by M C Beaton
“You should have mental saddle sores,” said Henrietta acidly, “when you consider all the imaginary steeds you have been thrown upon. In any case, a real admirer is calling this evening. I secured an invitation to the D’Arcy’s ball for Mr. Symes.”
“Is he still at Nethercote?”
“No. I gather that Lord Reckford has become his patron and that Mr. Symes is now studying medieval languages at Oxford University. So Mattie… in view of Mr. Symes staid turn of mind, I think perhaps your gown is a little… fast.”
Miss Scattersworth fervently agreed. “I am indeed looking dangerously seductive and I would not wish Mr. Symes to see how much I inflame other men’s passions.”
Henrietta turned away to hide a smile as Miss Scattersworth fled from the room. Had it not been for Mattie’s nonsense, she reflected, she could never had survived the long disappointing journey from Luben. Lord Reckford had never been near the place. Mr. Evans was still down the drains and Alice was being pursued by an elderly gentleman with gout.
She had asked Lady Belding if she could convey any messages to Lord Belding in London to which Lady Belding gave a definite “No.” Lord Belding had cared naught for poor Alice, she had declared wrathfully. Lord Belding had called his daughter a highly insulting name which she would not soil her lips repeating. There had been nothing to do but for Henrietta to leave for England with her cheeks burning with shame. Lord Reckford must have sent her off on a wild goose chase to Luben to be rid of her company.
Pulling on her long white gloves and picking up her shawl she went downstairs to meet Mr. Symes and her escort for the evening, a Scottish gentleman, Charles Lamont, who had just arrived in town.
Charles Lamont was remarkably like Mr. Evans in appearance but fortunately his character was different. He was a jolly young man, only a year older than Henrietta, who was hell bent on enjoying all that London had to offer.
Miss Scattersworth shortly followed, dressed in an attractive crimson velvet gown. “I see Mr. Symes has not yet arrived,” she said, pausing on the threshold of the drawing room.
“Look again,” teased Henrietta. “He is very much here.”
Miss Scattersworth blinked. Lord Reckford’s patronage had extended to franking Mr. Symes’ tailor’s bills. The ex-curate was dressed in a well-cut evening coat and breeches. His snowy cravat was perfection and his hair had been cut in a Brutus crop. He stood proudly while Miss Scattersworth shrieked her delight and ran round him in little circles.
“I declare my gown is too modest to go with such magnificence if you will excuse me, I will go and change,” said Miss Scattersworth.
Henrietta read visions of transparent petticoats and clinging gowns in the spinster’s eyes and ushered her firmly to the door. “No, Mattie. Very definitely no. You look very well as you are.”
“Indeed, yes,” said Mr. Lamont, who had also suffered from Miss Scattersworth’s vagaries of dress. “Splendid. Fine as fivepence.”
While their carriage waited in line outside the D’Arcy mansion, Mr. Lamont asked Henrietta if she still meant to retire to the country. She answered the affirmative in a small voice and he shook his head at her.
“I have had enough of the country,” he said. “How can you leave all this?” He waved his hand at the mansion. They were nearly at the door and the flambeaux blazing from their brackets on the walls lit up the silks and satins, jewels and feathers. They could hear the faint strains of music. A few thin wreaths of fog were beginning to blur the lights, giving the whole scene the unreal glamor of a fairytale.
“Quite easily,” replied Henrietta coldly.
But Mr. Lamont was still shaking his head and declaring he could not understand it, especially after Henrietta introduced him to the famous Mr. Brummell. “You know everyone!” cried the young Scotsman. “There is one gentleman I would really like to meet… Lord Reckford.”
Henrietta gave him such a blazing look that he took a step backwards in surprise. “Don’t glare at me, Miss Sandford. It was a natural enough request,” said poor Mr. Lamont. “He is one of the most famous figures on the London social scene.”
“He is a lout,” said Henrietta, snapping her fan shut decisively. “Are you going to escort me into supper, Mr. Lamont, or are we to stand here forever prosing on about some elderly fop?”
Mr. Lamont punctiliously offered his arm but he gave her a nervous look. Miss Sandford was showing all the signs of being a managing shrew.
Why, everyone knew Lord Reckford was a Top of the Trees, a regular out-and-outer. He was all too soon to change his mind.
Lord Reckford had not read Henrietta’s declaration of love. He had, however, read one from Alice Belding which was waiting for him on his return. He had torn it up and acidly told his secretary to consign any letters at all from Germany—especially wedding invitations and love letters—to the flames.
As the days went by, Lord Reckford was consumed with an awful desire to see Henrietta and her fiancé, Mr. Evans together. He had vowed never to set eyes on the girl again but his pride was badly damaged. He had heard that Henrietta was back in London so that must mean Mr. Evans was there also. What did they talk about? Drains? He must find out. London was thin of company during the Little Season but the D’Arcy ball was always the main social event. He would post to town. Just one more time….
“Good evening, Miss Sandford. How is the sewage system?” demanded a husky voice behind Mr. Lamont’s back.
“I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about,” said Henrietta, putting her trembling hands under the table. The fog outside had thickened and had started to penetrate the rooms. Lord Reckford had appeared to pop up like a pantomime demon.
Mr. Lamont turned round eagerly. Lord Reckford was indeed living up to his title of Beau. He was wearing a blue satin evening coat and knee breeches. Sapphires sparkled on his cravat and on his long fingers. Mr. Lamont looked pleadingly at Henrietta. Surely she was going to introduce him.
Henrietta indicated Mr. Lamont with a nervous jerk of her head. “May I introduce….”
“We’ve already met,” sneered Lord Reckford. How’s your water closet.”
“Very well, thank you,” said Mr. Lamont faintly.
“Cesspool doing well?”
“Excellently, my lord, I’ll give it your regards,” said Mr. Lamont cheerfully. The wine had been flowing freely and Lord Reckford was obviously all about in his upper chambers and must be humored.
There was an awful silence. Henrietta was white and the Beau’s eyes never left her face. Mr. Lamont racked his brains for a topic of conversation. Obviously the drunken Beau was obsessed with drains. “How’s your commode doin’ these days?” he asked cheerfully and then quailed before the Beau’s infuriated glare.
“How can you, Henrietta? How can you contemplate spending the rest of your days with this Welsh popinjay?” said Lord Reckford. He was hanging onto the back of Mr. Lamont’s chair and his knuckles stood out white.
“Here, I say!” cried Mr. Lamont jumping to his feet. “I ain’t Welsh and I ain’t a popinjay and if you weren’t well to go I’d call you out.”
“Good God, man! Your name is Evans. What the hell do you think you are? A Hottentot!”
“My name ain’t Evans,” said Mr. Lamont, slowly and patiently. “It’s Charles… Charles Lamont.”
Lord Reckford looked at him in haughty surprise. “Well, if your name isn’t Evans, what on earth are you babbling on about drains for?”
“I wasn’t. You were. Asked me how my water closet was. Yes, you did. Plain as day.”
Lord Reckford took a deep breath. “And are you betrothed to Miss Sandford?”
“No!” yelped Mr. Lamont. “Not that I wouldn’t be delighted but not a marrying man. Please excuse me, Miss Sandford, got to get some air. Feelin’ faint.”
The Beau looked after his fast retreating back and then held out his hand. “Come Henrietta, we must talk.”
She shook her head and stared at the table.
&nb
sp; “Come,” he said very gently, “or I shall drag you from the room by the hair.”
Henrietta looked up at him and what she read in his eyes almost made her heart stop beating. She rose and put her hand in his.
Heads turned and voices whispered as they walked from the room. The fog swirled and the dancers dipped, advanced and retreated as they crossed the ballroom and made their way along to the conservatory. Lord Reckford’s mind churned. He would demand to know whether she meant to marry Evans. He would keep her locked in the conservatory until she was compromised. He would….
But he did none of these things. He simply slammed the heavy glass door of the conservatory behind them and pulled Henrietta roughly into his arms and kissed her and kissed her over and over again as if his life depended on it.
When at last she could speak, Henrietta gave a happy little sigh and leaned her head against his coat. “So you did get my letter.”
“What letter, my love?”
“The… the one… in which I said I… I… loved you,” said Henrietta in a shy whisper.
“Oh, God!” said the Beau, holding her closer. “I was sure you were to be wed to that fool Evans and I told my secretary to burn all letters from Germany. What time we have wasted. Come behind this splendid species of palm and be seduced.”
Henrietta giggled. “You are going to marry me?”
“By special license,” he said promptly.
The door of the conservatory rattled furiously. “Henrietta! Henrietta!” came Miss Scattersworth’s excited voice. “Are you there? I am to be wed to Mr. Symes.”
“Good!” yelled Lord Reckford, wrapping his arms more tightly around Henrietta. “Miss Sandford and I are to be wed. Make it a double wedding. Go away!”
“How romantic!” screamed Miss Scattersworth, oblivious of the crowd of interested guests gathering around her.
“I can see it all. You are clasped in his strong arms under the waving palms. Oh, how terribly romantic!”
“The very foggy palms,” whispered Lord Reckford with his mouth against Henrietta’s hair. “Now you are indeed compromised. I, for one, am not going out there to face that crowd.”
“Henrietta!” came another cry—a long petulant wail. “Is my Henrietta in there?”
“Mr. Ralston,” whispered Henrietta in alarm.
“Come away this minute. She is a fallen woman. She is in there with Reckford and you know what that means. Why the man is nothing but a loose screw!”
“Mrs. Ralston,” laughed Lord Reckford. “Lay you a monkey she’s got a smile like an angel on her face while she tears our reputations to shreds.
“And now my dear, dear Henrietta, about all that time we have to make up. Did I ever tell you that I have an overwhelming passion to kiss your neck… just there… and there… and there….”
One by one the guests departed into the yellow fog of London Town. Lady Penelope D’Arcy fixed her lord with a grim stare.
“Are you going to sit there all night leering at them? Go and get that disreputable pair out of the conservatory at once.”
“Spoilsport,” said her husband cheerfully. But he got to his feet and ambled off to rattle the conservatory door.
“Hey, Reckford!” he yelled. “Got perfectly good beds upstairs you know?”
“Men!” thought Lady D’Arcy bitterly. They were all as bad as Lord Reckford… and that was very bad indeed!
Molly
M. C. Beaton/ Marion Chesney
Copyright
Molly
Copyright © 1980 by Marion Chesney
Cover art to the electronic edition copyright © 2011 by RosettaBooks, LLC
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
First electronic edition published 2011 by RosettaBooks LLC, New York.
ISBN e-Pub edition: 9780795319679
For Marion and Duncan Mundell,
my cousins in Glasgow, Scotland,
with all my love
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
CHAPTER ONE
The Atlantic liner gave a great heave, shuddered, wallowed in the trough, and groaned its way up the next wave.
Molly Maguire clutched her little sister, Mary, closer to her on the stateroom bed as the great liner creaked and juddered its way through the storm, and thought miserably, This is how cattle must feel. Here we are, two poor little American cows on our way to England to be mated.
Mary whimpered with fright as the ship gave another monumental heave, and their ex-schoolteacher-companion, Miss Simms, let out a shriek and took an enormous pull at her bottle of gin.
Miss Simms looked with lackluster eyes at the beautiful Maguire sisters and reflected dully that she should never have accepted this post, no matter how much the money.
And as for Molly, she wished they were all back in the cosy comfort of her father’s shop in Brooklyn, when things were safe and normal before that momentous evening a year ago when she and Mary had unwittingly founded the Maguire fortunes.
She closed her eyes tightly to shut out the motion of the ship and remembered how it had all begun….
It had been a close, humid Brooklyn evening in Jane Street, a narrow alley running off Fulton Street in downtown Brooklyn. The gas lamps had been lit, the other, bigger stores—Namm’s, Frederick Loeser’s, Waldorf Shoes—had all put up their shutters long ago. But the Maguire’s General Store stayed open, sometimes around the clock, in order to lure stray customers to their doors. They sold everything and anything from hairpins to coffee beans. Mr. Joseph Maguire and his wife, Nadia, had retired to bed leaving their daughters, Molly and Mary, to cope with any late-night shoppers.
The large flyblown mirror over the unused fireplace, advertising Bigg’s Tobacco in curly glass letters, reflected their tired faces; a beautiful combination of vivid blue eyes and black curly hair from their Irish father and the high Slav cheekbones of their Polish mother. The girls often took turns sleeping on a mattress under the counter. If anyone had told them that their life was hard, they would have been very surprised indeed. Both were dutiful, lively, and merry. They passed the long night hours weaving romantic fantasies. The shop bell would clang and who should be standing on the threshold but the Prince of Ruritania himself. He would fall in love with one of them, of course. Molly said it would be Mary and Mary swore loyally it would be Molly.
But usually it was only one of the local lads with his sheepish smile and thick boots, giggling and asking for “two ounces of baccy.”
The neighbors were apt to censure the Maguire parents for exposing their daughters to the dangers of nighttime Brooklyn. But Molly kept a shotgun under the counter, which her father had taught her to use, and Officer Brady made as many calls as he could to stand and drink coffee in the warmth of the little shop and admire the famous beauty of the girls.
On the fateful evening that was to change their lives, Molly had just celebrated her seventeenth birthday. Mary was nearly sixteen. The hour was eleven in the evening and the shop no longer shook with the rumble of the trains on the King’s County Elevated Railroad that ran above Fulton Street.
Molly was not feeling her usual happy-go-lucky self. Jimmy Heimlich, whose father owned the greengrocers two doors away, had asked her to walk out with him, but she had refused. And her mother had been very angry. Jimmy was a well-set-up young man and Mrs. Maguire had looked forward to a merging of the two businesses. Jimmy’s father was failing, everyone knew that. It was only a matter of time. But her infuriating daughter had said no and had refused to give a reason.
The theater crowd from Colonel William F. Simm’s Park Theater had cheered the Spooner Stock Company to the last curtain call and had gone home without any of them calling in at the Maguires’ store. It looked as if it were going to be a quiet night.
Mary was asleep under the counter because she had school in the morning. Molly, who had finished school, had elected to stay awake.
But her eyes felt heavy and she leaned her elbows on the counter, enduring the familiar feeling of fatigue and sore feet. Her eyelids drooped lower and lower and the temptation to crawl under the counter beside Mary was nearly irresistible.
The sudden clanging of the doorbell brought her eyes open with a jerk, and then she blinked. For surely the lady standing on the threshold must have come from one of her dreams.
Despite the close humidity of the night, she was dressed from head to foot in white ermine. She had a thin, white, autocratic face with weak, pale eyes. On her scarlet hair was perched a sequined cap ornamented with long black cock’s feathers that hung down to her shoulder. She raised a hand to her forehead and her furred cuff fell back to reveal a heavy diamond bracelet circling a wrist so fragile and thin that you would have thought it would have snapped under the weight of the jewels.
Behind her stood a tall elderly gentleman with a white mustache and a florid face. Little beads of moisture clung to his tall silk hat and to the fur collar of his coat.
And behind the couple a huge Lozier automobile crouched beside the curb, with a uniformed chauffeur standing at attention.
It must be a dream!
But the lady was moving forward languidly to the counter. She opened her thin, painted mouth and said, “Hev youse got anything for dis cough? It’s a-makin’ me sick to my stummick, ain’t it, Joey?”
