© 2012 by Stephen B. Clarkson
All rights reserved.
E-Book ISBN: 978-1-938394-03-4
Published by:
Great Life Press
Rye, New Hampshire 03870
greatlifepress.com
Although Daisy’s Song is based in part on historical record and refers to real events and actual historical figures, the work as a whole is a work of fiction and the dialogue and the characterizations of individuals reflect the author’s interpretations. Some names, characters, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and are also used fictitiously.
For The Edens:
Mary and Joseph,
Elsie, Florence, Eunice, and Kathleen,
and their Descendants
“This Lake District is magnificent, Flo. Why did your family ever leave here?”
—John Havens to his wife, Florence Eden Havens, during a visit from Connecticut to Penrith, England in 1972
L’amour est un oiseau rebelle
que nul ne peut apprivoiser,
et c’est bien en vain qu’on l’appelle,
s’il lui convient de refuser.
Rien n’y fait, menace ou prière,
l’un parle bien, l’autre se tait:
Et c’est l’autre que je préfère,
Il n’a rien dit mais il me plaît.
L’amour! L’amour! L’amour! L’amour!
L’amour est enfant de Bohême,
il n’a jamais, jamais connu de loi;
si tu ne m’aimes pas, je t’aime:
si je t’aime, prends garde à toi! etc.
L’oiseau que tu croyais surprendre
battit de l’aile et s’envola…
l’amour est loin, tu peux l’attendre
tu ne l’attends plus, il est là!
Tout autour de toi, vite, vite,
il vient, s’en va, puis il revient…
tu crois le tenir, il t’evite,
tu crois l’eviter, il te tient.
L’amour! L’amour! L’amour! L’amour!
—Habanera aria from George Bizet’s opera, Carmen
Love, love is a rebel bird
that nobody can ever tame,
and you call him quite in vain
if it suits him not to come.
Nothing helps, neither threat nor prayer.
One man talks well, the other’s mum:
it’s the other one that I prefer.
He’s silent but I like his looks.
Love! Love! Love! Love!
Love, love is a gypsy child,
it has never, never known a law;
love me not, then I love you;
if I love you, you’d best beware! etc.
The bird you thought you had caught
spreads its wings and flies away…
love stays away, you wait and wait;
When least expected, love appears!
All around you, swift, so swift,
it comes, it goes, and then returns…
you think you hold it fast, it flees
you think you’re free, it holds you fast.
Love! Love! Love! Love!
PART ONE: Separation
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
PART TWO: Closure
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
Epilogue
Afterword
Acknowledgments
Bibliography
About the Author
At nine o’clock in the evening of September 22, 1891, the most beautiful woman in England was out of sorts.
One would have thought that she ought not to have been. As her two ladies-in-waiting buzzed about her like humming bees, she examined herself closely in the ornate gold-trimmed mirror behind her dressing table. Except for the light brown birthmark in the shape of a crescent moon at the center of her cleavage, which she was deftly disguising with a bit of powder, the face and figure reflected back to her was the embodiment of perfection. Her highly coiffed golden hair emphasized dark blue eyes set in a sharply featured face with a straight short nose. Her slight frame with slim waist was well suited to the bustled, big-bosomed styles of the era. A slightly haughty primness added to her allure to the rakish, hedonistic noblemen with whom she sported.
The day had been just grand. After a sumptuous breakfast for everyone, her host and lover, properly outfitted in tweed suit and cap, had led them to his enormous gun room here at Sandringham, where each selected his and her own weapon of choice for the day’s shoot. The battalion then set forth across ancient dunes to the prince’s favorite spot. There an army of beaters flushed partridge, woodcock, and rabbits into killing range of the royal party. At the end of the day the bag totaled one thousand birds and fifteen hundred rabbits. The prince was ebullient.
At five o’clock sharp, after a brief nap, they had gathered for cocktails and white wine in the main hall. She received numerous compliments on her new mauve tea gown. Across the room the prince’s eyes had flashed at her entrance.
Yet another change for dinner. Her yellow evening dress with short train matched perfectly the prince’s black tails and decorations. During the light conversations over trout, asparagus and ices, followed by port, sherry, and brandy, she had laughed heartily. The men had then retired for billiards and cigars, and the women retreated to their boudoirs to prepare themselves for midnight assignations—“amusements” as they were called.
Lady Brooke, known in society as “Daisy,” was due in the prince’s chamber at eleven-thirty. She smiled momentarily at the prospect of his creative lovemaking. Then frowned at her cuticles.
That dashing naval commander Charles Beresford, her prior liaison and still true love, was the cause of her continuing consternation. He’d abandoned her and made his own wife pregnant! That horrid woman then threatened to make Lady Brooke’s revealing letters public. Thank God the prince had stepped in, squelched the publication and banished the witch from royal social functions. Dear Bertie. Her savior. This was the night when she would show her gratitude. She may be just-turned thirty, but she had power.
She dismissed her attendants and made a final look into the mirror. Satisfied, she smiled back at her own image.
As she walked down the long hallway to the prince’s room, she began, softly, to sing her favorite tune:
“L’amour est un oiseau rebelle que nul ne peut apprivoiser….”
* * *
His Royal Highness, Albert Edward, the Prince of Wales, “Bertie” to his family and close friends, was closing in on his fiftieth birthday. Fifty years and fifty pounds overweight. His mother, Queen Victoria, had already reigned for fifty-four years, and he thought she would last forever. The Queen had severely limited his participation in affairs of the realm. Pushing back against a boring existence, the prince pursued a wide range of frivolous pleasures—game shooting, sailing, horse-racing, baccarat and other card games, gambling of all sorts, the theatre, receptions, balls, house parties featuring practical jokes and slapstick humor, dancing, and, most enjoyably, numerous extramarital dalliances.
He knew that his wife, Princess Alexandra, was aware of his predilections, but, apparently comfortable with her children and her life as the consort, she had chosen not to challenge them. Like divorce, such confrontations were assiduously avoided among the royals and the gentry.
At the moment the Princess was away in her native Copenhagen with her parents and was then to be off to the Crimea to join the Russian Tsar and Tsarina, her sister, to celebrate their silver wedding. She would miss Bertie’s birthday party scheduled for November 9 at Sandringham, the royal retreat at Norfolk on England’s east coast. Set on an eight thousand acre estate, Sandringham House was a rambling five-story, many-gabled red brick structure that was no match for the other royal residences, being comprised of relatively small rooms and furnished in an ordinary manner. Its attraction to Bertie and his friends was its comfortable atmosphere that induced informality and relaxation. Here the prince flung together all manner of different people to promote vibrant conversations and provocative relationships.
Daisy’s husband, Lord Brooke, soon to become the fifth Earl of Warwick, older than she, was also out of the way. A member of Parliament for Colchester and a Lieutenant-Colonel in the Warwickshire Yeomanry, he was in Calcutta, scheduled to be there until the end of 1892, on a parliamentary inquiry into the effectiveness of British rule in India. He had asked Daisy to accompany him, but she had declined.
So the prince felt free of any worries. He looked forward to the arrival of his favorite mistress, whom he called “my darling Daisy wife.” He was deeply in love with her. He had been distressed by the Beresford squabble, but that was now behind him, completely out of his mind.
He answered her knock quickly, and his mind soared at the sight of her in her blue velvet robe, an earlier gift of his, matching the one he now wore in every detail, including the Prince of Wales Feathers emblem over her left breast.
They reached out and clasped each other. In seconds he pulled off her robe and she his. No further encumbered, they dashed for the mahogany four-poster and threw themselves on top of the pillows. He looked down at her. Her excitingly placed birthmark drove him to distraction. In a flash he was inside her, rolling in and out as they slathered each other with wet kisses. After the burst, he continued to lie on top of her, gazing into her eyes, thinking what a marvelous lover she was and how much he loved her.
Then, as he pulled himself out to lie by her side, he was startled at what he saw. There was semen oozing from her petals. He endeavored to seem unperturbed as they both looked down.
“It appears that we have had an accident, my dear. I did not withdraw quickly enough. I assume you know how to take care of everything. We should not have any embarrassing, public results.”
* * *
Three months later, in the parlor of her house in Essex, Easton Lodge, Daisy stared at the doctor in disbelief.
“There’s no doubt. You’re pregnant,” he repeated. “You must be taking care of yourself.” He proceeded to pack his bag and don his overcoat and top hat.
After he had left, she went to the bar, poured herself a whiskey and sat herself down in the big chair in front of her desk. What to do? An abortion was out of the question. Too dangerous. Fortunately, her husband, Lord Francis, was still in India and would be there for the full term. But what then? There was no way that she could pretend the child was his; he had already been gone for a while when it happened. If she attempted to claim the child had been born earlier, that might have worked, but it was already too late. She would have let him know by now that she was pregnant, and he might have come rushing home.
No. There was no other way out. She would make arrangements for the child to be raised by someone else. Perhaps when Francis returned they could have another baby together.
* * *
Daisy watched as the horse and carriage proceeded briskly up the long drive to the front door of the mansion. Her left hand holding a cigarette began to shake. She switched the cigarette to her right and slapped her left hand against her side. She then turned and walked purposefully down the curved stairway to meet the doctor.
Minutes later, in her drawing room, he examined her and then said, “My Lady, it appears that the child will be early. I rather guess within the next two weeks.”
Daisy was taken aback, but responded quickly, “Well then, I have a lot to do to make ready. I’ll need you close by.”
“Certainly, madam. I shall be no farther than twenty minutes.”
“Good. That will be all. You may leave now.”
When he was gone she drew a handkerchief from her pocket and wiped her brow. Neither of her two children by Lord Brooke had been premature. Her friends who had suffered through early births had described at great length the difficulties involved for both mother and child. It was now the middle of May 1892. Two months early. Would the delivery be much more painful, dangerous? The pregnancy had been fitful from the start, but she hardly showed it and so far had maintained an active social life without discovery. She was confident that no one, other than her closest lady servant, whom she had taken into confidence and sworn to secrecy, had the slightest suspicion. Least of all the prince.
She punched the cigarette butt into the stone ashtray on her desk. The arrangements for disposition of the child were far from complete.
* * *
The next morning her solicitor, responding to Daisy’s summons, rode up the same drive promptly at ten o’clock.
“You clearly understand the terms, Mr. Sutherland? No one must ever know. I shall pay the couple a one-time sum of ten thousand pounds. Even they will not be informed of the child’s lineage. They must establish a new home, also well away from London. Probably the north would be the best. I shall keep the child with me for three months to help it recover from the premature birth. I will do that here, well away from prying city eyes. It will be delivered to them at the end of September. I shall never see the child again.”
“I understand fully, Madam. We have located just the right couple. They are a bit older, presently living in county Cheshire. They are childless and desperate to have a young one in their lives.”
“What is his situation?”
“A tailor, my Lady. He and his wife are most discrete. We have checked on them thoroughly.”
“Excellent. You may return here and pick up the child on September 20.”
* * *
On the morning of September 20, Daisy was sitting in the large armchair in the drawing room, looking down at the baby girl wrapped in a soft blanket in her mother’s arms. As she rocked her child back and forth, Daisy softly sang again, as she had for the last three months, from the same aria, “Loiseau que tu croyais surprendre battit de l’aile et s’envola…. L’amour! L’amour! L’amour! L’amour!” She pressed her cheek to the baby’s face as she waited for her solicitor to come for the baby.
He came shortly. As Daisy handed over her daughter, she said only, “I’ve named her Mary Ann. Please ask the couple to keep that name.” She then gave him a small tin box, locked, together with a key and a small envelope with no name on it. “Please give them these as well.”
Daisy stood by the big window and watched as the carriage rumbled away, her contorted face fighting to hide the tearing conflict within and the depth of her resolve.
Her given name was Mary Ann, but everyone just called her Mary. She was with Joe, in the park near the castle.
“Stop that, Joe,” she shouted, brushing away his invading hand from the yellow bow around her pig-tailed hair. He laughed and began to run from the castle ruins toward the swing set at the far end of the park. She smiled and bounded after him.
She was six at the time. Her young friend, Joseph Eden, “Joe” to her, except when he irked her, was nine. They lived in Penrith, a market town just below the Scottish border at the northeast corner of the Lake District. “Wordsworth country” they all called it. Penrith was a very old place. Originally Celtic, it was the capital of the independent kingdom of Cumbria until 1070 and it was the main stop on the north-south trade route going back to the thirteenth century. The castle was one of the headquarters of King Richard III, built to fend off Scottish raids that continued until the 1500s. The population of Penrith was now, in 1902, about 9,000.
They lived near each other, Mary in a place called Welsh Yard off Stangate, and Joe at 6 Beaconride, up the slope towards the hill.
They swung side by side for nearly an hour that day, talking non-stop about their experiences at their separate national schools. They planned a visit to the River Eden on the following Saturday to watch a swimming contest with their parents and to look for fish in a quiet inlet they had discovered earlier in the spring. When they got tired, they climbed off the swings and began the trudge back to their homes in time for supper.
Although she was three years younger than Joe, she was already an inch taller than he by the time she was in the fourth standard at the girls’ National School, and he was in the seventh at the boys’. He was also one of the shorter boys in his class, but was well liked, both for his intelligence and his toughness. His teachers were concerned about his frequent fighting.
They saw each other less frequently as their worlds became more separately boy and girl oriented. Still they remained friends and usually got together once a month on a weekend when many of the town’s families gathered on the grounds at Penrith Castle park to socialize, swap yarns, and play games of football and bowls.
Every Tuesday her mother took to the town’s Market Square where all the farmers from the countryside brought in their produce—vegetables and meats—and fish they had caught in local streams, and bought supplies. Mary was wide-eyed as she made her way through the assembled throng of resident buyers and the horse-drawn traps and carts brimming with fresh food that sent appetite-piquing smells swirling about the square.
Tuesdays were “crying days” in the Square, when “Jimmy the Bellman” Parkin, Penrith’s town crier, slowly rang his bell and announced meetings, sales, lost property, deaths, and funerals. He was the newspaper of that era. Mary would stand transfixed before him until he completed his news and moved on to other key locations in the city to deliver his messages.
On one Saturday in early June, Mary and Joe watched a football game between two local clubs. When the game ended a group of half a dozen young boys about a year older than Joe came towards them. The boys were loud and boisterous, pushing each other and bragging about themselves. One of them spotted Mary. Apparently he knew her. He called out, “Mary, Mary, quite contrary. Who’s your daddy? A little fairy?” Another yelled, “Illegitimate! Illegitimate! We don’t want you in our town.”
Mary reddened. Her hands clenched in her pockets. At first she could not move. Then, in a split second, she sprinted at the offensive prattler and head butted him to the ground. She then fell on him and began pounding him in the face. The young man’s companions started to pull her off, but Joe raced up and knocked one of the biggest down with a single swing. The others tried to restrain Joe. They were starting to pummel him, but they were in turn pulled away by several men who came to stop the fracas.
Joe rushed to Mary’s side and put his arm around her as she wiped away tears. He then walked her home.
When Mary entered her house, she immediately told her mother what had happened. She looked the older woman directly in the eye and asked, “Mother, what were they talking about? What does ‘illegitimate’ mean?
Elizabeth Masson was a short, chubby woman. Just the opposite of her husband, Matthew, who was tall and rail-thin. She wore her gray hair pulled back tightly in a bun at the back of her neck. The parents’ dispositions, too, were different. He was all business, tight lipped and tight with every penny. The mother was the easy-going, forgiving one.
Mrs. Masson stopped preparing supper, took off her apron and led Mary into the parlor where they both sat down on the couch. She began, “Mary, there is something you should know. Your father and I are not your real parents. When we were living in Congleton in County Cheshire, we were approached by a solicitor from London who had heard that we were interested in adopting a child. Your father and I were simply elated at this opportunity sent from heaven, and we immediately agreed.
“Mary, being illegitimate means that someone’s parents were not married when their child was born. We don’t know that you were illegitimate, but you may have been. Whether you were or not means nothing to us. We love you, and it doesn’t mean you are not a good and deserving person. That’s up to you and how you live your life. Anyone who tells you otherwise or tries to make fun of you because of it is simply an ignorant fool who you should not pay any attention to. Do you understand that?”
Mary looked down at the floor. “Yes, Mother,” she said. “It still makes me feel different.”
* * *
Mary loved the hush that came over St. Andrews church just before the processional began. To her it was the most dramatic moment of the religious service, as though the coming of the Lord was being announced at that very moment. On the Sundays when the two buglers accompanied the choir and the grand organ, the effect seemed even more dramatic. Mary was newly confirmed in the Anglican church and in that instant she felt she could taste the Eucharist coursing through her body.
She sat with her parents in their usual spot toward the middle of the church next to the center aisle. Mary had become a member of the children’s choir, but she was not singing with the choir this day because she had missed their weekday practice due to a cold. The choirs in those days were made up of men and boys. No girls or women allowed. But earlier that year Mary had pressed herself upon her parents and the choirmaster to let her try out. After hearing her extraordinary voice, the choirmaster had relented.
On this Sunday in the congregation, Mary did her best to concentrate on the long sermon, but she nodded off twice and was reprimanded by a sharp poke in the ribs from Elizabeth.
When the service was over, the wealthy nobility and gentry who sat in the front pews filed out first, paying no attention to those in the middle and rear of the church. They all left quickly in their carriages or motorcars while the rest, most of whom were quite comfortable as commoners, mingled and chatted outside for nearly a half hour. As her parents talked with the pastor, Mary felt lonely. Only one of her friends was there, but she was completely engaged with her own parents. Joe was not around. His family belonged to the other church, Christ Church, but rarely attended Sunday services.
Mary walked through the small churchyard, full of spring roses and daffodils entwined about faded sandstone tombstones barely remembering the names of leading citizens of yore. As her eyes traced the letters of long-gone members of influential Penrith families, her mind went back to the fancy lords and ladies who minutes ago had all sat so primly in their plated pews before marching out and disappearing into their expensive transports. What was so special about them, she thought. Why shouldn’t I be able to live as luxuriously when I grow up?
* * *
Mary read a lot. She was captivated by the works and heroines of Jane Austen. They were all young, independent and exuberant, but often impolitic, mistaken and even rash. Elizabeth Bennet threw herself at life with abandon. Emma lacked tact and maturity. But they both had verve, excitement, in the way they approached their lives. The one that really stayed in Mary’s mind, though, was Fanny Price in Mansfield Park. Unlike the others, Fanny was passive and nervous. She seemed helpless even when she rejected the wealthy man who wanted to marry her because she loathed him. When she finally returned to her terrible family she showed her true worth by the way in which she helped them, but Mary found that message of the book to be highly depressing. She recognized and appreciated Fanny’s values, but to Mary the thought of living her life that way was repugnant. She felt that she had to be more aggressive, to go after something, to have more fire. To simply accept being stuck like Fanny didn’t appeal to her, even though Mary loved her parents and did not want to leave them.
* * *
“Let’s pretend we’re Lord and Lady Brougham,” Mary said. “I’m sure this area was the grand ballroom. That one over there was the main living room.”
They were walking in the remains of the Brougham Castle, on the River Eamont, a mile and a half southwest of Penrith.
Joe scrunched up his nose. “No, that’s no fun. Let’s climb up there.” He pointed to the high keep toward the north side of the ruins.
They ran over and climbed up the inner stone steps. Moments later they were looking out over the river toward the town of Penrith with Beacon Hill in the backdrop. On the meadows below hundreds of sheep wandered slowly about, chewing the grass as their spring lambs frolicked around them and then ran back for more of their mothers’ milk.
“This keep was the earliest part of the castle. It goes back to 1214 when it was built, like the castle in town, to fend off the Scots. It was also a strategic post for the Lancashire side in the Wars of the Roses,” Joe said.
Mary looked at Joe, suddenly in a new way.“You sure know a lot about history,” she said. “So why don’t you want to play ‘Lord and Lady’ with me? We could make believe we are living two hundred years ago, in the old times you like so much.”
“I just don’t like fancy people. I feel uncomfortable around them. They live in a different world. I don’t even like to pretend I am them.”
“Why wouldn’t you want to be like them?”
He looked at her with an exasperated smirk. “Wouldn’t make any difference. Can’t ever rise to their level anyway.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“What’s going on with you? You’ve been acting strange lately.”
“Listen, Mary. I just found out that the Hebsons aren’t my real parents. They just raised me. I was born illegitimate. Their friend, the woman I have been calling ‘Aunt Jane’, Jane Eden, is my real mother. My real father never married her.”
“Do you know who your father is?”
“William Woods is his name. My mother became pregnant by him when she was working as a maid for his parents. When they discovered she was with child, they turned her out and sent their son on a trip through Europe. He has since inherited his family’s business, a company that manufactures pipe tobacco, cigars and cigarettes down in Preston. He was the mayor there about ten years ago.”
“You should go and talk to him.”
“He doesn’t want to see me. He’s a big church man and a Conservative. Fancy people like that don’t want me, and I don’t care much for them. I’m stuck in a hole in this society that nobody cares about.”
“You can stick with your schooling and get a good job. You could become successful in a small business of your own.”
“But I can never get into one of the schools that I would need after graduating from the national free school. I couldn’t get into college either. All the business leaders have to have that. I don’t have any money for those schools even if I had an upper-class background.”
“Well, I intend to make something of myself and to be just as fancy as those front pew people.”
Joe laughed, and his eyes twinkled at her. “Now just how do you think you’re going to do that?”
“I am going to become a famous singer and make a lot of money and travel the world.”
“Good luck. Maybe you have a chance, with real parents who make a good living.”
Mary’s smile disappeared. “Joe, you remember what that boy yelled at me out at the football game that day. What he said was true. It’s worse than your situation in a way. The Massons are not my real parents either. They don’t even know who my real parents were. I’m probably illegitimate just like you. Please don’t tell anyone.”
Joe’s mouth dropped open. “No. Not you too. Oh God. Two peas in a pod we are. Both doomed.”
Mary stiffened up straight. “Not doomed, Joe. No! Definitely not. I’m still going to find a way to become wealthy and live a better, more interesting and luxurious life.”
Joe shook his head. “I doubt it. Not in this country. Even tough for you to marry up significantly.”
Mary did not waiver. “You wait and see, Joe.”
* * *
Mary whistled a happy tune and swung her school bag back and forth as she skipped toward home from school on her fourteenth birthday. Soon she stopped and opened a gate where a short stone tunnel led into an area where six brick and sandstone tenements, two stories high, were lined up on the right of the walk. On the left side of the path, raised about two feet, was a grassed lawn, surrounded by a flower garden overflowing with spring colors of tulips, pansies, azaleas and rhododendrons. Mary ran up the walk, throwing open the door marked number 3 with hardly a stop and jumped into the waiting arms of Matthew Masson, who squeezed her tightly.
“So, what did your teacher say about your singing?” he asked.
“She said I was very good and I should take lessons.”
He hesitated, then said, “Maybe someday. We really can’t afford it just now.”
He turned back to his work. He was just finishing the sewing on a formal gown for Lady Lonsdale, mistress of Lowther Castle, five miles to the south on the River Lowther.
“Go help your mother with supper. It should be ready soon.”
Mary charged through the kitchen door, nearly knocking over Mrs. Masson, who was carrying a freshly baked mace cake to cool under the shelf by the window.
“Whoa. Watch it, young lady. Why are you so full of beans today?”
“At school they all clapped and said I was a wonderful singer. They said I should get professional training. But Daddy says I can’t. That we don’t have the money.”
”Well, we’ll see, my dear. Perhaps sometime soon your father and I can have a little chat about it. Don’t give up hope.”
Mary beamed.
* * *
But that night, as she lay in bed, Mary trembled as she heard her parents arguing, once again, in the next room.
“You have to stop this drinking, Matt,” Elizabeth said. “It’s going to kill you. What am I going to do if something happens to you?”
“Yer’ll do just fine, Lizzie,” Matthew Masson answered. “Besides, nothing’s going to happen to me.” He was slurring his words, after consuming several bottles of beer both before and after supper.
“Even if you don’t hop the twig, you’re losing customers with all the boozing, even while you’re working, for God’s sake. We can’t even pay all our bills on time.”
“Don’t worry. Bill Musgrave at the bank will take care of us. He loaned to us before.”
“Not next time. Not if he’s heard about you being into the suds every day.”
“Now Lizzie, lay off. You worry too much….”
Mary covered her ears with her pillow so that she wouldn’t hear the nightly tirade. She firmed her lips and vowed never to drink alcohol. She thought, I have to find a way to make money when I finish school. Either that or I have to marry a wealthy man. I wonder who that man might be. I have my doubts about Joe.
* * *
“Do your parents, the Hebsons, ever argue?” Mary asked.
“No. Not that I’ve ever heard. Why? Do yours?” Joe said.
“All the time. Shouting at each other. Mostly after I’ve gone to bed so they think I can’t hear them.”
“What do they fight about?”
“Mainly money. Sometimes I wonder why they stay married.”
“Probably because of you,” he said.
Mary looked at Joe for several seconds. Then she slowly nodded her head.
“Doesn’t sound like a nice place to live,” he said. “I’ve also heard several people in town comment that the Massons stick to themselves. They’re not very sociable. Kind of strange. Anyway, glad I don’t have to put up with that kind of thing day after day.”
“How are the Hebsons treating you now that the truth is out that Aunt Jane is your real mother?”
“All right. They do seem a bit more distant. They now expect Jane to assume responsibility for me.”
* * *
“Mary, you’ve got to get these ideas about money and fame out of your head,” her mother said. “They may seem important to you now, but in the long run, they are not what counts. Family, honesty, loyalty and, most important, love are much more important.”
“Mom, I appreciate those things, but I’ll worry about them later. Right now I’ve got to focus on my singing. I’ve got to get those lessons, now. Please!”
Elizabeth looked down at Mary and smiled. “Lessons are expensive, Mary,” she said. “But I will check with a woman down in Windermere who gives lessons to see how much she would charge. Maybe we can make some sort of arrangement with her. If so, we could start to do it after the Christmas and New Year’s holidays.”