Molly (17 page)

“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!

As if in a dream, she helped Jenkins serve at table, wondering whether one could die from an excess of humiliation.

“Tell me, dear Marquess,” said Mrs. Carter, with a roguish twinkle, “why are you not married?”

“What a simply excellent chef you have,” said Roddy politely. But Mrs. Carter had been snubbed by coarser ways than the marquess had ever dreamt of and charged on regardless.

She gave the frozen-faced Roddy a naughty wink and poked him in the ribs with her fan. “We’re all waiting, my lord. Why haven’t you made some nice girl happy?”

“You must tell me more about the business world here, Mister Carter,” said Roddy pleasantly. “It sounds fascinating.”

Mr. Carter cast his wife an anguished look and chewed the ends of his mustache. The other guests shifted restlessly and began to wish—marquess or no marquess—that they had not come. Bessie Carter was the
end
!

Mrs. Carter’s small eyes narrowed as Roddy was besieged with Wall Street information and everyone began to talk at once, very loudly and quickly. She was not used to having her will crossed. She quickly toted up in her cash-register mind the exact cost of the evening. Her aristocratic guest
would
sing for his supper. She was paying for it, after all. Her loud voice flattened over the conversations like a steamroller.

“Don’t be coy with me, Marquess. I insist on knowing why a handsome young lord like you is not married.”

The other guests held their breath. They prayed for Bessie Carter’s downfall and at the same time they dreaded it. Roddy put down his fork and stared at his plate. Then he raised his eyes and looked to where Mary was standing in the shadows of the room; her white face and frilly cap seemed to float, disembodied in the corner. The wind howled down the river outside with a great moaning yell and then died away, leaving the room in utter silence except for the crackling of the fire.

“I’ll tell you,” said Roddy quietly, keeping his eyes fixed on Mary’s face.

“I had always fancied myself in love but I always got over it very quickly. Then a friend of mine invited me down to an English seaside resort. There were two American heiresses who needed taking down a peg, he said. It looked like good sport. Well, I fell in love with the younger. But I did not trust my own feelings. You see, I had been in love before.

“She left. I found I missed her frightfully. I heard she had lost her money and was working in New York. I came to find her…just to see her again.

“Now, by all the canons of good taste, I could not visit a house and propose to one of the servants. I felt that just to be near her would be enough. But it is not. Neither do the strict rules of good form seem to apply in this house, Mrs. Carter. I am saying in front of you all that I love her and want to marry her, and I want her to take off that ridiculous cap and take my arm and walk out of the house with me.”

Mrs. Haagen gave a nervous titter. Mr. Carter looked nervously at Roddy’s empty glass and decided it should not be refilled. Mrs. Carter looked disappointed.

“Oh, a
fairy
story,” she cried.

Everyone plunged into conversation to cover the embarrassment engendered by the young lord’s eccentricity and only Mary, standing in the shadows, heard the soft whisper, “Will you, Mary?”

She gave a funny, jerky little bob of her head. He rose slowly from the table and laid his napkin carefully beside his plate. He was unaware of the faces of the guests turned upward to him. He moved around the table and crossed the room to where Mary was standing.

He looked down at her, noticing the taut lines of strain on her face and the shadows of weariness under her large eyes.

“Will you?” he said again very softly, watching the warmth and love suddenly transforming her face. He gently unfastened the little lacy cap from her head. He put his arms around her and held her very close.

“This is madness!” spluttered Mrs. Carter III.

Unheeding, the couple were moving dreamily to the door. Hatless and coatless, they wandered out into the snowy streets of Brooklyn Heights.

The guests were bunched on the doorstep, staring after them openmouthed. Mary was laughing at something the marquess was saying and little feathers of snow sparkled in her hair.

Then the marquess bent his head and kissed her while Mrs. Carter trembled with cold, rage, and astonishment on her front doorstep.

One by one the guests began to leave.

They had never liked Bessie Carter anyway.

Miss Molly Maguire bent her head over her account books and sighed, and the wind whipping along Fulton Street sighed in answer. The shop was doing well. She had already been able to engage two assistants and soon she would be able to pay Bernie back. She kept one set of accounts for Bernie and another for her father. Joseph Maguire haunted the stock exchange, dreaming of making a killing. “I shall invest your money for you, Molly,” he had promised, and Molly had promptly worked on a false set of books to show that Maguire Modes was running at a perpetual loss.

Only that afternoon, Molly had tried for the hundredth time to persuade Mary to give up her job and move in. But Mary had remained adamant. Furthermore, she refused to discuss Hadsea, and Molly was suffering too much pain of her own to insist as heartily as she normally did that her sister was throwing her young life away, for Molly had received a letter from Jennifer Strange.

Dear Miss Maguire
, she had written.
So Lord David is to be married to Lady Cynthia after all! And after having paid court to
both
of us. I swear I was never more deceived
…

The rest of the letter went over and over the same subject. Molly was shrewd enough to realize that the writer was motivated by spite but she also thought Jennifer had written out of rage and disappointment. So Lord David was a cad after all!