Читать книгу Daisy’s Betrayal - Nancy Carson - Страница 7

New Year’s Day fell on a Tuesday in 1889. Following the party as it did, it promised to be busy. A few guests had stayed the night so there were more people than usual for breakfast. The beds they slept in had to be stripped and remade, chamber pots emptied and scalded, the rooms they occupied cleaned and dusted. But, after lunch, when the visitors left, things were expected to settle down. Lots of sandwiches and pies remained uneaten from the previous evening and Mrs Cookson asked Daisy to organise one of the girls to take the leftovers to the Dudley Union Workhouse in Burton Road. There would be many a poor soul there glad of the extra food. Daisy offered to go and requested an extra hour besides, so as to visit her mother and father.

‘As long as you’re back here by five I have no objection, Daisy,’ Mrs Cookson said kindly. ‘Do you think your sister might like to accompany you?’

‘Oh, I’m sure she would, ma’am, if you could spare her.’ Daisy was forever surprised at how generous and thoughtful her employer could be.

‘I hope your father’s feeling better. No doubt it’ll perk him up to see his two daughters on New Year’s Day. Give them both my very best wishes and compliments of the season.’

‘Oh, I will, ma’am, and thank you.’

So, at about half past two, she and Sarah set off. They huddled into their coats and pulled up their collars to protect themselves from the cold. Shaver’s End, on the way to the workhouse, was one of the highest ridges in Dudley and a cold east wind, howling in with unhindered keenness directly from the Urals of Russia, penetrated through their layers of clothing and chilled their skin.

As they walked they talked about the party and discussed some of the guests.

‘Did you notice that friend of Mr Robert’s I told you about?’ Sarah asked, clutching her collar to her throat to keep out the cold, with a basket of food hanging in the crook of her arm.

‘Oh … er … Which one was that?’ Daisy hedged.

‘The tall, handsome one. You must’ve seen him. I told you about him. Remember?’

It suddenly dawned on Daisy that she meant Lawson Maddox. It had never occurred to her that Lawson might be the same friend of Mr Robert that Sarah had mentioned before. So she feigned ignorance.

‘I don’t recall.’ Daisy felt she could acknowledge nothing about Lawson, simply because Sarah seemed so taken with him.

‘Oh, you’d remember him all right. I served him his food. He’s a dream … He had a girl with him, though.’

‘Well,’ Daisy said, trying to affect disinterest. ‘That’s hardly surprising if he’s so handsome.’

‘A pretty girl, I thought, with lovely fair hair. But he wants to watch out because Mr Robert was all over her.’ Sarah shrugged and a smug grin spread across her face. ‘Still, I don’t mind if he pinches her off him. Then he’d be free to marry me.’

‘You know gentlemen don’t marry servants,’ Daisy said impatiently and, as soon as she had said it, she realised that this sage remark applied equally to herself. Her unwitting wisdom depressed her. Of course gentlemen didn’t marry servants. Oh, they would bed maids at every opportunity, but marry them?… ‘Which basket have you got there, Sarah?’

‘The one with the pies and sausage rolls in.’

‘Right. We’ll swap some over. Mother and Father can have some of this stuff. They’re just as deserving as workhouse folk.’

When they were only a couple of hundred yards from the workhouse they stopped and, resting their baskets on a wall, sorted out the food so that they had a decent selection for their folks.

‘I’ll take this stuff in, our Sarah. You wait at the gate.’

Daisy asked to see somebody in authority. Unless she handed over the food to somebody trustworthy the poor folk in care might never see it. Eventually she let it go to a shy young man in a frock coat who was unsure of her at first, but who thanked her liberally when he realised she was not a gypsy trying to peddle something.

She returned to Sarah. It was a long walk to their home and unbearable in the biting cold. They took it in turns to carry the basket of food that also contained some oranges Daisy had been able to sneak out. Sarah didn’t mention Lawson again but it was evident she had a young girl’s crush on him. How could Daisy have confessed to Sarah that he already had an interest in her and she in him, despite her private realisation that any liaison was doomed from the start? She hoped that Sarah’s infatuation would wane just as soon as the next handsome young man appeared. In truth, she hoped her own interest was an infatuation just as silly, and that she would get over it as quickly.

At last they arrived and walked up the entry to the back door, their cheeks red, their noses cold and shiny, and their breath coming in steamy wisps. As they opened the door and walked in, their father was nodding in his armchair, his gouty foot in his washing basket. He roused when he heard them greet their mother.

Daisy bent down and kissed him on the cheek. ‘Happy New Year, Father,’ she said. ‘How are you feeling?’

‘Bloody lousy,’ he replied grumpily.

‘It’s your age,’ Mary remarked without sympathy.

‘Is it snowing yet? There’s snow in the air, I can bloody well feel it.’

Daisy placed the basket of food on the scrubbed table. ‘Not yet, Father. We’ve brought you some food left over from the party last night at Baxter House.’ She turned to her mother, tilting her head in his direction. ‘How is he really?’

‘Miserable as sin.’ Mary was darning several pairs of socks and had a darning mushroom thrust inside one of them as if she was about to draw the innards from a rabbit. ‘I daren’t get near him for fear of kicking his washing basket. I’ve a good mind to kick him up in the air.’

‘Pity yower damn nose ai’ throbbing like my blasted foot,’ Titus protested, feeling very sorry for himself. ‘Then yo’ wouldn’t keep pokin’ it where it ai’ wanted.’

Both girls chuckled at this bickering, which they knew was mostly pretence and nowhere near as venomous as it sounded.

‘Well tomorrer morning I don’t know what you’ll do wi’ yer precious foot, but I shall want me basket back for the washing.’

‘But it’s Wednesday tomorrow,’ Daisy said. ‘I thought washing day was Monday.’

Mary chuckled. ‘Oh, ain’t I a blasted fool? It’s ’cause you’ve come. I was thinking it’s Sunday today.’

Titus, typically casual, lifted one cheek of his backside, grimaced and broke wind raucously. ‘There, catch that and darn it,’ he said scornfully.

‘Father!’ Sarah and Daisy complained in unison.

Their mother picked up a cushion and fanned the tainted air back in his direction. ‘Dirty varmint.’

Sarah rolled her eyes and giggled. ‘Shall I put some coal on the fire for you, Mother?’

‘If you’ve a mind, my wench. Mind how much you put on, though. There’s on’y another bucket or two left in the cellar.’

‘But it’s bitter cold out,’ Daisy said. ‘You need to keep warm.’

‘We’ll have to wrap up then. We’ll have to put an extra ganzy on apiece.’

As Sarah made up the fire Daisy felt in her pocket for her purse, opened it and sorted through the coins. ‘Here’s a shilling.’ She offered a sixpence and two silver threepenny bits to her mother. ‘It’s all I’ve got for now. Take the handcart to the coal yard in the morning and get half a hundredweight at least. Promise me you will.’

‘I don’t need a shilling for half a hundredweight of coal.’

‘Then buy some bread or cheese or something with the change.’

‘The rent’s due Monday … But I’n got a bit put by in me jar to pay for that.’

‘Are you short?’ Daisy asked.

‘We’ll manage.’

‘Look, I shan’t be able to come on Sunday but I’ll give Sarah some money to bring you.’

‘Oh? What you doing on Sunday then?’ Sarah asked.

Daisy cast a guilty glance as Sarah passed by on her way outside to the brewhouse to wash her hands. ‘I’ve been asked to tea somewhere.’

‘Oh, very nice,’ her mother said with pride in her tone. ‘So when shall we see yer?’

Titus started coughing before Daisy could answer. He hawked blood into a piece of newspaper, screwed it up and tossed it into the fire. She noticed it with horror.

‘Has the doctor been lately?’

‘We got no money to pay for doctors, our Daisy,’ Mary replied flatly. ‘Not since you paid last time.’

‘I’ll pay again,’ she said without hesitation. ‘Coughing up blood means his consumption’s no better and might even be worse. He needs medicine.’

‘You’ve paid enough. Rest, fresh air, fresh fruit and vegetables is what he needs. That’s what the doctor said last time he come. It’s senseless paying to be told the same thing over again. It’s senseless to waste money.’

‘But he needs to go into a sanatorium out in the country … to clean air.’

‘I’m a-gooin’ into ne’er a sanatorium,’ Titus mumbled, opening his eyes then shutting them again.

‘I thought you was asleep,’ Mary said.

It was time to turn the conversation, so Daisy passed on Mrs Cookson’s good wishes and told them about the party at Baxter House. Mary was enthralled, but Titus drifted back to sleep again. Sarah made a pot of tea and they drank it while Mary related her gossip. Darkness was falling and Daisy lifted the lamp off its hook. She gave it a shake to discern whether there was any oil in it, then lit it with a spill that she kindled in the fire.

‘Have you got any more lamp oil?’

‘I think there’s a drop in the brewhouse, in a can.’

‘I’ll see if I can bring you some more. Have you got any candles in case you run out?’

‘Oh, hark at her,’ Mary complained. ‘Have you got this, have you got that. Course I got candles. I ain’t altogether helpless, you know.’

Daisy sighed. The last thing she wanted was to appear fussing like some nuisance busybody. ‘It’s just that I don’t want you to be without. I worry about you two. It’s cold out there and it won’t pick up for months yet.’ By the light of the lamp she could just see the hands of the clock on the mantelpiece; it was nearly half past four. ‘Lord, look at the time. It’s time we went, Mother. Sarah and I have to be back by five.’

Sunday seemed forever in coming. Every time Daisy thought about Lawson and their tryst her stomach churned. She worried about what she should wear, when her only choice to keep out the cold would be her best Sunday dress, her warm winter coat, her scarf and her hat. Whether she should confess from the outset that she was a servant at the home of his friend Robert Cookson also bothered her, but she decided she would confess no such thing – not yet, at any rate. She was intent on first being driven like a lady in his beautiful two-wheeled cabriolet he’d mentioned. She really wanted to play the part of a lady, wanted to be wooed and held in great esteem, if only for the short time she might be able to deceive him.

On Sunday mornings Daisy always went to church, walking to St Thomas’s with those maids whose turn it was to go also, while the family travelled in their smart brougham. That Sunday it was damp, misty and cold but the snow her father predicted had not materialised. As they walked and talked their breath hung like steam in the still winter air. Daisy sat in the pew at the back of the church along with the other girls and Gerald the groom. She heard barely any of the service. Her eyes were fixed on the huge and colourful rendering on glass of the Ascension that was the east window, but her thoughts were focused solely on Lawson Maddox. Like an automaton she stood up for hymns, knelt for prayers and sat down for the lessons. She was still reliving the dances they’d enjoyed, the words they’d exchanged, cherishing every blessed moment, nurturing the beautiful memory, hopeful and yet apprehensive about their rendezvous, which was still nearly four hours away.

They returned to Baxter House, served lunch and the family retired to the drawing room. Daisy’s eyes were riveted to the clock. She was feeling all jittery inside. At half past two she went to her room unnoticed, adjusted a curl, reset a couple of grips in her hair and reddened her lips with a few hard bites. Then she put on her hat, her coat, her scarf and her best gloves and, at ten minutes to three, left the house by the back door.

The police station where Daisy was to meet Lawson faced an open square where a market was held regularly. On the adjacent corner, where it met Stone Street, stood a public house called the Saracen’s Head. As she waited, it occurred to her that Lawson might not turn up after all, especially if that bounder Mr Robert had enlightened him as to her true status. But, when she looked across the road and saw a beautiful black horse between the shafts of an immaculate black cabriolet standing outside the Saracen’s Head, she prayed that it was his and that he was intending to show up after all.

He did. Daisy saw him leave the public house and scan the street. When he saw her he smiled and beckoned her over. She hitched up her skirts a little and hurried to him, picking her way over the cobblestones to avoid the slurry that ran murkily between them. Her heart was in her mouth, but there was a smile on her face as she presented herself before him and stood transfixed.

‘Been waiting long?’ he asked and his smile was warm on her.

Daisy shook her head, the smile never leaving her face. She was so happy to see him. She had waited so long for this moment, with such trepidation. But just seeing his face, just experiencing his warm glow of friendship, made her feel quite at ease.

‘What are we going to do?’

‘Hop in,’ he said and handed her up onto the cabriolet.

He clambered in beside her, and the two-wheeled carriage rocked gently on its springs. He clicked to the horse, flicked the reins and they set off towards Wolverhampton Street.

‘Where are we going?’

‘I thought you might enjoy a little run out,’ he replied, turning to her. She caught a whiff of alcohol on his steamy breath. ‘But I have a bit of business to attend to first.’

‘Oh?’

‘Tenants of mine … One owes me three months’ rent. I know I’ll catch him with his feet up at this time of a Sunday. You don’t mind my mixing business with pleasure, do you, Daisy?’

He’d remembered her name. She swelled with satisfaction.

‘No, course not … Is it far?’ Secretly she hoped it would not be; she was cold and damp already from the dismal January mist and drizzle. But she did not mind so much, just as long as she was with him.

‘No, not far. So … what have you been doing with yourself all week?’

‘Oh, the usual,’ she answered, with the nonchalance of a lady of leisure.

She realised she must have sounded inanely boring. She could have told him she had been on tenterhooks the whole time waiting for this moment. She could have told him about going to the Union Workhouse, visiting her mother and sick father. She could have told him how poor Martha the cook had scalded herself when she spilled boiling water on Friday, or how her sister Sarah had crowed all week about how wonderfully handsome he was. She could have told him about the problem they’d had at Baxter House with a young maid who had been employed on her recommendation last November, who was connected with a burglary they’d had on Thursday. Nothing much had been taken but that which had required knowledge of the house and that knowledge had come from within. The maid admitted she had given information to her beau, a young man already known to the police. But Daisy told Lawson none of this, of course.

‘What about you?’ she asked brightly. ‘Been working hard?’

‘Working?’ he said, as if it were a dirty word. ‘I don’t work. At least, not in the sense that I own a factory or a farm that needs running. I purport to be a gentleman, Daisy. I keep busy. I do business. I let others work.’

She smiled, too reticent to ask more.

Lawson turned to look at a young man and woman who were walking in their direction. ‘Well, I’ll be damned. So he’s stepping out with her.’

‘Should I know them?’

‘I sincerely hope not,’ he replied.

He offered no explanation as to who the two people were but flicked the reins and the horse broke into a trot. She could hear the dabs of slurry flung from the horse’s hooves hitting the underside of the running board.

‘Has anybody ever told you that you have the most beautiful, kissable mouth?’

‘No,’ she answered coyly and smiled. She was aware of seeming to be forever smiling when she was with Lawson.

‘Honest? I’m surprised. You have, you know.’

‘I’ve never thought about it,’ she responded.

‘So what would you consider your best feature?’

She shrugged and giggled with girlish embarrassment. ‘I don’t know. I’m not even sure it’s fair to ask a young lady that.’

‘Why?’

‘Well, whatever I answer, you could say I was being conceited. I don’t think I’m conceited.’

He laughed at that, not mockingly, but genuinely pleased. ‘I applaud that answer, Daisy. You’re a smart girl.’

‘Thank you.’

‘I’m serious. I do admire intelligence in a woman.’

They turned into a road called Southall’s Lane, a ramshackle street of old red-brick buildings. Daisy anticipated that they might drive past the Spencers’ house in Wellington Road. She wondered what the Spencers would make of her if they saw her beside this handsome man in his smart cabriolet. She was sorry they would be avoiding the Spencers when they turned left again into Stafford Street.

‘We’re here,’ Lawson said as he headed the horse into another narrow lane called Albert Street. On the left was a terrace of small houses, not very old. ‘Wait in the buggy. I won’t be long.’

Daisy nodded and smiled and settled herself in the seat. She adjusted her scarf to benefit from the warmth and waited. So he owned a house here. A man of property. How many others did he have? As she waited, two boys ambled past, scruffy, dirty. They kept turning to look at her, making Lord knows what comments and giggling.

Lawson was about five minutes.

When he returned there was a look of thunder on his face. ‘All I could get out of the swine was a sovereign, so he still owes me nineteen shillings. But I’ll be back next week. And he knows he’d better have the money by then or he’ll be evicted.’

He jumped agitatedly into the cabriolet and flicked the reins.

‘But what if he can’t afford to pay?’ Daisy suggested, reminded of the plight of her own mother and father sometimes. ‘What if the poor man, whoever he is, has been off work sick, and earned no money?’

‘He’s not been off work, he’s not sick. He’s an inveterate gambler though. I know that for a fact. If he didn’t waste his money betting on horses and dogs he might have some money left to pay his rent. I don’t see why I should subsidise his gambling.’

‘I see,’ Daisy conceded, unwilling to defend the tenant more for fear of alienating Lawson.

They drove forward no further than twenty-five yards and stopped again.

‘Now for that Molly Kettle.’ He jumped down again. ‘She owes more than is good for her. This one’s a sot – spends it all on gin. D’you think I should subsidise her drinking?’ he asked.

‘No, course not,’ she answered, unable to dispute his logic.

‘I shan’t be a minute.’

Daisy made up her mind to ask him whether he owned all the houses in the terrace, even though it was none of her business. But if he was putting on this show of ownership to impress her, she presumed he would not mind her asking.

Then a young girl of about thirteen casually appeared from the house Lawson was visiting, possibly coming out to inspect her. She was very dainty, with long, dark hair that framed a lovely, angelic face. The girl smiled appealingly but soon went back into the house, clutching herself around the shoulders to ward off the cold. Daisy felt an affinity with her, recalling her own youth before she went into service. The girl reminded her so much of herself at thirteen.

‘Who was that young girl?’ Daisy asked when Lawson returned.

‘Oh, one of Molly Kettle’s daughters.’

‘She’s very pretty.’

‘Yes, I suppose she is.’

Daisy said, ‘Do you mind if I ask you something?’

‘Depends what it is?’

‘How many houses in this terrace do you own?’

He laughed. ‘All of them. And more besides.’

‘Well, well. Lawson Maddox, the great landlord,’ she commented. ‘Would you describe yourself as a kind and understanding landlord?’

‘Would I hell!’ he guffawed. ‘There’s no sentiment in business – and that’s what it is – business.’ Once more he flicked the reins and the horse hauled them away. ‘And these crafty devils will try and fleece you for every last penny … But enough of them. Now I’m going to take you somewhere warm. I bet you’re frozen solid.’

‘Yes, please.’ She nodded and shivered at the same time.

‘Thanks for being so patient, Daisy … Giddup!’

The horse broke into a trot once more and they headed back towards the centre of the town. Eventually, they drew up at the fountain in the market place and Lawson let the horse drink before he tethered it. He handed Daisy down and took her arm as he led her towards the Dudley Arms Hotel.

‘A drink will warm you,’ he said attentively. ‘And there’ll be a good fire in the saloon.’

He saw that she was reticent about going in but he smiled to reassure her. She needed little persuading; the thought of a warm fire and a drop of some smooth, warming drink inside her was very appealing.

‘What would you like?’ he asked as he sat her at a table close to the fire.

She remembered that Fanny had asked for port when she arrived at the party. ‘Port, please.’

Lawson went to the bar and came back with her port and a glass of whisky for himself. He sat beside her and looked into her eyes.

‘I’ve been looking forward to this,’ he said in an intimate whisper. ‘Getting you on your own, I mean, and having you all to myself.’

Daisy smiled happily. She held his admiring gaze while her legs seemed to turn into jelly.

‘I can see now it’s not just your mouth that’s beautiful. Those eyes … Good God, they sparkle more brightly than fine-cut sapphires. I was trying to remember what it was about you that first attracted me. I think it was your whole demeanour but especially your mouth. I just wanted to kiss your lips, to taste them, to feel how soft they were on mine. Do you remember, I warned you that you were standing under the mistletoe?’

Her stomach started to churn as if a belfry full of bats was flitting madly about inside when she thought about him kissing her. Then he put his hand on hers and her heart started thumping against her ribs, just to augment the internal agitation. And, just to top it off, her face reddened at his words.

‘Such a virtuous blush,’ he said, squeezing her hand.

She coloured even deeper and sipped her port to try and hide her face. She felt its rich, sweet smoothness as it slid down her throat. ‘I imagine it’s not the first time you’ve said that to a girl,’ she suggested.

He shrugged. ‘Maybe not. But I’ve never meant it more than I do now. Tell me about your family, Daisy. I only know what I see and I’m dying to find out about you.’

‘I’d much rather hear about you,’ she replied, deliberately trying to sidetrack him. ‘You promised you’d tell me what happened to your family.’

‘I said I’d tell you when I knew you better. I can’t honestly say I know you any better now than I did on New Year’s Eve, except that you might feel sorry for some of my tenants.’ He gave a chuckle at that observation. ‘I’ve only spent a half-hour with you yet. Tell me about yourself first.’

Daisy sighed, a deep heaving sigh. What should she tell him? That she was a working-class girl from the terraced houses of lowly Campbell Street and in the service of his friends the Cooksons – and lose him? Or should she lie and say she was the only daughter of a wealthy ironmaster and heiress to his fortune, and maintain the deception for what little time it took to be found out, and then be deservedly cast aside for it? Despite her romantic fancies, she always believed that it paid to be honest. Her father told her once that in order to keep up deceit you need a very good memory. So she decided to tell Lawson the truth. If he rejected her because of her working-class status he might as well admire her for her honesty. And this early on her aching heart would more easily mend after the rejection.

‘I’m a nobody, Lawson,’ she began, gazing blankly into the ruby depths of the port. ‘My father was an iron puddler at the Woodside Iron Works …’ She felt herself trembling and never more insecure. ‘I’m just a housekeeper at the house of your friends, the Cooksons. My younger sister is a maid there. When we met on New Year’s Eve I was on duty but … but Mrs Cookson said I could stay and enjoy the party.’ She looked earnestly into his eyes. ‘I really enjoyed your company, Lawson … and dancing with you …’

He let go of her hand and her heart sank into her boots. To disguise her embarrassment she sipped her port. But when she put her glass back on the table he took her hand again. She looked forlornly into his eyes.

‘It’s all right,’ he whispered with his easy smile. ‘I already knew.’

‘So you were testing me.’

He nodded.

‘But that’s not fair,’ she pouted.

He laughed again. ‘It makes no odds to me who you are, or who you ain’t. At least you’re honest. You’re not like the others. You’re different. You’re chaste, you have honour. Many of those who consider themselves well bred lack those very virtues.’

‘But now I feel naked in front of you,’ she said self-consciously. ‘I feel exposed and vulnerable.’

‘An interesting analogy. Then let me denude myself. Let’s be naked together …’

His steely blue eyes seemed to pierce hers and she could barely hold his gaze at this astonishing innuendo. An erotic picture materialised in her mind’s eye of the two of them standing naked in front of each other, and it seemed he could see into her head and read what she was thinking with that steady, unnerving look of his.

‘I have no breeding either,’ he admitted frankly. ‘So I’m not shackled by the constraints and prejudices of the gentry. I’m the son of a corn merchant, Daisy, my dear. My mother died giving birth to me and I was brought up by my father till I was ten. Then he died. Fortunately for me, he’d been an enterprising soul and he left me half a dozen properties in trust. His executors made sure that the income from them paid for my schooling and my board. When I was twenty-one I took control of those properties and, by being enterprising myself, I’ve added to them. Now I earn a pretty penny, and my enterprises have brought me into contact with many wealthy families, such as the Cooksons.’

‘Thank you,’ she breathed.

He looked at her puzzled. ‘You’re thanking me? For what?’

‘For accepting me for what I am. For being honest about yourself. I was afraid to tell you the truth about myself for fear you …’

‘For fear I what?’

She shook her head. She could not say what she wanted to say because it would have sounded too presumptuous.

‘For fear I would reject you?’

She nodded and looked into her port again.

‘I’d be a fool if I did, Daisy. You’re a gem.’