopped and she slid, stunned with pain and shock, to the floor.

He stood over her breathing heavily, the bloody strap clutched in his hand, his face full of contempt. Then he walked back to his desk, put the strap in a drawer, straightened his cravat, smoothed back his hair, and strode to the door. Maitland was waiting in the hall. He looked expressionlessly at his master as he told him to fetch Miss James and help her take Miss Francesca to her room; he was leaving for his office.

The governess's face turned pale as she looked at Francie lying half-conscious on the rug—her dress in ribbons and her naked back covered in blood. Her shocked eyes met Maitland's and she said, "I've never seen anything like this. The girl needs a doctor."

Maitland said, "He's insane with anger. Next time he'll likely kill her. We'll take her to the convent. The Little Sisters of Mercy will look after her and she'll be safe from him there. I'm telling them about this in the servants' hall and then I'm leaving, and them that wants to come with me can. I'll not work any longer for a man as cruel as Harmon Harrison, no matter how important he is and how good wages he pays."

Miss James nodded in agreement. "I'll get a blanket for her, Mr. Maitland, and after we've taken her to the convent, I'm leaving too. I'm not staying on here to face his anger."

CHAPTER 9

A couple of weeks after the Harrisons' ball, Maitland dropped into the Barbary Saloon on Pacific Street, where Josh was working. He was wearing a tweed jacket and trousers and at first Josh didn't recognize him out of his formal butler's pinstripe and black. But Maitland recognized Josh by his battered face.

"Looks like Harmon Harrison did a pretty thorough job on you," he said, eyeing the plaster on his head, his black eye and swollen mouth.

Josh placed a pint of ale on the stained wooden counter in front of him, shrugging indifferently.

"He damned near killed his daughter too," Maitland added, taking a long swallow of the beer.

"His daughter? But she's just a girl and she weren't doing nothing wrong... just crying, that's all..."

"I know you were just helping her, son, but she shamed him in front of the cream of San Francisco society. He hates all women, and her more than the rest. She's been shut away for years and the story got about that it was because she was difficult, a bit crazy. But he polished up her manners, dressed her up, and let it be known she had a million-dollar dowry and he was willing to give her away to any taker with an aristocratic title. She heard some fool talking about it and naturally she was upset and ran off. And now everybody knows she was found in a waiter's arms.
And
they know the rumor that Harrison was so angry he beat his daughter to a bloody pulp and that even now she's at death's door."

Josh stared at him, shocked. "It can't be true, no father would do that."

Maitland nodded. "It's true, all right. I took her myself to the Convent of Mercy. The sisters are looking after her, but they don't hold out much hope. Harrison donated them a little money, but he's never been to see her. And I heard him telling his son that she'll never be allowed to set foot inside his door again. If she lives, that is."

"If she dies, the bastard should swing for her," Josh exploded, banging his fist on the bar counter.

Maitland looked cynically at him as he drained his glass and he shook his head. "Not in this town, young man. Harmon Harrison is rich and powerful and he runs San Francisco. Men like him make the rules. It's folks like us who have to obey them."

"It's all my fault," Josh said, putting on his jacket. "I'll go see her right now... the Convent of Mercy, you said...."

"They'll not let you in, lad," Maitland warned, but he was already swinging through the saloon doors and on his way.

The Sisters of Mercy was a nursing order dedicated to caring for the poor and the sick, and the convent was a small, arched white stucco building set back from Dolores Street. The walls surrounding it were high and the heavy wooden gates were firmly closed against the world, but that didn't stop Josh. He tugged urgently on the iron bell-pull, stamping his feet against the cold, waiting impatiently for someone to answer. He tugged again, hearing it ring in some far-off place. There was the sound of sandaled feet on flagstones and then a panel in the door was drawn back and a nun, half-hidden by her starched white wimple, looked out at him.

"I'm here to see Francesca Harrison," he told her. "I must see her."

"Miss Harrison is not allowed any visitors," the nun said, her quiet voice barely a whisper.

"But she'll want to see me," he cried urgently.

"Are you a relative?"

"A relative? Yes, of course," he lied desperately.

"No relatives are allowed to see her," she said firmly, beginning to close the little flap.

"No, no, please wait." He pushed the flap open again. "You don't understand. I'm—I'm her
fiance.
I love her, you see, and she loves me. She
can't
die,
I
won't let her die.
Not without seeing me, please Sister, I'm begging you...."

He saw the indecision on her face and added quickly,

"The lass was going to be my wife. How can you forbid me to see her?"

"Please wait a minute," she said, turning away. He listened to the soft slap of her sandaled feet on the flagstones as she disappeared, then paced up and down, swinging his arms. The February night was raw and he had no overcoat. His jacket of good Yorkshire tweed was almost threadbare, newspapers were stuffed into the soles of his boots to keep out the cold and wet and he had exactly five dollars to his name. But none of it mattered; beautiful Francie was dying and he knew he had to save her.

He heard the nun returning and peered anxiously through the flap. "Reverend Mother says you may come in," she told him, unlocking the massive gates. "She wishes to speak to you."

Pulling off his cap he followed her across a flagged courtyard and through a door into an anteroom.

"The Reverend Mother asks if you will wait here. She will be with you as soon as possible."

The nun disappeared through a second door and Josh paced the room anxiously. It was small with rough plaster walls and uneven terra-cotta-tiled floors; there was a plain oak table and two straight-backed wooden chairs. On one wall hung a beautifully carved wooden figure of Christ on the Cross. The single window was placed high so that no one could see either out or in, and the room was as cold as the icy night outside. He groaned, thinking of Francie Harrison in this cold place; a girl like her needed to be where there was warmth, life, color. And it was all his fault. He thought of his sister, Annie, at home in Yorkshire, and wished she were here. Aye, Annie would have looked after her properly. She would have fed her nourishing soups, she would have banked up the fire and plumped up the pillows. Annie would have had her right in no time.

"Good evening."

He turned, startled; he hadn't heard the Reverend Mother enter. Like the other nun, she was wearing a long gray robe and a stiff white linen wimple that hid her face. From the rope belt around her waist dangled an ebony rosary and a bunch of silver keys, and a large simple gold cross hung from a chain around her neck.

"You wish to see Miss Harrison?" she said, in a voice so soft he had to strain to hear it.

"Yes, ma'am—Reverend Mother. You see, I know what happened, what she has been through. I love her, Reverend Mother, and I believe I can help her."

"I'm sorry to tell you, but Miss Harrison is dying. We think it only right to let her do so in peace. Even her father is refused admittance."

"Her father!" Josh exploded, his face twisted in a sneer of contempt. "Why, he's the one who almost killed her."

There was silence while she regarded him from beneath the shadowy wimple, then she said, "Why do you think you can help her, Mr....?"

"Aysgarth. Josh Aysgarth." Then he said urgently, "With love. Pure love. Just like the Lord gave to us."

Silence fell again. He stared down at his hands, blue with cold. Then she said, "Very well, Mr. Aysgarth. The Lord gave us love. I accept that it must have its chance. Please follow me."

He paced anxiously behind her as she glided along the dim tiled corridors to a room lined with gray hospital beds covered in bright scarlet blankets. Only two were occupied; in one an old lady who was sleeping, and in the other a boy of about twelve, his face red with fever and his eyes wide and dark with pain. A large screen partitioned off a section of the ward from the rest and the Reverend Mother beckoned him behind it. And there, pale and still as death in the middle of the little iron cot, lay Francesca Harrison.

A young nun, her head bowed over her rosary, kept silent watch by the bedside and the only sound in the room was Francie's labored breathing. Josh sank instinctively to his knees and folded his hands together in silent prayer, hardly daring to look at Francie, but when he did he saw that the ravages of death were already tearing at her. They had cut her beautiful blond hair to defeat the fever, there were dark bluish-gray shadows beneath her eyes, her cheeks were sunken, and her bloodless lips parted as she struggled for breath. And her bony, lifeless hands were folded across her breasts as though she were already laid out for her coffin.