by Carola Dunn
“Oh, that’s right, she hasn’t a penny. I don’t see why you should be out of pocket. Tommy will just have to work out how to charge the estate.”
“I don’t mind. She’s a relative, after all, however distant. If Tommy can pay me back from the estate at some point, well and good. Just don’t go overboard, Madge. Nothing too extravagant.”
Madge laughed, the frothy bubbling laugh that matched her frothy bubbles of blond hair. “I’ll pinch your pennies, don’t worry. Everything?”
“Head to foot, and from the skin out. Cheap cotton undies are all very well here, but I don’t want the maids at Fairacres sneering at her.”
“Heaven forbid, especially if she turns out to be the next viscountess.”
With that load off her mind, Daisy felt much less apprehensive about explaining the situation to Alec—though, considering the matter dispassionately, there was no real reason for her relief.
* * *
When Alec came home at last, four days later, Martha had settled nicely into the household, with the beginnings of a new wardrobe for which she promised Sam would reimburse Daisy. He would have plenty of money, from his venture into rum-running.
On that score, Daisy was not sanguine.
Alec arrived just in time for dinner, tired and hungry. He accepted a brief explanation of Martha’s presence without much visible reaction, merely saying he hoped she would enjoy her stay. Martha retired to bed shortly after dinner, as had become her habit. In the sitting room, Alec listened, though apparently more interested in getting his pipe going, as Daisy expanded upon the story. She finished it with: “So you see, Samuel may be in jail or dead.”
“In jail! Daisy, honestly, how do you get into these situations?”
“What situations?” she demanded indignantly. “I’ve never had a relative in jail before. And he may not be now. It’s just odd that he hasn’t been heard from in several months. Darling, you know people in the American police—FBI, is it?—and there’s whatsisname, too, Lambert, our pet Prohibition agent. Couldn’t you find out if Sam was caught?”
“It would be a very good way to draw the wrong kind of attention to him.” Alec puffed contentedly, his annoyance diminished by the accomplishment of his aim. “I’ll think about it,” he conceded.
“Or there’s the Jessups. They have connections among the bootleggers.”
“You may remember Mr. Jessup said the firm was no longer going to ship to America. You’d only embarrass them. Don’t ask the Jessups, please, and, Daisy, don’t mention their past connection with the illegal trade to Martha.”
“You read my mind. Oh, all right! I’ve already advised her not to talk to anyone about her husband’s situation. But I shall certainly introduce her to the Jessups. They’d think it very odd if I didn’t, living next door. They’ve already heard she’s come to stay, what with our Elsie being their Enid’s sister. Besides, Audrey’s children must be about the same age as the two Martha left in Jamaica.”
* * *
Daisy had run out of ideas for helping Martha. They would just have to wait and see what happened.
Only a few weeks remained before Edgar’s birthday and as yet the succession was very much in doubt. Nor was there any indication that any of the claimants would be able to come up with proof of his descent from Julian Dalrymple by way of eldest son to eldest son.
With no heir declared, the birthday celebration was going to be an uneasy event at best—unless, in the meantime, someone else turned up bearing an impeccable lineage.
Time passed and Tommy Pearson didn’t get in touch with Daisy, though both Miss Watt and Madge rang up every couple of days to make sure Martha was all right and not becoming a burden.
Daisy assured them she was not, which was mostly true. Martha had became quite friendly with Audrey Jessup. She missed her little girls badly and spent much of her time with the twins, in the nursery and on their daily walks, come rain or shine. But if she had any more weepy fits, she didn’t impose them on Daisy, and she continued to retire after dinner, leaving Alec and Daisy in connubial peace.
* * *
A brief note came from Tommy just a week before everyone was due to arrive at Fairacres. He had received an even shorter note from Trinidad, from someone signing himself Frank Crowley. All Crowley said was that he was bringing Benjamin Dalrymple to London. The letter had taken quite a while to travel from Port-of-Spain to Lincoln’s Inn. How far behind it Crowley and the latest Dalrymple claimant were following was anyone’s guess.
Would Mrs. Prasad care to analyse the handwriting?
Before telephoning Sakari, Daisy got out the atlas and looked up Trinidad. It turned out to be a tiny island in the Caribbean—not very far from Jamaica, she noted. The map suggested that Benjamin Dalrymple, who could apparently neither write for himself nor travel alone, might just possibly be a legitimate descendant of Julian Dalrymple.
Sakari was delighted to be consulted. She pronounced Frank Crowley to be careless, cheerful, and of an optimistic nature.
“Overoptimistic,” said Tommy gloomily, “if he thinks to pass off some illiterate goodness-knows-whom as the rightful heir to a viscountcy.”
TWELVE
“I’m afraid you have just missed the Hebrew Character.” Lord Dalrymple came down the steps and shook Alec’s hand warmly as he got out of the big green Vauxhall that had met the Fletchers, Martha Dalrymple, and Nurse Gilpin at Malvern station. “Never mind, quite common and not particularly attractive.”
“One of the claimants is Jewish?” Alec asked, startled. Unlikely—but possible, he supposed, as Jews were matrilineal.
The viscount looked equally startled. He pushed his pince-nez lower on his nose and peered at Alec over the top.
Daisy stepped down from the car with a hand from the chauffeur. “Thank you, Truscott. A butterfly, darling,” she advised Alec, not that he hadn’t already realised, given his host’s obsession. “Or a moth. Or even a dragonfly.”
“Moth. Setaceous Hebrew Character, Xestia c-nigrum. Ah,” said Lord Dalrymple triumphantly, “you’re the Large Copper, Daisy’s young man. Butterfly,” he added in parentheses. It was the first time Alec had known him to crack a deliberate joke about his passion.
Laughing, he clarified: “Her husband, sir. Alec Fletcher.”
“Yes, indeed. I believe I attended your wedding? Some time ago, was it not? I had forgotten.”
Alec forbore to remind him that he had given Daisy away and provided a grand reception.
Daisy kissed his cheek, as Belinda appeared from the car with Oliver in her arms, followed by Mrs. Gilpin carrying a wiggling Miranda.
“You remember Belinda, Cousin Edgar.”
“Of course, my dear.” He patted Bel’s cheek. “Small Red Damsel.”
“I’m not small anymore, Uncle Edgar, and my hair isn’t as red as it used to be. It’s getting fairer. Or is that a butterfly?”
“Damselfly. Ceriagrion tenellum.” He smiled at her, then peered at Oliver as Alec set him down.
“My brother, Oliver. He was only a baby when we came last year. He can almost talk now. Oliver, say hello.”
“Dada,” said Oliver firmly, reaching out to Alec.
Miranda was more obliging: “Heyo,” she said with a beam.
Lord Dalrymple beamed back. “Heyo, Miranda. Would you like to see some butterflies?”
“Buf’eyes?”
“I’d like to,” said Belinda. “I’ll bring them both to your conservatory later, all right, Uncle Edgar?”
“Certainly, certainly. You can help me release the Migrant Hawker.”
“I take it, sir,” said Alec dryly, “that you haven’t imprisoned a wandering pedlar?”
“Butterfly,” said Daisy, “or moth.”
“No, no, dragonfly. It hatched this morning. Pretty dragonfly,” he said to Miranda.
“Dagfwy? Manda pitty.”
“So you are, my dear, so you are.”
“What nonsense, Miss Miranda,” Nurse Gilpin intervened
. “Vain as a peacock, that’s what you’ll be. If your lordship’ll excuse us, I’d like to get them settled in the nursery.”
“I have several Peacocks that will probably hatch in a few days.”
“Bird or butterfly?” Alec asked, laughing.
“Oh, butterfly, my dear fellow, butterfly. Inachis io, don’t you know. Geraldine was talking about acquiring some peacocks for the terrace, but I can’t abide their screeching. For my taste, it’s too like a rabbit’s scream when a fox or stoat gets it.” On this gruesome note, he stepped forward to greet Martha, whom Truscott was solicitously handing down from the Vauxhall. She looked apprehensive, unsure of her welcome. “And here is the Beautiful Demoiselle.”
“Mrs. Samuel Dalrymple,” Daisy introduced her. “Demoiselle” was hardly appropriate for the by-now distinctly pregnant young woman!
However, perhaps Edgar was not so oblivious as his choice of words suggested. He offered Martha his arm, patted her hand, and said, “I’m very happy to meet you, my dear. Don’t worry, we’ll take good care of you until your husband arrives.”
At last the butler succeeded in ushering everyone out of the heat and glare of the July afternoon into the cool dimness of the hall, lit only by the clerestory and lantern of the cupola high above.
“Her ladyship is in the drawing room,” Lowecroft announced. “Tea will be served shortly. Perhaps the ladies would like to go to their rooms first?”
“I’ll go up too,” Alec said firmly.
Ernest was waiting by the stairs to escort them, and upstairs a maid was in attendance. Belinda was thrilled to find she had risen to the dignity of a guest room of her own, instead of one of the nursery bedrooms. In fact, she was in Daisy’s old room, as Daisy and Alec had the second-best bedroom.
“Mummy, do you think that means I’m supposed to have tea with the grown-ups, not with the babies?” she asked anxiously.
“I expect so, darling. You can come down with us to say hello to Aunt Geraldine, and if it looks as if you’re not expected you can quietly fade out, all right?” Daisy turned to the maid. “Are the other … guests already here?”
“Lord and Lady John will be staying at the Dower House, madam. There’s others as came yesterday,” she added in an ominous tone, “but who they may be, I’m sure it’s not my place to say.”
She made sure they had everything they needed, then departed.
“It sounds as if the servants don’t approve of the heirs of the body,” said Alec.
“Darling, it sounds to me as if they strongly disapprove.”
“They’re your relatives.” He was determined not to be drawn into Daisy’s family affairs. “I’m not going to get involved. I’d rather face a gang of thugs than massed Dalrymples, unless you’re by my side to protect me.”
Daisy giggled. “Then hurry up, do. I’m dying to see how Vincent and Raymond get on with each other.”
They washed off the inevitable grime of a train journey. When Belinda tapped on the door, Daisy sent her to see if Martha was ready.
Meeting on the landing, Alec saw that Martha was wide-eyed with apprehension, daunted by the prospect of facing a roomful of strangers. He was not a little apprehensive himself—of a week of boredom or, alternatively, of hordes of squabbling relatives whose ruffled feathers Daisy would expect him to help to smooth. With a certain fellow feeling, he gave Martha his arm and escorted her down the wide stairs to the hall.
Daisy followed with Belinda, doing her best not to act as if Fairacres were still her home. She wondered whether Martha found the mansion any more intimidating than she had—at first sight—the Hampstead house.
“I wish Derek was here,” Bel whispered to her.
As they reached the foot of the staircase Lowecroft, adept in the magical art of butlerdom, appeared from nowhere and ushered them into the drawing room.
Geraldine came to greet them. Behind her, three men stood up: Raymond, Vincent, and a stranger. Belatedly Edgar followed suit. With him rose a boy he had been chatting to, a dark lad of about Belinda’s age. An unknown lady remained seated.
Daisy presented Martha to Geraldine, who welcomed her kindly though with a distracted air. General introductions followed, not without some difficulty, as many of those present had the same surname.
Raymond Dalrymple favoured Daisy with a half bow, shook hands with Alec, gave Martha a nod and a hard stare, and ignored Belinda.
Vincent Dalrymple was all smiles and complaisance. The unknown woman turned out to be his wife. Mrs. Vincent Dalrymple was a handsome woman who spoke excellent English with a slight French accent and was dressed and made up with the Parisian chic attained without effort by so many Frenchwomen. Her manner was graciously condescending to Daisy, as if she already knew her husband to be the true heir. She couldn’t—could she?
To Martha, Mrs. Vincent didn’t bother to be gracious. She was coldly polite, after a glance with narrowed eyes at the younger woman’s obvious pregnancy. After an appraising look at Belinda, she bent enough to say, “My elder daughter must be about your age.”
“What’s her name? Is she here?” Bel asked eagerly.
“Certainly not. The children are en vacances on the Continent with their governess.”
Geraldine swept onwards. “Daisy, this is Mr. Crowley.”
So the stranger was the one who had told Tommy he was escorting a Dalrymple scion to England. In his late thirties, Mr. Crowley was dark haired, extremely good-looking, with green eyes and an engaging smile that displayed very white teeth. Altogether too much of a good thing, Daisy thought. What was his association with the unknown Dalrymple and why was his attendance necessary?
He grinned at Daisy and, as if reading her mind, said, “I’ve brought my stepson over to take his chances in the Dalrymple stakes.”
Doubtless he had had to answer the same question, spoken or implied, over and over again, she realised crossly.
He turned to the boy beside him, between him and Edgar. “Benjamin Dalrymple, son of my late wife and her first husband, Lucas Dalrymple, of Port-of-Spain, Trinidad.”
An orphan, then. Benjamin, a lanky lad about Bel’s age, was as dark skinned as Daisy’s Indian friend Sakari. Though his features were more European than African, his short-cropped hair was crow-black and tightly curled. Daisy had been vaguely aware of these facts since her first glance at the assembled company, but she hadn’t paid much attention, concentrating on the adults. It hadn’t crossed her mind that he was one of the would-be heirs.
He bowed slightly, looking apprehensive.
“Hello,” said Belinda, eschewing the formal “how do you do” with which she had addressed the grown-ups. She went straight to the question that most interested her: “How old are you?”
“Twelve, miss.”
“I’m thirteen. So’s Derek. My name is Belinda but you can call me Bel.”
He beamed. “You can call me Ben. Or Benjie, but I like Ben better.” His voice had an attractive lilt, rather like Martha’s, though less strong and with a mixture of other elements. It sounded almost Welsh to Daisy’s ears.
“Bel and Ben. I bet people will get confused.”
“Who’s Derek?”
“My cousin. My stepcousin, really. And my friend. You’re a sort of stepcousin too, I expect. You came from Trinidad?”
Daisy heard no more, as Ernest bore in the tea tray and Geraldine bustled her and Martha away to sit down. However, she was glad to see the two heads, ginger and black, remaining close together. Belinda’s coeducational school had made her quite at ease with boys, unlike many girls her age, and Sakari’s daughter was one of her best friends, so dark skin was no impediment.
However, it didn’t seem remotely possible that a half-caste child could be a legitimate “heir of the body.” That was not the boy’s fault. Crowley was responsible for his claim. Daisy wondered whether he really was Benjamin’s stepfather.
The ramifications were so complex she soon stopped wondering, in favour of answering Geraldine’s polite
enquiries about the rigours of the train journey and the health of the twins. Geraldine was always meticulous about asking after the babies, though Daisy was pretty certain she really preferred older children, in spite of—or perhaps because of—having spent years as unpaid housemother to a horde of adolescent boys.
Mr. Crowley came over to have his teacup refilled, and stayed to talk to Daisy. “Let me get this straight,” he said with his charming smile, “you’re the daughter of our illustrious host’s predecessor?”
Ingratiating, Daisy thought. Was he a bit of a bounder, out to make something from his stepson’s possible good fortune? Perhaps even something of a con man? However, presumably he’d satisfied Tommy Pearson that Ben really was a Dalrymple, though, like the others, without proof that his was the eldest line.
“That’s right. Lord Dalrymple is my cousin.” Daisy looked round the room. “One of my cousins, I should say.”
“Oughtn’t you to be Lady something, then?”
“No.” She didn’t bother to explain the ramifications of her honorary “honourable” title. “Benjamin is an orphan, I gather?”
“Yes. His father was Lucas Dalrymple, son of John Dalrymple, who came to Port-of-Spain from Jamaica when he was a child, it seems, with his father Josiah. John married Dolores—I brought their marriage cert so that part’s all legit. That’s why I thought there’s half a chance…” He glanced round the room, with a wry face, while Daisy tried to memorise the names so as to create Ben’s family branch. “Quarter of a chance for the lad. Besides, I’ve always wanted to see the old country, though I didn’t expect to do it in such luxury!”
“How did you come to be responsible for Ben?”
“Luke was a pal of mine. He volunteered for the West India Regiment and before he left I promised to look out for Susanna and the kids if he didn’t come back.”
“Kids?”
“Ben has two older sisters and a younger brother.”
“Luke Dalrymple was killed in the war, I assume.”
“The Palestine Campaign. Your brother, too, I heard?”
