Edwardian Candlelight Omnibus (35 page)

His reverie was broken by the entrance of his man, who informed him that “two persons were desirous of seeing him.’”

“I would have turned them away, my lord,” said the gentleman’s gentleman with awful hauteur, “but the female person claimed acquaintanceship with you, my lord. Said she met you last summer.”

Lord David’s harsh features softened in an almost angelic smile. “Show her in, man. Show her in!’ he cried.

He should have known it wouldn’t be Molly, he thought dismally, as a shrinking Mrs. Pomfret was ushered in, followed by the lumbering bulk of Billy.

“Oh, my lord,” twittered Mrs. Pomfret. “
So
kind. I had no one else to turn to. People are
awful
…” Here she burst into noisy tears, while Billy stood on one foot and grinned and looked vacantly around the room.

“Here, now,” said Lord David, ringing the bell and ordering tea and smelling salts. “You shall have some refreshment and then you will tell me all about it.”

He waited patiently until the distressed postmistress had blown her nose and taken several gulps of tea. “I just
had
to ask for help, my lord. They have taken my job away from me!”

Lord David waited patiently until the
next
paroxysm of sobs had died away. “What happened?” he asked gently.

Piecing together Mrs. Pomfret’s disjointed speech, he gathered that the townspeople did not approve in the least of her proposed marriage. They had been looking for an excuse to get rid of her and finally found one. Old Mr. Apple, who had delivered the post for half a century, was due to retire. She had suggested that Billy should have the job. The townspeople had managed to get Mr. Apple to write a letter to the postal department, complaining that he was being ousted from his job.

“So I lost mine,” hiccuped Mrs. Pomfret. “They would not even see me at the head office. What am I to do? I don’t want charity, my lord. I know Miss Maguire would have helped me and I was going to write to her, but then I saw that item in the social column of the
Daily Mail
. Poor girl. Poor, poor girl. So I—”

“
What!
” yelled Lord David.

“Now I-I’ve made you angry,” wailed Mrs. Pomfret. Up came the handkerchief and out came the sobs.

Lord David turned in exasperation to Billy. “What’s all this about? I mean—what’s happened to Miss Maguire?”

“Dunno!” said Billy laconically, looking out the window.

Lord David set himself feverishly to calming Mrs. Pomfret again and drew the story from her bit by bit.

The Maguires were ruined. Faulty speculations on Wall Street had taken every penny of their fortune, but the newspaper article had not said what had become of them.

Lord David sat very still. Yellow fog was pressing itself against the window panes and the high metallic pipe of a starling seemed to intensify the cold of the winter’s day outside. A coal shifted and fell on the hearth and he realized Mrs. Pomfret was saying something about America.

”Billy’s ever so keen on Westerns and he’s a
good
worker and I thought, my lord, since various titled gentlemen have been buying
ranches
in the states, perhaps you know of someone who would be willing to employ Billy.”

Lord David swung around to look at Billy Barnstable. “Do you agree with this idea, Billy?”

“Sure,” grinned Billy, twirling two imaginary shooting irons. “Pow! Pow!”

“I think it could be arranged,” said Lord David slowly. “And you must allow me to pay your fare. No! I insist. Come back at the same time tomorrow and I will let you know what I have arranged. May I have a word with you in private, Mrs. Pomfret?”

She twittered and fussed over Billy, straightening his tie and pulling down his jacket, before she allowed him to be led away.

Lord David settled back in his chair and tried to push the picture of a starving and destitute Molly from his mind.

“Ah, Mrs. Pomfret,” he said, searching for the right words. “Are you
sure
this is a good idea of yours? The wild West is not the same country that Billy finds in his books. He will find it very rough—hard work and long hours.”

“I have great faith in Billy,” said Mrs. Pomfret proudly. “I am not afraid of going to a new country. I am sure it will all be very exciting. In
Sage Sunset
the heroine, Annie MacPherson, is a simple country girl from England and she copes marvelously. ‘You gotta learn to shoot straight and hold your head high in this here country,’ she says, tossing her russet hair from her eyes and looking across the sage brush. Now, I am not
young
, my lord, and my hair is gray, but it is still quite the same thing, is it not?”

“Quite,” said Lord David, thinking that Mrs.

Pomfret might come up against some bad shocks. But she seemed determined to go through with her marriage to Billy, and the chap was a farm worker, after all.

“So long as you know what you are doing,” he said heavily. “I shall see you tomorrow.”

He waved aside her frantic thanks, desperate to get rid of her so that he could turn his mind to the problem of Molly.

After Mrs. Pomfret had twittered her way out, he seized his hat and cane and headed for his club in St. James’s.

He found the Marquess of Leamouth buried in the depths of an armchair, a copy of the
Daily Mail
lying open on the table in front of him.

“Heard the news?” asked Lord David, taking the chair opposite.

Roddy nodded. “Happens to a lot of these American big shots,” he said indifferently. “One minute they’re all over the Riviera and the next minute they sink without a trace.”

Lord David examined the great ache in his own heart with the clinical detachment of a surgeon and looked at his friend with some surprise. “And?” he demanded.

“And what?” said Roddy. “I say, have you seen the latest beauty, Deborah Willinton-James? Tremendous girl. Biggest eyes you’ve ever seen and a magnificent pair of shoulders. I met her…”

Lord David’s thin black brows snapped together and his long mouth was set in a hard line. “I should have known,” he said bitterly. “You’ve got a heart like a damned butterfly, and I’m dashed well not going to sit here listening to you waffling on about some bally little society tart.”

He strode from the room, snatching his hat and cane from the cloakroom on the way out and muttering curses under his breath.

He, Lord David Manley, would settle Mrs. Pomfret’s boring problem by purchasing her steamship tickets at the shipping office, and while he was there he would damn well purchase one for himself and then he would scour every street in New York City for Miss Molly Maguire and he would drag her back to England by the hair if need be.

Roddy stood at the window of the club and watched the tall figure of his friend striding off into the fog. He was glad to see him go. He did not want any more lectures on the fickleness of his heart. He did not want his somewhat overpowering friend to know that only that morning he had rushed out and impetuously bought a steamship ticket.

Molly was able to take care of herself. But Mary! He thought of Mary’s fragile beauty. He thought of her penniless in the midst of that terrifying city and he hoped to God he could get there before it was too late.

Jennifer Strange waited until Lord David had left the steamship ticket office and then went in. Yes, said the fussy little clerk, his lordship had just bought a ticket for the liner
Triton
, which was sailing tomorrow. Did miss want a ticket also? No, miss did not. She wanted to go home that minute and write to Molly Maguire. Jennifer had an American friend in Brooklyn Heights, who, she felt sure, would find Miss Maguire’s address and make sure the letter was delivered. It was the least she could do!

“Where on earth have you been, girl? Of all the stupid days to take time off. I declare I don’t know what servants are coming to.”

“The snow is falling quite heavily,” said Miss Mary Maguire. “I’m sorry, ma’am.”

“Sorry! You’ll be a lot sorrier, my girl, if you do anything to wreck my dinner party,” snapped Mrs. Carter III. “This is the most important evening of my life. Go to Jenkins immediately and he will tell you your duties.”

Mary reflected dismally that she had not expected
Americans
to treat their servants so. In retrospect, Lady Fanny’s army of servants seemed to have led a life of luxurious ease.

She had accepted the position of parlormaid in Mrs. Carter’s Brooklyn Heights’ mansion because she had fondly remembered parlormaids as being somewhere quite high up the servants’ social scale. But they always seemed to be three mysterious servants short and the job was a long, long day of heavy labor, performing the duties of housemaid, scullery maid, kitchen maid, and parlormaid all rolled into one. It was always, “Just fill in for today, Mary, until Beth…or Amy…or Maggie comes back.” But the missing servants never materialized, and the heavy work went on.

She walked down the steps to the servants’ quarters to find, to her surprise, that the black cook had been supplanted by a French chef and two assistants. Jenkins, the butler, looked up as Mary came in.

“Thank God you’re back. Nearly lost your job. But I put in a word for you.” Jenkins was always “putting in a word” for Mary, and Mary had initially been grateful to him until she had realized that Mrs. Carter III would never fire a parlormaid who did so much work for such low pay. The servants in the neighboring brownstones had often urged Mary to find a more comfortable position. But Mary was afraid that a lessening of work would mean an increase of heartache.

“What’s all the fuss?” she demanded, taking a clean cap and apron out of the cupboard. “I didn’t mean to be late. But the snow’s falling like anything, and all the traffic and everything’s jammed up along Fulton Street.”

“Good,” said Jenkins with gloomy relish. He was a thin, cadaverous New Englander who seemed to thrive on disaster. “Maybe his lordship won’t turn up and it’ll serve her right.”

“His
lordship?
”queried Mary, her heart giving a painful lurch.

“Some marquess that Mister Carter met on the boat over,” said Jenkins. “You’ve turned as white as a sheet, Mary. Sit down and have a cup of coffee. I can’t have you ill on a night like this. Ma Carter’s in a great flutter. She’s been on the telephone all afternoon, bragging and bragging.”

“What marquess? I mean—what’s his name?” said Mary faintly.

“Dunno,” said Jenkins. “Some old geezer with the gout probably.”

“Probably,” said Mary, the color slowly returning to her pallid cheeks.

“Now remember,” said Jenkins. “You’re to help me serve. And no daydreaming or dropping things. Finish that coffee and get ready to stand in the hall with me to take their coats.”

Mary drank her coffee slowly. What a long, long time seemed to have passed since the summer in Hadsea. She could still see Bernie’s waving arms, see his angry face. Sales of Maguire’s Leprechaun Dew had dropped off almost entirely but the Maguire investments had been sound. Bernie had discovered on his return that Joseph Maguire had decided to handle the family fortunes himself, and several shrewd gentlemen on Wall Street had made their fortunes by selling the gullible Mr. Maguire everything from oilless desert tracts in Arizona to nonexistent mines in Bolivia. By the time the debts were paid off, the Maguires were worse off than they had ever been. Bernie had vowed to wash his hands of the whole family but had relented enough to set Molly up with her own dress shop in Fulton Street. Mary had surprised them all by refusing to join Molly. Her sister was too bitter about the subject of the English, and Mary preferred to cling to her dream that one day the marquess would come to find her.

Mrs. Carter erupted into the kitchen, a miracle of whalebone corsets and purple silk. Her massive bosom was thrust so far out in front and her large silk-encased bottom pushed out so far behind that she looked as if she was always just on the point of falling over. Her small snapping eyes darted to where the dreamy-eyed Mary was sitting at the kitchen table.

“Get to work this minute,” roared Mrs. Carter. “And put
all
your hair under your cap.”

Honestly, the girl was really too attractive to be a good servant.

A few minutes later and Mary was standing nervously in the hall behind Jenkins. One by one the dinner guests began to arrive. Mary began to relax. The same old faces. Mr and Mrs. Pfeiffer—beer—the Hambletons—railroads—the Cunninghams—
old
money—and the Haagens—timber. All seemed nervous and excited and the conversation in the overstuffed drawing room, with its red plush chairs and heavy velvet curtains, centered on whether Mr. Carter III would bring his social prize home through the snow.

The penny-pinching Mrs. Carter had put herself out with unaccustomed extravagance for the occasion, although only the servants knew that the rented gold plate would go back in the morning along with Mrs. Carter’s rented diamonds, rented chef, and rented hothouse flowers.

Outside there was the sudden slam of an automobile door, and the feathered headdresses of the ladies bristled with anticipation.

Jenkins left Mary with the drinks trolley and moved nimbly into the hall. Mr. Carter’s booming voice…a light, pleasant English voice in reply. Mary found her gloved hands were shaking and put them behind her back.

Roddy, Marquess of Leamouth, drifted into the room and into a rapturous welcome. His curls shone like burnished gold. He had lost his summer tan and his handsome face was thin and white. He chatted amiably in his pleasant drawl. Yes, America was a tremendous place. What filthy snow! Was it always like this? And Mrs. Carter’s eyes glistened with triumph. These people were the
crème de la crème
of Brooklyn Heights’ society. They had hitherto ostracized the pushing and grasping Mrs. Carter. But this stroke of fortune, this handsome marquess, had brought them home to roost in her drawing room. She plied Roddy with drink while her bosom swelled like the sail of a tea clipper in a high gale.

Mary stared at Roddy as if mesmerized. Only once did he look at her. One blue eye glanced briefly in her direction and then looked quickly away. Anger drove the tears from Mary’s eyes. He was not going to recognize her!