Daisy's Betrayal

by Nancy Carson

  What must she do now? Where should she go? She daren’t tell anybody about this, she would look such a fool. Married only weeks and already her husband was bedding their servant. How would it look? That she herself was at fault? That she could not keep her virile husband sufficiently interested in bed to divert him from the indisputable fascination of the Irish maid?

  She drove back to the house in Himley Road, left Blossom hitched to the gig and went inside. Perhaps she should go and find Mrs O’Flanagan and tell her she was about to dismiss her daughter. But what reason could she give? Mrs O’Flanagan was the most decent woman, the most able cook imaginable. And she would have no clue at all as to what her daughter had been up to. Was it necessary to upset the poor woman when it was no fault of hers? Daisy went upstairs instead. She slumped onto the bed and sobbed.

  She had no idea how long she had been crying when she heard the click of the door catch. She was lying down and turned her head apprehensively.

  ‘I’ve brought you a cup of tea,’ Lawson said calmly. ‘I thought you might be thirsty.’

  ‘How very considerate,’ she replied, with acid sarcasm in her voice.

  He placed the cup and saucer on her bedside table and waited, sitting in a chair at the foot of the bed. After some minutes she turned over and sat up, her legs dangling girlishly over the edge of the bed. Her eyes were puffy and red. She took a handkerchief from the pocket of her skirt and blew her nose.

  ‘I shall drink the tea,’ she said piously and sniffed. ‘If you have poisoned it, then so be it.’

  ‘Oh, don’t be so melodramatic, Daisy.’

  ‘I’m melodramatic? I suppose what you’ve been up to with Caitlin was not?’

  He looked to the floor, at the fine Kidderminster carpet that lay like an island of dense fur in the room with their bed marooned on it. ‘I’m sorry, Daisy.’

  She sipped the tea and savoured the hot sweetness. ‘You’re sorry?’ she queried. ‘Sorry for doing what you did or sorry for being found out?’

  ‘For what I did, of course. It was wrong of me.’

  ‘Well, now’s the time to admit it – now you’ve had your fun.’

  ‘Look, Daisy, it means nothing. I don’t love Caitlin, I love you. With all my heart and soul I love you.’

  ‘You have a very peculiar way of showing it, Lawson,’ she said scornfully and sniffed once more. She felt tears welling up again and tried to stem them by pressing her handkerchief to her eyes. ‘Is that why you married me? Because you loved me?’

  ‘You know it is.’

  ‘And I loved you. I idolised you. But now it’s ruined. Can you see that? I could never trust you again … Never. Besides, how many other women have you had, even in the short time we’ve been married? Is that why you keep that house in Netherton unoccupied? So you can take all your women there and bed them in comfort, in secret?’

  He shook his head. ‘No. That’s not why I keep it unoccupied.’

  ‘Then why? Tell me that.’

  ‘If you want to know the truth, Daisy, Robert Cookson and Jack Hayward rent it off me jointly,’ he said softly. ‘They use it as somewhere to take their women.’

  She managed a contemptuous little laugh. ‘But you’re not averse to using it yourself, eh?’ Her emotions were fluctuating from grief to scorn – and to anger. Did he really think she would believe such arrant nonsense? Who did he think he was fooling? Ever since she had known him he had beguiled her with nonsense. Well, thank God she could see through it at last. She would not be beguiled again. She sipped the hot tea and looked at him challengingly over the rim of the cup.

  ‘I dismissed Caitlin,’ he said. ‘She no longer works for us.’

  ‘I bet she was favourably impressed with that.’

  ‘What else could I do? It’s obvious you wouldn’t want her working here.’

  ‘So when are you seeing her again?’

  ‘I’m not … Of course I’m not.’

  Daisy swallowed hard, trying to control her voice. ‘Well, you might as well for all I care. Let’s hope for her sake she’s not pregnant.’

  ‘Daisy, you’re spilling your tea.’

  ‘Well, isn’t that a shame?’ she said caustically, ‘because you could do with your little whore-of-all-work to come and clean it up.’ There was within her now a searing, raging anger. Deliberately, she dropped the cup and its contents onto the floor. It bounced on to the linoleum and smashed to smithereens, tea splashing on the carpet and onto the bedclothes. She could have thrown the cup at him, full of tea, had she not already abandoned it to the floor. The saucer too. Indeed, she felt like attacking him with a knife, hitting him over the head with a hand mirror. She wrestled with her boiling emotions, desperately trying to calm herself, for in calmness lay strength. Their eyes met, hers burning into his with all her scorn and disdain. She raised her hand that held the saucer and hurled it at him. As he raised his arms to fend it off she stood up and strode over to the door.

  ‘I shall be sleeping in the spare bedroom from now on. And I swear, Lawson Maddox, that if ever you enter that room when I’m in there, I’ll wait till you’re asleep and I’ll stick a knife between your ribs.’

  Mrs O’Flanagan took the news of her daughter’s dismissal stoically. She was anxious not to offend Daisy for fear of losing her own position, and remained deferential. Not that Daisy would have dismissed Mrs O’Flanagan in any case. Indeed she felt sorry for the woman, shared her disappointment and complete surprise that her daughter had been discovered by Mr Maddox in their bedroom, rifling Daisy’s jewellery box, with a couple of pieces in her pocket already. Mrs O’Flanagan was only too thankful that Mr Maddox, in his kindness and understanding, had seen fit not to prosecute.

  On the following Monday, the new groom commenced his employment and Daisy started a new maid called Emma, who was not in the least alluring.

  But all that week a thundercloud seemed to hover over the house. Daisy remained angry and the depth of her wrath surprised even her. She could not forgive Lawson for what he had done and had no intention of trying. How many other times had he been unfaithful and how many times in the future might he be? If he could have got away with it once he could have got away with it a hundred times. And once he had strayed, she had no desire to be touched by him again. Rather, she found the very thought repulsive.

  The only times they met were at mealtimes, and even then they contrived to avoid each other, though it was not always possible or convenient to do so. So when they met, she was icily polite and he struggled to make conversation that sounded normal.

  On the Tuesday, when Lawson was out, Daisy came downstairs to find a white envelope lying on the hall floor, having been shoved through the letterbox. She picked it up and saw that it was addressed to Mr and Mrs L. Maddox. She duly ran her thumb under the flap and opened it. It was an invitation. Mr John Mallory Gibson requested the pleasure of their company at a party to celebrate his return, at the house in Windmill Street on Saturday evening, 13th July, at half past seven.

  Daisy took the invitation over to the escritoire in the sitting room, pulled out a clean sheet of notepaper from a sheaf and wrote back, saying that unfortunately, due to other commitments, Mr Lawson Maddox would not be able to attend. Mrs Daisy Maddox, on the other hand, would be delighted to.

  Chapter 15

  In all his professional life, John Gibson had never been used to having so much space as he now enjoyed at the old mine manager’s house in Windmill Street. There were rooms galore. Besides the conservatory that he had set up as a studio, he had a scullery and a room for formal dining in which he could entertain guests, if only he were outgoing enough to make sufficient friends. There was a large and airy room on the side of the house that would make a superb drawing room. He even had several bedrooms. In the three weeks he had resided in this house, furniture had begun to appear, acquired cheaply from second-hand shops, since he was keen not to be too much of a financial drain on his father. However, he was no homemaker. He was not about to go
around arranging and rearranging these lacklustre, scratched appurtenances. Nor was he about to adorn them with pretty doilies and stick potted plants upon them, even though he had the design sense to do it. Besides, this stuff was utilitarian, intended to serve only its purpose, and was neither decorative nor particularly elegant.

  All this space was luxury. In the conglomeration of ateliers called Bolton Studios he’d moved to in Wimbledon in 1887, that was all he’d had: a studio. And in that studio he had lived and worked. He ate there while he worked, he slept there on the floor. He smiled to himself as he fondly recalled those times. Henry Ryland and Lawrence Bulleid, who also rented studios, were his soulmates. There was no doubt they had influenced each other in their artistic growth. While he and Lawrence Bulleid were socially reserved, Henry Ryland was socially engaged, to John’s great envy. But the common thread that bound them together was their love for painting detailed classical scenes that featured pretty girls. It amused John to ponder the descriptions of their work penned by some of the less appreciative art critics; ‘togas and terraces’, ‘painters of the patio’ and the like. Well, if Lawrence Alma-Tadema could do it and be praised for it, they could do it, too.

  It was the Saturday of the party he was hosting and the post that morning provided some cause for celebration. A letter had arrived from Messrs Thomas Miller McLean of the Haymarket in London, advising him that they were prepared to promote his work, and were confident of realising a very acceptable level of sales among their clientele, to their mutual benefit. In addition, they would like Mr Gibson to submit paintings for their forthcoming annual Winter Exhibition. John was delighted with this news. Not only was the Haymarket an important centre for the fine art trade, but above the gallery’s awning, was proudly displayed the Royal family crest.

  Painting was what John did best. But art was a jealous master. He gave his life to it, and art demanded that he shut out everything else. He painted from his soul. He was not particularly interested in pandering to either his critics or the public. Technically, he was brilliant. His renditions of marble looked smooth, perfectly veined and weathered, and promised to be uncannily cool if touched. Overall, his pictures evoked the heady aromatic atmosphere of the Mediterranean with its vivid midsummer light and its heat. His subjects were beautiful young women who, despite their perfect, glowing skin, tantalising figures and angelic faces, never disturbed the serene Elysian environment he created on canvas. And this paradox only served to accentuate his prodigious ability and understanding of things beautiful, without being sentimental, suggestive or improper. These openly innocent, youthful, patrician maidens, conspicuously lovely in their demure, compliant poses, were not only incongruously sensual but, above all, truly eloquent in his halcyon compositions.

  John put down the letter from his new dealer and penned a reply. Naturally, he would be delighted to submit his best work, he wrote. Between today and the Winter Exhibition, he would be able to produce between eight and ten new paintings. All, he hoped, would be worthy of inclusion. All should sell and give him, he privately hoped, that final independence from his father that he craved.

  By late afternoon, Alexander Gibson’s phaeton had arrived, conveying three housemaids and the party food they would be serving to the forty or so guests, who happened to be mostly family and friends of his father. Almost apologetically, John explained to the maids where it was all to be set up in the would-be dining room. He had lined the bare walls of the putative drawing room with his work, which hung from the newly painted picture rail. It had the feel of a gallery, if not a home, but at least there was room for folk to stand and gossip. He had ordered a kilderkin of India pale ale from the British Oak close by, and cases of red and white burgundy from wine merchants Rutland and Lett, as well as a gallon each of whisky, rum, brandy and gin.

  At half past seven, people started arriving and many commented on the novelty of the sudden steep rise on entering Windmill Street. Somebody brought along an accordion and somebody else a fiddle and not many drinks later, they were comparing repertoires. Soon the place was noisy with the sound of chatter and laughter, and foggy with the smoke of cigars and cigarettes. As well as Alexander and Ruth Gibson, the Cooksons of Baxter House were present, including their son Robert who escorted a brassy young woman who might have fallen straight into his arms from the chorus line of some music hall.

  Just before eight o’clock, Daisy appeared, straight-backed, wearing a plain but beautifully cut dress in dark green satin. The bodice was tight with a high neck and the sleeves loose and billowy. The skirt fitted smoothly over her hips without a bustle, the very height of fashion, eliciting mixed comments behind the hands of some of the older women. John saw her arrive in her gig but was surprised to see it driven away afterwards by a groom. He greeted her at the door.

  ‘Mrs Maddox. Please come in. I’d almost given you up.’

  ‘Am I very late?’ she asked as she entered. ‘If I am, I’m so sorry.’

  ‘There’s no need to apologise. Not everybody’s here yet in any case. It’s a pity your husband couldn’t make it.’

  ‘Yes,’ she replied turning to him, ‘but I don’t see it as a reason for me to be confined to the house. Do you?’

  ‘As an ardent non-conformist in everything, Mrs Maddox, I’m inclined to agree.’

  She smiled. ‘I hoped you’d be on my side, Mr Gibson.’

  ‘Let’s say there’s a streak of unconventionality about you that I don’t disapprove of, Mrs Maddox. Look, let me introduce you to some of the people you don’t know.’

  ‘Thank you.’ She followed him into the neo-drawing room and saw that it was decorated with vases of summer flowers. She wondered if he had arranged them.

  ‘May I get you a drink first, Mrs Maddox?’

  ‘Do you have any white wine?’

  ‘Hock, or burgundy?’

  She shrugged, uncertain which to choose. ‘Oh … you choose, Mr Gibson.’

  People were standing around chattering animatedly. Already, the accordionist and the fiddle player were experimenting between themselves with laughter and hesitant tunes. Daisy gasped with apprehension when she caught sight of Jeremiah Cookson and his wife, her former master and mistress. But it was too late to turn away and pretend she hadn’t seen them. Mrs Cookson nodded a greeting and glided over to her.

  ‘Daisy, how lovely to see you.’

  ‘Mrs Cookson.’ Daisy smiled a broad, open smile that concealed her uneasiness at meeting the lady again, the first time since her departure from Baxter House.

  ‘Well, Daisy, how are you? I understand that you married my son’s friend Mr Maddox.’

  ‘I certainly did.’

  ‘Quite a character, isn’t he?’

  ‘Oh yes. He’s quite a character, Mrs Cookson.’

  ‘I take it he’s with you this evening.’

  ‘Other commitments, I’m afraid.’ The urge to call the lady ‘ma’am’ was almost overwhelming but she assiduously managed to avoid it.

  ‘Oh, yes, Lawson always was a busy bee as far as I could make out. So how have you settled down to married life?’

  ‘Every day I learn something new,’ Daisy replied with an ambiguous smile.

  They chatted a while, and there seemed to be no animosity from Mrs Cookson, though she never once enquired about Sarah. John Gibson sidled up to Daisy to deliver her glass of wine. She thanked him and drew him into the conversation at once, to shift the focus from herself.

  ‘So you two have met already?’ Mrs Cookson deduced.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ Daisy replied. ‘In fact, this house Mr Gibson is renting belongs to my husband. We met because of it.’

  It was immediately evident that John felt as uncomfortable as Daisy in Mrs Cookson’s company. He sipped his drink edgily and she decided it was time to save not only him, but herself as well.

  ‘I’m such an admirer of Mr Gibson’s work, Mrs Cookson,’ she said, then turned to John without excluding the lady. ‘I see you have some more paintings up on the wall
s that you haven’t shown me yet. I’d love you to explain them to me.’

  ‘Of course, Mrs Maddox.’ John smiled at Daisy, then at Mrs Cookson. ‘Would you excuse us, Mrs Cookson?’

  ‘Thank you for saving me, Mr Gibson,’ Daisy said when they were out of earshot. ‘I’m not particularly comfortable with Mrs Cookson.’

  ‘Oh, I thought you were saving me.’

  He led her to the first painting, of a young woman sitting in profile on a heavy wooden chair of classic proportions, in a room of white marble walls and floor. Beneath her sandalled feet was a leopard-skin rug, perfectly executed.

  ‘This is entitled Waiting for the Dance. Painted last year, I think … And this next one is called Sewing Girl …’

  In the foreground was a girl in a dark green toga with a gold sash, sewing a length of ribbon as she sat on a tiger skin; in the near distance was another girl, her back towards the viewer, looking out onto a blue sea beyond a marble balustrade.

  ‘Is it very time-consuming to paint every hair of the animal’s coat?’

  He beamed at her obvious interest. ‘It’s an illusion, Mrs Maddox. I don’t actually paint each and every hair …’ They moved on to the next painting. ‘This one is called Waiting for an Answer. The man has just asked the girl to marry him …’

  ‘Yes …’ Daisy mused. ‘I can see that … That looks like you in the picture, doing the asking.’

  ‘A self-portrait,’ he said with a self-conscious grin. ‘You recognised me. And I even had a beard.’

  ‘You look very preoccupied. So who is the girl? I presume somebody real modelled for you?’

  He avoided her eyes when she looked at him. ‘Fernanda Carpaccio,’ he said. ‘Italian. She lived in London for a while.’

  ‘Lived?’ she queried. ‘Not any more?’

  ‘Not any more, no. She married a Frenchman …’

  Daisy looked at him with increasing curiosity. ‘Does this painting reflect something of your own personal life, by any chance? Of your own endeavours with this Fernanda, perhaps?’