Daisy

by Beaton, M. C.

  The Earl turned and took Daisy’s hands in his. “We will speak of this later, my dear,” he said in a husky voice. He bent and kissed her gloved wrists one after the other.

  Daisy fled across the enchanted lawns and up to the safety of her room, where she twirled around and around, trying to dance away some of the suffocating feeling of delight. He loved her! He would get a divorce. She stopped and bit her lip. Divorce was a wicked word, but this rarified strata of society did not seem to have the same rigid morals as the society that she had left. Why, only tonight she had been introduced to someone’s mistress! She gave a mock sophisticated shrug and went to bed feeling intensely happy and deliciously powerful and wicked.

  The morning brought heavy rain and a bad start to the day. The Countess’s personal maid arrived with a basket of her ladyship’s underclothes, with a curt note to the effect that Daisy was to mend them immediately.

  Daisy’s mercurial spirits took a plunge. The wine-induced ecstasy of the night before had disappeared, leaving her feeling small, frightened, and grubby.

  “Lust!” cried the stern ghost of Sarah Jenkins in her ear. “Sinner!” wailed the great trees outside as they tossed their arms up to the storm-torn sky.

  With a sigh, Daisy decided to forego breakfast and set herself to darning and mending the exquisite lacy garments in the workbasket.

  Surely the Earl would come for her. He would take away the degrading work and lead Cinderella from her prison. But it was the solid figure of Curzon who eventually appeared and firmly took the workbasket from her.

  “I am sure my lady was mistaken,” was all he would say. “Please go downstairs, miss. They have their breakfast about eleven, you know. You won’t be late.”

  Daisy’s spirits soared. So that was why her love had not come to rescue her. Curzon sent along Plumber to perform her magic with the curling tongs and the services of the laundry room and then Daisy scampered downstairs in her refurbished button boots.

  The breakfast room was crowded with guests, all helping themselves liberally from a staggering assortment of dishes on the sideboard.

  The Countess sat at the head of the table, one grilled kidney halfway to her mouth as Daisy entered the room.

  “Have you finished my mending, Miss Chatterton?”

  “No, my lady,” said Daisy, suddenly frightened. “Curzon took it away.”

  Her ladyship’s eyes narrowed as she surveyed the butler’s impassive back as he put fresh dishes on the sideboard.

  “You’re fired, Curzon,” hissed the Countess.

  “You’re hired, Curzon,” remarked the Earl amiably.

  “Fired!” screamed the Countess.

  “Hired,” said the Earl, lazily refilling his plate.

  “Fired, fired, fired!” said the Countess, throwing her plate of kidneys at the window. The plate bounced off the glass and fell harmlessly to the floor where several dogs sprang to life and squabbled noisily over the meat.

  The Countess began to cry pathetically and was immediately surrounded by several young men who patted her hands and called the indifferent Earl a beast. Daisy fled from the breakfast room and took refuge in the conservatory. Her head was pounding. She could not go on living in this atmosphere. She had never been aware that she possessed any violent feelings before, but now she seemed to be burning up with hate for the spiteful Countess.

  Chapter Four

  A faint click as the glass door opened behind her made her turn.

  The Earl stood on the threshold looking self-conscious. “You musn’t mind about Angela’s scenes, my dear,” he said, moving forward. “She’s a spoiled brat. Always has been. Now, about us….” He moved closer to her, his wonderful blue eyes shining down into hers. Daisy began to feel dizzy and faint. He slowly put his large hands on her waist and drew her close to him.

  But seventeen years of middle-class upbringing had left their mark. Daisy drew back abruptly. “This is all wrong, my lord. You are a married man.”

  All laughter fled from his eyes. “You are right, my dear,” he said softly. “I am a bounder and a cad. Only fit to kiss the hem of your dress.” He dropped to one knee and suited his action to his words.

  Daisy stretched out a shaking hand to the fair head bent before her, and then with a strangled sob, ran headlong from the room.

  The wind shrieked around the castle and the rain pounded against the windows as she fled upstairs and along the corridors, trying to find a place to hide to marshal her jumbled thoughts. She leaned her head against one of the bedroom doors and congratulated herself sadly for having rejected the most wonderful man she had ever met or was ever likely to meet.

  “Oh, Jerry I,” sighed a woman’s voice from the other side of the door. Daisy paused.

  Jerry? Then she remembered one of the house guests was a Captain Gerald Braithwaite, dark and handsome in a predatory way. She was about to hurry away when the next sentence halted her in her tracks.

  “For God’s Sake, Angela, why don’t you come away with me and leave that thick-headed clot!”

  Daisy stood transfixed. The Countess was in Gerald Braithwaite’s bedroom.

  “Oh, darling,” replied the now familiar tinkling voice. “I would run away with you tomorrow. Honestly. I am absolutely head over heels in love with you, you handsome brute. But poor old David’s heart would simply break.”

  Daisy did not wait to hear any more. She walked determinedly to her own rooms and sat by the window, staring unseeingly out at the storm. There was nothing to stop her now. Both the Earl and the Countess were trapped in a distasteful marriage, and the Earl obviously did not know that the Countess would be heartily glad to be free from him. And was divorce so bad? One could not enter the Royal Box at Ascot and minor things like that. And there were no children. In the romances that Daisy loved to read the heroines were always “fighting for their true love.” Then she would fight!

  The rest of the day passed like a brightly colored dream as the guests played charades and billiards and paper games and cards to relieve the monotony of a country house on a wet summer’s day. They passed before Daisy’s enchanted eyes in a blur and only one loved face stood out clearly—the Earl’s.

  How very young all the others seemed to Daisy as they romped and laughed and played inane practical jokes on each other. It seemed to her as if she and the Earl stood alone on a great height looking down at the little people disporting themselves a long way beneath. Oblivious of the Countess’s darting glances, she flirted awkwardly with the Earl, drank more than was good for her, and eventually toppled headlong into bed at three in the morning, her head fuzzy and her heart singing with happiness.

  The blazing sunlight of a perfect English summer’s day woke her early. She was too happy to stay in bed and dressed hurriedly to escape into the gardens and enjoy her newfound romance.

  A heavy ground mist coiled through the old trees in the park, and raindrops sparkled like diamonds on the flowers and grass. Somewhere far above a lark sent down its tumbling song, echoing the singing ecstasy in Daisy’s young heart.

  She sat down on the terrace in a white basket chair, and idly stared out at the beauty of the morning. Then, as if it were meant to happen, the Earl came and sat down beside her. He looked endearingly hesitant and boyish. “Come, my dear,” he said, “and I will pick you a rose to match the roses in your cheeks.”

  Daisy took his arm and they moved to the large rosebushes which grew along the edge of the terrace. The Earl gently turned Daisy around to face him.

  “My dear,” he began hesitantly. “Can I gather from your looks and words last night that you care for me as much as I care for you?”

  Daisy nodded dumbly, too happy to speak. He drew her slowly into his arms and kissed her. The world of castle, lawns, trees, and flowers spun dizzily around Daisy as she returned his embrace with inexperienced fervor.

  There was a whistling sound as a heavy object sailed past her ear, and then a tremendous crash of breaking china. The couple broke apart.


  The Countess, who had just hurled her best Spode teapot at Daisy, stood at the French windows that opened onto the terrace, her beautiful face contorted with rage.

  “You bastard!” she howled.

  The Earl’s handsome face flamed with anger. “You hellcat,” he raged. “It’s all right for you to go creepin’ along the corridors to Jerry’s room, but the minute I try to get a bit for myself, you run amuck.”

  The Countess dropped her arms to her side with a pathetic gesture. Her hair was loose and she was wearing a lacy wrapper. She suddenly looked very small and vulnerable.

  “I only did it to make you jealous, Davy,” she said, her voice catching on a sob. “You were making eyes and ogling her all the time. I don’t care for silly old Jerry one bit.”

  The Earl looked at her, stunned. “I say, Angela, is that the truth?”

  “Of course, you great ninny. Can’t you see my poor little heart is breaking?”

  With a strangled cry the Earl rushed forward and clasped his wife in his arms. “Oh, darling, I was so terribly jealous.”

  His wife smiled up at him. “Well, it’s all right now, isn’t it my love. Together again.”

  “Together,” he said fondly, enclosing her in a passionate embrace. Then, still clinging together, they moved slowly off into the castle. Both had forgotten Daisy’s very existence.

  Daisy stood on the edge of the terrace as if turned to stone. A little breeze had sprung up sending the wreaths of mist flying away raggedly among the trees, like so many ghosts fleeing at cockcrow. The heavy roses nodded, sending little showers of sparkling raindrops onto the terrace. Somewhere high in the morning sky the lark still poured out his exquisite song. The sound of hearty voices started to filter out through the breakfast room windows and Daisy fled. She ran and ran across the lawns and into the trees, panting and stumbling over the underbrush until she was almost at the edge of the estate.

  She sank down on a mossy log and doubled up. The pain of rejection and lost love was so bad, it was physical. Then in the back of her mind, she heard Sarah Jenkins’s voice—“I do care for you Daisy. I do care,” and she burst into bitter tears of sorrow and loneliness; a pathetic seventeen-year-old child without a home, adrift on a chilly, heartless, aristocratic sea.

  “They always, always go and do it,” said a bored voice in front of her. She raised her tear-blurred eyes and found the tall figure of the Duke of Oxenden looking down at her. He sat down beside her on the log and handed her his handkerchief. “Now blow your nose…hard… that’s a good girl. No, I don’t want it back. You can sleep with it under your pillow to remind you of your follies.”

  Anger drove away Daisy’s tears. “If you have come here simply to mock and sneer…”

  “Now, now,” he said soothingly. “I came looking for you to see if an explanation would help things. I doubt it. But you do need someone to look after you, my poor child. Oh, don’t start sniveling again.” Daisy, who had begun to sob at the unexpected kindness in his voice, dried her eyes and sat bolt upright and glared at him.

  “That’s better,” he said bracingly. “Get angry. Get anything. Only don’t go under because of the bedroom machinations of that silly pair.

  “Now listen to me, my girl. David and Angela have been married for five years during which time they have broken more hearts than you have had hot dinners. They tie some poor youngster into knots and then have a blazing reconciliation and vow never, never to let it happen again. Their short periods of marital bliss last, on average, about six months. And then they both start philandering again.”

  “But he said he loved me,” wailed Daisy. “He said he was only fit to kiss the hem of my gown.”

  “Well, the latter part was honest at least. Possibly, he did think he loved you. That’s what makes David and Angela expert philanderers. For a brief span of time they actually do believe they are in love with the victim.”

  “The victim,” repeated Daisy bitterly. “The aristocracy are supposed to set an example. We were told at school that all lords and ladies were fine and noble.”

  “Oh, dear,” said the Duke. “Well, my dear, the aristocracy is pretty much the same as ever it was. Of course, when the old queen was alive, they were much more discreet, but now Edward is in power, they are kicking up their heels just the way they always did. Under that rigid code of morals and manners beats the heart of a tomcat, my dear.”

  Daisy hung her head. “If my house isn’t sold I shall go back to Upper Featherington.”

  “And run away,” he said gently. “Where’s your stiff upper lip?”

  “It’s over my loose, wobbly lower one,” said Daisy with a sudden gleam of humor.

  “That’s much better,” remarked His Grace. “I noticed the way you magically lost your middle-class vowels almost overnight, which means you must be a pretty good actress. So why don’t you return with me and pretend that you were merely flirting just as much as David. Angela will be very sweet to you, by the way. They’re always extravagantly generous to their victims.”

  “Oh, how frightfully ripping,” said Daisy. “Oh, how terribly, terribly jolly.”

  She turned and looked fully at the Duke for the first time. He was wearing a hacking jacket and jodhpurs and his long, muscular legs were encased in well-worn riding boots. The harsh, hawklike profile stared into the sylvan setting like a bird of prey. His eyes suddenly slid around to her.

  “Feeling better? Hearts don’t break, you know.”

  “Oh, yes they do,” said Daisy with spirit. “I feel sick, I have a suffocating pain in my throat and, although I know it is false, I still keep hoping that he loves me.”

  “Good heavens,” said the Duke with lazy mockery. “All that feeling churning around in such a virginal body. You were not in love, my child. You were simply dazzled by facile good looks, an easy manner… and a title.”

  “Titles mean nothing to me!” snapped Daisy. “You’re a Duke. That’s greater than an Earl. I didn’t fall in love with you.”

  “I didn’t try to make you do so,” he said lazily, sliding down to the ground and leaning his head against the log. He closed his eyes.

  “You didn’t try to make me do so,” repeated Daisy with a startlingly fair imitation of His Grace’s aristocratic drawl. “Let me tell you that I would never fall in love with you. Why—you—you could try till you were blue in the face!”

  “Don’t be too sure,” mocked the lazy voice, as the Duke settled himself back comfortably against the log.

  “Have you never been in love?” asked Daisy curiously.

  “Never,” he replied. “I leave that doubtful emotion to fools and poets. Love! What utter bosh. Love is nothing but a trick of the mind to make a baser emotion more respectable; greed, passion, or where the one wants a daddy to hide her from the naughty world and the other a mummy. Men of my class finally marry because they wish for heirs. They choose a girl of suitable fortune and birth, and if they’re damned dishonest or just plain silly or…”—here one yellow eye opened and stared at Daisy—“read too many romances, they persuade themselves they are in love.”

  “Oh, you’re insufferable!” cried Daisy, jumping to her feet. “I may have made a mistake with the Earl, but let me tell you I feel in my bones that true love does exist and I—I’ll prove it to you!”

  “Dear me!” He opened both eyes in mock alarm. “Don’t tell me you are going to swoon around in front of me with a lot of young men just to persuade me?”

  “No. But you will recognize it when you see it. And I will not settle for less, Your Grace.”

  “You may call me Toby.”

  “Toby? That’s a name for jugs and collies.”

  “Don’t be impertinent. My name is Tobias, the diminutive is Toby. Jugs, indeed! I will place a bet with you, my dear.”

  “A bet? I have no money.”

  “A lock of your pretty hair will suffice. Now, isn’t that romantic? I, in return, will give you one thousand golden guineas if you can prove to me that you
have found the perfect love match. Prepare to lose your hair. Like the rest of us you will settle for money or companionship.”

  Daisy held out her small, still work-roughened hand. He shook it solemnly and then settled back against the log and closed his eyes.

  After a little while Daisy asked timidly, “Did the Earl behave to previous young ladies the… the way he behaved to me?”

  No reply. She looked down and found to her exasperation that her noble companion had fallen fast asleep. She took a step forward and then sat down again. In the argument with the Duke, she had, for a few precious minutes, forgotten her hurt. She felt suddenly too frightened to face the house party alone. His Grace had at least given her a role to play to hide her wounds. She looked thoughtfully down at the sleeping figure. What an odd, uncomfortable man he was to be sure. But at the moment he seemed to be her only protector in a strange world. She decided to wait until he awoke.

  The couple stayed motionless throughout the long day, the Duke silently asleep and Daisy bolt upright on her log, nursing her pain and feeling a slow, burning anger against her hosts beginning to take its place.

  The long light was slanting through the trees and Daisy was just beginning to feel cold and stiff when the Duke awoke. He glanced at the heavy gold Hunter in his waistcoat pocket and then leapt to his feet. “My poor girl! I must have slept all day. I got to my rooms late last evening and then spent the rest of the night reading.” He stretched and gave a cavernous yawn. “Poor Daisy, you must be famished. We shall creep round to the kitchens and forage what has been left over from tea.

  “Forward then! Daisy Chatterton starts her search for love.”

  He chatted away, seeming in excellent spirits and Daisy envied him from the bottom of her heart. She wondered if she would ever feel carefree again.

  She hesitated a moment and turned and looked back at the log.

  “Have you left something behind?” asked the Duke.

  “My childhood,” said Daisy sadly.

  “But not your dreams,” he teased.