by Anne Gracie
For the next twenty minutes Flynn chatted and charmed and had the old ladies falling over themselves with delight. He hadn’t said a word to Daisy that was the slightest bit out of place, but by the time he left she was thoroughly bewildered.
* * *
That evening the four girls gathered around the fire in Jane and Daisy’s bedchamber. Max and Freddy and Flynn had gone off to watch a mill—a boxing match—and since Lady Beatrice wanted an early night and had retired to her bedchamber, Abby and Damaris seized the opportunity for an informal supper of hot chocolate and toast and crumpets in front of the fire.
It was a reminder of old times, before Abby and Damaris were married—even before they’d met Lady Beatrice—when their lives had been so difficult, and they’d decided to band together and become “sisters of the heart”—just to survive.
Daisy loved these gatherings, just the four of them, and no manners or proper behavior to worry about, where they would just talk and talk. And eat. And talk.
Damaris and Daisy sat on the bed, sewing. Abby and Jane toasted bread and crumpets while the three cats supervised. At least Jane hadn’t brought the blooming dog in as well.
Daisy gazed into the fire, mesmerized by the dancing flames. She should have been thinking about Mrs. Foster’s amazing offer, but instead she hadn’t been able to get Flynn out of her mind. What was he up to?
“Daisy? Daisy?”
She jumped, startled out of her reverie. “What?”
“What about the daisy?” Damaris asked.
Daisy glanced at the vases of flowers that graced the bedchamber. Those single daisies . . . they got to her.
“I took ’em out, why?”
“Took them out? Whatever for?” Damaris frowned over the dress she’d just finished hemming. “I just offered to embroider this one for you, but if you don’t want them anymore . . .”
Daisy felt herself flushing. “Sorry, I was thinkin’ of something else. I didn’t mean the dresses.”
Jane looked up. “I thought you were doing forget-me-nots on that dress, not daisies.”
“Haven’t you noticed?” Damaris said to Jane. “Daisy embroiders a little daisy inside the neck of each garment she makes. Just a tiny one, in white chain stitch with a French knot or two in yellow for the center.”
“Does she?” Jane scrambled up, leaving Abby to mind the food, and hurried to her wardrobe and started examining her dresses. “Oh look! You’re right,” she exclaimed. “It’s in this one—and this—and this—and—”
“It’s in all of ’em,” Daisy said, to stop Jane exclaiming over every blooming thing.
“How pretty. But why bother to embroider something where nobody can see it?”
She hunched her shoulders in embarrassment. “It’s nothin’, just . . .”
“She’s signing her work, aren’t you, Daisy?” Damaris said softly. “Like an artist or a craftsman.”
Daisy nodded. Damaris’s matter-of-fact acceptance gave her the confidence to explain. “Painters sign their paintings, and the men that made those chairs of Lady Bea’s—they put their mark on their work, and—”
“And I sign my china and my paintings,” Damaris added.
Daisy nodded. “That’s what gave me the idea. So I thought . . . why not? It only takes a moment. You probably think it’s a bit stup—”
“I think it’s a lovely idea, Daisy,” Abby assured her warmly. “It makes your clothes even more personal and special.”
“Oh, yes, I think so too,” Jane agreed. “And how lucky that you’re called Daisy, instead of Annabel or Gwendolyn—imagine embroidering that.” They all laughed.
“Do any of you know anything about silent partners?” Daisy asked. “In business I mean.”
Damaris shook her head, “Not really. All I know is that Freddy was one in Max’s company.”
“Flynn’s company,” Daisy corrected her. It was called Flynn and Co., after all.
“Max never talks business with me,” Abby said.
Jane, who was still standing beside the wardrobe, gave a little scream. “The toast, Abby!” She dived toward the toasting fork, where a slice of thick-cut bread was smoking badly.
Abby removed the charred toast from the fire, examined it, decided it was beyond saving and dropped it in the coal scuttle. “Come along everyone, it’s time we ate.”
It was a feast. A cloth was spread on the hearth rug, laid with dishes containing butter, honey, several kinds of jam, marmalade, fresh cream, cheeses, goose liver pâté, even anchovy paste, though why Cook had sent up anchovy paste when none of them liked it—apart from the cats—was a mystery.
“Max, no! You can’t have it.” Abby pushed Max the cat away. It was the third or fourth time she’d had to stop a cat from raiding the food.
“Put them bloomin’ cats outside,” Daisy said, not for the first time. “They’ll knock something over in a minute.”
“Poor little kitties, we’re tempting you with all these lovely smelling dishes, aren’t we?” Jane crooned as she collected the butter, the pâté and the pot of anchovies and put them on a small side table.
Daisy rolled her eyes. As if cats couldn’t jump. She was as fond of the cats as any of them, but she wanted to eat in peace. She folded her sewing and before she joined the others on the hearth rug, made a small detour, scooping up three half-grown cats and depositing them outside in the hall before she returned to the fire and sat down. She answered Jane’s accusing look with, “They can come in afterwards and polish off the scraps, but I’m not picking cats out of me supper all night. I want to relax.”
A large pot of thick, sweet chocolate had been sitting in the grate, keeping hot. Using a cloth pad to hold the handle, Damaris carefully poured it into cups while Jane and Abby buttered toast and crumpets and handed them around.
“Oooh, this is lovely,” Daisy said, crunching into a slice of toast oozing with melted butter and tangy orange marmalade. Damaris was eating toast and strawberry jam topped with thick whipped cream and Jane was eating crumpets dripping with honey. “I can’t think of anything nicer for supper. Who invented toast, do you reckon? They must have been a genius.”
She glanced at the others, all busily tucking in, and her eyes widened. “Abby, what the ’ell are you eating? Is that anchovy paste? With cream? Washed down with hot chocolate?”
Abby gave a rueful glance at her slice of toast, slathered with anchovy paste and topped with cream. She glanced at Jane and gave a little shrug. “I suppose there’s no use trying to keep it a secret any longer. Jane knows, and Max, of course, and I was going to tell you both when Lady Bea was with us but”—she gave a tremulous little smile—“I’m going to have a baby.”
Damaris jumped up and hugged Abby. “Oh, Abby, I’m so thrilled for you!” And for the next few minutes it was all hugs and congratulations and “When is the baby due?” and “What did Max say?”
Of course Daisy hugged and smiled and congratulated Abby too. She knew how much Abby wanted children. Abby would make a wonderful mother and Max a good father.
But it was a little strange, all the same. For the first time in Daisy’s life she’d seen someone who was thrilled—really, truly, honestly thrilled at the prospect of having a baby.
Her experience was the opposite. Everyone she’d ever known had treated pregnancy as a disaster, a fate to be avoided at all costs. Some girls who fell pregnant—and wasn’t that a telling phrase?—even risked their lives going to the old women in the back alleys.
A baby was a problem to be solved—not celebrated.
Some of the girls had loved their babies, it was true, but they still gave them away. Even some of the married ones.
And if the baby died—as quite a few did—there was grief in some of the girls, to be sure, but also a measure of relief. God’s will and all that. And the babe was soon forgotten, or at least never spoken o
f again.
Even Daisy’s own mother had given her away. Or sold her. She wasn’t sure. But she hadn’t wanted her.
Daisy looked at Abby, so glowing and happy and proud and excited. She couldn’t imagine what it would be like to feel that way.
As for the baby, what would it be like to come into the world being wanted and loved and cared for? Part of a ready-made, loving, protective family.
Daisy couldn’t imagine it.
Chapter Thirteen
I have not the pleasure of understanding you.
—JANE AUSTEN, PRIDE AND PREJUDICE
Flowers continued to be delivered, each posy with a daisy in the center of the arrangement. And for the following three afternoons, Flynn made a very correct morning call. Daisy was summoned to the drawing room each time.
By the second visit, she was bristling with suspicion. It couldn’t possibly be what it looked like. He wouldn’t do that to her.
By the end of the third visit she was simmering with impotent fury.
He was pretending to court her. And everyone except Daisy was fooled by his act.
It had reached the stage where Featherby and William had had to bring in more chairs, as more of Lady Beatrice’s cronies kept coming, all twittering with excitement because Something Was Going On.
They watched Flynn and Daisy’s interactions with the avidity of spectators at the court, or a play—why, Daisy had no idea, because with that audience, she and Flynn could only speak of the most commonplace things.
Her frustration grew. She had no opportunity to speak to Flynn alone, to ask him what the hell he was playing at. He, however, seemed perfectly comfortable with the attention, and entertained the room with charming anecdotes and tales of his adventures. The old ladies adored him.
Daisy wanted to smack him.
It was probably some scheme to get himself out of Featherby’s black books, and it had worked too. Featherby had unbent to such an extent that he was regarding Flynn with a benevolent expression, and Lady Beatrice was positively beaming at Flynn when he rose to take his leave. But why did he have to involve Daisy?
There was a hushed intake of breath from the gathered ladies as he took Daisy’s hand to bow over it, and a long sigh when he released it.
Daisy could have boxed his ears.
The moment he left she stomped upstairs in a temper. She didn’t for one moment believe he was courting her. And the next time she saw him alone, she’d tell him.
She knew what he wanted—a nice, tame, sweet-spoken little wife, a perfect lady who’d be an ornament to his home, popping out babies and playing Lady Bountiful to the poor, attending balls and dancing ’til dawn in his arms.
Well, that wasn’t her, and Flynn blooming well knew it. He was playing some deep game and she didn’t like it one little bit, so he could just stop sending her flowers and looking at her like she was a . . . a cream-filled cake that he was waiting to have for his tea.
Whatever it was, she wouldn’t go along with it.
She had other plans for her life.
It was some kind of game. He couldn’t possibly be serious.
* * *
Finally, finally after days of the dreariest good behavior, gallons of weak tea and hours of insipid conversation with a gaggle of old ladies hanging off his every word and glance, Featherby allowed Flynn upstairs to talk to Daisy on her own.
“Leave the door open,” he called after Flynn as he took the stairs two at a time.
He was anxious to see her. Desperate, in fact.
She didn’t even greet him. “What are you playin’ at, Flynn?”
No polite society hypocrisy here—straight out with the question. Ah, but she was a breath of fresh air, his Daisy. “Playin’ at? What do you mean? I’ve come to vis—”
“Stop jokin’ around. You know what I mean. Sendin’ me flowers—I know it’s you so don’t bother to deny it. And all those bloomin’ morning visits—what are they about?”
He hid a smile. She was spoiling for a fight. Not that he minded. “Something botherin’ you, sweetheart? I thought you liked flowers.”
“Don’t call me that! I’m not your sweetheart!”
“Something botherin’ you, my little hedgehog?”
She tried to glare at him some more, but her lips gave her away and a laugh escaped her. She put her work down and gave a sigh. “Gawd, Flynn, you’re enough to drive a girl to drink. What am I goin’ to do with you?”
He grinned. “I can think of a few things.”
She shook her head. “No.” She held up her palms as if to hold him off, though he wasn’t anywhere close enough to touch her. Yet. “None of that nonsense. I told you before, it’s got to stop.”
“What’s got to stop?”
“This . . .” She groped for a word. “This charade.”
He frowned. “It’s not a charade.”
“I’m talking about the impression you’ve been givin’ Lady Bea and her friends. And Featherby. They think you’re courting me, Flynn.”
“I am.”
She blinked, then shook her head. “Stop jokin’ around. I’m serious.”
“So am I. I want you, Daisy.”
She paled. Her eyes were liquid, luminous as she searched his face to read the truth in it. Her mouth opened, then shut. Flynn just waited.
There was a long silence. She bit her lip, and slowly the color flushed back into her cheeks as she mastered herself. Again, she shook her head. “Flattered as I am—”
“Flattered?” He could hear the but coming already. Dammit!
She narrowed her eyes at him. “Yes, flattered—now are you going to let me finish?”
That was his girl—knock her down and she came up swinging. “Go ahead.”
“Right, as I was sayin’, I’m flattered you want me—and I’ll admit that I’m attracted to you too—”
“Then if—”
“Oy! Will you bloody listen?”
“Go on.” Not flirting, then. She was serious.
“I admit, I do fancy you, and in different circumstances, I might . . .” He leaned forward, but she continued, “But I ain’t. I ain’t going to let it go any further.”
“Why not?”
“I can’t afford it.”
“Afford?” He frowned.
“With me business only just gettin’ started I can’t afford even the slightest hint of scandal or improper behavior. I’m not like those ton ladies, where everyone is prepared to turn a blind eye to their goin’s-on, as long as they’re discreet. If it got out that I had a fancy man, it would be the ruination of—”
“‘Fancy man’?” Flynn said indignantly. “I’m no fancy man! Do you think I’m tryin’ to give you a slip on the shoulder or somethin’? Dammit, Daisy—you ought to know me better than that! I’m not the kind of man to trifle with the affections of an innocent girl!”
She gave him a sharp look. Her mouth opened, as if she was about to say something, but she shut it again.
He continued, “I’m talking marriage, girl.”
“Marriage?” Her jaw dropped.
He nodded. “You, me and a preacher. Marriage.” He waited.
She stared at him for a long moment, then sighed. “I thought that’s what you were goin’ to say the other day—when Jane and Featherby caught us at it. Don’t worry, I’m not going to hold you to it.”
“Hold me to i—”
“It was my fault—all my fault—so you don’t need to go being all honorable and—”
“I’m not being honorable! Dammit, Daisy, I mean it! I want to marry you.”
“No, you don’t.”
“Don’t tell me what I want or don’t want,” he snapped, annoyed at her calm contradiction. “You don’t like it when I argue with you like that—”
“Yeah, but with me it’s true. You
’re just feeling . . .”
“Feeling what?” He prompted after a moment. “Go on, tell me what you think I’m feeling.”
“Guilty about gettin’ under me skirts that way.”
He shook his head. “I don’t feel the slightest bit guilty about it. All I feel is regret that Jane came home when she did and that we didn’t get to finish.”
“And we never will.”
He smiled. “I don’t give up so easy, Daisy love. And when I want something enough, I usually get it. And I want you, be assured of that.” He took a few steps towards her, planning to kiss her into compliance, to reassure her.
She skittered back out of reach, tripped on a cat and almost fell. Flynn dived forward and caught her arm, steadying her.
“Are you all r—”
She shook off his hold and scooped up the cat. “The one room in the house where she’s not allowed so she tries to sneak in all the time.” She held it against her breast, stroking it. But it was a defense.
“I don’t blame her.”
She put the cat out, closed the door and leaned against it, eyeing him with a troubled expression.
“I don’t know why you’ve suddenly got this daft notion to marry me, Flynn, but it’s crazy. You came to London tellin’ the world you wanted to marry a fine fancy highborn lady—and now you’re offering for me? It doesn’t make sense. Is it because Lady Liz jilted you?”
“She didn’t jilt me.”
“But everyone says—”
“That’s the story everyone believes. But—and this is for your ears only, Daisy—she didn’t elope with anyone. I think you’re right about her bein’ a lady of Langwhatsit—she’s gone to live with an aunt in Italy.”
He watched her face, pausing to let it sink in. “The elopement story was to keep her father off her trail so she could make a clean getaway. If I didn’t marry her—and I’d told her that I wasn’t going to—he was plannin’ to marry her off to a ghastly old ruin for the sake of his debts.” He snorted. “Some father, eh?”
Her wide hazel eyes scanned his face earnestly. “So you’re not upset?”
