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MRS. SCOTT DRANK the last of her tea and tucking her hair under the knit hat, shrugged into her coat. “I have to get to the rectory to make Father Matthew his breakfast.”
“You fuss over that man too much.” Mrs. Richards set the steaming cup of coffee on Francesca’s breakfast tray.
“It’s my job to cook and take care of the rectory.” Mrs. Scott slid stubby fingers into black, leather gloves.
“If you’re his employee, why aren’t you being paid for the work you do, or are there ulterior motives.”
Mrs. Scott cut Mrs. Richards off. “What are you trying to insinuate you old battleax? This is a man of the cloth and me you’re talking about.”
When Mrs. Richards started to respond, Missy cut her off. “What Mum means to say, Mrs. Scott is that our Frankie’s hurting. She’s been hiding away in her room for days. She looks like hell and refuses to eat or say anything. You’re our last resort.” Missy set fork and knife on the tray.
Mrs. Scott’s lips formed a tight line. “I’m sure that’s what she means. I’ve tried talking to Frankie. She won’t talk to me either.”
“Father Matthew got her talking last time she shut us out, but for whatever reason, he hasn’t been around. So, you’ll need to get her talking, or she’ll wither away. I’ll go to the rectory this morning for you, Mrs. Scott. You get Frankie to eat something and get her to tell you what’s got her running so scared she won’t leave her room.” Missy reached into the refrigerator for the butter.
“How exactly am I to do that? That girl is as stubborn as her mother was. May she rest in peace,” Mrs. Scott said, and all crossed themselves in unison.
“Be as forceful as you are with me when you see me in my—what is it you call them?—sin-seeking dresses.”
“You look like a harlot in them.” Mrs. Scott looked over at Mrs. Richards, who set the anger derived from the battleax comment aside and nodded in agreement. “Squeezing your body into a tiny, short, tight dress, which leaves nothing to the imagination.”
“That’s the opinionated, forceful woman Frankie needs right now,” Missy said, handing Mrs. Scott the tray.
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THE VICTORY GLOW FROM THE NOAH Mulligan “not guilty” verdict, lasted minutes for Francesca. The calm, leveled look James aimed her way had an underlying coldness that sent a chill that went bone-deep and skirting reporter’s questions, photographer’s cameras, and spectators, Francesca made a quick exit from the courthouse. Heading straight for home, with Bear trailing, she ran up the stairs and locked herself in her bedroom. It was where she’d been for the past week.
Francesca snatched the bottle of brandy off the night table and poured a shot. She drank from nerves rather than want, although it hardly mattered to Francesca why. The alcohol calmed her, at times, allowed her the only couple of hours of relaxed sleep she got at night.
Francesca did what she had to do, what she loved to do. In the process, she saved a man from ending up in prison. She should be celebrating her accomplishment. Instead, she was cowering in her room out of fear. This feeling was never going away, Francesca thought pouring herself another shot of brandy.
Mrs. Scott startled Francesca when she walked into the bedroom, and she stopped her drinking mid-sip. “Drinking at seven in the morning, Frankie. Really.” Francesca looked exhausted, there were dark circles under her eyes, and her hair was a knotted mess. It broke Mrs. Scott’s to see her like that, but now wasn’t the time for gentle love. “This is going to stop now.” Mrs. Scott took the glass from Francesca’s hand, set it on the dresser next to the three empty brandy bottles. “Missy has been letting you get away with murder,” she said, scanning the bedroom.
Clothes and shoes were strewn throughout the room. The dresser was stocked with bottles and dirty glasses. In one corner of the bedroom, Bear’s food and water bowls sat on a spread-out towel. That and the dog would be the first thing to go from the room, Mrs. Scott decided.
“Why are there so many clothes about when you haven’t slipped out of those pajamas in days?”
Francesca wouldn’t tell Mrs. Scott she’d attempted to get dressed several times only to give up.
“I want you out of bed, Frankie.” Mrs. Scott slid the curtains open to a flash of white snow falling out a blue sky. As far as the eye could see, trees and the green rolling hills of the estate were blanketed in white. “Go take a shower, and afterward, you’re going to eat what that old battleax calls a breakfast,” she said, coking a brow toward the untouched food tray.
“I’m not hungry, Mrs. S, and I’m perfectly fine right where I am. And you need to stop calling Mrs. Richards an old battleax and getting along with her now that you’re living under the same roof.” Francesca sat up in bed, and Bear followed suit.
“You will not be eating people food or eating in this room anymore. Get off this bed and get yourself downstairs.” Mrs. Scott waved Bear down, and in a full doggy snit, he jumped off the bed and left the room. “Mrs. Richards knows she’s an old battleax, and she and I are best of friends. But never mind about us. Hungry or not, you’re going to eat then, you’re going to pack up and go home to your husband. The trial is over, and the sad excuse you needed to keep your distance from James while you fought it out in court doesn’t wash anymore.” Mrs. Scott gathered clothes and tossed them into the hamper. “Not that it did before, but now it makes even less sense. You need to be with your husband now.”
Francesca idly ran her fork through the scrambled eggs. “I’m not going home—ever.”
Mrs. Scott stopped dead in her tracks. “Of course you are. You need to be with your husband.” At hearing Francesca’s sigh run deep, Mrs. Scott set the shoes in her hands down and sat at the edge of the bed. “It’s not like you. What’s wrong, Frankie? Talk to me.”
Francesca’s bleary eyes fell on Mrs. Scott. “I can’t. It’s so ... demoralizing.”
Mrs. Scott slid fingers under Francesca’s chin, raised her face to meet hers. The amber eyes shimmered behind a sheen of tears and carried an air of fear and shame.
“What is it, love? What’s bothering you?”
Francesca passed a weary hand through her messy hair. “James is not the man he appears to be.”
“What do you mean by that?” Mrs. Scott pressed when she heard the angst in Francesca’s voice. “Frankie, you know you can tell me anything.”
Francesca went on to tell Mrs. Scott everything. Francesca told Mrs. Scott about Bora Bora and the violent rape. She told Mrs. Scott about James’ ongoing psychological and verbal abuse, the threats he’d lobbed when he found out she’d taken the Mulligan case. The words flowing as easily as when she’d spoken them to Tommy, Francesca went on to tell Mrs. Scott what Lamont had uncovered on Jasmine White.
“Jasmine was his high school sweetheart. He proposed to her on prom night, but she turned him down.” Francesca brought up her knees, circled them with her arms. “She’s been missing since that night.”
“She could have left the city, the country,” Mrs. Scott said, trying to wrap her head around what Francesca was suggesting.
“Lamont checked. The police have no record of her leaving the country.”
“She could be living in another province.”
“It’s doubtful. There are no bank accounts or credit cards registered under her name, no tax returns. Her parents have been looking for her ever since. I know James killed her, Mrs. S, and I think he wants to do the same to me.”
“Jesus, Joseph, and Mary.” Mrs. Scott’s mouth was dry, her palms moist.
“Are you all right, Mrs. Scott?”
There was a moment of stunned silence before Mrs. Scott recovered. “I’m trying to process all of this. I’m sorry I wasn’t here for you, Frankie. I’m sorry you’ve had to go through this alone. I should have never left you, love.” Mrs. Scott chained loving arms around Francesca.
“Mrs. Scott, don’t. You had to get on with your life, and I wasn’t alone. I had Tommy or Father Matthew to talk to. He gave me the strength I needed to face James. It was because of Father Matthew I didn’t give up on the Mulligan case. I wanted to throw the case. I told him as much, but he ... It’s because of him I won the case, and now I’m so scared, Mrs. Scott.”
Mrs. Scott held Francesca when the tears started flowing. It suddenly became clear to Mrs. Scott why Francesca needed Tommy so much.
It wasn’t as much to revive their romantic relationship, but for protection.
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MRS. SCOTT SET THE PLATE OF lasagna she’d made for lunch and a glass of merlot in front of Father Matthew.
“Although I’d never turn down a plate of lasagna, a sandwich and salad for lunch would be sufficient. At this rate, I’m going to start rolling to the altar,” Father Matthew said even as he picked up a forkful of lasagna.
“You have a demanding job, which requires you to eat well.” Mrs. Scott covered the lasagna pan with foil and walked it to the refrigerator. “Father Matthew, you know I’m not the type to meddle in other’s business.” She closed the refrigerator door.
“No, you’re not.” Father Matthew bit back the grin.
“I think you need to set aside your shame and guilt and talk to Frankie.” Mrs. Scott turned to Father Matthew after setting the last of the washed pots on the dishrack.
Rigid with shock and embarrassment, Father Matthew’s eyes lowered to the wine in his glass. “Why would you think I feel shame or guilt?”
“Because I know about the almost kiss.” Mrs. Scott overlooked the flush of pink riding on Father Matthew’s cheeks. “I’m not saying I approve of your actions or hers, but sometimes you need to set humiliation aside for someone in need, and right now, Frankie needs you.”
Father Matthew’s stomach clenched. “Why what’s happened? Is Francesca all right?”
The concern Mrs. Scott saw in Father Matthew’s eyes went deeper than that of a priest for a parishioner. He may not remember who Francesca was, but from the look in his eyes, Mrs. Scott saw clear as day he’d fallen in love with her all over again. It was why he’d put distance between them, Mrs. Scott thought.
Mrs. Scott rubbed at her temples. She was pushing a confused, vulnerable man into circumstances that would test his faith, his entire belief system. But Francesca needed him, and her safety outweighed sound judgment.
“Frankie’s fine, but she’s running scared as terrified as I’ve ever seen her. She’s locked herself up in her bedroom and refuses to leave. After what she told me, I don’t think her actions are exaggerated. She can’t go to the police with suspicion. She can’t turn to her father for help. She needs you.”
Father Matthew left his fingers to run up and down the stem of his glass. “I can’t, Mrs. Scott.”
Mrs. Scott clasped a hand over Father Matthew’s. “Whatever happens, it’s God’s will. It’s the direction He wants your life to take. You need to go to her. You need to protect her.”
Father Matthew took a healthy swallow of wine. “You’re asking for too much.”
“I know.” Mrs. Scott looked into the troubled eyes and told him of Lamont’s findings. “There’s no concrete proof, but I trust Frankie’s gut feeling. I wouldn’t ask you to do this if I had anyone else to turn to. Please. Will you protect her?”
