Francie Again (18 page)

“It's no bother,” Jimmy assured her. But she thought he still looked worried.

CHAPTER 16

Do you mind a personal question, Miss Mysterious?”

Francie turned to look inquiringly at Jimmy, because his tone was grave. They had reached the door of the house where she and Catarina were now living, and she had intended to say good-by without inviting him in for coffee. She was tired after a day of walking through museums.

“Why—no, Jimmy, of course I don't mind. That is, unless you are going to be disagreeable.” She laughed in a somewhat forced way.

“Oh no. I was just wondering if you'd written yet to Mrs. Barclay, to tell her where you are.”

Francie was relieved, and her voice showed it. “Oh, that! Yes, I did write. In fact, I wrote nearly a week ago, as soon as we moved out of the hotel and I had a regular address.”

They paused in the shadow of the doorway. The old woman who looked after the house shuffled to her door to peer out at them. “It's all right,” called Jimmy. She knew him, so she disappeared.

“That's all right, then,” said Jimmy. “The thing is, I got to wondering about talk getting back to her. We're not so far from Lisbon. You keep running into people in our crowd, and I figured there were bound to be some of them who know your Uncle Martin, if not his wife. Didn't that Mrs. Angus say something to you yesterday about your aunt?”

“Yes, she knows her. Met her in Paris. Poor Jimmy, with two problem girls on his hands,” said Francie. He had started her off on a train of thought that was becoming familiar. “It's funny, you know, that Aunt Lolly hasn't answered my letter,” she said. “I wonder why. It's not like her to get peeved or sulky.”

“The mails may be slow,” said Jimmy. “Well, I'll be running along. I've got to get back. Look here, don't take it too hard that Will didn't care for that last thing you sent him. You can't always hit the ball in this game.”

“Oh, I know that. I don't mind in the least,” said Francie, and smiled at him brilliantly and falsely. The rejection
had
upset her a good deal, though she knew in theory that it would be impossible to sell every single thing she offered. Never mind, she told herself again, life just isn't that smooth.

By the time she had gone up the stairs to her door, she was feeling more cheerful. It never took Francie long to reassure herself, so she was unprepared for what she found in the darkly shuttered living room—Catarina prone on the lumpy little green sofa, sobbing her heart out.

Francie ran over to her. “Catarina! Whatever is the matter?”

Catarina shook her head violently and cried harder than ever. At last, however, she pushed herself up to a sitting position and wiped her eyes.

“He never writes,” she said.

Francie was really mystified. “Who doesn't write?” she asked. “I didn't know you wanted—”

“My husband.”

“But how could he? He doesn't know where you are,” said Francie. As a matter of fact, however, she had been puzzled once or twice, when she stopped to think, about Catarina's husband. Surely if he had wanted to he would have been able to find out, long since, where they were. The police kept records in both countries of all travelers' passports.

But that was not what Catarina meant. “He knows, he knows,” she said, as fresh tears welled up to her eyes and rolled out. “I wrote and told him.”

“You
did?
”

“Of course I did, as soon as we got here. Do you think that so strange, Francesca? Yes, I can see that you do. You Americans never understand the
heart
. You are cold. Oh, he is cruel not to write. It is his mother—” Sobs interrupted her.

Just then, while poor Francie's brain was still in a muddle over this reversal of her ideas of Catarina and what Catarina wanted, there came a knock at the door. It was a bold, different sort of knock; it could not have been the old woman.

“Come in!” she said, forgetting that she was in Spain. The door opened, and Francie blinked. There stood a man she had never seen before, a very young, shy-looking man with sensitive features. Beyond him, looming up by his shoulder was—of all people—Ruy da Souza.

Francie had only a minute to goggle. With a shrill scream, Catarina leaped across the room and threw herself at the strange young man. As she approached it seemed to Francie that he looked embarrassed.

“What I still don't understand,” Francie was saying, an hour later, “is Catarina. That poor boy isn't a bit like what she described. I thought her husband was a perfect monster, from all she said.”

“I know,” said Ruy. “That—well, that is Catarina. She has a strong imagination.” Francie waited, but he had said all he meant to say on that subject.

“I hope I haven't made too much trouble,” she added tentatively, to stir him up.

Ruy said briefly that she had not exactly helped matters in the de Abreu family. “However,” he added, relenting when he saw her distress, “it is never a smooth life for any of Catarina's family. At least you have not made matters much worse. We all know Catarina, you see. She can't help it, but she likes drama. She is a very talented girl, but she does like drama. Things happen to Catarina. If it hadn't been you, it would have been someone else.” Ruy sighed, and then said more briskly, “But as for yourself, I think you have been very unkind to Mrs. Barclay. You must not be offended if I speak frankly. She was worried to death.”

Francie said, “Ruy, are you sure? Or are you just saying that because you think she ought to have been worried?”

“She was most anxious,” said Ruy firmly. “We all were. Naturally, as soon as my cousin learned of his wife's escapade, we knew you were all right, in a way. We knew where you were. But to live alone in a large Spanish city! If my cousin's mother scolds Catarina, this one time she will be justified. It was a reckless thing to do.”

Subdued, Francie did not fire up and defend Catarina's rights, or her own. She had seldom been at such a disadvantage. They sat quietly for a minute or two.

Like most of Barcelona at that moment they were in the Ramblas, a place in the middle of the city where everyone comes to walk or sip sweet drinks or shop. Ruy had selected a little café where there was room for only two tables in front of the door, and they sat at one of them, crowded against the wall with very little space for their legs and feet. People passed and repassed a bare six inches, it seemed, in front of their noses.

Back in the girls' rooms, Francie knew, Catarina was alternately weeping and packing, while her husband stood around trying to help. For the first time in that crowded hour, Francie began to wonder how things had happened to turn out in just this way. She could understand that Catarina's husband would have come straight to Catarina's address as soon as he was able, but why was Ruy here? Francie asked him.

“Oh, he wanted someone from the family to be with him, of course,” said Ruy.

Of course? Francie pondered, as she had often done before, on the amazing clan spirit of her friends in Portugal. They always seemed to do everything in numbers, even to tracing down a missing wife. You would have thought that this one matter, she reflected, could be handled alone by a husband. But even Catarina didn't seem to resent having Ruy as an audience; she was probably used to it.

“I was chosen to accompany him,” continued Ruy. “It was my father's suggestion.” Ruy paused here so long that Francie turned to look at him. His face was bent toward hers and he gazed at her meaningly.
“My father
himself suggested it,” he repeated. “Do you know what that means?”

No, Francie didn't.

“Ah, well,” said Ruy. He sat back, and said as if at a tangent, “I went to see Mrs. Barclay before we started out.”

“That was kind of you, Ruy.”

“But of course I did. She was most relieved that something was being done. You—really, Francesca, forgive me for repeating this, but you do not seem to appreciate her. She is fond of you. Very fond.”

Francie saw no necessity to go on protesting. Ruy just didn't know. But she took heart: Aunt Lolly would understand, thank goodness. She always did.

Ruy cleared his throat and continued. “I spoke to Mrs. Barclay quite frankly. It seemed only right that I should do so, before speaking to you. I am sure you agree.”

He seemed to be waiting for something. Francie, absorbed in her thoughts, did not reply. Ruy said a little louder, “You do agree, do you not? It was correct for me to ask her first. She stands in the place of your mother, Francesca. And I have never met your father, though of course I have written him as well.”

Francie heard him now, but she was bewildered. “What about?” she asked. “What did you ask Aunt Lolly?”

“Why,” said Ruy, “about our marriage, of course. Yours and mine.”

Really, Francie said to herself at first, this is just too much. Two big shocks in one afternoon …

It seemed hours before she could speak. In that time she managed to readjust her thoughts a little. Ruy was proposing! Actually proposing marriage. It was, practically, Francie's first proposal—you could hardly count the way boys at home sometimes talked. So this was what it was like. Well, she could hardly say that she had expected it, not just in this way, and not so abruptly. Ruy was a very strange boy. She hoped he didn't care too much, because she knew already, without having to think it over, that she wouldn't accept.

She found words, though they were hardly adequate. “What did Aunt Lolly say?” she asked in a small voice.

“Not very much. Of course she is American, and I could not have expected her to be different. She said it was your affair.” Ruy sounded faintly surprised by this, and Francie surprised him further.

“Ruy, I'm so sorry. It's awfully sweet of you, but—” She stopped, overcome by how silly she sounded. This was a proposal, a serious matter. You don't tell a man he is being sweet when he proposes. “It's
darling
of you,” she went on, though that didn't sound much better, “it's perfectly darling of you, but I can't. I don't want to get married at all.”

Ruy looked amazed. “Don't want to?” he repeated. It seemed a brand-new idea.

“After all,” said Francie, “I'm rather young to be getting married.”

“Yes, all that, but … my dear Francesca, don't you realize? You
must
get married,” said Ruy. “After running away, and everybody knowing. There is no possible way we could hush it up. You simply must. Can't you see?”

“I can't see at all,” said Francie. “You mean people in Lisbon are talking about me?”

Words seemed to fail Ruy. She had to guess from his expression how much people were talking.

“But it doesn't matter!” cried Francie. “I mean, not enough to get married on! Oh dear, Ruy, was that the reason you proposed? The only reason?”

All her first flattered thoughts were thrown into confusion. Ruy was just being a gentleman. He thought he had to protect her.

“There is no need to put it like that, Francesca. I told you, my father himself—
my father—
was agreeable to my coming to fetch you.” Ruy spoke almost with awe. “You see what that means. He will call on Mrs. Barclay to talk matters over, as soon as you are safely back in Estoril. And then, of course, your father will want to meet him. I suppose that can be arranged next time my father goes to America. I will accompany him, and I think we should decide to make this trip very soon. You must not be forced to live in a hostile environment, all alone, for too long. I think—”

“Ruy, please wait a minute,” begged Francie. “You're going too fast. Ruy, do listen. Believe me, I can't marry you. None of this is necessary. I do appreciate it, I am grateful, and I'm sure Aunt Lolly is, too. But my Pop would never want me to marry you in all this hurry, just because some old cats in Lisbon are talking about me.”

It took a long time to convince him. He seemed rather insulted at the end. But Francie prevailed, and though she consented to return to Portugal with the party, she was firm about the engagement.

They bought tickets for the very next day; there was just time to telephone Will and Jimmy, to explain.

“Oh, that's
splendid
,” said Jimmy when he heard. “I mean, of course, I'm sorry we won't be seeing you again, but we meant to pull out pretty soon ourselves, to Venice, and I must say I had you on my mind. Well, all's well that ends well, isn't it? And remember, we must meet again in New York. You'll carry on with your work, won't you? Let me hear from you, then.”

“I'm so sorry, Aunt Lolly. I'm
so
sorry.”

Mrs. Barclay looked thoughtful. “I'm sure you are, my dear. It wasn't a very intelligent thing to do, now was it?”

“It was silly,” Francie admitted, “but honestly, I did feel so terrible. Still, running away didn't help anything, and it was awfully childish—and selfish, too. I got everyone terribly upset! Oh Aunt Lolly, maybe someday I'll learn to take things like a grownup should!”

“There was no need to get hysterical, that's true,” said Aunt Lolly severely. “But there, I can hardly blame you, remembering some of the things that little painter said.”

“Yes …” Francie hesitated, wondering where all her former anger and grief had gone. It seemed such a long time ago, and so much had happened since, that she could hardly understand, herself, what it had been like. “Anyway, I guess I've thought it out,” she said, “and I'm not so disappointed any more. I do know now that I'm good for something, anyway. I learned quite a lot more about textiles and patterns in Spain; Jimmy was terribly good about showing me round. When I get back to America I'm going to concentrate on learning about designing.”

“That's nice,” said Aunt Lolly absently. She was sitting at her desk, shuffling through papers. “Francie, did you write to your father right away, or send him a telegram, or what?”