He hit his forehead with the palm of his hand. “I haven’t even asked how your day was, or about your work. Are you getting along with the Lancasters?”
“I like my work very much. Some days are difficult, but I’ve never slept in such a soft bed before. I’m very lucky.” She wouldn’t go into Janie’s prickly nature or her attempts at sabotaging Francesca every chance she had. The maid told her directly she disliked Italians. Claire had reassured Francesca that Janie was the jealous sort and to ignore her.
“I’ve taken a lot for granted, I think, and I don’t even live on Park Avenue,” he replied.
“We all have our lessons,” she said, her voice earnest but soft.
He looked at her appraisingly and stood. “I should go. It’s late.”
She rose to her feet, trying to quash her disappointment that he was leaving so soon, but she had a little cleaning left to do before she could go to her bedroom for the night.
They looked at each other, an awkward silence stretching between them. A soft night breeze flowed over her skin, and a dog barked somewhere nearby.
“I hope I didn’t interrupt anything,” Fritz said, gesturing to the house. “I’m sorry. I don’t know why I’m here. It’s getting late.”
“I know fear, more than most, and difficult decisions. This is why you came.”
He smiled ruefully. “Yes.”
“You work hard, Fritz,” she continued. “Your men admire you and believe in you. I learn this in the short time knowing you. Don’t be afraid. Do what feels right.”
He took her hand in his briefly and squeezed. “Thank you.”
At his touch, her heart lurched in her chest. “I—I hope you come again.”
“Good night, Francesca,” he said, a grin stretching across his face.
“Good night, Fritz.”
It had been a good night indeed.
32
The morning light glowed faintly around the edges of the curtain in Francesca’s bedroom. Two weeks had passed since Fritz had first come to her door, and most nights thereafter, he visited when his workday finished. He’d also made it a habit to walk with her the forty-five minutes from the Lower East Side to Park Avenue at Midtown on Sundays after the picnic. Fritz was intense and passionate, but he had a good sense of humor, too, when she least expected it to show. She relished their easy yet lively conversations in tangled English and Italian. She smiled as she thought of the way her hands had a mind of their own and reached out to touch his forearm, his hand, his shoulder when he was near. She couldn’t help herself, and he didn’t seem to mind. When she wasn’t with him, he filled her thoughts, and she felt her shell of self-protection crumbling. He wasn’t like other men she’d met. Of that, she was now certain.
She stretched beneath her covers and tried to talk herself into getting ready for the day. She couldn’t believe she’d worked for the Lancasters nearly nine weeks. It wasn’t always perfect, and at times, Mrs. Lancaster picked at the dishes Francesca and Claire had carefully crafted for her, but the mistress of the house praised her dishes a few times, too. Francesca nearly startled the first time it happened. She and Claire had sneaked a little port that night and toasted to success. They made quite the pair, Claire had said, echoing the words of the master of the house one night after a particularly special meal of braised beef. Their skills complemented each other, what with Claire’s skillful hand at baked goods and breads, and Francesca’s natural ability with herb combinations and seafood and meats. Mrs. Lancaster, to their delight—and Francesca’s complete relief—agreed.
Though Francesca was still tired, it was time to get up and face the day. She rolled over in bed. Her stomach gurgled, and she brought a hand to her lips. She sat up, lifting the covers—and the room tilted. In a flash, she darted from bed on wobbly legs to the shared toilet in the hall before losing the contents of her stomach in one violent heave.
She groaned and wiped her mouth. Ave Maria, it wasn’t a good time to be ill. The Lancasters were hosting a dinner party that evening, and she had a full day of work ahead of her. Mrs. Cheedle and Janie had pored over the silver and the place settings, and Charles had seen to the positioning of the furniture to accommodate a lengthy list of guests. Temporary help had been hired as waitstaff for the evening as well. Francesca and Claire had been preparing what they could in advance, but the bulk of the work would come that day.
Francesca slid to the floor and landed on her hind end, head resting against the wall. She’d felt this way yesterday, too, and assumed she’d eaten something that didn’t agree with her. Now she knew she must have some illness, perhaps because of the late walk she’d taken alone the night before. She’d been caught in the rain. She’d known better than to stay up so late when she had such a busy day ahead of her, but she’d been racked with memories of Maria all day, desperately missing her, and she’d needed the time alone to remember her sister. To cry as much as she needed to without questions or pity. She’d also needed time to fend off her guilt. Francesca had friends, a good job, and a safe place to call home. Her sister had never had a chance for that life, and never had the luxury of a safe place to lay her head at night. As the pain returned, Francesca grasped the Madonna at her neck and said a prayer.
A faint knock came at the door. “Are you all right, Francesca?” came Claire’s voice.
“I think I have a sickness.”
She heard Claire’s sigh through the door. “Today isn’t the day for it.”
“I’m sorry. I work hard.”
“I know you will, lamb, I know. Get yourself cleaned up, and I’ll meet you downstairs.”
When Claire’s footsteps grew faint, Francesca returned to her room, stomach swimming, and dressed for the day, saying a silent prayer she could make it through the evening without vomiting again.
After breakfast, they got to work on platters of amuse-bouches, something she’d never seen before. They were labor-intensive, with their perfect little wedges of bread, sculpted vegetables, and creams, mousses, and spreads. Next came platters of smoked ham and salmon, and pickled vegetables. There would be roasted duck with fig sauce, cold shrimp, and beef medallions with a tangy béarnaise sauce. For dessert, tarts with custard, glistening fruits, and chocolate-dipped biscuits.
As she worked, Francesca’s nausea came and went, but by day’s end it seemed to ease and she was relieved.
When the day shifted to evening, the new waitstaff arrived, awaiting orders and rushing off to care for the guests.
Janie blew into the kitchen like a hot wind, her cheeks rosy from rushing around the house all day preparing for their guests. “Francesca, Mrs. Lancaster needs you in her bedroom.”
“Why?” Claire asked. “We’re very busy here.”
Janie rolled her eyes. “I didn’t ask her, but she said immediately.”