by Dunn, Carola
“Not what I would describe as a useful accomplishment. Still, you did at least produce an heir.” The dowager gave Geraldine a disparaging look, then transferred it to Daisy. “Though it hardly matters, since there is no title to inherit.”
Daisy’s mother was the only person who invariably succeeded in bringing her to the boiling point. It must have been obvious because Geraldine, with an alarmed glance at Daisy, said, “Will you have another wafer, Maud?” and thrust the plate towards the dowager, as if to stop her mouth. “And may I pour you some more lemonade? Daisy, let me refill your glass.”
They both accepted. The social amenities restored, the dowager took a sip and said graciously, “An excellent notion. June is seldom so hot. I believe we shall have a storm.”
As if to confirm her prediction, a distant mutter of thunder made itself heard. Though they were sitting by the open window, not a breath of a breeze relieved the stifling heat. Heavy clouds darkened the sky, but no rain fell. Conversation languished.
Daisy roused herself from her lethargy to say, “I hope Cousin Edgar won’t get caught in the storm.” She also hoped her mother would decide to leave before it broke. To spare Geraldine another mother-daughter squabble, she didn’t say so. It was dismaying to realise that though naturally she loved her mother, she liked Geraldine better.
NINE
Sunk in heat-induced torpor, Daisy, her mother, and Geraldine were all startled when Lowecroft came in and announced, “My lady, a Mr. Raymond Dalrymple has called—by appointment, he says—to see his lordship. I put him in the anteroom. I fear I have been unable to ascertain his lordship’s whereabouts.”
“That’s quite all right, Lowecroft. Please show the gentleman into the library. I’ll come and see him, if you’ll kindly excuse me, Maud. Daisy—”
“My dear Geraldine, I have every intention of observing this … this person for myself.” The dowager rose with a celerity that belied her sixty-odd years.
“Lowecroft, tell Mr.…” Geraldine began, but the butler had softly and silently vanished away, discretion being the better part of valour.
“I shall be with you directly,” said the dowager, sweeping out after him.
“Daisy…”
“I can’t stop her.”
“Oh dear!” Geraldine popped up out of her seat almost as briskly as had her guest. “Do you think she’s going straight to the library?”
“To the cloakroom, I expect,” Daisy reassured her. “But all the same, we’d better get a move on or she’ll be stealing a march on us.”
They met Lowecroft coming away from the library. “Did you wish me to offer Mr. Raymond Dalrymple any refreshment, my lady?” he asked.
“No, no. I’ll ring if we want anything. All I want,” Geraldine continued, her voice lowered, as the butler bowed and went on his way, “is to keep his visit as short as possible. Without discourtesy, of course.”
“It seems to me he’s already been discourteous, turning up without so much as a ‘by your leave’. But I suppose we shouldn’t sink to his level. If he has to be routed, I dare say we can rely on Mother for that,” Daisy added thoughtfully.
The library was a long room lined with glass-fronted bookcases containing, for the most part, calf-bound books that no one had read and very probably no one ever would read. One section, however, held novels, travellers’ tales, and light biographies suitable for house-party guests. Another had books of scientific interest belonging to Daisy’s grandfather, who had had an unaccountable interest in natural philosophy—a reaction, perhaps, against his wife’s fascination with martyred saints. It was he who had replaced the customary busts of Greek philosophers with British scientists such as Darwin, Lyell, Stephenson, and Faraday.
Gloomy at the best of times, the library was now positively stygian. Daisy flicked on the overhead electric lights.
On hearing Daisy and Geraldine enter the room, a tall, bulky man turned from contemplation of Lyell’s whiskers. He himself was clean shaven and thinning on top. He looked about sixty, perhaps a few years older. He frowned.
Geraldine bade him “good afternoon,” and introduced herself and Daisy. He returned a brusque greeting, scarcely sparing Daisy a cursory glance. He spoke with the clipped, flat, slightly nasal accent of British South Africa.
“I’m happy to meet you, Lady Dalrymple.” His voice was that of the man in the car who had ordered his chauffeur not to stop and help Daisy. “But it’s Lord Dalrymple I’ve come to see.”
“I’m afraid you’ve had a wasted journey. Today is not at all convenient for my husband.”
“Not convenient? I wrote to make an appointment!”
“But I don’t believe you waited for a reply?”
“I’m sure he’ll see me now I’m here.”
“As a matter of fact, I don’t know where Edgar is just now.”
Bravo, Daisy cheered silently.
“Well, I’m staying in Worcester, at the Diglis House Hotel. I can come back tomorrow if it suits him better.”
“On Sunday?” The dowager viscountess made a grand entrance. “Is he speaking of transacting business on a Sunday? Geraldine, who is this person?”
“Mr. Raymond Dalrymple, Maud.”
“Indeed.” She looked him up and down, and Daisy became aware that his well-tailored tweed suit was much too new, the colour a trifle too green—especially as his complexion was florid. Worse, he wore a large diamond pin in his tie. “Well! A Dalrymple? What does he want?”
“Madam, my business is with Lord Dalrymple.”
“To be frank, I can’t see why he should see you just because you claim your name is Dalrymple. My late husband would not have countenanced your visit without a letter of recommendation.”
“Oh, you must be the old lady.”
Freezingly, the dowager said to Geraldine, “Has this person presented such a letter? No? I wonder at your admitting him as far as the library! The least he can do is explain his presence.”
“Didn’t that lawyer fellow let you know I was coming?”
“Me? I have nothing to do with the matter.”
Raymond blinked. For the first time the dowager had shaken his assurance. He took out a gold cigarette case, then hurriedly returned it to his pocket, as if realising it was not the moment to light up. Daisy glimpsed a monogram formed from inset diamonds; she could hardly believe her eyes.
“Mr. Pearson wrote to my husband,” said Geraldine, “to tell him you intended to call. He didn’t say at what time, and I dare say he felt it wasn’t his place to disclose your business. Lord Dalrymple is a busy man.” Her voice quivered the tiniest bit and Daisy had to bite her lip to keep herself from laughing.
“I think we should all sit down,” Daisy said pacifically, “and let Mr. Dalrymple tell us what he wants. Then we can decide whether it’s worth Lord Dalrymple’s precious time.”
Her mother and Raymond regarded her as if she were a wolf that had unexpectedly cast off its sheepskin. Daisy suspected Raymond had assumed her to be a hired companion or poor relation or something of the sort.
Geraldine said, “Good idea, Daisy, and perhaps you wouldn’t mind taking notes.”
“Ah, your secretary,” Raymond said, enlightened.
“Nothing of the sort,” snapped her mother. “Mrs. Fletcher is my daughter.”
By then, Daisy had settled herself behind the big walnut desk—a position of some authority, as she had learnt from Alec—and produced a notebook. Geraldine sat down, and the other two reluctantly followed her example.
“Now look here,” Raymond protested, “I—”
“I’m ready.” Daisy dipped a pen in the ornate eighteenth-century inkwell. “Do tell us what has brought you to Fairacres.”
For a moment, she thought he was going to stand firm. Then he sighed and capitulated.
“My branch of the family has done well in diamonds. My son and his cousin run the firm now and I’m more or less retired, though I do still have a finger in the pie. I had to come to Europe on
business, but I have the leisure to look into this affair.” He didn’t sound particularly interested in the possibility of inheriting a viscountcy and Fairacres. Daisy, bristling, wondered whether he could conceivably be as indifferent as he appeared.
“‘This affair’?” the dowager enquired coldly.
“The inheritance. The title and estate. I gathered from the lawyer that it’s going to take quite a while to sort out who is the heir. I don’t want to waste time here in England if it’s not worth the trouble.”
Daisy saw her own aghastness mirrored in the faces of the Ladies Dalrymple. Before any of them had recovered enough to speak, Raymond went on.
“The house is quite something, and it looks like a prosperous little farm, but—”
“Geraldine!” Edgar appeared on the threshold. He was soaked to the skin and thoroughly muddied to the knees. “The Odonata! Daisy, I can’t thank you enough for drawing my attention. The Red-veined Darter … Oh, hello, Maud, you here? Nice to see you. Hello,” he added doubtfully to Raymond, “don’t believe I have the honour of your acquaintance. I’m disgracefully ignorant about the Odonata. It might be merely a Common Darter. However, if it isn’t the Red-veined, a rare visitor to Britain, I’ll eat my hat. And I found a nymph!”
Daisy and Geraldine exchanged glances. Though Daisy couldn’t be sure what Geraldine was thinking, she, too, might well have been wondering whether a nymph was preferable to a Camberwell Beauty.
“Yes, dear,” said Geraldine. “How nice. This is Mr. Raymond Dalrymple.”
Edgar nodded at the visitor, who had been stunned into silence by his appearance. “How do, my dear chap. I can’t be sure about the identification of the nymph but I’m sure I have a book on the Odonata.” He made for the appropriate bookcase. “Now let me see…”
“Lord Dalrymple,” Raymond said loudly, standing up, “I’ve come to you for information about—”
“Yes, yes, my dear chap, but not just now. Here it is.” He drew a large volume from the shelf. “Daisy, my dear, do you mind if I utilise a corner of the desk?”
“Not at all, Cousin Edgar. But mind you don’t get your book wet.”
“Wet?” The book thudded onto the desk. Edgar looked down at himself. “Goodness me, you’re quite right. I’d better go and change.”
“Lord Dalrymple, just a moment. I want to talk to you—when you’ve changed, of course—about the income and expenses of the estate.”
“Good heavens, I don’t concern myself with that sort of stuff. Rely on my lawyer and my agent, don’t you know.”
“Then I’ll speak to your agent.”
Edgar drew himself up and fixed Raymond with a commanding eye. “No, you won’t. Not unless and until you are legally declared to be my heir. Excuse me, please, ladies.” He turned and squelched out of the library.
The silence he left behind was broken by another distant mutter of thunder. A wave of cool air came in through the window. The sky had darkened. Raymond seized the excuse to take his hurried, discomfited leave.
“I hope we’ll be seeing you again,” said Geraldine untruthfully, offering her hand.
He took it and shook it gingerly, muttering something Daisy didn’t hear. He gave the dowager a half bow, Daisy a nod, and stalked out, not waiting for butler or footman to be summoned to conduct him.
The dowager rose. “This has been quite an instructive afternoon,” she said to Geraldine. “I trust your husband will not take a chill.”
“I doubt it. Edgar is quite accustomed to being out in all weathers. Won’t you stay for tea?”
“Thank you, no. Daisy, I shall doubtless see you in church tomorrow.”
“I’m afraid not, Mother. I’m leaving early. I promised Alec.”
“Indeed!”
Without further words, Daisy and Geraldine escorted the dowager to the front door. A bronze Daimler was just starting off down the elm avenue. Daisy recognised it. Now she knew for certain that it was Raymond Dalrymple who had abandoned her by the roadside.
Having seen her mother off in her far more modest car, Daisy and Geraldine retired to the latter’s sitting room and subsided, exhausted, into the comfortable chairs.
“Geraldine, I confess I didn’t altogether believe you when you told me Edgar was a good teacher. But after seeing him put Raymond in his place … And when he was dripping all over the carpet, too!” Daisy giggled. “Well, I’m sure he used to handle a classroom full of adolescent boys with the greatest of ease.”
“‘Instructive,’ your mother said. I can’t help wondering what she learnt.”
“It’s a bit of a poser, isn’t it?”
Ernest’s arrival with tea saved her from having to speculate aloud on whether Geraldine’s spirited defence, Edgar’s bedraggled appearance, or Raymond’s unmitigated presumption weighed more heavily in the dowager’s scales.
“Shall I close the windows, your ladyship?” the footman asked, having deposited the tray. “Looks like the rain won’t hold off much longer.”
“Yes, do.”
The clouds hanging above Fairacres had darkened to near black. Somewhere to the west there must have been a break, though, because the landscape was illuminated by a lurid, eerie, ominous light. Every tree and bush stood out distinctly. Thunder rumbled not far off, and a few seconds later lightning briefly blazed. Still not a drop of rain fell.
Geraldine shivered. “Someone’s walking across my grave,” she said.
TEN
A month passed before Daisy heard any more from Tommy about the heirs. Then came a cry for help.
Miss Watt rang up at half past ten that morning. “Mrs. Fletcher, Mr. Pearson wondered whether you could possibly come in to chambers right away. We have … ah … something of a situation here.” She sounded uncharacteristically flustered.
“What on earth…? Can’t you tell me what’s going on?”
“It’s a bit complicated. But if—”
“Never mind. I’ll come. About an hour?”
“Thank you, Mrs. Fletcher. I’ve had to clear Mr. Pearsons schedule. He’ll be very relieved.”
Daisy was rather annoyed. She was in the middle of drafting a proposal for an article about Hampton Court for Mr. Thorwald, her American editor. The result was always smoother if she did the whole thing in one sitting. If she drove into the City, she’d just have time to finish the section she was working on. It wasn’t raining, and now that she had seen Lincoln’s Inn she knew where she would be able to park the car.
Perhaps Mr. Thorwald would be interested in an article on the Inns of Court, too, she thought.
End of paragraph, full stop: Leaving the paper and carbons in the typewriter, she hurried upstairs to change her summer frock for a more sober costume. Half an hour later, she left the car in Lincoln’s Inn Fields and walked under the impressive arch of the early Tudor main gate, into New Square. Tommy’s chambers were on the opposite side. As she approached, she wondered what sort of emergency Tommy imagined she might be able to help with.
Miss Watt came out of her room to meet Daisy on the landing, closing the door behind her.
“I’m so glad you came, Mrs. Fletcher. Mr. Pearson asked me to apologise and to explain.”
“He doesn’t need me after all?” Daisy asked indignantly.
“Oh yes.” She lowered her voice. “But there’s a person—a young woman—in my office.”
“Not the one from Jamaica?”
“Yes. Mrs. Samuel Dalrymple.”
“Didn’t he advise her not to come?”
“Yes, but she’s come anyway.”
“And Tommy doesn’t know what to do with her?”
“Exactly. Mr. Pearson would like to consult you. Unfortunately, it’s necessary to pass through my room to get to his, so he asked me to warn you of her presence. After you have talked to him, he’ll introduce her to you if appropriate, depending on what’s decided. Will you see him?”
“Since he’s haled me down here…” Not that she wasn’t dying to meet Mrs. Samuel Da
lrymple. Martha, she remembered.
Martha Dalrymple sat in a chair against the wall of shelved deed boxes. She wore a cheap cotton frock, flowered, a bit shabby, with a light cardigan. Her bowed head let Daisy see pale blond hair—natural blond, Daisy thought enviously, her own shingled locks being light brown. Martha’s was pulled back into a knot at her nape. The style was severe, but when she raised her head, she revealed a round, youthful face, woebegone, with a hint of tears in her blue eyes.
She looked little more than a child. Daisy smiled at her, and she gave a tentative, rather wobbly smile in return.
Miss Watt swept Daisy onward into Tommy’s office, then returned to her own, closing the door with a firm click.
“Well?” said Daisy.
“Er, hm … What do you think of her?”
“Honestly, Tommy, I’ve just had the briefest glimpse of her. Miss Watt didn’t give me time even to say good morning. She’s the one who wrote from Jamaica, isn’t she?”
“That’s right.”
“Why did she come, when you advised her not to?”
“She still doesn’t know when her husband will return to Jamaica,” Tommy said crossly, “and she was still afraid of missing a great opportunity for him and the family if no one turned up in person to advance his claim. Frankly, I suspect there’s more to the story—something she isn’t telling me.”
“And you expect me to ferret it out for you? She looks just as naïve and innocent as Sakari and I guessed from her letter and even younger.”
“I knew you’d have formed an impression, at a glance. Can it be true, or could it be a clever pose?”
“You really think it might be, that she’s another false claimant?”
“I never said so!”
“The rest were living in England, weren’t they? Oh, and that Scottish chap from the village called Dalrymple. Britain, anyway. Jamaica’s a long way to come on the strength of a remote possibility. Especially as her clothes suggest the fare must have been a strain on her budget.”