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BOOK: Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahill 04]
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“It’s from the warden at Kendall. He was very cooperative,”
Bragg said. “Dot, the fire is still hot, no!” He rushed over to her and led her away from the fireplace where ashes were still glowing. Dot grinned at him.
“But I sent him a telegram yesterday!” Francesca cried as he let Dot go. She toddled off happily, only to fall to the floor. Undeterred, she managed to get up and start toddling again, making crowing sounds of glee.
“I sent him a telegram on Saturday, as soon as I had read Craddock’s file,” Bragg said. They both kept one eye on the child.
And Francesca sensed the worst. “What does it say?”
“It says he will meet me himself at the depot near Kendall tomorrow afternoon.”
Exhilaration began to course over her. “You do mean he will meet
us
at the depot!”
“Francesca—”
She grabbed his arm. “I am coming, and besides, we work best as a team and you know it.” She released him, filled with excitement. “What time do we leave?”
He hesitated. “At noon.”
She was already out the door.
Neil shook hands with the gentleman he had spent the morning doing business with, a smile on his face. But the moment the other man was out the door, the door solidly closed behind him, Neil’s smile vanished. He stood in his entry hall, alone except for the doorman, and while his house was filled with people, it felt eerily empty.
Gloom settled over Neal like a heavy, soaking wet cloak. It was not a feeling he was accustomed to, so he did his best to ignore it, shake it off. It remained.
He walked through a large dining room, where their table had, at times, seated sixteen or even eighteen, with the addition of a leaf or two. For larger parties, the table would be removed and numerous round tables would fill up the room, covered with ivory damask cloths, silver, and crystal. In that
instant, he could imagine the dining room on just such a festive evening—his wife was brilliant when it came to decor; she was brilliant as a hostess. An unusual flower arrangement would grace each table; the guests would be seated in a clever manner, so that the conversation never ceased. And Connie would not sit all night, not even to eat. She would flit from table to table, a vision in whichever evening gown she had chosen to wear, smiling, happy, loving every moment of the evening—loving him.
The scene vanished before his very eyes. He was shaken—it had been so real.
The gloom returned, heavier now. He dared not think of just when they had last had such an enjoyable evening. Even so, he knew the answer—before his damned stupid affair with Eliza Burton.
He regretted every moment he had ever spent thinking about the other woman, not just being in her arms. There was simply no excuse for his lapse. None. He should have remained faithful. He had not tried hard enough.
Unfortunately, his wife did not really care for relations. Not that she did not respond to him, for she did. He just knew that she preferred to avoid that part of their life. And he had tried so hard to avoid it, too.
As, unfortunately, until his marriage, he had been with a woman each and every night. He was a very virile man.
He entered the kitchen. He had probably never entered the kitchen in his entire life, not here, in his American home, and not in either of his homes in Great Britain. And the moment that he did, he was surprised.
Dozens of people were within. The noise level—all happy conversation punctuated with an Irishwoman’s lilting song—was astounding. Added to it was the chopping of a knife on a wood block and the clattering of pots and pans. He could also hear his daughter Charlotte’s laughter. His gaze found her at the pine table in the center of the room, where she was helping a kitchen maid mix a batter. Charlotte was eating the dough as much as she was stirring it, and the sight of her broke his heart.
She looked exactly like his wife. Charlotte was the most beautiful child he had ever beheld, just as Connie was the most beautiful woman.
The conversation ceased. The chopping of the knife on wood stopped. Pots banged—and then the silence was absolute.
Dozens of eyes turned to him, each and every one wide and astounded.
He felt himself flush. Before he could speak, Charlotte saw him and screeched, “Papa!” She leapt off the stool, to his amazement, not falling on her face, before Mrs. Partridge could react. Charlotte raced toward him on chubby legs and he caught her in his arms and swept her up against his chest.
“Hello, darling,” he said, squeezing her hard.
“Papa, I am baking pie. Apple pie, we shall have it for supper tonight,” she announced.
“And I shall love every bite,” he said.
Charlotte’s smile disappeared. “I am making it for Mama,” she said.
He froze. He was afraid of what his little girl might say next.
But she only smiled. “Mama will love it and be happy,” she said.
His heart lurched, hard, as if he were having cardiac arrest. “Of course she will love it,” he said softly, setting Charlotte down. He looked up, at Mrs. Partridge. He had never paid very much attention to the girl’s nanny until recently; now she seemed to be his confidante.
But the innuendos were intimate enough. “Where is Lady Montrose?” he asked quietly.
“She remains in her rooms, my lord,” the tall, lanky woman said.
He had thought so. He stared—and the nanny stared back. Their thoughts flowed, melded. Why was Connie doing this? Each day it became worse. The woman he had married was up at six with the children. That woman had more energy than ten women combined. That woman would never remain in bed a bit later and later each and every day. Who was the
woman upstairs, who no longer wished to go out and attend parties, who no longer wished to entertain their friends?
Who no longer loved her husband, her family, her life?
“Shall I go up and see if she needs anything?” Mrs. Partridge asked carefully.
“No. Have breakfast sent up.” His mind sped. Connie had hardly been eating—he could see that she had lost weight. Her face was taking on gauntness. “An omelette, please, with her usual tea and toast.”
“Papa?” Charlotte tugged on his hand. “I want to see Mama, too.”
He hesitated. “Another time, sweetheart.”
Charlotte’s eyes widened, and then her expression changed, becoming set and stubborn, oh yes. In this way, she reminded him not of her mother, but of her Aunt Francesca. “No! I want to see Mama, Papa! I want Mama!” And suddenly tears filled her wide blue eyes. “Mama doesn’t play with me anymore! She doesn’t play with Lucinda! I want Mama!” She stomped her little foot, hard.
It would be so easy to give in. He lifted her up into his arms, gave Mrs. Partridge a look, which she understood, and left the kitchen. Mrs. Partridge followed. “You may visit Mama when she has her breakfast. I wish to speak to her alone first.”
Charlotte hesitated, and he almost smiled, for her mind was racing—she was trying to decide whether or not to accept his offer. Finally, she smiled just a little and nodded. “Can I have breakfast, too? I want an omelette.”
“Have you eaten?” he asked.
She nodded.
“Then you shall have to ask Mrs. Partridge,” he said. He left the two of them negotiating over the terms of a second breakfast. The gloom was inescapable now. It filled each step as he went upstairs. Outside Connie’s closed door he paused, listening intently. But if she was moving about her rooms, he did not hear a thing.
He hesitated, then knocked. There was no reply.
He knocked again, with more insistence. After a long
pause, he reached for the doorknob. As he turned it, he heard her say, “Who is it?”
He froze, the door ajar. “It is I, Connie.”
She hesitated now. “One moment, Neil.”
Oddly, he did not like the sound of that. Without thinking it through, he pushed open her door and was faced with utter darkness.
He blinked and saw his wife standing before the drawn draperies, about to open them. She was wearing her nightclothes, her hand on the pull cord, looking over her shoulder at him. Not a single light was on.
She came to life, pulling open the curtains, and sunlight filled the sitting room. “I asked you to wait,” she said calmly, moving to another set of draperies and opening those, too.
He did not answer. He walked over to the closed door that adjoined her bedroom and opened it. That room was utterly dark, too.
“Neil?” Her tone was terse.
He found a lamp and turned it on. The four-poster bed was mussed, for clearly she had slept there. The rest of the room was as neat as a pin.
“Neil?”
He went to the heavy gold satin draperies and pulled them open. Connie’s room was painted a warm buttercup yellow. Her bed was upholstered in shades of beige, gold, and yellow, the pattern floral, with flashes of dark red and burnt orange. Similar colors had been used throughout the room, and rich Persian rugs covered the wood floors. It was a warm, happy, cheerful room, at once elegant and inviting. The same color scheme extended to her sitting room, except that there the walls were a darker gold, and numerous red pillows brightened up the sofa. He turned and found her standing in the sitting room, watching him. The moment he turned, she smiled, but it seemed terribly grim.
“Have you just gotten up?”
“Yes. I don’t feel well, today.”
“Shall I call Dr. Finney?”
“No, I am sure it will pass.”
“Connie.” He strode across her bedroom and into the sitting room. It, too, seemed undisturbed. It was as if no one had been there for even a moment. And his wife was not excessively neat. She was hardly indifferent to tidiness, but usually a scarf would be lying on a chair, a purse on a bureau, jewelry by the bedside table. She was an avid reader of fiction, mostly popular romance, and there was always a book lying open somewhere, along with a pair of reading glasses.
And then he realized what was really missing, not just from this room, but from the house. Connie adored flowers. The house was always full of them, and in her own rooms she might have a half a dozen arrangements, from a single rose in a bud vase to a huge and extravagant bouquet. Where were all the flowers?
Where was his wife?
“What is it, Neil? Did you wish to speak to me?”
He stared. Even now, she remained impossibly beautiful; even having just arisen from bed, she could have slipped off her nightclothes and thrown on an evening gown and gone out just that way. Then he had an image of her perfect, naked body. The few times he had dared to admire her, she had been flushing with embarrassment.
He did not want to think about her that way now. Desire was instantaneous. He knew he was always going to want to make love to his wife.
“You are staring,” she said rigidly. “I did just get up, Neil. I did ask you to wait.”
“Charlotte misses you. I miss you,” he said impulsively.
Something flashed in her blue eyes and then she turned her back to him. “Did she say that?”
He hesitated, her heart pounding, a roar in his ears. “Yes. And I am saying it, Connie.” He went to her and gently cupped her shoulders from behind.
She stiffened. “I am merely a bit under the weather, Neil. I shall be fine in no time at all,” she said in a light, forced tone of voice.
Despair claimed him. “You are not fine. You are slipping
away from me. Please come back,” he heard himself say.
She pulled away, walked over to the windows, and stared out at the corner of Madison Avenue and Sixty-first Street. “I am not slipping away, Neil. I have a cold, I think, and a touch of a migraine.” She did not turn to him as she spoke.
He closed his eyes, in real despair. How could he win his wife back? How? He tried another tack. “Did you enjoy yourself last night?”
She turned, and he saw relief in her eyes. “Yes, I did.”
“I am not pleased with Julia’s scheming over Hart and Francesca. That must be stopped.”
“Why? He clearly is fond of her, and he does need to wed, eventually.”
Neil could not believe his ears. “He will break her heart, Connie.” He did not add, “just as he would have broken yours if you dared to continue flirting with him.”
“Well, I think we should take a wait-and-see attitude.” She smiled at him.
The smile was genuine, if brief; he was thrilled. He rushed to her, but before he could take her hand she pulled away. He froze.
Then she smiled again, and it was forced. “Can you send up the girls?”
“I already have. Charlotte is having a second breakfast with you.”
Her smile vanished. “I have no appetite.”
“Connie, we have to talk.”
“Neil? I am really not up to anything, much less a serious conversation. Which, from your grim expression, I can see is what you have in mind. I didn’t sleep well last night. In fact, I haven’t been sleeping well all week. I am really tired.”
He watched her walk away. “Are you punishing me?”
She halted but did not turn. It was a moment before she spoke. He expected her to deny it politely. She said, “You made your bed and now you shall sleep in it, Neil.”
 
As Francesca and her maid, Bette, began packing a few necessities for an overnight trip, most of which would be spent
upon a train, Francesca tried to develop a plausible reason for going out of town for a day. But this was the first investigation that was taking her so far afield, and she was too excited to come up with a single excuse. She really couldn’t think of a single thing that she would rather do than travel out of the city with Bragg while trying to solve a crime.
“I think that will do,” Francesca said, glancing at the bronzed clock on her desk, which sat catty-corner from her lovely four-poster bed, on a wall before a window. She had packed her best (prettiest) nightgown and robe, slippers, a change of undergarments, a second shirtwaist, and a few items for her personal hygiene. At the last moment she added a pot of lip rouge and a bottle of French perfume. Bette had eyed her a few times as she folded the lacy nightgown, which was hardly a winter garment. “Can you leave the bag downstairs by the front door? Thank you, Bette!”
BOOK: Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahill 04]
3.62Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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