It would have to be enough. Somehow.
“They will see you,” she told her dream house as she lovingly traced her fingers over the sketches. “And they will fall in love.”
She reached for her pencil and straightedge and began to polish the plans. After all, she—that is, her father—had a contest to win.
Whitby rapped on the front door of the Daring’s townhouse, with a large bouquet of flowers in his hand. He grinned with happiness. Zounds, what a beautiful day! And made all the better by being able to call on Daisy. Because today was the day. Not just the day when he finally made her talk about what happened last week at the site—after all, she’d managed to wiggle out of discussing it whenever he’d come by since then—but so much more.
Today he planned to ask Elias for permission to formally court his daughter.
The door opened, and Mrs. Jones smiled welcomingly. “Well, Mr. Whitby! Is that you behind all those flowers?”
He lowered the bouquet with a wide grin. “They’re for the Darings.” But really for Daisy—a big bunch of daisies for one beautiful Daisy, with enough pink carnations mixed in that he could save face and say they weren’t just for her if she refused his courtship. Sweet Lucifer, he prayed she didn’t refuse! “We’re celebrating the first of the windows going into the house.”
“Aren’t you thoughtful? And what beautiful flowers, too.” She leaned over to take a quick sniff before stepping back to let him pass into the house. “Come inside and let me tell Mr. Daring that you’re here.”
“And Daisy?” he tried to ask casually as he pulled one of the pink carnations from the bouquet and handed it to Mrs. Jones. “Is she home?”
The older woman blushed as she accepted the flower. “Oh, I’m afraid not. She’s gone out to run some errands.” She raised the flower to her nose and pulled in a deep sniff, then smiled at the perfumed scent. “Said she probably won’t be back until the shops close right before dinner.”
Disappointment panged inside him, but he didn’t let his smile waver. “Well, then I’ll call on her again tomorrow, I suppose. She said she had the interior plans completed for the stair hall and dining room.”
“I’m sure she does. But Mr. Daring could discuss them with you, as well. After all, he’s the architect.”
So…Mrs. Jones didn’t know that he knew the truth. Best to keep it that way, so he nodded and agreed tongue-in-cheek, “No man better for the job.”
“Certainly not!”
Hiding the amusement he was sure sparkled on his face, he gestured into the heart of the house. “No need to bother with showing me to the parlor. I know the way, and I’m certain Elias won’t mind if I pop in unannounced.” He dropped his gaze to the flowers. “But perhaps you could fetch a vase for these, if you don’t mind?”
“Not at all!” She smiled at him. “And why not some tea, too, while I’m in the kitchen?”
“You’re a peach, Mrs. Jones.” With a wink, he handed her a second carnation. “A true peach!”
She laughed faintly with embarrassment, then left to hurry down to the kitchen.
Whitby dragged in a deep breath of courage and turned toward the parlor. It was time to face his future and her father.
But when he stepped into the room, he found Elias asleep in his chair in front of the window, his book having fallen open onto his lap and his spectacles hanging crooked from his nose. The man let out a little snore.
Whitby sighed in frustration, and his hand with the bouquet fell to his side. Well, nothing was going as planned today, but he refused to take any of it as a portent for the success of his courtship.
Instead, he’d treat it as a good time to check on the house, so he hurried upstairs to the studio.
He smiled to himself. Plans and sketches of all kinds covered her drafting table. Grand exterior façades to detailed ceiling plasterworks, drawings of carved newel posts made to look like Grecian caryatids carrying oil jars on their heads and others made to look like elegantly bending flowers, beautiful fanlights and sidelights…She was good with overall house plans, he wouldn’t begrudge her that. But her true talent lay in the interiors. All of the king’s grand houses in London and Brighton paled in comparison to the simple, uncluttered elegance and beauty of Daisy’s designs.
He took one of the sketches and held it up to the window. Brilliant.
He laid it aside, and his boot brushed against something on the floor. He looked down—a tube of heavy, rolled paper tied with a piece of purple ribbon. What on earth…? With a perplexed frown, he untied the ribbon and unrolled the sheets of paper.
He bit his cheek to keep from cheering. They were Daisy’s plans for her dream house, with a letter of application for the contest. She was entering! It was all wrapped up and ready to be delivered to St James’s Palace for submission. Except…
He noticed the name scrawled across the bottom right corner. Not hers. Elias’s.
He mumbled, “What are you planning?”
He unfolded the letter. In it, Daisy once more gave credit to her father for creating work she’d done herself. He grimaced. Elias Daring was fraudulently entering the contest that should have been Daisy’s to win.
“Not if I can help it.” He reached for the eraser sitting on her desk and briskly rubbed it over the plans to remove Elias’s name. He picked up her drafting pencil and signed Daisy’s name for her. Then he took down the quill and ink set from the nearby bookshelves and quickly scratched out a new letter in which he made certain that Daisy took ownership for her wonderful designs and credit for the entry. He finished the letter, then put it inside the plans and carefully rolled them up again.
Humming happily to himself as he left the studio, he took the entry with him to submit it for her. In its place he left the flowers.
4
Month Four
Daisy stopped at the bottom of the steps and stared up at the old house that had been turned into the Gatewell School for Orphans of the Sea. Her nervous heart jumped into her throat.
She’d been putting off this visit to the school for as long as possible. Heavens…children. Oh, she wasn’t ready for this!
“Don’t be nervous,” Whitby urged as he tugged at her hand to cajole her inside with him. “They’re going to love you.”
She doubted that. “I’m not good with children.” Ha! That was the understatement of the year. She was absolutely terrible with them, treating them like short adults.
“Yes, you are.” He slid her a sideways grin. “You’re good with me, and I’m the biggest kid I know.”
She heaved out an exaggerated sigh. “That is true.”
He nudged her with his elbow. “They’re wonderful children who crave attention—”
“Also like you.”
He ignored that and leaned over to whisper into her ear, “And they’ll like you a great deal.”
This time, she whispered with a smile through her nervousness, “Also like you?”
He placed a quick kiss to her cheek. Then he put his hand at the small of her back to start her up the stairs before she could stop again.
Whitby had insisted that they visit the school today. He wanted her to see the school, meet the staff, and learn of all the support they offered those children connected to the docks who had lost their fathers. He’d wanted it to be nothing more than a social visit, but Daisy had insisted on bringing her notebook. She wanted to talk with the children, to find out what they wanted in a home and why the project was so important to them.
She also wanted the chance to see Whitby interact with the children. He gave so much of his money and time to them, so much of himself. They meant a great deal to him, and he was coming to mean a great deal to her.
But then he’d gone and thrown her for a complete loop by asking her father for permission to formally court her. Papa thankfully left the decision completely up to her. And she…well, she’d turned cowardly. She liked Whitby, a great deal, but she had no idea if she wanted more. If she were ready for more with any
one, let alone someone so vivacious. After all, at twenty-five, she’d never had a season the way society misses did, knew nothing of flirtations between men and women, and never been seriously courted before by anyone. What if she made a giant mess of it all?
So she’d agreed to spend time with him but not yet publicly reveal their courtship. After all, she had no idea what kind of future she wanted with him—if any. Friendship only? A meeting of minds? Perhaps—dare she consider it—romance? Going slowly proved the only option. Very slowly. Whitby had agreed, although he wasn’t able to hide the disappointment that had darkened his face, but with the condition that she give him a firm answer by the time the house was finished—to let him publicly pursue her or break off.
She had no idea what her answer would be.
“Whitby’s here!” The shout went up as soon as they stepped into the house. It echoed through the floors and rooms, passed along from one child’s lips to the next in a hue and cry that surprised the daylights out of her.
She slid him a bewildered look. “Do they always do this when you arrive?”
“Usually.” Used to their boisterous greetings, he shrugged and admitted, “Because usually I bring them treats.”
Ah, so that was it. “And what did you bring to bribe them with this time?”
He grinned. “You.”
Before her face could flush at that, half a dozen girls and boys charged down the stairs; another half dozen burst out of the ground floor rooms deeper in the old house-turned-school. All of them flooded into the entry hall and began to crowd around him, all receiving hugs and affectionate rubs on their heads. Whitby greeted each child by name and asked if they were behaving; every child assured him they were.
“I’ve brought you a special guest.” He nodded toward Daisy. “Miss Daring, may I introduce you to the children of the Gatewell School?” His eyes sparkled. “Children, this is the very special Miss Daring.”
They all bowed or curtsied, as they were undoubtedly instructed to do. Daisy bit back a smile as she gave a low curtsy in return.
“I’m very pleased to meet you.”
Bright smiles answered her.
“Let’s go up to the schoolroom,” Whitby told the children, “and you can all show Miss Daring and me what school work you’ve been doing.”
The children, of all ages and sizes, ran up the stairs with the noise of a trampling herd of elephants. Daisy stared after them, a bit shocked.
“Goodness,” she whispered.
Misunderstanding her surprise, Whitby took her arm to escort her upstairs. “I know that you were expecting to meet more of them.”
Not at all! The dozen who’d greeted her were more than enough.
“But the others are in workshops in the afternoons, where they’re learning trades they can use to find future employment.”
“How many others?”
“About three dozen or so at any one time, but it fluctuates.” He shrugged as they rounded the first-floor landing and continued up toward the schoolroom. “We’re not a boarding school. We only take in children during the day so their mothers can earn livings without leaving their children home alone or letting them run wild on the streets. And here they’ll receive a meal and instruction, and not just in reading, writing, and math either. That’s what the workshops are for. We also teach them skills, like carpentry and cooking, so they can become apprentices when the time comes or find other employment for them.”
“You give them a proper chance at life,” she whispered.
“Well, we try.” He reassuringly squeezed her elbow and said quietly, “Some are still grieving for their late fathers. The school gives them a safe place to do that, too.”
That was why Whitby loved this place so much and why he was so certain she would love it, too. Because the children here were just like them, still suffering over losing a parent.
Wordlessly, unable to find her voice around the knot in her throat, she slid her hand down to his and reassuringly squeezed his fingers.
They entered the large room that had once served as the house’s nursery. It had been changed into a schoolroom with rows of small desks, a chalkboard behind the teacher’s desk, shelves filled with books, pencils, slates— Even a globe sat perched on the shelves, just waiting for someone to play with it.
The children darted into their seats, all of them smiling conspiratorially at Whitby and a few stifling their giggles.
“They have a surprise for you,” Whitby told her as he led her to the front of the room, then sat back on the corner of the teacher’s desk. His grin was just as bright and bubbling with excitement as the children’s.
She wasn’t fond of surprises. “Oh?”
He nodded and clapped his hands. At the signal, the children lifted up their chalk slates to reveal the flowers they’d drawn for her. Every last one of them was a daisy.
Her eyes stung. “What beautiful flowers you’ve made! That was so kind of you to think of me.”
The children beamed with pride and raised the slates even higher.
She turned toward Whitby and mouthed, This was your idea.
He winked at her, and her heart melted.
As if he knew he’d knocked her speechless, he pushed himself off the desk and addressed the children. “Miss Daring has come to visit our school and meet everyone here. But first she wants to talk to us about the new house we’re building for the school.”
“Will we get to help build it?” one of the boys piped up. His freckles reminded her of her younger brothers.
“No,” Whitby answered. “Miss Daring and her father have hired workers to do that.”
The boy’s face fell, and he slumped over his desk. “Oh.”
“But you’ll be able to help with the service yard and gardens, which will need lots of attention and work once the house is finished,” Daisy interjected quickly. “And with building shelving for the basement storage rooms, the attics, perhaps even the pantry. Oh, there will be lots you can do.”
The boy gave her a happy grin that revealed two missing front teeth. “Deuces, that’ll be grand!”
“Robert,” Whitby scolded. “Young boys shouldn’t talk like that.”
“You do,” the boy protested in a confused half-pout. “You say ‘deuces’ all the time.”
Daisy lifted a brow and murmured low enough that only Whitby could hear, “He’s got you there.”
“I am not a young boy,” he countered, yet when he crossed his arms to punctuate that, the gesture resembled a fit of childish pique.
“No, of course not.” The mocking exaggeration sounded clearly in her voice.
“I am a grown man who is soon to have a beautiful new house where some of you will come to live with me.” Pride flashed over his face at bringing the conversation back to the reason they were all there. “So, let’s tell Miss Daring what we would like to have in it, all right?”
The children fell silent. Not one of them dared to speak up.
Daisy smiled. “Well, you had a treat for me—such beautiful flowers! And so I’ve brought a treat for you.” She reached into her reticule to call upon her secret weapon and held up the brown paper-wrapped bundle. Holding it in sight for all of them to see, she untied the string and opened the wrapper. “Peppermints!”
That brought all twelve children bolting upright in their seats, all two dozen eyes glued to the bundle of candies.
“So…” She reached into the wrapper and held up one of the mints. “Who wants to tell me what they think should be in their dream house and earn yourself a peppermint?”
Over half a dozen arms shot high into the air. Their sudden excitement warmed through her. She gave the bag of peppermints to Whitby to hand out while she wrote their suggestions in her notebook.
“What color would you like your bedroom to be?” she asked and was inundated by a rainbow of colors. “Would you like shelves to put your belongings on or in chests of drawers?”
Each time a child answered, Whitby raced through the
rows of desks to give each one a peppermint in reward. She smiled at him over the children’s heads. His face lit up as he momentarily held her gaze before darting off again to deliver more candy.
“What kind of furniture would you like to have in the parlor?”
More answers…some good, some rushed out only to gain a piece of candy. But she nodded to each one no matter how unrealistic the child’s suggestion to encourage their participation.
“What color should the dining room be?”
Hands eagerly shot into the air, although some of them didn’t wait to be called upon before blurting out their choices.
But one of the girls didn’t join in. She sat in her desk in the middle of the room, slumped low in her seat with her arms folded over her chest and her big eyes downcast. Instead of being excited to earn a peppermint, she looked as if she were on the verge of tears.
Daisy gestured for the others to be quiet for a moment and approached the girl. She knelt beside her desk and waited for her to flick a glance at her. When she did, Daisy smiled.
“I’m Daisy,” she told her. “What’s your name?”
“Martha.”
“My, what a pretty name!”
The girl’s lips twitched as if wanting to smile but not finding the conviction. Her glum expression immediately screwed itself back into place.
“What’s wrong, Martha?”
Her bottom lip quivered. “I can’t earn any peppermints!”
Daisy gestured for Whitby to stay back as he rushed forward to offer Martha a piece of candy from his rapidly depleting bag. “Why not? All you have to do is tell me what you think about the house.”
“I can’t give any answers.” She hugged herself more tightly and slumped impossibly lower in her seat. “I’m not a boy.”
“That doesn’t matter.” When the girl shot her a look as if she were a bedlamite, Daisy added, “Your opinion is just as valid and important as any boy.”
If a Lady Lingers Page 7