Private Passions

by Felicia Greene

  ‘Your greatest fear?’ Matthew snorted. ‘You think you know fear? What would your fear be, Daisy Chiltern?’

  ‘That I have fallen in love with a man who does not trust my love.’ Daisy let her tears fall to the flagstones, unable to wipe them away any longer. ‘That is part of my fear. And the other part… the other part is being afraid, so very afraid, that even if you did confess your love… that it would not be love. That you would have decided, however erroneously, that the ardent love of a clumsy, plain-speaking, plain-looking girl was the most that you deserved—and that you were simply too dispirited to search for someone better.’

  She turned away quickly, unable to face Matthew’s expression. Walking out of the room, half-hoping that he would at least attempt to stop her, she strode in frantic, unquiet, unseeing misery until she found herself on the lavender-lined path leading away from the house. There she stopped, taking several shuddering, sob-laden breaths, utterly disgusted with herself for losing control.

  She had to leave. She had to leave now, preferably running, until she was safe within the confines of Chiltern Manor—and God help her, she hoped never to leave its walls again. Not for at least three Seasons, at any rate. She would be helpful to Mother, and begin another course of study, and make baskets of clothes and ointments that could be taken to the poor of Chiltern village… and she would never, ever marry. Never come close.

  She was so overcome with emotion that she barely noticed the sound of rustling skirts. Looking up with a start, Daisy found herself face-to-face with Amelia Benson.

  ‘I… excuse me.’ This had to be the ultimate humiliation. ‘Please do not ask me as to my altered state, Amelia—I promise that I am leaving immediately.’

  ‘Don’t go.’

  Daisy turned around, astonished. Amelia’s face showed fear, real fear—had she ever seen Amelia afraid of anything?

  ‘Please. Please don’t go.’ Amelia moved closer, setting her basket on the ground. Daisy couldn’t help noticing that it was full of flowers; wasn’t Amelia meant to be in her dressing room? ‘I beg you. Whatever he has said—whatever foolish outburst—’

  ‘I do not want to leave. Matthew is making me.’ Daisy carelessly wiped away a tear, too sunk into humiliation to care for what she said any longer. ‘It would be most sordid to delve into particulars, and I have no wish to offend—’

  ‘There is no offence.’ Amelia came closer, her hands outstretched. ‘No offence whatsoever. If he has been beastly, or cruel, or lacking in enthusiasm, I promise than amends can be made. He… he has been happy, this past week. I have seen him happy.’ She said it as if it were the most impossible thing in the world. ‘Happy, and content. I have been watching in silence, like a ghost—I was so jealous, at first! But he is happy. Finally happy, for the first time in nearly two years.’ She shook her head. ‘I cannot imagine it ending.’

  ‘Matthew has ended it.’ Daisy spoke more gently now; the two women looked at one another, old rancour melting away in the light of new discoveries. ‘And—and you look beautiful.’ She wiped away another tear, noting the care in the stitching of Amelia’s new gown. ‘The colour is quite perfect. You’ve looked beautiful for the past week—your new modiste will be the toast of London, if you ever manage to let her go.’

  ‘... Yes.’ What was that flash in Amelia’s eyes—fear? Guilt? ‘A spectacular talent. ‘But Daisy, I—’

  ‘Thank you, Amelia.’ Daisy looked at the woman in front of her, realising that she truly did feel gratitude. ‘Thank you. But goodbye.’

  As Matthew sat mutely in the kitchen, full of pain he had expected but not succeeded in imagining, he heard the door open. The tell-tale rustle of skirt announced Amelia’s presence; he smiled bitterly, rising to his feet.

  ‘Sister, I believe you were right.’ He briefly pressed his fingers to his brow, trying to lessen its stiffness. ‘Baking lessons. What a ridiculous—’

  ‘Shut up.’ Amelia’s voice, tear-soaked and ringing with anger, hit him almost as hard as Daisy’s slap. ‘Shut up, you idiot of a man, and listen to me.’

  All Matthew could do was stand still, his mouth slightly open, listening as his sister began speaking to him in a way she had never previously dared to.

  ‘I don’t care what you think. I don’t care if you have developed a high-minded distaste for baking, or if you have suddenly tired of company, or if—if a cake didn’t rise. I have given up caring, Matthew. I tell you as your loving sister, with all the power I possess, that Daisy Chiltern and her strange cook will be returning to this house.’

  ‘I… I love her.’ Matthew said it with a sort of sour pride, expecting the pure shock of it to send his sister into hysterics. ‘That’s why I sent her away. I’d like to say that your feelings about the Chiltern girls came into it, but they did not.’

  Instead of the predictable flood of tears and accusations, there was nothing but unnerving silence from Amelia. Silence, followed by an extremely slow and deliberate breath.

  ‘As I said, Matthew… I do not care. I do not care about any of it.’ Something had changed in her voice; not anger, but a sort of weary exasperation. ‘To be more precise, I will not care about any of it until you understand what a tremendous dolt you have been, and do something about it.’

  ‘I really have no idea what to do about it. None whatsoever.’ Matthew realised he couldn’t keep up the pretence of arrogance. ‘If… if you have any advice, or suggestions…’

  ‘No. Absolutely not. This is yours, and yours alone.’ Fury flickered in and out of Amelia’s exhausted tone. ‘For once in your life, Matthew—and I really do mean your entire life, since birth, not only since the accident—you are going to have to do the work yourself.’

  The following morning at Chiltern Manor was offensively sunny and bright, with birds cheeping with aggressive cheerfulness from each and every bush. When Daisy finally managed to drag herself from the warm, numbing confines of her bed, barely glancing at herself in the glass, she found time to wish an untimely death on every single budding blossom she could see from her window.

  This was emphatically not how she normally behaved. Iris had always been the sister allowed to have hysterics; the scenes she had made as a girl, often over gentlemen that only existed in books, had been something for the ages. Daisy had always looked upon her sister’s moods with a touch of smugness—after all, what on earth had there been to be so miserable about? Some smiling fool in breeches with fine eyes and a carp lake?

  Now, looking back on her patronising former self, she felt the urge to reach back through the years and administer a hearty slap. As for today’s Daisy, with the morning stretching out ahead of her like a gaol sentence… well, all she wanted to do was wear black, weep dramatically, and dream sadly of what could have been.

  Alas, she had never practiced either weeping or looking wan. Black was also difficult; her warm-weather dresses were in blue or pink, with mauve the closest to mourning. With a hearty glare at her wardrobe, and a final muttered curse towards the radiant day outside, she strode sourly downstairs to find something useful to do.

  Alas, useful tasks were in somewhat short supply. Every sensible, practical thing that needed doing was already being done; maids were washing, ironing, dusting, folding, chopping, sugaring, stoking, polishing and even, given the sunny weather, hanging sheets on long lines outside. Daisy watched the busyness around her with a sick heart, reflecting that stronger measures were needed to forget herself.

  ‘Mother?’ She wandered into her mother’s favourite room; the morning room, where banks of budding flowers could be smelled from the open windows. ‘Have you need of me?’

  Lady Chiltern looked up from her book, her smile radiant. ‘My dear, you are always necessary.’ She patted the cushion next to her. ‘One doesn’t need to be useful to be wanted. Things only have to exist for us to love them.’

  ‘I am not entirely sure that I can simply exist, today.’ Her mother’s kindness was too much; Daisy’s eyes were already beginning t
o sting. ‘I have great need to repent, and do ever so many things, or I fear I shall go mad.’

  ‘Why, Daisy, I spoke in jest.’ Lady Chiltern frowned. ‘My dear, I do believe—my goodness, are you weeping? What on earth is the matter?’

  ‘Nothing. I am not weeping. Well… not weeping very much.’ Daisy sniffed, sitting down with an abrupt thump next to her mother. ‘Which is utterly silly, and I should be counting my blessings. And being of service to you.’

  ‘My dear, you are always of service to me.’ Lady Chiltern took her hand and patted him, concern shining in her eyes. ‘But something must have occurred. Please—tell me what has happened.’

  As Daisy took a deep breath, wondering how on earth to begin, an unusual sound threaded through the open window. The unmistakeable sound of boots on gravel; hesitant steps, with frequent pauses, accompanied by the barking of a dog.

  ‘How strange.’ Lady Chiltern half-rose. ‘Were we expecting visitors?’

  It cannot be. But as Daisy sat listening, torn between fear and hope, a part of her grew surer and surer. She knew those footfalls, even if she had never heard them outside of the Benson house. She also knew the barking of that particular dog.

  ‘Mother.’ She stood abruptly, smoothing down her skirts as she blinked away her tears. ‘Would you be utterly scandalised if I tell you that our visitor is the Duke of Cleveland? And that I may have inspired his visit to our house?’

  ‘Of course I will be scandalised. Profoundly so.’ Lady Chiltern’s shoulders slumped in defeat. ‘Is that going to prevent you from running out of the door like a blushing hoyden, and putting the already strained reputation of the Chiltern name into even hotter water?’

  ‘No.’ Daisy kissed her mother’s cheek, full of love and gratitude. ‘Absolutely not.’

  ‘Then go, my dear. Go with my love, and extreme disapproval.’ Lady Chiltern’s expression, although smiling, had a certain sadness to it. ‘Whatever will I do with both you and Iris gone?’

  ‘Never gone, Mother.’ Daisy ran out of the door, hair ribbons flying. ‘Not really.’

  As Lady Chiltern stood, mind reeling from what had just occurred, she caught sight of Carstairs on the threshold. That was one of the man’s many talents; the ability to appear exactly when needed, demanding nothing but to serve.

  ‘Carstairs…’ She paused. ‘I rather think I—’

  ‘Brandy, ma’am.’ The butler bowed his head. ‘Directly.’

  It had been a much easier journey than Matthew had expected. He was tempted to consider it a metaphor for life; his life, from this point onward. Everything was much easier than expected, if you were willing to do the work—and if you had love to guide you.

  Love, and a spaniel. Caesar had been the most sterling of hounds, gently guiding him along the long, sunny stretch of road with nary a bark at a stray pigeon, or a sniff at an interesting patch of flowers. All it had taken was the dishcloth that Daisy always used in the kitchen; Caesar had picked up her scent immediately.

  It was if he had been waiting to guide him all along; Matthew had been struck with the knowledge that really, truly, no human as imperfect as himself deserved the love of dogs.

  He didn’t deserve the love of Daisy either. He knew that now. But as he heard her unmistakeable footsteps crunching over the gravel, a trail of soap and spring flowers thrilling in the air, an untamed corner of his heart whispered, hope.

  ‘I know that coming here was not the work. That it is barely work, even to a blinded man.’ He sighed, his hand on Caesar’s head. ‘But in my defence, Caesar is determined to every insect in Christendom. And I had to repent for my sins, which are many, with every dusty step. And really, thinking about it, this is the first time I have set foot off of Benson ground since the accident.’

  There was no answer from Daisy. Matthew swallowed, gritted his teeth, and continued.

  ‘You were right. You are right. I have been avoiding work; good work, loving work, because I was afraid of what could come of it. You allowed me to see that I must do this work; must love you, as I long to, and keep loving you, because the alternative is—is being without you. A choice I considered noble.’ Matthew paused, clearing his throat. ‘Even if it is the worst kind of selfishness. The kind that damages both oneself, and the other.’

  Silence from Daisy. Matthew reached down to stroke Caesar’s ears, finding comfort in their softness, before carrying on.

  ‘You spoke of my need for you as a sort of second prize. An acceptance of you as an object of love, in the absence of other opportunities. But—but there is no better, or worse, or best. Not for you and me. Comparisons are for other people, and we are not other people.’

  He took a deep breath, his heart beating as rapidly as Caesar’s.

  ‘You are mine, Daisy Chiltern, and I am yours. More yours than you can possibly imagine. And God help me, I will live my life devoted to the privilege of deserving you.’

  The silence after this declaration was one of the most painful of Matthew’s life. More painful than the silence he lived in in the days after the accident; the hushed voices of the nurses, the pained looks of his former friends. If he could just hold on a little longer… if he could do the work of waiting, of leaving himself open to yet more hurt…

  … And then she was in his arms, warm and gasping with tear-filled laughter, and all the work was worth it. All the work to come would be a walk along a sunny path, with all the world before the two of them.

  ‘I… I was rather looking forward to being an old maid.’ Daisy’s laughter was deliciously sweet on the ear. ‘I was going to take long walks in inclement weather, and pursue ever so many courses of study.’

  ‘There’s no reason why you cannot do all of that, and more.’ Matthew kissed her forehead. ‘But you, my love, will never grow old—not with me.’ He smiled. ‘And you won’t be a maid, either.’

  THE END

  A Snow-Apple Scoundrel

  by Felicia Greene

  Dearest Amelia,

  Matthew and I have arrived safely in Brighton. We are eager to partake in all of the delights the seaside has to offer, so this brief letter merely serves to inform you—

  Amelia Benson, smiling as she wiped away a tear, gently closed the letter. She put it back in its envelope, placing it in the correct pigeon-hole, as her other hand absent-mindedly scratched at the base of her neck. A foolish habit, one that had already caused a small red welt to appear on her skin; a habit that she would have fiercely judged any other girl for having, back in her débutante days. But she was no longer a débutante, and her days had very little of the joy that a débutante could expect.

  Biting her lip, she scratched harder. Another tear fell onto her cheek; not a tear of happiness, even though she was truly happy that her brother Matthew had found wedded bliss with the solid, implacable Daisy Chiltern. This tear was an anxious one; one that came from the bottomless well of panic that she felt growing in her chest, day by day.

  It would all be perfectly alright, of course, if she could only make it so through sheer force of will. If she could only stop being so weak; so disgustingly, atrociously weak, full of fears and premonitions that kept her awake at night. If she could only keep going as she always had, managing everyone, making sure everything ran from morning to night as seamlessly as a roll of silk… even if her own seams were ripping apart, revealing all the ugly stuffing that lay beneath.

  She had nightmares. Terrible ones; images that had her waking breathlessly in the darkness, holding in a scream. Her brother injured, her mother dead, tragedy piled upon tragedy - and the certainty that all of it, every single part, was her own fault.

  Nothing had ever been her fault, for an entire blameless, selfish childhood. What an insufferable pig she must have been; she knew she had been with the Chilterns, but there were so many others to whom she had been horribly rude to. It had been easy to be rude, when trapped in the luxurious boredom that came with nothing having any consequences.

  Then Matthew had come ho
me from the regiment, wounded and blinded and incapable of doing anything. Then her mother had began her mysterious decline; forgetfulness, wandering, a glimpse of a vacant stare beneath her usual sharply aware expression. Then everything had begun, slowly but surely, to fall apart - and she, Amelia Benson, empty-headed princess of a hundred ballrooms, had been expected to keep it all together.

  And she had, just. Oh Lord, she had. She had successfully hidden her mother’s illness from everyone, including Matthew. She had forced Matthew to state his sentiments to Daisy Chiltern, even if she had opposed their budding friendship on principle. She had kept the household running smoothly, making sure that the staff were both adequately paid and silent about Lady Benson's sudden retirement from public life—Lord, she had even organised balls! Balls held in her mother's name, of course, but still. Actual, glittering balls, with every single flower and waltz and soup chosen with no help from anyone else.

  But her mother was worsening, Matthew was far away, and their late father’s rash financial speculations had come out worse than anyone had expected. Least of all Amelia, who had taken to sitting up late with ledgers instead of going to sleep when it grew dark. Mother worsening, both Matthew and money gone for the present—and realistically, Amelia thought, only one productive Season left to look for an adequately rich husband.

  And Jean. There was Jean to think of. Amelia knew she shouldn’t think of him at all, even as she found her thoughts running to him whenever her panic grew unmanageable.