Daisy

by Beaton, M. C.

  “No,” said Daisy slowly, “not my dreams.”

  The couple caused a great flutter in the kitchens when they strolled in demanding tea—or rather His Grace was demanding tea while Daisy hung back in his shadow. “I don’t think I shall ever acquire an aristocratic manner,” she murmured to the Duke, “if it means putting a great army of servants to a lot of inconvenience.”

  “Nonsense,” he remarked, perched on the edge of the kitchen table. “They love it. Highlight of their day. That right, Curzon?”

  “Indeed yes, Your Grace,” said Curzon smoothly, adjusting his striped waistcoat. “A great event. We shall talk about it when we go home on our yearly visit to our little country hovels.”

  Daisy looked at the Duke in alarm, unable to believe that he would let this piece of impertinence go unnoticed. But he only laughed and said, “Damned radical, Curzon. You’ve known me too long. I suppose what you mean is that we are being a damned nuisance. Come along, Daisy. Drink your tea like a good girl.”

  Curzon, who looked hopefully at the pair when they had come in, dropped his eyes in disappointment. His Grace’s manner toward Miss Chatterton was fatherly to say the least.

  As they were leaving Curzon coughed politely. “Perhaps if Your Grace could spare me a few moments of your valuable time…?”

  “’Course. Run along, Daisy. I’ll see you in the drawing room with the rest of the zoo at seven.”

  When Daisy had left, Curzon dropped his customary wooden manner. “It’s like this, Your Grace. Now, joking apart, you know I’m not a one to take liberties. I’ve known Miss Daisy since she was a babe, her being a member of our methodist chapel.”

  “No, I don’t know Curzon. Methodist, eh! That explains a lot.”

  “It explains why Miss. Daisy has turned out a pleasant-spoken, God-fearing girl,” said Curzon sharply.

  “Well, out with it man. You didn’t waylay me just to read me a sermon. No. I can see something else in those beady little eyes. Philandering in high places. That’s what’s got you.”

  “Exactly, Your Grace.”

  “Well, she’s been hurt badly, Curzon, but she’s got a lot of character. She’s a nice stepper and won’t charge her fences.”

  “Very sound in wind and limb,” said Curzon dryly. “We are not talking of a filly, Your Grace, but of a highly sensitive girl. I feel perhaps if I could employ a maid for her—one of her old friends—it might cheer her up.”

  “Won’t that be a trifle difficult? She can’t really go around being chummy with her maid.”

  “The girl I had in mind, Your Grace, would understand that, although she could be friendly with Miss Chatterton in private, but would need to be a correct lady’s maid in public. The girl I had in mind is a certain Amy Pomfret.”

  “Oh, I remember. The dazzling blonde. Well, fix it up, Curzon, and warn this Amy about the Earl’s susceptibilities.”

  “Very good, Your Grace. There is of course a question of salary…?”

  “In other words, my lady won’t fork out. Tell everyone that Miss Chatterton’s father is paying for it. In fact—this is damned embarrassing, but in for a penny in for a pound—I’ll get my man of business to send Miss Chatterton an allowance through you as an old family retainer and all that. Tell Miss Chatterton it’s from dad.”

  “But won’t Lord Chatterton, so to speak, spill the beans, Your Grace?”

  “Not a hope. That old wastrel won’t dare show his face this side of the English Channel and he don’t care two pins for the girl.”

  “Very good, Your Grace.”

  “Well, man. What’s up now? Oh, I see. Relax, dear boy. My intentions are as close to indifferent as makes no difference. I have so many pensioners on my books, one more won’t make much difference.”

  Curzon’s face broke out into a delighted smile. “Then perhaps, if I may, I will go upstairs and tell Miss Daisy the news.”

  “Go, by all means,” said the Duke vaguely, already dismissing the matter from his mind.

  Daisy stared at Curzon with surprise and delight. She was to have money, she was to have Amy. Already in her mind’s eye, she saw herself magnificently dressed and the fickle Earl sighing after her with regret.

  “Amy can’t start right away, miss,” said Curzon repressively. “She’ll need to be trained first.”

  But nothing could dampen Daisy’s flying spirits. “And my poor, dear father. And to think that all this time I have been thinking that he didn’t care for me. I must write to him right away.”

  Curzon sent up a private prayer for forgiveness. “Your father left instructions, miss, for you not to write. He is a bad correspondent, he says, and any thanks would just embarrass him.”

  “Oh, well.” Daisy’s face fell and then brightened. “But it is marvelous, Mr. Curzon, to find a father, so to speak.”

  “Quite,” said Curzon, his face at its most wooden.

  Daisy was left to fidget under Plumber’s administrations. At last the time had come for her to descend to the drawing room.

  It seemed remarkably thin of company. Most of the guests had departed that morning to move to a house party in the next county. Captain Gerald Braithwaite lounged sulkily in a corner by the window, glaring out at the park. An elderly couple, a Mr. and Mrs. Chichester, were trying to interest the Duke in a horse and a faded debutante of indeterminate age fluttered on the edge of their group, making little birdlike jabbings with her nose to emphasize the salient points of the animal in question.

  The Countess rose to her feet and ran across the room to Daisy and kissed her on the cheek. “My dear Daisy, another horrid, dreary dress”—and as Daisy stiffened—“now don’t go all rigid on me. Such a pretty girl must have some pretty clothes. This is my plan. Come and sit beside me and I’ll tell you.” She drew Daisy down to sit beside her on the sofa.

  “Now, Davy and I have a big surprise for you. We have planned to give you a Season next year. What do you think of that?”

  Daisy muttered her thanks and something about now having money of her own, but the Countess swept that irrelevant detail aside. “I am going to choose you the most marvelous gowns. See—I have the magazines all ready!”

  Daisy caught the brooding glance of the Duke of Oxenden, and remembered his cynical words, “They’re always extravagantly generous to their victims.” But she sat with her head bent, looking unseeingly at the fashion plates before her and thinking that dreams did come true, but in all the wrong ways. Here she was sitting with her head next to the Countess’s while the Earl smiled at them indulgently from across the room.

  Well, she would play their game and take her Season and become the most beautiful woman in all of London. She would not rest until the fickle, smiling Earl had fallen in love with her. Then she would toss her head and laugh and walk away. The dream was so strong that she did actually toss her head and laugh. The guests looked startled with the exception of the Duke.

  She had an uncomfortable feeling that he had just read her mind!

  Chapter Five

  There was one week to go until the beginning of the London Season, and the servants scurried around the great castle, already preparing for the annual departure to the Earl of Nottenstone’s town house.

  And Daisy was still in love with the Earl.

  All winter long, she had pined and suffered as his careless laugh rang through the castle and his careless hands occasionally patted her on the waist or head, as if she was his pet hound. She had not seen the Duke of Oxenden since the night she had chosen her wardrobe.

  Daisy had saved her allowance and bought the Earl a diamond pin for Christmas. He had held the bauble up to the light, laughing and teasing her for being so extravagant, and had then put it aside and forgotten about it with the ease of a spoiled child discarding an expensive but unwanted toy. Curzon had fumed and had threatened to have her allowance stopped. She would have been better employed buying the Duke of Oxenden a present. But when the startled Daisy had stared at him and asked, “Why?” he had been u
nable to reply.

  Amy Pomfret had turned into a highly efficient lady’s maid and a constant comfort to Daisy in her struggles to cope with her bewildering new world. Curzon had given Daisy daily lectures on protocol and Amy had supplied her with thumbnail sketches of all the eligible bachelors, gleaned from the gossip of the servants’ hall.

  The Countess had planned Daisy’s coming out ball for the beginning of the Season but, of late, Daisy had noticed that her hostess had been returning to her old snappish ways and was constantly in the company of a Russian Count, Peter Petrovich.

  The Count, a restless, dissipated man, seemed to have joined the household permanently, despite the Earl’s constant and overt efforts to dislodge him.

  One morning shortly before their departure for London, Daisy awoke very early despite her late bedtime of the night before. It had been a horrid evening, she reflected. The Countess had complained all through dinner about the expense of Daisy’s Season until that much-goaded girl had told her aristocratic host in no uncertain terms to forget about the whole thing and then had escaped upstairs to have a hearty cry on Amy Pomfret’s sympathetic bosom. Daisy was young and feminine enough to want a ball of her very own and to have it snatched from her at the last minute—and because of her own temper—was bitter indeed.

  She heard voices below her and crossed to open the window to see who was abroad so early in this nocturnal household. Her heart missed a little beat as she spied the fair hair of the Earl on the terrace below her. Hope sprang eternal and Daisy was about to throw off her wrapper and get dressed so that she could join him and have him to herself for a little, when his voice stopped her.

  “Come with me and I will pick a rose to match the roses in your cheeks.”

  Daisy’s hands flew to her own cheeks as all the horror of that sunny morning flooded back into her mind. She walked to the window again. She just had to see who the latest “victim” was. She watched in petrified silence as Amy’s blonde curls came into view below her.

  “You shouldn’t be flirting with me, my lord,” Daisy heard her laugh.

  “Oh, God, I’m not flirting. Can’t you see I’m mad about you?” Daisy winced at the passion in the Earl’s voice.

  “Well, then,” teased Amy. “Give me my rose.”

  He plucked an early white rose from the edge of the terrace and placed it in Amy’s blonde hair. Then he drew the girl close to him and began to kiss her as if he and Amy were the only people in the world.

  Bitter tears began to run down Daisy’s cheeks. A loud scream from below echoed around the castle. “Is there no end to this!” screamed the Countess’s voice, unconsciously echoing Daisy’s thoughts. The couple broke apart. The Earl was scarlet with rage, but Amy seemed remarkably unperturbed. She straightened her lace cap with its frivolous bows and gazed calmly at the enraged Countess.

  “Playing fast and loose with the servants…” the Countess was screaming.

  “And what about that Russian excrescence,” boomed the Earl, “shedding pearls and lice, wolfing my food, and seducing my wife?”

  “This time you have gone too far…”

  “I have gone too far…”

  “Lecher!”

  “Slut!”

  The Countess threw herself at the Earl, raking at his face with her nails. He pushed her savagely away from him and she fell backward onto the terrace.

  “Oh, my precious darling, are you hurt?”

  “Darling, darling. I’m so sorry. You know I love only you.”

  “Oh, darling…”

  “Just a minute!” At the sound of Amy’s harsh voice the Earl and Countess stopped their embrace to stare at her. Both seemed immensely surprised that she was still there.

  “What about all your promises, my lord?” Amy went on in a hard voice. “You led me to believe you would marry me.”

  “Marry. You?” The Earl’s surprise was so absolute it was almost laughable.

  “Yes. Marry,” said Amy firmly. “I should have known you lot never keep your promises. You promised poor Miss Chatterton a ball and a Season and then you changed your mind as if it didn’t matter. You…”

  But the Earl and Countess seized on the subject of Daisy’s ball as being the least painful matter at hand.

  “Of course Miss Chatterton shall have her ball…”

  “Absolutely…”

  “No question of…”

  “We shall send out the invitations this very day…”

  “See that you do,” said Amy with pathetic dignity. “One broken heart is enough…” She began to cry, staring at the now very embarrassed couple, with the tears welling from her eyes.

  Daisy forgot all about her own troubles as her heart ached for her friend. Who knew better than she how the poor girl was suffering?

  The voices dropped to a murmur. The three characters in the play moved from view, and then she heard Amy’s light step as she ran up the stairs.

  Daisy threw open the door, prepared to submerge her own hurt in consoling her friend. But Amy gave her a dazzling smile and began to pirouette about the room.

  She finally sank into an armchair and winked at the astonished Daisy. “Don’t look at me like that, Dais’. I did it all deliberate-like.”

  Daisy could only stare and Amy laughed. “You should just see your face.

  “It’s like this. His lordship has been making up to me ever since his missus started to play around with the Count. I got a bit worried and told Mr. Curzon. He had warned me about the master. He just said for me to keep out of me lord’s way, which I did.

  “Then last night I got so upset—what with you crying and saying you couldn’t have your ball no more—that I went back to Mr. Curzon. Well, he tells me that my lord and lady always ends up in each other’s arms again and they gets very sorry for the persons they’ve mucked about. So, Mr. Curzon, he tells me to lead his lordship on enough to get my lady mad. Which I did. Which means you’ve got your ball!”

  “But—but—didn’t you feel a little bit in love with the Earl?” stammered Daisy. “He is so handsome.”

  “Naw!” said Amy. “He’s just like Jimmy Simpson, the butcher’s boy. Jimmy’s ever so handsome and he walks out with that plain Margaret Johnson. Well, he keeps letting it be known in little ways to the other girls that he’s not quite suited, but after they’ve made right fools of themselves over him, there he is. Back out walking with Margaret Johnson!”

  Daisy felt very young and foolish. How could she have been so bedazzled when her friend seemed not to care in the slightest?

  Amy supplied the answer unasked. “I didn’t tell you Dais’, but I’m promised to Peter, the second footman. Nothing definite, mind. But when you’ve got a real fellow, I dunno, it sort of protects you from the fakes.”

  Daisy suddenly remembered her bet. She was more determined than ever to find someone to love and someone who would love her back.

  It was some minutes after Amy had left the room before Daisy realized that she had not even thanked her for saving the ball.

  In the first few days in London, Daisy felt as if she had just recovered from a long illness. Amy had broken the spell, and every time Daisy looked at the handsome Earl, she was only reminded of Jimmy Simpson. The young men she met began to take on names and faces and recognizable identities, whereas before they had formed a faceless background to the Earl’s charm.

  She learned from Amy, with some surprise, that the Duke of Oxenden was considered the biggest catch of the Season. She hoped that he would be at her first ball to witness her triumph. Daisy had a new white silk ball gown with a frivolous little bustle and the name tag of a famous Paris house. She had learned that she was attractive. Now all she had to do was fall in love.

  On the night of the ball she stood nervously at the top of the long flight of red-carpeted steps. Never had she seen so many jewels. Many of the women wore them in such profusion, it bordered on vulgarity. Who could appreciate the beauty of a fine rope of real pearls when they were worn on top of a diam
ond necklace? Feathers were considered the last word in chic, and the ladies fluttered into the ballroom like so many birds of paradise. Daisy herself wore a diamond circlet on her brown hair, ornamented with one white ostrich plume, and in her hand she carried a magnificent ostrich feather fan that was so large, she had had to practice for hours beforehand as to how to wield it without knocking over everything in the room.

  A heavy undertone of sexuality permeated the ballroom like musk. Daisy had learned from Amy’s gossip that the Duke of Oxenden’s remarks on the current aristocracy were true. The more raffish elements who had been kept firmly in their places by Queen Victoria, now blossomed as they had never done since the eighteenth century, under the jolly and rumbustious rule of King Edward.

  Daisy had long since learned that the whisperings and rustlings in the corridors of a country house during the night were made by the happy guests prowling from bedroom to bedroom. But on the surface, appearances were kept up. Lovers treated each other during the day with all the chilly formality of a Victorian “at home.” Public physical contact was forbidden and even the Earl, in this rarified London atmosphere, had ceased to ruffle Daisy’s curls or pat her waist.

  The Countess indicated to Daisy that it was time to move into the ballroom. Most of the guests had arrived. The Duke of Oxenden had not been among them. Daisy felt a little pang of disappointment.

  She moved slowly down the carpeted stairs into the heavy, scented air of the ballroom. The new electricity had been dispensed with for the evening and thousands of candles flickered and blazed from the crystal chandeliers and from tall, ornate, iron stands. Daisy’s fragile beauty soon drew a host of admirers and her little dance card was soon full. She studied each face, looking for the man of her dreams. But to her nervous eyes they all looked remarkably alike with their formal black and white evening dress, polished English faces, and high, clipped voices.

  Daisy whirled around and around until she began to notice the most determined of her admirers. He was a young man called Freddie Bryce-Cuddestone, who had an endearing boyish face, a mop of fair curls, and large gray eyes. He claimed her hand for the supper dance and was punctilious about finding the right table and seeing that she was immediately served.