“You’d better go, Francesca,” Claire said, nodding. A dollop of cream was smeared across her cheek.
Francesca felt a touch of nerves but did as she was asked, rushing quickly through the house to her mistress before the guests arrived. She couldn’t imagine what Mrs. Lancaster would want from her when the party would soon begin.
When Francesca stood in the doorway of Mrs. Lancaster’s bedroom, she knocked softly, reminding herself to keep her eyes downcast, her demeanor polite.
“Come in and close the door,” Mrs. Lancaster said.
Francesca marveled at the mistress’s creamy silk gown that cascaded to the floor, the diamonds glittering at her ears, and the vivid green gem nestled in the hollow of her throat. She looked like royalty. With a flourish, she sat at her vanity and reached for a delicate perfume bottle that looked as if it had been sculpted by an artist, with its colorful whorls and dainty neck. She sprayed herself, and a cloud of rose and something woody wafted across the room.
“I read the menu for tonight,” Mrs. Lancaster said, “and I noticed there wasn’t any ricotta cream with lemon curd. I was hoping you might make it.”
“Oh, I… Claire wrote the menu.” She reddened. “She said little cakes and dipped biscuits hold better for a party.”
“I see, well, that’s too bad. I’ve grown rather fond of it.” Mrs. Lancaster stalked across the room toward the door, the draft created by her movement knocking a framed photograph from her table.
Francesca bent to pick it up, pausing briefly to glance at a photograph of Mrs. Lancaster, many years ago, and Mr. Lancaster as a little boy. She wore a simple frock that must have been in the English style with a plain collar, but her head was tipped back in laughter. Mr. Lancaster was playing with a stick and a large hoop. Francesca noted that even then, all of those years ago, there was no sign of the senior Mr. Lancaster. Perhaps he’d taken the photo? She quickly glanced around the room to look for any other sign of him, the gossip she’d overheard about the mistress ringing in her ears. It was as if Mr. Lancaster senior had been wiped from existence. Francesca wondered what could have happened between them. She glanced down at the picture in her hands and was again surprised by Mrs. Lancaster’s uncustomary playfulness. Photographs were usually reserved for somber occasions or for family portraits.
“I’ll take that,” Mrs. Lancaster snapped, snatching the silver frame from her hands and placing it on her table beneath the lamp.
“The photograph is very beautiful,” she replied.
“You may go,” Mrs. Lancaster said curtly.
“Yes, signora—madam.”
Francesca ducked out of the room, not knowing what to make of the photograph, or of the exchange. Though the dessert choices hadn’t been left to Francesca, she couldn’t help but feel she was being held responsible for the signora’s displeasure. And it seemed odd that she was the one called to Mrs. Lancaster’s room rather than Claire.
As she pushed through the kitchen door, a string quartet began to play in the parlor, and the most divine music she’d ever heard drifted through the house. Though hard at work, Janie and Mrs. Cheedle appeared almost lighthearted. A party broke up the humdrum of the daily routine. It usually meant fancy foods and libations for the staff as well, when the work was finished. The Lancasters were generous in that way and encouraged the staff to celebrate for a job well done.
As the guests filtered in, Claire motioned to Francesca to join her at the door separating the kitchen from the rest of the house. “We’ll just take a peek.”
Mr. Lancaster saw them, their faces between the cracks of the door, and winked before heading into the salon. He looked as elegant as ever in a formal tie and jacket.
“He’s such a good-natured fellow, isn’t he?” Claire whispered. “Sometimes I don’t see how he and the mistress are related.”
“What’s he wearing around his neck?” Francesca asked, interested in learning words for items she’d never seen before. The wealthy had so many luxuries, so many conveniences, and she scarcely knew the words for them in Italian, let alone English.
Claire giggled. “That’s a bow tie, chérie.”
Beautiful people dressed in silk and satin splendor streamed into the front hall. Long gloves, jewels, cravats, and smoking jackets. When a woman in a shimmering green evening gown entered, her blond hair shining like a halo in the light of the chandelier overhead, Francesca stared at her beaded dress in rapture, wishing she could wear such a thing one day. After a moment, the woman shifted, and Francesca’s gaze was drawn to the woman’s midsection. It swelled beneath her beautiful gown. She was with child.
A thought flickered at the back of Francesca’s mind and a sense of knowing, an understanding to the depths of her soul, arose inside her. Her breath caught as the terrible thought pushed itself to the forefront of her mind.
Her vomiting in the morning, the way her stomach turned at the odor of meat cooking in a pan, the constant fatigue. Her hand flew to her stomach, and frantically, she counted backward. She hadn’t had her menses since those terrible weeks at Ellis Island. How many days had gone since?
Well over nine weeks.
Her mouth went dry. It couldn’t be.
She recounted the days with the same result. But she’d been through so much the last couple of months, perhaps her body hadn’t had time to find its new rhythm. Her menses had rarely been on time in the past. Sister Alberta had blamed the abuse, insisting that a body at war didn’t behave as it should. As Francesca considered the last several weeks of adjusting to her new home and work schedule, she knew it had been trying at times, but her days had been fluid and easy compared to her life in Sicilia
She closed her eyes and saw the lust in the inspector’s eyes, felt his greedy hands on her. It couldn’t be true. It wasn’t that easy to become pregnant. Some of the women in her village had hoped for a child for many months and even years before they could conceive. But Francesca was young and strong—and her luck was lousy. It always had been. Sister Alberta told her it was because she didn’t pray, that she was cursed for not obeying the rules a young lady was meant to follow. Francesca had hoped to change all of that in America.
She swallowed hard against her rising panic. It was early yet, and her cycle might go nine or even twelve weeks before her menses came again. She clutched to a shred of hope. It had happened in the past, many times. She was ill, that was all.
She turned abruptly from the elegant party, her fear warring with reason, and headed back to the kitchen where she belonged.
That must be it. That had to be it.
33