Читать книгу Daisy’s Betrayal - Nancy Carson - Страница 10

Arthur Hayward, a long-standing friend and drinking partner of Lawson Maddox, had died of pneumonia at a devastatingly young thirty-two. Arthur had inherited his father’s prosperous lamp-making business. He left a grieving young widow and three small children. The funeral was held at St Thomas’s church on a bitterly cold and blustery Thursday at the end of March in 1889. The churchyard was surrounded by appropriately black-painted iron railings. Afterwards, everybody was invited to the assembly rooms at the Saracen’s Head. The wake was well attended and convivial, with family who otherwise seldom met brought together with friends to reminisce on the highlights of Arthur’s short life. At first there was just a murmur of respectful voices but, after a drink or two, those same voices grew more voluble, and laughter began to pervade the reverential gloom. Although the service had been attended only by men, a few women now joined the gathering. They individually threaded their way across the room with a rustle of long black skirts and clicking heels, stopping to offer their condolences to the bereaved widow, who was sitting in state ready to receive them. Then they exchanged courtesies with this or that group as they glided in solemn mourning towards the fire that was burning consolingly in its grate.

Lawson found himself standing at the bar with Robert Cookson and Jack Hayward, the deceased Arthur’s younger brother. All had started the commemoration by drinking pale ale but, as the afternoon wore on and dusk inexorably cast its grey mantle over the town and the lamps were lit, they had shifted onto harder stuff and the late Arthur became further removed from their thoughts.

‘I’ve got some news to share with you,’ Lawson said, as he casually picked up the last of the ham sandwiches that were now curling at the edges and dried on top. ‘I’m getting wed.’

‘You’re getting wed?’ Jack Hayward queried incredulously. ‘When?’

‘Good Friday.’

‘Jesus! What madness has seized you?’

‘I’m in love,’ Lawson answered nonchalantly and took a bite.

Jack flashed Robert a quizzical look. ‘Did he say what I thought he said?’

Robert shrugged a limp, inebriated shrug and drew up a high stool, scraping it harshly along the linoleum floor. ‘He just said he’s in love, Jack.’

Jack turned to Lawson, his glass in his hand. ‘The only person you’re in love with, Lawson Maddox, is yourself. Who’s the poor, unfortunate wench? She should be warned about you.’

‘She wouldn’t listen. She’s in love with me.’

Robert, resting his backside on the stool, was suddenly struck by the light of realisation. ‘Don’t tell me it’s that Daisy Drake who used to be our housekeeper. I’ll wager it is.’ He took a gulp of his whisky and held it in his mouth to savour it while Lawson nodded and grinned.

‘You mean he’s marrying a servant wench? Bloody hell, Lawson. You can do better than a servant wench.’

‘She’s a treasure,’ Lawson said, his affability enhanced by the banter he always enjoyed with his friends. ‘Servant wench or no, I’d be mad not to marry her. She’s a gem. And I defy anybody to tell she ain’t from the upper classes.’

‘I trust you’ve sampled the goods already, Lawson,’ Robert leered. ‘Indeed, I take it she’s up the stick already if you’re marrying her so quick?’

Lawson put the last piece of sandwich into his mouth, chewed it and smugly picked up his glass.

‘Come on, Lawson. Since when have we had any secrets? You’re generally very forthcoming with information about your conquests.’

‘Well, she ain’t up the stick. And I ain’t ashamed to say that I ain’t even sampled the goods yet. The truth is, I don’t want to sully her before the wedding night. She’s pristine, Robert. Intact – and there ain’t many still intact at twenty-two. You know I like my women intact. And as sure as hell I ain’t about to marry a woman who ain’t.’

‘Hang me, but I ain’t a bit surprised she’s intact,’ Robert said.

‘Saved herself all these years, she has. Just for me. I’d have to be a right vandal—’

Jack called the bartender. ‘Three more whiskies, my man. We’ve a celebration here.’ He turned to Lawson. ‘I can see the attraction in marrying a virgin, Lawson, and I understand that finding one over the age of twenty-one must be a bit of a novelty, especially among the working-classes. But if she’s a looker to boot …’

‘Oh, she’s a looker all right. And honest with it. Straight as a die.’

‘But, hang it all man, why d’you want to get married in the first place? I’ve never known you short of women.’

‘I’m taken with her, Jack. She amuses me, she’s intelligent … and like I say, she’s beautiful.’

‘Oh, she’s worthy and no mistake,’ Robert Cookson said resolutely. ‘I expect you’ll have a lot of fun with her between the sheets. Always quite fancied her meself, but she’d have no truck wi’ me.’

‘Because she’s got the good taste of a born lady.’ Lawson parried. ‘In any case, I get fed up with the sort of women I’ve been mixed up with. Daisy’s like a breath of fresh air. She’s bright. I can talk to her.’

‘But who wants to just talk?’ Jack remarked, full of bravado. ‘How long have you been courting?’

‘Three months, give or take a day or two.’

‘You dark horse. And you ain’t touched it yet? No horizontal exploits? Christ, you’ll be getting boils on the back of your neck.’

‘Unless, of course, he’s been getting it elsewhere on the quiet …’ Robert suggested, winking and tapping the side of his nose.

‘Ah … That’s more like it,’ Jack agreed. ‘You’ve been dipping your wick elsewhere, eh, Lawson?’

‘The duty of every Englishman,’ Lawson replied with a roguish gleam in his eye.

‘Anybody afresh?’ Robert enquired. ‘Anybody you’d like to pass on?’

Robert looked at the women in black, still standing in front of the fire, talking. A couple of them were young and not unattractive and their perfume mingled with the smoke and the sweet aroma of whisky, a sensual cocktail for Robert who had been drinking all afternoon and, by now, had an exaggerated sense of his own desirability. ‘I wonder if any of those women are wearing drawers,’ he said fancifully.

‘They’re no nearer you, whether or no,’ Lawson said. ‘You’re fuddled.’

Robert sighed and took another swig from his drink. ‘You’re right, Lawson, I am. I reckon we could do with a change of scenery. Granted, a couple of those fillies are worthy, but it strikes me they’ve taken this funeral a bit too much to heart. This is supposed to be a sort of celebration of Arthur’s life, for God’s sake.’

‘One happens to be Arthur’s broken-hearted widow, Robert,’ Lawson reasoned.

‘All the more reason for us to go out and find a bit of lively female company.’

‘I’ll drink to that,’ Jack said. ‘Is there still a cock and hen do of a Thursday night at the Castle and Falcon? There’d doubtless be some likely wenches there.’

‘Let’s have a look,’ Lawson replied. ‘But let’s get something to eat first. I’m starving.’

So the three men bid farewell to their hostess, walked to the market place and entered the Railway Vaults. There, they ate hot pies and reverted to pale ale to pace their drinking. They talked about women, about venereal disease, about Salisbury the prime minister and the Irish question, then, inevitably, about women again.

As it approached nine o’clock, the trio ambled boisterously to the Castle and Falcon in Wolverhampton Street with its brass-bound barrels piled up behind the bar. As they went upstairs to the assembly room, a band was playing, trying hard to be heard over the squeals and the guffaws of the rag-tag folk already in there. The appeal of cock and hen clubs was that men of all classes could move between women of all social groups at will, even different races since so many had been drawn to the Black Country seeking work. Gentlemen mixed freely and uninhibitedly with the working-class girls of the town. Indeed, some of those girls thought they had done rather well for themselves when they managed to attract the attention of a swell, although it was seldom more than one encounter, unless they genuinely liked each other.

‘What shall we drink?’ Robert called to his companions over the noise.

‘Stout and gin,’ Jack suggested in jest.

Lawson laughed incredulously. ‘I’m game. Stout and gin it is.’

‘Three pints of stout with a large measure of gin in each,’ Jack shouted to the barmaid, a plump girl of about nineteen. ‘And have a drink yourself.’ That last comment drew her attention. She smiled at Jack and began to pour.

‘The thing I like about these cock and hen nights is seeing the lower orders at play,’ Robert said into Lawson’s ear. ‘They really enjoy themselves, you know. And they drink like fish. Just watch.’

‘It’s not surprising. They must get thirsty from their exertions.’

‘They don’t worry about their mode of dress either, ’cause they don’t have the money to buy decent, I suppose.’

Jack passed them their drinks but continued to charm the plump barmaid.

‘I see the working-class in action at our ironworks,’ Robert said, having quaffed his drink and pulled a face of disapproval. ‘They’re so bloody anxious to get away from it that their only ambition once outside is to get fuddled out of their small minds and enjoy themselves.’

‘And who can blame ’em, poor sods,’ Lawson remarked.

Robert surveyed the sea of animated faces. He nudged Lawson. ‘I fancy that … She’s my target. See her? That fair-haired one standing by the stove.’

‘The best of luck,’ Lawson said.

‘See you later … maybe.’

Lawson watched with detached amusement as Robert made his way over to the girl, hesitant at first lest he was gatecrashing some existing arrangement; then, when he was fairly sure she was not spoken for, he struck. The girl smiled and received him cordially, if slightly abashed as he took the floor with her.

Lawson sensed somebody else at his side. He turned to look and met two smiling eyes that were green and wide, gazing back at him. The girl’s lips were full, her mouth clean and appealing. Her hair was a rich auburn, pinned up in a fashionable style. She was trying to attract the attention of the barmaid.

‘It’s my friend that’s occupying her with his glib talk,’ Lawson said apologetically over the background noise. ‘I’ll see if I can attract her attention for you … If it goes on much longer we’ll need a crowbar to prise ’em apart … Jack, can you let go your poppet a minute? There’s a delightful young lady here waiting to be served …’

The barmaid smiled apologetically and turned to the girl.

‘Allow me, miss,’ Lawson intervened. ‘What’s your fancy?’

She looked at Lawson’s drink. ‘Stout will do fine. What you’re having.’

‘I wouldn’t recommend it. It’s stout and gin mixed.’

‘I’m no stranger to stout. Nor gin for that matter.’

‘Here … Try it first …’ He allowed her a sip.

‘Oh, I thought the gin might spoil it,’ she said with a lilt in her voice. ‘But it makes it dance on your tongue.’

He turned to the barmaid. ‘Another pint of this stuff for my lovely friend here.’

Jack turned to look the girl up and down approvingly, then smiled knowingly at Lawson.

‘So what’s your name?’ Lawson asked.

‘My friends call me Kate. What’s yours?’

‘Oh … Percival.’

‘Percival? Lord! I’d never marry anybody called Percival and that’s a fact.’

‘Hey, you’re taking a lot for granted, Kate.’

The girl chuckled amiably. ‘Have I not seen you here before?’

‘I don’t know. Have you not?’ he mimicked good-naturedly.

She shrugged. ‘What’s a masher like you doing in here, though? Don’t you have a pretty little wife to go home to?’

‘Do you wish to apply for the vacant position? I can tell you, there have been a lot of applicants.’

‘Well now … looking at you, I’m not surprised.’ She sipped her drink and licked her lips sensuously as she looked into his eyes. ‘Are you a man of vast experience then?’

‘I’ve been known to dabble here and there. To be honest, I might even fancy a dabble with you later.’

‘You’re cocksure, Percival,’ she quipped pertly. ‘I wouldn’t lay money on you getting your way.’

‘Then I won’t,’ he replied, humouring her. ‘But then you don’t seem that sort of girl.’

‘Nor am I indeed.’

He raised his glass. ‘Then here’s to the challenge.’

‘A challenge, am I?’ She raised hers and took another drink.

‘Why don’t we dance, Kate? Then we’ll finish our drinks and I’ll take you for a ride in my gig.’

She smiled coquettishly. ‘Your gig? You have a gig? Well, fancy now! All right then. Why don’t we dance?’

On 19th April, Good Friday, less than a month after his proposal, Lawson Maddox and his bride signed the register at St Thomas’s church. Although Lawson had sent out invitations to many of his top-drawer friends, some had not accepted. The redoubtable Mr Alexander Gibson, father of the artist whose work Daisy had adored so much, sent his regrets and Lawson wondered whether it was because Gibson had discovered he was marrying a woman who had been a servant; worse still, the dishonoured servant of his good friend Jeremiah Cookson. Well, that was up to him; Lawson knew Alexander would not hold it against him once he met Daisy. Jack Hayward was best man and Sarah was vividly beautiful as the bridesmaid. Mary Drake had all hell’s game trying to get Titus to attend and, in the finish, he didn’t. He would not shift, mainly for fear that somebody might kick his gouty foot, and no amount of cajoling worked.

So, in the absence of her father, Daisy was given away by her solitary uncle on her mother’s side. After the ceremony, however, she insisted that Lawson drive her home so that her father could see her again in her lovely satin dress. Otherwise, he would not catch sight of her again till she had returned from honeymoon.

‘Wish me well, Father,’ she said earnestly, and she could see he was pale and fatigued.

‘I wish yer the very best of everything, my angel,’ he replied from his armchair, his throbbing foot lodged safely in its wicker basket. ‘And I’m just sorry as I couldn’t be there to gi’ yer away, but I daresay as your mother’s enjoying herself … Lawson, just mek sure as yer look after this babby o’ mine.’

‘Have no fear, Mr Drake.’

The wedding breakfast was held at the Dudley Arms Hotel. Jack Hayward gave a witty speech and Lawson replied, lauding the qualities of his new wife with equal wit. Sarah giggled with wide-eyed admiration at Jack’s conversation. Jack seemed dangerously taken with her, and Lawson felt obliged to quietly warn his best man to quell any fantasies he was nurturing about the bride’s very young sister.

‘But she’s interested,’ Jack complained.

‘I don’t care,’ Lawson said firmly. ‘Leave her be. She’s my wife’s sister.’

Daisy looked around her, hardly able to comprehend that these people assembled were celebrating her wedding. She had hardly had a chance to get used to the idea herself; with all the work and organising she’d had to do, she’d hardly had time to think about it. She had been in a whirl ever since Lawson had proposed. Now, she scanned the guests, drawn mostly from his acquaintances and those of his family who still remained: his Great-Aunt Hannah whose necklace of jade did not suit her donkey-brown dress and made her look austere. The Reverend William Reyner Cosens, slim and clean-shaven except for his handsome sideburns, looked his usual aristocratic self, clinging to a glass of warm ginger beer. Her own Aunt Lucy was there, dowdy and old-fashioned, with nobody talking to her, especially not the well-dressed lady friends of Jack Hayward and Robert Cookson, bubbling in their modish dresses and full of themselves. Then she saw her mother with tears in her eyes because her older daughter had married so well.

A male quartet appeared, sporting identical, well-clipped moustaches and shiny hair, and entertained the guests for half an hour with some novelty songs and sparkling harmonies. After that, the bride and groom changed for their journey. Daisy wore a new outfit in the fashionable nautical style and a flat, sailor-style, broad-rimmed hat perched on her head.

Outside, on the steps of the Dudley Arms, Daisy turned her back on the carriage that was to convey them to the station and waved to her guests. Everybody smiled at her and waved back and the stylish lady friends of Jack and Robert threw rice. It had occurred to her earlier that Robert’s lady friend, whom she had thought might have been Fanny, was not indeed. She had been introduced as Miss Amelia somebody or other.

Lawson handed Daisy into the carriage and they were driven away.

‘I’ve got a confession, Lawson,’ she said, as she arranged the folds of her skirt.

He looked at her ominously, not knowing what to expect. ‘Oh? What’s that, my darling?’

‘I’ve never been on a train before. Will it be crowded?’

He smiled, relieved it was something so trivial. ‘I doubt it. Not in first class anyway.’

‘How long will the journey take?’

‘We should be in London by about eight.’

‘So soon?’

‘I know. The wonder of modern railways. We’ll be in time to take dinner in the hotel.’

Was this really happening to her? How could she have been so fortunate? What great goodness had she performed in her life that she was being rewarded thus?

In Castle Hill she stared out through the weak afternoon sunshine at the passing traffic. A troupe of bare-footed urchins squatting at the gate of the Castle Grounds seemed incongruous next to the pristine white statue of the Earl of Dudley erected only the previous year. A steam tram huffed asthmatically up the hill from the opposite direction. Old women wearing black shawls carried baskets as they trudged towards the market place. Daisy glanced at Lawson, at his magnificently handsome face beneath his expensive, shiny top hat, and again she could not believe her good fortune. Less than four months ago they were strangers. They had met with polite words, given each other polite attention and admiring glances. He had not guessed then that she was merely a servant. As their affair blossomed and she nervously received his first kisses, she could never have guessed he would choose her to be his wife. She would endow him with all the love and affection it was possible for one person to give another. He deserved it. It was his due. He never so much as looked at another woman in her company. Never had she met anybody so focused on her, so generous, so affable, so pleasant to be with. And she had yet to experience the ultimate expression of love between a man and a woman. But it would not be that night, nor the next, nor, she suspected, the one after that.

She took his hand. ‘Lawson, I have another confession …’ She smiled into his eyes apologetically.

‘What this time?’ he asked.

‘I’ve started my … you know … My monthly visitor arrived. On Wednesday.’

‘Hang me!’ he said, piqued. ‘I think the gods are conspiring against us. Ah, well, there’s nothing to be done. We’ll just have to wait.’ He squeezed her hand affectionately and she didn’t feel so badly about it.

‘You don’t mind?’

‘It’s not a question of minding.’

‘I wouldn’t have wished it for the world, Lawson, not on our wedding night, but what’s a girl to do to stop it?’

He laughed at the irony of her words. ‘What some girls wouldn’t do to start it …’

‘But we shall most likely be at Bath before we can …’

He patted her hand. ‘Then roll on Bath, eh?’

They reached Paddington Station as it was getting dark. In the noise and bustle a porter close by was lighting gas lamps while another took their baggage to a line of hansoms. Daisy tripped along behind, astounded by the number of private carriages and horse-drawn buses that screamed advertisements from every side. The roads seemed jammed full of them and everywhere the street noise was unbelievable. More than four million souls inhabited that vast city, and it showed.

They reached their hotel. Once she had unpacked, Daisy suggested that they have dinner, then take a walk in London’s bright gas-lit streets. In the comfortable dining room they sat at a table next to a young man and two elderly ladies, one silked, one velveted. The young man, she noticed, kept looking at her through rimless spectacles and made her feel uncomfortable. She felt the urge to do what she would have done in her early years – bob her tongue at him – but she could not behave thus now she was a lady. So she listened and spoke more attentively to Lawson, and held his hand across the table to confound the young man.

Lawson ordered a bottle of champagne and a bottle of red burgundy. She had tasted champagne before at Baxter House and told him so.

‘And did you like it?’ he asked, humouring her.

‘Once I got used to the bubbles tickling my nose.’

Talk of Baxter House set them conversing during their meal about the people that Lawson knew who had visited the house.

‘What happened to Fanny?’ Daisy asked. ‘Did she and Robert not hit it off?’

‘Fanny? Oh, I think he still sees Fanny from time to time,’ he answered dismissively.

‘He plays the field, doesn’t he?’

‘Robert? No more nor less than any other single man in his position. His father is pressing him to wed, but he doesn’t admire the girl his father would have him marry.’

‘Oh? Who is she?’

‘Some mine-owner’s daughter.’

‘Wealthy, I presume.’

‘Why else would he want them to marry?’

‘And Jack?’

‘Jack will now be running the family firm. I daresay he’ll need a good woman to anchor him down.’

Time passed quickly. Before they knew it they had finished their meal and the bottle of wine and the bottle of champagne were both empty.

‘I know I suggested we go for a walk,’ Daisy said, ‘but I’m so tired. Shall we go up?’

‘You go on up, my love,’ he answered. ‘I think I’ll go to the saloon and have a whisky … and maybe a cigar as well. Even a game of billiards, if I can find somebody to play against. Do you mind?’

‘No, course not.’ She truly did not mind. It was considerate of him. It meant she would be able to undress without that first embarrassment and awkwardness she was sure to feel if he was there to watch. She could be in bed, covered up in her nightgown by the time he came up. Possibly asleep. There would be no deflowering anyway. Not tonight.

‘I’ll see you later. I’ll try not to wake you if you’re asleep.’

She stood up but hesitated to go. ‘I’m so sorry, Lawson … To be such a disappointment on your wedding night.’

He smiled tolerantly. ‘It doesn’t matter,’ he whispered. ‘I can wait.’

Reassured, she went up to their room and he headed for the saloon. He ordered himself a whisky, bought a cigar and meandered into the billiards room. There was no other soul in there. He set up the three balls and cued a few casual shots, potting the red, then making a couple of cannons but, uninterested in playing alone, he returned to the saloon. He sat down and contemplated events. The significance of what he had done that day in marrying Daisy was only then beginning to dawn on him. This delightful, innocent young woman depended on him. She trusted him. Like any gem, she was beautiful; the most beautiful woman he had ever set eyes on. Not that her beauty overawed him. It did not. He could handle it. Certainly he would be the envy of all his friends with a wife so lovely and so delightful. But it was not just in outward beauty that she outshone everybody else. She was blessed with a serenity that most other women lacked.

But did he love her?

Whether or no, she was a prize worth the having. He admired and desired her. But love? Love, surely, tended to be associated with need. The greater your need for somebody, the more you seemed to love them. Much depended on what your need was. If you needed somebody to cook and sew you could hire a maid, of course. If you needed somebody just to fornicate with, you could hire a prostitute and have a different one every night of the week so long as you could afford it. If, on the other hand, you needed somebody to enhance people’s perception of you, then your need was based on vanity. A beautiful woman, somebody you could wear like a glittering piece of jewellery, was hugely effective in gaining the attention and respect of others. And the more beautiful the woman – the more desirable – the higher your peers would esteem you. Was not that the way of the world? Did it not come down to personal vanity or personal well-being in the long run? Did not vanity and well-being fuel need, and thus our self-regard, which we pretend is our love for somebody else?

But a woman’s needs … They were subtly different to a man’s. A woman needed security, somewhere comfortable and safe to raise her brood. When she met a man who declared his love – which was the irresistible hook that caught any and every woman – would she not surrender herself to him and trade her sexuality to acquire his security and protection? Then, would she not justify her submission by convincing herself that she loved him?

Love. Need. Vanity. Sex. Marriage … Children.

Children … Ugh!

The prospect of children horrified him. The thought of witnessing the physical beauty of his wife marred by the disfiguring ugliness of pregnancy was abhorrent. But he would see how it went, this marriage lark – without children. In the long term he had no doubt it would not change him. He was a realist if nothing else. In bed, in the dark, one woman was much like another. Poking the same fire, night in night out, tended to become a chore, whoever’s grate it was and however beautifully constructed. And if it was his own grate … Well, he was going to be master in his own house; he could pick and choose if and when he would poke his own fire and liven the flames that burned in it. But tonight, he would honour his bride with his presence, if only a passive, admiring presence.

He stubbed out his cigar and drained his glass. He stood up and walked out of the saloon and headed towards the stairs. At the front door, two young women, flightily dressed and flaunting smooth, rounded bosoms, bantered with each other in their strange cockney accents and giggled. One of them saw him through the glass and she nudged her friend. With big eyes, she beckoned Lawson to come to them. Prostitutes. He never went with prostitutes. Why take the risk of catching something incurable? Nonetheless, it was tempting. They were young. They might be clean.

He smiled at their vivacity and, with a great effort of will, turned his back and walked upstairs.