Chapter 16 #2
“If you do not loan me the funds, I am going to tell Evan about all of your affairs, every single one, and I will give him names,” Leigh Anne said. “Pierre Maurier is in the city, by the way.”
Although it was almost impossible, Bartolla blanched further. “I can’t give you the funds.”
“Then I am afraid Evan will learn of your prior infidelities,” Leigh Anne said.
Bartolla seemed close to tears. “Do you think I am living here in the middle of nowhere by choice?” she cried.
“I have no wealth! I am impoverished, completely so. My life here as the wealthy widow is a sham! My husband left me a pittance, a pittance, Leigh Anne. He left everything to his children, damn them all!”
Francesca and Homer were still standing in the open doorway when Francesca realized someone was slowly walking up the brick path to the house. She turned and saw a woman with vaguely dark hair. Her eyes widened as she recognized Daisy’s sister, Lydia.
Lydia’s brownish hair was pulled into a severe chignon and she was beautifully dressed in a black mourning dress.
Her face, despite its olive complexion, was pale, and she seemed tense and strained as she hesitantly approached.
Francesca quickly went to greet her. “Miss Gillespie! This is a surprise. Can I be of any help?” she asked.
This was an opportunity and she knew it.
Lydia was staring into the house, her eyes wide. She finally looked at Francesca. “So this is where Honora lived.”
Francesca nodded. She glanced toward the street, where a hansom was pulling away from the curb. “You are alone?”
Lydia nodded. “I need to see where my sister lived.”
“Come in, then,” Francesca said gently. She stole another glance at Lydia’s profile; she remained distressed and grief-stricken. “How are your parents?”
Lydia paused in the front hall, looking at the Venetian mirror, the fine side table, the potted palm in its Oriental vase. “They are in mourning. Honora did very well for herself, living as she did.”
“Yes,” Francesca said carefully.
Lydia turned to her. “You said you were friends.”
“Somewhat. The moment I met D—Honora—I liked her.”
“Why? She was hardly a lady.”
“I do not judge books by their covers, Miss Gillespie,” Francesca said. “And Daisy—I beg your pardon!—your sister was intriguing. She was a study in contradictions. She was clearly well bred, and gracious and graceful. And she was helpful to me in an earlier investigation.”
“I don’t see how you liked her. How could you like her when she was the mistress of your fiancé?”
Francesca winced. “I take it you have been reading the newspapers?”
“He kept her here. Your fiancé.”
“Hart broke up with your sister in February, when I accepted his proposal.”
“But she continued to live here, in his house. It’s so odd.” Lydia looked away. “She was always that way, even at fifteen.”
“What do you mean?”
Lydia shrugged. “She was so beautiful. Everyone would stare at her—women as well as men. Everyone fell in love with her.” Lydia met Francesca’s gaze. “Did Mr. Hart fall in love with her?”
Francesca tensed. “You will have to ask him.” Lydia seemed to be asking a lot of questions.
“Did you and your fiancé end your engagement because of her?”
Now warning bells went off, but Francesca smiled. “Hart wants to protect me from scandal. We broke up because Daisy was murdered. It had nothing to do with their past affair.” She stressed the word past slightly.
“I don’t mean to be rude, but what if you didn’t like my sister very much? What if Mr. Hart was still seeing her?” Lydia’s eyes were huge.
Francesca realized her instincts had been right. Lydia was interrogating her. “I have an alibi, Miss Gillespie. I was out with my parents at the time of the murder.”
Lydia flushed. “That was rude of me, when you are trying to find my sister’s killer.” Tears came to her eyes. “I miss her still!”
“Do you want to sit down?”
Lydia shook her head. “I wish she had never run away.”
“Lydia, why did she leave home? I know the two of you were close. You must have an idea.”
Lydia’s expression closed and she glanced away. “I don’t know.”
Francesca was certain that Lydia knew exactly why Daisy had left. “She had to have been very unhappy to run away from home and never come back.”
Lydia shrugged, moving away from Francesca now. Francesca followed her. “If you want to find her killer, you need to tell me everything that you can.”
Lydia faced her abruptly. “The police have arrested Calder Hart. They seem to think your fiancé murdered her.”
“And I know he did no such thing.” Francesca stared back. “Did you ever hear from her?”
“No.” And tears began to fall. “You are right, we were very close! Sometimes we stayed up late at night, gossiping about this and that, discussing clothes, just chatting. We rode our horses together every day. She helped me with my schoolwork, and I helped her. We ate our meals together, because Mother and Father were always out, or Father was always working late. Then she disappeared. And I never heard from her again. How could she do that to me? How?”
Francesca put her arm around her. “Something terrible must have happened to cause her to leave home like that, without a word, at least to you.”
Lydia reached for a locket she wore on a gold chain about her neck. She took it off and showed it to Francesca. Inside was a portrait of the two sisters as small girls. “Since the day she vanished, I have never taken it off.” She hesitated, closing her eyes in a sudden flood of anguish.
“Lydia, please, what aren’t you telling me?”
Lydia looked sadly at her. “She did leave me a note, Miss Cahill.”
Francesca was seized with excitement. “She did? What did it say?”
“She told me she was never coming back. She told me she would soon have a better life.” Lydia wiped at her tears. “She said she loved me and she always would. She told me not to worry, and that was all.”
“And she did not say why she left?”
“No.” Lydia sniffed. “I never showed anyone the note, not even when she first disappeared, when Mother and Father were afraid she had been abducted.”
Francesca thought that odd. In a way, Lydia had been a co-conspirator in Daisy’s disappearance. Francesca sensed that Lydia still wasn’t telling her everything she knew. “Do you know how I found your family?”
“No.”
“I found a box of newspaper clippings in your sister’s bedroom. Each and every article was about or referred to your father.”
Lydia blinked. The rest of her face remained a neutral mask.
Francesca wondered at her reaction. “Your sister had been following his life, so to speak, for years. Clearly, although she left, her home and her father remained hugely important to her.”
Lydia shrugged. “Well, I suppose I would have done the same thing if I were her.”
“You would have done what?” Francesca asked softly, certain she was onto something.
Lydia turned away. “I should go. I shouldn’t be here. Mother needs me.” She started toward the front door.
Francesca followed. “Lydia, wait! What would you have done?” She grasped her arm, detaining her.
“I don’t know why she cut out newspaper articles about our father.” And suddenly Lydia seemed angry. “Why don’t you admit it, Miss Cahill? You are not the right person to be investigating this case. All the evidence points to your fiancé. You are hardly objective.”
“I know Hart,” Francesca said tersely, frustrated that she must defend him to Lydia. “And he is innocent. Don’t you want to find your sister’s killer?”
Lydia jerked free. “I really have to go. I left Mother alone at the hotel, and that is not a good idea.”
“Where is your father now?”
“He is having lunch with some associates at the Waldorf-Astoria.”
Francesca decided to ask Lydia what she wished to ask the judge. “Did you know that your father visited Daisy here in May? Not once, but two times? Did you know that he had found her and was in contact with her?”
Lydia paled, which was answer enough. She had known, all right. The mire of family secrets had just gotten deeper.
Supper was always a very chaotic time of day—sometimes, Maggie felt as if the small kitchen table was a moving railroad car.
She was serving a soup made of mutton bones, onions and potatoes with a loaf of hot bread.
Matt, who was seven years old, was helping Lizzie with her spoon.
Lizzie, apparently, did not want to eat and she was being vocal about it.
Paddy, who was five, was acting three, making waves in his soup and giggling about it.
His soup was getting all over the table.
Joel, who was supposed to be present at supper, had yet to arrive.
Maggie looked at her three beautiful children and recalled the countess’s unbelievable threats.
Inside, dread curdled. She went to Paddy to take his spoon from him.
“I am very proud of this soup,” she admonished.
“The bones have plenty of meat. If you do not eat it tonight, you may eat it for breakfast.” She meant her every word.
With the new order from Mrs. Bragg, she had been able to provide her children once again with healthy meals.
She had even snuck a can of green beans into the soup.
Canned goods were expensive and, until recently, not in her budget.
Paddy regarded her solemnly. He had the same red hair and blue eyes that she did, and he seemed to have inherited her somewhat shy nature, too.
“You know I mean it,” she said, but she clasped his little shoulder.
Paddy sighed and picked up his spoon, dutifully beginning to eat.
“Lizzie’s not hungry, Mama,” Matt announced. Like Joel, he had dark hair inherited from their father and their father’s very fair skin. “Where’s Joel?”