by Kate Archer
“Leave Farthmore to me,” Lord Dalton said, “and eat your dinner. I think you do not eat enough and have thought to speak to Flanagan about it.”
Daisy did put her attention on her dinner. Not because she was particularly hungry, but because she was taken aback by the lord’s words. There was something about him noticing what she ate as being…what? Very personal?
She did not know what it was, though it seemed somehow intimate that he should notice and even more so that he had come to a conclusion about it and decided to mention it.
She stabbed at a piece of beef and refused to think on it further.
Chapter Eleven
Charles sat out on his bench in the moonlight. Despite waving off Miss Danworth’s fears about Lady Montague and her threats, he could not dismiss them completely. He supposed he should not be surprised that the lady was related to Lieutenant Farthmore, distant though the connection might be. Despite its apparent distance, the fellow stayed in her house and had evidently told a very sad story about his treatment in attempting to pay his respects to Miss Danworth.
Charles could make a guess that Farthmore was favored by Lady Montague because they had the same low standards and he no doubt allowed her to ramble on about her enemies, of which there was never a shortage. He further assumed that Lady Montague had been intrigued to hear of Farthmore’s ill-treatment at Miss Danworth’s house, outrage being the woman’s life-giving drink.
He could not imagine what Lord Montague made of Farthmore. Lord Montague was a reasonable man, and not likely to be particularly enthused by his wife’s relation ensconcing himself in the house. But then, if Charles knew that lord at all, he might not even be in town. He might very well be enjoying the quiet of Yorkshire without the racket and din that always accompanied the presence of his dear wife.
If ever there were an advertisement against marriage, poor Lord Montague was it.
He had almost inquired of Lady Montague if she knew of anybody called Dagobert. He had decided against it, lest he put Lieutenant Farthmore on his guard or provoke him into action. After reading Lord Childress’ letters, there was little doubt that Farthmore was somehow involved and he may have shared something of the matter to his hostess. Charles had begun to suspect that it had been Farthmore himself that had broken into the house. Coupled with the idea that it might have been Farthmore who had pulled him down in the sea and then Lady Montague mentioning something about his amphibious operations at Tarragona, he could only think…what did he think? Nothing firm, nothing known as a fact, but a feeling that things were adding up on the side of Farthmore and that he’d not seen the last of the rogue.
Daisy must be protected…
No, he must not think of her as Daisy. He’d heard her called so by Mrs. Jellops so often that he’d begun to think of her using her given name, but it was not right to do so. Miss Danworth had kept remarkable composure in the face of the dragon-lady. To be sure, she’d been shaken, but she had not fanned herself or called for a vinaigrette. She had remained elegant and unruffled, at least she would have seemed so to an observer. He had noticed her hands shaking in her lap, but she did not allow her nerves to show on her features. She was quite a lady, after all.
That idea somehow led to him reviewing the earlier part of the evening. When they’d danced, why had he insisted on questioning her, again, about whether she was really determined to never marry? It could not matter to him in the least, as he himself would never marry.
And yet, if he ever changed his mind, because after all people did sometimes change minds, would she not be his first choice?
Would she not be his only choice?
He knew that she would.
If he ever changed his mind. Who else was as marvelous as Daisy?
He did not think he would change his mind. But then, he’d begun to notice that his views developed after Quatre Bras had seemed to somehow soften. He’d also noticed that, despite the shabby living conditions of the cottage, the insects, and the troublesome cat, he did not wake as often from a nightmare. Did he still have them and not remember? Perhaps they still came but did not wake him in a cold sweat because he was too exhausted from the endless inconveniences of the abode. Perhaps, though he really did not know.
Well, it was better that he held to his convictions. There was no point in throwing them over unless she threw her own over as well.
Would she? He did not know. What if she did and he did not see the change until something was announced? Burke might swoop in. Well, if she were going to marry, it could not be Burke. He was a safe choice, but he was not a right choice. Once she became used to Burke’s endless good humor, evenhandedness, generosity, indulgence of his friends, kindness to his servants and tenants, affection for his neighbors, and all-around reasonableness, she would…what? Become bored?
That was likely it.
He remained firm in his opinion that they would not suit.
Perhaps he would just wait and see. Was not time often the great solver of mysteries? Had not his grandmother, wily as a fox but wise too, often counseled him to do nothing about some matter? Simply wait and allow time to pass. Time would often make clear what direction one ought to take, or if one needed to take a direction at all.
There was the shooting season not too far off and he’d thought he might accept invitations with a note to the hostess that Miss Danworth and her companion would also arrive. Inconvenient to the hostess, to be sure, but he doubted any of them would say anything of it.
But then, there were so many men at a shooting party. He was her guardian and he ought to ensure she was not harassed by those fops’ unwanted attentions. As well, Daisy would not like to be dragged from house to house, having to smile at dinner every damn night.
No, she would rather stay here, he thought, until she reached her majority and had the funds for a house in Brighton.
Perhaps he would suggest it. Perhaps he would propose that they just go on as they were.
He glanced behind him at the decrepit cottage and wondered exactly how cold it would get when autumn rolled in. The doctor had expressed little faith in the chimney and he suspected the doctor was right.
The cat jumped on his lap, a large grasshopper hanging from her mouth.
“You are a revolting wretch,” he said.
The cat stared at him defiantly. Charles had not been at home for dinner, a meal she had become accustomed to sharing, and he supposed this was her way of protest. If she could not have fish or beef or fowl, she would cater to herself from the garden.
It was all well and good to ponder how he would manage Miss Danworth, but what on earth was he to do with this cat?
He sighed and carried her inside. There was probably a cup of milk or a wedge of cheese to be had somewhere.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Daisy had been busy with Mrs. Broadbent and Mr. Flanagan for most of the day. She was to have Lord and Lady Bartholomew, Miss Minkerton and Lord Burke to dinner. And Lord Dalton, of course.
Somehow, each time she thought of food and Lord Dalton at the same time, she found her cheeks burning. She must not be so silly over one remark about how much she ate, or did not eat, or a suggestion that she eat more. He may well have said it only to end the conversation about the danger of Lady Montague and Lieutenant Farthmore.
Still, Mr. Flanagan had just left, having suggested including a particular beef dish as one Lord Dalton favored and she was certain her face looked as if she’d spent the day in the sun without a bonnet. She’d practically jumped when he’d suggested the lord’s fondness for it and her cook had looked at her in alarm.
She felt jumpy in general, though she did not relay that to Mr. Flanagan.
Something was happening to her, though she was not sure what. It was as if she were coming alive after being half asleep all her life. The things she looked at seemed brighter, the sea seemed bluer, the sun blazing. She felt filled with an energy she’d never had before—as if she hardly had need of sleep.
Where once she
might have satisfied herself to pass an afternoon quietly sewing with Mrs. Jellops, gratified that nothing frightening or untoward was happening around them, now she was restless. Now, she often paced the room or fiddled with a book she had no intention of reading or gazed out the window, only to go to another window.
She had not guessed that her father’s death would produce such a change, but it seemed that it had. She supposed she’d been living some sort of half-life all along, and she was coming to full life. Now, her mind was finally convinced that Lord Childress could never again reappear. All the energy that had once been spent on staying out of the way, guessing at his moods, and avoiding trouble had nowhere to go.
Her restlessness had begun to prompt her to think about how going on in Brighton as a spinster might be. All along, she’d looked forward to the peace of it, especially during the winter months when barely a soul would be in town. Early and quiet dinners in a hushed house had been her dream. Rainstorms when nobody was about and reading by soft candlelight on a chill and cloudy afternoon seemed as if it would be heaven. The more closed in she could be, the more comfortable she would be.
Would it really suit, though? Might not she become bored? And what of Mrs. Jellops? She’d assumed the lady would like the quiet just as much as she looked forward to it, but was that true? Of course, Mrs. Jellops would claim it was true, if she thought it was what Daisy preferred.
Though, if she did not go forward with her plan to live an isolated life, what then?
Perhaps she might return to London and set herself up as a lady eccentric and host salons for amusing people?
Daisy sighed, knowing she would be more bored with that than being alone in Brighton. There were endless amounts of people who considered themselves amusing, but very few who actually were. She would be plagued by every young gentleman-poser come to town, determined to throw around carefully composed bon mots. It would be tedious.
Daisy sighed. It seemed no place she could think of seemed exactly right. Perhaps she ought to simply wait to decide what to do. Her feelings had changed quite a bit since the day her father died, they might change more still.
The right course would no doubt present itself. For now, though she might not have set her own course, she’d at least set the courses for dinner and it was time to go above stairs and change.
The first courses were out and, so far, the dinner had come off well. Mr. Flanagan, always a talented cook, seemed to take the idea of guests as a very personal and serious challenge. The dishes were composed so skillfully that Lady Bartholomew commented they must employ an artist in the kitchens.
Each dish, whether it be mackerels resting on delicate fronds of fennel dotted with capers, or a round of beef festively sat on large green slabs of cabbage from the garden, or a cod shoulder settled amidst thin-sliced lemons, was a delight. The fish was the most spectacular of Mr. Flanagan’s efforts and Daisy knew from Mrs. Broadbent that he’d spent the early morning haranguing fishermen to acquire just what he wanted.
Daisy had ordered the extra leaves taken out of the table so they were not talking across great distances. This seemed to suit everybody, but it perhaps suited Lord Burke and Miss Minkerton the most. It had given Lord Burke the opportunity of extolling one of Miss Minkerton’s recent efforts at painting the seashore. According to Lord Burke, she had a remarkable ability to capture the landscape, and in particular the lighting, that was near equal in skill to a Claude-Joseph Vernet.
According to the pressed lips and sudden concentration on plates seen round the table, the only person who did not find the notion ridiculous was Lord Burke.
And, Daisy supposed, Mrs. Jellops, who said, “Are they as good as that?”
Miss Minkerton did make a valiant effort to demur, telling Mrs. Jellops that they certainly were not as good as that.
Miss Minkerton probably wished she did not say so, as that only led to Mrs. Jellops saying, “Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, though.”
Lord Burke nodded sagely, as if to say that this beholder was quite sure of his opinion.
Daisy was now certain that Miss Minkerton’s fears of being viewed as a sister were wholly unwarranted. Lord Burke was sensible through and through, yet only a besotted fool could compare one of Miss Minkerton’s paintings to a Vernet. Her efforts were pleasant enough, as Daisy had seen for herself when the lady painted in her garden, but they were not out of the usual way.
Dear Lord Burke had been blinded and made insensible and it was delightful to witness.
Lord Dalton, not appearing as delighted to see his friend in such a befuddled state, said, “Lord Bartholomew, I understand you served directly under Wellington. Had you ever heard anything of amphibious operations at the siege of Tarragona?”
Daisy was surprised by the question, as it was no doubt about Lady Montague’s comments regarding Lieutenant Farthmore’s history at Tarragona. She had not expected that to be a topic of conversation. Lord Bartholomew, however, appeared vastly amused.
“Good heavens,” he said laughing, “what a travesty! I had not thought the circumstance was common knowledge—Wellington was irate over it. I must admit I was surprised to hear Lady Montague hint of it at the prince’s assembly. If I were involved in such nonsense, I might keep it very quietly under my hat.”
Lord Dalton looked at Daisy in surprise, then he said, “But what did she hint of, exactly?”
Lord Bartholomew took a sip of wine and put his glass on the table. “Well, you know how things went at Tarragona—if there was a wrong way to go it was taken. Apparently, unknown to Murray or Admiral Carew, one of his men devised some sort of snorkel—a tube one could breathe through underwater. The plan, as we eventually heard it, was to launch a bunch of seamen, swimming around with weights tied round their waists to keep them just below the surface, to spy on the coast.”
Daisy began to get a sinking feeling, just as she supposed the seamen had.
Lord Bartholomew went on. “Well, you can imagine how that went wrong. Murray was told of this remarkable plan when five of the men did not return after their first try at the thing. Drowned, the lot of them, as it was supposed that their weights were secured so tightly they could not throw them off when they needed to. Poor souls.”
“But they did not all drown,” Daisy said.
“No, I suppose not,” Lord Bartholomew said. “I understood there were fifteen or so involved though we never did receive the list of names we requested. No surprise, really, considering what came afterward.”
Daisy nodded. The siege had been wildly unsuccessful. Major-General Murray had been court-martialed, though in the end he received only a scolding.
She glanced at Lord Dalton and knew they were both coming to the same conclusion. Lieutenant Farthmore must have been one of the men who’d survived. Had he not always bragged he could do better than Murray? Had he not always claimed that he had better ideas?
It would not surprise Daisy to learn that the lieutenant had not just been among the men, but had been the one to come up with the idea. And that meant Lieutenant Farthmore was the person who’d pulled Lord Dalton underwater. It really could not be otherwise. Who else might have the skill to approach a person underwater, without being seen?
The idea sent a chill down Daisy’s spine. Why would Farthmore attempt to kill Lord Dalton? He’d been thrown from the house and of course he’d been insulted by it, but to enact such a scheme? A murderous scheme?
In the distance, Daisy heard the unmistakable clip-clop of a horse’s hooves approaching. She gripped her fork, having the irrational feeling that it might be the lieutenant approaching.
Lord Dalton rose and said, “I will go with Bellamy to see who calls at this hour. Another invitation from the prince, no doubt.”
Daisy felt that reassurance was given to her alone, to ease her mind. It did not particularly ease it, as she well knew the prince’s emissaries would arrive in a carriage and not a lone rider on horseback.
But if it were Farthmore, surely
the watchmen would not have let him through the gates?
The table was silent as they all listened for what might be heard in the front hall. There was nothing intelligible, except for muffled voices and then the door closing.
Lord Dalton came back into the dining room and said, “It was only a letter, delivered by messenger. It is from Lady Grayson.”
There were some at the table who understood the significance of the letter and others who did not.
Miss Minkerton said to her parents, “We have been awaiting a reply from Lady Grayson to see if she had any idea of who or what a Dagobert is.”
Lady Bartholomew nodded. “Ah, the mystery of the letters between Lord Childress and Lieutenant Farthmore,” she said.
Daisy had not known if Miss Minkerton had told her parents all that was understood of the break-in or the mystery of Dagobert that was noted in her father’s letters, but she found she was glad she did not need to explain it now.
“I propose,” Lady Bartholomew said, “that we have dessert in the drawing room and dispense with the gentlemen hanging behind with their port, if Miss Danworth would not deem it too irregular. The men might have their port in the drawing room if they like it. That way, the reading of the letter might not be delayed as I am sure Miss Danworth is eager to understand its contents.”
Daisy was vastly approving of the idea and nodded her head.
“No smoking though,” Lady Bartholomew chided the men. “I personally cannot abide the smell of smoke and it makes my daughter cough.”
“Does it make you cough?” Lord Burke said solicitously to Miss Minkerton.
The lady nodded and Daisy rose before the lord began comparing Miss Minkerton’s coughs to a Vernet.
The letter lay on the side table in the drawing room, next to the sofa. Daisy picked it up and tore it open.
“Do read it aloud,” Miss Minkerton said, “we are all on tenterhooks over it.”