“If you’re a pregnant woman on your own, you should at least appear to be a married one. A widow, perhaps. The world is much kinder to widows.”
As the words sank in, Francesca began to understand. Mrs. Lancaster had been just like her, a woman pregnant out of wedlock, and she’d somehow climbed her way to an incredible social position in New York. Perhaps that was why she’d left England so many years ago. It was the answer the staff had tried to unearth many times without success. And they would continue to stay in the dark. This was the mistress’s secret, and she’d chosen to share it with Francesca alone. Now it would be hers.
“I insist,” Mrs. Lancaster said, a smile at her lips.
Touched, Francesca gripped the woman’s hands briefly in her own. “Thank you.”
“No one understands what a woman in difficult times must bear, except another woman in the same situation. I thought I’d learned better than to assume things about people, given my background, but I had not. Not completely. You taught me that, Francesca.”
Francesca smiled softly and nodded. “We all have our lessons.”
“Indeed.”
Francesca closed the bedroom door behind her and walked slowly through the halls. In the sitting room, she took a last, lingering look. Her eyes blurred as she glanced at the table display of beautiful little boxes. And without thinking, she plucked the ocean-blue Limoges box from the doily upon which it rested, slipping it into the pocket of her apron, a memento. She rearranged the others to cover the empty space where the box had once been. But as she thumped down the staircase to the kitchen, the weight of the box bumped against her leg, reminding her of her misdeed—and of Mrs. Lancaster’s kindness. She paused on the stair. Should the box be discovered missing, Janie or Charles or the others might be blamed for its absence as well.
She headed back to the parlor, returning the box to its place. It didn’t belong to her. What’s more, she didn’t need it. She had the wages she’d saved the last several months and two capable hands ready for plenty of hard work. She would do just fine in Chicago.
As she returned to the kitchen, they all watched her, their eyes full of regret. Even Janie’s mouth turned down, or perhaps that was her usual sullen expression.
In a moment of pique, Francesca called over her shoulder as she headed to her room, “Who will kill the rats in Janie’s room now that I’m leaving? I heard another scratching under her bed last night.”
A look of horror crossed the maid’s face, and Claire and Francesca burst into laughter.
Moments later, Francesca joined Alma in her bedroom and packed her things. When she was finished, she slipped into the night and began the journey downtown to the Brauers’. Alone.
She had to deliver one last goodbye.
49
Francesca walked all the way to the Bowery, where she considered hailing a cab. She wasn’t afraid of the dark, or even the shady characters who might be shuffling about, but her choices weren’t only about her, not anymore. She cradled the curve of her belly, and a soft thump moved under her hand. She didn’t know what would become of the child. If she left the baby with an orphanage, a loving home might adopt it, or at the very least, the child would have a roof over its head, proper schooling, and enough to eat. And Francesca might find peace in that. But as she felt the babe move inside her, imagining its soft skin and a tuft of dark hair on her head, Francesca wasn’t certain she could walk away, even with the child’s detestable beginnings. Time would tell.
She pictured Fritz’s face when he’d learned about the baby, how he’d turned to go without argument when she’d mentioned his family. She’d expected it—and didn’t blame him. It was all too much, she knew. And though he might not want to see her now, or ever again for that matter, she felt he deserved—and she deserved—a proper farewell. She loved him, even if it wasn’t enough in the end.
When she arrived at the bierhaus, Fritz wasn’t home. Distraught, Francesca returned to the Lancasters’.
“He wasn’t there,” she said to Alma as she sat on the edge of the bed in her shared room.
“He must be still at work,” Alma said, frowning. “He’s had so much trouble since his arrest. Lots of late nights on-site.”
“Do you know which location he’s working at right now? I need to see him. It can’t wait.”
“I know.” As Alma’s eyes misted over, she blinked rapidly to clear the gathering tears. “Let me go with you.”
Francesca squeezed her hand. “Yes. We’ll go together.”
They hailed a carriage, asking the driver to hurry, but when they approached East Fifth Street, they slowed. A throng of men clogged the streets, carrying signs demanding fair wages. They moved like a great undulating wave, shouting and chanting a rally cry. All were caked with grime and their faces were haggard, but they looked determined, prepared not to leave until they had won what they deserved. Francesca knew Fritz was somewhere among them. He would never abandon his men, even if violence broke out. Too much was at stake.
“You’ll have to get out here,” the cab driver shouted over the racket.
Francesca met Alma’s eye, and an understanding passed between them.
“We’ll be separated if we try to go together,” Alma said. “I’ll meet you there, beneath that sign.” She pointed to a large white sign with blue lettering that read ARANOV’S DELICATESSEN.
“Don’t leave without me,” Francesca said. She would wade through the crowd, try to find him.
“I won’t. Please be careful.” Alma embraced her fiercely and began to walk along the periphery of the crowd to search for her brother.
Francesca pushed through them, her hand on her hat, as chanting swirled around her. Her hands trembled, her heart crashed against her ribs—what if she couldn’t find him? She had to say goodbye to Fritz, to see his face one last time.
The crowd jostled her to the left, and she knocked into a man with a yellow sign, nearly losing her balance. He righted her kindly, but in the next instant she was swept up by the momentum of the crush around her. She moved along with them, struggling to get her bearings, to find purchase with the heel of her boots. She looked frantically from face to filthy face. Searching, hoping, praying. Where was he? Had they guessed wrong? Perhaps Fritz had merely been late on the train ride home.
The heat of so many bodies pressed against one another stifled the cool September night air. Sweat trailed down Francesca’s back. As she attempted to push her way out of the horde, she was lifted from her feet again, carried along with the tide. Fear rushed over her. How would she get out of the crowd without being trampled?
Suddenly she was tousled and shoved aside. She clutched her middle as she straightened, her instincts to protect the child taking over.