Death at Daisy's Folly

by Robin Paige

  But Charles felt it would be presumptuous for him to remark on either relationship. He simply said, “Well, then, shall we talk about tomorrow’s excursion?”

  “What about it?”

  “HRH has agreed to go to Chelmsford?”

  Daisy made a pretty mouth. “He has agreed, although I am quite sure he’s doing it to humor me. That’s why I arranged for Bradford to drive that new automobile of his. I thought the novelty of the ride might make the destination more palatable. Bertie says he is looking forward to it.”

  Charles understood. Albert Edward, Bertie to his closest friends, was a pleasure-loving man who was usually at great pains to avoid anything ugly or repulsive. Charles could think of no place more abhorrent—and least likely to please His Highness—than the one to which Daisy proposed to take him. To agree, the Prince would have to be deeply infatuated, and even then, Daisy was taking a risk.

  “Well, then,” he asked, “what do you want of me, Daisy? What is to be my role in your expedition?”

  She dropped his arm and turned toward him, her lovely eyes wide. “Why, to document our visit, of course. Your photographs might be used to illustrate a magazine article.”

  Hearing that, he felt even more uneasy. “What magazine article?” he persisted.

  “Don’t you see?” she asked. She half turned away from him. “If His Highness shows concern about the appalling conditions of the poor, those in power in the government will find it in their own interest to support a reform of the Poor Law. As Mr. Blatchford says, the Prince himself does not have to do anything. He can shape the course of events simply by paying attention to the right issues at the right moment.”

  “Mr. Blatchford? This excursion was his idea?”

  “No,” she said. And then, grudgingly, “Well, I suppose he did suggest it.” She turned, her blue eyes dark. “What’s wrong with that, Charles? If the idea is a good one, what does it matter whose it was?” And if I have influence over any man, great or small, is it not my obligation to use it to the good?”

  Charles eyed her soberly. Reginald Wallace had spoken more accurately than he knew. “It matters because Blatchford is an acknowledged Socialist,” he said. “There are many in high places who fear Socialism more than they fear plague. Even the Queen herself is afraid of the power of the people.”

  It was true. The press tended to portray Victoria as a benevolent monarch, universally loved by her people, but in actuality, she was extraordinarily unpopular. The common people resented her obsessive grief for the Prince Consort and her decades-long seclusion at Balmoral, and said openly that she was derelict in her duty. For the last ten years, radical MPs had pressed for the elimination of the monarchy and the establishment of a republic. Not long ago, a writer in the East London Observer had noted that “men and their families are hovering on the brink of starvation, and there is grave reason to fear that a social revolution is impending.” And Victoria herself was haunted by the specter of what she called “a new French Revolution in England” that would rise up and overthrow the monarchy, a fear that was fueled by every new report of labor unrest or Anarchist violence. To many, these were desperate times.

  Daisy’s mouth tightened and she raised her chin. “Really, now, Charles, you are becoming tedious.”

  Charles could not tell whether Daisy knew what he was hinting at and refused to acknowledge it, or was so charmed by the idea of shaping the Prince’s character, and hence the social policies of the Crown, that she was blind to others’ views of her ambitions. But in either case, he would get no farther with her.

  “Then I shall hold my tongue and ready my cameras,” he replied lightly. “And you, my dear Countess, will have your photographs, unlovely though they may be.”

  “Thank you,” she said with dignity, and nothing more was said about tomorrow’s excursion. But Charles felt, apprehensively, that Daisy was playing with fire. There were those at Buckingham Palace who would be desperately alarmed if they believed she had inflamed the Heir Apparent with such incendiary Socialist ideals as the reform of the Poor Law.

  And that was exactly what some would think when they heard that the Countess of Warwick had taken the Prince of Wales to the Chelmsford Workhouse.

  6

  When lovely woman stoops to folly

  And finds too late that men betray

  What charm can soothe her melancholy,

  What art can wash her guilt away?

  —OLIVER GOLDSMITH The Vicar of Wakefield

  Th’ work‘ouse?” Lawrence asked incredulously. He held up his cup for another pouring of strong black tea. ”Th’ Countess is aimin’ to drag ’Is Royal ‘Ighness t’ th’ Chelmsford Work’ouse?”

  “That’s as they say,” said Amelia, lady’s maid to Miss Kathryn Ardleigh and Lawrence’s sweetheart. Lawrence, who was Lord Marsden’s manservant, knew that if she had her way, the two of them would be married tomorrow. But he’d insisted that the grand day be postponed until their meager savings were enlarged and his goal was within reach, which surely would not be long off now. Lord Marsden, who was a motorcar fiend, was initiating him into the mysteries of driving and automobile maintenance and had generously promised to make him into a motor mechanic and chauffeur. Lawrence was even hoping to be sent on a six-week apprenticeship to the automobile manufactory in Paris, where he could learn everything there was to be known about motorcars. And a few years hence, when there were many vehicles needing repair, he could open his own mechanic’s shop.

  “‘Tis a puzzle t’ me,” Amelia said with great sadness, “why anybody ’ud want t’ go t’ such a place as the Work- ‘ouse on a pleasure trip. Fair full o’ ’eartache, ‘tis.”

  Lawrence patted Amelia’s hand. Her sister had died in the workhouse, and he knew the depth of her sorrow. “Them wot’s respons’ble fer Jenny’s dyin’ got their reward, right enough,” he said consolingly.

  It was teatime in the large, windowless servants’ hall at Easton Lodge, and the trestle benches were crowded with the estate servants and the servants of guests—the rowdier lower echelon servants, that is. The Uppers had gathered in the housekeeper’s parlor, reportedly supping on Madeira cake, several sorts of jam, and glasses of claret. Fairy-food, Lawrence thought disdainfully, slathering butter on a slab of bread and forking a slice of cold mutton from the platter in front of him. Give him a proper tea with thick slices of brown bread, a bit of cold joint, and a cup of the strongest, hottest tea that could be had. So fortified, he’d work until bedtime.

  “Th’ work‘ouse,” murmured Amelia again. “It don’t seem right, some’ow.”

  “ ‘Ard to credit,” agreed Wickett, a dapper, bandy-legged coachman in the green-and-gold livery of Easton Lodge, seated opposite. “I ’eard they’re leavin’ arter breakfast i’ that newfangled motor wot b‘longs t’—” He broke off, squinting suspiciously at Lawrence across the wooden table. “Say, now. Ain’t ye Sir Marsden’s man, wot mekkanics motors?”

  Lawrence nodded. “Aye, that’s me.” He had but an hour ago arrived on the mail train from London, laden with the spare tire, the extra drive belt, the cask of petrol, and the calcium carbide that were wanted to ensure that Mr. Marsden’s Daimler was in tip-top form for His Highness’s trip on the morrow. And now to learn that the Prince was to go to the poorhouse!

  “Whoops!” The bandy-legged Wickett threw back his head and guffawed, showing stained and broken teeth. “Well, then, yer fer it, laddie. Ye’ll be wanted t’ go ‘long, no doubt—an’ so will me lady’s brougham an’ pair. I saw that wunnerful motor when Lord Marsden drove in this mornin’, clinkety-clanketty. It’ll never git t’ Chelmsford. Why, it’s all o’ thirteen mile there ’n’ another thirteen back!”

  “Lit‘le enough you know,” Lawrence retorted warmly. “That motorcar flew from Colchester in less’n three hours, an’ that’s twenty-five miles.” He omitted to mention the breakdown the motorcar had suffered, which would not have cost them so much time if it had not occurred near nightfall. “Why, that Dai
mler ’ud make it t’ Lunnon in ’alf a day, easy.”

  Wickett snorted. “Ses ‘oo?”

  “Ses ‘e,” Amelia shot back proudly. “An’ ’e knows wot ‘e’s talkin’ about, ’e do!” She bestowed a fond glance and a caress on Lawrence. “Nobody knows motors like Lawrence Quibbley.”

  Lawrence grinned, his heart warming at Amelia’s ready defense. “Ses me,” he agreed mildly. “Wanter lay a bob on’t?”

  “Yer on.” Wickett slapped the flat of his hand on the table. “Chelmsford an’ back i’ three hours er less.”

  “Not countin’ th’ time spent i’ the work’ouse,” Lawrence amended. He would have to have a word with Lord Marsden about the wager in order to ensure that there was no dallying. But he knew his employer well, having served at Marsden Manor in various posts—footman, manservant, and now mechanic—for going on eight years. Lord Marsden came of sporting stock and enjoyed a wager better than some. He would rally. And Lawrence himself would see to the automobile’s readiness. The bob was as good as in his pocket.

  “I’m sure I don’t know why the Countess would want to take His Royal Highness to the workhouse,” sniffed Richards. He was valet to a visiting gentleman named Wallace and obviously felt that he was not among his betters. He laid mutton on his buttered bread with a judicious hand. “‘Tis not a fit place for His Highness, nor for her ladyship neither, however good-hearted she may be.” He pursed his pale lips censoriously. “I wonder Lord Warwick doesn’t set her to rights.”

  “Lord Warwick!” grunted the sullen-faced young footman on the other side of Wickett. “Wot makes ye think he kin tell her ladyship wot t’ do?” He hunched his shoulders. “A law to herself, that woman is. Anyway, she ought t’ go t’ th’ poor‘ouse. She needs t’ see it fer ’erself. At th’ rate she’s spendin‘, she may git there on ’er own.”

  “That’ll do, Marsh,” Wickett warned. “You wudn’t speak that way ‘bout ’er ladyship where Buffle cud ’ear ye.” Buffle was the Easton Lodge house steward, who in addition to his other duties was responsible for the good behavior of the footmen and under-footmen, who were sometimes spirited and inclined to youthful hijinks.

  Lawrence understood Wickett’s caution, for it was a servant’s responsibility, and the better part of discretion, to speak well of his employers, whatever private opinion he might hold. And servants did hold strong private opinions, of course, for they were witness to all sorts of secret and immoral behaviors—drunkenness, violence, rage, lechery, adulterous intrigues. But as it happened, Lawrence agreed with Marsh’s opinion. The Countess of Warwick was widely known as a woman of questionable judgment. Well-meaning and full of the milk of human kindness, perhaps, but a bit short when it came to knowing how to do things. In a word, foolish.

  “Buffle can’t hear me, now, can ‘e?” growled Marsh, who was hardly more than eighteen. He had a brooding mouth, badly pocked cheeks, and heavy black eyebrows over eyes that were dull as lead. “I’m sick o’ ever’one sayin’ as ‘ow th’ Countess is so gen’rous an’ kind an’ good-doin’ an’ this an’ that.”

  “But she is, i‘n’t she?” asked Amelia wonderingly. “Jes’ yestidday, when we got ’ere, she’d gone out takin’ jellies an’ port t’ th’ sick.”

  “Jellies an’ port, when it’s a better livin’ we need?” Marsh raised his voice ringingly, and his dull eyes showed a spark. “Let ‘er go t’ th’ work’ouse, I say! Let ’er see wot ends pore people’re fetched to, when they got no other way t’ live.”

  Amelia shrank back against Lawrence, startled by the young man’s passion. Wickett looked uneasily over his shoulder to make sure there were none in the room who might carry tales. “You an’ yer fam‘ly ’ave a ‘ard cross t’ bear, boy,” he said in a low voice. “But all of us ’ave our share o’ grief i’ this miser‘ble world. Yer father may be laid low, but ’e’s a man o’ pluck an’—”

  “A‘n’t ye ’eard?” the boy growled into his mug of tea. “Me father died a fortnight ago. She killed ‘im, sure as she’d blowed off ’is ‘ead instead o’ ’is leg!”

  With a sympathetic shake of his head, Wickett put down his fork. “Ooh, I’m that sorry t‘ear it, young Marsh. Yer father was a proud man, fallen on bad times.” He frowned. “But ’is shootin’ was a accident, pure an’ simple. Beaters is allus i’ danger. She may’ve shot ‘im but she pensioned ’im, too, di’n’t she?”

  “Killed ‘im wi’ kindness, she did,” the boy said mockingly. “Bein’ under-gamekeeper were ’is ’ole life. Yer a proud man, Mr. Wickett. ’Ud ye take a quid a week fer yer leg? ‘Ud ye let a ’oman try t’ wash away ’er guilt wi’ money?”

  Put this way, the coachman had to reconsider. “A pension’s cert‘nly no recompense fer a leg lost through a ’oman’s folly,” he admitted. “An’ ‘er ladyship’s a unsteady shot, t’ be sure. She ought niver t’uv bin on th’ line, is wot th’ loaders say.”

  “But ‘tis not just ’er, an’ not just me dad,” Marsh said, leaning forward and dropping his voice. “It’s all o’ ‘em abovestairs, th’ wemmin wearin’ jew’ls an’ fine dresses, th’ men boastin’ ‘bout their ’orses an’ their yachts. An’ not one o’ ‘em give a thought t’ th’ rags an’ th’ ’ovels an’ th’ sickness ‘round ’em.” His voice was almost a whisper, his dull eyes suddenly brilliant, mesmerizing. “But their time is comin‘, fer th’ people can’t bear it much longer. ’Twill be as ‘twas ’cross th’ Channel, when th’ Frenchies rose up an’—”

  “Quibbley!” boomed a woman’s loud, rough voice. “Lor’ be blessed, it’s Quibbley ’isself!”

  Lawrence, who had found himself drawn into Marsh’s hypnotic polemic, was suddenly shocked to full attention, and something very close to fear. He fancied himself a strong man, but no strength was equal to that of the woman who stationed herself close behind him and wound substantial arms around his neck, pulling him backward against the soft pillow of her bosom. Furthermore, Lawrence felt within himself the stern consciousness of guilt. Inwardly, he quailed.

  “Winnie,” he cried weakly, grasping her arms in an attempt to extricate himself. “Winnie Wospottle, ’erself! I’m glad t’ see yer.”

  “Glad t’ see me indeed!” Winnie bent her cheek to his and wound her arms more tightly around his neck, as though she would choke him. “I ought t’ve sued yer fer breach o’ promise, ye scalawag! Makin’ sport wi’ a pore foolish young girl wi’ a babe in ‘er arms, whose ’eart was that set on yer. Ye done a bunk an’ left me waitin’ at th’ altar, ye did!”

  The men opposite had decently averted their eyes from this embarrassing spectacle, but Amelia had gone rigid. Lawrence hazarded a glance and saw that her delicate face was white as a winding sheet.

  “Amelia,” he began desperately, “this is someone ’oo I knew back in Brighton when I was jes’ a young—”

  But Amelia had clambered over the bench and gone in a flash, leaving her tea unfinished on the table. Winnie, seizing the opportunity to occupy the vacated space, loosened her grip on Lawrence and lowered her ample self into it.

  “Well, now, Lawrence Quibbley,” she demanded, “wot ’ave yer bin doin’ wi’ yerself since yer deserted me back in Brighton?”

  “I di‘n’t desert yer,” Lawrence growled, beginning to recover his breath. He would have gone after Amelia, but he could see that it was of no use. He would have to explain to her later—if he could. “Like I tol’ yer back then, Win, I di’n’t want t’ be married, an’ that was th’ long an’ th’ short o’ it. Ye don’t need t’ make me out a rotter ‘oo’d betray a girl when she was countin’ on ’im.”

  “That’s as may be.” Winnie leaned forward and tweaked his nose familiarly. “But we’ve met agin, Quibbley, an’ I’m that glad t’ see yer.”

  Lawrence pulled away, eyeing her. The years—eight, nine, was it?—had been reasonably kind. Winnie was as charmingly buxom as ever, her brown hair as tightly furled, her cheeks as rosy, her lips as full and welcoming. “Wot’re ye doin’ i’ th’ country, lass?�
� he asked, not unkindly. Winnie had always loved Brighton, with its beaches and bathing machines and gay dancing. “Ain’t it a bit out o’ th’ way fer yer? An’ where’s yer babe?”

  Winnie pulled herself up. “I’m th’ laundress,” she said proudly, and even Lawrence was impressed. The position of laundress, while not quite equivalent to that of the other Uppers—cook, housekeeper, steward—was nonetheless an important one, with a fair amount of independence. “Me babe is ‘alf-grown now and livin’ wi’ ’er father. An’ as fer bein’ out o’ th’ way—” Giggling, she leaned forward and took his cheek between her thumb and forefinger and shook it. “There’s compensations, wudn’t yer say, luv?”

  Lawrence brushed her hand aside, knowing exactly what she meant. “Oh, er, Win,” he began uncomfortably. “I say, ol’ girl, I’ve got other—” He broke off and cast an appealing eye at the bandy-legged coachman. “Wickett,” he said, “‘ave ye met Winnie Wospottle?”

  Across the table, Wickett was taken with a fit of coughing and had to leave. With a disgusted look, Richards rose from the bench, too, followed by surly young Marsh. Lawrence had been abandoned.

  Winnie leaned seductively toward him. “Don’t tell me ye don’t know wot goes on at these country ‘ouse parties, Quibbley.”

  “Wot d’ye mean?” Lawrence managed, trying to maintain the appearance of innocence.

  “I see th’ sheets when they come down t’ th’ laundry,” she said in a conspiratorial tone. “There’s foolishness afoot abovestairs. Ev‘ry lady’s got ’er gent, ev‘ry gent’s got ’is lady.”