by Nancy Carson
‘It’s very nice. Very distinctive. Is it silver?’
‘I believe so, ma’am.’
‘You know, I couldn’t make my mind up whether you had a sweetheart,’ Daisy said with a knowing smile. ‘And I didn’t like to ask for fear of embarrassing you. But it seems that maybe you have.’
Caitlin shrugged non-committally.
‘Is it that Percival chap you mentioned the other evening?’
‘Oh, no, ma’am,’ Caitlin replied emphatically, shaking her head and blushing to the roots of her hair. ‘It’s nobody called Percival.’
‘So who is Percival?’
‘Oh, er … nobody … I mean, just somebody I knew … Your, er … your husband bears an uncanny resemblance. That’s all, ma’am.’
‘You mean there’s another man like my husband?’ An answer was unnecessary; Daisy turned and walked towards the door. ‘I’m going to clean the windows upstairs, Caitlin. When you’ve finished the downstairs rooms, if you’d clean the windows in the conservatory and generally give the quarries a good scrub, I would appreciate it. I’m sure Mr Gibson will too, when he arrives. It’s likely he’ll use it as a studio.’
‘Very well, ma’am.’
The next day, without telling Lawson, Daisy took Caitlin to measure the windows for curtains and bought some inexpensive material. During the next couple of days she worked unstintingly on them and finished them on the Thursday after Lawson had left for the Continent. She delivered them to the house where she met Costello, who was to do the painting and maintenance work, and got him to fit poles over the windows for the curtains.
On Saturday, as arranged, Daisy drove over to Paganel House in warm sunshine to meet John Mallory Gibson and to take him to inspect his new abode. She was greeted cordially by Ruth who introduced her to her son.
‘I’m an admirer of your work, Mr Gibson,’ Daisy said affably. ‘As a matter of fact, one of your paintings has pride of place over the mantelpiece in our sitting room. I love it.’
John smiled reticently. ‘Thank you for the compliment. So which painting would that be?’
‘It has two very pretty young girls lounging on animal skins on a marble bench and overlooking the sea.’
‘That sounds like The Daughters of Paradise.’ He looked at his mother questioningly. ‘I thought I’d sent it to my father.’
‘So you did,’ Ruth confirmed. ‘But he gave it to Daisy’s husband.’
‘I see,’ he said, and Daisy thought he seemed displeased at the revelation.
John Mallory Gibson was about five feet ten, or so Daisy estimated. Leastwise, he was not as tall as Lawson. He was wiry, with a worried look about him, but not dirty and scruffy like she imagined some painters to be. He was conventionally dressed in smart, sombre suit with a collar and necktie that belied his profession. She could not conceive of this man producing such scintillating paintings. His hair was short and curly when she had expected to find it long and lank. She’d anticipated a man with a bushy, bohemian beard, but he was clean-shaven. He seemed very mild-mannered, with soft brown eyes that appeared warily incapable of meeting hers, hinting at a shyness that she found surprising in a man of such monumental talent.
‘So are you ready to inspect your new home, Mr Gibson?’ Daisy asked pleasantly.
‘Yes, indeed, Mrs Maddox.’
‘Maybe I should accompany you?’ Ruth said. The suggestion was directed at Daisy, and Daisy guessed the reason for it.
‘Unfortunately, Mrs Gibson, I have only room for one passenger.’
‘Such a pity that Alex is out in the phaeton. He would have asked Nock to take us.’
‘Well, please don’t worry. I’m sure I won’t need chaperoning, if that’s your concern.’
‘I’m merely concerned for your reputation, Daisy.’
‘My reputation is as precious to me as to anybody else, Mrs Gibson,’ she responded with a reassuring smile. ‘But my husband is aware of my taking your son to the house today, since he asked me to do it while he’s away, as you know. I think he understood that I would be unchaperoned.’
‘If you’re quite sure.’
‘Oh, quite sure, Mrs Gibson.’
As Daisy drove the gig down the long, sweeping drive of Paganel House, she looked at John and smiled, trying to elicit some eye contact. ‘I really am a great admirer of your work. I’d love to see more of your paintings.’
He acknowledged her comment by glancing in her direction, but his eyes again failed to meet hers. ‘You’re very kind. I’ll happily show you more.’
Daisy turned the gig into the road. A middle-aged woman in a strange hat was pushing a handcart loaded with salt, a salt seller from Gornal. The woman stopped to admire the gig as it drove by.
‘What’s Italy like?’ Daisy flicked the reins and the mare broke into a trot. ‘I get the impression from The Daughters of Paradise that it’s all bright sunshine, clear blue skies and blue seas. Is it really like that?’
‘Yes, it is. Most of the time. In summer at any rate.’
‘Were you in Italy long?’
‘About a year, that’s all. Long enough to fall in love with it.’
‘Fancy … Well, it seems to me that your love for Italy spills out into your pictures.’
‘All my paintings are actually classically inspired, Mrs Maddox. Have you heard of Sir Frederick Leighton?’
‘I’m not sure.’
‘One of our great artists. I draw a great deal of inspiration from his work. The classical and High Renaissance aspect of the paintings. He’s a master of the genre. Queen Victoria owns at least one of his works.’
‘It must be lovely to have a talent like yours, Mr Gibson. I do envy you.’
‘Everybody has a talent, I believe,’ he said awkwardly. ‘Not everybody discovers it, unfortunately.’
They fell silent for a while. Daisy tried to think of something to say. She was finding it difficult to make conversation with this man. When he responded to a question he offered little in the way of a thread she could catch hold of, that might elicit a further comment.
‘I hope you’ll like the house,’ she said eventually, groping for a topic that was of mutual interest. ‘It’s quite big really but it’s unfurnished. I have managed to make some curtains, though, and had them put up at the windows for you.’
‘Well, thank you for that.’ A smiled flickered across his face at her obvious thoughtfulness. ‘I’m sure it will be very suitable. I’m told there’s a decent conservatory I can use as a studio.’
‘Yes, attached to the scullery. The surroundings aren’t very inspiring, though.’
He smiled again politely. ‘No matter. The surroundings in the paintings I did when I was in London came largely out of my head. From memory.’
They drove on and very soon arrived at Windmill Street. Neither commented further on the drabness of the surroundings. Daisy let him into the house and invited him to explore it while she adjusted the fall of the curtains in several of the downstairs rooms. Soon, she heard his footsteps as he descended the wooden staircase.
‘It’s a fine house,’ he said. ‘Plenty of room for my paraphernalia. Couldn’t be better. My studio tends not to be the tidiest of places. So much stuff to work with … I must say, the views are magnificent, Mrs Maddox.’
She laughed with surprise. ‘You think so?’
‘Oh, I know the slag heaps and the old colliery workings aren’t very pretty, but beyond them in the distance, all I can see are green fields and rolling hills.’
‘Shropshire, I believe.’
‘Well, once I have some furniture and my studio set up I shall be as happy as a king here. You won’t hear a murmur of complaint from me. I can’t wait to start painting again.’
‘Well, that’s good to know. Shall I take you back home now?’
‘If it’s no trouble. But I could walk …’
‘Oh, I wouldn’t dream of letting you.’
She handed him the key to the house, they stepped outside and he locked u
p.
That afternoon, Daisy spent some time in Lawson’s study with the intention of familiarising herself with the properties he owned and, from the list he had made, the names of those tenants who were due to pay rent. Come Monday morning she would begin the task and she looked forward to it with enthusiasm. She sat perched on the high chair and idly lifted the lid of his desk to see what else she could learn. Typically, it was untidy, but after rummaging about for a few seconds a large sheet of ledger paper, folded in half, came to hand. She opened it up and saw it was written in Lawson’s swirling hand. This, too, was a list of properties with the tenant’s name beside each. Two properties stood out, in that neither had a name written alongside them. The address of one was given as Windmill Street, obviously the house John Gibson was about to occupy; the other, noted as being furnished, was at a location called Meeting Street in Netherton. No name was written alongside it, as if it too was without a tenant. Strange, since Lawson had already said that the old house in Windmill Street was the only untenanted house he owned. This one in Netherton had obviously slipped his mind.
So, had he listed everything? She counted the number of properties on the list he had given her, and compared it with the number on the ledger sheet. They differed by five. So not all appeared on the list Lawson had given her. Daisy wondered whether he had sold these since she had known him. Then, she noticed that three of those on the ledger had a string of numbers written next to them instead of a name. What those numbers meant she had no idea.
On the wall behind her was a board with hooks screwed into it. Each hook bore a key or a set of keys with a tag attached showing the address. Spare keys, Lawson had told her. In case of emergency. She counted the sets of keys. The number corresponded with the larger number on the ledger sheet, not with her new list. She became very curious.
Monday came and, after breakfast, Daisy set out to collect rents as she had promised she would. The weather remained fine. As she drove up Himley Road in the June sunshine she pondered the dramatic changes in her life in just a few short months and how fortunate she was. How many other women, let alone former servants, had the unrestricted use of their own horse and gig? She smiled and waved self-consciously, even guiltily, at a neighbour she saw frequently around the shops of Eve Hill. Was there something too ostentatious about this elegant mode of transport, about the whole flamboyance of her life these days?
Albert Street, appropriately, because it was the very place Lawson had taken her on their first tryst, was her first port of call. She stepped down, tethered the mare to a post and tapped the door of the first house. She introduced herself but the tenant, a Mrs Blocksidge, refused to hand over any money.
‘Yo’ could be anybody, for all I know.’
Daisy smiled in admiration. ‘You know, I don’t blame you, Mrs Blocksidge,’ she said. ‘It’s something I never considered. You’re right to refuse me. I do need proof of who I am.’
‘Well, if yo’ can provide it, I’ll pay me rent.’
‘I’ll be back in a few minutes.’
Daisy had had an idea. She rushed to the house occupied by Molly Kettle. Molly would surely be prepared to confirm her identity. She knocked on the door. No reply. Of course, it was washing day. Perhaps Molly was in the backyard pegging out washing. She made her way up the nearest entry and hoped that Molly’s was one of the houses that used this yard. Between the billowing sheets and towels and fluttering undergarments that festooned the washing lines, Daisy could see a couple of brewhouses bustling with activity. The cackle of women’s laughter leaked out with the steam. She caught sight of Molly through the door of the one furthest away, and feeling conspicuously out of place in her fine clothes, made her way towards her through the wet, dangling washing.
‘Mrs Maddox!’ Molly exclaimed through the wheel of the mangle.
‘Hello, Molly. You look as if you’ve seen a ghost. Is anything wrong?’
‘Seeing yer so unexpected, like …’
‘I need your help, Molly, when you can spare me a minute.’ Daisy explained that she was there to collect rents. ‘I imagine the tenants in this block will know you well enough to accept from you that I’m the wife of Lawson Maddox.’
‘Wall-eyed Sam mightn’t,’ Molly conjectured. ‘The miserable old bugger. Even Mr Maddox has trouble getting money out of him. Like getting manure out of a rocking horse. I’d leave him to Mr Maddox, if I was you. But let me get these frocks on the line fust and I’ll gladly come wi’ yer. It’ll gi’ me a bit of a break.’
‘And I’ll give you sixpence for your trouble,’ Daisy said and folded one of the garments for Molly that she passed through the mangle so as to squeeze the excess water out. ‘It promises to be a good drying day … You seem down in the dumps, Molly. What’s the matter?’
‘Oh, it’s our Flossie.’
‘Is she all right?’
Molly shrugged and offered another garment to the mangle. ‘I wish I knew.’
‘Why, what’s the matter?’
‘I needed money desperate, Mrs Maddox. So I sold her.’
‘You sold her?’ Daisy could not hide her astonishment. Yes, she knew that some young girls were sold by their parents for a tidy sum, but she could never have imagined Molly doing it.
‘I don’t know if I did the right thing. The young woman what bought her said as how her’d be going into service. Her said how some of the big houses in London – you know, them as am owned by the well-to-do – am always on the lookout for sprightly young wenches like our Flossie.’
‘Well, who took her? If we could find out who took her I’d buy her back for you if you’re that worried.’
‘Oh, it was somebody as I’d met afore. A woman. An ’andsome young woman. Last year her asked me if I’d sell our Flossie and I told her as her was too young to leave home. I trust the woman, you know, Mrs Maddox … She seemed decent … Anyhow …’ Molly sighed heavily. ‘I ’spect as Flossie’s far from here by now. In London somewhere, I ’spect. I just hope as her’s all right. I hope as I hear from her soon.’
‘So when did she go?’
‘Last Wednesday night.’
‘I expect you’ll hear from her soon enough, Molly. I shouldn’t worry. To tell you the truth, I’d thought about offering her a position as maid for Mr Maddox and me, but I thought she was a bit too young yet. We needed somebody with a bit more experience. Somebody already trained as a maid-of-all-work.’
‘Oh, I’d have bin that happy if she could have worked under you, Mrs Maddox. Now I’m just mythered to jeth.’
Daisy took the next garment that Molly mangled and folded it. She placed it in the washing basket at her feet, ready to hang out, and pondered poor Flossie’s plight. ‘I’m sure she’ll be all right, Molly,’ she said reassuringly. She dearly hoped the girl had gone into service in the home of some kind gentleman and his family, but not all were kind. It was best not to say anything lest poor Molly worried more.
‘Let me peg these out, Mrs Maddox, and I’ll come with yer,’ Molly said and picked up the washing basket.
Daisy spotted a pile of wooden clothes pegs on the window sill and collected them up. She followed Molly out into the sunshine and began pegging washing out.
‘There’s no need for you to be doing this, Mrs Maddox,’ Molly said guiltily. ‘Don’t trouble theeself.’
‘It’s no trouble, Molly. I’m really quite used to it.’
In no time, the washing was hanging out to dry and Molly wiped her hands on her pinafore. ‘I’m ready then.’
‘Right. We’ll go to Mrs Blocksidge first, Molly.’
It took more than two hours to collect the rents from those houses in Albert Street. At each one, Molly introduced Daisy and Daisy made it her business to befriend each occupier she met, passing the time of day, gossiping unhurriedly. She felt that they liked her because she was not aloof, not prepossessed with an assumed air of superiority. For all they knew, she might have been one of their class. Of course, she did not let on that she was.
Chapter 13
Daisy took almost a week to collect the rents from all the properties on Lawson’s list. She saw no point in rushing but spent a couple of hours each morning doing the rounds, familiarising herself with the locations, the actual dwellings and, of course, the folk who inhabited them. Most took her on trust, reluctant to appear sceptical to so genteel a lady, unlike the distrusting Mrs Blocksidge.
Jimmy Costello spent two days making the upper room over the stables inhabitable. The walls were distempered, the iron window frame painted and the floorboards thoroughly cleaned and varnished. On the Thursday a bed was delivered, along with a chest of drawers and a chair. Daisy asked Caitlin to make up the bed, and so it was furnished in readiness for the new groom.
On the Friday, prior to grocery shopping in preparation for Lawson’s return home that weekend, Daisy decided to call on John Gibson to make sure that all was to his liking. She drove the gig into Windmill Street’s steep entrance, tethered the mare outside the old mine manager’s house and tapped on the front door. After a longish wait, John answered.
‘Mrs Maddox. Nice of you to call.’
‘Good morning, Mr Gibson. I was passing so I thought I’d make sure everything is to your satisfaction. I hope you don’t mind.’
‘Of course I don’t mind,’ he said, as if there could be any doubt. ‘Will you come in?’
‘Only if I’m not detaining you.’
‘Not at all. Please.’ He was soft-spoken and sounded most sincere. ‘I was just sorting out my studio.’
He held the door wide open for her and she followed him through the hallway to the back of the house, into the studio.
‘It’s lovely and warm in this conservatory with the sun on it,’ she commented. ‘I hope it won’t get too hot for you.’
He smiled. ‘I’m sure I shall get quite used to it. One benefit is that it will dry the paint quicker. Can I offer you something to drink, Mrs Maddox?’
