Daisy

by Beaton, M. C.

  In Upper Featherington one “walked out,” became engaged, got married, and never looked at another man again—or that was the way Daisy remembered it. Seen from a distance, her old life seemed safer and more permanent. Society seemed to adore the artificial. Love of nature was damned as “too boring.”

  Driving in the park with the Earl one afternoon, Daisy had suddenly cried out, “What beautiful beeches!” “Never heard of ’em,” remarked the Earl cheerfully. “New family in town, eh?”

  She had tried to flirt with various young men, but her experiences with Freddie Bryce-Cuddestone and Captain Brothers had soured her in some way. She could not put her heart to it. The infuriating Duke of Oxenden had retired in the middle of the Season to his estates and she found herself missing his company.

  Daisy was increasingly puzzled at her father’s silence. Why not send her allowance to her direct? Why send it to Curzon? But Curzon was ready with the answer and Daisy did not know it had been long rehearsed. Curzon explained that he had been in Lord Chatterton’s service as a footman a long time ago. Lord Chatterton was old-fashioned in his ways and would not let a woman handle money directly. He relied on his old servant to manage Daisy’s financial affairs.

  Slowly a plan began to form in Daisy’s mind. She ceased to buy new clothes, preferring to make over and alter those she already had. Although she still sent part of her allowance to the vicar in the East End, she decided to save the rest. Perhaps one day she would journey to France to meet her mysterious father. There must be some reason why he did not return. Perhaps he was ill? No, Miss Chatterton, replied the ever-ready Curzon. His lordship was in excellent health.

  Daisy began to study timetables of trains and the Channel ferries and to dig out her old French primers. She had mentioned her idea once to Curzon, but he had looked so horrified that she decided to make her plans in secret. The sympathetic Amy had promised to go with her.

  Daisy had almost made up her mind to leave before the end of the Season. Then she met Sir James Ffoulkes.

  The Earl and Countess had thrown a masquerade party and when Daisy had first seen the tall, masked figure of Sir James across the ballroom, her heart had missed a beat. She had been so sure he was the Duke. He had the same soft, husky voice and the same teasing, ironical manner. She had run straight across the ballroom and tugged at the wide, slashed sleeve of his Tudor costume crying, “Toby, where have you been?” and then without waiting for an answer had begun to pour out all her troubles and frustrations. She had blushed with dismay when he had finally told her he was not the Duke of Oxenden, but wished heartily that he were, since the Duke seemed to hold her affections.

  Daisy had blushed again and disclaimed. The Duke was an old friend, nothing more. Sir James had looked relieved. But with his undoubted elegance, heavy-lidded, cynical eyes, and man-of-the-world air, he did seem very like Oxenden and Daisy had warmed to him.

  Daisy and Sir James were soon a familiar couple on the London social scene. Not all Amy’s diligent ferreting could unearth anything doubtful or unsavory about Daisy’s new escort. Sir James had been married to an American heiress who had recently died in New York and had left him a wealthy widower. He was charming and the ladies adored him. The gentlemen did not seem overly fond of his company, but Daisy put it down to masculine jealousy. She judged him to be around thirty-five years old.

  Daisy was young and feminine enough to enjoy the jealous looks she herself received when the suave Sir James continued to single her out at ball or party. Daisy began almost unconsciously to adopt the flirtatious manners of the more daring young girls of her social set, since it seemed to amuse Sir James and he seemed to realize that she was only joking. Their conversations became more intimate in a secondhand kind of way as they freely discussed the liaisons and affairs of various society members. Daisy began to feel very dashing and “up-to-date.” Up-to-date was the latest slang word, as if the top ten thousand were determined to shrug off the last remnants of Victorian fuddy-duddiness.

  Sir James’s heavy-lidded eyes began to take on a predatory gleam as he watched Daisy’s slim figure dancing through the ballrooms.

  Her apparent innocence combined with her slightly naughty conversation was intriguing. She certainly could not be as innocent as she seemed. Her father was a cardsharp and she was being chaperoned by the Nottenstones whose affairs were legendary. Daisy danced and laughed and flirted and Sir James waited and watched like some elegant bird of prey.

  Daisy had learned to avoid being made the butt of practical jokes or, if she could not escape, to take it in good part. She felt a much more sophisticated and worldly girl these days than the one who had fled in tears from the Trentons. Accordingly, when Lady Trenton came to call with an invitation to a house party at the Trenton country home, Daisy gladly accepted. Sir James had been invited and Lady Mary’s mother, the Countess of Lenderton, was to supervise the whole event. Nothing could be more respectable!

  The guests were to be taken to Wester Cherton, the Trenton home in Sussex, by special train from Paddington.

  Champagne, lobster patties, game pie, and other delicacies had been freely served to the party on board the train and when they finally puffed into the small station of Wester Cherton village, Daisy felt sleepy and overfed.

  The rest of the guests, who seemed to have a bottomless capacity for champagne, piled into the waiting carriages, cheering and laughing. One young man leapt on the box of Daisy’s carriage and enthusiastically blew on a hunting horn right in the coachman’s ear. Daisy wondered fleetingly for the hundredth time how some well-trained servants managed to keep their tempers. Roaring with laughter and all in tearing high spirits, they clattered up the long weedy driveway of Wester Cherton Manor.

  The manor was a long, low, redbrick Tudor building which had recently had its brickwork cleaned and repointed and in the process had shed a great deal of its antique charm. It now appeared distressingly modern and naked, rather like a series of laborers’ cottages all crammed together. There was a strong odor of dogs and bad drainage. The dark hallway was cluttered with horse brasses, bits of harness, whips, and polo sticks, and a stuffed horse’s head glared at them mournfully from over the cavernous fireplace.

  Daisy was just trying to work out in her mind why a stuffed horse’s head should be shocking and a stuffed deer’s not, when her hostess descended the oaken staircase trailing a multitude of lace shawls. During her visit, Daisy was never able to discover if her hostess was wearing a complete gown. The Countess of Lenderton seemed to be dressed from head to foot in a multitude of scarves, feathers, beads, stoles, shawls, and brooches. She was a small, stout woman with heavy, strong features which seemed familiar to Daisy and it took her a few minutes to realize that the Countess looked exactly like the horse over the fireplace. Her hair had been dyed a rich brown and she whinnied rather than laughed.

  “Drunk—the lot of you,” she whinnied in welcome. “Get to your rooms and sleep it off. Your own rooms, mind. I’ll have no shenanigans here.”

  She stared around at her guests. “Know you all anyway. Except her.” She pointed at Daisy. “What’s yer name?”

  “Daisy Chatterton.”

  “Daisy. Common name. Chatterton, eh. Better lock up the silver.” She threw back her head and whinnied to the rafters. “No need to bridle, girl. I’m a plainspoken woman. Call a spade a shovel, what! Well, go on. Get along the lot of you. Drinkies at six.”

  Daisy was shown to her room and thankfully left alone with Amy. It was a low-raftered bedroom which smelled of dry rot and damp. It seemed nearly filled by an enormous brass bed. Daisy felt the coverlet and noted gloomily that that was damp as well as everything else. Great trees pressed against the window. Amy lit the candles and sniffed, “We should really leave by the next train, if you ask me.”

  “I know,” agreed Daisy. “It’s all pretty horrible. And she’s horrible… the Countess, I mean. Silly old horse. But Amy, I can’t leave. Sir James is coming.”

  Amy started to unpa
ck and gave her mistress an enigmatic look. “You’re sweet on him, ain’t you?”

  Daisy blushed and nodded.

  “I dunno,” said Amy slowly. “I can’t find nuffink bad about him but he gives me the shivers.”

  “You’re romanticizing,” said Daisy lightly. “He’s always behaved like a gentleman and goodness knows, he’s had enough opportunity not to.”

  “I wish you wouldn’t talk like that, Dais’,” said Amy slowly. “Sort of fast-like. Might give some gents the wrong idea about you.”

  Daisy laughed. “Oh, it’s up-to-date to speak like that, Amy. Everyone does it. Now lay out my dinner gown and then let me have a nap, there’s a dear.”

  “I see you’ve dropped the idea of going to France.”

  “Not quite.” Daisy picked nervously at the coverlet. “I’ve only bought one frock after all and I’ve got plenty of money saved.”

  After Amy had left, she lay on top of the damp bed lazily dreaming of Sir James and watching the leaves shifting and turning outside the window.

  Promptly at six o’clock Daisy hesitated outside the drawing room, smoothing down her gown and listening to the chatter of voices inside. For some reason she could not define, she had a slight feeling of panic, almost like stage fright, and a longing to escape, but a footman was already at her elbow and throwing open the double doors.

  There was a slight silence as she entered. Heads turned and Sir James caught his breath. She was dressed in a deceptively simple sheath of scarlet silk, cut low over the bosom and with long tight sleeves ending at points at the wrists. The soft childish beauty of her features combined with the daring sophistication of the gown made her look as exotic as a Beardsley drawing.

  Daisy moved about the room, chatting to the guests and feeling increasingly uncomfortable. Most of the ladies seemed to have sort of lopsided smiles on their faces as they looked at her and even the cheeriest of young men subjected her to a kind of brooding stare.

  Neither Mary nor Harry nor their hostess had, as yet, appeared. Sir James rang the antique bell on a massive sideboard. A frail, elderly butler appeared to inform them that my lord and lady and the Countess had left on a visit to a neighboring household and that the Earl was still at Cowes and not likely to return.

  A young man called Bertie Burke seemed to be the angriest. “I say!” he expostulated. “This is downright cultivating eccentricity. We all know the Trentons like a joke but to run away and leave a whole house party on the day of their arrival is carrying things too far.

  “Well, don’t just stand there. Fetch up some refreshment.”

  “I am afraid that will not be possible, sir.”

  “In heaven’s name why not?”

  “Her ladyship keeps the keys to the cellars and to the liquor cabinet with her at all times, sir.”

  There were loud cries of dismay. Most of the guests were feeling the aftereffects of their celebrating on the train journey and felt in the need of a bracer. Daisy began to giggle. They all seemed to be in a state of shock. Bertie, who seemed to have been silently elected spokesman, tried again.

  “Look here. We’ll all just need to pack up and return to London.”

  “I regret, sir,” said the butler with a kind of mournful enjoyment, “that the last train for London has already left.”

  More groans greeted this news and the guests began to look around nervously.

  The room was dark and lit by candles, gaslight having obviously been considered an unnecessary expense. The furniture had not been renewed since the days of the Regency and what must have been once light and elegant and the latest in fashion, now stood around shabbily on its chipped and spindly legs. With the exception of the heavy sideboard, it all looked too frail and tired to cope with a rumbustious party of Edwardian sophisticates. There were three young men including Bertie, as well as Sir James and an elderly Colonel Witherspoon who seemed determined to relive the days of his youth. The ladies included three young debutantes who all looked small and foxy and giggled, Kitty, and a dashing widow named Jo Phillips who was almost as enraged as Bertie over the lack of stimulants.

  “Well, we’ve got the carriages,” said Bertie at last. “Is there an inn near here?”

  “There is a place called The Prince of Wales Feathers, sir. About five miles along the Lewes road.”

  “Hooray!” cried Bertie. “Let’s all go and drink up all the champers in the pub.”

  Noisy cheers and cries of assent greeted his suggestion. Everyone seemed suddenly anxious to get away from the dim and oppressive atmosphere of the manor. There was a bustling about, a summoning of maids, a collecting of wraps, and they all congregated cheerfully in the hall. “Wait a bit.” cried Mrs. Phillips. “Oxenden’s due to arrive.”

  “Leave him a note,” chorused several voices. Sir James had noticed the start Daisy had given and the quick turn of her head. He took hold of her arm possessively. “Let’s take a carriage to ourselves and get away from these rowdy children.”

  Daisy drew back slightly. She was suddenly nervous at the prospect of being alone with him, but the others were all pairing off and it seemed an unspoken fact that she should go along with Sir James. As if judging her nervousness, he released her arm and began to speculate lightly on the eccentricity of the Countess, making her laugh, and guiding her gently to a waiting carriage.

  They were about to move off when the carriage door was wrenched open and Bertie Burke hurtled in and plumped himself down beside Daisy. “Can’t leave you to monopolize the prettiest girl in the party, James,” he said cheerfully. “Let’s liven things up right away. Ever heard me sing, Miss Chatterton? No? Well, here we go…” He began to sing “Good-bye, Dolly Grey” in a pleasant tenor. After a few minutes, Daisy joined in in a clear soprano and Sir James sat in his corner watching them and feeling immeasurably old.

  By the time they rolled into the courtyard of the Prince of Wales Feathers, Daisy was helpless with laughter at Bertie’s antics and Sir James was regretting that the days of dueling were over.

  The rest of the party had arrived before them and had ordered “all the champagne in the house” and expressed the determination to drink it all.

  Bertie immediately challenged Daisy to a game of Colonel Puff-Puff, a remigental sport requiring the loser to drink a whole glass of champagne without pausing for breath. Daisy lost five times and then retired from the game, saying she was feeling dizzy.

  One by one the locals drank up and left, leaving the inn to their noisy and impertinent betters. Jo Phillips began to bang out songs on an old upright in the corner and Bertie, after ripping a chintz curtain from one of the windows to use as a skirt, gave a rousing imitation of a Cockney lady doing “Knees Up Mother Brown.” He finished to a hearty round of applause and the ladies of the party, including Daisy, now all feeling very tipsy, joined him in the dance, giggling with laughter and coyly flashing their ankles. Jo Phillips got as far as flashing her garters and the landlord’s wife stepped in to protest that “she wasn’t running no bawdy house.”

  “Keep your dreary middle-class morality out of this,” snapped Sir James, “or I shall have the local magistrate remove your license.”

  Daisy looked at him, sobered for the minute. Then she tried to tell him how much she disapproved of his manner, but the waves of drunkenness had come back and all the words seemed to come out the wrong way.

  One of the young men, the Honorable Clive Fraser, produced a hunting rifle and, after setting up a row of glasses along the bar, proceeded to challenge the rest of the men to a shooting match. Again the landlord’s wife rushed forward to protest, and Jo Phillips aimed a soda siphon at her face, drowning the poor woman’s complaints, and then jumped on top of the bar, offering her garters as first prize.

  Colonel Witherspoon had drifted into some drunken dream where he was in Imperial Russia and after each glass of champagne, he smashed his glass into the fireplace and called for his horse. One of the foxy girls was being sick in a corner and the other two were tryin
g to set fire to the curtains.

  Daisy grabbed hold of her remaining wits and pleaded with Sir James to take her back to the manor. Sir James had already spied the landlord’s son leaving by the door and knew that it was only a matter of time before the local police force descended upon the inn.

  Daisy stumbled into the courtyard of the inn. Far, far above her, a tiny moon reeled and swam through the clouds, its reflection raced through a puddle in the courtyard and Daisy suddenly felt as if she was standing on her head.

  “You need fresh air, my dear.” Sir James’s voice seemed to come from very far away. “Let’s take a little walk down the road.”

  Daisy agreed thankfully. She felt if she got back inside the stuffy carriage, she would be sick. Soon the sounds of merriment and crashing glass faded from her ears. They plunged into the gloom of a tunnel formed by arched trees, Daisy trying to bring her eyes back into focus and Sir James restlessly searching for a convenient place to sit down. Suddenly they turned a bend in the road and came to the edge of the trees. The moonlight washed over the empty fields spread on either side and far, far away a train whistled, opening up mental vistas of immeasurable plains of loneliness.

  Sir James guided Daisy gently from the road, across a field, and settled her at the foot of a large oak. Unaware that he was standing looking down at her, Daisy leaned back thankfully and stared up at the gently moving leaves of the tree.

  He sank down beside her and put his arms around her and began to kiss her very, very gently. It was pleasant to be kissed and stroked and caressed, thought Daisy lazily. He moved slightly and she shivered as a cold breeze crept across her breasts. A little warning bell of returning sobriety sounded far back in her brain. She looked down.