Fortune Is a Woman - Elizabeth Adler [27]
Back at the house she sat alone on a spindly, gilt loveseat in the mirrored ballroom watching the guests devour the lavish buffet. The women smiled and chatted in low tones about a dance that was being held next week, about who had been invited and what they would wear. The men clustered together in groups, drinks in hand, talking business. And her brother, Harry, stood quietly at his father’s side as the guests filed past to shake his hand and offer their condolences.
“How odd that girl is,” she heard the women murmuring to each other, “just sitting there alone when she should be at her father’s side like the brother—only four years old and he knows how to behave like a little man … and she never shed a tear at the graveside either…. Why doesn’t the child show some grief for her mother? It’s not normal…. Harmon had better keep an eye on her, I’d say she might be troublesome….”
Francie’s cheeks burned scarlet and she stared hard at the blue swirls on the rug covering the polished parquet floor, praying she wouldn’t cry. What did any of them know about her mother? Oh, they had probably smiled and chatted with her when they were guests in her house, and they had sent gifts of flowers and fruit when it was first known she was ill. But none of them had ever come to see her and she’d bet they didn’t even know she had been away at the ranch this past year. Her heart clenched tight as a fist with grief. She wanted to shout at them that they didn’t even care about her mother, that they wouldn’t even miss her, that no one loved her the way she did….
She caught her father’s eye across the room and he gestured angrily for her to come and stand beside him. Sliding reluctantly from the velvet seat she threaded her way through the crowd to where he was standing.
“Why weren’t you here?” he demanded, keeping his voice low, but she heard his fiery tone and shrank back from him. “People are talking,” he muttered. “Stand next to your brother and remember your manners.”
Standing stiff as a ramrod next to Harry, Francie thought the day would never end. The long line of guests filed past and she remembered to curtsy and speak when she was spoken to. She was aware of the women’s eyes as they watched her father. “A fine figure of a man,” she heard them whisper speculatively, thinking of their unmarried daughters and the Harrison millions. Then at last the nursemaid came to fetch Harry for his tea and she was reprieved.
She was back in her old room and somehow it looked dingier and more unwelcoming than ever. The white paint had chipped from the iron bedstead and the narrow straw-filled mattress was lumpy. The flimsy flowered curtains failed to stop the chill coming off the icy barred windowpanes, and though the house had the very best steam heating, somehow by the time it reached the servants’ rooms it was diluted to a mere whisper of warmth. She huddled on the narrow bed, shivering and clutching a blanket around her as the tears finally flowed freely. She cried for her lost mother, and she cried for Princess, who had been banished to the stables, and she cried for her own loneliness, until she finally fell asleep exhausted, still wearing her smart black silk mourning dress and her soft little kid boots.
The day after the funeral Harmon telegraphed his final bid on a steam yacht he was negotiating to purchase in London. His offer was accepted and the following week he and his son traveled to New York in his sumptuous private railcar on the Southern Pacific Line, of which he was also a director. From there they sailed on the French steamship, the S.S. Aquitaine for Cherbourg, and from there by rail to Deauville, where he was to take delivery of his new yacht. They planned to be away for several months, so dust sheets were thrown over the furniture at the mansion, just as though no member of the family were still in residence. The only person who shared Francie’s quarters was a German governess who had been hired to instruct her in deportment and some book-learning.
Francie’s heart sank when she saw