“Oh.” She exhaled, relieved. “Aren’t all men?” She’d overhead plenty of Fritz’s friends, and some of the inspectors, brag about lying with women. She found it disgusting, but who was she to tell them so. They’d probably mock her and tell her to shove off.
Helene shook her head. “No, Alma, not like this. It’s pretty bad. I haven’t seen it happen, but I’ve heard a lot of rumors about him.”
Alma slicked the mashed potatoes on her plate into a mountain, eyes unseeing. Was her fiancé that kind of man? She couldn’t imagine it. He seemed so… So what? She couldn’t put her finger on it. He was charming enough, smiled often, chatted with the staff. But that day in the bierhaus, when his gaze lingered on Greta too long… She shook her head. Everyone’s gaze lingered on Greta; she was the most beautiful girl on their block. Still, John was at least forty years old so one would assume he’d been with women.
At last she said, “I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do about it. I can’t tell him not to sleep with other women until we’re married.”
“He’s your fiancé,” Helene stressed. “You can ask him to keep his hands to himself. And besides, he isn’t just sleeping with women. He’s…aggressive with them. Compliments them in a way they don’t like. Crowds them. He’s a little pushy, if you know what I mean.”
No, she didn’t know what Helene meant. Perhaps the women had misunderstood him because he’d certainly never acted that way in front of her. Besides, Helene was often dramatic and spread plenty of rumors that weren’t true. Alma may not think of John romantically, but she knew he wasn’t aggressive with women.
At last, she replied. “What am I supposed to do about it? My mother has picked a wedding date in October. It’s only weeks away at this point.”
Only weeks away. She grimaced and turned her attention back to her potatoes.
“Perhaps you should talk to him about this before you’re married,” Helene insisted.
Alma fiddled with the spoon beside her bowl. “Maybe.” But the truth was, she couldn’t imagine having this sort of conversation with John.
“Do what you want, but don’t say I didn’t tell you about him. I’ll see you later.”
Helene jumped up abruptly without finishing her food and dumped her tray on the cart near the garbage cans.
Alma stared after her, surprised by her friend’s anger about it. It was Alma’s problem, should she marry John.
Should she marry John.
And what if she didn’t? She’d never felt like she had a choice in anything.
In that moment, Francesca’s words echoed inside her.
You always have a choice. It may not be the easiest path, but there’s always a choice.
38
Francesca scrubbed the dishes in the sink, left behind from the full English breakfast she’d grown accustomed to preparing for Mr. Lancaster. She’d never understand how sweetened beans were considered good. If she had his level of wealth, she’d eat fresh pastries and berries with cream every morning, perhaps some prosciutto as well. At least she was lucky enough to have fresh bread every morning that she’d made herself. Her bread had won Charles over, in fact, and the old badger had even smiled at her a time or two when she’d heaped his plate with it.
Francesca stifled a yawn. She wasn’t sleeping much, her mind tossing between Alma’s shocking news—seeing the horrible inspector again—and Fritz’s kiss. She’d thought she’d never see the inspector again. The thought of him becoming a permanent fixture in the Brauers’ life was too much. It was devastating. She couldn’t remain friends with Alma, should she become his wife. The only thing that offered her hope was Alma’s distress over her engagement. Her friend definitely did not want to marry him. Perhaps it was selfish of her, but Francesca hoped Alma would follow her heart.
Something Francesca could scarcely do herself.
She allowed herself to daydream about what it would be like to be married to a man like Fritz. She pictured the gleam in his blue eyes, the way a particular lock of hair fell over his forehead. In this dream, she knew where she belonged—as a part of his family, too. But that was where her dream crumbled. Though she had grown to care deeply for the Brauers, she knew they would never allow such a match, especially when they learned of her pregnancy.
Soon, she would lose them all.
She submerged her hands in scalding soapy water until it seared her skin. How would she ever tell Fritz what had happened? God only knew what he’d think of her. She still didn’t know what to think—or what she’d do once the child was born. She let out an exasperated sigh.
“What’s on your mind, mon amour?” Claire asked. “You’ve done a lot of sighing today.”
“I’m tired.”
Claire peered at her a moment before turning her attention back to the chocolate mousse she was making. “Go to bed early tonight. Get a bit more rest.”
The house hummed with its usual activity of washing and cooking and mending, and Francesca lost herself in its rhythm.
Janie carried Mrs. Lancaster’s tea tray in from breakfast and all but dropped it on the table, rattling the dishes.
“Mrs. Lancaster wants her supper early tonight.” She leaned against the counter and crossed her arms. Her eyes were filled with mischief, and her top lip curled into a snarl. “She asked for prawns and oysters, and cold vegetables. She also demands that you stop putting your disgusting garlic and onions all over everything.”
“I know you made that up. And you don’t need to be so rude, Janie,” Claire said as she added more thick cream to her bowl.
Janie reddened until her freckles were nearly indistinguishable from the rest of her skin. “Fine. What she said was not to use garlic tonight because she’ll be sitting with friends at the opera and doesn’t want to reek like an immigrant.”
Claire’s light-green eyes shifted to a steely gray. “If you keep that up, I’ll have a nice long chat with Mrs. Cheedle.”
Janie sniffed. “Go right ahead. She knows I am Mrs. Lancaster’s favorite.”
“Don’t make me put that theory to the test,” Claire shot back, plunging her whisk into the sweet mixture.
Janie glared at Francesca and bumped her as she passed. Over her shoulder she said, “Why don’t you get a job in the slums on the Lower East Side? You’ll find more of your kind there.”
Francesca’s nerves had worn thin. She’d tried, without success, to make a friend in Janie the last couple of weeks—taking on some of her work, making her breakfast, listening to her complaints—but the woman was too miserable with herself to make friends, and now Francesca was too exhausted to care.
Before she could reply, Claire interjected. “Janie, you’re behaving like an arrogant ninny. We both know your beginnings aren’t exactly first class. You come from an orphanage yourself. Now, take your sour humor and be on your way.”
“Why does everyone take the guinea’s side?” she said, anger lacing her words.