Fortune is a Woman (9 page)

There was a long silence while Francie shifted nervously from foot to foot, desperately wishing she could see the fräulein's eyes behind the glasses.

"You are untidy," the fräulein said sternly at last. "Your boots are dirty, there is a stain on your pinafore, and your hair is a mess. You will go back to your room and clean yourself up. I will not tolerate slovenliness."

Scared, Francie rushed to do as she was told, then hurried back to the schoolroom.

Fräulein Hassler eyed her again carefully and then said, "You will come to the schoolroom each morning at eight precisely. You will be clean and tidy. You will knock at the door and wait until I bid you to enter. You will say, 'Good morning, Fräulein Hassler,' except on Wednesdays, when we shall speak only in German and then you will say,
'Guten Morgen, Fräulein Hassler,'
and on Saturdays, when we shall speak only in French and you will say,
'Bonjour, Mademoiselle Hassler.'

"From eight until nine you will learn arithmetic, from nine until ten, English. Then I will take a half-hour rest while you learn a piece of poetry which you will repeat for me after the break. From eleven to twelve you will learn history and geography.

"Then I will take my lunch and rest and at two we shall go for an hour's walk. You will learn to sew in the afternoons and at four o'clock, when I take my tea, you will finish the tasks I have set you. After that you may go to the kitchen for your supper and then to bed. Do you understand, Francesca?"

Francie nodded, her head swimming, thinking anxiously of Princess waiting for her in the stables. She didn't like Fräulein Hassler and she did not like her plans.

"What happens on Sundays?" she asked suddenly.

"You mean,
'Please,
what happens on Sundays,
Fräulein Hassler?' "
the woman corrected her sharply. "We must do something about your manners, child. But since you ask, I shall reply. Sunday is my day off. No doubt the servants will take care of you and I suppose you will go to church in the morning and again in the evening. Your father left no instructions about that."

Francie nodded. "I suppose so," she said, a dismal vision of her future life passing quickly through her mind. But even Fräulein Hassler was better than having Papa around, so she guessed she'd just make the best of it. And hopefully, one day, Papa would send her back to the ranch again.

There was another compensation now that Papa was away; the fräulein never stirred from her rooms after supper and Francie was able to sneak Princess up to her room. She would save the dog something from her supper and at seven o'clock, when she knew the servants would be in their own quarters, she would take Princess for a walk down the hill. The winter evenings were cold and dark, but wrapped in her velvet-and-ermine cloak she didn't feel the cold, and with the huge dog beside her she had no fear of the dark. At first she only went a little way, but as her days with Fräulein Hassler became more and more tedious the evening walks became longer and more adventurous.

She and Princess wandered around the city streets, peering curiously into the lighted windows of houses, sniffing the beery smells coming from noisy saloons and watching the people, listening enviously to their laughter. She was eavesdropping on a world different from her own, where people sang and danced and laughed together and were happy.

Much later she and Princess would sneak back through the side door which she always left unlocked, knowing no one would check because they did not expect it to be open. She would hurry up the back stairs, making Princess walk on the carpet so that her claws made no noise on the wooden surround. She would lock her door carefully, pour the glass of milk she'd taken earlier from the kitchen into Princess's bowl and watch her eagerly lap it up. Then she would climb into bed and huddle under the chilly sheets with Princess curled up on her feet, and soon she would fall asleep to dream of life and freedom on the ranch, and of Blaize, her little chestnut mare, of fried chicken and roaring log fires and her mother, rosy-cheeked and smiling, sitting quietly beside her in the firelight's glow.

She began to stay out later and later, lingering outside the saloon at the bottom of Jones Street, loathe to leave the bright lights and the happy music and laughter for her own cold, dark little room. The people going in and out stared at her, laughing at the sight of the small girl in the black velvet cloak with the dog that was bigger than she was, but their glances became more curious as they noticed her there night after night.

"What is it, darlin'?" a red-haired man called out to her one night. "Lost your father to the demon drink, have ya?"

Francie blushed and shook her head. Grabbing Princess's lead even tighter she hurried away up the hill.

"You ought to do sum'n about that girl outside," the man told the saloonkeeper. "It's not good for business having kids waitin' on their drunken fathers. Throw the bastard into the street and tell him to take his kid home where she belongs."

"She's no child of any of my customers," the saloonkeeper replied indignantly. "Next time you see her, tell me and I'll call the police."

But Francie was scared and she avoided the saloon, roaming farther and farther through the dark city, inventing lonely make-believe scenarios for the families she saw behind the lighted windows and in the cafes.

It was a few weeks before she passed the saloon again. It was a clear, cold night and she shivered as she stopped to sniff the hot, spicy smells of cooked ham and corned-beef hash and the earthy aroma of rich dark ale mingled with the stinging smell of whiskey.

The red-haired man eyed her guardedly as he hurried into the bar. "Better send the lad around for the police," he told the saloonkeeper. "That little girl's out there again and the streets are no place for a young kid like that, she can't be more than seven or eight. She must've run away from home or sum'n."

"I'll get her this time," the saloonkeeper replied, calling over the boy.

Francie watched the uniformed police officer approaching the saloon curiously. She felt so invisible in her nighttime world that she almost jumped out of her skin when he called out to her.

"Hey, little girl? Lost your way, have ya?"

"No! Oh no!" She tugged urgently on Princess's lead as the police officer came closer, but Princess stood firm, her fur bristling, her teeth bared, growling softly. The policeman took a wary step backward. "I'd like to talk to you, young lady. It looks to me like you need a spot of help... you and your nice dog."

Francie tugged hard on the lead as Princess growled menacingly again. "Oh no, thank you, sir. I don't need any help. We're just on our way home, that's all." With a final desperate tug on the lead she dragged the big dog around and hurried back up the hill.

The policeman followed at a distance, watching to see where she would go. He was out of breath when he reached the top of Jones Street and surprised when she turned into the courtyard of one of Nob Hill's grandest mansions and let herself in by a side door. He wondered if she was one of the Harrisons' servants' kids, and then he thought of the velvet cloak with the expensive ermine collar. Of course, he should have realized; she was the daughter of the house. He turned away thoughtfully; this was a matter for his superiors to deal with.

Captain O'Connor knocked on the door of the Harrison mansion at eight o'clock the next morning and was told by Maitland, the butler, that Mr. Harrison was away on an extended trip to Europe.

"Then I'd best have a private word with you, Mr. Maitland," he replied.

Half an hour later, fortified by a dram of Harrison's best malt whiskey, he emerged into the cold morning sunshine. "I'll leave it in your hands, sir," he said, smiling at Maitland.

Maitland returned to his rooms, drafted a lengthy cable to his employer on his yacht in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean and walked to the telegraph office to send it personally.

His reply came the very next morning and within a matter of hours Fräulein Hassler was packed and on her way out of the house, Princess was shut away in the stables, and Francie was locked in her room.

And there she stayed for more than two weeks, awaiting her father's return. She could hear Princess's pathetic howls from the stables and she pressed her nose against the windowpane, hoping for a glimpse of her. Her meals were brought up on a tray by a Mexican maid who spoke no English; she had no books, no writing paper and pencils, not even the detested needlework. She was alone with her thoughts and the time dragged by interminably. At first she paced the floor of the small room like a caged animal, sobbing with despair, flailing her thin arms and stamping her feet in anger, but as time passed she just huddled on the bed, shivering with foreboding as she contemplated her father's return.

The trays of food were returned to the kitchen untouched and in the end Maitland himself came to see her. He looked at her pityingly; she was only eight years old and so very thin; she was barefoot, her uncombed blond hair hung in dank strands about her shoulders and her blue eyes were wide with fear.

None of the servants had had much time for Miss Francie, mostly because they were kept too busy even to think about her, and anyway she was not considered their responsibility—that was a nurse's job or a governess's. But even though she had been naughty, none of them liked the idea of shutting a child up and leaving her for days on end. "It's not human," they had told each other angrily over supper in the servants' dining room. "It's barbaric, cruel." It was Maitland's job to control the staff and stop any gossip about the family, and he had been forced to tell them it was no business of theirs and that the master would deal with his daughter when he got home. But he had said it with dread in his heart. He had worked for Harmon Harrison for ten years and he knew his coldness and his anger only too well.

Francie looked up as he knocked on her door and came in. She knew what he had come to tell her. "Papa's back," she said.

Maitland nodded. "He wishes to see you right away, Miss Francie. Why don't you wash your face and brush your hair quickly, and I'll take you down to the study myself." He watched sadly as she dipped her hands into the pitcher, dabbed cold water on her face, then hurriedly dragged a brush through her tangled locks.

He held the door for her and they walked silently down the servants' stairs and through the green baize door to the main house. At the door of her father's study their eyes met. "Courage, miss," he whispered as he knocked on the door.

"Enter."

The sound of her father's deep booming voice turned her knees to jelly. Maitland opened the door and gave her a little push inside and said, "Miss Francesca, sir."

"Thank you, Maitland." He was sitting behind his big desk and he glanced up at his daughter hovering just inside the door. He said, "Come here, Francesca."

Taking a deep breath, she walked reluctantly toward him.

"Closer," he commanded. "I want you to hear clearly what I have to say to you. And I want you to remember it, because you will not get a second chance." She was at the desk now, her hands clasped tightly behind her back, her terrified eyes fixed on his like a rabbit in front of a ferret.

He looked her up and down contemptuously, taking in her dirt-streaked face and tear-reddened eyes, her grubby pinafore and bare legs. "You are disgusting," he said contemptuously. "You are not fit to bear the Harrison name. It's a good thing your mother is not here to see you and to hear about your escapades. Well, young lady, what have you to say for yourself?"

She shook her head, fighting back the tears. "Mama would never have left me alone," she cried. "She would never have locked me up—"

"Your mother," he said icily, "would have done as I said. And so will you."

He leaned back in his comfortable leather chair, his hands folded across his stomach, watching her. There was a long silence and she shifted nervously from foot to foot, avoiding his eyes.

Finally he said, "I am waiting for you to apologize, Francesca. Or can it be that you are not sorry for all the scandal you caused."

She hung her head. "I'm sorry, Papa," she whispered.

He nodded. Standing up, he took off his jacket and hung it carefully over the back of his chair. He picked up a strong leather dog lead from the desk, pointing to a low stool. "Bend over," he commanded.

"But that's Princess's lead," Francie exclaimed, puzzled.

He nodded. "It is. And if you behave like an errant bitch then you must expect to be treated like one. Bend over the stool and lift your skirts."

"But, Papa..." she protested as he grabbed her roughly by the arm.

"Bend over," he roared, and she dropped, terrified, onto the stool, lifting her skirts obediently.

She screamed as the first lash cut her flesh, and she screamed even louder as more blows rained down. Her tender rump burned like fire and the blood flowed free, staining her underclothes.

Outside in the hall, five-year-old Harry Harrison stuffed his fingers in his ears, screwing up his face as he imagined what was taking place behind the study door. But he knew his sister deserved her punishment, his father had told him so. He had told him that she was worthless and wicked, that she had brought disgrace to their name and she must suffer for that because nothing mattered more than their name and their breeding.

After a few minutes he took his fingers out of his ears. The screaming had stopped and he could hear Francie sobbing and his father telling her to stand up. He heard the sound of a drawer opening and shutting and then Francie screamed again, but it was different this time. It was a scream of mortal terror.

Then the study door was flung open and his father stood there, a pistol in his hand. "And now I will take care of the other bitch," he said, striding across the hall.

Francie gasped, she had thought he was going to shoot her, but now she knew what he meant to do. "No, no," she screamed, hurtling through the hall after him, "not Princess, please, Papa, no..."

Harry ran after Francie down the long marble corridor. His father already had the door open and was striding across the yard toward the stables. The busy grooms looked up from their work, stepping back and lifting their caps respectfully, making no attempt to stop the screaming child.