Vintage Love (143 page)

Bart lay bandaged in a private room. One eye was covered with the bandage, and he gazed up at her with his unhurt eye in a dazed fashion.

“Becky!” he manage hoarsely.

“Are you in pain?” she asked.

“Donald had them give me some stiff brandies. I’m better.”

She said, “You should have fled as soon as you realized he was a madman!”

His son chimed in, “I agree.”

Bart spoke with difficulty, “Thought I knew him.”

“Did you know him?” she asked, but Bart made no reply. After a moment, she tried another question, “What did he look like?”

“Hard to say,” Bart replied. “It all happened quickly. He was about my age and size.”

“A large man,” she said. “And I hear he wore a broad-brimmed black hat and cloak.”

“That’s what the coachman told me,” Donald said.

“The hat served to hide his features,” Bart said. “I shall be all right. Donald ought not to have brought me here.”

“I had no alternative,” Donald told him. “You were still unconscious when you were carried in here.”

“I’ll be all right,” Bart murmured and closed his good eye.

Becky whispered to Donald, “He wants to rest. We should go.”

“Yes. The doctor said not to bother him,” his son agreed.

They left the room and Donald talked with the doctor in charge for a moment. Then he returned to her to escort her to the waiting carriage.

As they left the lobby with its smell of disinfectant which pervaded the entire structure he said, “The doctor says there are no major injuries. He was simply badly beaten. He should be able to leave the hospital tomorrow and spend the rest of his time recovering at home.”

“Does your mother know?” she asked.

“Not yet,” he said as he helped her into the carriage and then took a seat beside her.

“You’ll tell her when you get home?”

“Yes,” he said dispiritedly as the carriage started on its way. “Not that she will care too much. I think she hates him. She’ll enjoy hearing this happened.”

“She couldn’t be that cold!”

“You underestimate her,” Donald said with bitterness. “And she has little time for either father or me these days. She’s taken up with this spiritualism circle, and she spends a lot of time with them!”

“I didn’t know!”

“Some Mrs. Haddam,” Donald went on angrily. “She claims to get messages through some girl who died years ago. They hold meetings at the medium’s house, and sometimes they visit the houses of members for special sessions. They were at our place once, and I can promise you they’re an odd lot.”

She said, “How did Vera become mixed up with them?”

“After grandmother’s death,” Donald said. “She was under the domination of that dreadful old woman all her life, and now she’s looking for guidance from her from the other side.”

“Sad!”

“Worse than that most of these spirit mediums like Mrs. Haddam are fakers! It all is staged with assistants playing the ghost voices and creating the effects. How any intelligent person could be influenced I don’t know. The whole point is to take as much money as possible from the gullible.”

Becky gazed out the carriage window at the dark London Street. She said, “I’ve never paid any attention to such people. I feel we ought to let the dead rest.”

“Not my mother!” the young man said. “So you can be sure what happened to father tonight will be only a minor interest to her.”

She glanced at him again. “I still feel there’s something very strange about it all.”

“The attack?”

“Yes.”

“I agree,” Donald said.

She wrinkled her brow. “I had the feeling that Bart wasn’t completely truthful with us. That he wasn’t telling all that he could.”

Donald showed amazement. “I was about to say the same thing to you. What could it mean?”

She sat silent for a moment, then said, “It can only be something to do with the past.”

“When father was himself involved in violence?”

“Yes.”

“That was so long ago.”

“It might seem so to us, but not to anyone else,” she said. “Let us just suppose that someone was badly hurt by your father. Perhaps sent to prison. Today he was free after some long prison term, and the first thing he did was seek out your father and attack him.”

“I suppose something of that sort could happen. But father would surely recognize the man. Why is he so silent about him?”

“That is the mystery,” she said. “And I doubt if we will know the truth unless your father helps in revealing it.”

Donald scowled. “I’ll question him tomorrow.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I think you should wait. He will talk eventually when he is ready.”

The young man nodded. “Perhaps that would be wisest.”

“One other thing,” she said

“Yes?”

“From now on he should never go about without some sort of bodyguard. At least not until we know who his attacker was. If some madman is at large stalking him, he must be protected.”

“True,” Donald agreed. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

“He will be safe enough during his recovery period. He’ll be at home. But when he returns to the office, he must be guarded.”

“I’ll see to it,” Donald said.

They reached her place, and he saw her to her door. Only then did he ask, “Have you heard from Anne?”

She felt it a poor time to broach the subject. So she said, “I’m sure I’ll soon have a letter.”

Donald’s handsome face showed concern. “She has missed writing me for a week! That’s never happened before.”

Becky smiled. “You mustn’t be too hard on her. I imagine she has made many friends, and life in Paris is much busier than it was when she first went there.”

“I suppose so,” the young man said unhappily. “Thank you for going to see father.”

She said, “You were right in sending the coachman for me. I have to go out and do some errands in the morning. I shall make it a point to stop at the hospital early and see Bart before you come to take him home. It will be awkward for me to visit him then.”

“I understand,” Donald said. “I’ll keep you in touch with his recovery.”

“I count on you,” she said, bestowing a light kiss to his cheek.

He looked pleased. “I still insist you’re more charming than any girl I know! Including Anne!”

She laughed and went inside warmed by the compliment. She was concerned about Anne’s startling letter from Paris and its implications now that this new bizarre and worrisome business of the attack on Bart had been thrust on her. He had for so long lived a lawful existence that his doings of the old days had been forgotten by her.

Actually, by the time she met him, he was beginning his determined climb to respectability. But there could well be others who still saw him in the light of a villain, perhaps someone who had been harmed or sent to prison through Bart’s dealings. And this person might be back looking for revenge.

The battered condition in which Bart had been left should have been revenge enough. But she worried that there might be other unpleasant developments. And she felt Bart was holding back the truth about it all.

Becky kept her word. The next morning she went to visit Bart at the hospital before starting on her round of errands. She was amazed to find him dressed to leave and seated in a chair in his private room. His head and eye were still bandaged, and he looked unfit to leave the hospital.

She went to him and kissed him and asked, “May I ask what you are up to?”

“A carriage is coming for me shortly,” he said with a slight air of defiance.

Becky scolded him. “You ought to remain here for a day or two longer. You don’t look well enough to go home!”

He waved a hand impatiently. “This is no place to remain because of a few bruises!”

“What about your cut head? And your injured eye?”

“The head cut is minor, and my eye is no more than properly blackened,” he argued. “The doctor covered it, since he felt it would get better more quickly if I didn’t strain it.”

Becky shook her head. “You’re impossible!”

Bart Woods smiled bleakly. “I’m not going to die. It’s too soon for my enemies to rejoice.”

She said, “Speaking of enemies, have you been able to recall anything more about your attacker?”

“No.”

She stared at him. “I don’t believe you.”

“Well,” he said, and then with a touch of anger, “That son of mine has complicated matters by reporting the attack to the police!”

“I think he did right,” Becky said.

“I didn’t want all that fuss made of it. The police were here this morning questioning me.”

“Were you helpful to them?”

“I could tell them no more than I’ve told you.”

She said reprovingly, “I know you as well as anyone, Bart. And I know you’re not being truthful. You are fully aware of who attacked you and why. It has to do With the past. Because you may think the attack was justified, you do not wish to see the man punished.”

Bart stared at her with his good eye. “You have it all neatly worked out.”

“And I’m right!”

“If that’s what you wish to think, so be it!” Bart grumbled sitting back in the chair.

“So the man will never be found?”

“Probably not,” he agreed.

“And that is the way you want it?”

Bart smiled pathetically. “Don’t plague me about it. I’m going home to recuperate under Vera’s watchful eyes—that will be punishment enough.”

“Poor Bart!” And then she remembered she hadn’t mentioned Anne’s letter, so she went on to tell him about it. She finished with, “It would seem time for me to go over there and try and encourage the romance.”

“Just don’t try to push it,” he said. “Ann can be stubborn. She still cares deeply for Donald; a decision will be hard for her and should be her own.”

“I agree,” she said, “It must be handled discreetly.”

“Does Donald know about this other fellow?”

“He doesn’t think it is serious.”

“Don’t tell him or he’ll be rushing over there to try and interfere between the two,” Bart worried.

“I’ll say nothing. It will depend on Anne. She may possibly write him about it herself. In fact, I expect she will.”

“Then let them work it out on their own,” the man in the chair advised.

She kissed him and left him doggedly waiting for the coach to come and get him. She was impressed by his courage, but she worried about it all. Whoever was responsible for his condition would not be revealed by him. Bart must have some truly good reasons for keeping the news to himself.

It was two evenings later that Donald came to see her once again. She had just sent a letter to Anne. As he began to pace restlessly in her parlor, she asked him, “What about your father?”

“Improving daily,” Donald said. “He threatens to return to the office the first of the week. I wish he wouldn’t. I’ve been going over some figures on steel construction, and I don’t want him to find the staff engaged in checking them.”

“You still are determined that steel is the material for new ships?”

“Shipping itself is proving that,” Donald said with some disgust. “Every day I hear word of steel merchant vessels making record crossings.”

She smiled. “I cannot argue shipping with you!”

“Just vote on my side when the board meets,” he said. “And I have another matter to discuss with you, madam!”

“How formal you are today!” she teased him.

“This is a personal matter and serious,” Donald assured her. “And I have an idea you may know more about it than you have been willing to reveal to me.”

“Go on,” she said, guessing that Anne must have at last written him about her count.

“Does the name Count André Lemont mean anything to you?” he demanded.

She gazed up into the stern face of the upset young man and thought how much he resembled Bart when he was angry. She said, “Yes, Donald, I have heard about him.”

“And you did not warn me?”

“No,” she said. “I felt it a personal thing. Something between you two. I have no wish to interfere.”

He frowned. “I thought you were on my side, that you would defend my case with Anne.”

“That wouldn’t be fair. She is torn between you and this count, it seems. I say, let her own heart be the deciding factor.”

“And I say, her head is turned at the thought of becoming a countess,” Donald said unhappily.

“Not my Anne!” she reproached him.

He made an apologetic gesture. “Well,” he said, “she seems to be in love with the fellow. Or at least she thinks she is.”

“Oh?”

“She hasn’t decided for him,” Donald went on. “She has made that clear. But he has asked her to marry him, and she is thinking about it and felt I ought to know.”

“I call that fair.”

“It comes of her going to Paris,” the young man said angrily. “I was never in favor of it. And now she is in this trouble. And worst of all, I can’t leave England because of the critical state of the company and father’s poor health.”

“If Anne really feels she should marry you, she will decide in your favor,” she said.

“Cold comfort!” Donald said. “I understand you are going to visit her?”

“Yes, she said.

“That makes me feel better,” the young man said, not knowing that it was the Count’s suit she must favor.

There were further exchanges of letters, and soon Becky found herself packing for her visit to Paris. It was her first excursion outside England in years, and she looked forward to it. She also looked forward to meeting the charming young man whom Anne wrote increasingly about. But before she could get away she was involved in a situation more dramatic than any she might have read in a popular novel, or seen in one of the plays on the London stage.

A visitor arrived at her house one afternoon. And she almost fainted at the sight of him, for he wore a black wide-brimmed hat and a long black cloak and his face, though somewhat altered by the passing years and heavier of jowl, was that of a man she had supposed dead, Davy Brown!

“You recognize me!” Davy said with delight. “And you have changed only a little. I have taken some time to seek out Becky Lee and find her in the person of Mrs. Mark Gregg, widow!”

“Davy!” she said, as they faced each other in her small parlor. “I was certain you were dead!”