by Nancy Carson
‘Been waiting long?’ he asked and his smile was warm on her.
Daisy shook her head, the smile never leaving her face. She was so happy to see him. She had waited so long for this moment, with such trepidation. But just seeing his face, just experiencing his warm glow of friendship, made her feel quite at ease.
‘What are we going to do?’
‘Hop in,’ he said and handed her up onto the cabriolet.
He clambered in beside her, and the two-wheeled carriage rocked gently on its springs. He clicked to the horse, flicked the reins and they set off towards Wolverhampton Street.
‘Where are we going?’
‘I thought you might enjoy a little run out,’ he replied, turning to her. She caught a whiff of alcohol on his steamy breath. ‘But I have a bit of business to attend to first.’
‘Oh?’
‘Tenants of mine … One owes me three months’ rent. I know I’ll catch him with his feet up at this time of a Sunday. You don’t mind my mixing business with pleasure, do you, Daisy?’
He’d remembered her name. She swelled with satisfaction.
‘No, course not … Is it far?’ Secretly she hoped it would not be; she was cold and damp already from the dismal January mist and drizzle. But she did not mind so much, just as long as she was with him.
‘No, not far. So … what have you been doing with yourself all week?’
‘Oh, the usual,’ she answered, with the nonchalance of a lady of leisure.
She realised she must have sounded inanely boring. She could have told him she had been on tenterhooks the whole time waiting for this moment. She could have told him about going to the Union Workhouse, visiting her mother and sick father. She could have told him how poor Martha the cook had scalded herself when she spilled boiling water on Friday, or how her sister Sarah had crowed all week about how wonderfully handsome he was. She could have told him about the problem they’d had at Baxter House with a young maid who had been employed on her recommendation last November, who was connected with a burglary they’d had on Thursday. Nothing much had been taken but that which had required knowledge of the house and that knowledge had come from within. The maid admitted she had given information to her beau, a young man already known to the police. But Daisy told Lawson none of this, of course.
‘What about you?’ she asked brightly. ‘Been working hard?’
‘Working?’ he said, as if it were a dirty word. ‘I don’t work. At least, not in the sense that I own a factory or a farm that needs running. I purport to be a gentleman, Daisy. I keep busy. I do business. I let others work.’
She smiled, too reticent to ask more.
Lawson turned to look at a young man and woman who were walking in their direction. ‘Well, I’ll be damned. So he’s stepping out with her.’
‘Should I know them?’
‘I sincerely hope not,’ he replied.
He offered no explanation as to who the two people were but flicked the reins and the horse broke into a trot. She could hear the dabs of slurry flung from the horse’s hooves hitting the underside of the running board.
‘Has anybody ever told you that you have the most beautiful, kissable mouth?’
‘No,’ she answered coyly and smiled. She was aware of seeming to be forever smiling when she was with Lawson.
‘Honest? I’m surprised. You have, you know.’
‘I’ve never thought about it,’ she responded.
‘So what would you consider your best feature?’
She shrugged and giggled with girlish embarrassment. ‘I don’t know. I’m not even sure it’s fair to ask a young lady that.’
‘Why?’
‘Well, whatever I answer, you could say I was being conceited. I don’t think I’m conceited.’
He laughed at that, not mockingly, but genuinely pleased. ‘I applaud that answer, Daisy. You’re a smart girl.’
‘Thank you.’
‘I’m serious. I do admire intelligence in a woman.’
They turned into a road called Southall’s Lane, a ramshackle street of old red-brick buildings. Daisy anticipated that they might drive past the Spencers’ house in Wellington Road. She wondered what the Spencers would make of her if they saw her beside this handsome man in his smart cabriolet. She was sorry they would be avoiding the Spencers when they turned left again into Stafford Street.
‘We’re here,’ Lawson said as he headed the horse into another narrow lane called Albert Street. On the left was a terrace of small houses, not very old. ‘Wait in the buggy. I won’t be long.’
Daisy nodded and smiled and settled herself in the seat. She adjusted her scarf to benefit from the warmth and waited. So he owned a house here. A man of property. How many others did he have? As she waited, two boys ambled past, scruffy, dirty. They kept turning to look at her, making Lord knows what comments and giggling.
Lawson was about five minutes.
When he returned there was a look of thunder on his face. ‘All I could get out of the swine was a sovereign, so he still owes me nineteen shillings. But I’ll be back next week. And he knows he’d better have the money by then or he’ll be evicted.’
He jumped agitatedly into the cabriolet and flicked the reins.
‘But what if he can’t afford to pay?’ Daisy suggested, reminded of the plight of her own mother and father sometimes. ‘What if the poor man, whoever he is, has been off work sick, and earned no money?’
‘He’s not been off work, he’s not sick. He’s an inveterate gambler though. I know that for a fact. If he didn’t waste his money betting on horses and dogs he might have some money left to pay his rent. I don’t see why I should subsidise his gambling.’
‘I see,’ Daisy conceded, unwilling to defend the tenant more for fear of alienating Lawson.
They drove forward no further than twenty-five yards and stopped again.
‘Now for that Molly Kettle.’ He jumped down again. ‘She owes more than is good for her. This one’s a sot – spends it all on gin. D’you think I should subsidise her drinking?’ he asked.
‘No, course not,’ she answered, unable to dispute his logic.
‘I shan’t be a minute.’
Daisy made up her mind to ask him whether he owned all the houses in the terrace, even though it was none of her business. But if he was putting on this show of ownership to impress her, she presumed he would not mind her asking.
Then a young girl of about thirteen casually appeared from the house Lawson was visiting, possibly coming out to inspect her. She was very dainty, with long, dark hair that framed a lovely, angelic face. The girl smiled appealingly but soon went back into the house, clutching herself around the shoulders to ward off the cold. Daisy felt an affinity with her, recalling her own youth before she went into service. The girl reminded her so much of herself at thirteen.
‘Who was that young girl?’ Daisy asked when Lawson returned.
‘Oh, one of Molly Kettle’s daughters.’
‘She’s very pretty.’
‘Yes, I suppose she is.’
Daisy said, ‘Do you mind if I ask you something?’
‘Depends what it is?’
‘How many houses in this terrace do you own?’
He laughed. ‘All of them. And more besides.’
‘Well, well. Lawson Maddox, the great landlord,’ she commented. ‘Would you describe yourself as a kind and understanding landlord?’
‘Would I hell!’ he guffawed. ‘There’s no sentiment in business – and that’s what it is – business.’ Once more he flicked the reins and the horse hauled them away. ‘And these crafty devils will try and fleece you for every last penny … But enough of them. Now I’m going to take you somewhere warm. I bet you’re frozen solid.’
‘Yes, please.’ She nodded and shivered at the same time.
‘Thanks for being so patient, Daisy … Giddup!’
The horse broke into a trot once more and they headed back towards the centre of the town. Eventually, th
ey drew up at the fountain in the market place and Lawson let the horse drink before he tethered it. He handed Daisy down and took her arm as he led her towards the Dudley Arms Hotel.
‘A drink will warm you,’ he said attentively. ‘And there’ll be a good fire in the saloon.’
He saw that she was reticent about going in but he smiled to reassure her. She needed little persuading; the thought of a warm fire and a drop of some smooth, warming drink inside her was very appealing.
‘What would you like?’ he asked as he sat her at a table close to the fire.
She remembered that Fanny had asked for port when she arrived at the party. ‘Port, please.’
Lawson went to the bar and came back with her port and a glass of whisky for himself. He sat beside her and looked into her eyes.
‘I’ve been looking forward to this,’ he said in an intimate whisper. ‘Getting you on your own, I mean, and having you all to myself.’
Daisy smiled happily. She held his admiring gaze while her legs seemed to turn into jelly.
‘I can see now it’s not just your mouth that’s beautiful. Those eyes … Good God, they sparkle more brightly than fine-cut sapphires. I was trying to remember what it was about you that first attracted me. I think it was your whole demeanour but especially your mouth. I just wanted to kiss your lips, to taste them, to feel how soft they were on mine. Do you remember, I warned you that you were standing under the mistletoe?’
Her stomach started to churn as if a belfry full of bats was flitting madly about inside when she thought about him kissing her. Then he put his hand on hers and her heart started thumping against her ribs, just to augment the internal agitation. And, just to top it off, her face reddened at his words.
‘Such a virtuous blush,’ he said, squeezing her hand.
She coloured even deeper and sipped her port to try and hide her face. She felt its rich, sweet smoothness as it slid down her throat. ‘I imagine it’s not the first time you’ve said that to a girl,’ she suggested.
He shrugged. ‘Maybe not. But I’ve never meant it more than I do now. Tell me about your family, Daisy. I only know what I see and I’m dying to find out about you.’
‘I’d much rather hear about you,’ she replied, deliberately trying to sidetrack him. ‘You promised you’d tell me what happened to your family.’
‘I said I’d tell you when I knew you better. I can’t honestly say I know you any better now than I did on New Year’s Eve, except that you might feel sorry for some of my tenants.’ He gave a chuckle at that observation. ‘I’ve only spent a half-hour with you yet. Tell me about yourself first.’
Daisy sighed, a deep heaving sigh. What should she tell him? That she was a working-class girl from the terraced houses of lowly Campbell Street and in the service of his friends the Cooksons – and lose him? Or should she lie and say she was the only daughter of a wealthy ironmaster and heiress to his fortune, and maintain the deception for what little time it took to be found out, and then be deservedly cast aside for it? Despite her romantic fancies, she always believed that it paid to be honest. Her father told her once that in order to keep up deceit you need a very good memory. So she decided to tell Lawson the truth. If he rejected her because of her working-class status he might as well admire her for her honesty. And this early on her aching heart would more easily mend after the rejection.
‘I’m a nobody, Lawson,’ she began, gazing blankly into the ruby depths of the port. ‘My father was an iron puddler at the Woodside Iron Works …’ She felt herself trembling and never more insecure. ‘I’m just a housekeeper at the house of your friends, the Cooksons. My younger sister is a maid there. When we met on New Year’s Eve I was on duty but … but Mrs Cookson said I could stay and enjoy the party.’ She looked earnestly into his eyes. ‘I really enjoyed your company, Lawson … and dancing with you …’
He let go of her hand and her heart sank into her boots. To disguise her embarrassment she sipped her port. But when she put her glass back on the table he took her hand again. She looked forlornly into his eyes.
‘It’s all right,’ he whispered with his easy smile. ‘I already knew.’
‘So you were testing me.’
He nodded.
‘But that’s not fair,’ she pouted.
He laughed again. ‘It makes no odds to me who you are, or who you ain’t. At least you’re honest. You’re not like the others. You’re different. You’re chaste, you have honour. Many of those who consider themselves well bred lack those very virtues.’
‘But now I feel naked in front of you,’ she said self-consciously. ‘I feel exposed and vulnerable.’
‘An interesting analogy. Then let me denude myself. Let’s be naked together …’
His steely blue eyes seemed to pierce hers and she could barely hold his gaze at this astonishing innuendo. An erotic picture materialised in her mind’s eye of the two of them standing naked in front of each other, and it seemed he could see into her head and read what she was thinking with that steady, unnerving look of his.
‘I have no breeding either,’ he admitted frankly. ‘So I’m not shackled by the constraints and prejudices of the gentry. I’m the son of a corn merchant, Daisy, my dear. My mother died giving birth to me and I was brought up by my father till I was ten. Then he died. Fortunately for me, he’d been an enterprising soul and he left me half a dozen properties in trust. His executors made sure that the income from them paid for my schooling and my board. When I was twenty-one I took control of those properties and, by being enterprising myself, I’ve added to them. Now I earn a pretty penny, and my enterprises have brought me into contact with many wealthy families, such as the Cooksons.’
‘Thank you,’ she breathed.
He looked at her puzzled. ‘You’re thanking me? For what?’
‘For accepting me for what I am. For being honest about yourself. I was afraid to tell you the truth about myself for fear you …’
‘For fear I what?’
She shook her head. She could not say what she wanted to say because it would have sounded too presumptuous.
‘For fear I would reject you?’
She nodded and looked into her port again.
‘I’d be a fool if I did, Daisy. You’re a gem.’
Chapter 4
Daisy’s life had suddenly changed and she existed in a delightful romantic dream. Oh, she was profoundly in love, and no mistake. And the first signs were brilliant. Lawson seemed as taken with her as she was with him. She could hardly believe her good fortune. They’d only met a few days earlier – but already she had an illogical yet compelling fancy that they might indeed progress further. She would not let herself think beyond that, however. She did not have the courage to contemplate herself as mistress of her own home, supporting him in his business enterprises, ordering about her own servants, choosing new furnishings and smart new clothes for herself; it was all too much to hope for. It was too much to envisage herself in a position where she could materially help her mother and father. To have wished for all that and ultimately have it denied would have been too great a disappointment to bear.
So she tried to look no further than their next assignation. It was to be on her evening off, on Wednesday. Like the Sunday before, it seemed an eternity coming. It was a cold evening but dry. As she walked up St James’s Road to meet him she looked up at the sky and saw how clear it was. There would be a hard frost that night.
Once again she had arranged to meet Lawson outside the police station and once again his cabriolet was standing outside the Saracen’s Head, the fine black horse tethered to a gas lamp. Once again he beckoned her to join him and, once again, she skipped biddably across the road to be at his side, her heart in her mouth.
‘Maybe we should arrange to meet outside the Saracen’s,’ she suggested lightly.
He smiled genially. ‘Or even inside.’
Like the last time they met she could smell drink on his breath.
‘Where are you taking
me?’
‘Jump in.’ He handed her up into the carriage. As she settled herself, he untethered the horse, got in beside her, flicked the reins and turned the carriage around in the street. ‘Fancy some cockfighting?’
‘Cockfighting?’ At once she was alarmed. ‘I thought cockfighting was illegal.’
He laughed irreverently. ‘Lots of things are illegal, Daisy. That doesn’t stop ’em going on.’
‘Are you serious, though? You’re not serious, are you? You’re going to take me to a cockfight?’
‘You’ll love it. It’s great sport. Great fighting spirit those birds have … I’ll let you into a secret … I have a financial interest.’
She wanted to ask in what way but thought it best not to poke her nose in. For a few seconds she was quiet, wishing to be taken anywhere but a cockfight, for she knew she would loathe it.
‘I’ve missed you, Daisy,’ he said, and his welcome remark was like the direct hit of an arrow from Cupid’s bow. ‘I’ve thought about you a lot since Sunday.’
‘Have you honestly?’ Suddenly, her eyes brightened, delighted that he should admit it.
‘The only problem was that I couldn’t picture your face in my mind’s eye. Let me have a good look at you.’
As he drove he turned to look at her in the puny light from the town’s gas lamps. She tilted her face towards him with a self-conscious smile and was aware of involuntarily blinking.
‘Your eyes,’ he said. ‘So beautiful. So clear. I’ve been dreaming about your eyes.’ They turned right, into High Street then came to a halt by the crossroads. ‘Here we are.’
‘It was hardly worth getting in the gig,’ Daisy commented. ‘We could have walked.’
‘Why walk when we have a fine trap like this?’
They stopped outside a drab coaching house called the Old Bush. Daisy looked at it with apprehension. She recalled when she was a child her father telling her that the ‘Tally-Ho’ coach used to leave this inn every day for Birmingham and London. It was not the sort of establishment a wholesome young woman would consider frequenting, and she mentioned this to Lawson.