Chapter 6
The pictures arrived in a plain, brown paper envelope the next afternoon. Fern spent the morning sitting in her window, overlooking the front lawn, waiting for them to drop. It was a Sunday, so postal delivery was out of the question. That left special delivery by one of Rodney’s men.
The car pulled to a stop along the curb outside, and she sat forward in her window seat as the passenger and driver doors opened.
She recognized Francis. The second man had been standing sentry in front of the black curtains at the speakeasy.
A head taller than Francis and at least a foot broader in the shoulders and chest, he looked even larger and meaner in the sunlight.
He resembled an icebox as he lumbered behind Francis, a thick-fingered hand smoothing down the front of his buttoned suit jacket.
Francis carried the envelope, and Fern was certain this second man had come along to ensure the package made its way into Judge Adair’s hands without trouble.
She touched the glass window, leaving behind a streak of perspiration.
All morning, she’d struggled with what to do. Tell her father? Warn him? Or perhaps the photographs wouldn’t arrive after all. What if Cal had been successful in convincing Rodney to wait?
But it was clear now that he hadn’t been.
She couldn’t allow a single moment to pass after her father opened that package without explaining her side of the story.
She took the stairs like a tempest, the carpet blurring underneath her feet. By the time she reached the foyer, their butler, Ulysses, was accepting the envelope from Francis, who stood within the open door, backed by the human icebox. Francis looked up as Fern descended the last few steps.
“’Lo again, kitten,” he said with a wink.
Ulysses skewered her with a shocked glare.
“Please, Francis.” She came down onto the parquet tiles and approached the door, her eyes stuck to the envelope held loosely in the butler’s slim fingers.
“Please?” Francis repeated. “What, you gettin’ fish feet?” He then addressed Ulysses, “Hurry off, Joe. Get that to your master.”
“Leave. Now,” Ulysses ordered the two men.
Fern reached for the envelope, but her fingers grazed off the paper when Ulysses shifted it away from her grasp. “This is for the judge, Miss Fern.”
“I know, but—”
Francis let out a loud clucking noise. “Hey now, doll, I thought Cal said you was with us.”
He came toward her, and when Ulysses held up an arm to block him, Francis caught hold of it. He spun Ulysses around, wrenching his arm behind his back.
“Stop!” Fern shouted as Ulysses struggled. “Leave him alone!”
“Or was big brother lying about that?” Francis went on, ignoring her command. With a mean laugh, he pushed Ulysses away. The older man hit the parquet floor on his hands and knees. She rushed to help him stand.
“Rod hates it when people lie to him, kitten. It makes him angry.”
Ulysses refused her help, holding up his hand and assuring her he was fine and able to stand by himself. She couldn’t help but notice that he kept the envelope out of her reach.
Francis pointed at him and jerked his finger to the side. “Go on,” he said, as if commanding a dog. “Take that to the judge.”
The beefy man stepped out from behind Francis, and Ulysses turned on his heel to hurry toward the judge’s study at the back of the house. Fern watched him go, her heart sinking.
A sudden hand on her arm jerked her attention back to Francis. He angled her close to him, the odors of menthol and cologne cloying.
“Listen, you got nothing to be ashamed of, kitten. Those pictures turned out real nice. Cal did you right in ‘em.”
She rolled her arm from his grasp. Francis laughed. His breath gusted over her face and made her stomach heave.
“Get out,” she whispered, not caring if it made her sound like she wasn’t with them.
He pulled on the brim of his hat, then turned and left.
The other man followed, leaving the door wide open.
Fern slammed it and hurried toward her father’s study, her pulse thudding and vision throbbing.
Any last, grasping hope that Ulysses hadn’t delivered the envelope to her father shriveled and expired when the study door opened on soundless hinges.
The butler emerged, his expression tight and accusing.
“I don’t know what just happened, Miss Fern, but I’m shocked you would have anything to do with those hoodlums.” His chastising left her breathless.
Ulysses had been their butler for years and had never spoken much beyond pleasantries to her.
Fern bit her bottom lip and shouldered past him into the study.
Judge Adair stood at his desk, the envelope in one hand, and a large photograph in the other.
All she could see was the shiny white backing of the photograph.
If she hadn’t known any better, it could have passed for a sheet of paper.
But Fern did know better. Her father narrowed his eyes, and revulsion crept in like a red stain across his cheeks.
She moved forward, her ankles transforming into melted wax. “Father, please listen, I—”
He set the envelope and the first photograph, face down, on the desk. “How long have you known Calvin Rosetti?”
He worked his jaw side to side, his fingers plucking a second photograph from the mouth of the envelope. Fern saw a leg in sheer black hose, ankle propped against the footboard of a bed frame. Her leg.
“I…I met him last night. At Mother’s dinner. That was the first time, I promise—”
“And you posed for him like this?” He gestured toward the envelope and photographs. “Like some…some harlot?”
“No!” Fern rushed forward, ignoring the roll of one ankle. It didn’t even hurt. She couldn’t feel anything, her blood was pumping so fiercely. “No, I swear it. I had no idea he would do this. They gave me something to drink, and I think there was something in it—”
Before she could finish speaking, his hand lashed out.
The back of it struck her right cheek with such force and surprise it knocked her off balance, and she landed on the carpeted floor.
Tears sprang to her eyes, and the bridge of her nose flared with pain as she stared at the dark purple carpet.
She tried to pick herself up, her arms trembling.
She’d expected anger. She’d expected punishment. Not this.
“What were you doing with him?” her father raged. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done? The position you’ve put me in?”
The door to the study opened, and through the rush of blood in Fern’s ears came Buchanan’s voice.
“What the hell is happening in here?”
She sat up, something wet on her upper lip. She touched it, and her shaking fingertips came away with blood.
Buchanan stared at her with pity as he went to their father’s desk. He didn’t move to help her up. He just stared at her crumpled form, then looked away, and saw the envelope.
“Don’t,” she pleaded, but of course, he did.
“Jesus,” he hissed, throwing the photographs back down as if they’d burned him. “This is what you were doing last night?”
Fern couldn’t understand. How could they think she’d wanted this? That she’d willingly posed for such pictures? She hadn’t left the house in ages. She lived in her turret for heaven’s sake! Did they not know her at all?
“No,” she said again, but it was a whistle of wind in her throat. It was over. Protesting or asking them to listen while she explained would be pointless. Fern wiped at her nose, and blood streaked the back of her hand.
Neither of them offered a handkerchief to her.
“Get out,” her father barked at her. “I have to fix this.”
He paced in front of the side portico doors. He stopped and pointed a finger at her. “Your mother is not to know of any of this. Do you understand me?”
Fern wobbled to her feet, her ears humming like a piano string being tuned. The two of them stared at her, waiting for her to disappear.
Something hot and heavy lodged itself in the base of her throat, and as she turned to leave the study, her steps were just as leaden.
Fern did what they wanted.
She disappeared.