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
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
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