by Anne Gracie
Daisy nodded. There was still a part of her that couldn’t stop wondering why, why Mrs. B. had left her behind like a worn-out pair of old shoes. She’d wanted to hear that Mort had insisted, that someone had forced Mrs. B. to abandon Daisy. She’d wanted to be given a reason.
Which was stupid. There was no reason. Daisy hadn’t mattered to Mrs. B. at all—that was obvious. Daisy was the one who cared—not Mrs. B.
It was always the same.
“From your parents?”
“Nah, I told you, I’m a foundling. I was . . .” She hesitated. Best to spit it all out now. “She bought me from a child brothel.”
“A what?” He sat up on one elbow and stared at her.
“It’s all right, I was never touched.” She grimaced. “As soon as they took me inside I knew what sort of place it was.” She saw his expression and added, “When you grow up like me, you learn about such places young, and I wasn’t goin’ to have none of it. They locked me in a room, but I escaped up the chimney—lucky it was summer—and got onto the roof. I was climbing down when I slipped and landed on the cobblestones, splat! at Mrs. B.’s feet. Broke me leg and all.”
“She was the—”
“No, she wasn’t the one. To do her credit, Mrs. B. was always dead against usin’ young ’uns in brothels.”
Flynn made a skeptical sound.
“No, it’s true. I know what you thought of her, and you’re not wrong. She’s a hard woman, selfish and ruthless, and tough as old boots, but she’s not all bad, and she was good to me back then. She picked me up and took me home, never mind the mess I was in—”
“Mess?”
“I broke me leg remember? Mrs. B. paid the brothel owner a shilling—”
“A shilling?” he echoed indignantly. He wasn’t sure whether he was insulted by the small sum or outraged that she was sold at all. A bit of both, he supposed.
Daisy shrugged. “Well, I wasn’t worth nothing to him with a broken leg, and it pays to keep in good with your neighbors. She got a bloke to set me leg and bandage it up—even gave me some laudanum for the pain—’orrible stuff it was too. And then she put me on a bench in the corner of the kitchen, handed me a needle, thread and a pile of mending and set me to work. I sat there and sewed until me leg healed.”
Only it didn’t heal, not properly, Flynn knew.
“Lovely it was in the kitchen, always warm and plenty of company—and food!—you never seen such food. They made it for the gentlemen, you see. I never went hungry again. And that’s how I learned to sew—I’d never so much as touched a needle before that, but by the time I could walk again, I’d found I didn’t just like sewing, I was good at it. All the girls started bringing me their clothes to fix and to make over as well, so you see, if none of that had happened, I wouldn’t be where I am today.” She smiled and added, “I’m pretty lucky, I reckon.”
“Lucky?” How the hell could she tell a story like that and conclude she was lucky?
She leaned forward and kissed him. “I ended up here, didn’t I? Above me very own shop, with a lovely man in me bed and the best view in the world. I got food in me belly, a home to go to, sisters and an old lady who care about me, and friends—good friends. What more could I want?”
He looked at her sunny, open expression, and couldn’t bring himself to say a word. Her wants were so simple. He wanted so much more. He kissed her instead.
Children didn’t even figure in her consciousness. And why would they, with the experiences she’d had? Abandoned as a wee babe, nobody to care for her, passed around like an unwanted parcel until a raddled old harridan had scooped a broken child from the cobblestones and exploited her for years without pay—and in her ignorance and vulnerability, Daisy had mistaken that for the care of a mother.
His arms tightened around her. He wished she could have met Mam.
* * *
“Well, Daisy, you’ll be next!” Jane exclaimed.
“Who me? What?” Daisy jerked upright, startled from a bit of a daze. Or was it a doze? She was right knackered. It was the evening before Jane’s wedding, and the girls were having their last girls’ nursery supper. In the weeks leading up to it she’d been working so hard to get everything perfect, she’d almost fallen asleep.
“Next to what?” she asked again.
“To fall in love and get married of course, silly,” Jane said. “Weren’t you listening?”
“Here, have some toast.” Damaris passed Daisy a slice of hot, perfectly toasted bread.
“It’s you who don’t listen, Jane,” Daisy retorted, buttering the toast. “I ain’t never gettin’ married. How many times have you heard me say so?”
Jane laughed. “Yes, but that’s the way of the Chance sisters.”
Daisy slanted her a skeptical glance. “What way is that then?”
“Our way. See, first there was darling Abby, governessing along, looking after everybody else, certain she’d never even have a chance to get married, let alone have a child of her own.” Jane hugged her sister. “Now look at her—could you get anyone more in love than her and Max? And just look at that lovely expectant mother happy glow.”
Abby laughed, a little embarrassed. “Oh, it’s just the firelight,” she murmured, but it wasn’t. She did glow. Daisy had never seen her look so beautiful. Abby had always been elegant, rather than beautiful, but now . . .
Jane continued, “And then dearest Damaris—who was utterly adamant that she wasn’t ever going to marry. All she wanted was a little cottage and some hens—remember?”
“And I do have my lovely little cottage and hens.” Damaris deftly slid a slice of hot toast onto a plate and passed it to Jane.
“You also have darling Freddy who completely and utterly dotes on you.” Jane laughed as Damaris blushed rosily.
“And then there’s me . . .” Jane heaved a big happy sigh and smiled into the glowing coals of the fire. Her toast sat ignored on her lap. Abby retrieved it and buttered it for her. “I was so determined not to fall in love, to make a practical marriage.”
Jane turned to Daisy. “You told me I’d fall for the most unsuitable man in London, remember? And I did. My darling, darling Zachary . . .” She gave a little wriggle of delight. “So you see, Daisy dearest, it’s your fate. You’ll be next. Chance girls always get what they deserve, and you deserve the best.”
“I’ve got the best,” Daisy said. “The best shop in London. Now eat your toast.”
“Ohh, I’m not hungry,” Jane declared airily. “Not for toast.” Her dreamy look made it clear what she was hungry for, and it wasn’t any kind of food.
“Well, I am.” Abby took the toast she’d buttered for Jane. “It’s dreadful. I’m always hungry and I fall asleep at the most inopportune times.”
“You’re increasing—it’s natural,” Damaris pointed out.
Daisy, who’d opened her mouth to admit that she felt exactly the same lately, closed it. She thought back, doing a calculation in her head. She looked at Abby, sleepy and rounded, fertile and glowing and happy.
Bloody hell.
Chapter Eighteen
Her mind was all disorder. The past, present, future, every thing was terrible.
—JANE AUSTEN, MANSFIELD PARK
Up the duff.
Supper was over, Abby and Damaris had gone home to their loving husbands and Jane had gone to bed to try to sleep—there was no way she would, she was too keyed up—and dream or daydream of her husband-to-be.
Daisy, too, was keyed up, but for a very different reason. She’d made an excuse and gone to her workroom, leaving Jane in bed. She needed to be alone, to think.
Up the bloody duff.
She couldn’t be. She counted back the months. When had she had her last rags?
She was weeks overdue. She counted twice to be sure, but dammit, she’d missed two months. And her breasts had bee
n so tender lately. She’d thought it was because of Flynn’s attentions to them.
How the hell had it happened? She’d been so careful, using the methods the girls used at the brothel to keep from falling pregnant. She’d used them every single time . . . Except for . . .
Damn! The table. That first time with Flynn, on the table. She hadn’t expected that, hadn’t prepared for it, had taken care of things afterward, but it must have been too late. Like closing the stable door after the bloody horse had escaped.
She swore a blue streak.
She hadn’t even noticed missing her rags, what with the shop and all—people did miss sometimes, when life was busy and worrisome. But it wasn’t excitement or worry—it was carelessness, stupid bloody carelessness on her part.
What the hell was she going to do now?
One thing was clear. She wasn’t going to tell Flynn. He’d whip her off to a church before you could blink and she’d be married.
Married, up the duff, and Flynn would own her shop, her lovely shop. And she’d have to become a lady, a proper lady, with all the trimmings, because that’s what he wanted in a wife. A gracious, elegant, dignified ladylike wife.
Which was as far from Daisy as you could get.
She’d be hopeless at it, but she’d have to smile and act the lady and pretend to herself and everyone that she hadn’t ruined his life.
No, she wasn’t going to tell Flynn.
There were lots of things to do with unwanted babies. There were the old women down the back alleys with their knitting needles. Daisy shivered. She wasn’t going there.
She could have the baby and give it away, like her mother did. She didn’t have to wrap it in rags and leave it beside the gutter, as Daisy was—or at least that’s what she’d been told. There were other choices.
The Foundling Hospital—Captain Coram’s—they’d take a baby if the mother was respectable—“of good character.” Nobody Daisy knew had managed to get a babe accepted.
Even if they did get in, a babe wasn’t necessarily safe. Coram’s took newborns—nothing over twelve months, and farmed the babes out to wet nurses in the country. Some of the blokes that hung around the brothel made a bit on the side, taking the babies from Coram’s—supposedly to deliver them to the wet nurse—but some of them had been “lost” on the way. Babies died easy—everyone knew that.
And even if they survived that, she’d seen some Coram’s foundlings once, had never forgotten their well-scrubbed faces, their drab, neat, ugly clothing, as they walked in tidy lines to church, two by two. Not a smile to be seen among them, poor little things. A grim, dutiful, well-disciplined life, all planned out for them. No joy in it at all.
She put her hand over her still-flat stomach. “Don’t worry, baby,” she whispered, “I won’t send you there.”
And oh, gawd, what was she doing, talking to the baby already as if it was a person? That was the worst thing to do. Girls who did that never were the same after giving the baby away. Turned to blue ruin. Or opium.
She wasn’t like those girls—she wasn’t. She had a family now, and a shop. She wasn’t poor and desperate and friendless. Her baby would be all right.
She could have the babe in secret and farm it out, somewhere nice and safe. With people who would take good care of it. Make it feel wanted. As if it belonged.
A baby needed to know it was wanted. And loved.
Was there such a place? How would she find it?
Lady Beatrice would help her. “She’s lovely, Lady Bea,” she told her stomach. “She’ll make sure you go to a nice home somewhere.” She broke off. She was doing it again. It had to stop.
She would go to bed now, try to sleep, talk to Lady Bea in the morn—no, it was Jane’s wedding day. She’d have to wait until after. There was plenty of time. She was only a month or two along. She patted her stomach. “Not like you’re goin’ anywhere, are you?”
* * *
Jane’s wedding went off a treat. Jane of course looked stunningly beautiful and glowed with happiness. She, her four attendants and Lady Beatrice all wore Daisy-made—excuse me, House of Chance—clothes and looked gorgeous, if Daisy did say so herself. Some of the guests also wore Daisy’s dresses.
She couldn’t have been prouder if she was the mother of the bride.
She placed her hand on her stomach. Unfortunate thought.
“Got a bellyache?” Flynn murmured in her ear. He was a groomsman, looking dashing and handsome—and for once, not colorful—all in black and white and silver gray. Freddy must have prevailed.
“No, I’m all right.” She avoided his gaze.
“Just that it’s the third or fourth time today I’ve seen you do that.”
“No, it’s just that woman’s perfume, it’s making me feel a bit sick.” It was true too. “Excuse me, Flynn. Gotta go, need the . . . um.” She hurried away. It wasn’t ladylike to mention the privy.
She’d been trying to avoid Flynn all day. It was hard with both of them being in the wedding party, but she’d managed. He’d asked her earlier if something was the matter and she’d hissed, “Gotta be discreet, remember?” and moved away, leaving him frowning after her.
It was as if he knew something was up. But he couldn’t. He was just being Flynn, taking care of her, acting as if she was some fragile . . . lady.
What the hell was she going to do when they all went down the country to Jane’s new home? There was some kind of celebration there for May Day. They were all going—the whole family. Even Lady Beatrice had consented to visit the countryside, which she loathed. Flynn was going too, apparently. It would be even harder to avoid him at a house party.
But somehow she had to manage it because she was a rotten liar and if he kept asking her if something was wrong, she’d end up blabbing.
And that would ruin his life. And hers.
* * *
The wedding was over, Jane had left on her honeymoon and the house on Berkeley Square was very quiet. Lady Beatrice, declaring herself utterly exhausted, went early to bed. Daisy brooded about her problem. Maybe she wouldn’t go to the country. Maybe she’d tell everyone she had to stay for the shop.
Jane would be so hurt if Daisy didn’t come to Jane’s first party as a new bride in her new home.
But if Daisy did go, there would be the problem of Flynn. She walked slowly up to bed, tossing the same fruitless thoughts around in her head. And stopped. Was that a light under Lady Beatrice’s door?
She knocked softly in case the old lady had fallen asleep with the light on.
“Come,” a stately voice answered.
Daisy poked her head around the door. “Are you awake?”
“What is it, child?’ Lady Beatrice was sitting up in bed against a mound of pillows and wearing one of Daisy’s bed jackets, the first one she’d ever made her, pink and ruffled and feminine. She patted the bed in invitation.
Daisy entered the room and climbed onto the bed. “Can’t sleep?”
“Too much excitement,” the old lady agreed. “Wasn’t Jane a picture? And that husband of hers, so hands—” She broke off, frowning. “What is it, child?” she said in quite a different voice.
Daisy knotted her fingers together. They were shaking. Girls got chucked out in the streets for falling pregnant. Chucked out of their own families. Lady Bea, for all she claimed her as a niece, was no relation at all.
“Spit it out, gel.”
Daisy took a deep breath. “I’m increasing.”
Lady Beatrice peered at her and shook her head. “Nonsense. You’re not fat in the least.”
“No, I’m increasing. You know, in a delicate condition.” She couldn’t bring herself to say expecting a happy event because it was a bloody disaster. Nor could she bear to say in the family way. She gestured with her hands, making a mound over her stomach.
Lady Beatrice frowned. “Good
Gad, you mean you’re pregnant? No need to beat around the bush.”
Daisy rolled her eyes. She was never going to get the hang of being a lady. “Yeah, all right then, I’m up the bloody duff!”
“Don’t be vulgar. And what does Mr. Flynn have to say about your condition?”
Daisy gasped. “How did you know it was him?”
Lady Beatrice snorted, as if it was too obvious for words. “So what are you going to do?”
“I don’t know.”
The old lady frowned. “You mean he won’t marry you?”
“Oh yeah, he would—if he knew about it. But I ain’t telling him.”
“Why ever not? Put him to the test, gel, tell him about the baby and give him the opportunity to do the decent thing.”
Daisy glowered at her. “He’s been askin’ me to marry him every bloomin’ day for weeks.”
“Without even knowing about the child? Good for him. There’s your answer then. There can be no recriminations that you’ve trapped the dear man. Tell him the good news, and we’ll start the wedding preparations at once. Good heavens—four weddings in one year! I shall be thoroughly exhausted!” she said in utter delight.
Daisy didn’t move. She sat silently on the bed tracing the design on the satin coverlet with her forefinger.
Lady Beatrice raised her lorgnette. “Out with it, gel, what’s the problem?”
“I ain’t goin’ to marry him,” she muttered. “I can’t.”
The old lady gave her a sharp look. “You’re not already married are you? Because if you are—”
“I ain’t married. I just . . . can’t.”
“Why not? What’s the sticking point? “
Daisy shrugged.
“A shrug won’t do this time, my dear,” the old lady said. “Come on, explain to an old woman so that I can understand—why can’t you marry a man who is handsome, rich, madly in love with you—oh, and whose baby you happen to be carrying?”
“Because I can’t, that’s why.”
“Oh, well, that clears it up wonderfully.” The handle of her lorgnette tapped impatiently.