The young man nodded. “Perhaps that would be wisest.”
“One other thing,” she said
“Yes?”
“From now on he should never go about without some sort of bodyguard. At least not until we know who his attacker was. If some madman is at large stalking him, he must be protected.”
“True,” Donald agreed. “I hadn’t thought of that.”
“He will be safe enough during his recovery period. He’ll be at home. But when he returns to the office, he must be guarded.”
“I’ll see to it,” Donald said.
They reached her place, and he saw her to her door. Only then did he ask, “Have you heard from Anne?”
She felt it a poor time to broach the subject. So she said, “I’m sure I’ll soon have a letter.”
Donald’s handsome face showed concern. “She has missed writing me for a week! That’s never happened before.”
Becky smiled. “You mustn’t be too hard on her. I imagine she has made many friends, and life in Paris is much busier than it was when she first went there.”
“I suppose so,” the young man said unhappily. “Thank you for going to see father.”
She said, “You were right in sending the coachman for me. I have to go out and do some errands in the morning. I shall make it a point to stop at the hospital early and see Bart before you come to take him home. It will be awkward for me to visit him then.”
“I understand,” Donald said. “I’ll keep you in touch with his recovery.”
“I count on you,” she said, bestowing a light kiss to his cheek.
He looked pleased. “I still insist you’re more charming than any girl I know! Including Anne!”
She laughed and went inside warmed by the compliment. She was concerned about Anne’s startling letter from Paris and its implications now that this new bizarre and worrisome business of the attack on Bart had been thrust on her. He had for so long lived a lawful existence that his doings of the old days had been forgotten by her.
Actually, by the time she met him, he was beginning his determined climb to respectability. But there could well be others who still saw him in the light of a villain, perhaps someone who had been harmed or sent to prison through Bart’s dealings. And this person might be back looking for revenge.
The battered condition in which Bart had been left should have been revenge enough. But she worried that there might be other unpleasant developments. And she felt Bart was holding back the truth about it all.
Becky kept her word. The next morning she went to visit Bart at the hospital before starting on her round of errands. She was amazed to find him dressed to leave and seated in a chair in his private room. His head and eye were still bandaged, and he looked unfit to leave the hospital.
She went to him and kissed him and asked, “May I ask what you are up to?”
“A carriage is coming for me shortly,” he said with a slight air of defiance.
Becky scolded him. “You ought to remain here for a day or two longer. You don’t look well enough to go home!”
He waved a hand impatiently. “This is no place to remain because of a few bruises!”
“What about your cut head? And your injured eye?”
“The head cut is minor, and my eye is no more than properly blackened,” he argued. “The doctor covered it, since he felt it would get better more quickly if I didn’t strain it.”
Becky shook her head. “You’re impossible!”
Bart Woods smiled bleakly. “I’m not going to die. It’s too soon for my enemies to rejoice.”
She said, “Speaking of enemies, have you been able to recall anything more about your attacker?”
“No.”
She stared at him. “I don’t believe you.”
“Well,” he said, and then with a touch of anger, “That son of mine has complicated matters by reporting the attack to the police!”
“I think he did right,” Becky said.
“I didn’t want all that fuss made of it. The police were here this morning questioning me.”
“Were you helpful to them?”
“I could tell them no more than I’ve told you.”
She said reprovingly, “I know you as well as anyone, Bart. And I know you’re not being truthful. You are fully aware of who attacked you and why. It has to do With the past. Because you may think the attack was justified, you do not wish to see the man punished.”
Bart stared at her with his good eye. “You have it all neatly worked out.”
“And I’m right!”
“If that’s what you wish to think, so be it!” Bart grumbled sitting back in the chair.
“So the man will never be found?”
“Probably not,” he agreed.
“And that is the way you want it?”
Bart smiled pathetically. “Don’t plague me about it. I’m going home to recuperate under Vera’s watchful eyes—that will be punishment enough.”
“Poor Bart!” And then she remembered she hadn’t mentioned Anne’s letter, so she went on to tell him about it. She finished with, “It would seem time for me to go over there and try and encourage the romance.”
“Just don’t try to push it,” he said. “Ann can be stubborn. She still cares deeply for Donald; a decision will be hard for her and should be her own.”
“I agree,” she said, “It must be handled discreetly.”
“Does Donald know about this other fellow?”
“He doesn’t think it is serious.”
“Don’t tell him or he’ll be rushing over there to try and interfere between the two,” Bart worried.
“I’ll say nothing. It will depend on Anne. She may possibly write him about it herself. In fact, I expect she will.”
“Then let them work it out on their own,” the man in the chair advised.
She kissed him and left him doggedly waiting for the coach to come and get him. She was impressed by his courage, but she worried about it all. Whoever was responsible for his condition would not be revealed by him. Bart must have some truly good reasons for keeping the news to himself.
It was two evenings later that Donald came to see her once again. She had just sent a letter to Anne. As he began to pace restlessly in her parlor, she asked him, “What about your father?”
“Improving daily,” Donald said. “He threatens to return to the office the first of the week. I wish he wouldn’t. I’ve been going over some figures on steel construction, and I don’t want him to find the staff engaged in checking them.”
“You still are determined that steel is the material for new ships?”
“Shipping itself is proving that,” Donald said with some disgust. “Every day I hear word of steel merchant vessels making record crossings.”
She smiled. “I cannot argue shipping with you!”
“Just vote on my side when the board meets,” he said. “And I have another matter to discuss with you, madam!”
“How formal you are today!” she teased him.
“This is a personal matter and serious,” Donald assured her. “And I have an idea you may know more about it than you have been willing to reveal to me.”
“Go on,” she said, guessing that Anne must have at last written him about her count.
“Does the name Count André Lemont mean anything to you?” he demanded.
She gazed up into the stern face of the upset young man and thought how much he resembled Bart when he was angry. She said, “Yes, Donald, I have heard about him.”
“And you did not warn me?”
“No,” she said. “I felt it a personal thing. Something between you two. I have no wish to interfere.”
He frowned. “I thought you were on my side, that you would defend my case with Anne.”
“That wouldn’t be fair. She is torn between you and this count, it seems. I say, let her own heart be the deciding factor.”
“And I say, her head is turned at the thought of becoming a countess,” Do
nald said unhappily.
“Not my Anne!” she reproached him.
He made an apologetic gesture. “Well,” he said, “she seems to be in love with the fellow. Or at least she thinks she is.”
“Oh?”
“She hasn’t decided for him,” Donald went on. “She has made that clear. But he has asked her to marry him, and she is thinking about it and felt I ought to know.”
“I call that fair.”
“It comes of her going to Paris,” the young man said angrily. “I was never in favor of it. And now she is in this trouble. And worst of all, I can’t leave England because of the critical state of the company and father’s poor health.”
“If Anne really feels she should marry you, she will decide in your favor,” she said.
“Cold comfort!” Donald said. “I understand you are going to visit her?”
“Yes, she said.
“That makes me feel better,” the young man said, not knowing that it was the Count’s suit she must favor.
There were further exchanges of letters, and soon Becky found herself packing for her visit to Paris. It was her first excursion outside England in years, and she looked forward to it. She also looked forward to meeting the charming young man whom Anne wrote increasingly about. But before she could get away she was involved in a situation more dramatic than any she might have read in a popular novel, or seen in one of the plays on the London stage.
A visitor arrived at her house one afternoon. And she almost fainted at the sight of him, for he wore a black wide-brimmed hat and a long black cloak and his face, though somewhat altered by the passing years and heavier of jowl, was that of a man she had supposed dead, Davy Brown!
“You recognize me!” Davy said with delight. “And you have changed only a little. I have taken some time to seek out Becky Lee and find her in the person of Mrs. Mark Gregg, widow!”
“Davy!” she said, as they faced each other in her small parlor. “I was certain you were dead!”
“Almost, but not quite,” the big man said, removing his hat to show a bronzed older version of that good-looking man who had been her first love.
She went to him and he took her in his arms and kissed her so warmly that she felt embarrassed and afraid. She pulled away. “Please! you have taken me by surprise! I must have time to accustom myself to your being alive!”
He took it in good humor. “I know of no better way to convince you than with a rousing kiss!”
“Do sit down,” she told him, bringing forward an easy chair. “You must tell me what happened and how you have managed to come back from the dead!”
He sat down across from her and asked, “Do you have a bit of good whiskey in the house? I’d like to wet my parched throat before I begin!”
Becky laughed and stood up. “I shall be a barmaid again and fetch your drink, just as I did at Crown’s Tavern!”
A look of sadness crossed the big man’s bronzed face. “I went there! It isn’t a tavern any longer, but a bake shop, and the Crowns are long gone.”
“I know,” she said, bringing him back a bottle of whiskey and a glass. “You can help yourself,” she said, seating herself again.
“You remembered,” he smiled, “I drink it straight.”
“I remember so many things,” she said, staring at him with fond eyes. “I have never forgotten you!”
“Nor I, you,” he replied and downed a good-size drink. Then he sat back and smiled at her. “You knew I was shanghaied and thought to be dead?”
“Yes, Crown found out that much for me. You were sold to the Captain of a ship bound for Australia.”
“Aye,” Davy agreed. “When the Captain first looked at me, he thought I was dead and he was in a temper. Then he found I was alive and too weak to be a crew member, and he was in a rage all over again. As soon as the ship docked in Australia, he put me on the dock and told me to look after myself.”
“You must have been dreadfully beaten up when you were shanghaied!”
“They were not tender! Not those wolves!” he said, his face darkening. “Well, I wandered about Sydney until I found a doctor willing to care for me. All I needed was proper care. In a month I was myself again.”
“But you didn’t write me or come back?” she said.
Davy nodded. “I should have,” he said. “But what had I to offer you if I did come back? I decided it would be best if you thought me dead. I also made up my mind to make a fortune in that new land.”
“I see,” she said.
His eyes met hers. “And you did do well. You married Mr. Mark Gregg, the famous shipbuilder, and I have been told you have a lovely daughter by him!”
“Yes,” she said quietly.
“What of your sister, Peg?”
“Dead,” she said. “She ran off with Alfie, and he destroyed her. I would rather not think about it.”
“I’m sorry,” he said, obviously touched by the news. “I did not know, though I remember that villain, Alfie, well enough, along with some others.”
“Tell me more about Australia,” she said.
Looking somewhat sheepish he said, “The doctor who cared for me had a daughter, a fine-looking, high-spirited girl who took a fancy to me. I saw her as far above me, but she encouraged me to try and make my fortune.”
“And?”
“As I result, I set out for the gold fields. And for a change, everything began to come my way. I fell in with an old miner who knew all about searching for gold. He taught me everything he’d learned over the years. He’d been in California when the big strike was made there and then had shipped out to Australia. Until we joined up as partners, he’d never had any luck.”
She smiled, “I’m sure you changed that.”
“I did,” Davy said proudly. “And within eighteen months we struck a rich vein. I went back to Sydney and married the doctor’s daughter and then returned to the mining town to build my fortune larger.”
“And you were successful?”
“Beyond my dreams,” Davy Brown said. “I’m a very wealthy man today. My partner recently died and left all his shares to me. So I shall never worry about money again.”
Becky said, “I’m so happy for you. What about your wife? I want to meet her. Is she in England?
Davy looked sad again. “No,” he said. “She is buried back there in Australia.”
“I’m sorry!”
“The mining towns were hard on women, even though we had all the money we could use,” he said. “She contacted a fever. In a week she was gone.”
Becky said, “What a tragedy.”
“It was,” the man seated across from her said as he poured himself another whiskey and downed it. Then he looked more cheerful as he informed her, “But she left behind a great treasure.”
“Did she?” Becky said politely.
“Yes,” Davy said. “And I know you’ll agree. My daughter, Julia is named after her dear mother. She is here in London with me.”
“Wonderful!”
“A grown young lady with a convent and classical education,” Davy Brown said with pride. “I have a mature female companion for her, a lady of genteel background to show her the city and help her adapt to England, since this will be our home.”
“You plan to live in London?”
“Yes,” Davy said. “I have come to that decision. Though I first returned here to settle a debt and leave for America. I have had my revenge, and now I’m going to stay here.”
“Your revenge?” she said, tautly.
He nodded. “Yes. Against the man who so cruelly shanghaied me years ago. That dark scoundrel, Bart Woods!”
CHAPTER 12
“So it was you!” she cried.
The man in black looked surprised. “You know about the incident?”
“How could I help but know! Bart Woods has long been the managing director of Gregg & Kerr. He married Vera Gregg, and he was my husband’s business partner and is now mine!”
Davy Brown stared at her.
“I should have realized. At the moment I attacked him I had just arrived in London. I could not rest until I faced him and whipped him! He recognized me and asked my pardon. I pardoned him with some heavy blows!”
“You hurt him badly,” she said. “He is not well.”
“Is he recovering?”
“Yes,” she said. “But you might well have killed him. I trust you have no intentions of revenging yourself on him further?”
“None,” the big man said staring at his hands. “I’m sorry I did what I did. But he was a villain, and he did send many poor seamen to ships for blood money!”
“I realize that,” she said. “I can understand your outrage. But I beg you now to forget about it.”
“You have my word.”
Becky said, “To Bart’s credit he protected you. Even though he recognized you, he would not tell the police or any of us who you were. So that must be said in his favor.”
Davy stared at her. “You speak of him as if he were your friend?”
Becky knew she was blushing. She said, “Yes. We have become close friends over the years. I have admired him for putting his black past behind him and making an honest man of himself.”
“I find it harder to forget that past,” Davy murmured.
“But you must be fair. You have changed greatly, so have I, and so has he. You must allow for the passage of time. The years have not been as kind to Bart Woods as they have been to you. The shipyard is doing badly, his marriage to Vera has been an unhappy one, and about the only thing he has to take pride in is his son, Donald.”
“And his friendship with you.”
“I have tried to be his friend,” she said. “I feel the friendship has not been wasted.”
Davy Brown said, “Perhaps you are right. I cannot quarrel with your choice of friends, since you have no control over mine. Nor can I blame you for marrying Mark Gregg. May I ask if that was a happy marriage?”
“Not as good as yours, by all accounts,” she said. “But we did have good moments. It was bad in the end when he was very ill. But I do have a lovely daughter, Anne, who is in Paris at the moment.”
Davy said, “I wish you had a son. I’ve often dreamed of coming back here and finding you and my daughter marrying your son!”
Vintage Love Page 115