Fortune Is a Woman - Elizabeth Adler [30]
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