by M. C. Beaton
Daisy walked slowly back to the motorcar. She found that her hands were shaking. “How on earth can people just starve to death in England?”
“They do it all the time,” said Freddie cheerfully. “Not around your part of London, of course. Fact is, they’re lazy. Simply won’t work, you know. Poverty’s like a disease. They can’t seem to shake it off.”
Daisy desperately wanted to believe him. But the picture of the little child’s emaciated, claw-like hand as it had died clutching its mother’s coat swam in front of her eyes. “But a little child,” she whispered.
“Nasty for you,” said Freddie sympathetically. “Put it out of your mind. Better get back soon. Mater’ll have had her nap.”
Daisy had been mild and meek all her young life, but she was suddenly flooded with such strong hatred for the mater that she thought she would faint. What on earth was happening in the world? She had seen enough food thrown away after a house party to have kept that poor family for a year!
As Freddie parked the motor in the gloomy driveway he whispered, “No need to trouble Mater with our little adventure. She’s very sensitive, you know.”
Daisy thought privately that Mrs. Bryce-Cuddestone showed all the sensitivity of an overfed water buffalo and bit her lip.
This time mater was waiting for them in the drawing room, fortifying herself from the sherry decanter. She twinkled at them with a roguishness hideous to behold. “Ah, now what have my two young things been up to?” She wagged a playful finger at them. “Have a glass of sherry, Daisy. I have told the housekeeper to bring the books and we’ll go over them together.”
“Why?” asked Daisy, made bold by a sudden spasm of fear.
“Why! So that you will learn how to run a mansion such as this, my dear. I am sure you will prove an apt pupil.”
Daisy felt the prison walls closing about her.
“I do not think it necessary to go to such trouble since the running of—of your household is no concern of mine,” she faltered.
Mrs. Bryce-Cuddestone put down her glass so forcefully that she nearly broke the stem. “My dear girl,” she snapped, “I gathered that you had accepted my son’s proposal of marriage and since you seemed such a pleasant girl, I decided to overlook your unfortunate family background. Father, you know.”
Daisy’s eyes filled with tears as she thought of her generous father who faithfully sent her allowance to Curzon every month. She got to her feet. “Your son did not propose and had he done so, I would not have accepted.”
“Oh, I say!” bleated Freddie.
“Furthermore,” went on Daisy, quite pink with anger, “it is very rude of you to insult my father. I wish to leave. Immediately!”
Mrs. Bryce-Cuddestone’s face turned puce then purple. She emitted a few strangled noises and then began to scream and drum her heels on the floor.
“Now look what you’ve done!” shouted Freddie, ringing the bell like a fire alarm. “Poor Mater.”
His boyish features suddenly seemed old and mean. “If you’ve killed her, then it’s your fault.”
Mrs. Bryce-Cuddestone had begun to moan. Two burly footmen and a lady’s maid rushed into the room and bore the anguished lady out. Freddie and Daisy faced each other in silence as the moans progressed up the stairs and slowly died away.
“I must go,” Daisy said in a small voice. Freddie glared at her. “I think you should at least have the decency to stay until Mater recovers. I’ll go and tell the housekeeper to prepare your room. And”—as Daisy made a horrified movement to protest—“if you want to leave, you’ll need to go by yourself. ’Cause I ain’t taking you.”
He went out of the room and slammed the door.
Daisy stood stricken, listening to the sounds of his retreating footsteps. A statue of Niobe, all tears, gazed at her sympathetically across the room. She began to search feverishly in her reticule. No money. And even if she had money, she no longer had the courage to venture outside into the ever-thickening mist. She felt like a small animal, trapped in a cage of heavy furniture and stuffed birds.
The Duke of Oxenden strolled up St. James’s toward his club, reflecting that the weather was so foul, it might as well be the middle of winter. Yellow acrid fog prowled the gloomy streets, bringing an early night to London. The gas lamps had already been lit and their faint bluish flames were only slightly discernible. He leaned against a lamppost to light a cigar. The mantle of the gas lamp above him had been broken and the light sputtered and hissed and sang its dreary winter melody over his head. A fine rain of soot was beginning to fall and his white cuffs were becoming slowly speckled. He walked on toward his club and pushed open the double glass doors to escape the dismal evening.
But the fog was no respecter of class or persons. It hung over the club room in great yellow bands and dim figures could just be made out, sitting in their armchairs, like survivors from a shipwreck adrift on a yellow sea.
He found an empty armchair and a copy of the Times, its pages still crisp and warm from its ironing—one dreadful day the club steward had forgotten to have the members’ newspapers ironed and pressed and had nearly lost his job—and settled back.
A familiar face came looming up out of the fog. “Hullo, hullo, hullo,” said Lord Harry Trenton cheerfully. “What y’doin’—samplin’ the wicked delights of the Season?”
The Duke put down his newspaper and looked affectionately at his friend. Lord Harry Trenton was often pointed out as being a prime example to explode the myth that there is such a thing as aristocratic features. His line dated back to the Norman Conquest and he looked like a coal heaver. He was burly with a red hairy face, a thickset body, and massive hands with broken fingernails.
“Why shouldn’t I be here, Harry? Time I was getting married and this is the best market. I may be getting too old, all the same. I’ve never seen such a dreary bunch of debutantes.”
“Oh, I dunno,” said Lord Trenton, sinking into the armchair opposite, which gave a loud protesting creak. “Some of ’em ain’t so bad. Saw you at the Chatterton gel’s ball. Now there’s a beauty.”
“Miss Chatterton is certainly very pleasant to look at,” remarked the Duke dryly. “But much too young. I haven’t gone in for cradle snatching yet.”
“Well, you probably wouldn’t have the chance anyway,” remarked his friend cheerfully. “She’s gone off with young Bryce-Cuddestone for the day and you know what that means?”
The Duke sat up in his chair. “No, I don’t know what that means. Pray tell me.”
“Well, it’s like this. Freddie Bryce-Cuddestone’s got this terrifying mother. He dotes on the ratbag. Kept takin’ likely girls to the house and the old harridan would make sure Freddie never saw ’em again. Right? But Freddie’s still pursuin’ the ladies an’ he’s livin’ in London an’ the old rumty-too can’t get her hands on him and bully him like she used to. So she ups and tells him that the debs he’s bringing around are too fast and modern. But if he found a sort of sweet old-fashioned gel that she could have the trainin’ of… well, she’d ring the marriage bells herself !”
“I am sure Miss Chatterton cannot be forced into marriage in this day and age.”
“Oh, no? You obviously haven’t met Freddie’s ma. I called round at the Nottenstones to pay my respects and found out where she’d gone and that a message had come from Henley to say she was stayin’ on a visit and to send her clothes.”
The Duke shrugged with irritation. “And you think she’s being kept prisoner? All she has to do is just walk out.”
Lord Trenton hitched his chair closer.
“Look at it this way. If you was a shy gel and some matron insists you stay and you’ve never been to Henley so it could be Naples as far as you’re concerned, and you ain’t got any idea of how to get out of it… well…”
“Why don’t you go and rescue her?”
“Can’t,” said Harry Trenton, getting to his feet. “I’m squiring my sister to the opera tonight. Damned lot of caterwauling. But I promise
d. Toodle-oo.” He heaved his massive figure out of the chair and disappeared into the fog.
The Duke of Oxenden rattled his newspaper impatiently and turned to a report of the war in South Africa. He remembered Daisy’s fragile appearance and timid air and swore under his breath.
Dinner at the mansion in Henley was a gloomy affair—for Daisy at least. Mrs. Bryce-Cuddestone had been dosed with laudanum and her snores reverberated overhead like distant thunder. Daisy had enough good sense to gather that Mrs. Bryce-Cuddestone’s tantrums were of frequent occurrence and to turn a stony face to Freddie’s emotional blackmailing. Freddie was implying that since Daisy had put the mater at death’s door, the least she could do to make amends was to marry him.
Daisy reflected that she had never been subjected to such expert bullying before. Her clothes had arrived and yet no one had told her she was expected to stay. She could only be thankful that Freddie’s puppylike amorous sallies had, for the moment, been kept at bay by the length of the dining table.
The trifle had been removed and Daisy rose to her feet to leave Freddie to his port. But to her horror he rose also, taking the decanter with him. Since there was only the two of them, he said blithely, they should be cozy together in the drawing room. He offered Daisy his arm but she affected not to notice it and moved in front of him across the hall. She refused to acknowledge the arrival of her trunks and had dined in her traveling dress.
This was an England she had never dreamed of, reflected Daisy bitterly, where innocent people starved to death on the roads and this particular flower of English manhood seemed hell-bent on seduction. She looked wildly about her for some sort of weapon but everything in the chilly, overstuffed room seemed to weigh a ton.
Both jumped nervously as the doorbell clanged noisily into the Henley night. Freddie crossed quickly to the door of the drawing room and waylaid the cadaverous butler. “I say, Smeekers, whoever that is, tell ’em we ain’t at home.”
“Very good, sir,” remarked Smeekers with a slow smile. He opened the door and Daisy faintly heard the sound of a familiar voice raised in question and then Smeekers’s firm and distinct reply, “I am afraid Miss Chatterton is not at home, Your Grace.”
“Oh, yes I am,” yelled Daisy, galvanized into action. She sprang past the openmouthed Freddie and hurled herself into the hallway.
Looking like an elegant and friendly demon, the Duke of Oxenden lounged in the doorway. He wore a high silk hat rakishly on the side of his head and a long beaver coat and his yellow eyes gleamed with mischief. “Ah, Miss Chatterton. I have been sent by the Countess to escort you home. You have a heavy day of social engagements tomorrow, she begs me to remind you.”
“Oh, th—thank you,” stammered Daisy. “Your Grace, they sent for my trunks.”
“In that case we’ll simply send ’em back,” he said languidly. “Come along like a good girl.”
“I say,” said Freddie sulkily. “There’s no need for Daisy to rush off in the middle of the night in all this fog. Dangerous, what!”
“There are more serious dangers around than mere fog,” said the Duke looking coldly at Freddie, who blushed. “Here, you,” to the butler, “get Miss Chatterton’s trunks corded up and put in my carriage.”
To Daisy’s bewildered eyes the world had miraculously righted itself. In no time at all her trunks had been strapped on the back of the Duke’s carriage and she was making her farewells.
She sat in silence as the horses clopped down the drive, aware of the Duke’s eyes on her.
“Well, Daisy,” he said at length. “Aren’t you going to thank me for rescuing you?”
Pride was about to make Daisy say petulantly that she hadn’t wanted to be rescued, but escaping from the Bryce-Cuddestone household was such a relief that she found herself bursting out with the story of her horrible day and the dead bodies beside the road.
He listened sympathetically until she finally finished her account in a hearty burst of tears. “I am afraid there are a lot of people like the Bryce-Cuddestones around. They turn their eyes away from poverty and misery and say that it is all the fault of the poor themselves to ease any pangs of conscience they may feel. Or they get up elaborate charities complete with crested paper and hundreds of overpaid officials so that by the time they are paid off, there’s precious little for the poor.”
“If I could donate something from my allowance…” said Daisy. “I am sure my father would not mind.”
The Duke regarded her in silence and then said after a few minutes, “Well, I see no reason why not. I shall give you the name and direction of a vicar in the East End. He does a great deal of real charitable work. Your money will not be wasted, I assure you. Now, we shall stop in Henley at the police station and I shall report the matter of your dead bodies.”
Daisy blinked back her tears and thanked him profusely. She decided she had been mistaken in him. He was not hard and cold after all. After they had left the police station she began to chatter merrily and, being a good mimic, soon had him laughing over the tantrums of Mrs. Bryce-Cuddestone.
“You see, my dear,” he said at last. “It all bears out what I was telling you. True love does not exist and it seems to me as if your search for it is only going to cost you endless agonies. I am prepared to cancel the bet.”
“Never!” said Daisy warmly. “I shall prove it to you yet, Your Grace.”
“Toby,” he reminded her gently.
“Your Grace,” snapped Daisy petulantly and then settled back in the carriage and pretended to go to sleep. For some reason she could not fathom, she was almost as angry with the Duke as she had been with Mrs. Bryce-Cuddestone.
“Very well then,” said the light mocking voice. “But don’t expect me to rescue you next time….”
Chapter 7
The unchristian fog fled before a light breeze and sparkling sunshine on Sunday morning, leaving its sooty residue in the nooks and crannies of the great city.
London slumbered on under a pale summer sky and only the sparrows were up and about, chirping cheekily on the elegant windowsills of the West End like so many Cockney urchins come to poke fun at the sleepy aristocracy. Daisy lazily opened her eyes and wondered if she had been wise to make any engagements for the day at all. Mrs. Bryce-Cuddestones seemed to be lurking in every corner of fashionable London, ready to drag her off to their gloomy homes and force her to marry one of their downtrodden offspring.
But Lady Mary Trenton had invited her for tea and she was to stay on for dinner. Lady Mary, the coal heaver’s sister, was a sturdy, jolly, harmless girl. The most she might suffer from was boredom. Daisy rang the bell and blinked at the strange maid who answered. It was Amy’s day off so there was no way of picking up any useful servants’ gossip about the Trenton household.
Daisy passed most of her day buried in the Earl’s sparse library, lost in the world of Mrs. Henry Wood’s novels.
What agonies the heroines had to endure. What smooth villains twirling their mustaches lay in wait for innocent damsels. But virtue triumphed in the end… in most cases.
Woe befell the woman who strayed! She lost her children or had to spend the rest of her life in obscure watering places on the Continent, suitably veiled. Daisy reflected cynically that the present society seemed to get away with murder when it came to liaisons and seductions.
But her love was waiting for her just around the corner. She was sure of it. And what better time to meet him than on this sparkling day.
The Trentons had a large Nash town house in Regent’s Park. The other guests seemed to be mostly young people, many of whom were already familiar to Daisy. They seemed to laugh a lot and treat everything as a mad kind of joke. Daisy sat down at the tea table in the garden in all the glory of her new tea gown—and leapt to her feet as her seat let out a loud raspberry. Everyone cheered and clapped. A bladder had been placed under her cushion, explained Mary Trenton. Such a gloriously vulgar noise. The Trentons like most of London society loved practical jokes and as Daisy
nearly broke her teeth on a wooden angel cake, she wondered if she would survive the day.
She became aware of a tall man watching her intently across the room. He had been talking to Lord Trenton and now stood staring at Daisy with such intensity that she blushed and dropped her eyes.
Lord Trenton led him forward to be introduced. He had a square, handsome tanned face, broad shoulders, and was impeccably dressed in a scarlet blazer and white flannels.
He was introduced as a Captain Richard Brothers who was home on leave from India. He had merry, laughing eyes and an endearing smile. Daisy began to feel her heart beating quickly as she smiled up at him.
He pulled up a chair beside her. He neither shouted at her as if she were deaf, nor did he immediately start questioning her about a lot of people she had never heard of, but began to entertain her with thumbnail sketches of the company and then went on smoothly to describe his adventures in India. “It’s a great country,” he told the dazzled Daisy. “And don’t you listen to any of those fools who say it’s no place for a lady. Why, the ladies have a marvelous time. Not enough of them, you see. Even the plainest girl has several subalterns at her feet. As for you—we’d all be fighting duels.”
He described the blazing stars of the tropical nights, the exotic flowers, the sparkling social life, until Daisy felt ready to rush off and jump on the next boat.
As tea was finished, they were both very pleased with each other. Daisy, because she had never been in the company of such a handsome, brave man. Why, he made the Earl seem positively effeminate!
Captain Brothers was just as enchanted with Daisy. Lord Trenton had described Daisy, in a spirit of schoolboyish mischief, as “London’s latest heiress,” being well aware that the Captain was a notorious fortune hunter. Lord Trenton was not an unkind man and he determined to set the Captain right as soon as possible—and then forgot about it.