Vintage Love (178 page)
Avon, Massachusetts
To a dear friend, Peggy Lawton
and to the memory of Ken!
CHAPTER ONE
Mary Scott stood forlornly in the center of the modest parlor of her family home. A small blue bonnet tied under her chin covered her shining, chestnut hair and the dark blue dress with its neat cape completed her travelling outfit. Her heart-shaped face was lovely in spite of its expression of sadness and her large gray eyes still radiant though brimming with tears.
Squire Martin Gordon, all rusty brown from hat to shoes, stood by the open door with a grimly impatient look on his lean, wrinkled face. He extracted a large pocket watch from his vest and studying it, rasped, “We must leave now, lass, or you’ll miss the London stage!”
She gave the tall old man an imploring look. “Just a moment longer,” she begged him. “It is the last time I shall ever be in this room. I wish to memorize it, so I may remember it always.”
Squire Gordon replaced his watch in his pocket and with open disgust snapped, “Sentimentality! I warn you that is something you should avoid whenever possible! You have to make your way in the world now. Giving way to sentiment will only make it more difficult for you.”
Scarcely hearing him she moved to a highly-polished table which she knew her late mother and father had prized and touched it gently with the tips of her fingers. The lace covering on it had been the work of her mother and the china bowl resting on the lace runner was a family heirloom, a wedding gift to her grandmother! She glanced about her at the other fine pieces of furniture, the ornaments, and the prints on the gray-papered walls. It seemed impossible this room which had been part of her life was to be snatched from her, that never again would she know the warmth and happiness its walls had offered her.
She gave Squire Gordon a spirited glance as she told him, “Had my brother Tom not been killed fighting against Napoleon you would not be turning me out of my home!”
The Squire’s mean, withered face showed no remorse. “You need not blame me for what is happening! I’m merely a man of business looking after his affairs in a proper manner. Blame your father!”
“Stop!” Mary burst out, taking a step towards the man in brown. “I will not hear you speak against my father! It was you who helped his ruin by loaning him money to continue his gambling!”
“Each time he came to me I reminded him that gambling was a sin,” the Squire said piously.
“But kept advancing him more and more money until both the mill and this house was heavily mortgaged to you!” she told him.
“It is far too late to argue about that,” Squire Gordon said. “What lost you your home was your father’s obsession for placing unlikely bets on race horses! I warned him it would be his ruin and so it turned out!”
Mary gave him an accusing look. “So now you have the mill, our home and the land which goes with it. Just before my father’s death he warned me it was the land you wanted!”
“Your father was quite mad in the last months of his life,” Squire Gordon informed her. “Otherwise he would not have put a bullet through his head and left you orphaned and penniless at one and twenty!”
“I do not want to hear about that!” she protested, and at the same time placed her hands against her ears.
Squire Gordon scowled. “You will do well to leave now and there’ll be no more discussion of such things. We have barely time to get to the stage as it is!”
She closed her eyes, gave a deep sigh, and then found a handkerchief to dab away her tears. After that she slowly crossed to the door and left her beloved home for what she knew was surely the last time. She proceeded to the waiting donkey cart in which the Squire had already placed her single, large satchel. He came and helped her into the cart and then sat at her side in the driver’s seat and flipped the reins.
The wheels of the cart began to spin and the donkey’s hooves threw up dust from the dry roadway as they headed in the direction of the village inn. It was there she would transfer to the stageoach and the long trip to London would begin.
Squire Gordon asked her, “Do you have the letter Parson Brown wrote for you? The introduction which will get you the post of kitchen helper in the home of Sir John Blake?”
“I have it,” she said quietly, not looking at him.
“See you don’t lose it!” the old Squire warned her. “London is no fit place for a young girl without proper contacts. The Parson says he has sent several of the village girls to Sir John Blake’s for employment and all have done well.”
Mary chose to make no reply. She sat thinking of the grim twist of fate which had sent her, a prosperous miller’s daughter, off to seek the menial post of kitchen slavey in London. She was sickened by what her long dead mother, and more recently dead brother and father, would think of this turn of events. She knew her father’s last dramatic act of repentance in taking his own life had been an effort on his part to touch the heart of grim Squire Gordon. It had been a useless gesture as far as the tight-fisted Squire was concerned. He’d promptly proceeded to foreclose the mortgage on the property and order her eviction!
They came to the main section of the village and its rows of quaint cottages set back from the roadway under sheltering trees. Rudford was a quiet village but Mary had known great happiness within its tiny confines. It was on this very street that she had stood with other cheering onlookers as the young soldiers marched proudly by in their smart red and blue uniforms on their way to serve under Wellington!
Both her brother, Tom, and her fiance Ned Burnham had been among those brave young men on their way to the Continent to battle against Napoleon. And by a quirk of fate both Tom and Ned had been among the first casualties in the bitter campaign which ended in Napoleon’s final defeat! Not much glory for her or her father in that victory! They could only mourn their losses.
Now it was 1817 and Napoleon was safely banished to St. Helena. Wellington had returned to London the popular hero of the day, his coach drawn through the streets by cheering crowds to the doorway of his London home. Mad Old George III was still on the throne, with the portly and immoral Prince Regent actually having the monarch’s authority. All England was in a happy, celebrating mood and yet she was reduced to penury and sadness.
It was not until after her mother, that dear, gentle soul, had passed away from a heart affliction, that her father had begun to show an unhealthy interest in gambling. It began with cards and in no time it consumed him. After the news came of Tom’s death in battle, he had gambled more and more. Neglect of his milling business and his wild betting on many race horses soon brought him to ruin.
He had gone down on his knees to tearfully confess to Mary “I have squandered everything, daughter! We are penniless!”
She had kissed him on the forehead and said, “We have each other and will begin again.”
“If either Tom or Ned had come back from the war, I might agree with you,” he’d said. “As it is there can be no hope.”
“You must not give up!” she’d implored him.
“I suppose not,” he’d said, his handsome face shadowed.
He’d promised to try and find some means to save their home and continue the operation of the mill as an employee of Squire Gordon. But the greedy Gordon would not hear of it. He wanted everything, and at once! And so her father had killed himself.
Even then she’d tried to live on in the house using a small inheritance left her by her mother. But it was not enough. One by one she dismissed the servants until she was living in the house alone. It was then that Squire Gordon had called on her to advise her that he intended taking possession of the house and it would be best for her to leave the village. He’d even arranged with the Parson to see she had a proper introduction to a job in London.
They reached the Merry Manor Coaching Inn and she saw the usual motley crowd had gathered to see the stage on its way to London. Fortunately the stagecoach with its two drivers and four fine black horses had not yet left. The Squire halted the donkey cart and helped her down, then he escorted her to the stage. The satchel he gave to one of the coachmen and then he turned to her.
“I wish you well in your new life,” he said, apparently unaware of the irony of his words, since it was he who had dispossessed her and was making her go to London.
Mary’s pretty face took on a grim look as she replied, “I will not forget this, Squire. You may be sure of that. I hope that one day your own daughter may know the same sort of treatment!”
Squire Gordon’s wizened face turned crimson. “I have done well by you, lass. I’ve paid your passage to London and had the parson find you a post. You are ungrateful!”
She smiled bitterly. “If that is what you choose to call me, so be it! I know only too well what you are! A mean, devious old scoundrel!” And with that, she mounted the step into the stagecoach.
Squire Gordon was left gazing up at her in anger as she sought out a seat in the crowded coach. A fat, young man with a repulsive pitted face moved to make room for her between himself and the side of the carriage. She nodded her thanks without speaking, wishing that she had found a different seatmate. On the other side of the stout man were two-middle-aged women, and on the opposite seat facing her were a young farm couple, with stupid-looking, amiable red faces. Next to them and directly across from her were a middle-aged man and wife dressed rather shabbily but with a generally distinguished air about them. The woman was faded but had surely once been beautiful and the man had a noble countenance which reminded her of prints she’d seen of the Duke of Wellington. The man’s nose was just as large as that of the Iron Duke.
The carriage driver shouted a warning that their journey was about to begin and the stagecoach began to roll away from the inn. Mary glanced out at the waving crowd left behind and had a sinking feeling, knowing this was to be her last glimpse of her native village. At the same time the carriage lurched and the fat youth next to her leaned close against her. A huge paw rested on her knee for just a moment. She gave him a prim glance, sure the movement had not been entirely accidental.
The stout youth showed a smile on his pitted face and said, “My name is Oliver. What’s yours?”
Mary was distressed at this beginning of her journey. She turned from him and stared straight ahead. This found her gazing directly at the noble face of the shabby but distinguished man opposite her. The long-nosed man smiled sympathetically. He doffed his top hat.
“May I introduce myself,” he said. “Hector Waddington, dramatic actor, and this is my dear wife and leading lady, Peg.”
The faded beauty smiled warmly at Mary and said, “Happy to meet you, my dear. My husband and I are returning from a tour of the provinces. We have an engagement in London at His Majesty’s Theatre.”
Mary was impressed by their polite friendliness and at once felt they might be helpful to her in avoiding the attentions of the loutish fat man next to her. She returned a small smile to the couple and said, “My name is Mary Scott. I’m going to London for the first time. I’ve been promised a position in a fine home in Benjamin Square.”
“Benjamin Square!” Hector Waddington rolled the name off his tongue with relish. “I know it well! Homes of the finest gentry there! I dare say you’re being hired as a governess?”
Mary was embarrassed. She did not like to admit how lowly her post was to be, so she equivocated, “I am to be in service.”
Hector Waddington took this for agreement with him. “I think the post of governess interesting. And you are a girl with looks and breeding. You should do well!”
“I agree,” his wife said. “I at one time served as a governess. But then I met Hector and he turned my interests to the stage!”
Her husband gazed at her with warm approval. “Your talent was too rich to ignore!” And turning to Mary again he told her, “My wife specializes in tragic roles. Her Lady Macbeth is if I may say so, unmatched!”
Peg Waddington’s faded face took on a happy glow. “You are far too kind, Hector!”
“Not at all,” he said with a graceful wave of his hand. And then he orated, “Is this a dagger which I see before me, the handle toward my hand? Come, let me clutch thee: I have thee not, and yet I see thee still!”
The young farm couple listened with mouths agape while the two elderly women showed silent approval. Only the fat young man gazed at the actor in disgust. It was apparent he had no interest in Shakespeare.
Peg Waddington smiled proudly and told Mary, “My husband plays all the important Shakespearean roles. He is greatly in demand because of his ability.”
“I’m sure of that,” Mary said. “I have never spoken to actors before though I have seen plays given in the town near our village. I have always thought stage people must lead fascinating lives.”
Looking pleased. Hector Waddington said, “We come in all types, I fear. But by and large we are no worse than the rest of the world’s poor creatures!”
They talked for a short while longer and Mary learned the two older people had been touring for several months and were looking forward to returning to London where they had rooms. Soon a silence fell over the group in the stage and many of the passengers closed their eyes and dozed. As the vehicle rolled along the fat youth took every opportunity to lean close against her in an intimate fashion and his hand nearest her was forever finding its way to her knee.
Mary kept pressing herslf to the coach wall as far from him as she could manage and never once looked at him. This did little good as he went on edging against her and letting his hand rest on her skirt. Happily they made a stop at an inn for their noonday meal. When they were standing in the sunny garden of the inn preparing to eat from one of the wooden tables set out there, Peg Waddington took the opportunity to speak to her confidentially.
