Fortune is a Woman (46 page)

Annie had hurled herself on Francie. "Oh, thank God, thank God," she'd gasped, "I didn't mean it, honestly I didn't. It's just that I didn't know what to do."

Francie had glanced out the window at the sun slanting off the stable roof, and linking her arm in Annie's she casually said, "Let's go for a walk to the stables and check on Ollie's horse. The poor thing's been neglected for far too long."

Annie had watched admiringly as she petted the gray that had been her son's favorite. Her desperate impetuous action had carved the first chink in the ice of Francie's despair. She was on the long, slow road back to life again.

That year Francie and the Mandarin established the Oliver Harrison Memorial Foundation, through which they helped sick and needy children, but it was Francie who ran it. And it was Francie who every week visited the new annex they had donated to the Children's Hospital, bringing toys and games, and books that she read to the small patients. She sat for hours at the bedside of the desperately ill and comforted the distraught parents. And it was Francie who helped rehouse the poorest Chinese families and rescued the youngest children from their slavery in terrible sweatshop factories. She provided textbooks for schools and scholarships to enable immigrant children to attend college. She worked tirelessly for months on end, though she was careful always to keep out of the limelight and her name rarely appeared in the newspapers. And when exhaustion finally overcame her she always returned to her beloved ranch again.

***

The vineyard was her new passion and Annie smiled as she drove past the acres of neat rows. Francie's vines were manicured to the peak of perfection and though her production was small, a mere three thousand bottles, the soft red wine was good.

"Good—but not good enough," Francie told her later as they strolled through the vineyard together. She stooped and picked up a handful of the rich, dark earth. "Look at this," she demanded indignantly. "Can it be any better in France? We have the same sunshine, the same rain, the same sheltered slopes. So why can't I produce a burgundy as good as theirs?"

Her blue eyes were flashing with the old fire and Annie laughed. "Ask the French, not me."

"I may just do that. One day." Annie knew she was joking because she never went anywhere anymore, and she said, "Then before you venture so far afield, why don't you come to my party next week?" Francie stared off to the horizon and she added quickly, "It's about time you did something to please yourself—and me, for a change. Good works are all very well, Francie Harrison, but it's time you got out and about a bit more and met some people."

Francie looked thoughtfully at her. Annie was always busy, she had dozens of friends and hundreds of acquaintances; she was a queen bee of the smart hotel world and everyone wanted to know her. With a sudden lonely pang, she envied her. She said quickly before she could change her mind, "All right then. I will."

Annie looked so astonished that it made Francie laugh. But later as she packed her bags for the trip, she was more than a little apprehensive. Her life was as cloistered as a nun's. San Francisco had grown from the small town of her youth to a bustling city, and sometimes, driving home from Aysgarth's after dining with Annie, she would stare enviously at the noisy crowds thronging the sidewalks outside the cafes and theaters, feeling like a little girl with her nose pressed to the window again, as real life passed her by.

This week the President was giving a large ball to thank the Californians who had worked in the party's behalf. The city was packed with out-of-towners and hotel rooms were at a premium. Over the years Annie had played host to many of Washington's politicians, and before the ball she was holding a small champagne reception for her favored customers, one of many held that night.

"My own inaugural reception," she told Francie excitedly as they waited in the private drawing room for her guests. She patted her expensive bronze lace dress anxiously. "Do I look like the First Lady of the hotel world?"

"You look perfect," Francie reassured her, and indeed she did. Her glossy brown hair was arranged in smooth waves and her brown eyes shone with excitement. The bronze lace suited her creamy complexion and its low square neck showed off her full bosom to advantage. She wore a choker of five rows of small emerald beads with matching drop earrings and a large topaz ring. "I don't want to compete with their diamonds, love," she confided to Francie. "After all, I'm still the hired hand, aren't I?" And then she laughed uproariously as she thought of the prices she was charging them for the privilege of staying at Aysgarth's.

But Annie was never mean; it was nothing but the best for her invited guests: vintage Roederer champagne—the very same that used to be served by the czar of Russia; impeccable caviar from Persia; the finest wild salmon from Scotland; and morsels of delicious lobster from the coast of Maine.

***

"We shall not be served finer in the White House itself, Mrs. Aysgarth," the President told her, beaming. The room was full of pretty women, but Annie was the center of attention and her Yorkshire accent and boisterous laugh could be heard over the noisy buzz that marked a successful party.

Francie stood near the door, her champagne glass clutched nervously in her hand, answering politely when she was introduced by Annie and wishing she had never promised to come. She had never in her life attended a party like this and she felt like a fish out of water.

Maryanne Wingate's expert eyes rested on her momentarily, registered the fact that she was unknown and passed quickly on in search of more important prey. But Buck's eyes lingered. He thought she looked lovely but remote and unapproachable, as though she had erected an invisible fence around her that said "keep away." Her floating gray chiffon dress was as discreet as a cloud, and the pearls were worth a small fortune. He walked across to her and said, "You look as though you are about to bolt out the door. Is the party that bad?"

She glanced at him, startled. "Oh, no, not at all. It's a perfectly lovely party."

He held out his hand. "I'm Buck Wingate."

She shook his hand so quickly he scarcely felt the pressure of her fingers. "Francesca Harrison," she murmured, blushing.

It was his turn to look startled. "But I know your brother," he exclaimed. She froze, her eyes grew distant, her mouth tightened, and she did not reply. "My father was your father's lawyer," he said, realizing he was getting deeper and deeper into the mire. "I mean, that's the only reason I know him, because of his trust. My firm handles it."

She nodded and said icily, "I see."

"Miss Harrison," he said, though he had no idea why he should be making such an effort to set the record straight, she meant nothing to him, nor did her brother. "I did not choose your brother as a client, I inherited him. You know, the sins of our fathers...?"

He smiled winningly at her, breathing a small sigh of relief as she smiled back and said, "Please don't apologize for knowing Harry, Mr. Wingate. It's your misfortune, not mine."

He nodded, searching to change the subject, but in the back of his mind he was running through what he knew about her. Wasn't there a Chinese lover and the multimillion-dollar corporation? And of course, the tragic death of her young son in the fire. Her past certainly didn't show in her flawless face and he thought again how beautiful she was. "What brings you to a political party like this, Miss Harrison?"

"Annie Aysgarth is an old friend. She wanted to show off her guests to me."

"That sounds like Annie, she enjoys a bit of praise— especially for her Yorkshire puddings."

Francie laughed. "They're the best—and probably the most expensive puddings this side of Yorkshire. But there's more to Annie than that."

"I daresay there is. I've known her for about ten years now. How come I've never met you before?"

"Oh, don't you know?" Her tone was faintly contemptuous and he raised his eyebrows questioningly. "I'm San Francisco's worst-kept secret. The notorious Harrison sister living in sin with her Chinese lover on Nob Hill, right opposite her illustrious brother, Harry. Nobody ever talks about me, Mr. Wingate, except behind my back."

"Buck?" Maryanne took his arm and he turned quickly.

He said, "Maryanne, this is Miss Harrison."

She nodded. "Indeed?" she said cuttingly, not offering her hand. "How do you do, Miss Harrison." Without waiting for a reply, she said, "Buck, I'm afraid we must leave or we shall be late for the ball." Then she swept through the door without so much as a glance in Francie's direction.

Buck stared angrily after her. "Forgive my wife," he said bitterly, "she sometimes has worse manners than her six-year-old daughter."

Francie shrugged, her face expressionless as she turned away. "Please do not concern yourself, Mr. Wingate."

He watched her as she walked gracefully across the room toward Annie; her cloudlike dress floated around her slender body and the lamplight caught her shining hair and her wonderful pearls. And he thought she looked the loneliest woman in the world.

Francie knew she couldn't go through with it; she waited until the reception was over and then told Annie she had a headache and was going home.

Annie glanced sceptically at her. "Well, at least you showed up. I guess it was a start. Let's take it from there, shall we?"

***

Annie was surprised when Buck Wingate called her the next morning and even more surprised when he asked about Francie.

She had known Buck for a long time. His primary residence was in Sacramento, but he stayed at Aysgarth's whenever he was in San Francisco, which was several times a year. At first she had been suspicious of him because she felt any man as handsome and charming as he was had to be up to no good, but Buck Wingate did not play around; he was a good husband even though his wife was a cold fish. He had been involved in politics for years, he was one of the country's youngest senators and a big future was already being predicted for him by men important enough to influence such things. So why was he calling and quizzing her about Francie Harrison?

"Maryanne's gone back home," he explained casually, "but I have to stay here for a meeting. I'm going to be at loose ends and since you are the only woman in San Francisco that I thought might take pity on me I called to ask you to dine with me tonight. And Miss Harrison as well, of course," he added rather too quickly.

"I'm a busy woman," she told him, "but I'll see what I can do." Putting down the phone she threw on her coat and hurried over to Francie's. She leaned against the door, her arms folded across her chest with a knowing smile on her face. "So, Francesca Harrison, what did you say to Buck Wingate that's got him so smitten?"

"Smitten?" Francie blushed the way she used to when Edward Stratton's name was mentioned. "You must be wrong. He told me he knew Harry and I was very rude to him. Then he introduced his wife and she was very rude to me."

"Maryanne Wingate is rude to everybody unless they can do her some good," Annie said bluntly. "And rude or not, Buck Wingate would like the pleasure of our company for dinner tonight—without his wife. And he would probably like it even better if it were without me too."

"Then you'd better tell Mr. Wingate that I cannot accept his invitation." She looked exasperatedly at Annie. "Oh Annie, don't I have enough trouble without Maryanne Wingate's husband?"

"You do," Annie agreed. "I just thought you would like to know that the world has not passed you by. If Buck Wingate is interested, other men will be too—if you gave them half a chance."

But Francie just shook her head. She wasn't like ordinary people and she knew it. Marriage and happiness were simply not her fate. Nevertheless, it was Buck she was thinking about on the long drive back to the ranch.

***

The image of the lonely woman in the cloud-gray dress stayed with Buck for a long time. He was a busy man who never did anything by halves. He devoted himself to his work and senatorial responsibilities and tried to avoid the endless round of the entertaining that Maryanne insisted was "all for your career, darling." He had entered politics as an idealistic young man and though those ideals had been tempered by reason and circumstance, he was and always would be a "man of the people, and for the people." He hated Maryanne's parties and social climbing, though sometimes he had to admit it was necessary.

Their house on K Street in leafy Georgetown was always full of committee ladies having lunch, or important visitors taking tea, or influential politicians at one of the "intimate" candlelit dinners for which Maryanne was famous. "Can you believe it, darling," she exclaimed to him, laughing, "people are actually trying to bribe my friends for an introduction in the hopes of being invited. Isn't it amazing?"

Buck looked at her presiding over his polished Georgian dining table with the gleaming eighteenth-century silver Paul Storr candelabra, the vermeil service plates, the carved crystal wine goblets, and the lavish but understated flower arrangements, and he knew she was in her element. But there was not one man at his dinner table that night he could call his friend and he suddenly felt as lonely as the lovely woman in the cloud-gray dress.

"Let's invite
friends
to Broadlands for Christmas," he said impulsively to Maryanne when their guests had gone. They were in her bedroom and her maid was hanging up the taffeta dress she had worn. Maryanne slipped on her rose-colored peignoir and sat down at her dresser, smiling at him in the mirror as she creamed her face. If there was one place she really loved it was her childhood home, bequeathed to her by her grandfather. "Why, of course, darling, what a wonderful idea. Christmas in the country with the children and friends, what could be nicer? I'll draw up a guest list tomorrow and instruct the housekeeper to prepare everything."

"It'll be good for us to be together with the children," he said seriously. "I see far too little of them these days."

She sighed. "That's true, darling, but there simply isn't room in this tiny house and anyway they are much better off with the nurse and the governess and staying in their same schools. And we are always so busy..." She sighed again, stretching her arms over her head and yawning. "And I'm always so dog-tired at the end of the day I just don't know where I'll get the energy to face the next morning."