So they proceeded to the dining hall. There at the elegant candlelit table a feast was served. Betsy tried to remain silent while the others kept up an unending conversation. The tales of the latest London scandals and the bon mots of the town gossips were repeated at the table with glee. Betsy tried to ignore the giggling and braying of the old man who would be her Romeo.
Shortly after the meal, when he approached her and made attempts to fondle her breasts covertly as they stood alone for a moment in the drawing room, she complained of a headache to him and hurried off to her room. She knew that her stepfather would be in a rage, but she did not care.
As she undressed for bed, she again thought of her visitor of the afternoon and his offer. Escape to London even in the pursuit of what might turn out to be a mad fantasy did not seem so farfetched to her now.
She had carefully locked the door to her bedroom, and so she fell asleep without any apprehensions. This made it all the more terrifying when she awakened in the middle of the night to hear a key being turned in the bedroom door. The moon shone into the room, flooding it with a cold blue light as she gazed at the door in consternation!
Chapter Two
BETSY DREW the sheets up over her lightly covered rounded breasts as she watched with a feeling of horror as the door opened. She immediately guessed what was happening. Her stepfather had provided his lecherous friend with a duplicate key to her room! She was being offered to Lord Dakin as a tasty treat along with the pheasant and the oysters.
Now the door was opened, and the skinny Lord Alfred Dakin, clad only in a nightshirt which barely came to his hips, stood revealed before her. A mad, lustful smile was on his ugly old face as he closed the door behind him and began advancing to his bedside.
“My lovely!” he croaked.
She pulled away to the other side of the bed, crying out, “Don’t dare come near me!”
His answer was a throaty chuckle. He knelt on the bed, his nightshirt riding up so that the revolting ugliness of his dangling private parts was thrust toward her. She let out a cry of revulsion and got to her feet on her way to the door and escape!
With an agility surprising in one his age and probably produced only by his heightened state of lust, he scrambled across the bed like a schoolboy and then ran after her. He caught her before she reached the door and clasped one hand over her mouth and held her struggling body with the other arm.
All the while he crooned foul suggestions in her lovely ears. And as she struggled with him, he managed to tear at her thin nightgown until shortly she was completely naked. The awareness of her nudity seemed to spur him on more. With a mad strength he swung her around and flung her on the floor by the side of her bed!
Gasping from his exertions and giggling with glee, he held her down as he mounted her and prepared to ravish her. She was stunned for a moment after hitting the floor, but as her mind began to work again, she groped out wildly with her one free hand, seeking a weapon!
With a rush of inner exultation she found one! She grasped the handle of her chamber pot and swung it out and brought it down over his balding head, no longer protected by his wig. The pot made a thud, and he relaxed his grip on her. It was her cue to bring it down on the bald head a second time. This time blood spurted forth, and he fell to one side unconscious.
She dropped the chamber pot. Lying there breathing heavily, she studied him with disgust. It was possible she had killed him, and if so she did not care. All she could think of now was escape. Escape from the ugliness of this scene, escape from the old house which was no longer a haven for her, escape to London and whatever Felix Black might have to offer!
This resolved, she lost no time in dressing and hastily packing a single bag with the necessary things she would need for travel and a few days in London. She could buy other things later. She had money hidden in one of her dresser compartments. She put a few notes in her dress pocket and the rest in her bag.
As she hurried about her preparations for running away, the old roué lay motionless on the floor. She knelt by him to see if he were still breathing. And he was, though it was slow and labored. A grim expression on her face, she put on her cloak and bonnet. Then bag in hand she quietly let herself out of the room.
She made her way downstairs and out into the cool air of early morning with the same caution. It was too early for even the humblest of their servants to be awake yet, and she knew she could not hope to take a horse from the stables without being heard. Her only chance was to walk to the main road and wave down the stagecoach on its way to London. It was the usual custom to pick up fares along the highway if there was any empty space. She could only pray that one would soon come along to pick her up.
She did not halt until she reached the main highway about a half hour later. Dawn was starting to break, and she glanced behind her and wondered what was happening at the castle. When morning came and Lord Dakin did not appear and was not found in his room, they would search for him. Whether they found him alive or dead depended on fate. He was an old man and the chamber pot a heavy weapon. She had not spared him at that moment of crisis. She had struck him hard!
Her ruminations were interrupted by the sound of horses’ hooves and the creaking wheels of a stagecoach approaching and approaching in the right direction! Headed for London! She at once took a stand in the middle of the rutted road and began to wave her arms frantically.
The red and gold stage came bearing down on her, drawn by four magnificent horses. The driver reined them sharply and called out to them; they came to a restless, neighing halt! A stout man in cape and stovepipe hat seated with the driver jumped down and confronted her.
“What do thee want?” he asked, his bronzed fece surly.
“Passage to London,” she said.
He eyed her suspiciously. “Do you have the price?”
She held out a note. “Will that be enough?”
“ ‘Twill do,” he said shortly and stuffed it in his pocket. She knew that it was more than enough to pay for a half dozen fares, but she wasn’t in a mood to argue this with him. She wanted to get on to London as quickly as she could.
The man opened the door of the stage and helped her up the big step. Inside there were three men, an old woman, and a young girl with a child in her arms. All of them were still in a sleepy state, their rest interrupted by her arrival. The air in the stage was heavy and smelled of strong spirits as well.
She was pleased to see an empty space next to a heavy man wearing a clergyman’s black suit, clerical collar, and flat clerical hat. His oval-shaped face wore a benevolent expression, and he seemed the only one of the several passengers fully awake. He at once offered her a smile and moved a little to make room for her.
No sooner was she seated than the stage started on its way once again. The other passengers closed their eyes and attempted to sleep again. Only the stout clergyman remained awake. Now he beamed at her with his kindly eyes and in a low voice informed her, “I am Parson Midland.”
“How do you do, reverend sir,” she said a little stiffly.
The friendly man said, “May I presume by saying it is odd to have a young woman alone flagging the stage in the small hours of the morning. Are you in some sort of trouble?”
She shook her head. “No. I decided I wished to visit some friends in London.”
The clergyman raised his eyebrows. “And you did not take a carriage to the nearest inn and wait for the stage there?”
“No,” she improvised quickly. “There is illness at home, and I did not want to put anyone to a bother.”
“That is truly Christian of you,” the middle-aged portly clergyman said with pleasure. “There is talk of the young not being properly pious. I do not agree. And I think you are a prime example of the good that can be found among our youth.”
“Thank you,” she said with a sigh. “I fear I am not all that good.”
“I’m sure you are,” Parson Midland said. “And now I must be completely honest with you. I know who
you are.”
Her eyes widened. “You do?”
“Yes,” he said. “You are the daughter of Sir John and Lady Cort. I saw you together at a fair in the marketplace of Canterbury.”
“I think you have made a mistake,” she faltered.
“No,” the clergyman said with a reassuring smile. “You were pointed out to me. Also I was told Sir John was merely your stepfather.”
“I see,” she said, feeling trapped.
The stout man told her, “You have no reason to fear me. You can be quite honest with me. I wish only to befriend you.”
“You are kind,” she said. “And it is true I am Betsy Chapman. I have left the castle because of an intolerable situation there!”
“Ah! You are running away.”
“You could hardly call it that. I am of age.”
“Let me phrase it differently. You are running away from home without informing your parents or asking their approval.”
Her eyes flashed angrily. “I do not need my stepfather’s approval. He is a beast who would pander me to a lecherous old man.”
The clergyman closed his eyes for a moment and in a low voice murmured, “The sins of the flesh! How vile some humans are!”
“Sir John is among the vilest. And so is his friend, Lord Dakin, whom he would have me wed!”
“That broken-down old roué,” Parson Midland said with dismay. “I cannot believe it!”
“Yes,” she said. “It is all too true. I have escaped from their trap, and now I’m on my way to the house of a friend in London.”
“Thank the Good Lord you have such a friend,” Parson Midland said piously. “For if you found the countryside corrupted by wickedness, I can only warn you London today is a veritable cesspool of sin!”
She gazed out of the window at the passing countryside. Dawn had come, and everything now stood out clearly. She said in a forlorn voice, “I have no choice but to go to London.”
The clergyman at her side said, “May I offer a suggestion?”
She glanced at him. “If you like.”
“You are new to the city,” Parson Midland said. “I am well versed in its ways. When we arrive in the great metropolis, let me look after you until I have safely delivered you to your friends.”
“That is most kind of you,” she said. “But I’m sure there is no need.”
“But there is!” he insisted. “London is a dangerous place even for a young woman of some experience. There are wicked men and women waiting at the inns to prey on new arrivals. Wicked characters who will kill for a small amount or lead the unwary into a life of sin.”
“I shall be careful of such people,” Betsy said. “Thank you for your warning.”
“To rest my mind, let me do more than that,” Parson Midland said earnestly. “Let me escort you from the stage, share a light meal with you, and then hire a carriage and accompany you to the residence of your friend. When I see you safely there, my mind will be at ease and I will bid you good-bye.”
She smiled at him. “You are one of the kindest men I have ever known.”
The stout clergyman looked pleased. “I am of the cloth, my dear. I must strive to be worthy of my calling.”
As the stage reached the outskirts of London, the friendly clergyman continued to talk to her. She found him an excellent traveling companion, well versed in almost everything. He spoke of having done chaplain duty at Waterloo, and she mentioned Richard’s death. He was properly sympathetic and told of seeking out a small church near Canterbury but finally giving up and going to London because he felt his calling was to help those poor creatures lost to the city’s slums.
“So here I am returning to mission work among the lowest of the low,” he told her.
“Surely the police must try to keep crime down,” she said.
Parson Midland sighed. “The police are poorly organized. And there are an unbelievably modest number of them. Also their wages are far too small. The result is that these underpaid and overworked men often themselves become dishonest. Beadles, constables, street keepers, and watchmen are all too often in league with criminals.”
“That is distressing,” she said, alarmed.
He looked somber. “Corrupt police and numerous criminals. There are what are called flash houses. In these places hundreds of young people sleep nightly. There they are boarded and trained in crime. The boys become thieves and pickpockets; the girls in their earliest teens become prostitutes. These poor girls are taught where to go and what to do. Often they sleep with the flash-house boys for companionship, but their business is among strange males in the streets.”
“Surely there is some other choices for them?”
“None,” the parson said sadly. “No hope but in thieving and whoring. Unless they are prepared to sleep in sheds or under stalls and live on garbage, there is no means of livelihood for them but crime. These are the children I hope to help by establishing a mission.”
“I pray you are successful,” she told him. “I had no idea there were young people faced with such choices.”
He nodded. “It seems to transcend classes. Your wicked stepfather attempted to make you the slave of that despicable roué, Lord Dakin!”
“True!” she said with a shudder. “It was like forcing prostitution on me!”
“It was truly,” the clergyman said. “And I know that men like Lord Dakin, elderly rakes often suffering from venereal diseases, prey on the children of the streets. The procuresses who watch over these unhappy young girls keep a vigil to prevent their reformation. They follow them on their daily and nightly rounds and take most of the wretched money the girls make. They keep them in a state of inebriation if not complete intoxication until they are too addicted to the bottle to have any other interest. Completely degenerate, falling lower and lower in the scale of prostitution, finally they die in the gutter or some other foul place, prematurely aged and riddled by disease!”
“You should preach widely for funds and put all this in your sermons,” she told him.
“I intend to do just that,” the stout man said, brightening a little. “So now you understand why I worry about you.”
The interesting and informative conversation came to an end as they arrived in the busy streets of London. Even at an early hour wagons and carriages fought for a place in the crowded thoroughfares. The poor houses of the outlying district gradually gave way to stone and brick mansions and the great stately emporiums of business and government. The noise grew as they penetrated the bustling city.
All the others in the carriage came awake and reacted to their arriving in London in various ways. The baby cried lustily as its mother attempted to quiet it. The stage slowed down and finally drew to a stop in the courtyard of one of the largest inns which Betsy had ever seen. She had been to London several times before but never on her own. Alone the loud, busy city was more than a little frightening.
But fortunately she had Parson Midland at her side. He not only kept her close by him, but he also carried her bag. She considered it a good omen of her adventure that she had met up with such a person. At least she would be safe until she reached the house of Felix Black in Fetter Lane. And then she would discover if the story he had told her was the product of a mind gone mad or the most exciting event of the century!
Parson Midland warned her, “I do not advise we enter the inn for food and drink. There is much drinking of spirits in these places, and vile language is used openly — not fit for your innocent ears.”
“I suppose we should have something to refresh us,” she said.
“I fully agree,” the parson said good-humoredly. “I always have a full breakfast, and I’m extremely hungry. Before we proceed to your friend, we must halt and refresh ourselves and have some food.”
“What do you suggest?”
“I was about to tell you,” he said. “A few blocks ahead there is a tiny tea shop run by a matron who is a friend and former parishioner of mine. I’m sure she will allow you to use one
of her rooms to wash and refresh yourself. And we can then have breakfast in peace in one of her private dining rooms, our ears safe from violent and vulgar profanity!”
Betsy was again convinced of her good luck in finding such a friend. She said, “I’m sure you know what is best.”
As it turned out, he did. The shop was clean and quiet. The elderly woman in charge of it greeted the parson with respect and warmth. She declared, “Parson Midland, the city has not been the same without you!”
The stout man beamed at the woman. “That is good of you to say.”
“So many have come by and inquired for you,” the matron said. “They feared you might have left us for good. But I told them, no, that you would be back. I said, Parson Midland is as much a part of London as the Covent Garden!” And she chuckled.
“Thank you, dear lady,” the clergyman said. “I have taken Miss Chapman under my wing. I’m escorting her to friends. In the meanwhile may she freshen herself up here and have breakfast with me?”
“My house is always at your disposal, Parson,” the old woman said. And to Betsy she confided, “You can consider yourself a lucky girl he’s taken a liking to you.”
“I know,” she said. “I’m afraid I don’t deserve it.”
The old woman smiled. “Don’t you worry, dearie. You deserve whatever the parson may do for you.”
The matronly owner of the teahouse showed her to an empty bedroom, and Betsy repaired the damages of the journey. When she had washed and looked at herself in the mirror, she decided that she looked reasonably well under the circumstances. There were lines of tiredness at her eyes, but these would vanish once she had a proper rest.
Downstairs the pleasant Parson Midland greeted her and led her to a small room directly behind a larger dining room. He explained, “We can have complete privacy here.”
“And it will give me a chance to rest before I go to my friend’s house,” she said.
As the old woman served them breakfast, the clergyman asked her, “Where does your friend live?”
“In Fetter Lane,” she said. “Number Twenty.”
Vintage Love Page 3