Death at Daisy's Folly

by Robin Paige

  But Charles knew that at present, the heart of England beat somewhere else. To the south and west lay London, the seat of international commerce. To the north rose the great, grimy cities of Manchester, Birmingham, and Sheffield, built on iron and coal. The fields and meadows, villages and towns, that had once been England’s chief treasure no longer earned its livelihood. The cities were now the country’s promise, its future. It was as an industrial society that the nation would stand or fall, and the motorcar would certainly play its part.

  “You don’t believe me, eh?” Bradford asked, misunderstanding Charles’s silence. “You scientists have been too busy looking at beetles to see how fast Germany’s star is rising, how fast ours is sinking.”

  “On the contrary,” Charles replied. “I spent several days at the Krupps’ Works in Essen this summer, studying the latest innovations in munitions. The Germans have moved far ahead of everyone else since the Franco-Prussian War. Their technological proficiency is quite amazing, actually. It makes one suspect that they are about to realize Jules Verne’s fantasy of shooting a man to the moon.” He paused, then added, “Of course, there’s the horrendous problem of acceleration, which Verne did not consider. No human being could withstand the forces involved in attaining the velocity necessary to escape—”

  “Ah,” Bradford said hastily, with the air of a man bottling a genie. “You do see. And didn’t I hear you were down to Sandringham for the Princess’s birthday a fortnight ago? Perhaps I can prevail on you to put in a word with HRH about the bill, which has gotten lost in the melee of Rosebery’s defeat. Salisbury and the Conservatives oppose it, of course—they are against anything that smacks of progress. But since the motorcar exposition at Tunbridge Wells, popular interest has risen dramatically. A word from you and the Prince might be persuaded to support—”

  “But I was at Sandringham on a photographic mission,” Charles protested. Princess Alexandra had asked him to take pictures of the family gathering, and although he thought such assignments a waste of his time, he could hardly refuse what amounted to a Royal command. He had, after all, been awarded a knighthood (to him a matter of minor importance) for his photograph of the Queen upon the occasion of her Jubilee in ’87. “In any event, I don’t have the ear of the Prince,” he added. “For that, Marsden, you shall have to approach our hostess. That is the Countess’s special privilege.”

  The quiet was shattered as Bradford pushed the throttle and the Daimler launched itself down the hill toward Great Dunmow. Hearing the racket, the gleaners looked up with frightened faces and the pied cows raised their tails and galloped frantically to the far hedgerow. Charles pulled down his goggles, clung to the seat, and braced his feet against the bone-rattling plunge, thinking that something must be done to cushion the shock, or England’s future would be too bumpy to endure.

  “The Countess, you say?” Bradford shouted, above the clatter. “But Daisy has her own mission with the Prince, I understand. Isn’t that why you’ve brought along that photographic arsenal?”

  Charles waited until they had descended the hill and the clatter had somewhat subsided. “Lady Warwick—Daisy—told you her intention, then?”

  “No, she was very mysterious. She said only that she had arranged an excursion to Chelmsford for HRH and that a motorcar was wanted, which I am delighted to provide. She mentioned that you were coming along to take photographs. Knowing how little you fancy country-house weekends, even the informal one she promised, I thought that might be the chief reason you agreed to come—that, and the fact that Miss Ardleigh has been invited, as well.”

  In the distance, a horse was approaching, pulling a dog-cart. Bradford steered the Daimler well onto the grassy verge and turned off the motor. Horses, as yet unaccustomed to motorcars, were apt to be skittish in their neighborhood.

  In the sudden silence, Charles shifted uncomfortably. He had indeed looked forward to seeing Miss Ardleigh—Kate, she had asked him to call her. They had been acquainted now for over a year, an eventful year, as it had turned out. Kate’s circumstances had much changed since she arrived from America to work as secretary to her aunt at Bishop’s Keep, near the Marsdens’ country home in East Essex. Beautiful if a bit headstrong and willful, Kate had succeeded her aunt, now deceased, as mistress of the family manor. Charles had it in mind to marry her, if she would have him. He had determined to lay the question before her this very weekend—a momentous determination for Charles, a man of rational intellect who found his scientific pursuits quite engrossing enough and had never before yielded to love for a woman.

  But Charles’s romantic scheme had been turned upside down the day before yesterday, when he received the letter from his mother, the Dowager Baroness of Somersworth. Her news had filled him with personal sorrow and the bleak realization that his life was about to change—not, in his opinion, for the better. He was summoned to do his duty. He could not now, after all, ask Kate for her hand. Loving her as deeply as he did, and wishing nothing more than her complete happiness, he would not ask her to join him in a life he knew she would despise.

  The thought of it filled Charles with a great sorrow.

  3

  To get into the best society nowadays, one has either to feed people, amuse people, or shock people.

  —OSCAR WILDE A Woman of No Importance

  “I’m sorry you’re feeling so unwell, Ellie. Please, let me—”

  Kathryn Ardleigh reached for the silver teapot to pour her friend Eleanor Farley a cup of tea, but an immaculately gloved hand and green-sleeved arm suddenly appeared over her right shoulder. A reproachfully respectful male voice murmured, “Permit me, please, miss,” and both Ellie’s and her own cups were refilled.

  Kate sighed. She had done it again—forgotten that instead of reaching for what she wanted, she was supposed to sit and wait until she was waited upon. At Easton, of course, one didn’t have to wait very long. The Countess of Warwick had trained the footmen and maids to anticipate her guests’ unspoken requests and barely imagined desires. Kate did not as a rule attend house parties, and she had arrived only yesterday afternoon. She hadn’t yet gotten used to the servants reading her mind.

  Eleanor Marsden Farley accepted two cubes of sugar, stirred her tea, and sipped it. “Mornings are the worst,” she said with a deep sigh. “Five more months. I will be so glad when this is over. Oh, if only it would be a boy!” Ellie’s lovely face was drawn and her spritely voice thin and peevish. “You are not to tell anyone of my condition, Kate. This will be my last house party for some time, and I intend to enjoy it!”

  Kate nodded, thinking that Ellie did not seem to welcome her impending motherhood with any special joy. To cheer her friend, she changed the subject.

  “Well, you ought to find enough enjoyment here,” she said. “I understand that the Countess has invited twenty guests for the weekend, including His Highness.” Kate had been presented to the Prince the night before, and had dropped her obligatory curtsy with a disgraceful clumsiness. But his avuncular charm had put her at ease immediately, and before the evening was out, she had even danced with him. “Speaking of the other guests,” she added, “I wonder where they are. Will the Prince come down to breakfast?”

  Ellie shook her head. “The men usually breakfast early at these weekend affairs, then go out to tour the estate or shoot or fish—some such masculine entertainment. The women breakfast whenever they choose.” She looked around at the sunny breakfast room, with its butter-yellow walls, glazed chintz draperies, and silver, crystal, and china arranged in gleaming richness on the mahogany sideboard, and brightened perceptibly. “Easton Lodge is a delightful place, isn’t it? You must see my room, Kate. The bed is trimmed in yellow velvet. And I shall show you my new tea gowns, too. They are from Paris—really quite nice.”

  Kate nodded, although she didn’t share Ellie’s enthusiasm for personal decoration. It was trial enough to submit to having her abundant auburn hair twisted and braided on top of her head; she drew the line at being laced
into a corset, and disliked the elaborate dresses designed to show off a wasp waist. She favored more rational garments: tailored blouses, plain bodices, and simple skirts. Villagers near Bishop’s Keep had become accustomed to seeing her bicycling down the lanes in a divided skirt—and occasionally even in knickerbockers.

  Ellie gave Kate a scrutinizing look. “I hope you have brought the gowns we purchased when you were last in London, Kate. Especially the green silk, which suits your coloring so well. In the company of Royalty,” she added pointedly, “one must not dress carelessly. The Prince may act like a dear old uncle, but when he sees something he does not like, he can be a bear. And remember, he prefers women to wear some sort of headdress at dinner—a tiara, jewels, at the least, a ribbon. You will have an opportunity to put on all your favorite finery.”

  “I would admit this to no one but you, Ellie,” Kate said in a low voice, “but I have precious little favorite finery, and less patience for putting it on. Assembling a wardrobe for this party was a challenge, and I am finding that dressing for the various events takes an inordinate amount of time—not to mention the business of unpacking and sponging and pressing.” Women guests were expected to change into fresh gowns for breakfast, luncheon, tea, and dinner, Kate had learned. Even an informal party like this one required almost a dozen different gowns, each appropriate to a particular time of day and degree of formality. Already, she had worn three of the ten costumes she had brought.

  “But what else have we to do while the men are amusing themselves out-of-doors?” Ellie asked reasonably. “Anyway, that’s what maids are for.” She buttered a half slice of toast. “Did you bring Amelia? If not, the Countess will provide you with someone—no doubt better trained.” Without waiting for Kate’s response, she added, “That little maid of yours is sweet, Kate, but she’s only a country lass. I do wish you would find a maid who is au courant with the latest styles of dress and coiffure. If you intend to join the Marlborough set—”

  “But I don’t,” Kate said emphatically. “That kind of social life is not for me. I am much more at home in the village than I am in London.”

  An American of Irish descent who had lived in England for only a year, Kate was uncomfortable with the social hierarchies of British life and had little admiration for the fast Marlborough crowd that flocked around the Prince and Princess of Wales. But if she cared little for Society’s glitter and even viewed Royalty with the wry humor of an American outsider, she was deeply intrigued by her hostess, the Countess of Warwick.

  Kate had met the Countess at a garden party and several times since, and had read about her in The Times and The Lady’s Realm. A stunningly wealthy heiress of aristocratic descent who had married Lord Francis Brooke, the handsome heir to the earldom of Warwick, Lady Warwick was a leading beauty of the Prince’s circle. With her extravagant costumes and priceless jewels and heedless, spendthrift ways, the Countess was often portrayed in the press as the epitome of wastefulness and questionable morality. Knowing as much, Kate had not been shocked to learn from Ellie that Lady Warwick and the Prince were carrying on one of those clandestine love affairs with which the Marlborough set, having little else to do, amused themselves.

  But there was more to the Countess of Warwick than met the eye. Since their first meeting, Kate had suspected that the cool, elegant Lady Warwick, called Daisy by her friends, had another, quite contradictory side. While the women of the Marlborough set cared for little other than balls and race-meetings, Daisy Warwick had a passion for philanthropies. The Countess had mentioned the needlework school she had established in a wing of the main hall at Easton Lodge, and seeing Kate’s interest, had invited her to visit, spend the weekend, and be presented to the Prince.

  Yesterday, Kate had toured the small school. The thirty or so students were local girls, taught the sought-after skill of fine embroidery by two French instructresses. They earned two and sixpence a week during their preliminary training, and ten shillings after—a quite respectable wage. Their work was sold in a Bond Street shop under the name “Lady Warwick’s Depot for the Easton School of Needlework,” and the proceeds went to support the school. The project, however, did not meet with overwhelming approval, according to the newspapers. Lady Warwick’s friends professed to be shocked by her excursion into trade and whispered that they had seen the Countess herself serving customers behind the counter, while local gentry in the villages around Easton complained that M‘lady’s scheme robbed them of potential servants and gave the unfortunate girls ideas above their lowly station. “Not fit fer kitchen nor nurs’ry when she’s through wit ’em,” one country wife had proclaimed, “nor good husband, neither.”

  But Kate, who had known poverty firsthand, was deeply intrigued by the Countess’s attempt to provide training and employment for women. Orphaned as a small child, Kate had been taken in by an uncle who earned his livelihood as a policeman in New York City, with a wage that provided scant food and clothing for the six children in the family. To support herself, she had become a governess. At the same time, seeing the rapidly growing market in sensational fictions, particularly stories of crime and passion, she had assumed a pseudonym and taken up her pen. To date, she had written—

  Kate’s thoughts were interrupted by the entrance of two women. “Good morning, Ellie,” the first said pleasantly. “And good morning to you, Miss Ardleigh.”

  The woman who had interrupted the wandering train of Kate’s thoughts was Lady Warwick herself, a slim, handsome woman in her early thirties with a flawless complexion, dark blue eyes, and hair the color of golden-brown leaves. She was dressed in a pale pink morning dress with a lacy collar and sleeves that puffed at the upper arms and fitted tightly from elbow to wrist. A step behind the Countess was Lady Verena Rochdale, short and round, with graying hair pulled back into a chignon and dressed in a fussy gray silk. Lady Rochdale’s bright black eyes snapped with avid curiosity, and she seemed to be peering at everything.

  “Good morning,” Ellie said, and Kate echoed her. “I wonder, Daisy,” Ellie added, “whether you have heard from my brother Bradford? He was expected for dinner last night, and I have been worried about him. He is motoring, you know.”

  Lady Verena made a face. “Those motorcars,” she said. “Someone soon will be killed in one of them.”

  “Actually, I have heard from your brother, Ellie,” Lady Warwick said. “He was delayed in Braintree when his motorcar suffered a breakdown. He and Sir Charles expect to arrive this morning.”

  “Charles Sheridan?” Kate asked, surprised.

  “You’re acquainted with Sir Charles, then?” Lady Warwick asked with a smile. “I have asked him to photograph an excursion His Highness and I are planning tomorrow.”

  “An excursion?” Lady Verena asked eagerly. “Wonderful! Where will we be going?”

  Lady Warwick turned toward the mahogany sideboard on which breakfast was displayed. “It is a short side trip I have arranged for His Highness’s entertainment,” she said carelessly. “Other diversions are planned for any who do not prefer the usual riding and shooting.” She pointed to a silver dish and the footman lifted its lid. “I particularly recommend the pheasant, Verena.”

  As one of the two servants filled the women’s plates with pheasant, deviled kidneys, coddled eggs, and fruit from the well-stocked sideboard, Kate sat back, feeling that the weekend had suddenly brightened. She had a deep respect for Sir Charles—and more. She would not acknowledge it to anyone, not even to Ellie, but she had grown to love him. What was more, she thought he cared for her, as well. He hadn’t yet spoken of his feelings, but when they were together, as they had been often of late, there was a look in his eye and a tender tone in his voice that revealed a great deal.

  She felt a sudden warmth. Perhaps this would be the weekend when Sir Charles would declare himself. Perhaps he would sweep her into his arms, declare his love, and—

  Kate caught her breath and picked up her teacup. That was a lovely romantic dream, but it was a fantasy that
could not be allowed to become real. Sir Charles’s declaration would only open a painfully embarrassing exchange, for she could not accept him. Care for him though she might, marriage was out of the question. For one thing, she was an American of Irish extraction, and she had already felt some of the suspicions that many of the British upper class felt toward Americans and Irish. For another—

  “Are you enjoying yourself, Miss Ardleigh?” Lady Warwick asked. She and Lady Verena sat down on the other side of the table while the other footman—a dark, pocked-faced young man with heavy black eyebrows and a brooding face—stepped forward to pour their tea.

  Collecting herself with difficulty, Kate managed a smile. “Very much, Lady Warwick. I was quite impressed by the needlework students to whom you introduced me yesterday. Perhaps one or two will someday establish their own dress-making businesses.”

  “Spoken like an American,” Lady Verena remarked. Her dark eyes considered Kate and dismissed her. “As a people, you are so irrepressibly entrepreneurial. So interested in money.” She spoke the word as if it tasted like a spoiled egg.