Fortune Is a Woman - Elizabeth Adler [31]
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.
Francie heard Princess’s joyful bark as the bolt was pulled back, then the dog leapt from the stall toward her. She flung her arms protectively around her; she could feel Princess’s warm tongue on her face, licking away her salt tears. “I’ll never let you kill Princess, never, never,” she screamed at her father. “You can kill me first.”
He signaled to a groom to remove her, watching as the man prized her clinging arms from the dog. Then he calmly walked over, grabbed Princess by the collar, and placed the pistol against her massive head.
“No, Papa, No. No,” Francie screamed.