Francie Again (15 page)

In a less hectic atmosphere she might not have been able to conceal her agitation, but Phyllis' house was upside down, as it naturally would be after a party, and none of the people Francie had to deal with had their minds on each other or on her. They were obsessed with cleaning up and superintending the servants, and disposing of the extra china and napery that had been dug out for the occasion. Through all the hubbub of the last hour there, to add to the mix-up, Mrs. Barclay's health gave cause for belated concern. Phyllis' mother kept declaring Mrs. Barclay was more tired than she would admit—that she
looked
tired.

“You're quite sure you feel all right? Such a long evening for you, I'm afraid. I do wish you had spent more time in your chair,” she said anxiously.

Mrs. Barclay replied, over and over, “I never felt better in my life, my dear. Don't fuss. The doctor said I ought to exercise the leg, you know. Sitting down all the time is the wrong thing. Really.
Really.”

“Aunt Lolly,” began Francie, “do please go on ahead to the hotel.”

“Definitely not, my dear.”

Such conversation carried through quite a lot of time, and when at last the American women did get back to the hotel, Francie was able to pack her Aunt Lolly straight off to bed, without any post-mortems. After that, in her room, she sat for a time at her desk with her pen in her hand. The situation seemed to call for a letter to somebody, a long exhaustive discussion of what had happened, how she felt, what steps she was considering and so on. But who would be a worthy recipient of such a letter? Two or three years earlier it would, of course, have been Ruth. Today, Ruth was out of the question. She had been out of touch with Francie too long; she wouldn't understand. Glenn? Oh no! Glenn was gone forever; he was engaged to that pudding-faced Gretta. Besides, Francie had an uneasy feeling that if Glenn knew what she was thinking of doing, Gretta or no Gretta, he would try to take a hand in it, and she didn't want that. He would be firm and officious. He might even appeal to Pop. “Pulling the heavy uncle act,” mused Francie.

At this rate nothing was getting done. It was awfully late, even for Portugal where people often don't go to bed until well past midnight. Francie yawned and wondered for a sleepy moment what all the excitement was about, anyway. Habit was overwhelming her. Wouldn't it be simpler and pleasanter to pretend nothing had happened, to forget everything she had overheard Fontoura say, and go to bed, and trot off obediently to the studio in the morning?

No, it couldn't be done. Deliberately she remembered the conversation and went over the worst of it, word for word, until she was hot with anger all over again. Go back to the studio?

“I'd be fried in oil first,” vowed Francie. She opened her purse and, for self-confidence's sake, took a good long look at the check the designers had sent her, then she ate an aspirin tablet and climbed into bed. Funny to think that she wouldn't be in this comfortable room, using this pretty bed, very much longer.

Even so, Francie got up and dressed and went off to the class in quite the routine manner, next morning. She had it all thought out. If Friday had been one of Fontoura's routine days for visiting the studio and criticizing, she would not have been able to face the prospect, but she knew he never came on Friday; he had commitments in another part of the city, helping out a friend at a private studio. Francie was not keen to go on working as if nothing had happened, but she had to keep in touch with Catarina, and unless the other girl rang her up, there was no way to maintain the contact. Never yet had Francie dared to brave the redoubtable de Abreu, his mother, or any other dragon of a relative who would, she was sure, always answer Catarina's telephone first in order to check up on the captive.

It was all thought out, but as Francie approached the familiar alleyway that led to the studio door she wondered, nevertheless, if she could see the program through. How many of the pupils realized what the master really thought of her work? Would he have been unkind enough to take one or two of her contemporaries into his confidence? This was quite possible, and more than possible. He was an impulsive man; discretion was not one of his qualities, as she realized all too well after yesterday's experience.

“No matter what he thinks about me,” reflected Francie, “if he had any tact he wouldn't have talked that way to Aunt Lolly. After all she
is
my guardian here.” It surprised her that she could think even this dispassionately about Fontoura. She had spent a large part of the night trying to find a cool place on her pillow, and hating him.

The studio looked perfectly normal. Two of the girls, thinking they had been inadequate in their thanks yesterday for the party, hurried over to Francie to make up for the gap. Quietly Francie accepted their compliments; quietly she brought out her painting materials and set to work. From the other side of the model's dais, Catarina gave her a watery smile. Silently a pact was formed. They would meet at the lunch hour and talk matters over—it was understood.

Francie started to paint. Her efforts were unsuccessful. At every stroke of the brush she seemed to feel Fontoura's eyes on her hand, and hear his voice rebuking her for not painting wide, sweeping streaks of color.

“What difference does it make anyway?” she asked herself in despair. The feeling swept over her suddenly, just as if she hadn't been trying to control herself all evening and night. It seemed to break on her all over again that she was not a great artist and never would be, in Fontoura's expert opinion. Now, for the first time, she felt not only anger and shame, but genuine grief. She had lost her pride, she had lost everything.

“How can I ever face the people at home? And Pop—oh, how can I face Pop, ever again? He believed in me so much!”

Francie's head drooped lower over her paints, and she held her breath to keep from sobbing aloud. She simply must not. Even if it weren't for the embarrassment involved, she would not be able to tell kindly, anxious inquirers what she was crying about. No, no, there must be no sobs and no tears. Francie swallowed, breathed hard, and sat up again, triumphantly dry-eyed. No one had noticed anything.

“At last,” said Catarina. She looked over her shoulder conspiratorially as the girls sat down in the little restaurant.

“Good heavens, Catarina, they didn't follow us,” said Francie. “Nobody knew we were slipping away. I don't think anybody from the studio ever comes here.”

Catarina shook her head wisely. “One never knows in Lisbon, Francesca; I am very much watched. I am never, never sure of not being followed.”

“Oh, you mean—?”

“My husband,” said Catarina, her eyes lowered. “He would not hesitate to use spies. Especially after last evening. You know, Francesca”—she hitched her chair forward and talked with breathless earnestness across the table—“last evening I was afraid for my life. Really
afraid
. There was such a look of rage in his eyes! Because I came to your party without his permission.”

“Did he
beat
you?”

Catarina did not reply, and Francie's heart swelled until she could control herself no longer. “It is outrageous,” she said. “It's horrible.” She burst into tears. They were the morning's postponed tears, but Catarina couldn't have known that.

Catarina was overcome by this evidence of sympathy. Clearly she had not expected quite such enthusiasm in her friend. “You have a good heart, Francesca,” she said at last, “but you must not feel so deeply. You make me sorry I have told you anything.” Again she looked nervously over her shoulder, but this time it was in embarrassment rather than apprehension.

Francie wiped her eyes and spoke more calmly. “It wasn't because of you that I cried, Catarina; it's only that it all seemed too much, all of a sudden. You see I had rather a shock yesterday.”

“Oh, I am so sorry. What was it? Bad news again from your father?”

Francie hesitated. “Would you think me very impolite if I don't tell you yet, Catarina? I can't bring myself to talk about it yet.”

“Ah yes, I can understand that,” said Catarina. “I understand that very well. You are
sensivel—
sensitive, that is—like me. We have much in common.”

Gloomy as she was, Francie permitted herself a faint glow of pleasure in the thought that she might be considered akin in spirit to romantic Catarina. Then she addressed herself to the matter in hand. Briskly she began, “Catarina, I
will
tell you one thing. Never mind why, but I've decided I just can't stay on here any more, living in Estoril and going to the studio.”

Catarina looked surprised and excited. “No? But Francesca! It must be, yes, I am sure it is a love affair, an unhappy one of course. No, do not tell me if you don't like. I understand. I understand everything. When the heart is involved—”

“It is not a love affair,” said Francie. “It's something else. Something far worse.”

“It is not that handsome Englishman?” asked Catarina, ignoring everything but her thoughts.

“No, no, no. It's not a love affair at all, Catarina.”

“I do not think it could be Ruy da Souza,” said Catarina, “so I think it must be the Englishman, and you do not wish to tell me, quite naturally. But you could trust your secret to me, Francesca. I would never—”

“I tell you it's
not
Mark, or any man at all,” said Francie, beginning to feel impatient. “It's ever so much more important than just men. Catarina, do, please, listen and stop jumping to conclusions.”

“Very well, Francesca. I am listening.” Catarina folded her hands on the table like a good girl at school. “Only remember, if it is Ruy you are thinking of, a Portuguese husband is no good, and especially a Portuguese husband from
my
family. I know what I say. In Portugal, the husbands …”

“Catarina, once and for all, I don't want to talk about husbands, or romance, or men, or love, or anything like that. I am
serious
. I want a serious talk.”

“But my dear, darling Francesca, that is just what I am trying to have! So. What are we to talk about?”

Francie lowered her voice. “I am going to run away,” she said. She sat back to survey her effect. “What do you think of that?” she asked.

Catarina's brow wrinkled with the effort to understand. “Run away? But you said you do not wish to talk about men!” She looked reproachful.

Francie sighed. “I don't. I'm not planning to run away with a man. I am going alone—”

“Alone?”

“Or take you along with me,” said Francie triumphantly. “There, that surprises you, doesn't it?”

The word “surprise” was an understatement. Catarina looked staggered. “Take me with you?” she repeated at last. “But where? And why? Do you return to your father in New York? I do not think—”

“No, no. New York is absolutely the last place in the world I want to go. I wouldn't have to run away, anyway, if I meant to go there. Nobody could stop my going back to Pop,” said Francie, “but he's got troubles enough of his own right now, and I decided against it.”

“And Mrs. Barclay, she approves of this idea?”

“Oh, goodness.” Francie sighed a little. Catarina certainly didn't seem very quick on the uptake this afternoon. “Listen, Catarina. If Aunt Lolly knew I meant to run away, and approved of it, you couldn't call it running away, now could you? No, of course she wouldn't approve. That's one reason I'm not telling her.…” Francie's voice wavered as she remembered the other reason, but the angry thought of Fontoura spurred her on. She took fresh heart. “I want to get out of all this, and I think the best way is just to slip out quietly without telling anybody or saying good-by,” she said.

“You are wonderful,” said Catarina. “All Americans are wonderful. Such women as you are! So brave! So independent! You say, ‘I do not like something here,' and immediately, without waiting, you are off. And all alone! Oh, you are wonderful, Francesca.”

Francie was willing to believe it. She felt very hungry for appreciation, after what she had heard about herself the day before. She let Catarina go on in this vein for some time before cutting her off, but the lunch hour was drawing to a close, and she had no intention of returning to the studio that afternoon. It was necessary to come to a decision with Catarina.

“Are you really very happy?” she asked abruptly.

“Why, Francesca. You know my life. How could I be happy?” asked Catarina. “It is my fate to be miserable.”

“Oh, that's just
silly
,” said Francie violently. “Talking about Fate, I mean, and all that. Things are what you make them.”

Catarina waited, her velvet eyes fixed on Francie's face. She realized there must be more coming, and Francie did not disappoint her.

“You ought not to accept it,” Francie said severely. “It isn't right to live the way you do. It isn't natural.”

Catarina made a bewildered gesture. “What else can I do?”

“It's hard to tell, now, unless you take my advice,” said Francie. “You might have done something when you first married, like making your husband take you to some other house, for instance, where all his awful family couldn't pick on you. But you didn't, and now I guess it's too late to get anywhere like that.”

“It was always impossible,” said Catarina flatly. “You mean well, Francesca, but you don't know them; you cannot possibly say. In Portugal a bride does not tell her husband where they are to live.” In spite of the prevailing mood, she laughed at the very idea.

“That may be so,” said Francie. “I can't argue because, as you say, I don't know. But I do know one thing: you shouldn't go on the way you are, living with them. It's too awful. I don't know how you've stood it all this time. Listen, Catarina, I can't tell you much; I can't tell you why I'm going away. But I can say where I'm bound for, and if you want to come along, once you know, I'd be more than glad to have you. It's something to do with my new work. You know, my designing.”