Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahil 02] (12 page)

It would be a relief for everyone to have Neil’s sordid past put behind them, Francesca thought glumly. But Francesca had already had a great internal debate, and she had decided not to say anything to Connie, no matter how she might ache to do so. For Francesca would want to be told the truth if she were in her sister’s shoes, but Connie was not Francesca—they were as different as night and day.

Francesca felt certain that even as worried as she now was, Connie would not want to know the truth.

“Why are you staring at me like that?” Connie asked, cutting into Francesca’s thoughts.

Francesca swallowed hard. “I am sorry. I did not mean to stare.” Quickly Francesca looked away.

But Connie gripped her knee. “Fran? What is it?”

Startled, Francesca gasped. “What?”

Connie was starkly pale. Briefly, she closed her eyes. “There is something else, isn’t there? There is another reason for the dissension between you and Neil.” She opened her eyes. “There is something you are not telling me. Isn’t there?”

Francesca was in shock. Was Connie asking her for the truth? Did Connie want to know? What should she do? Her panic increased. “Con …,” she began, a protest.

“Isn’t there?”
And it was a harsh demand.

Francesca stared. She had to wet her lips in order to speak. What she would not do was lie. “Yes,” she said.

S
ATURDAY,
F
EBRUARY I, 1902—1:00 P.M.

Connie’s eyes widened, and Francesca saw fear there. Then Connie glanced away. Their brougham was approaching the block where the Cahill mansion was. “What is it?” Connie asked tersely. “What is it that you’re not telling me?”

Francesca reached out and took her hand, forcing her sister to meet her eyes again. Her own pulse was racing wildly—she so feared doing the wrong thing now. “Connie, if there was something amiss, something I know about that you, perhaps, should also know about, would you want me to tell you what I know?”

Connie was rigid and breathless. She stared, and the moment became an endless one. “Is this about Neil?”

Francesca hesitated.

“It is, isn’t it?” Connie pulled her hands free of Francesca’s and stared out her window. Another endless moment passed. Francesca did not speak. She could not blurt out the fact of Neil’s adultery, not unless she was certain her sister was ready to face the truth. “You know, I have changed my mind. I will go shopping with you!” she exclaimed. “And I have a wonderful idea! Let’s call on Sarah Channing and ask her to join us.” Sarah was Evan’s fiancée. The engagement was a recent one and quite against Evan’s will. “Sarah is the most amazing artist. We will undoubtedly find her feverishly at work in her studio. I doubt she is inclined toward shopping, but she will surely want to get to know her future sisters-in-law better.”

The coach had halted in front of the huge limestone house that was the Cahill home. Connie turned to Francesca. “There is another woman,” she said.

Francesca, in the act of rising, sank back down on the leather squab. She wet her lips. “You … know.”

Connie stared, her expression one of dread and anguish. “No. I don’t know. But somehow you do.”

Her heart hurt her now, because her words would hurt her sister unbearably, even if she were only the messenger. “Yes. I know. I saw him … with someone … another woman.”

Connie did not speak. She seemed carved out of stone. In a few small moments, she had become an unbearably lovely and frozen ivory statue.

“I am so sorry,” Francesca whispered. And the statement seemed to hang there, tautly, between them.

How small the carriage had become.

How silent the day.

And Connie made a harsh sound. “How long have you known?” Her eyes glazed over. “He adores the girls. He adores me. I do not understand!”

Francesca took her hand. “I don’t understand, either. I haven’t known for very long. Perhaps a week or so. I didn’t think you would want to know; I didn’t think I should say anything.”

“Are you certain?” Connie asked with desperation. “Are you certain? Perhaps you misconstrued the situation.”

Francesca was silent, feeling for her sister—having already wept copiously herself. “I am certain. I was snooping,” she said, trembling. “I saw him clearly.”

Connie hugged herself. “I think I shall die,” she said.

“No, Con, you will not die! Neil does love you, I am certain of it, and you will fix this madness; I am certain of that, too!” Francesca cried.

Connie stared. Tears began to fill her sky blue eyes. A tear slid down her face.

“Neil does love you,” Francesca insisted, wishing she could somehow spare her sister the brutal pain she must just now be experiencing and praying her own words were true.

Connie said, “I have to know. I have to know who he was with.”

Francesca hesitated. “Eliza Burton.”

* * *

Francesca slipped somberly into the house, a large marble-floored hall with Corinthian pillars set at intervals about the room. Marble panels divided the walls, and a high ceiling depicted a fresco of a pastoral scene. Francesca felt shaken and depressed. Connie had asked her if anyone else knew, and Francesca had said she thought not. Bragg knew. But she had not seen the point in making her sister more anxious by telling her of that. She had promised not to breathe a word of Neil’s affair to anyone, not even Evan, and especially not their mother.

Francesca somehow smiled at the doorman and handed off her muff, her hat, which she unpinned, and her fur-lined coat to a manservant. The house was very quiet. But Mama was undoubtedly on her way to a ladies’ luncheon, Evan would be long since gone by now, and perhaps, just perhaps, she had the house to herself. Francesca started toward the library.

It was early. As soon as she looked at the morning’s newspaper—which she had forgotten to do when she had awoken, due to Connie’s unexpected visit—she would hail a cab and go find Joel. They had all afternoon to continue their investigation into Randall’s murder. Francesca thought a safe place to start might be with Georgette de Labouche’s neighbors, if she managed to be very discreet. She did not dare visit the widow now. She was afraid to run into Bragg and the police there.

She stepped into her father’s study, which also happened to be her favorite room in the entire house. With its goldcloth-covered walls and stained-glass windows, with its dark wood accents and warm, comfortable furnishings, it was a most inviting sanctuary. Now she blinked in surprise. Andrew Cahill sat at his desk, engrossed in writing a letter. He did not look up, not even hearing her.

She left the door ajar and smiled fondly at him. “Papa, I did not see the second carriage, and I did not realize you were home.”

Cahill started and looked up. His smile answered that of his daughter. “Good day, Francesca. I noticed you slept quite late this morning.”

In a way, it was a question, one asked very mildly. Francesca was not alarmed—had Julia asked the very same question, she would be anxious and afraid of being found out. “Yes, I did. It was delicious, too, I might add. Perhaps I will acquire a new and lazy habit.”

Cahill laughed. “That would astonish me to no end.”

Francesca smiled back at him and walked over to the couch, which faced the fireplace. On the cushions she saw the
Tribune
and the
Times.
She sat down, reaching for the former, and quickly scanned the headlines. Randall’s murder had not made the news, apparently—she was certain it would be on the front page of the
Tribune,
although perhaps not the
Times
—but Bragg had made the news. She stiffened. “Bragg Wreaks Havoc on Police Affairs,” the headline screamed. The subtitle read: “Hundreds of Officers Demoted in Attempt to Halt Corruption.”

She glanced quickly at the
Times.
“Three Hundred Detectives Demoted and Demoralized,” she read. And then, “Reassignment will break graft in wards or destroy crime-fighting ability.”

“Bragg has certainly taken the tiger by the tail,” Andrew commented, standing and coming over to her. “He is a courageous man.”

Francesca was thrilled, although she did not like the
Times’
suggestion that Bragg might be hurting the capabilities of the city’s police. “Will he survive this brave act of his, Papa?”

“We shall see. But by transferring these officers to different precincts he has dealt a severe blow to the system of graft and corruption that is synonymous with police protection.”

Francesca understood. “The detectives from a single ward take payoffs and bribes from the saloons, brothel keepers, and gambling halls in their ward, By demoting them and reassigning them to an unfamiliar ward, it will be difficult for them to immediately devise a new system of graft and corruption. How clever. How bold.”

“Bragg is not very popular in his own department right now,” Cahill commented. “And if you read the
Times,
one journalist suggests he has gone too far too quickly and that crime will actually blossom in this new environment.”

“I am sure Bragg does not care about his popularity—or lack thereof,” Francesca said fiercely. “But should his own men come to despise him, well, that does worry me a bit.”

“He needs to appoint his new chief of police, and soon.”

“Yes, he does. But how to find an ally among the existing ranks? Everyone is so corrupt!” Francesca exclaimed. “Unless he promotes a man who is weak and incompetent.”

“Well, he cannot bring in someone new. As it is, Bragg was performing two jobs during the Burton Affair. He has enough on his plate fighting the corruption within the department; he really cannot fight crime on the streets, too.”

Francesca agreed with that; on the other hand, she knew Bragg now, and she did not think he would stop fighting those most dastardly crimes executed on the street. She wished she could tell her father about the Randall murder, but she could not. Not if it was not in the morning’s papers. “Well, I believe Bragg has done the right thing. He has shaken up the police department, and it is a beginning. I do not think he would ever do such a thing if it would jeopardize the police’s abilities to fight crime in any way.”

Cahill took a seat on the plush moss-colored sofa with its many patterned pillows. “You are so loyal and supportive of Rick Bragg,” he remarked.

Francesca kept her face straight and was resolved not to blush. “We are friends now, Papa. We did solve the Burton Affair together.”

He patted her knee. “I know. And I am proud of you, although I hope you never so endanger yourself again. Of course, after being held a prisoner all day by that madman, I know you will never attempt to solve any crime again.” He looked her right in the eye.

She glanced away, unable to hold the eye contact. “Well …” She could not—would not—lie to her father. He was her favorite person in the entire world.

“Francesca!” he exclaimed. “Surely you have learned your lesson?”

She was imploring. “Papa, if I saw a crime committed, and no one was about except for myself and the criminal, you know I would do what I felt was right.”

He sighed. “Yes, I do, but you must restrain yourself when the choice involves placing yourself in harm’s way!”

“I realize that. Still, if I saw a big man beating a small child, I would attempt to stop him, even if he might beat me.” She meant it.

“How did I ever come by such a bold, brave, and determined daughter? Francesca, you know I am in complete agreement with you on most subjects, but do promise me you will stay out of Bragg’s way from now on.” His eyes narrowed a bit at the mention of Bragg’s name now.

She stood up, twisting her hands. “Please don’t make me promise that, Papa.”

He leaped to his feet. “But you must!”

“I cannot. I simply cannot.”

He was incredulous. “I do not know if I should ask this or not, but I shall. Is your refusal to make such a promise about justice, Francesca, or does it have something to do with Bragg as a man?”

She flushed, and opened her mouth to say that it was about justice, but no words came out.

“I see.” Andrew was grim.

“We are just friends, Papa,” she tried. “Truly.”

He nodded, for a moment silent. “I am a good friend of Rick’s. I truly admire him. I respect him. But he is not for you, Francesca.”

She stared, dismayed. Julia had declared the exact same thing. “Why? Because he is illegitimate?”

Andrew was surprised. “Your mother told you that?”

She nodded.

“Actually, that is a bit of a cloud, but no, that is not why. You will have to trust me on this. He is not for you, Francesca, so do not go losing your heart to a man who can never return it.”

His words were the most severe blow. “Why are you saying this to me?”

“Because I sense that I must.” He patted her shoulder. “I am sorry to upset you, dear.”

“Did Bragg say something about me? Has he indicated that he could never … become fond of me? Is there someone else?”

“Francesca, I know that you are not for him—and that he is not for you—and let us leave it at that.”

She wanted to cry but couldn’t. She didn’t. She was too stunned—and too upset.

“Now. I have a favor to ask of you,” Andrew said, changing the subject.

Francesca hardly heard him. She wished she knew why her father was being so adamant. But he was wrong—wasn’t he?

Still, as fond of her as Bragg sometimes seemed, he had canceled their outing for that day, in no uncertain terms. Taking her out at another time had not even seemed to be remotely on his mind.

Her spirits, already low due to her blunder with Calder Hart and having to tell Connie about Neil, sank even lower. “What is it, Papa?”

“It is about Evan,” Andrew said, now grim.

Francesca sat down on the edge of the sofa. “And?”

“He has not spoken to me since his engagement party. It has been a week now. He avoids me, and will do no more than nod in greeting or mutter a curt word. I know he is angry about the engagement and my refusal to pay his debts, but Francesca, he is my son. This cannot go on. You must speak with him. If anyone can make him see how he needs to change and mend his ways—and how Sarah Channing will help him to do so—it is you.” Andrew halted, his speech having been an impassioned one.