NANCY CARSON
Daisy’s Betrayal

Copyright

Published by Avon

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins 2016

Copyright © Nancy Carson 2016

Cover illustration © Debbie Clement 2016

Nancy Carson asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780008166908

Ebook Edition © May 2016 ISBN: 9780008134853

Version: 2017-11-13

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

About the Author

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About the Publisher

Chapter 1

Daisy Drake had always been able to summon up a picture of the man she might eventually marry. Apart from the essential virtues of being tall, lean, excessively handsome, kind and, of course, gentile, he would be reasonably well off and never inhibited about showing his affection – even in public. He would also be a patient man; patient not only with her but with her family as well. Such high marital expectations for a lowly working-class girl like Daisy might have been unrealistically optimistic, but her self-esteem was high and she never doubted that such a man existed and would eventually emerge through the Black Country’s industrial murk. By the time she was twenty-two however, her imagined bridegroom still had not shown up and the thought had already crossed her mind that maybe she was destined to be an old maid.

Daisy was born in Dudley in Worcestershire on 18th May 1866 to Mary and Titus Drake. Mary had wanted the baby named after her own mother, Rhiain who was Welsh, but Titus would have no further truck with anything that came out of Wales. Better to call his new daughter after his own mother, Hannah. After some spirited – but never serious –arguments when Welsh and English forebears had been equally disparaged, they settled on neither, and Daisy emerged as the favourite. ‘There’s ne’er another wench like thee, our Daisy, yo’m a one-off,’ he used to tell the little girl proudly in his dense Black Country accent, tousling the dark ringlets that hung down her neck in thick coils. It irritated her to death but she loved him, and he loved her; small, wiry Titus Drake, iron puddler.

Titus told his young daughter casually that while he was at work, sweating over a searing hot hearth, puddling iron, he could sink eighteen pints of beer on a hot summer’s day.

‘Eighteen pints?’ Daisy queried, wide-eyed with incredulity.

‘Eighteen pints and I never get sozzled! We sweat it out, see. All the blokes drink like fish, working in that heat. The gaffers gi’ it us free. We even have a beer boy to keep we topped up.’

‘Why don’t you drink water, Father?’

‘Drink wairter? You couldn’t drink the wairter, my angel. You wouldn’t dare drink the wairter. It’d gi’ yer the ballyache and the squits. Yo’d be off th’ooks for days and lose time at work.’

From the point of view of other folks Titus Drake was nobody special, just an unskilled ironworker. To Daisy, though, he was everything. On Saturday afternoons he would say, ‘Come on, our bab, we’m off somewheer,’ and he would take her over the Oakham woodland, known as the Dingle, and show her the bluebells in spring; they were so dense you couldn’t walk anywhere without treading on them. In the autumn, they would take a basket and gather mushrooms and make mushroom soup when they returned home. Everything they saw, every bird, every nervous animal, every swaying flower, every gnarled tree, he had something to say about and made it all so interesting and vivid. Life was always exciting. There was so much to see, so much to learn about. Once, they gathered blackberries to make wine and, when they returned home with baskets full, he asked Daisy to help him make it.

‘Pour the sugar in now, my wench,’ he said stirring the must.

Unfortunately, washing soda came in blue bags identical to those the sugar was packed in and … Well, it was an easy mistake … But together they just laughed and laughed.

‘What’s your earliest memory, our Daisy?’ Titus asked one day, on another blackberry harvesting when she was a little older.

‘Oh, walking with Mother to take you a basin of broth for your dinner.’ She stooped to reach a cluster of blackberries she’d just spied. ‘I remember toddling beside her for miles, holding her hand, on our way to you at the Woodside Ironworks.’ She looked up at him and smiled. ‘We seemed to have been walking forever.’

‘Oh, it’s a tidy walk I grant yer, our Daisy. I hoof it there and back every day, bar Sundays.’

‘Yes, but you’re used to it. I wasn’t. I was only little. I was that thankful when we stopped.’ She dropped a handful of blackberries into her basket. ‘My little legs seemed so heavy and my poor feet ached. Then all I heard was this terrible roar from inside the factory. It frightened me to death. That, and the clanging of iron and the noise from the steam engines …’ She stood up to stretch her legs. ‘I can even remember the stink. It caught at the back of my throat. I don’t know how you could stand it. It can’t have done your health any good … Anyway, before Mother handed over your basin, you scooped me up in your arms and hugged me. Reuben Danks was with you and you showed me off to him and made me say hello and I was all shy.’

‘I remember. And Reuben said, “Titus, yo’ll have to watch her when her’s a young madam – her’ll be a bobbydazzler and no two ways.” And he was right.’

Daisy laughed contentedly.

She also remembered the smell that clung to her father that far-off day, though she did not mention it. It was the sharp aroma of iron and oil and smoke and sweat, all mixed together in some malodorous blend. Yet it was beyond her to actually dislike it, simply because it was his smell, the smell he always carried with him when he came home.

She licked the blood-red blackberry juice that was dribbling between her fingers. ‘Something else I remember …’ She looked at him with all her love in her eyes. ‘You giving me donkey rides on your back as well. You used to run about the backyard like a frightened pig escaping from the slaughterman, while I screamed and Mother begged you to be careful lest I fell off and broke my neck.’ She chuckled at the memory.

They were not well off, but neither were they poor. Titus Drake earned regular money, sufficient to live on, and he turned it up; he drank only moderately outside of work. They always ate good, nourishing food that Mary Drake cooked in the oven of the black-leaded grate that she cleaned conscientiously until it looked like polished melanite. No neighbour could ever tittle-tattle that Mary wasn’t clean. Bacon and pork was plentiful, for they kept pigs in those days. Sometimes they’d be given a rabbit or wring the neck of one of the plump chickens that strutted round the yard. They also ate the other things that Black Country families ate; chitterlings, liver faggots with grey peas, lambs’ brains with egg, pigs’ trotters and grawty pudding. They never went short.

Even at the age of five, it struck Daisy that her mother, unlike other women she knew, was not having any babies. Naturally enough, she was not familiar with the arcane secrets of conception, so it never occurred to her that her father might also have something to do with it. Babies, she had the distinct notion, came from a woman’s belly or bottom somehow, but none were coming from her mother’s. Friends who were the same age as Daisy all had at least one brother or sister to play with, and often more. Some even had nine or ten. Why did she not have a brother or sister? Just one would do. It wasn’t fair. Then, one day in October 1874, when Daisy was eight years old, Mary Drake announced that she was going upstairs to have a baby. A few hours later Sarah was born, all red-faced and puckered. Daisy was bitterly disappointed at the sight of her. She had expected to see a pretty baby that would gurgle at her, hale and hearty with plump rosy cheeks and wide blue eyes that would smile appealingly. All she beheld was this ugly, hairless little bundle of wrinkled flesh that struggled to make any sound at all – even when she cried – and slept the rest of the time. Sarah was a disappointment at first, but Daisy loved her all the same.

Nevertheless, that ugly little bundle showed early signs of growing into a beautiful princess. When she was five and Daisy was thirteen, Sarah had the most engaging blue eyes, the prettiest little nose and delicious rosebud lips. Daisy loved to press her cheek against Sarah’s and feel the incredibly warm infant smoothness against her own face. It was obvious even then, that given time, all the lads would be chasing her. Already, boys of seven and eight would call for her to come out to play.

Not only Titus, but Mary too, was a great influence on Daisy as a young girl. Mary was small in stature, slender, and had a natural grace that folk reckoned Daisy had inherited. Although she was from a poor family, she kept a good house and ensured that everything her daughters did was done properly; a discipline Mary had learnt from her days as a servant in a big house in Pensnett. Early on in her daughters’ lives, Mary had the foresight to take out a small insurance policy for each in turn, in readiness for the day when they too would enter domestic service and have to pay for their uniforms. She insisted that they go to church every Sunday morning and evening. Because they dwelt opposite the glassworks in Campbell Street, in the parish of St Thomas, they attended Top Church, as it was known. Standing majestically at the top of the town, Top Church was the tallest building for miles with its tapering steeple pointing high into the sky. You could see it piercing the skyline like a saddler’s needle from a long way off. It was a great landmark, almost as great as the Norman castle that dominated the other end of the town.

Another good influence on Daisy was Miss Payne, her schoolmistress at St Thomas’s School. Alice Payne taught her common sense and how to do complicated sums. She taught her to read and write, to appreciate the more cultured aspects of life, and vigorously discouraged her from speaking with a broad Black Country accent, correcting her at every slip. Miss Payne’s influence stayed with Daisy.

Daisy’s best friend in those days was Emily Tucker who went to work in service at the house of Mr Charles Ralph Spencer, a highly respected solicitor. He regularly attended Top Church.

‘Guess what,’ Emily whispered to Daisy at a moment when the point of Reverend Cosens’s sermon was particularly elusive. ‘There’s a position to be had at Mr Spencer’s. They’m after a maid. Why don’t you apply?’

‘Me?’

‘Tha’s what you wanna do, in’t it? Work in service?’

Daisy shrugged. ‘Yes.’

‘So ask about it. Mr Spencer’s in church. Ask him about it after.’

Emily was older than Daisy and far more sensible, Daisy thought. After fretting all through Matins and taking furtive peeps at the lordly Mr Spencer, to try and judge just how approachable he was, Daisy finally managed to pluck up the courage to address him after the service as he and his wife were leaving.

‘Excuse me, Mr Spencer,’ she said apologetically, running beside them down the stone steps that spilled onto High Street. ‘My friend Emily Tucker says you have a vacancy for a maid. I … I wondered if you would consider me?’

Mr Spencer’s initial expression was one of disbelief that any girl as young and insignificant as Daisy could have the brazen audacity to confront him on God’s day of rest. But he got over his shock and smiled at her patiently and rather politely, considering her lowliness.

‘Your name, Miss?’

‘Daisy Drake, sir.’

‘One of our regular congregation,’ Mrs Spencer, who was holding his arm, informed him pleasantly.

‘Of course, I know your face,’ he said with an agreeable smile. ‘Well … How old are you, Miss Drake?’

‘Thirteen, sir,’ Daisy answered, blushing as she realised just how forward she must have seemed. ‘Thirteen in May.’

‘Do you know where I live?’

‘Yes, sir. On Wellington Road, sir. I know just where it is.’

‘Come and see my wife at half past four tomorrow afternoon … and don’t forget to bring your character.’

As he and Mrs Spencer left, Daisy looked at Emily with open-mouthed disbelief and chuckled at her own audacity.

‘There you am,’ Emily said. ‘Easy. Yo’ll get that job and no mistek.’

‘But who’ll give me a character?’

‘Ask the vicar.’

It was July 1879 and since Daisy was just about to leave school, the timing could not have been better, for she was given the job, as Emily had predicted. Although she was thrilled, she was naturally sorry to leave her mother and father and little Sarah in that modest terraced house of theirs. Her mother was so proud, however. She cashed in her older daughter’s insurance policy, bought her uniform and off Daisy went to work. For many a young girl, leaving home to live and work in a strange house was a lonely and depressing experience. Daisy was lucky; she knew Emily. Otherwise, for a time, she might have been lonely even though Mr Spencer was very kind to his staff. She had Sunday afternoons off, when she would visit her family, one night off every week besides, and she was promised two weeks’ holiday a year. In addition, she was to be paid an annual salary of £10, most of which she hoped to give to her mother.

Daisy and Emily joined the St Thomas’s Girls’ Friendly Society which they attended on their night off. It provided social and religious activities and sewing. They bought material at half the price it was offered in the town shops and a lady came in and taught them how to cut it and sew it, so they could make dresses and other garments. There were Bible readings from Reverend Cosens, beetle drives, and Daisy made friends with some lovely girls, though not all were in service. She felt a great affinity to that sisterhood of young women who taught her so much, not just about sewing either, but about life.

She settled well into working at the Spencer household and enjoyed it. Once, she was taken ill with flu and Mr Spencer paid the doctor to come and see her, then allowed her home for a week afterwards to convalesce. Yet, despite his kindness and commendable charitableness, he docked her a week’s money.

In the summer of 1882 when she was sixteen, Daisy realised that the baker’s boy was taking an interest in her. Charlie Bills was a good-looking lad with a cheeky grin and she’d secretly been admiring him for some time. One day, when he was delivering, he asked to see her on her night off.

‘But I go with Emily to the Girls’ Friendly Society at Top Church on my night off,’ she told him disappointedly.

‘I could meet yer after and walk yer back.’

Her heart started hammering hard at the prospect. ‘All right,’ she agreed with a smile, and the tryst was arranged.

When that eagerly anticipated time came she bid Emily goodnight and Charlie whisked her away.

‘Want to see a wasp’s nest?’ he asked boyishly.

‘Not particularly.’ Daisy was not impressed. The thought of being attacked by a million of the humming little devils terrified her.

Yet despite a poor start, Charlie Bills became her first sweetheart. He harboured some exalted plans: he was going to start his own bakery and marry her. They would live in a fine house on Ednam Road, have several children and a top floor full of servants. He was a dreamer and Daisy took all this in like the immature young girl that she was. Charlie never once considered the difficulties, the sacrifices. To start a bakery business he first needed money. Then he would have to work all the hours that God sent, getting up at two or three in the morning to bake bread ready for his first customers who wanted it before their husbands scurried off to work. Once Daisy realised this, she decided she didn’t fancy the life of a baker’s wife.

When you are sixteen and in love, your emotions boil over. They run away with you. Thus it was with Daisy. She was besotted, early on at least. Sometimes, when Charlie called to deliver the bread, she would contrive to be in the laundry and he would come and furtively seek her out. He would take her in his arms, press her against the mangle or the stone sink, and she would feel all swoony with pleasure when he kissed her. She could always smell fresh-baked bread on him, a smell she adored. Of course, she never allowed him to go any further than kissing … except for the few occasions after they got to know each other better, when she allowed him to feel her breasts, but only ever over her bodice, never underneath. After all, she went to church regularly, she was a regular member of the Girls’ Friendly Society and they were always warned about what happened to silly girls who allowed boys to take liberties; well, the workhouse was full of unfortunate examples. Yet, when she sat daydreaming, the thought of having her breasts fondled in the flesh, imagining what his lips might feel like nuzzling her nipples, was decidedly appealing. When Charlie kissed her on the lips she would feel her breathing coming harder and faster, and was surprised at her own physical reactions.

On summer evenings, on her nights off, they would sit among the limestone ruins of the old St James’s Priory. Once, while Charlie was idly poking the ground with a stick, they found some tiles embedded in the dirt and moss, laid originally by the monks that had built the place centuries ago. The tiles had strange, beautiful patterns on them and must have been five hundred years old or more but, at the time, that meant nothing to her. When she went back years later, those old tiles were still there. Then, she could see how beautiful they were, and could appreciate the time and skill that was required to make them and fire them in those long-gone days.

Charlie and Daisy courted for about two years. He was always talking about getting married but she knew, even then, that he would never measure up to her notions. When she was eighteen, he asked her seriously to become his wife and she said no – politely, of course. He became resentful at being rejected and told her one day, when he delivered the Spencers’ bread, that he had started seeing somebody else. Daisy was hurt and disappointed but not heartbroken. After that she didn’t bother with boys. Those she met all seemed too silly and only interested in one thing, which she, having been tutored by the Girls’ Friendly Society, was certainly not prepared to give.

It became manifestly obvious that boys were interested in her by this time. With good reason. She had a shock of dark hair that she wore elegantly pinned up at work and when she went out. When she let it down at bedtime, it cascaded down her back like a silky, shiny mane. She had a lovely round face, with high cheekbones. Her blue eyes were big and bright, slightly slanted, with long lashes that swept her cheek as she fluttered them playfully whenever she chose to flirt with those lads that showed an interest. She had inherited her mother’s slenderness and grace and was exquisitely constructed. Her skin was an appealing pale olive, smooth and utterly flawless. And, in the same way that a fat person knows when she is fat, or an ugly person knows when she is ugly, Daisy knew she was a thoroughly good-looking young woman with as good a figure as she’d ever seen. Furthermore, she always tried to make the best of herself in a proper, demure way.

Daisy progressed well in the Spencer household. She did every job that was given her, without resentment or complaint and always to the best of her ability. Fire grates had to be cleaned, including a six-foot range in the kitchen that had to be blackleaded. Fires had to be lit, candlesticks and lamp glasses cleaned. All the water-jugs, basins and chamber pots in the house had to be emptied, carefully washed and scalded if necessary. Windows had to be shone. Each week every bedroom had to be cleaned from top to bottom, so there were mattresses to be turned and brushed, pillows shaken and smoothed and, naturally, no dust was allowed to remain under any of the beds. Curtains had to be shaken, brass curtain rods burnished bright, paintwork washed, looking glasses polished and floors buffed. She had to keep a sharp look out for insects and bed bugs, which could enter the house on visitors who had travelled by train or hackney carriage. All hell would be let loose at the discovery of a bed bug.

About a year after Charlie decided he was wasting his time with Daisy, her father fell ill. It started with gout in his right foot; all that beer, Mary said. Mary accidentally knocked his gouty foot once and he called her all the names under the sun. From that day on, he sat in his armchair with his foot in a wicker clothes basket for protection, with a soft cushion to afford some damping if ever it was knocked again. To top it all, he had an abscess up his backside as well. It did not stop him breaking wind, though. ‘Abscess makes the fart go yonder,’ he remarked on one such turbulent occasion – despite his acute discomfort, he retained his dry Black Country sense of humour. He had about three months off work and then, as he was about to return, his gout and his abscess having retreated, he began complaining about his chest. He was having difficulty breathing and was having night sweats.

Mary sent for Dr McCaskie and it was evident he was worried about poor Titus. He promised to keep an eye on him, said that he must rest and not go to work. Daisy was desperate to help and handed over all her wages to her mother, arguing that she needed very little herself since she ate heartily and slept at the home of Mr Spencer. Already she had saved up and bought another uniform, and had made a couple of decent frocks besides for going out in. She was earning £12 a year by this time, not a fortune and certainly not enough to keep her family.

Of course, the Spencers were not so well off that Mrs Spencer had a lady’s maid, so Daisy carried hot water upstairs so they could wash. She worked in the kitchen with the cook and got to know her routine. By the time she was twenty, she was the head maid and earning £15 a year.

Meanwhile, Titus got no better and had to give up work entirely. He was beginning to lose weight, which he could ill afford to do. Mary applied for parish relief. It was always a struggle to find money for coal, for rent and for food. Daisy tried to borrow money to pay the doctor to treat her father, but realised she had no chance of paying it back, so gave up the idea.

Sarah, by this time had, left school and found work in service. Unfortunately, the family she worked for were not kind to her and she hated her job. Yet she stuck it out, concerned only that she give money to her mother to help keep them.

They all struggled through for a couple of years. Dr McCaskie was sent for again and he warned that Titus might be consumptive. Then, Daisy had a spot of good fortune. Again, through somebody she had got to know at church, she was asked if she would be interested in the position of housekeeper at a place called Baxter House on the rural north-western side of Dudley. The house was named after Richard Baxter, a long-departed headmaster at the grammar school, famed for having written the words to the hymn, ‘Ye Holy Angels Bright’. Baxter House was the home of Mr Jeremiah Cookson. Daisy had seen Mr Cookson before, as he was a business friend of Mr Spencer. She had also occasionally spoken to his wife in the course of her duties, as the couple were visitors to the Spencer household. Her wages were to be £60 a year, a goodly amount. Daisy found it impossible to resist when she realised how much easier it would be to help support her mother and father and pay for the doctor and medical treatment. Naturally, she was grateful to accept the position. She could scarcely believe that she was to become a fully-fledged housekeeper at only twenty-two years of age. When she went with trepidation and mounting guilt to see Mrs Spencer to terminate her employment, the lady of the house smiled benignly.

‘Oh, don’t worry, Daisy,’ she said. ‘Mr Cookson asked Mr Spencer a while ago for permission to approach you. He and his wife have had their eye on you for some time. They said how much they admire your demeanour and your application to your work.’

Daisy bobbed a curtsy. ‘Thank you, ma’am. I had no idea you’d talked about me.’

‘It’s a grand opportunity for you, Daisy, and you deserve it. Far be it from me to hold you back from finer things. I also understand the difficulties you face with your father unable to work any more. It must be a big worry for your poor mother. This new position means you’ll be of greater help to her too, I imagine.’

‘Oh, yes, ma’am. I already hand over all my wages to my mother. I only want for decent shoes and stockings and she gives me money back to buy those as and when.’

Mrs Spencer smiled sympathetically and touched Daisy’s arm. ‘We shall miss you, my dear. But we shall manage, I daresay. Come and see us whenever you have the time. You will always be welcome.’

Daisy tried hard to stem the tears that were welling up in her eyes but, rather than let them show, she swiftly thanked Mrs Spencer for her kindness and curtsied again before she turned and walked away. When she was out of sight she pulled her handkerchief from her sleeve and wiped the tears that, by now, were streaming down her face. She had been happy at the Spencers’ and they had been so kind. She vowed never to forget their kindness.

On 25th May 1888, a week after her twenty-second birthday, Daisy moved to Baxter House, a fine modern mansion built of red brick. The household was appropriately large too, with many more servants than there were at the Spencers’ more modest dwelling. Baxter House was set back from St James’s Road, close to where it joined Ednam Road, and overlooked green meadows and grazing cattle. No doubt Mr Cookson preferred it to overlooking the dirty, grey, slag-heaped outlook on the other side of the town. He was immensely rich and spent lavishly. It was said that he employed three hundred men at his iron foundry in Dudley, and had recently invested a great deal of money building a railway siding at the works.

Some of the maids at Baxter House were older than Daisy and at first she sensed some resentment that they should be told what to do and be given tasks by a girl so much younger. Yet she succeeded in earning their respect. She was never haughty to them, but gave them their jobs as if making a request and with an open smile to which they always responded positively. In so many big houses, girls were unhappy, often abused and sometimes even beaten. The staff of Baxter House were thankful they were well treated and appreciated. Nobody ever took it upon herself to rebel and make things uncomfortable for everybody else.

As soon as there was a vacancy for a maid Daisy recruited Sarah, her sister. She was fourteen by that time and a good, reliable worker, although not as bright as Daisy. Daisy even managed to secure her an increase on what she had been earning but Sarah would have come for less, glad to get away from that house in Holly Hall. Sarah settled in promisingly and Daisy was happy to have her under her wing. Most nights Sarah would go to Daisy’s little room on the top floor, where they would talk until the small hours, before returning to the room she shared with Hannah Bissell, a kitchen maid the same age as her.

‘Have you got a sweetheart?’ Sarah asked one night as she lay sprawled across Daisy’s legs.

Daisy was sitting up in bed attending to her fingernails. ‘You know I haven’t,’ she replied. ‘Have you?’

Sarah smiled bashfully and shook her head. ‘Have you ever had a sweetheart, Daisy?’

‘Once,’ she answered honestly. ‘For a while. His name was Charlie Bills. He was the baker’s boy when I worked at the Spencers’.’

‘Did you love him?’

‘I suppose I did. At first, at any rate. Leastwise, he made me feel all soppy.’

‘Did you let him kiss you?’

‘Yes, sometimes.’

‘Is it nice to be kissed by a boy?’

Daisy smiled patiently. ‘I think that might depend on the boy – and on how much you like him.’

‘Would you like a sweetheart again?’ Sarah enquired after listening carefully to Daisy’s answers.

‘If somebody came along who I fancied.’

‘Tell me the kind of man you fancy,’ Sarah said dreamily.

‘Oh, I have a vivid picture of my ideal husband in my mind’s eye,’ Daisy told her, and Sarah’s beautiful clear eyes flickered with interest. She sat up on the bed attentively, her back erect, her legs crossed under her cotton nightgown. ‘He’s very handsome with dark, wavy hair and kind, smiling eyes. He’s quite tall, with a straight back, not given to slouching … He’s clever, amusing, and good at making interesting conversation.’

‘Ooh, yes,’ Sarah enthused. ‘You don’t want some duffer who can’t keep up a decent chat, do you? And will he be rich, Daisy?’

‘Rich enough. Rich enough to afford our own servants.’

‘What about Mr Robert then?’

‘Mr Robert?’ she said with a shudder. ‘Are you serious? I can’t stand Mr Robert.’ Mr Robert was the middle son of Jeremiah Cookson of Baxter House. Unmarried, he still lived there. Daisy had already noticed the way Mr Robert looked at her. If he had designs on her, though, he could forget it.

‘He’s got a handsome friend,’ Sarah said, her long eyelashes veiling her eyes. ‘I wish I was a bit older.’

‘Oh? And what’s his name, this handsome friend of Mr Robert?’

Sarah sighed and picked a stray piece of cotton from her nightdress. ‘I dunno …’ There followed an introspective pause. ‘Anyway,’ she said eventually, ‘how are you going to meet somebody that rich, who’ll stoop to marry you?’

Daisy smiled as she realised that Sarah had already got the measure of the marriage market; she knew that wealthy middle-class sons would never demean themselves by marrying below their station, even if bedding housemaids and other girls of the lower classes was not out of bounds.

‘Oh, I shall.’ Daisy shrugged nonchalantly. ‘I just know I shall. I can put on airs and graces if I need to. I can easily copy the elegant women I see visiting Mr and Mrs Cookson.

‘You’ve set your sights high, our Daisy.’

‘Lord, you sound just like Mother,’ she said with mock disdain. ‘But if you’ve got any sense, you’ll set your sights high as well. Don’t be satisfied with some beer swilling navvy, or ne’er-do-well iron-worker like our father – not that I want to demean him,’ she hastily added. ‘But just look at our mother … You don’t want to end up like her, poor as a church mouse, not knowing where the next meal is coming from.’

‘I want to get married young and have lots of children, Daisy.’

The older sister stifled a scornful laugh. ‘You’ll have lots of children whether or no if you marry somebody who gets pie-eyed every night and makes you do disgusting things with him, whether you want to or not. Marry a man with something about him. Marry somebody who’ll respect you.’

‘Oh, I wouldn’t marry a nobody,’ Sarah said, catching on quicker than Daisy thought she would, for she was often slow on the uptake. ‘I’ll try to be like you. I’ll aim high. I’ll marry somebody with plenty of money, or not at all.’

‘Good,’ Daisy said. ‘Life will be so much easier, so much more comfortable.’

‘Mmm …’ Sarah mused. ‘It’s just finding somebody …’

‘Well, you’re a bit young yet to be thinking of marriage, our Sarah. There’s no rush.’

Chapter 2

On New Year’s Eve, in 1888, a party had been arranged at Baxter House and Daisy had done most of the organising, although Mrs Cookson herself had written and sent out all the invitations. It was to be a grand evening and the Cooksons’ immediate family, friends and business associates would be there; altogether, some fifty guests.

‘I think informal dining would suit us all better,’ Mrs Cookson said as she sat at the table in the breakfast room with a notepad in front of her. To her right was Daisy, to her left Martha Evans, the cook.

‘With so many people to cater for, ma’am, I agree,’ Daisy commented and looked at Cook for her confirmation.

‘I’ll prepare whatever I’m asked to,’ Martha said.

‘A buffet dinner that people can eat while they stand and talk. Any suggestions, Daisy?’

‘Well, a variety of meats in dainty sandwiches would be a start, ma’am.’

‘I could cook some ham, roast a joint of beef, a few chickens,’ Martha suggested. ‘Even some venison if we can get it. Then there’s smoked salmon, poultry and game birds. I could bake some little savoury pies and tarts as well, ma’am.’

Daisy nodded her head in agreement.

‘A good selection of cheeses as well, I think, Cook. The men enjoy their cheese after a meal. Oh, and I think a hot soup later, to see everybody homeward, would be a very satisfactory touch. Don’t you think so, Daisy?’

‘Yes, that would be very well appreciated, I believe, ma’am.’

Daisy had never seen so many varieties of cheeses when the grocer’s boy delivered them. For dessert Martha prepared syllabubs, fools, hot fruit tarts and pies, egg custards, creams and even ice cream. It was all to await the hungry revellers in the dining room, where lavishly dressed trestles had been laid out to accommodate it. Everything looked and smelled mouth-watering. The staff, of course, had their own cache of food in the kitchen, which they picked at when they had the opportunity. A trio of musicians had been hired to perform in the function room of the house, where a hearty coal fire burned in the opulent marble grate.

At eight o’clock the first carriage arrived and emptied out Alderman Jukes and his wife, who was appropriately bedecked in all manner of jewellery. The town’s Clerk of Works, Thomas Bakewell, and his wife followed them shortly after. Then a middle-aged couple entered; the wealthy and highly respected socialites, Mr and Mrs Alexander Gibson. He, once seen, was not to be forgotten; immaculately dressed, he had a superior bearing, like a duke. Thereafter, a veritable procession of carriages and hansom cabs halted in turn on the drive that ringed the front garden, disgorged their passengers and moved on.

Daisy hovered discreetly in the hall, trying to blend with the fashionable William Morris wallpaper, overseeing the servants who politely divested the guests of their hats, gloves, topcoats and scarves, while others handed them welcoming drinks. She had assigned Sarah to work in the kitchen and help serve the food later.

The house was filling up, and she could hear the chink of glasses, the reassuring sound of laughter. She could smell the rich aroma of cigars as smoke pervaded the air from the function room. The early signs portended a hugely successful evening and Daisy began to relax a little … until a well-dressed man was let in. He was about thirty she guessed, tall with a well-groomed head of dark hair and handsome beyond belief, with eyes that exuded the coolness and clarity of sapphires. As soon as she saw him she could not take her eyes off him. It was love at first sight.

He matched absolutely the image she had fondly carried in her head all those years of the man she believed she was destined to marry. He had to be the one. There were merely three obstacles to a union between them that she could perceive: his obvious wealth, her position as a servant and, not least, the fascinating young woman who accompanied him.

Of course, he did not so much as look in Daisy’s direction. However, she studied him and the girl, watching with extreme curiosity to see whether she wore a ring of any sort as she removed her gloves. She did, but it was neither a wedding ring nor an engagement ring. Naïvely, Daisy was encouraged. She scrutinised the girl carefully for clues as to her background. People intrigued her and always had; she observed them habitually, noticed their behaviour, their facial expressions, their reactions when spoken to, their body movements. One didn’t always have to hear a conversation to know what somebody was saying when the rhetoric of their movements and mannerisms told so much. The first thing that struck Daisy about the girl was her looks. She was not beautiful in the classical sense – she lacked the finesse, the innate elegance of a well-bred lady – but she had a pretty face, enhanced by a smooth, cared-for complexion and sleek, fair hair. Daisy could not help but notice her bare shoulders either, or the way her creamy breasts nudged at her décolletage with a youthfully firm resilience that defied both gravity and the constraints of corseting.

‘Lawson!’ It was the voice of Robert Cookson, Jeremiah’s son. ‘You made it. For God’s sake, grab a drink, man … Hetty, would you see that Mr Maddox’s hat and coat are looked after … and those of Miss, er …?’

‘Lampitt,’ Lawson Maddox informed him by way of introduction. ‘Miss Fanny Lampitt.’

As Hetty the maid took the girl’s hat and coat, Robert took her hand and put it gently to his lips, parodying the gallantry of a bygone age. ‘Miss Lampitt,’ he said admiringly. ‘Any friend of Lawson’s is a friend of mine. Especially one so beautiful. May I call you Fanny?’

Daisy continued to watch unobserved in the shadow of the broad, sweeping staircase as the girl, evidently overawed, either by Robert’s gushing manner or the opulence that surrounded her, fluttered her eyelashes, and looked up into Lawson’s twinkling eyes for reassurance and encouragement. And there Daisy gained another clue about her. This girl, this Fanny, was unsure of herself. She seemed out of her depth with those affluent people and in such unfamiliar, sumptuous surroundings.

‘Oh, please call me Frances,’ the girl replied, an entreaty in her voice.

Frances? Fanny? Of course. Daisy smiled to herself. No wonder this girl would rather they didn’t call her Fanny. Fanny was reserved for a woman of a different calibre. To Daisy, it seemed this girl was endeavouring to give the impression she was something she was not. To her credit, her outfit would never have given her away. She wore a good blue satin dress that matched her eyes, with a tight bodice and puffed sleeves; the height of fashion.

‘I think … In fact, I’m sure I prefer Fanny, if you don’t object,’ Robert said with a wink to Lawson. ‘It has a certain ring to it.’

‘All right. Fanny, then,’ Fanny answered with an acquiescent smile. ‘If you’d rather.’

‘That’s settled then … Amy, would you pass Miss Lampitt a drink? What would you like, Fanny?’

‘Oh, a glass of port, please.’

Amy, another servant, who was looking after the welcoming drinks, handed Fanny a glass of port, then a glass of whisky to Lawson. They moved on, into the main room, chatting amiably.

Daisy sighed, envious of the girl despite her name. She had done well for herself to attract the attention of somebody like this Lawson Maddox. And yet she felt sorry for Fanny as well. Fanny was on tenterhooks lest she make some awful social gaffe that would reveal her true status. She was brave and yet, the way she looked at Lawson so adoringly, it was obvious she would walk barefoot through burning coals for him.

When the last of the guests had arrived and had been welcomed Daisy went to the kitchen to check how things were progressing there. Martha the cook assured her that everything was under control. So she went upstairs to her room simply to check herself in the mirror. Oh, it was for him. Certainly, it was for him. A wisp of stray hair tickled her neck and she tucked it back into place. She pinched her cheeks and bit her lips to redden them and inspected the overall effect. She was not displeased with what she saw. She had been given permission to wear an unpretentious dress that suited the evening and she had bought it specially. It was midnight blue, very plain, made up of separate bodice and skirt, with a modest décolletage. Mrs Cookson had also permitted her to wear a little plain jewellery, so she wore a thin silver cross and chain and matching earrings that had been given to her by Charlie Bills once as a Christmas box. With her hair piled up she looked appealing and yet demure. Her demeanour was entirely different to Fanny’s. Although they came from similar backgrounds, Daisy knew she did not betray her true beginnings when out of uniform; and wearing that tasteful though inexpensive dress, nobody who was not already aware she was the Cooksons’ housekeeper would be any the wiser. It occurred to her then to try a little experiment and put her theory to the test.

So she walked slowly, confidently downstairs, practising her poise as she went. The party was getting noisier and the musicians were struggling to be heard over the buzz of conversation and laughter. Skeins of blue smoke were drifting through the hall and being drawn up the staircase by the lure of an open window at the top. She made her way to the main room and entered unnoticed. For a while she stood and watched with interest the couples dancing a military two-step. She must have been there for about ten minutes, excusing herself with a smile if she found she was inadvertently standing in the way of couples trying to get past her … when Mr Robert Cookson sidled up.

‘Daisy! My word, you look ravishing. Won’t you have the next dance with me?’

It would have been impolitic in the extreme to have refused so, when the trio embarked on the next dance, a polka, she joined him and whirled around him nimbly.

‘You dance very well,’ he said when they met face to face for a few seconds.

‘Thank you,’ she replied with a broad smile at the next conjunction. ‘It’s what servants do sometimes in their spare time.’

‘Dancing is not the activity I heard they do,’ he said, with a provocative flick of his eyebrows and a smug grin as he twirled around.

Her skirts rustled as he brushed uncomfortably close to her at their next turn.

‘How so, Mr Robert?’ she said, retaining her smile. ‘If you mean what I think you mean, I am not aware of any unsavoury goings on at Baxter House.’

‘Fiddlesticks, Daisy! It goes on everywhere.’

‘In some houses, maybe … But not here, I can promise you. In any case, it’s a delicate subject to discuss whirling round on the dance floor.’

‘Quite the lady, aren’t you?’ he commented, and she could not make up her mind whether he was being sarcastic or complimentary. ‘How old are you now, Daisy?’

‘I was always led to believe it impolite to ask a woman her age,’ she answered, avoiding his eyes.

‘That depends on the eminence of the woman,’ he said cuttingly, putting her roundly in her place. ‘So what is your age? Twenty-one? Twenty-two?’

‘About that,’ she replied, humiliated and yet determined not to give him the satisfaction of a direct answer.

‘And not married yet. Nor even courting, I am led to believe.’

Daisy could scarcely believe his outrageous directness. As they tripped across the dance floor she looked directly into his eyes. ‘Mr Robert, I can assure you that no man I have ever met has made me yearn to be married to him, either for love, money, or convenience.’

‘My dear Daisy,’ he guffawed, overlooking or failing to note the rebuff.

Thankfully, at that moment, the dance ended. At once Daisy made a move to leave him and he unhanded her. She stood for some minutes, her head down, dejected at Robert’s disparaging attitude.

When she looked up she saw that people were once more dancing, though she had not noticed the trio strike up again, nor the sound of skidding feet marking the polished wooden floor as couples swivelled graciously around each other. So many straight backs and elegantly inclined heads. This throng, apart from the uncaring Mr Robert, was the cream of Black Country society. She scanned the sea of faces as they danced, and she spotted him on the floor again. His back was towards her and his partner was Fanny. Was he trying to make a cuckold of his friend?

‘Pardon me for saying so, but any man who would leave you standing on your own at the edge of a dance floor clearly doesn’t deserve you,’ a man’s voice whispered very close to Daisy’s ear. ‘Especially since you’re standing directly beneath a sprig of mistletoe.’

She turned her head to see who had spoken. At the sight of Lawson Maddox and his twinkling eyes she gave a blushing smile, and looked up at the mistletoe optimistically.

‘May I introduce myself?’

‘No, please,’ she replied with breathless ambiguity at being taken by such a pleasant surprise.

‘Lawson Maddox. I hope you’ll pardon me but I’ve been watching you and, apart from the polka you danced with my friend Mr Robert Cookson, you’ve been standing alone. I assumed therefore that you are unescorted. Don’t you know anybody here?’

‘Oh, yes, yes,’ she said recklessly. ‘I am with others.’

‘Are you a relative of Mr or Mrs Cookson?’

‘No … But I am connected,’ she added obscurely. Obviously, he did not know she was merely a servant. And why should she confess it?

‘Connected by trade, then? Through your parents, perhaps?’

She gave an indefinite half nod. She had no wish to lie and, she thought, the best way out of answering directly, which would certainly turn her into a liar, was to turn the conversation.

‘Isn’t that your lady friend dancing with Robert now?’ she remarked.

‘How do you know she’s my lady friend?’

‘Because I saw you enter with her earlier.’

‘Ah. May I dare to hope that you have already been watching me then?’

She smiled enigmatically, to preserve her self-respect, for she could not allow him to think such a thing. ‘I’ve been admiring her dress.’

‘Oh.’ He returned a dazzling beam that made her insides churn. ‘Why is life always so full of disappointments?’

‘Is it?’ she queried. ‘I would have thought life was full of delights. Especially for a man like you.’

‘I don’t know your name.’

‘Daisy Drake.’

‘Daisy?’

She nodded, and her pleasure at his attention showed in her big blue eyes.

‘Now there’s a name to conjure with. The daisy is a beautiful white flower. But not half as beautiful as you … As if you didn’t know already.’

Her smile stretched from one ear to the other, showing off her even teeth to good advantage. ‘I’m sure it’s not true, Mr Maddox, but it’s good of you to say so.’

‘Oh, call me Lawson. And it is true. You know it is. You and your lovely name are a fine match. You’re easily the loveliest young woman here tonight.’

‘Oh, how can you say that?’ she answered modestly. ‘Your lady friend is very pretty. Far prettier than me.’ She was fishing, of course, not just for a further compliment, but for information about his relationship with that girl.

‘Fanny,’ he acknowledged. ‘She’s not really my young lady, as you call her, in the sense that we are a couple. We’re not romantically linked.’

‘But she seems to think the world of you. I’ve seen how she looks at you.’

‘Fanny?’ he said incredulously and laughed. ‘You’re mistaken.’

Well, Daisy was not about to argue with him, even though she believed he was plainly wrong. Maybe he was just too blind to see it.

‘Listen,’ he said. ‘The band is playing another waltz. Would you allow me the honour?’

She smiled acquiescently and he led her to the floor. He put his hand to her waist and again she felt that surge of blood through her veins that made her temples throb and tied her stomach in knots. Off they went. He was an adept dancer and led her expertly. As they swirled around together he nodded, grinning, to Robert and Fanny as they swished past.

What was it about him that induced this physical reaction in her? She wanted to curl up in his arms and be pampered by his caresses. She wanted to feel his arms around her all night – every night. She surreptitiously sniffed at him to familiarise herself with the scent of him, something she could remember when he was gone, for she had no doubt at all that she would never see him again after that night.

‘Are you local?’ he asked as they glided around the floor.

‘Oh, yes, can’t you tell?’ She was in no hurry to pursue the question. ‘Are you?’

‘Dudley born and bred. I live in a cardboard box under one of the market stalls.’

Daisy laughed out loud. ‘Just as long as it’s warm and comfortable.’

‘Oh, all modern conveniences. A tarpaulin to throw over it to keep out the rain and snow, a candle to warm myself by. What more could a man want?’

‘Do you live with your family?’ she asked seriously.

‘In that box?’ He kept a straight face while she laughed again. ‘As a matter of fact, I’ve got no family, save for a distant aunt. No, I live by myself. All alone.’

‘Oh, I’m sorry.’ At once she felt guilty at laughing at what he’d said. ‘I had no idea. What happened to them?’

‘It’s a long story,’ he said evasively. ‘Maybe I’ll tell you when I know you better.’

The dance ended. Two of the trio put down their instruments and began supping their beer, while the other left the pianoforte. Daisy looked at the clock on the wall. It said ten o’clock. The food was due to be served.

‘Will you excuse me?’ she said apologetically. She hated parting with this man, but duty called.

‘If I must. If you’ll promise me a dance later.’

‘Oh, yes, I’d love to.’

‘So why don’t you accompany me in to eat, Daisy?’

‘Oh, er … do you mind if I don’t?… I’ll see you later.’

He nodded, looking disappointed. While he waited for Fanny and Robert to leave the dance floor and rejoin him, Daisy made her way at once to the dining room. Sarah was there with Hetty and Amy, standing behind the trestles, starting to serve the sandwiches, the pickles and the hot pies.

‘Is everything all right?’ Daisy asked discreetly.

‘Fine,’ Sarah said and pressed on with her work conscientiously.

‘Good. I’ll go to the kitchen and see if Martha needs any help.’

It was the excuse she needed to make herself scarce because she did not want Lawson to see her supervising the maids. It would be obvious that she was employed at Baxter House and thus ruin any chance at all she might have with him. So far, her experiment to pass herself off as a lady had brought a very satisfactory result. In the kitchen Martha had brewed a pot of tea although she had already been supping sherry with Gerald the groom-cum-handyman. Gerald called himself a coachman but Daisy knew he wasn’t paid a coachman’s wages, even though he drove Mr Cookson to and from the iron foundry in his brougham. She poured them each a cup and, while they chatted, began putting the puddings on trays, ready to be taken to the dining room.

After a further quarter of an hour Daisy gave the instruction to take the puddings to the dining room and stayed chatting with Martha and Gerald. He had to remain on duty to convey certain important guests home afterwards. When Daisy returned to the party, Mrs Cookson was the first person she saw.

‘Oh, Daisy, it’s all going so well, my dear,’ she said excitedly. ‘Everybody seems to be enjoying themselves so much.’

Daisy smiled graciously, perceiving it as a compliment. ‘Thank you, ma’am. I agree, your efforts don’t appear to have been in vain.’

‘Is everything under control?’

‘Oh, yes, ma’am. Everything’s running like clockwork.’

Mrs Cookson looked Daisy up and down approvingly. ‘Then relax a little and enjoy the party.’

‘Thank you, ma’am.’

She was not sure quite how far Mrs Cookson meant she could go, for the woman was aware Daisy had no escort and no other member of staff was allowed access to roam. Parties that involved staff tended to take place below stairs. But, a nod’s as good as a wink, she thought, and meandered through the guests as if she was one of them.

Lawson saw her enter and intercepted her. ‘Daisy …’ She smiled warmly at him as he spoke her name. ‘Won’t you join me with Robert and Fanny?’

‘Oh.’ She was taken aback at the suggestion. Mr Robert was sure to blow her cover, especially since he had already scorned her. And Miss Fanny Lampitt was hardly likely to welcome her as a sister-in-arms when she’d been dancing closely with the man she so obviously adored, despite Lawson’s denial. ‘Do you mind if I don’t?’ Daisy asked. ‘I would rather not be in the company of Robert.’

He glanced over his shoulder at his two companions, and shrugged. ‘All right by me. I reckon they can keep each other entertained, don’t you? Shall we dance together a while?’

She smiled, lowering her lids. ‘If you think they won’t mind you abandoning them.’

His eyes sparkled with the reflection of the gas lights that shone so brightly. ‘I would ask you to accompany me outside to take a walk, but I suspect the weather would incline you to decline that offer as well.’

She would have gone out into the cold night gladly, just to be alone with him, but the prospect of fetching her hat and coat from her room and sneaking out of the house without permission presented too many potential pitfalls.

‘So let’s dance,’ she said, tilting her head girlishly, and allowed herself to be led onto the floor again.

She was in his arms once more. They were laughing and he made her feel as if she were the most important, most desirable girl in the world. She forgot about Fanny, she forgot about Mr Robert; whether he and Fanny were dancing together she did not know and cared even less. She was entirely focused on Lawson. He was so amusing and direct. She hung on his every word, laughed at his every quip, and began to feel possessive, even so soon after they had met.

‘I’d love to see you alone sometime,’ he said and, all of a sudden, her legs felt wobbly and she feared she would lose control of them. ‘Is there any chance of that?’

Was there any chance! ‘That would be lovely.’ She rapidly considered the options. ‘I would be free next Sunday afternoon.’

‘But Daisy! Must I wait so long?’ He looked sullen with disappointment. ‘I don’t know if I can stand it.’

‘I’m not free before then.’

‘How elusive you are! Are you in such demand? Ah, well. They say good things are worth waiting for. I’ll collect you Sunday then, in my cabriolet. You must give me your address.’

She smiled agreeably. ‘So how long have you known Fanny?’ Daisy was perceiving her more as a great rival with every minute that passed.

‘A year, maybe longer.’

‘How did you meet?’

‘We were introduced.’

‘But she can’t be any more than nineteen,’ Daisy suggested.

‘Eighteen, if you want to be precise.’

‘So she was seventeen when you met her?’

‘Yes, I suppose she might have been. Possibly even sixteen. I forget.’

‘Where did you meet her?’

‘At a Band of Hope temperance meeting.’

She looked at him with disbelief. ‘Honestly?’ She saw humour dancing in his eyes. ‘You’re mocking me. I’ve seen you drinking … and her.’

‘Well, I’ve already told you we’re not romantically linked, but you persist in asking questions as if we are.’

‘You might not be romantically linked,’ Daisy replied, aware that her jealousy was surfacing, ‘but she is.’

‘So you said before. Well, if she’s got such preoccupations, that’s her concern.’

She was happy to hear it. It confirmed that Fanny had no prior claim on him.

All too soon their dancing was interrupted. The New Year was about to be greeted and everybody was expected to link hands and sing ‘Auld Lang Syne’. They lost each other in the mêlée while everybody was hugging the person closest to them, shaking hands and giving their sincere best wishes for a happy and prosperous 1889. Daisy decided she must go and check on the soup that would already be heating up in the kitchen to be served later … until she realised in a blind panic that she had not finalised the arrangement to meet Lawson. She spotted him, shoved through the noisy crowd of revellers and tapped him on the shoulder.

‘I’m sorry, I have to go.’

‘You’re leaving already?’

‘I have to. Do you still want to meet me on Sunday?’ Maybe she was being forward, but she was desperate not to let him go now she had found him.

‘I’ll call for you. Just tell me your address.’

‘It would be better if I met you somewhere … You know …’ She wanted him to think it might be embarrassing with her family, or even frowned on to be seen going out without a chaperone. ‘Can we meet outside the police station?’

‘All right. Shall we say three o’clock?’

‘Three o’clock, Sunday.’ She turned and made her way to the kitchen, extraordinarily pleased with herself.

By the time they had cleared up after the party it was nearly four o’clock in the morning, but it had been a huge success for the Cooksons and a personal triumph for Daisy. She had met the man of her dreams and was euphoric. She couldn’t sleep, of course she couldn’t. She lay awake for what remained of that cold night thinking about him, going over and over in her mind every word they had spoken to each other. After she’d bid him goodnight she made it her business not to be seen again, staying in the kitchen till everybody had gone. It peeved her beyond endurance to know that Lawson must, out of etiquette, deliver Fanny back home and she imagined with resentment those big, soft pleading eyes, begging for a goodnight kiss. She tossed and turned imagining them kissing, imagining her trying to lead him on. How was a girl of eighteen allowed out, alone with him, without a chaperone?

Then she remembered her assessment of Fanny. Fanny was evidently not from polite society. Fanny was a working-class girl. It was even possible that her mother and father neither knew nor cared where she was, or with whom. But if so, what was somebody so obviously well bred and well educated as Lawson Maddox doing with her? She had to be a cousin or a niece whom he considered worthy enough to reward with such an evening out. Perhaps he had even invited her just to introduce her to Mr Robert. After all, they danced together quite a lot, and certainly seemed to laugh a lot. Daisy felt happier with this perfectly rational explanation.

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