Daphne

by Beaton, M. C.

  ‘Because,’ said Mr Garfield, putting down his knife and fork, ‘someone has already been eating this.’

  ‘Mice!’ said Lady Godolphin awfully.

  The butler laid his fat white head down on the sideboard behind Lady Godolphin and burst into tears. It was more than flesh and blood could stand, he moaned. He had been hired to buttle. He was not a kennel master. There were hell-hounds loose in the kitchens and the world was coming at an end.

  ‘Pull yourself together,’ snapped Lady Godolphin. ‘I will speak to you later. Take away the haunch and serve the next course.’

  Still weeping, the butler removed the haunch and snapped his fingers for his retinue of footmen to follow him.

  Lady Godolphin mentally ticked off the dishes in the following course: harricot of mutton, breast of veal with stewed peas, raised pie à la française, fricassée of chicken, neck of venison, beef olives and sauce piquant, fish removed with rump of beef á la Mantua.

  Daphne had been working up courage to ask Mr Garfield about Bellsire and Thunderer. She dreaded hearing that they had been flogged to death or sold to another buyer or all sorts of horrible things. But he was talking to Lady Brothers who was seated on his other side. Daphne was not used to being ignored by any gentleman. She had never had to strain herself to think of anything interesting to say because the gentlemen seemed quite happy just to look at her. She was beginning to have a peculiar feeling that she had nothing at all to fear from the enigmatic Mr Garfield and that she bored him to tears.

  The doors to the dining room swung open. Mice, much recovered, stood aside to let the retinue of footmen carrying heavy silver dishes file past.

  Then an almost comical look of horror crossed his face and the first footman cast an anguished look of terror over his shoulder.

  There was the sound of deep barking. The vicar’s mouth fell open. There was the thud and scrabble of paws on the tiled floor of the hall and then shouts and curses from the footmen as they slid and staggered and then went down like ninepins amid an avalanche of hot dishes.

  Bellsire and Thunderer erupted into the room.

  Bellsire sniffed the air and launched himself at Mr Archer, who was seated near the vicar, getting the wrong quarry in his excitement.

  Mr Archer glared in amazement at the mark of one large gravy-stained paw on his pantaloons, seized his table knife and tried to run Bellsire through the ribs.

  ‘No you shall not!’ screamed Daphne Armitage. She hurtled to her knees and grabbed wriggling armfuls of delighted dog.

  ‘Who has been ill-treating these animals!’ she cried, bosom heaving and eyes flashing.

  The dogs licked her face. Her hair had tumbled down about her shoulders.

  Mr Garfield’s voice cut across the noise. ‘I am afraid I am to blame,’ he said. ‘These are my hounds. They did not wish to leave my company, but rather than inflict them on your dinner party, my lady, I asked that they be confined to the kitchens.’

  ‘Where they created terror and confusion,’ sobbed Mice brokenly. ‘Mr Garfield said we was not to tie them up and they were to be treated kind. They ran out the kitchen door fighting over that haunch of lamb.’

  ‘Which you retrieved and nonetheless served up to the table,’ pointed out Mr Garfield.

  ‘What was I to do?’ screamed the anguished butler to the gods. ‘My lady would’ve have taken that haunch out of my wages.’

  Daphne was muttering soothing things into the animals’ floppy ears, occasionally flashing a glittering glance around the company as if daring anyone to harm a hair of their heads.

  ‘Why aren’t these dogs with Mr Apsley?’ demanded Daphne.

  ‘He turned out not to have a sympathetic approach to animals,’ said Mr Garfield, admiring the quick rise and fall of Daphne’s bosom. ‘So I took it upon myself to rescue them.’

  ‘Oh, that was very good of you,’ said Daphne warmly. ‘I would not have thought you to be so considerate.’

  ‘I did it all for you, Miss Daphne,’ mocked Mr Garfield.

  Daphne quickly turned her head away.

  ‘Here boys,’ called the vicar and the dogs ran up to him. ‘Now sit!’ he commanded. Bellsire and Thunderer lay quietly down at his feet.

  ‘There you are,’ said the vicar cheerfully. ‘Well-trained beasts. The servants were probably teasing them something awful.’

  ‘My dinner party is ruined,’ said Lady Godolphin. ‘The whole place smells of dog. Take them away. Take everything away. I’m ravished and there’s nothing to eat.’

  Daphne rose to her feet. ‘Nonsense!’ she said. ‘I shall prepare you all something to eat. Mama will help me.’

  ‘Daphne!’ screamed that lady, clutching her heart. ‘I could not. Every Sensibility would be affected. I feel a Spasm coming on.’

  ‘Sit down, girl,’ said Mrs Nash. ‘You cannot go cavorting around the kitchens.’

  ‘I am perfectly capable of cooking dinner,’ said Daphne firmly.

  ‘I’ve got a cook to do that,’ pointed out Lady Godolphin.

  ‘Cook’s given notice,’ said Mice with gloomy relish.

  ‘On second thought,’ smirked Mrs Nash, ‘since Miss Armitage seems so determined to feed us, I suggest we let her try.’

  ‘What do I care?’ said Lady Godolphin. ‘I’ve never seen such chassis in all my life. Take that mess away, Mice.’

  The footmen were rapidly scooping up broken food back onto the dishes. Maids came in with mops and brushes. Daphne quietly left the room.

  ‘Perhaps we should all go home,’ suggested Lady Brothers.

  ‘Fustian,’ said Colonel Cartwright unexpectedly. ‘I don’t hold with this business of modern gels lettin’ the servants do everything. In my day, a gently bred miss knew the kitchen and still room better than the housekeeper.’

  ‘Can Daphne cook?’ asked Lady Godolphin in an undertone to the vicar.

  The vicar sadly shook his head. ‘You know no one at the vicarage can cook, least of all Daphne. Pass around the wine and get ’em all in their altitudes. Then they won’t notice. It’s goodbye to Garfield.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ muttered Lady Godolphin. ‘If he took those dogs and made pets o’ them, stands to reason he must have been trying to compress Daphne.’

  An hour passed during which time the guests consumed a considerable amount of wine. Mrs Nash became quite flirtatious and kept rapping the vicar on the hand with the sticks of her fan.

  Mr Archer was the only one apart from Mr Garfield who did not seem elated by the amount of wine. He was moodily bathing the stain on his pantaloons with soda water and salt.

  Then the doors opened and two footmen came in bearing a huge raised pie.

  It proved to contain a most peculiar mixture of viands, but the company were too hungry to care.

  Only Mr Garfield had a shrewd suspicion that the enterprising Daphne had, he hoped, rinsed everything that had fallen on the floor under the tap, arranged it all in an enormous pie dish, and covered it with pastry. Certainly, it was the first time he had had fish, mutton, veal, chicken, neck of venison and beef olives all in the one dish.

  When the third course appeared after another hour, it was all too evident which dishes had been already prepared by the cook and which had been prepared by the fair Miss Daphne. The larded guinea fowl was slightly cold but quite delicious, as was the currant and raspberry pie which followed. But the omelette soufflé crouched at the bottom of the dish in a sullen mass and the macaroni was watery and half-cooked.

  Daphne appeared, flushed with success, and got a warm round of applause.

  The vicar, exalted by the admiring gleam he caught in Mr Garfield’s eye, and being more tipsy than he had been since the last hunt, decided to honour the company with a song.

  Raising his glass, he began in a rousing baritone:

  ‘Come cheer up my lads! ’tis to glory we steer,

  To add something more to this wonderful year;

  To honour we call you, not press you like slaves,


  For who are so free as the sons of the waves?’

  Daphne, who had sat down beside Mr Garfield, half rose, red with embarrassment, already lifting a hand to try to silence her father. But Mr Garfield gently covered her hand with his own, and with an amused smile indicated the rest of the company who were already raising their glasses and roaring out the chorus:

  ‘Heart of oak are our ships,

  Heart of oak are our men:

  We always are ready;

  Steady, boys, steady;

  We’ll fight and we’ll conquer again and again.’

  It was then the turn of Lady Brothers who sang a mournful ballad in a tipsy voice:

  ‘She is gone! Sweet Charlotte’s gone,

  Gone to the silent bourne;

  She is gone, she’s gone for ever more –

  She can never return.’

  Lady Brothers subsided before a storm of enthusiastic applause and once more the wine bottles were circulated.

  Colonel Cartwright promptly launched into a hunting song, much to the vicar’s delight:

  ‘Believer week is the bravest week

  Of fifty-two in the year.

  ’Tis one to tweak a Methody’s beak,

  And to make a Teetotaler swear.

  We leave our troubles and toils behind,

  Forget if we’ve got grey hair –

  A parcel of boys, all frolic and noise,

  Bidding begone dull care.’

  Daphne gently pulled her hand away from under Mr Garfield’s. It was making her feel hot and very odd.

  ‘Is everyone drunk?’ whispered Daphne to Mr Garfield.

  ‘I do not know. I only know I am drunk by your beauty,’ he said.

  ‘I am disappointed in you, sir,’ said Daphne now torn between attraction for him and the old longing to push him away. ‘I thought you would have found something original to say.’

  ‘I make the effort from time to time when I think it will be appreciated. But why make the effort for you, Miss Daphne? By your taste,’ he said, pointing with his quizzing glass to where Mr Archer sat gloomily looking at his knee, ‘I would imagine you thrill to the sweet sound of the platitude, the cliché and the well-worn compliment.’

  ‘You are rude.’

  ‘Shh! Lady Godolphin is about to sing.’

  Flushed in the face, swaying slightly and clutching a long pink chiffon scarf in her hands, Lady Godolphin was making weird sounds in her throat. Bellsire grumbled a warning under the table.

  Lady Godolphin’s noises grew stranger and her face grew redder and finally she opened her mouth and roared out a ballad at such volume it must have been heard all over the West End.

  ‘Married women take advice,

  Get you every thing that’s nice,

  A little drop of brandy, rum, or gin,

  And if your husband should complain,

  Give the compliment again,

  And whack him with the wooden rolling pin.

  When some women well-behaves,

  They’re oft used worse than slaves,

  And must not dare to use their pretty tongue,

  Let the world say what it will,

  I will say, and prove it still,

  That a woman never knows when her day’s work’s done.’

  This was hailed with wild and noisy applause. But when Lord Brothers burst out with the opening lines of:

  ‘A Captain bold, in Halifax, who dwelt in country quarters,

  Seduced a maid who hang’d herself, one morning in her garters.’

  Mr Garfield arose and said he was establishing a new fashion by retiring with the ladies. He held out his arm to Daphne and led her from the room.

  Rather subdued and beginning to feel the terrible effects of all they had drunk, not to mention Daphne’s cooking, the guests trailed after them, each one beginning to say they had to go home.

  Mr Garfield smiled down at Daphne. ‘There is to be a Grand Review of Volunteers in Hyde Park tomorrow, Miss Daphne. May I ask your father if I may escort you?’

  Daphne opened her mouth to refuse, but he suddenly smiled down into her eyes. Her knees trembled and she whispered very shyly, ‘Yes.’

  She turned away from him in confusion and caught a glimpse of her reflection in a long mirror. Her breasts stood out sharply against the thin muslin of her gown. She crossed her arms over her bosom and shivered slightly. What on earth had possessed her to wear such a shocking gown?

  Mr Garfield was talking to her father who looked delighted. Mrs Armitage was looking pleased as well. Daphne felt a stab of irritation. Why should her mother – who had done absolutely nothing towards the upbringing of her daughters – suddenly interest herself in one of them for the first time? And why does it have to be me? thought Daphne crossly.

  She was actually ashamed of her mother, a fact she would not even admit to herself. Mrs Armitage had never been told it is quite unsuitable for a short, plump woman to droop. She assumed all the languid die-away airs of a tall goddess.

  Mr Garfield walked towards the door, Bellsire and Thunderer close at his heels. He looked down at them ruefully and then dug his hand in his pocket and slipped some coins into the butler’s hand. Daphne could not see how much it was but Mice’s face lit up like a sunrise and he actually bent and patted Bellsire on the head.

  Mr Archer drew Daphne aside. ‘Will you do me the honour of coming with me to Hyde Park tomorrow?’ he asked, looking at his reflection in the glass over Daphne’s shoulders.

  ‘I cannot,’ said Daphne impatiently. ‘I tried to tell you. Papa wants me to marry Mr Garfield. Mr Garfield asked me to accompany him and I fear I accepted.’

  Now for the first time that evening had she Mr Archer’s full attention. ‘But you must refuse,’ he said simply.

  ‘I cannot. I feel obliged to him for rescuing the dogs.’

  ‘You did not even mention those wretched animals to me,’ said Mr Archer with rare asperity. ‘Had you done so, I would have done my utmost to find them for you.’

  Daphne’s gaze, which up till then had been a trifle hard, softened as it rested on Mr Archer’s exquisite features. ‘I should have told you,’ she said. ‘Do not worry. I shall contrive to give this Mr Garfield such a disgust of me on the morrow that he will not want to see me again.’ She looked around quickly. Her father and mother were talking earnestly to Lady Godolphin. The other guests had left.

  ‘Do you really love me and want to marry me?’ whispered Daphne.

  ‘Very much,’ said Mr Archer, taking her hand in his and giving it a warm press.

  ‘Hey, what’s this?’ cried the vicar, blustering up. ‘Come along, Daphne. Goodbye Mr Archer. I have no doubt we shall not be seeing much of you in the future.’

  Cyril Archer looked at the little vicar with hauteur. Daphne hurried to leave with her parents before her father could say any more.

  Outside the house, Hanover Square felt soupy and suffocatingly hot.

  ‘We’ll soon be able to go home to the country,’ yawned the vicar sleepily when they were all settled in the carriage. ‘Thank goodness the harvest is in. I smell rain.’

  ‘How you can smell anything other than drains is a miracle,’ said Mrs Armitage. ‘I was proud of you tonight, Daphne. All my daughters married well. What a triumph.’

  ‘I am not going to marry Mr Garfield,’ said Daphne between clenched teeth.

  But her parents had paid no attention to any of her remarks in the past and so they paid no attention now. Daphne had always been such a good, biddable sort of girl.

  She would do what she was told.

  FOUR

  The next day dawned brassy and sultry. Daphne felt she would never feel fresh or clean again. Mrs Armitage had announced her intention of calling on Annabelle before Daphne left for the Review. The maid, Betty, was to accompany them.

  Daphne felt depressed as Betty helped her into a sprigged muslin gown. The normally cheerful Betty was sour and sullen.

  ‘What is the matter, Betty?’ asked Daphn
e. ‘Have we done something to offend you? You should say so, you know, and not keep tugging my hair and wrenching at the tapes of my gown to show your disapproval.’

  ‘I have the headache and I don’t want for to go to Miss Annabelle’s, I mean Lady Brabington.’ And with that, Betty sat down, threw her apron over her head, and burst into tears.

  ‘Are you sure it is just the headache?’ asked Daphne anxiously.

  ‘Ye-es,’ sobbed the maid, crying harder than ever.

  Daphne gently lowered the apron and dabbed at Betty’s streaming face with a handkerchief. ‘You did not marry your John,’ she said softly. ‘Is this what ails you?’

  But Betty would only rock from side to side and cry harder.

  ‘Let me help you to your room,’ said Daphne, now really worried. Despite Betty’s protests, she summoned two of the housemaids. Still weeping, Betty was helped to her room and made to undress and go to bed. Tea was brought to her and Daphne sat beside the bed, holding Betty’s hand, occasionally smoothing the tumbled black curls from the maid’s hot brow, until worn out with crying, Betty fell asleep.

  Mrs Armitage was fretting downstairs. Why had Daphne taken such an unconscionable time to get ready? Mr Garfield was to call for her at Annabelle’s. She, Mrs Armitage, had despatched a footman requesting him to do so.

  In that way, they would have plenty of time for a comfortable cose with Annabelle.

  Daphne wished all of a sudden that Deidre would return from Brighton. Deirdre was always bright and merry and so much in love with her handsome husband. And why hadn’t Annabelle gone to Brighton? It seemed silly to stay in London in all this suffocating heat when one did not have to.

  Endless articles were written in the newspapers about the strangely hot summer. There had been just such a summer fifteen years before but everyone went on as if the end of the world was at hand.

  When they arrived at Conduit Street it was to find the Marquess of Brabington’s travelling carriage drawn up outside the door and trunks being loaded onto the back.