Fortune is a Woman (5 page)

When she was seven months pregnant he brought her back to San Francisco, worried that the baby might decide to make an early appearance, and Dolores, plumper and sleeker, was installed in a newly converted suite of rooms on the ground floor so that she should not have the trouble of walking up the stairs. She was not permitted to set foot out of bed until noon and she was taken on a short, sober carriage ride each day at three. She was dying of boredom and terrified that she might not bear her husband the son he so confidently expected.

She had no one to confide in; her mother was dead and she had no sisters. Her father and brothers had taken Harmon's marriage settlement and bought themselves a large estate on Lake Chapala in Jalisco, Mexico, and she no longer had young friends of her own. Depression settled over her like a heavy blanket; she wished the baby would never be born. She felt no emotion toward the child; if it were a boy it would be Harmon's child and she would have little to do with it; if it were a girl he would hate her for it. Either way she could only lose.

When she finally went into labor on a sultry September night, Harmon was summoned from the Pacific Club, where he dined more often with his friends than he did at home with his wife. His voice quivering with excitement, he promised Dolores everything would be all right, the best doctors were on hand—three of them, and when it was all over he would buy her a yacht even bigger than the Vanderbilt's
North Star.
In the spring, when she was better and the baby old enough to be left, they would sail to Europe for a vacation. He promised he would buy her dresses and furs from Worth in Paris, a diamond tiara from the royal jewelers in London, a palazzo in Venice, anything she wanted. But Harmon's pale blue eyes were hard as they looked into hers. "When I have my son," he added with a smile. Then he patted her hand and left her in charge of the three eminent doctors.

The labor lasted thirty-six agonizing hours and in the end, when the child was born, the doctors looked at each other and shook their heads gravely. It was decided that the eldest amongst them should be the one to tell the husband.

"I'm afraid it's a girl, sir," white-haired Doctor Benson said, noting that it was the first time in his long career that he'd ever apologized for a baby's birth.

Harmon said nothing. He walked to the window and stared silently out at the Mark Hopkins mansion opposite. After a while he said, "How long...?"

Remembering his conversation about taking his wife to Europe, the doctor said, "How long before she can travel? Well, she's had a hard time. Let's say four or five months."

"No, you fool," Harmon growled, walking from the window and towering arrogantly over him. "I mean, how long before she can conceive again?"

The doctor looked him in the eye. "Mr. Harrison," he said icily, "your wife has just given birth. And though you have not inquired about her, she is exhausted and in pain. There are many years yet for childbearing and no doubt one day you will have your son. Meanwhile a little more seemly conduct might be in order."

Harmon shrugged. "I'm sorry, doctor. Having a son means a lot to me."

"And so," said the doctor, "I hope, does a daughter."

Harmon did not come to see her, and Dolores wanted to die. Her milk dried up and a wet nurse was hastily summoned. Whenever the child was brought to see Dolores she would turn her face to the wall; the baby was a living symbol of her failure.

Three days later Harmon knocked on her bedroom door. He brought her no gift, not even flowers, and he strode to her bedside and stared coldly down at her. "You are pale," he observed. "I think when you are well enough you should return to the ranch. You can rebuild your strength there."

Her fingers plucked nervously at the linen sheet and she nodded mutely.

He said, "Your family and mine are both known for breeding sons. The fact that this first one is a girl is not important. The next child will be a boy."

She asked tentatively, "Would you like to see her?"

He barely glanced at the pink-wrapped bundle proffered by the waiting nurse.

"I thought I might like to name her Francesca," Dolores said, "for my mother. Unless, of course, you prefer your own mother's name," she added hurriedly.

"Francesca is a suitable name," he replied, walking to the door. "But the christening will be a private one."

Dolores nodded. She understood that there were to be no great celebrations for the birth of this daughter, and that her life as Harmon Harrison's wife depended on her providing him with a son. And he was a very impatient man.

***

Harmon packed Dolores and her baby off to the ranch and then he consulted a new doctor about when he might reestablish his marital relations, bearing in mind Dolores's delicate condition and his own urgent desire for a son and heir. He never went to see his wife and child in the six months the doctor prescribed he must wait, but on the very day the enforced abstinence ended he sent for them to return to San Francisco.

Dolores looked back regretfully as the carriage pulled away from the ranch. It was just a simple wooden structure nestled in a fold of the hills, with grassy paddocks, post-and-rail fences and tall rustling poplar trees, but it was more like home than the great mansion on Nob Hill. Here she had found simple comforts instead of great luxury, she had found peace of mind away from the perpetual fear of her husband, and she had got to know her baby daughter.

Francesca had thrived in the fresh country air and at six months was a pink-cheeked, robust baby with her father's blond hair and her mother's sapphire eyes that sparkled with intelligence and happiness. Dolores dreaded their return to the huge, overstuffed house; she wished they could stay at the ranch forever. And besides, she knew exactly why she had been summoned back.

As soon as they arrived Francie was installed with a nursemaid in the third-floor nursery—well away from her parents' rooms. Dolores took her place beside her husband at the necessary social events—and in his bed.

When Harmon was at the bank or at the Pacific Club or his own business and social gatherings, she managed to spend time with Francie. Her little daughter continued to thrive and Dolores hoped her love made up for her father's neglect.

The nursery had originally been decked out for the expected son and heir and it was light and bright and cheerful with blue carpets and crisp white curtains and a pretty, lacy crib, and Francie was taken for daily walks by a uniformed nurse up and down the hills in a specially made wicker perambulator imported from London.

Dolores knew Harmon didn't love her; he treated her courteously if distantly, but now she didn't feel lonely because she had Francie. But six months passed and despite his nightly invasions on her body she still wasn't pregnant and she knew he was losing patience. After a year he took her to a specialist in New York, who declared she was exhausted.

"You're trying too hard," he told Harmon. "Forget about producing children and just let nature take its course. Woo her a little bit, pay her more attention, relax her..."

Harmon thought about what the doctor had said, then he telegraphed his offices and told them he would be away for some time. After booking the honeymoon suite on the S.S.
America,
he informed Dolores that he was taking her to Europe.

Sure that a romantic voyage would put Dolores in the right mood to conceive, he swept her across the Atlantic to Paris, London, Rome, and Venice, but after eight months he had to concede defeat. Dolores was still not pregnant and his business needed him in San Francisco. Then, on the return voyage to New York, the miracle happened. Dolores knew it immediately—she could just tell, the way women can—but she said nothing to Harmon until a few weeks later at breakfast.

He stared at her, his bearded face pink with surprise and pleasure. "Are you sure?" he demanded.

She nodded demurely. "Quite sure. I've already seen Dr. Benson and he confirmed it."

"Are you well? Is everything all right?"

She sighed as she met his anxious, pale-blue eyes. "Everything is quite normal, Harmon. I just pray that this time it will be the son you want."

"It will be," he said, confident that fate would not dare to deal Harmon Harrison a bad card a second time.

Francie and Dolores were sent to the ranch again for six months of blissful solitude and peace, but the time passed too quickly, and plump as a fatted calf, Dolores was once again installed in her downstairs suite and Francie was banished to the third-floor nursery.

Behind three-year-old Francie's doll-like prettiness lay a very sharp mind. Dolores had taught her the alphabet on their stay at the ranch and she could already string together letters and read some of the words in her little rag storybooks. She could count to ten and she could lace her own boots, though she did not always get them on the right feet. Her eyes were the deep sparkling blue of her mother's, her small face was heart-shaped, and her long white-blond hair was rolled in rags nightly and brushed out into fat ringlets again each morning by Clara, the young nursemaid. But her father only saw her when Clara took her downstairs at six o'clock to say good night.

She would be freshly bathed, her curls would shine, and she'd wear a starched cotton frock with row upon row of lace ruffles. Dolores would take her in her arms and hug and kiss her and then the child would approach her father's chair. "Good night, Papa," she would say in her clear piping little voice, dropping a wobbly curtsy.

"Good night, Francesca," he would reply, glancing up briefly from the evening edition of the
San Francisco Chronicle.
And then the nursemaid would take her hand and lead her from the vast opulent room back to the safety of the nursery.

CHAPTER 4

From the day her brother was born Francie's life changed. Her father ordered her to be removed immediately to a small room on the fourth floor back, right by the servants' stairs, while the pretty nursery was repainted and decorated with new curtains and rugs and a wonderful new crib fashioned from solid silver.

Francie saw the baby in the crib when he was brought down to the drawing room for the christening party and her eyes grew round with amazement as she looked at the yards of cream lace draping the gleaming silver, at the proud blue ribbon on top and the tiny pink-faced baby crying lustily from his swaths of silk.

Somehow, after the nursery was finished, she was never returned there and the baby, Harmon Harrison, Jr., or Harry, as his father called his son, reigned over it in solitude—except for the half dozen nurses and under-nurses and nurserymaids hired to pamper and fuss over him, while Francie kept her little room at the top of the servants' staircase.

The room faced north and was small and dark but she didn't mind too much because the window overlooked the stables and she could watch the horses being groomed, ready to be hitched to the carriages, and listen to the servants gossiping in the courtyard as they hung out washing or smoked an illicit cigarette.

When Clara, her young nursemaid, found her hanging halfway out the window, she was shocked into action.

"I must protest about the little girl being kept in that back room, sir," she said, bearding the master in his den.

"And why is that?" he asked distantly, barely glancing up from his desk.

"Why, it's too small. It's dark and pokey and just today she almost fell out of that window. That's a servant's room," she said with all the pride of position where a nurse was considered above the servants, "and it's not a fit place for the daughter of the house."

"I will be the judge of that," Harmon replied icily. "I will instruct Maitland to pay your wages to the end of the month and you will leave immediately."

"Leave?" Clara was stunned. "But I... I can't leave.... Who will look after Francie?"

"I think the servants are quite capable of dealing with a three-year-old child. I've discovered lately that she has become far too impudent under your care. Please close the door quietly on your way out."

Francie waved good-bye forlornly from the library window as Clara, her straw bags clutched in her gloved hands, stumped off down the hill in tears. And the very next day a workman installed iron bars on her small window. "For Francesca's safety," her father said.

Dolores's confinement had been a difficult one and in the next year she never left her rooms, so she was never really aware of what was going on. When her father was away Francie would lurk nearby, watching as doctors and nurses bustled in and out. And when she knew her mother was alone she would slip through the door and run to her bedside. Most times Dolores would have her eyes closed, lying as still as Francie's rag doll. But at others she would lift her head from the banks of embroidered linen pillows and smile at Francie.

"Come here, darling," she would say softly, patting the empty side of the bed where Harmon used to sleep, though since she had been ill he slept in his own room down the hall. "How are you, baby?" she would ask, ruffling Francie's blond hair that hung straight now since there was no Clara to tie it in rags and make ringlets. Nor was it as clean as it should be because the servants were all too busy; they had their appointed tasks to do and being nursemaid and washing Francie's hair was not one of them.

Francie thought her mother's room smelled of flowers and red medicine and her favorite scent—lily of the valley —and she felt warm and secure, snuggled next to her under the cream silk comforter. "Are you better, Mama?" she asked anxiously.

"Of course I am, darling, I'll be up and about in no time," her mother replied, smiling, only Francie thought her eyes weren't smiling so much.

"Mama, what's consumption?" she asked, suddenly.

"Wherever did you hear that word?" Her mother's voice had sharpened and Francie shrank back nervously. "The doctors said it, Mama. Is it a bad word?"

Dolores smiled ruefully. "No, it's not a bad word. It's just the name of an illness."

"Is that what you've got then, Mama?" Francie asked, leaning closer and staring at her worriedly.