Читать книгу Daisy’s Betrayal - Nancy Carson - Страница 6

On New Year’s Eve, in 1888, a party had been arranged at Baxter House and Daisy had done most of the organising, although Mrs Cookson herself had written and sent out all the invitations. It was to be a grand evening and the Cooksons’ immediate family, friends and business associates would be there; altogether, some fifty guests.

‘I think informal dining would suit us all better,’ Mrs Cookson said as she sat at the table in the breakfast room with a notepad in front of her. To her right was Daisy, to her left Martha Evans, the cook.

‘With so many people to cater for, ma’am, I agree,’ Daisy commented and looked at Cook for her confirmation.

‘I’ll prepare whatever I’m asked to,’ Martha said.

‘A buffet dinner that people can eat while they stand and talk. Any suggestions, Daisy?’

‘Well, a variety of meats in dainty sandwiches would be a start, ma’am.’

‘I could cook some ham, roast a joint of beef, a few chickens,’ Martha suggested. ‘Even some venison if we can get it. Then there’s smoked salmon, poultry and game birds. I could bake some little savoury pies and tarts as well, ma’am.’

Daisy nodded her head in agreement.

‘A good selection of cheeses as well, I think, Cook. The men enjoy their cheese after a meal. Oh, and I think a hot soup later, to see everybody homeward, would be a very satisfactory touch. Don’t you think so, Daisy?’

‘Yes, that would be very well appreciated, I believe, ma’am.’

Daisy had never seen so many varieties of cheeses when the grocer’s boy delivered them. For dessert Martha prepared syllabubs, fools, hot fruit tarts and pies, egg custards, creams and even ice cream. It was all to await the hungry revellers in the dining room, where lavishly dressed trestles had been laid out to accommodate it. Everything looked and smelled mouth-watering. The staff, of course, had their own cache of food in the kitchen, which they picked at when they had the opportunity. A trio of musicians had been hired to perform in the function room of the house, where a hearty coal fire burned in the opulent marble grate.

At eight o’clock the first carriage arrived and emptied out Alderman Jukes and his wife, who was appropriately bedecked in all manner of jewellery. The town’s Clerk of Works, Thomas Bakewell, and his wife followed them shortly after. Then a middle-aged couple entered; the wealthy and highly respected socialites, Mr and Mrs Alexander Gibson. He, once seen, was not to be forgotten; immaculately dressed, he had a superior bearing, like a duke. Thereafter, a veritable procession of carriages and hansom cabs halted in turn on the drive that ringed the front garden, disgorged their passengers and moved on.

Daisy hovered discreetly in the hall, trying to blend with the fashionable William Morris wallpaper, overseeing the servants who politely divested the guests of their hats, gloves, topcoats and scarves, while others handed them welcoming drinks. She had assigned Sarah to work in the kitchen and help serve the food later.

The house was filling up, and she could hear the chink of glasses, the reassuring sound of laughter. She could smell the rich aroma of cigars as smoke pervaded the air from the function room. The early signs portended a hugely successful evening and Daisy began to relax a little … until a well-dressed man was let in. He was about thirty she guessed, tall with a well-groomed head of dark hair and handsome beyond belief, with eyes that exuded the coolness and clarity of sapphires. As soon as she saw him she could not take her eyes off him. It was love at first sight.

He matched absolutely the image she had fondly carried in her head all those years of the man she believed she was destined to marry. He had to be the one. There were merely three obstacles to a union between them that she could perceive: his obvious wealth, her position as a servant and, not least, the fascinating young woman who accompanied him.

Of course, he did not so much as look in Daisy’s direction. However, she studied him and the girl, watching with extreme curiosity to see whether she wore a ring of any sort as she removed her gloves. She did, but it was neither a wedding ring nor an engagement ring. Naïvely, Daisy was encouraged. She scrutinised the girl carefully for clues as to her background. People intrigued her and always had; she observed them habitually, noticed their behaviour, their facial expressions, their reactions when spoken to, their body movements. One didn’t always have to hear a conversation to know what somebody was saying when the rhetoric of their movements and mannerisms told so much. The first thing that struck Daisy about the girl was her looks. She was not beautiful in the classical sense – she lacked the finesse, the innate elegance of a well-bred lady – but she had a pretty face, enhanced by a smooth, cared-for complexion and sleek, fair hair. Daisy could not help but notice her bare shoulders either, or the way her creamy breasts nudged at her décolletage with a youthfully firm resilience that defied both gravity and the constraints of corseting.

‘Lawson!’ It was the voice of Robert Cookson, Jeremiah’s son. ‘You made it. For God’s sake, grab a drink, man … Hetty, would you see that Mr Maddox’s hat and coat are looked after … and those of Miss, er …?’

‘Lampitt,’ Lawson Maddox informed him by way of introduction. ‘Miss Fanny Lampitt.’

As Hetty the maid took the girl’s hat and coat, Robert took her hand and put it gently to his lips, parodying the gallantry of a bygone age. ‘Miss Lampitt,’ he said admiringly. ‘Any friend of Lawson’s is a friend of mine. Especially one so beautiful. May I call you Fanny?’

Daisy continued to watch unobserved in the shadow of the broad, sweeping staircase as the girl, evidently overawed, either by Robert’s gushing manner or the opulence that surrounded her, fluttered her eyelashes, and looked up into Lawson’s twinkling eyes for reassurance and encouragement. And there Daisy gained another clue about her. This girl, this Fanny, was unsure of herself. She seemed out of her depth with those affluent people and in such unfamiliar, sumptuous surroundings.

‘Oh, please call me Frances,’ the girl replied, an entreaty in her voice.

Frances? Fanny? Of course. Daisy smiled to herself. No wonder this girl would rather they didn’t call her Fanny. Fanny was reserved for a woman of a different calibre. To Daisy, it seemed this girl was endeavouring to give the impression she was something she was not. To her credit, her outfit would never have given her away. She wore a good blue satin dress that matched her eyes, with a tight bodice and puffed sleeves; the height of fashion.

‘I think … In fact, I’m sure I prefer Fanny, if you don’t object,’ Robert said with a wink to Lawson. ‘It has a certain ring to it.’

‘All right. Fanny, then,’ Fanny answered with an acquiescent smile. ‘If you’d rather.’

‘That’s settled then … Amy, would you pass Miss Lampitt a drink? What would you like, Fanny?’

‘Oh, a glass of port, please.’

Amy, another servant, who was looking after the welcoming drinks, handed Fanny a glass of port, then a glass of whisky to Lawson. They moved on, into the main room, chatting amiably.

Daisy sighed, envious of the girl despite her name. She had done well for herself to attract the attention of somebody like this Lawson Maddox. And yet she felt sorry for Fanny as well. Fanny was on tenterhooks lest she make some awful social gaffe that would reveal her true status. She was brave and yet, the way she looked at Lawson so adoringly, it was obvious she would walk barefoot through burning coals for him.

When the last of the guests had arrived and had been welcomed Daisy went to the kitchen to check how things were progressing there. Martha the cook assured her that everything was under control. So she went upstairs to her room simply to check herself in the mirror. Oh, it was for him. Certainly, it was for him. A wisp of stray hair tickled her neck and she tucked it back into place. She pinched her cheeks and bit her lips to redden them and inspected the overall effect. She was not displeased with what she saw. She had been given permission to wear an unpretentious dress that suited the evening and she had bought it specially. It was midnight blue, very plain, made up of separate bodice and skirt, with a modest décolletage. Mrs Cookson had also permitted her to wear a little plain jewellery, so she wore a thin silver cross and chain and matching earrings that had been given to her by Charlie Bills once as a Christmas box. With her hair piled up she looked appealing and yet demure. Her demeanour was entirely different to Fanny’s. Although they came from similar backgrounds, Daisy knew she did not betray her true beginnings when out of uniform; and wearing that tasteful though inexpensive dress, nobody who was not already aware she was the Cooksons’ housekeeper would be any the wiser. It occurred to her then to try a little experiment and put her theory to the test.

So she walked slowly, confidently downstairs, practising her poise as she went. The party was getting noisier and the musicians were struggling to be heard over the buzz of conversation and laughter. Skeins of blue smoke were drifting through the hall and being drawn up the staircase by the lure of an open window at the top. She made her way to the main room and entered unnoticed. For a while she stood and watched with interest the couples dancing a military two-step. She must have been there for about ten minutes, excusing herself with a smile if she found she was inadvertently standing in the way of couples trying to get past her … when Mr Robert Cookson sidled up.

‘Daisy! My word, you look ravishing. Won’t you have the next dance with me?’

It would have been impolitic in the extreme to have refused so, when the trio embarked on the next dance, a polka, she joined him and whirled around him nimbly.

‘You dance very well,’ he said when they met face to face for a few seconds.

‘Thank you,’ she replied with a broad smile at the next conjunction. ‘It’s what servants do sometimes in their spare time.’

‘Dancing is not the activity I heard they do,’ he said, with a provocative flick of his eyebrows and a smug grin as he twirled around.

Her skirts rustled as he brushed uncomfortably close to her at their next turn.

‘How so, Mr Robert?’ she said, retaining her smile. ‘If you mean what I think you mean, I am not aware of any unsavoury goings on at Baxter House.’

‘Fiddlesticks, Daisy! It goes on everywhere.’

‘In some houses, maybe … But not here, I can promise you. In any case, it’s a delicate subject to discuss whirling round on the dance floor.’

‘Quite the lady, aren’t you?’ he commented, and she could not make up her mind whether he was being sarcastic or complimentary. ‘How old are you now, Daisy?’

‘I was always led to believe it impolite to ask a woman her age,’ she answered, avoiding his eyes.

‘That depends on the eminence of the woman,’ he said cuttingly, putting her roundly in her place. ‘So what is your age? Twenty-one? Twenty-two?’

‘About that,’ she replied, humiliated and yet determined not to give him the satisfaction of a direct answer.

‘And not married yet. Nor even courting, I am led to believe.’

Daisy could scarcely believe his outrageous directness. As they tripped across the dance floor she looked directly into his eyes. ‘Mr Robert, I can assure you that no man I have ever met has made me yearn to be married to him, either for love, money, or convenience.’

‘My dear Daisy,’ he guffawed, overlooking or failing to note the rebuff.

Thankfully, at that moment, the dance ended. At once Daisy made a move to leave him and he unhanded her. She stood for some minutes, her head down, dejected at Robert’s disparaging attitude.

When she looked up she saw that people were once more dancing, though she had not noticed the trio strike up again, nor the sound of skidding feet marking the polished wooden floor as couples swivelled graciously around each other. So many straight backs and elegantly inclined heads. This throng, apart from the uncaring Mr Robert, was the cream of Black Country society. She scanned the sea of faces as they danced, and she spotted him on the floor again. His back was towards her and his partner was Fanny. Was he trying to make a cuckold of his friend?

‘Pardon me for saying so, but any man who would leave you standing on your own at the edge of a dance floor clearly doesn’t deserve you,’ a man’s voice whispered very close to Daisy’s ear. ‘Especially since you’re standing directly beneath a sprig of mistletoe.’

She turned her head to see who had spoken. At the sight of Lawson Maddox and his twinkling eyes she gave a blushing smile, and looked up at the mistletoe optimistically.

‘May I introduce myself?’

‘No, please,’ she replied with breathless ambiguity at being taken by such a pleasant surprise.

‘Lawson Maddox. I hope you’ll pardon me but I’ve been watching you and, apart from the polka you danced with my friend Mr Robert Cookson, you’ve been standing alone. I assumed therefore that you are unescorted. Don’t you know anybody here?’

‘Oh, yes, yes,’ she said recklessly. ‘I am with others.’

‘Are you a relative of Mr or Mrs Cookson?’

‘No … But I am connected,’ she added obscurely. Obviously, he did not know she was merely a servant. And why should she confess it?

‘Connected by trade, then? Through your parents, perhaps?’

She gave an indefinite half nod. She had no wish to lie and, she thought, the best way out of answering directly, which would certainly turn her into a liar, was to turn the conversation.

‘Isn’t that your lady friend dancing with Robert now?’ she remarked.

‘How do you know she’s my lady friend?’

‘Because I saw you enter with her earlier.’

‘Ah. May I dare to hope that you have already been watching me then?’

She smiled enigmatically, to preserve her self-respect, for she could not allow him to think such a thing. ‘I’ve been admiring her dress.’

‘Oh.’ He returned a dazzling beam that made her insides churn. ‘Why is life always so full of disappointments?’

‘Is it?’ she queried. ‘I would have thought life was full of delights. Especially for a man like you.’

‘I don’t know your name.’

‘Daisy Drake.’

‘Daisy?’

She nodded, and her pleasure at his attention showed in her big blue eyes.

‘Now there’s a name to conjure with. The daisy is a beautiful white flower. But not half as beautiful as you … As if you didn’t know already.’

Her smile stretched from one ear to the other, showing off her even teeth to good advantage. ‘I’m sure it’s not true, Mr Maddox, but it’s good of you to say so.’

‘Oh, call me Lawson. And it is true. You know it is. You and your lovely name are a fine match. You’re easily the loveliest young woman here tonight.’

‘Oh, how can you say that?’ she answered modestly. ‘Your lady friend is very pretty. Far prettier than me.’ She was fishing, of course, not just for a further compliment, but for information about his relationship with that girl.

‘Fanny,’ he acknowledged. ‘She’s not really my young lady, as you call her, in the sense that we are a couple. We’re not romantically linked.’

‘But she seems to think the world of you. I’ve seen how she looks at you.’

‘Fanny?’ he said incredulously and laughed. ‘You’re mistaken.’

Well, Daisy was not about to argue with him, even though she believed he was plainly wrong. Maybe he was just too blind to see it.

‘Listen,’ he said. ‘The band is playing another waltz. Would you allow me the honour?’

She smiled acquiescently and he led her to the floor. He put his hand to her waist and again she felt that surge of blood through her veins that made her temples throb and tied her stomach in knots. Off they went. He was an adept dancer and led her expertly. As they swirled around together he nodded, grinning, to Robert and Fanny as they swished past.

What was it about him that induced this physical reaction in her? She wanted to curl up in his arms and be pampered by his caresses. She wanted to feel his arms around her all night – every night. She surreptitiously sniffed at him to familiarise herself with the scent of him, something she could remember when he was gone, for she had no doubt at all that she would never see him again after that night.

‘Are you local?’ he asked as they glided around the floor.

‘Oh, yes, can’t you tell?’ She was in no hurry to pursue the question. ‘Are you?’

‘Dudley born and bred. I live in a cardboard box under one of the market stalls.’

Daisy laughed out loud. ‘Just as long as it’s warm and comfortable.’

‘Oh, all modern conveniences. A tarpaulin to throw over it to keep out the rain and snow, a candle to warm myself by. What more could a man want?’

‘Do you live with your family?’ she asked seriously.

‘In that box?’ He kept a straight face while she laughed again. ‘As a matter of fact, I’ve got no family, save for a distant aunt. No, I live by myself. All alone.’

‘Oh, I’m sorry.’ At once she felt guilty at laughing at what he’d said. ‘I had no idea. What happened to them?’

‘It’s a long story,’ he said evasively. ‘Maybe I’ll tell you when I know you better.’

The dance ended. Two of the trio put down their instruments and began supping their beer, while the other left the pianoforte. Daisy looked at the clock on the wall. It said ten o’clock. The food was due to be served.

‘Will you excuse me?’ she said apologetically. She hated parting with this man, but duty called.

‘If I must. If you’ll promise me a dance later.’

‘Oh, yes, I’d love to.’

‘So why don’t you accompany me in to eat, Daisy?’

‘Oh, er … do you mind if I don’t?… I’ll see you later.’

He nodded, looking disappointed. While he waited for Fanny and Robert to leave the dance floor and rejoin him, Daisy made her way at once to the dining room. Sarah was there with Hetty and Amy, standing behind the trestles, starting to serve the sandwiches, the pickles and the hot pies.

‘Is everything all right?’ Daisy asked discreetly.

‘Fine,’ Sarah said and pressed on with her work conscientiously.

‘Good. I’ll go to the kitchen and see if Martha needs any help.’

It was the excuse she needed to make herself scarce because she did not want Lawson to see her supervising the maids. It would be obvious that she was employed at Baxter House and thus ruin any chance at all she might have with him. So far, her experiment to pass herself off as a lady had brought a very satisfactory result. In the kitchen Martha had brewed a pot of tea although she had already been supping sherry with Gerald the groom-cum-handyman. Gerald called himself a coachman but Daisy knew he wasn’t paid a coachman’s wages, even though he drove Mr Cookson to and from the iron foundry in his brougham. She poured them each a cup and, while they chatted, began putting the puddings on trays, ready to be taken to the dining room.

After a further quarter of an hour Daisy gave the instruction to take the puddings to the dining room and stayed chatting with Martha and Gerald. He had to remain on duty to convey certain important guests home afterwards. When Daisy returned to the party, Mrs Cookson was the first person she saw.

‘Oh, Daisy, it’s all going so well, my dear,’ she said excitedly. ‘Everybody seems to be enjoying themselves so much.’

Daisy smiled graciously, perceiving it as a compliment. ‘Thank you, ma’am. I agree, your efforts don’t appear to have been in vain.’

‘Is everything under control?’

‘Oh, yes, ma’am. Everything’s running like clockwork.’

Mrs Cookson looked Daisy up and down approvingly. ‘Then relax a little and enjoy the party.’

‘Thank you, ma’am.’

She was not sure quite how far Mrs Cookson meant she could go, for the woman was aware Daisy had no escort and no other member of staff was allowed access to roam. Parties that involved staff tended to take place below stairs. But, a nod’s as good as a wink, she thought, and meandered through the guests as if she was one of them.

Lawson saw her enter and intercepted her. ‘Daisy …’ She smiled warmly at him as he spoke her name. ‘Won’t you join me with Robert and Fanny?’

‘Oh.’ She was taken aback at the suggestion. Mr Robert was sure to blow her cover, especially since he had already scorned her. And Miss Fanny Lampitt was hardly likely to welcome her as a sister-in-arms when she’d been dancing closely with the man she so obviously adored, despite Lawson’s denial. ‘Do you mind if I don’t?’ Daisy asked. ‘I would rather not be in the company of Robert.’

He glanced over his shoulder at his two companions, and shrugged. ‘All right by me. I reckon they can keep each other entertained, don’t you? Shall we dance together a while?’

She smiled, lowering her lids. ‘If you think they won’t mind you abandoning them.’

His eyes sparkled with the reflection of the gas lights that shone so brightly. ‘I would ask you to accompany me outside to take a walk, but I suspect the weather would incline you to decline that offer as well.’

She would have gone out into the cold night gladly, just to be alone with him, but the prospect of fetching her hat and coat from her room and sneaking out of the house without permission presented too many potential pitfalls.

‘So let’s dance,’ she said, tilting her head girlishly, and allowed herself to be led onto the floor again.

She was in his arms once more. They were laughing and he made her feel as if she were the most important, most desirable girl in the world. She forgot about Fanny, she forgot about Mr Robert; whether he and Fanny were dancing together she did not know and cared even less. She was entirely focused on Lawson. He was so amusing and direct. She hung on his every word, laughed at his every quip, and began to feel possessive, even so soon after they had met.

‘I’d love to see you alone sometime,’ he said and, all of a sudden, her legs felt wobbly and she feared she would lose control of them. ‘Is there any chance of that?’

Was there any chance! ‘That would be lovely.’ She rapidly considered the options. ‘I would be free next Sunday afternoon.’

‘But Daisy! Must I wait so long?’ He looked sullen with disappointment. ‘I don’t know if I can stand it.’

‘I’m not free before then.’

‘How elusive you are! Are you in such demand? Ah, well. They say good things are worth waiting for. I’ll collect you Sunday then, in my cabriolet. You must give me your address.’

She smiled agreeably. ‘So how long have you known Fanny?’ Daisy was perceiving her more as a great rival with every minute that passed.

‘A year, maybe longer.’

‘How did you meet?’

‘We were introduced.’

‘But she can’t be any more than nineteen,’ Daisy suggested.

‘Eighteen, if you want to be precise.’

‘So she was seventeen when you met her?’

‘Yes, I suppose she might have been. Possibly even sixteen. I forget.’

‘Where did you meet her?’

‘At a Band of Hope temperance meeting.’

She looked at him with disbelief. ‘Honestly?’ She saw humour dancing in his eyes. ‘You’re mocking me. I’ve seen you drinking … and her.’

‘Well, I’ve already told you we’re not romantically linked, but you persist in asking questions as if we are.’

‘You might not be romantically linked,’ Daisy replied, aware that her jealousy was surfacing, ‘but she is.’

‘So you said before. Well, if she’s got such preoccupations, that’s her concern.’

She was happy to hear it. It confirmed that Fanny had no prior claim on him.

All too soon their dancing was interrupted. The New Year was about to be greeted and everybody was expected to link hands and sing ‘Auld Lang Syne’. They lost each other in the mêlée while everybody was hugging the person closest to them, shaking hands and giving their sincere best wishes for a happy and prosperous 1889. Daisy decided she must go and check on the soup that would already be heating up in the kitchen to be served later … until she realised in a blind panic that she had not finalised the arrangement to meet Lawson. She spotted him, shoved through the noisy crowd of revellers and tapped him on the shoulder.

‘I’m sorry, I have to go.’

‘You’re leaving already?’

‘I have to. Do you still want to meet me on Sunday?’ Maybe she was being forward, but she was desperate not to let him go now she had found him.

‘I’ll call for you. Just tell me your address.’

‘It would be better if I met you somewhere … You know …’ She wanted him to think it might be embarrassing with her family, or even frowned on to be seen going out without a chaperone. ‘Can we meet outside the police station?’

‘All right. Shall we say three o’clock?’

‘Three o’clock, Sunday.’ She turned and made her way to the kitchen, extraordinarily pleased with herself.

By the time they had cleared up after the party it was nearly four o’clock in the morning, but it had been a huge success for the Cooksons and a personal triumph for Daisy. She had met the man of her dreams and was euphoric. She couldn’t sleep, of course she couldn’t. She lay awake for what remained of that cold night thinking about him, going over and over in her mind every word they had spoken to each other. After she’d bid him goodnight she made it her business not to be seen again, staying in the kitchen till everybody had gone. It peeved her beyond endurance to know that Lawson must, out of etiquette, deliver Fanny back home and she imagined with resentment those big, soft pleading eyes, begging for a goodnight kiss. She tossed and turned imagining them kissing, imagining her trying to lead him on. How was a girl of eighteen allowed out, alone with him, without a chaperone?

Then she remembered her assessment of Fanny. Fanny was evidently not from polite society. Fanny was a working-class girl. It was even possible that her mother and father neither knew nor cared where she was, or with whom. But if so, what was somebody so obviously well bred and well educated as Lawson Maddox doing with her? She had to be a cousin or a niece whom he considered worthy enough to reward with such an evening out. Perhaps he had even invited her just to introduce her to Mr Robert. After all, they danced together quite a lot, and certainly seemed to laugh a lot. Daisy felt happier with this perfectly rational explanation.