Vintage Love (190 page)

“It was, I heartily agree,” Hector Waddington said.

“When you befriended me, you mean,” said Mary. “I shall never be able to repay you properly.”

“You have done more than that already,” the actor told her. “And I would think no more about Jeffrey Hunt if I were you. He is lost to you, lost to all of us, living in a world more fantastic than even that of the theatre.”

They discussed the young former actor no more. She was shocked to learn that he had allowed sudden wealth to change him so. But she recalled he had always been a bitter, dissatisfied man. It was his restlessness which had made him leave the Maiden Lane Theatre. So she must forget him.

And she also must forget the other young man who had nearly won her heart, Howard Blake. He was now married to a rich and jealous young woman. Time had changed things for them all. As for herself, she felt ever so much older and wiser. The money she had inherited meant little to her beyond the fact it allowed her to live in comfort, and to assist her old friends. She had warm memories of the fine old man who had been her husband and had provided for her so handsomely.

Slowly Mary adapted to London life again. She visited friends of the late Lord Carter and often went to the theatre to watch the performances. The Waddingtons had opened in a new season of contemporary plays and were increasing the large audience they had built. At their urging she finally began to rehearse in the comedy, “The Professor’s Wife.”

She found it much easier than her Shakespearean roles but demanding a good deal of effort from her in its own way. Each afternoon following rehearsal her carriage called for her and took her home. She was generally exhausted and usually retired for a short rest before the evening meal.

On an afternoon in early June the play was almost ready to open, and the rehearsal had been long and arduous. She left the theatre when her scenes were done, not waiting for Peg or Hector. As her coachmen helped her out of her carriage in front of the house at Brattle Court a young man came riding up on a spirited gray horse.

The young man raised his riding crop in greeting to her and reined the horse to a halt. Then he swiftly dismounted and leading the animal came over to speak to her.

He said, “You are Lady Carter?”

“Yes,” she said, studying him and thinking she had seen him somewhere before. He had brown eyes and hair and a square, tanned face with a dominant chin. His face was stern until he smiled and then he had a most appealing look.

“Permit me to introduce myself. I’m Grant Curtis. I live next door.”

She said, “I knew I’d seen you before.”

“I’ve been wanting to speak to you and hoping we’d meet,” he said.

“Have you?” she said, wondering why. Her coachman had driven on and she was left standing alone with the young man and the restive gray horse.

The young man stroked his mount’s arched neck to quiet it. Then he turned to her again and said, “Yes. I’d been hoping we’d meet by chance or that someone would introduce us.”

She smiled, “As you no doubt know, I am a widow. I haven’t been about much socially. I’m rehearsing for a new play at the Maiden Lane.”

“Of course,” he said. “All London knew you as May Waddington, the actress.”

“That is my stage name,” she agreed.

“I saw you when you did a season of Shakespeare,” he said. “You were excellent.”

“I hope our new play pleases the public,” she said.

“With you as its star I’m sure it is bound to,” Grant Curtis said gallantly.

“Thank you,” Mary said, lowering her lashes.

“My family are in coal mines,” he told her. “But I have a love of the arts. I fancy myself as an amateur sculptor and I visit the theatre whenever I can.”

“Excellent,” she said. “What was it you wished to speak to me about?”

“A strange and wonderful accomplishment by one of your household staff,” the good-looking young man said. “This stout woman saw my gardeners struggling to move a huge boulder. She was walking your dog and went over to them. She told them to step aside and as I watched from the window she lifted the huge rock which they couldn’t budge and actually transported it to the trash heap at the bottom of the lot! Incredible!”

She laughed. “That was Madame Goubert. She is a wondrously strong woman, at one time a professional weight lifter in a travelling circus.”

“So that explains is! Please thank her and offer her my compliments,” the young man said.

“I’ll tell her how impressed you were. She’ll be delighted.”

He hesitated awkwardly before he said, “My parents spend most of their time in the country where my father looks after our mines. I live here alone a good part of the time.”

She raised an eyebrow. “You are not married?”

“No. The idea hasn’t appealed to me,” he said with a twinkle in his brown eyes. “I probably haven’t met the right girl.”

“I’m sure you will.”

“I begin to hope so,” he said with a certain meaning she did not miss. “May I make so bold as to invite you one day to take tea with me and see my sculptures?”

“I would like that,” she said. “My foster-father and mother, the Waddingtons, would also enjoy seeing your work. They are in the theatre and most artistic.”

“Then they are welcome as well,” he promised. “I did not know you were a foster child.”

She wanted the discussion to end so she said, “You must excuse me. I’m weary from rehearsal and have many things to attend to.”

“Sorry,” he said. “About the invitation. I’ll send my servant over this evening.”

He kept his word. The invitation came later that day and included Peg and Hector Waddington. They were all invited to tea and a showing of his sculptures on the following Sunday. Mary was quietly amused and pleased to make the acquaintance of such a personable young man. The Waddingtons were excited.

“Who knows?” the romantically-minded Peg said, “This young man may turn out to be your Prince Charming!”

Hector Waddington shook his head. “You’ve played in too many romances, my poor Peg. The young man is only inviting us to tea. He hasn’t proposed to Mary!”

“He may before it’s over,” Peg said, clinging stubbornly to her hope.

Sunday was a pleasant, warm day and Grant Curtis entertained them in a big room at the rear of his house which overlooked the garden. It was filled with pieces of his sculpture, heads and figures in the classical style. All were in agreement that he had real talent and that a head of the Prince Regent was his best work.

Standing with his tea cup in hand he told her, “I would like to do a study of you, Lady Carter.”

“You are too kind,” Mary demurred.

“It’s rather hard work for the subject,” he warned her. “I will require you to come for at least a dozen hour sittings.”

“When?” she asked. “The play is opening soon.”

“The late mornings would be fine,” he told her. “That wouldn’t interfere with your acting, would it?”

“Probably not,” she said.

She began going to the house of Grant Curtis three mornings a week. And as he had warned her, the sittings were tiring. She was glad the new play wasn’t as demanding as she had feared. It had opened to a favorable reception and she had received a standing ovation from the opening-night audience for her playing. It was good to be back in the theatre and she began to feel alive and young once more.

One morning as she was sitting for the sculptor, he asked her abruptly, “Was your late husband as mad as people claimed?”

Indignant, she protested, “He was not mad in any way! He was an intelligent, gentle man.”

The sculptor paused to stare at her in a puzzled fashion. “Wasn’t he the one who had all the dogs?”

“I still have them at our house in the country,” she said. “I brought Rover here with me because he is my pet.”

“So you considered his interest in dogs normal?”

“I did and I do,” she said sharply. “Please finish for today. I have a matineé.”

“Of course,” he agreed at once. And as she stood up he took her over to show her what he had done. She was amazed that what had begun as a large lump of clay was now taking on the likeness of a human head resembling her own.

She said, “You are extremely talented.”

He shrugged and said, “My father is not impressed. He would see a lump of coal as large of more value.”

“Then he should be told otherwise,” she said.

The young man smiled. “I will count on your telling him. I have been invited to a soirée tomorrow night. Will you do me the honor of accompanying me?”

She smiled, “I would, but you forget I’m an actress. I will be playing in our new comedy.”

“No matter,” Grant Curtis told her. “We can go after the theatre. I will attend the performance and meet you afterwards.”

Mary hesitated. “I have been out so little since my husband’s death.”

“Please make this an exception,” he pleaded. “I’m sorry if I offended you in mentioning Lord Carter’s dogs. I accept your word that he was a fine man.”

“You may do that,” she assured him. “And he knew a lot about women as well as dogs. When he was courting me my dressing room was filled with red roses! He sent me a fresh bouquet every night!”

“I most humbly apologize for my criticism of him,” the young man said.

“I accept your apology,” she said. “And I must ask you never to mention him lightly again.”

“You may be sure I won’t,” Grant Curtis said. “About tomorrow night? Will you honor me?”

She gave him a part smile. “I’ll go to your party for a little while. I must return home early if I’m to sit again for you the following morning and do my work at the theatre.”

“I shall let you choose the time we leave,” he promised. “And I look forward to tomorrow evening.”

That evening the stage door man came and knocked on her dressing room door. When she opened it she found him standing with a bouquet of large, red roses. The old man said with a wink, “For you, Miss. There’s no card. If I didn’t know Lord Carter was dead I’d say he sent them.”

Mary took the flowers and smiled. She said, “I think I know who did.”

The next evening the flowers came again and when the play ended and she had changed into a gown of dark blue silk and the Carter sapphires, she went down to the stage door where the handsome Grant Curtis stood waiting.

Smiling up at the tall brown-haired man she said, “I thank you for the roses!”

He blushed and laughed. “How did you guess they were from me?”

“Not many people know that story,” she said. “And I told it to you only yesterday.”

He said, “You are a beautiful woman, Lady Carter. My carriage is waiting just outside.”

“Where are we going?” she asked.

“To one of the most fashionable houses in all London,” the young man promised her as they stepped outside. “All of London society will be there.”

The house was in Berkeley Square and she saw at once that the party was well attended. The street was lined with waiting carriages. A footman came to help them out and then direct their carriage to a place to wait. The great stone mansion was ablaze with light at every window. Another footman stood by the door to show them inside.

“I’m excited,” she said to her escort.

“I hoped you might enjoy it,” Grant Curtis said, taking her arm.

The sound of revelry greeted them at the entrance. There was music from many violins, the loud chatter of conversation, the tinkling of glasses and occasional bursts of loud laughter. The entrance hall and ballroom were brightly lighted and every inch of the space seemed to be filled.

They made their way through the crush to where a tall, elegantly dressed young man and an older man were receiving new arrivals. Mary found herself standing before this orange-coated dandy who studied her with cynical amusement through his quizzing glass.

“Jeffrey!” she cried. “Jeffrey Hunt!”

He bowed with mocking politeness. “None other,” he said in a Mayfair drawl. “And you, of course, are the beauteous Lady Carter!”

“Jeffrey!” she said. “Don’t play at being the fop with me! We have trod the stage together!”

Jeffrey laughed and relaxing just a trifle said, “Ah, yes, dear Lady Carter. Then you must also remember another colleague, the Honorable Noel Hastings?”

The stout jovial Noel Hastings beamed at her. He was wearing an extravagant coat of robin’s egg blue and white breeches. He said, “Those were good days we had at the Maiden Lane, Mary!”

She kissed him. “I’m not sure he remembers,” she said ruefully, glancing at her host. At this moment Jeffrey was busily engaged in an earnest discussion with Grant Curtis.

Noel Hastings winked at her. “He remembers! More than you might guess!”

Others were coming to greet the two. It seemed there were many late arrivals. They moved along on the tide of guests to join the crowd of people in the ballroom. The air was warm and the music loud. A footman deftly made his way among the crowd of people passing out glasses of champagne from a tray.

Grant took a glass for himself and for Mary. As they stood sipping the bubbly liquid, he said, “It is too warm and crowded for dancing!”

“Too warm for anything!” she agreed.

The tanned young man said, “I had no idea you knew Jeffrey. I go riding with him in the Row quite often.”

She said, “You must have seen him on the stage when you came to see me doing my Shakespearean roles. He was Petruchio to my Katherina.”

“An actor?” Grant said, puzzled. “I know him as a wealthy gentleman!”

Mary laughed. “Some actors are both wealthy and of gentle stock!”

“Sorry,” he said. “I meant no insult to your profession. I didn’t remember him. But I do now. He’s come a long way, it would seem.”

“I understand a wealthy uncle died in Scotland. That he owns a huge estate there.”

“The facts about him are not generally known,” the young man said. “I have enquired of my friends. They call him the mystery man.”

“I heard he inherited his money, and still goes to Scotland regularly to attend to matters of the estate.”

“You know more about him than most people,” her escort said.

“And yet I had no idea it was to his party you were bringing me,” she said.

“He entertains constantly. I should have prepared you for the surprise by mentioning his name.”