Daisy's Betrayal

by Nancy Carson

  ‘Where I normally collect them from on a Monday. From Albert Street, from The Dock, from the High Side, from Salop Street …’

  ‘From Windmill Street?’

  ‘Yes, and from Windmill Street …’ Daisy felt herself colouring. Her omission seemed too glaring. ‘After that, I went to the shops, I visited my mother and—’

  ‘Strange. Your mother swore she hadn’t seen you today. So how was John Mallory Gibson?’

  She looked down at her plate, avoiding Lawson’s eyes. ‘He seemed fine … Busy.’

  ‘Good. I’m glad he’s keeping well. I feel a certain responsibility towards him knowing he’s living in my house, and knowing his father as I do.’

  She risked a quick glance at him. ‘I daresay he would be comforted to know that.’

  ‘Next time you see him, be good enough to tell him so.’

  Daisy pondered that conversation most of the evening while Lawson was out, and when she went to bed. Had he found out, or did he suspect that she was spending too much time with John Gibson? If so, she failed to see how. Nobody could see the house, let alone the gig, from the main road, and she was always back home before Lawson. In any case, her conscience was clear. Nothing untoward was going on. They were not having a love affair, there was no impropriety; she merely helped him in his work, posing for his paintings. Even if they were having an intrigue it would serve Lawson right. It was no more than he deserved. Even now, after the shenanigans with Caitlin, he still went out every night, he was out all day, every day. What was she supposed to do? Sit in the house and mope? Twiddle her thumbs?

  The next morning she avoided Lawson and went down to breakfast after he had left. By eleven o’clock she had readied herself and asked Albert to prepare Blossom and the gig so that she could go out. She made her way to Windmill Street via her usual route. She tethered the mare to the gatepost and slipped the nosebag over its head.

  John smiled as he answered the door. Each day she spent with John Gibson, Daisy admired him the more. While she posed for the Italian Reverie she watched him as he worked and felt a great tenderness for him. There was such sadness in his eyes, such uncertainty, such timidity. Oh, yes, she certainly wanted to protect him, not just from himself but from the rest of society. She realised instinctively that his art ruled him to the extent that he had forsaken society in lieu of it. It was that willing sacrifice that had robbed him of his social skills and rendered him self-conscious, reserved, reclusive, inhibited. He lacked those aptitudes others of his class took for granted. How different he was from Lawson.

  She watched his eyes. He was concentrating entirely on his work, consumed with the connection between her as the model, and the image he was magically transposing onto the canvas. He would catch her looking at him and smile self-effacingly, and she would wish that she had averted her gaze sooner. He had such soft, kind eyes, with long lashes that rendered them all the more attractive.

  He was anxious to please her; that, she could also discern. On the other hand, he seemed anxious to please everybody. On the night of his party she had noticed how extremely polite he was to all his guests, whether he knew them well or not, as if he was worried about displeasing anybody. He responded always with a grateful smile when she told him how much she liked and admired his work, as if he desperately needed that reassurance.

  She risked another look at his face. Oh, he was not immediately handsome, yet there was an undeniable attractiveness there. His cheeks were sallow, his nose was straight but not long. His clean-shaven chin was strong but not jutting. She looked at his mouth, how intently he pouted when he was applying his brush to a canvas. He had a well-formed mouth and a set of fine, even teeth; she wondered how his lips would feel on hers, and a strange exhilaration surged within her at the thought …

  John took a feather from his workbench and dipped its long, bowed edge in a blob of dark paint on his palette. He applied it to the canvas.

  ‘What are you doing with the feather?’ she asked, intrigued. ‘Are you tickling me?’

  He laughed, delighted at her notion. ‘I use it to put the fine veining in the marble. Only a feather is suitable. Brushes are too coarse.’

  ‘Fancy. Whoever would have thought it?’

  ‘Tricks of the trade.’

  ‘When can I have a rest, John?’

  ‘Right now, if you like.’

  ‘Yes, please.’ She relaxed her pose, stretched and sat down. ‘May I see the picture?’

  He turned the easel towards her. She nodded her enthusiastic approval. ‘Subtle use of colour,’ she commented.

  ‘You sound like an expert.’

  ‘Do I?’

  ‘Indeed you do.’

  ‘How much would a painting like this fetch in London?’

  He shrugged. ‘Eighteen, maybe twenty guineas.’

  ‘For what? Two weeks’ work?’

  ‘Thereabouts.’

  ‘That’s not bad.’

  ‘No, it’s quite respectable.’

  ‘I’m going to write to your dealer in London and tell him you are ready to ship some paintings, and that you expect to get twenty-five guineas each for them.’

  ‘You are?’

  ‘Yes. If I don’t do it, I know you won’t. You’re not pushy enough, John. You’re far too reticent.’

  ‘And you’re far too good to me, Daisy. Why are you so good to me? What have I done to deserve it?’

  ‘I didn’t realise I was being good particularly.’

  ‘Nobody has ever taken as much interest in my work. I find it very flattering … but very disconcerting.’

  ‘I’m fascinated, that’s why. I want to see you do well. If it bothers you, if … if you’d rather I didn’t come, I won’t.’

  ‘Lord, no, you must never think that, Daisy. I love you to come. I want you to come – as often as you can – as often as you dare …’

  ‘Oh, dear … Which reminds me … Lawson told me to tell you he feels responsible for you as a tenant and because of his friendship with your father.’

  ‘Oh? Does he know you come here now?’ There was a sudden look of concern on John’s face.

  ‘He knows I collect rent from you each week.’

  ‘But not that you’ve been sitting for me?’

  ‘I haven’t told him that. Why should I? It’s no business of his.’

  ‘He is your husband.’

  ‘In name only.’ Daisy stood up. ‘He doesn’t care what I do. He doesn’t give a damn. He’d rather have his trollops … Look, I must go and give Blossom some water.’

  She collected the bucket from the scullery and went to the front door. Before stepping outside, she checked to see that nobody was in the street to see her in the grey-green satin dress. All seemed quiet. She had set foot on the path to the front gate before she noticed that neither Blossom nor the gig was there. In panic, she ran to the gate, looked up and down Windmill Street. Nothing. She rushed down the street in a frenzy of anxiety to see if the mare had become untethered and had wandered off, and was now hidden behind some nook further on. There was no sign of Blossom. The horse and gig had entirely disappeared.

  With tears streaming down her face, she ran straight back into the house and reported the fact to John. ‘She must have been stolen.’

  ‘But by whom?’

  ‘God knows. There are enough thieves and vagabonds about. Oh, John, I’m so worried. Poor Blossom. I hope she’s all right.’

  ‘Now, now … Don’t cry, Daisy.’ He held his arms open for her and she fell into them as easily as a lover. He hugged her sympathetically. ‘It upsets me to see you crying.’

  ‘I can’t help it. I’m so worried.’

  ‘A fine young mare like that could fetch a pretty penny, I warrant,’ John said.

  ‘What am I to do for the best?’ She looked up at him with tearful eyes. ‘Should I go straight to the police station and report it?’

  He hesitated a moment before answering. ‘No, Daisy … I would wait and see what Lawson advises. The hor
se is his property after all.’

  ‘Why do you say that? The horse and gig are both mine. They were a gift.’

  ‘Technically, they belong to your husband. Anything that’s yours belongs to your husband. In any case, I wonder if your husband isn’t behind this …’

  She looked at him with alarm. ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘Oh, because my father was here on Sunday. He recognised you in The Lonely Maiden. He deplored the fact that you had posed for it and said it had to stop. I think he was worried about any impropriety.’

  ‘Do you think he has told Lawson?’

  ‘I suspect that he intended to.’

  ‘Oh, God … I wondered what he was getting at last night when he asked me how I filled my days …’

  ‘I imagine he’ll stop you from coming here again. Especially if he thinks—’

  ‘But what if he comes to you, John? What would you say? Oh, I’m so worried …’

  ‘I don’t think he will for a minute … No. Any anger will be directed at you …’

  Chapter 18

  Daisy changed into her normal day clothes and, in a state of apprehension, left John Gibson. She hurried home, walking as briskly as she could along Salop Street, preoccupied with the disappearance of Blossom. She turned right into Himley Road and found the long descent awkward in her dainty shoes that were not designed for walking over uneven footpaths and cobbled streets. As soon as she reached the house, she headed for the stables to see if indeed Lawson had taken Blossom and returned her there to teach his erring wife a lesson. She needn’t have bothered. There was no sign of the gig or of Blossom. There were, however, some grunts and giggles from Albert’s bedroom above the stables, and she suspected that Emma was in there with him, up to no good by the sounds of it. Lewd behaviour between servants would normally mean dismissal for both. She had no inclination to stop and make a fuss, however. More pressing things were occupying her.

  She went to the kitchen where Mrs O’Flanagan was peeling carrots at the stone sink.

  ‘Has Mr Maddox been back this afternoon?’

  ‘To be sure, I’ve not seen him, ma’am. Have you enquired of Albert?’

  ‘I have the feeling Albert is otherwise engaged, Mrs O’Flanagan.’

  Daisy sighed uneasily and went outside again. She had to know if Albert had seen Lawson.

  ‘Albert!… Albert!’ she called. ‘I must speak to you at once.’

  Albert eventually appeared at the door at the top of the outside steps. He looked flushed and his hair was dishevelled as he descended the stairway, tucking his shirt into his trousers.

  ‘Albert, has Mr Maddox been back this afternoon?’

  ‘No, ma’am. I ain’t sin him since he took th’oss and cabriolet the smornin’.’

  ‘Did he give you instructions to find Blossom and the gig and take them anywhere?’

  ‘No, ma’am. I ain’t sin him, ma’am. Why, ma’am? Where is Blossom?’ He looked past her towards the road, seeking the mare.

  ‘I’m not sure … You’re sweating, Albert. Your hair’s a mess as well. What have you been up to?’

  ‘Er … digging … and pulling weeds, ma’am.’

  ‘Planting seed, more like,’ she said with a knowing look. ‘Tell Emma she’s wanted in the kitchen at once.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’ The groom blushed to his roots as he turned and went back up the stairs.

  Daisy went into the house and sat in the drawing room, deep in anxious thought. John might have been wrong about Lawson. It was likely that Lawson had had nothing to do with Blossom’s disappearance. If that was so, it was common theft and must be reported to the police. All the same, her husband would have to know that the mare had been taken from Windmill Street. Well, her rent collecting was a valid enough excuse for being there … But if Alexander Gibson had reported to Lawson that she’d been modelling …

  She went to her bedroom in a flurry of agitation, concerned for poor Blossom and her own situation. Yet why should she feel so agitated, so guilty about posing for John Gibson? It was Lawson who had been unfaithful. Nothing intimate had occurred between her and John. Her conscience was clear. They were only friends; close friends, but nothing more.

  She heard Lawson return home. He settled himself in the drawing room with a glass of whisky and, there, she encountered him.

  ‘Good afternoon, my dear,’ he greeted with a gloating smile. ‘I trust you’ve had a good day?’

  ‘Fine, thank you,’ she replied, as if nothing strange had happened. It had suddenly occurred to her that if Lawson was somehow responsible for the disappearance of Blossom and the gig, then she would be merely falling into his trap by mentioning it in the first place. If, however, she avoided mentioning it, he would be quick enough to, for her indifference would drive his curiosity.

  So they sat in silence for some minutes, Lawson slurping the whisky, a smug expression fixed on his face, as if savouring some amusing secret. The low October sun was pouring in through the window, creating oblique shafts of amber light on the intricately patterned carpet and its loose fringes. It was still warm in that south-facing room, even without a fire. He finished his drink and poured himself another.

  ‘You drink too much,’ Daisy declared.

  ‘Oh?’ said he, suddenly indignant. ‘And what has it got to do with you?’

  She shrugged. ‘Nothing. I couldn’t care less what you do.’

  ‘Then mind your own business.’

  She smiled to herself at his attitude and remained silent for several more minutes.

  ‘Don’t you have anything to do?’ Lawson asked pointedly, aware that his wife was lingering, obviously intent on discussing something important when, normally these days, she was anxious to be out of his company. ‘Don’t you have any novels to read, any letters to write, any embroidery to keep you occupied?’

  ‘Nothing pressing,’ she answered.

  He took another slug of whisky and looked at her with cold, piercing eyes. His breathing was audible to her, a shallow, rhythmic exhalation. How she hated that invasive sound, a sure sign that he’d been drinking.

  ‘How is Blossom?’ he asked, unable to defer the question any longer.

  She stared at him with a defiance she did not feel. ‘Blossom’s fine.’ She got up to walk out of the room. This was not the best time to have a rational discussion, with Lawson in his cups.

  ‘You’re lying.’

  She reached the door, put her hand on the handle, and tried to stem the tears that were suddenly stinging her eyes. ‘She was fine last time I saw her, Lawson.’

  ‘Oh? When was that?’

  ‘You mean you don’t know?’ she said derisively.

  ‘I asked you a straightforward question. Have the decency to give me a straightforward answer.’

  She turned towards him, looked at him, scornful of his abrasiveness. ‘How dare you lecture me about decency,’ she shrilled, her anger rising, for she was sure now that he knew where Blossom was. ‘But if you’re so keen on straightforward questions, let me ask you one … What have you done with Blossom?’

  He grinned triumphantly and she could have spat at him. ‘Well, wouldn’t you like to know?’

  ‘So? Are you going to tell me?’

  ‘I’ll tell you this,’ he sneered and got up from his chair quite steadily. He walked towards her, his face like granite, his cold eyes never leaving hers. ‘Nobody crosses Lawson Maddox and gets away with it. Least of all you. Do you think I’m so stupid as to let you go courting John Gibson using a horse and gig I paid for? Did you honestly think I wouldn’t get to know about you two?’

  He shut the door with a sharp snap, denying her escape. He grabbed her by the upper arm, held on to her with a firm grip and stared at her ferociously, his colour rising with his anger. Then he struck her around the head with the flat of his free hand. ‘Maybe that’ll teach you.’

  She reeled, dazed for a second. ‘You are the limit,’ she hissed defiantly, tasting the heat of her own anger as she r
allied. ‘Why do you judge everybody by your own disgusting standards? Do you think everybody is as depraved as you are? John Gibson is a decent, respectable man, which is more than I can say for you. But you wouldn’t understand gentlemanly behaviour, not being a gentleman yourself.’

  ‘Why should I be, to a woman who was nothing more than a common housemaid?’ he taunted. He was poised to strike her again but, anticipating it, Daisy dodged out of the way.

  ‘Lay a hand on me once more and I swear, I’ll swing for you,’ she rasped. ‘You have no right—’

  ‘No right?’ he roared, incredulous. ‘You have the nerve to tell me I have no right? I am your husband and whatever you might think of me, make no mistake I have every right. I have every right when you have been posing naked for John Gibson, lying on your back and spreading your legs for him, like the whore you’ve turned out to be.’

  ‘Then divorce me, Lawson Maddox, if that’s what you think,’ she pleaded, perceiving that it would be useless to deny his allegations. ‘I’m your wife in name only now. You surrendered all claims on me when I caught you with that Irish slut.’

  ‘Divorce you?’ he scoffed. ‘If ever I divorce you, it will be to suit me, not you and your pathetic, impoverished little artist. Meanwhile, you can grin and bear the inconvenience at my pleasure. And inconvenient it will be without a horse and gig … will it not?’

  That night Daisy locked herself in her room and cried, mostly for herself, a little for Blossom. She cried for having been deceived in the first place into believing Lawson was a decent and honest man. She cried because she had become trapped in a loveless marriage that promised only a lifetime of numb misery. The dream she had nurtured as a young girl of marrying a wealthy man had been realised, but tears flowed more as she realised how much it had cost her. Wealth had certainly not brought her happiness.

  Had she been of a more forgiving nature there might, in time, have been a chance of reconciliation between her and Lawson. Not any more. Especially not when he believed she was being unfaithful. Of course, it was expected and tolerated that men had their mistresses. But why should she tolerate his philandering? He had made solemn wedding vows to keep him only unto her as long as they both should live. Well, his behaviour amply demonstrated how little those vows meant to him.