Daisy's Betrayal

by Nancy Carson

  ‘And I suspect that that is the reason you tried to shield her, Daisy.’

  Her eyes dropped to the floor and she looked absently at the rug that lay beneath her feet. ‘Sarah is just a poor misguided girl who failed to use her common sense, ma’am. She’s young and innocent. She’s not a felon. She’s made a silly mistake. You could hardly expect me to betray her when there was a chance she might not be blamed.’

  ‘So you betrayed me instead, your employer. That really doesn’t impress me, Daisy. Your loyalties should lie with those who provide your bread and butter.’

  ‘Ma’am, I am sorry …’ Daisy could hear the indignation rising in her own voice, but was unable to control it. ‘But if you think that you, or any employer for that matter, should come before any member of my family, then you neither know nor understand me. Certainly I will never stand by and see my sister’s regretful lapse blown out of all proportion. That can only mean resentment and mistrust are going to fester between us. I don’t believe I could work here in such circumstances, ma’am.’

  ‘Do I understand then that you wish to resign as housekeeper?’

  ‘I honestly don’t believe I have an alternative, ma’am,’ Daisy said.

  Daisy left Baxter House that evening and so did Sarah. At first she thought she was in a bad dream and that soon she would wake up and escape the sudden shame and anxiety. Sarah was beside herself with humiliation and remorse, mostly that her blind stupidity had cost Daisy her position. She was not so concerned about herself. They deposited themselves upon their mother and father and shared the tiny boxroom that Sarah used to sleep in before she started work. Daisy still had almost all of the money left that she had won on her bet, but it would not last forever. Finding as good a position in another house would not be easy, especially if Mrs Cookson was reticent about giving her a good character. But she decided to put such worries behind her until she had talked things over with Lawson next day, the evening of which they had laughingly, frivolously agreed would be so romantic as he wined her and dined her at his renovated house. The last thing on her mind by this time, however, was romance.

  She met him as usual at three o’clock outside the Saracen’s Head. They headed for the Dudley Arms Hotel, a Sunday afternoon routine they had slipped into since their very first tryst.

  ‘I’ve got some bad news,’ she said as soon as he delivered their drinks to the table. She explained in detail what had happened while he listened carefully, twisting his whisky tumbler around in his fingers.

  ‘Well, well,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘What a to-do.’

  ‘But do you think I was right to put Sarah first, even though she’d done wrong?’

  ‘Blood’s thicker than water, Daisy. It’s no surprise to me that you did.’

  ‘But I couldn’t see the poor child hurt more, Lawson. She’s the world to me. If she hasn’t got me to stand by her, who has she got?’

  He drew his mouth down at the corners and nodded pensively. ‘Well, it seems to me we have something to celebrate.’

  ‘Celebrate?’ She looked at him curiously. ‘What on earth is there to celebrate?’

  ‘The fact that you’re a free woman. That’s what there is to celebrate.’

  Daisy continued to look puzzled.

  ‘You know what I reckon we should do?’ he said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Get married.’

  She gasped with pleasure. ‘Get married? Oh, Lawson, are you sure? I’d like nothing better.’

  ‘So will you marry me?’

  ‘Yes, yes. Of course I’ll marry you.’ Her eyes sparkled with happiness. Not only would her future be assured but it would help alleviate so many problems at home. Then she frowned with apprehension as another thought struck her. ‘You’re not teasing me, are you?’

  ‘Course I’m not teasing you, you fool. You’re a free woman, I’ve just had my house cleaned and redecorated from top to bottom … and, what’s more, we could employ Sarah as a maid.’

  She sighed at his overwhelming but welcome impetuosity but there was a smile on her face again. ‘You, Lawson Maddox, are so unpredictable. You’ve been a bachelor all these years, yet suddenly you suggest marriage and you haven’t known me three months yet.’

  ‘I know. It’s absolute madness. But I’m in love with you. I’m besotted. I told you.’

  She laughed joyously. ‘When shall we do it?’

  ‘What about Easter? I shall make all the arrangements. So, I propose that you come with me now, young Daisy, to see your future home.’

  ‘You mean your house?’

  ‘The same. I’ve hired a cook for the night as you know, and she is there right now preparing that lavish meal I promised. I don’t see the point in wasting it. Do you?’

  ‘Not really.’ Daisy’s lips curled into a smile of contentment.

  ‘I shall merely behave like the gentleman I am and, out of respect, refrain from seducing you afterwards.’ He laughed out loud.

  ‘Well, I’m glad you’ve not asked me to marry you just as an excuse to seduce me, Lawson. So … d’you think I should remain a virgin until my wedding night?’

  A smile spread across his handsome face and she could see a warm light in his eyes. ‘Oh, yes … Of course you have to be a virgin on your wedding night. Oh, without doubt …’

  He had speculated about her deflowering before, half serious, half joking, in very intimate and sensual whispers, and just talking about it had warmed her to the prospect. She knew Lawson would be gentle and considerate, and the very thought of all that tender intimacy made her temples throb. She would never admit as much, but she had been looking forward to it like nothing else. Because they were getting married so soon she would not have long to wait.

  Daisy chuckled with delight. Her life had again switched from catastrophe to unbelievable good fortune in just one day. This time she was being delivered from spinsterhood, to become the beloved wife of one of the Black Country’s most eligible bachelors.

  Lawson’s house was situated on Himley Road, in the area of Dudley called Sunnyside in the parish of St James. It was not a grand house – nothing like Baxter House – but it was a substantial family home nonetheless, a gentleman’s residence. It stood in its own grounds with a drive that ran in a wide sweep from the front gate to the stables at the rear. The garden was unkempt, as one might expect from a bachelor with no family ties, but its interesting lie offered good potential. Inside, Daisy envisaged filling each of the bedrooms with their children. Lawson had spent a small fortune on the interior, that much was obvious, including tasteful new furniture. Everywhere smelled of new paint and wallpaper. He’d even gone to the trouble and expense of having new linoleum laid all through and had bought some fine rugs that graced the floors. He led Daisy to the scullery where the glorious aroma of roast beef was already enticing. He introduced her to the hired cook who was very deferential and curtsied. Already Daisy felt like the lady she was about to become and could hardly wait to be mistress in what was to be her own kitchen. As they left her, the cook placed a pan of water on the hob to boil, ready for the potatoes, and hung the kettle over the fire on a gale hook, ready to brew a pot of tea.

  Lawson took Daisy upstairs to show her the bedroom that would be theirs. It was large and airy, with a clean and inviting feather mattress on an intricate brass bedstead. The window looked out onto the road at the front and had an extensive view southwards over the innumerable pits and grey, miserable slag heaps of Russell’s Hall. The corporation catch pound was uncomfortably close. Beyond it, the middle distance was alive with locomotives huffing and puffing to and from a wharf on the mineral railway that connected it with the vast Himley Colliery at Old Park. Yes, it was a decent enough house, but the view … She was not going to live here for the view, though; she would happily live in a pigsty for the privilege of being Lawson’s wife.

  ‘As you might have expected, this was my father’s house,’ Lawson informed her as he showed her another bedroom. ‘Sarah could sleep in thi
s room when she becomes our maid.’

  ‘We can’t have our Sarah as a maid, Lawson,’ Daisy said flatly. ‘It’s impossible.’

  ‘Why is it impossible? It’s not impossible. I want her as our maid.’

  ‘It’s not done, Lawson. No lady of any house would ever employ her own sister as a maid. It would betray her own roots. Don’t you see?’

  ‘My God!’ he exclaimed. ‘You’ve turned into a snob already.’

  ‘I’m no snob, but we have to protect our social standing. Your social standing. What would your friends think?’

  ‘Well, that’s settled then.’

  ‘I presume there are proper servants’ quarters, Lawson?’

  ‘Yes, on the next floor. In the roof. My father had servants. A full complement, even after my mother died.’

  ‘Can we see?’

  He led her up another flight of stairs to the second storey, to rooms that were small, bare and cold, typical of the garrets servants normally occupied. Suddenly, Daisy could see the situation of a servant from both sides. She had lived in rooms like this. Only yesterday she had resided in one little better. Now she was viewing this garret from the perspective of an employer … Well, not quite. She doubted she would ever lose sympathy for employed servants.

  ‘We’ll need to make these rooms a bit more welcoming,’ she said. ‘I wouldn’t like to sleep in rooms this dingy.’

  He laughed. ‘You’re the expert, Daisy. Do as you see fit when the time comes.’

  When she had seen enough of upstairs, including a quick peep at Lawson’s study, he escorted her back downstairs and into what he called his sitting room, where a welcoming fire burned in a low, stone grate. Daisy was drawn to the oil painting that hung above it, in which two beautiful young women, clothed in diaphanous attire that purported to be in the style of classical Greece or Rome, reposed languidly on a bench constructed of smooth white marble veined with the most delicate grey and blue tracery and draped with tiger skins. Daisy had no idea it was possible for anybody to paint marble with such realism and skill. Never had she seen such perfection. The artist had seemingly painted every individual hair of the tiger skin too, had captured every last detail of the bright poppies that adorned the lush garden in which it was all so tantalisingly set. Umbrella pines stood out against a sea and sky of vivid blue and a mysterious, mountainous land on the distant horizon. It all looked so idyllic, so enchanting that she could not help but gasp.

  ‘This is beautiful,’ she said simply, unable to draw her eyes from it. ‘I’ve never seen anything like it. Just look at the skill that has gone into painting this … Just look at the skin of these girls, their clothes. It’s all so unreal and yet so perfectly realistic.’

  ‘I’m glad you like it,’ Lawson said indifferently.

  ‘Who painted it? Where did you get it?’

  ‘It was painted by a young artist called John Mallory Gibson, the son of Alexander Gibson, whom you might even have met at the Cooksons’ home.’

  ‘You mean the Alexander Gibson, the bigwig? One of the guests at Baxter House last night?’

  He nodded. ‘The same. He and I do business from time to time.’

  ‘You know him well?’

  ‘Yes, I know him well. His son sent him this. Thought he might like it. And Alexander gave it to me.’

  ‘Why would he give you such a painting when he must have treasured it? I mean, he would treasure it if his son painted it, wouldn’t he?’

  ‘He gave it to me because he wanted me to have it, presumably.’

  ‘I’ve never seen anything like it,’ Daisy repeated. ‘Mr Gibson’s son is a fine artist. Where does he live, this John Mallory Gibson?’

  ‘In London, I believe.’

  She nodded. ‘The sea and the sky are so blue. It gives me the impression of endless sunny days, of carefree girlhood. It’s beautiful … Where do you think it’s supposed to be?’

  ‘Italy, I suspect.’

  She looked outside at the drab, grey landscape, then with large, almost pleading eyes at Lawson. ‘I wouldn’t object if you wanted to take me to Italy for our honeymoon.’

  He laughed at that. ‘I wish I could. But since I can’t, where would you like to go?’

  ‘Oh … Well …’ She pondered a moment. ‘I’d love to see London. The Tower, Buckingham Palace, the Houses of Parliament.’

  ‘And I’d love to see Bath. So we’ll stay a few days in London, then move on to Bath. How does that sound?’

  ‘Oh, Lawson,’ she cooed. ‘You’re too good to me.’

  The hired cook presented a very palatable meal that evening. While Lawson and Daisy dined like a lord and lady, planning their marriage, she skivvied in the scullery. Before she left, Lawson announced to her that he and Daisy were to be married; she wished them well. Afterwards, they decided to break the news to Daisy’s mother and father and to Sarah. It would be a welcome relief from the cataclysmic events that had overshadowed and shamed them since yesterday. He had not met her parents, nor been to their house, and at once Daisy started making excuses, telling him not to expect anything grand.

  ‘Don’t worry. I’m marrying you, not your parents,’ he said.

  She needn’t have worried. Lawson took it all in his stride, studying the property with an expert eye. Mary Drake fussed over him like a she-cat with a prize kitten and Titus was on his best behaviour, not breaking wind once. (Titus’s health had improved a little, thanks to Dr McCaskie’s arduous regime.) Sarah was as fidgety as a kitten with its first mouse in Lawson’s company and her long eyelashes swept down every time he glanced in her direction. Lawson, conversely, seemed entirely at home and quite taken with Daisy’s family.

  They ended up in a little public house in the market place called the Seven Stars. It was heaving with men, swearing and spitting and coughing and smoking and God knows what else. Daisy could not imagine why Lawson persisted in dragging her to such sleazy town bars, populated by men reeking of stale sweat. There were three other women in there, not the sort she would associate with by choice. It troubled her that everybody seemed to know Lawson, including the unsavoury women, and that they, in particular, looked Daisy up and down with curiosity. One of them, no older than herself, seemed as if she wanted to speak to Lawson; she kept edging forward and hovering around them. But Lawson, to his credit, turned his back on her and smiled at Daisy with all his love in his eyes as he gulped his whisky. Then, to her complete surprise, he announced to everybody that he was about to be married and introduced her as his bride. There were a few whoops of surprise, and some comments as well that were none too savoury from the more inebriated, but when he said the next round of drinks was on him, everybody congratulated them both and placed their orders at the bar.

  Later, when he delivered Daisy to the bottom of the entry in Campbell Street, Lawson was slurring his words idiotically.

  ‘Are you sure you’re going to be all right?’ she asked, concerned.

  ‘Yesh. Don’ worry.’ His eyelids were lazy and she was worried that he might fall asleep as he drove home.

  ‘I hope the horse can find his way,’ Daisy said with amused patience. ‘Because I doubt if you will.’

  He grinned stupidly. ‘Docker’sh a fine horshe. He knowsh hish way around.’

  She planted a kiss on his cheek then slid down from the cabriolet. ‘Thank you for everything, Lawson. Don’t forget you’re supposed to be calling for me tomorrow night.’

  ‘How could I forget that?’ he replied.

  She stood and waved as he drove off at a rapid rate, oblivious to everything in his drunken state.

  Chapter 6

  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 app
ropriately 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.’