“And you are loyal to Low, instead of to the people who believe in you and the cause of reform?” She felt despair, for she was one of those people who so believed in the law, the cause of reform—and in him.
“I am focusing on the corruption within the department now. I have an internal investigation in progress. When it is concluded, a number of officers will be dishonorably discharged.”
She blinked. Then, filled with admiration for him, she touched his arm. “I am proud of you,” she said.
He smiled at her then.
Traffic had become heavy as they had turned onto Fourth Avenue, where a huge excavation was in process for the new railroad line that would terminate in the Grand Central Station. A trolley crept slowly forward just ahead of them, while several carriages and a hansom penned them in. Francesca suddenly realized that Bragg’s home wasn’t far from where they now waited, ensnarled in traffic, and that his wife had come home as scheduled but he was not there to greet her.
She looked at him. “Please, Rick. You should not be driving me all the way across town. You should be at home with Leigh Anne.”
His jaw tightened. It was a moment before he spoke. “You will never catch a hansom at this hour. I am happy to drive you to the Channings and I am sure they will send you home in one of their coaches.”
His reply was not satisfactory. “I know you well, Rick. Why didn’t you take Leigh Anne home from the hospital? I am starting to think that you are avoiding going home.” She stared at his handsome profile, which now seemed cast in stone.
He stared at the back of the trolley and finally said, “You are right.”
She was stunned. “I am right?”
He sighed and, not looking at her, replied, “I am avoiding going home.”
“What?”
He was grim. “Leigh Anne did not want to leave the hospital today.”
Francesca blinked. “She did not want to come home?” But everyone wanted to leave the hospital as soon as they could!
“I don’t blame her.” And finally he glanced at her, his eyes filled with anger.
“What does that mean? And why didn’t she want to leave the hospital?”
The trolley moved. Bragg took a moment to shift gears and the Daimler crept forward. “She didn’t want to come home because I am there.”
“What?” That was nonsense, Francesca was certain.
He faced her, his eyes wide with anger and anguish. “Cease all pretense, Francesca. We both know that this is entirely my fault.”
“What are you talking about?” she cried.
“The accident,” he spat.
“The accident?” She was thoroughly bewildered. “You mean, Leigh Anne’s accident?”
“Yes, of course, her accident, what other accident would I mean?”
She could only stare.
“She would not be in this predicament—a cripple for life—if not for me.” He slammed his hands on the wheel.
Francesca jumped in her seat. Then she seized his wrist. “Dear God! You had nothing to do with the accident. It was just that—an accident. You speak as if you were driving that runaway coach that ran her down!”
“I might as well have been the driver,” he said savagely.
“Why are you doing this? Why are you blaming yourself?” she gasped, horrified.
“Because I was trying to drive her away, to drive her from the house, to drive her away from me!” He halted the car so abruptly she almost slammed into the dashboard. “A witness saw the entire thing. Apparently she was standing in front of a shop, crying. She was so distraught she never saw or heard the run away carriage until it was too late. And we both know why she was crying,” he added darkly.
A horn blared behind them. Francesca hardly heard. “Even if she was crying, you do not know why. But to say that you made her cry and then to conclude that makes you responsible for the accident, why, that is absurd.”
“I wished her dead,” he said suddenly, his tone raw. “I did, Francesca, I did, and my wish was almost granted.”
The horn blared repeatedly now.
Francesca took his face in her hands and forced him to look at her. “It doesn’t matter what you wished. It doesn’t matter how angry you were with her. You have every right to your feelings. But your feelings then do not make you responsible for that accident. They do not! You must stop blaming yourself.”
“I can’t,” he whispered. “And do you know what makes matters even worse?”
She swallowed, shaking her head, and felt tears well in her eyes.
He inhaled harshly. “What makes matters even worse is that finally, too late, I realize I still love her.”
CHAPTER SIX
Wednesday, April 23, 1902 6:00 p.m.
THE CHANNING HOME stood alone on a large lot, a huge affair of eclectic design. Three towers jutted out from the roof, and from the oddly placed parapets and balconies, gargoyles frowned viciously down. The mansion was partly gothic, partly neoclassic, and Francesca could never quite decide why it had been so designed. But the entire Channing family was eccentric, which might explain it. Sarah’s now-deceased father had studded the interior walls with animal heads and the floors with exotic skins, despite the gilded walls and European furniture, as he had been an avid trophy hunter. Mrs. Channing stood out from society for her very guileless and equally foolish manner, although she always meant well. Sarah, who had once, briefly, been engaged to Francesca’s brother, was renowned as a recluse. She was also a brilliant artist.
Having thanked Bragg for the ride, she was let inside the Channing home. Sarah materialized almost instantly.
“Francesca!” she cried in delight.
Francesca was as pleased to see the young woman who had become one of her best friends. Sarah was truly remarkable—in a way, she and Francesca were kindred souls. Sarah’s passion was her painting, and when she had been engaged to Evan, she had been miserable. Of course, the match, concocted by both families, had been truly ill conceived, as both parties had nothing in common. Sarah was small, plain and considered shy and timid, clearly not the kind of woman to catch Evan Cahill’s eye. In fact, Sarah was thoroughly independent and unconventional. Unlike most young women of marriageable age, Sarah had no interest in shopping, dreaded social engagements and gave not one thought to romance or marriage. Her life was her art. Francesca empathized completely.
Now, Sarah had smudges of paint and charcoal on her face, hands and the bodice of her green dress. The moss-hued garment might have been flattering on another woman, but Sarah had olive in her complexion and her hair was chocolate brown, so that the gown washed her out. Francesca had never, not even once, seen Sarah appropriately garbed. Sarah did not care what she wore and her choice of clothing—usually decided by her mother with the best of intentions—made that clear. The styles in her wardrobe, while expensive, overwhelmed her small stature and the colors usually dulled her coloring, her eyes and hair.
“I am so glad you could come by,” Sarah cried breathlessly.
Francesca looped her arm in hers. “What has put that sparkle in your eye? I know it is not a man! Let me guess. Some thing to do with a painting?” she teased.
“Hurry with me,” Sarah said with a grin. Her long, curly brown hair was pulled haphazardly back into a loose ponytail, and some paint had gotten into the stray curls around her small, heart-shaped face. Her big brown eyes, long-lashed and round, positively sparkled. The more time Francesca spent with her, the more she