*
Francesca didn’t like Robert much. He wasn’t a forceful man like her papa, but she recognized his quiet cruelty just the same. He liked to direct his anger at someone to relieve a pressure valve somewhere inside him, to belittle someone else to make him feel like a big, strong man. An important someone. And the person he’d chosen to direct his ire at was Alma. One day, her friend must learn to speak up for herself, or he would never relent and she would go on believing what he said was true.
Francesca finished her food in silence, not wanting to speak too often in Italian when she knew it would draw attention to her. Meanwhile, she watched Alma’s troubled face, her slumped shoulders. This was more than fatigue, and judging by Robert’s nasty comment, Francesca suspected something had happened that Alma didn’t want to share.
“How is work?” she asked.
Alma chewed thoughtfully for a moment before replying. “It’s difficult some days. So much happens that I’m not prepared for. I feel bad for some of the immigrants, but there’s only so much I can do to help.”
Francesca knew all too well the sorts of unexpected things that happened at Ellis Island but didn’t volunteer the information. Neither did she want to spend another minute of her life thinking about the horrible inspector. “You’re very kind, Alma. You like to help others.”
“I do,” Alma said, almost as if she were surprised by her own response. “I like to speak other languages and learn about other customs. The immigrants teach me a lot, and I didn’t expect that… I especially like to talk to the children. They’re always happy when I bring them crackers or sweets.” She smiled faintly, her eyes far away as if revisiting a memory. “I was afraid to work there at first.”
Surprised by the admission, Francesca raised a brow. “You were afraid of the immigrants? But why?”
Alma blushed. “I… Well, I’m overwhelmed by large crowds. And I don’t know… I’d heard so many stories about them.”
“About the immigrants?”
Alma nodded, her expression turning sheepish.
Francesca blinked. Were people afraid of her? It seemed absurd.
Alma cleared her throat and changed the subject. “How are things for you at work?”
“Claire, the other cook, teaches me a lot, and she has a good sense of humor. But the mistress is…difficult. I hide in the pantry when she comes downstairs.”
Alma laughed brightly, revealing large white teeth and dimples, and her face transformed from plain to almost pretty. “Well, you’ll win her over through her stomach.”
“Tarts and pastas and roasted fish! They’re my… How do you say armi?”
“Weapons. Your English has improved.”
Francesca nodded. “I have headaches from trying, but now I dream in English.”
“A sign you’re truly learning it.” Alma bit into the bread Francesca had made. “This is delicious! What’s in it?”
“It’s basil.” She smiled, glad to see Alma’s mood had shifted for the better. Laughter drifted across the picnic toward them, and Francesca’s gaze strayed past her friend to Fritz.
He seemed to feel her eyes on him and turned, waved, and bounded over from the game he was playing. Something bright and warm filled her as he plopped down on the blanket beside her.
“Hello, Francesca,” he said, grinning from ear to ear. “Is that a new dress?”
“Sì.” She smoothed the red cotton skirts. Though plain and unadorned but for a set of shiny silver buttons, the color looked lovely with her skin and dark curls.
“You look quite fine,” he said.
She stiffened at the compliment, never certain she liked being noticed in that way. It often meant the sort of attention she tried to avoid wasn’t far behind. But Fritz had been nothing but kind to her, so she thanked him with a smile.
Alma handed her brother a plate and he took it gratefully. “I’m starved.”
While Fritz focused on his food, Francesca studied his face. His blue eyes seemed at once piercing and warm somehow, and thick chestnut hair fell over his brow. His sharp bone structure made him look like a decisive fellow, strong and assured. And his infectious energy made him all the more appealing. Startled by the line of her thoughts, she looked away. She’d always found men either blundering and spineless or, worse, violent and hateful. Fritz possessed none of those characteristics—and she liked talking to him. It was unnerving.
A conversation in German drew his attention and he looked up, the light in his eyes flickering with interest. As he replied, one of his friends joined him. She watched them as they conversed, straining to understand but failing to comprehend a single word of German. Fritz’s concentration on his friend was absolute, another thing she liked about him. Once you had his attention, it wasn’t divided. She remembered the way she’d felt when they’d ridden on the train together to the Lancasters’. When she spoke and he looked at her that way, it was as if she were sitting in a pool of warm sunlight. As he spoke, she caught herself noticing the way Fritz’s hair shone almost red in the afternoon sun.
Alarmed by her thoughts again, she pushed to her feet to go for a walk.
Fritz watched her brush off her skirts. “Can I join you?” He placed his dish in the basket of dirty things and stood up, too.
“That would be nice.” Francesca smiled.
“Fritz, can you help me with this growler?” Johanna said, ignoring her perfectly able husband sprawled across the blanket.
“I… We can walk another time,” Francesca replied.
He frowned. “Mama, I was just going for a walk.”
“Later,” Johanna replied, casting a sharp expression at Francesca. “I need your help now.”
Fritz shot Francesca a contrite look and bent to uncork the growler before refilling empty cups.
A man she’d seen at the bierhaus one night joined the crowd. When he saw Francesca, he took off his hat for a moment. “Hello, miss. I saw you at the bierhaus some time ago. I’m Mark Schumacher.”
“Hello.” Francesca nodded.
Alma’s lips twitched and an amused grin crossed her face. In Italian, she quickly filled Francesca in on Mark’s advances. He’d tried his hand with every female in their circle, but the combination of his pockmarked face, bravado, and droning on about himself made him insufferable company.
Francesca smothered a laugh.
Mark, having understood nothing between them, reached for Francesca’s hand. “A pleasure to meet you.”
Fritz stepped between them, pushing the growler in Mark’s face. “Want another beer?”
Francesca stepped aside and watched Fritz from behind lowered lashes. A muscle in his jaw twitched, and the lightness she’d witnessed in him earlier disappeared instantly. Was Mark not a gentleman? Fritz seemed protective of her. He probably considered her like another sister. At the thought, something inside her wilted a little.
Mark glanced at his half-empty cup. “Fill her up.”
Fritz’s shoulders relaxed and he topped off his friend’s glass. “You’ve done good work this week.”