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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