Daisy’s Betrayal

Daisy’s Betrayal Nancy Carson Rescued from destitution and poverty…but at what price?When charming Lawson Maddox asks Daisy Drake to become his wife she jumps at the chance to better herself. But with the honeymoon over he shows his true colours, and Daisy’s life descends into loveless chaos.The appearance of John Mallory Gibson, a sensitive and idealistic painter, offers Daisy the prospect of real happiness, which she finds hard to refuse.But Lawson will not let go of her, and he embarks on an unscrupulous quest for revenge that threatens to shatter Daisy and her entire family . . . NANCY CARSON Daisy’s Betrayal Copyright (#u9b12c5ec-05e5-5e37-93a1-a6f7ad75b7a1) Published by Avon An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://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. 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Source ISBN: 9780008166908 Ebook Edition © May 2016 ISBN: 9780008134853 Version: 2017-11-13 Table of Contents Cover (#ua153a64c-389a-559c-8c85-d2ed1bd8ebf9) Title Page (#u4e3fb9ef-c1d7-5efc-98c6-b80407240968) Copyright (#ubc2166e7-4258-5872-8430-dccada2452f9) Chapter 1 (#ud4a6797a-303b-5046-9652-5c8c27e38d12) Chapter 2 (#ue725ca1c-30a1-544f-80a2-aa3ef55f03ab) Chapter 3 (#ue60446cc-7526-5978-a28d-42cd55063c83) Chapter 4 (#u9061631d-6d21-5ce2-8850-e974401fc4aa) Chapter 5 (#u55d21fe3-ce40-5056-a617-3af5fc4c0a80) Chapter 6 (#u4e4f5b5c-4bc0-555d-9768-7f6f05ec24a8) Chapter 7 (#uf8c36059-1e1f-5531-9422-076e88fe2ba0) Chapter 8 (#ub1aac7f8-820b-5418-81ca-763d09b744de) Chapter 9 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 10 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 11 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 12 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 13 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 14 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 15 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 16 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 17 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 18 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 19 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 20 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 21 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 22 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 23 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 24 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 25 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 26 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 27 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 28 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 29 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 30 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 31 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 32 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 33 (#litres_trial_promo) About the Author (#litres_trial_promo) Advert (#litres_trial_promo) By the Same Author (#litres_trial_promo) About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 1 (#u9b12c5ec-05e5-5e37-93a1-a6f7ad75b7a1) 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 (#u9b12c5ec-05e5-5e37-93a1-a6f7ad75b7a1) 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. Na?vely, 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 d?colletage 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 d?colletage. 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 m?l?e 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. Chapter 3 (#u9b12c5ec-05e5-5e37-93a1-a6f7ad75b7a1) New Year’s Day fell on a Tuesday in 1889. Following the party as it did, it promised to be busy. A few guests had stayed the night so there were more people than usual for breakfast. The beds they slept in had to be stripped and remade, chamber pots emptied and scalded, the rooms they occupied cleaned and dusted. But, after lunch, when the visitors left, things were expected to settle down. Lots of sandwiches and pies remained uneaten from the previous evening and Mrs Cookson asked Daisy to organise one of the girls to take the leftovers to the Dudley Union Workhouse in Burton Road. There would be many a poor soul there glad of the extra food. Daisy offered to go and requested an extra hour besides, so as to visit her mother and father. ‘As long as you’re back here by five I have no objection, Daisy,’ Mrs Cookson said kindly. ‘Do you think your sister might like to accompany you?’ ‘Oh, I’m sure she would, ma’am, if you could spare her.’ Daisy was forever surprised at how generous and thoughtful her employer could be. ‘I hope your father’s feeling better. No doubt it’ll perk him up to see his two daughters on New Year’s Day. Give them both my very best wishes and compliments of the season.’ ‘Oh, I will, ma’am, and thank you.’ So, at about half past two, she and Sarah set off. They huddled into their coats and pulled up their collars to protect themselves from the cold. Shaver’s End, on the way to the workhouse, was one of the highest ridges in Dudley and a cold east wind, howling in with unhindered keenness directly from the Urals of Russia, penetrated through their layers of clothing and chilled their skin. As they walked they talked about the party and discussed some of the guests. ‘Did you notice that friend of Mr Robert’s I told you about?’ Sarah asked, clutching her collar to her throat to keep out the cold, with a basket of food hanging in the crook of her arm. ‘Oh … er … Which one was that?’ Daisy hedged. ‘The tall, handsome one. You must’ve seen him. I told you about him. Remember?’ It suddenly dawned on Daisy that she meant Lawson Maddox. It had never occurred to her that Lawson might be the same friend of Mr Robert that Sarah had mentioned before. So she feigned ignorance. ‘I don’t recall.’ Daisy felt she could acknowledge nothing about Lawson, simply because Sarah seemed so taken with him. ‘Oh, you’d remember him all right. I served him his food. He’s a dream … He had a girl with him, though.’ ‘Well,’ Daisy said, trying to affect disinterest. ‘That’s hardly surprising if he’s so handsome.’ ‘A pretty girl, I thought, with lovely fair hair. But he wants to watch out because Mr Robert was all over her.’ Sarah shrugged and a smug grin spread across her face. ‘Still, I don’t mind if he pinches her off him. Then he’d be free to marry me.’ ‘You know gentlemen don’t marry servants,’ Daisy said impatiently and, as soon as she had said it, she realised that this sage remark applied equally to herself. Her unwitting wisdom depressed her. Of course gentlemen didn’t marry servants. Oh, they would bed maids at every opportunity, but marry them?… ‘Which basket have you got there, Sarah?’ ‘The one with the pies and sausage rolls in.’ ‘Right. We’ll swap some over. Mother and Father can have some of this stuff. They’re just as deserving as workhouse folk.’ When they were only a couple of hundred yards from the workhouse they stopped and, resting their baskets on a wall, sorted out the food so that they had a decent selection for their folks. ‘I’ll take this stuff in, our Sarah. You wait at the gate.’ Daisy asked to see somebody in authority. Unless she handed over the food to somebody trustworthy the poor folk in care might never see it. Eventually she let it go to a shy young man in a frock coat who was unsure of her at first, but who thanked her liberally when he realised she was not a gypsy trying to peddle something. She returned to Sarah. It was a long walk to their home and unbearable in the biting cold. They took it in turns to carry the basket of food that also contained some oranges Daisy had been able to sneak out. Sarah didn’t mention Lawson again but it was evident she had a young girl’s crush on him. How could Daisy have confessed to Sarah that he already had an interest in her and she in him, despite her private realisation that any liaison was doomed from the start? She hoped that Sarah’s infatuation would wane just as soon as the next handsome young man appeared. In truth, she hoped her own interest was an infatuation just as silly, and that she would get over it as quickly. At last they arrived and walked up the entry to the back door, their cheeks red, their noses cold and shiny, and their breath coming in steamy wisps. As they opened the door and walked in, their father was nodding in his armchair, his gouty foot in his washing basket. He roused when he heard them greet their mother. Daisy bent down and kissed him on the cheek. ‘Happy New Year, Father,’ she said. ‘How are you feeling?’ ‘Bloody lousy,’ he replied grumpily. ‘It’s your age,’ Mary remarked without sympathy. ‘Is it snowing yet? There’s snow in the air, I can bloody well feel it.’ Daisy placed the basket of food on the scrubbed table. ‘Not yet, Father. We’ve brought you some food left over from the party last night at Baxter House.’ She turned to her mother, tilting her head in his direction. ‘How is he really?’ ‘Miserable as sin.’ Mary was darning several pairs of socks and had a darning mushroom thrust inside one of them as if she was about to draw the innards from a rabbit. ‘I daren’t get near him for fear of kicking his washing basket. I’ve a good mind to kick him up in the air.’ ‘Pity yower damn nose ai’ throbbing like my blasted foot,’ Titus protested, feeling very sorry for himself. ‘Then yo’ wouldn’t keep pokin’ it where it ai’ wanted.’ Both girls chuckled at this bickering, which they knew was mostly pretence and nowhere near as venomous as it sounded. ‘Well tomorrer morning I don’t know what you’ll do wi’ yer precious foot, but I shall want me basket back for the washing.’ ‘But it’s Wednesday tomorrow,’ Daisy said. ‘I thought washing day was Monday.’ Mary chuckled. ‘Oh, ain’t I a blasted fool? It’s ’cause you’ve come. I was thinking it’s Sunday today.’ Titus, typically casual, lifted one cheek of his backside, grimaced and broke wind raucously. ‘There, catch that and darn it,’ he said scornfully. ‘Father!’ Sarah and Daisy complained in unison. Their mother picked up a cushion and fanned the tainted air back in his direction. ‘Dirty varmint.’ Sarah rolled her eyes and giggled. ‘Shall I put some coal on the fire for you, Mother?’ ‘If you’ve a mind, my wench. Mind how much you put on, though. There’s on’y another bucket or two left in the cellar.’ ‘But it’s bitter cold out,’ Daisy said. ‘You need to keep warm.’ ‘We’ll have to wrap up then. We’ll have to put an extra ganzy on apiece.’ As Sarah made up the fire Daisy felt in her pocket for her purse, opened it and sorted through the coins. ‘Here’s a shilling.’ She offered a sixpence and two silver threepenny bits to her mother. ‘It’s all I’ve got for now. Take the handcart to the coal yard in the morning and get half a hundredweight at least. Promise me you will.’ ‘I don’t need a shilling for half a hundredweight of coal.’ ‘Then buy some bread or cheese or something with the change.’ ‘The rent’s due Monday … But I’n got a bit put by in me jar to pay for that.’ ‘Are you short?’ Daisy asked. ‘We’ll manage.’ ‘Look, I shan’t be able to come on Sunday but I’ll give Sarah some money to bring you.’ ‘Oh? What you doing on Sunday then?’ Sarah asked. Daisy cast a guilty glance as Sarah passed by on her way outside to the brewhouse to wash her hands. ‘I’ve been asked to tea somewhere.’ ‘Oh, very nice,’ her mother said with pride in her tone. ‘So when shall we see yer?’ Titus started coughing before Daisy could answer. He hawked blood into a piece of newspaper, screwed it up and tossed it into the fire. She noticed it with horror. ‘Has the doctor been lately?’ ‘We got no money to pay for doctors, our Daisy,’ Mary replied flatly. ‘Not since you paid last time.’ ‘I’ll pay again,’ she said without hesitation. ‘Coughing up blood means his consumption’s no better and might even be worse. He needs medicine.’ ‘You’ve paid enough. Rest, fresh air, fresh fruit and vegetables is what he needs. That’s what the doctor said last time he come. It’s senseless paying to be told the same thing over again. It’s senseless to waste money.’ ‘But he needs to go into a sanatorium out in the country … to clean air.’ ‘I’m a-gooin’ into ne’er a sanatorium,’ Titus mumbled, opening his eyes then shutting them again. ‘I thought you was asleep,’ Mary said. It was time to turn the conversation, so Daisy passed on Mrs Cookson’s good wishes and told them about the party at Baxter House. Mary was enthralled, but Titus drifted back to sleep again. Sarah made a pot of tea and they drank it while Mary related her gossip. Darkness was falling and Daisy lifted the lamp off its hook. She gave it a shake to discern whether there was any oil in it, then lit it with a spill that she kindled in the fire. ‘Have you got any more lamp oil?’ ‘I think there’s a drop in the brewhouse, in a can.’ ‘I’ll see if I can bring you some more. Have you got any candles in case you run out?’ ‘Oh, hark at her,’ Mary complained. ‘Have you got this, have you got that. Course I got candles. I ain’t altogether helpless, you know.’ Daisy sighed. The last thing she wanted was to appear fussing like some nuisance busybody. ‘It’s just that I don’t want you to be without. I worry about you two. It’s cold out there and it won’t pick up for months yet.’ By the light of the lamp she could just see the hands of the clock on the mantelpiece; it was nearly half past four. ‘Lord, look at the time. It’s time we went, Mother. Sarah and I have to be back by five.’ Sunday seemed forever in coming. Every time Daisy thought about Lawson and their tryst her stomach churned. She worried about what she should wear, when her only choice to keep out the cold would be her best Sunday dress, her warm winter coat, her scarf and her hat. Whether she should confess from the outset that she was a servant at the home of his friend Robert Cookson also bothered her, but she decided she would confess no such thing – not yet, at any rate. She was intent on first being driven like a lady in his beautiful two-wheeled cabriolet he’d mentioned. She really wanted to play the part of a lady, wanted to be wooed and held in great esteem, if only for the short time she might be able to deceive him. On Sunday mornings Daisy always went to church, walking to St Thomas’s with those maids whose turn it was to go also, while the family travelled in their smart brougham. That Sunday it was damp, misty and cold but the snow her father predicted had not materialised. As they walked and talked their breath hung like steam in the still winter air. Daisy sat in the pew at the back of the church along with the other girls and Gerald the groom. She heard barely any of the service. Her eyes were fixed on the huge and colourful rendering on glass of the Ascension that was the east window, but her thoughts were focused solely on Lawson Maddox. Like an automaton she stood up for hymns, knelt for prayers and sat down for the lessons. She was still reliving the dances they’d enjoyed, the words they’d exchanged, cherishing every blessed moment, nurturing the beautiful memory, hopeful and yet apprehensive about their rendezvous, which was still nearly four hours away. They returned to Baxter House, served lunch and the family retired to the drawing room. Daisy’s eyes were riveted to the clock. She was feeling all jittery inside. At half past two she went to her room unnoticed, adjusted a curl, reset a couple of grips in her hair and reddened her lips with a few hard bites. Then she put on her hat, her coat, her scarf and her best gloves and, at ten minutes to three, left the house by the back door. The police station where Daisy was to meet Lawson faced an open square where a market was held regularly. On the adjacent corner, where it met Stone Street, stood a public house called the Saracen’s Head. As she waited, it occurred to her that Lawson might not turn up after all, especially if that bounder Mr Robert had enlightened him as to her true status. But, when she looked across the road and saw a beautiful black horse between the shafts of an immaculate black cabriolet standing outside the Saracen’s Head, she prayed that it was his and that he was intending to show up after all. He did. Daisy saw him leave the public house and scan the street. When he saw her he smiled and beckoned her over. She hitched up her skirts a little and hurried to him, picking her way over the cobblestones to avoid the slurry that ran murkily between them. Her heart was in her mouth, but there was a smile on her face as she presented herself before him and stood transfixed. ‘Been waiting long?’ he asked and his smile was warm on her. Daisy shook her head, the smile never leaving her face. She was so happy to see him. She had waited so long for this moment, with such trepidation. But just seeing his face, just experiencing his warm glow of friendship, made her feel quite at ease. ‘What are we going to do?’ ‘Hop in,’ he said and handed her up onto the cabriolet. He clambered in beside her, and the two-wheeled carriage rocked gently on its springs. He clicked to the horse, flicked the reins and they set off towards Wolverhampton Street. ‘Where are we going?’ ‘I thought you might enjoy a little run out,’ he replied, turning to her. She caught a whiff of alcohol on his steamy breath. ‘But I have a bit of business to attend to first.’ ‘Oh?’ ‘Tenants of mine … One owes me three months’ rent. I know I’ll catch him with his feet up at this time of a Sunday. You don’t mind my mixing business with pleasure, do you, Daisy?’ He’d remembered her name. She swelled with satisfaction. ‘No, course not … Is it far?’ Secretly she hoped it would not be; she was cold and damp already from the dismal January mist and drizzle. But she did not mind so much, just as long as she was with him. ‘No, not far. So … what have you been doing with yourself all week?’ ‘Oh, the usual,’ she answered, with the nonchalance of a lady of leisure. She realised she must have sounded inanely boring. She could have told him she had been on tenterhooks the whole time waiting for this moment. She could have told him about going to the Union Workhouse, visiting her mother and sick father. She could have told him how poor Martha the cook had scalded herself when she spilled boiling water on Friday, or how her sister Sarah had crowed all week about how wonderfully handsome he was. She could have told him about the problem they’d had at Baxter House with a young maid who had been employed on her recommendation last November, who was connected with a burglary they’d had on Thursday. Nothing much had been taken but that which had required knowledge of the house and that knowledge had come from within. The maid admitted she had given information to her beau, a young man already known to the police. But Daisy told Lawson none of this, of course. ‘What about you?’ she asked brightly. ‘Been working hard?’ ‘Working?’ he said, as if it were a dirty word. ‘I don’t work. At least, not in the sense that I own a factory or a farm that needs running. I purport to be a gentleman, Daisy. I keep busy. I do business. I let others work.’ She smiled, too reticent to ask more. Lawson turned to look at a young man and woman who were walking in their direction. ‘Well, I’ll be damned. So he’s stepping out with her.’ ‘Should I know them?’ ‘I sincerely hope not,’ he replied. He offered no explanation as to who the two people were but flicked the reins and the horse broke into a trot. She could hear the dabs of slurry flung from the horse’s hooves hitting the underside of the running board. ‘Has anybody ever told you that you have the most beautiful, kissable mouth?’ ‘No,’ she answered coyly and smiled. She was aware of seeming to be forever smiling when she was with Lawson. ‘Honest? I’m surprised. You have, you know.’ ‘I’ve never thought about it,’ she responded. ‘So what would you consider your best feature?’ She shrugged and giggled with girlish embarrassment. ‘I don’t know. I’m not even sure it’s fair to ask a young lady that.’ ‘Why?’ ‘Well, whatever I answer, you could say I was being conceited. I don’t think I’m conceited.’ He laughed at that, not mockingly, but genuinely pleased. ‘I applaud that answer, Daisy. You’re a smart girl.’ ‘Thank you.’ ‘I’m serious. I do admire intelligence in a woman.’ They turned into a road called Southall’s Lane, a ramshackle street of old red-brick buildings. Daisy anticipated that they might drive past the Spencers’ house in Wellington Road. She wondered what the Spencers would make of her if they saw her beside this handsome man in his smart cabriolet. She was sorry they would be avoiding the Spencers when they turned left again into Stafford Street. ‘We’re here,’ Lawson said as he headed the horse into another narrow lane called Albert Street. On the left was a terrace of small houses, not very old. ‘Wait in the buggy. I won’t be long.’ Daisy nodded and smiled and settled herself in the seat. She adjusted her scarf to benefit from the warmth and waited. So he owned a house here. A man of property. How many others did he have? As she waited, two boys ambled past, scruffy, dirty. They kept turning to look at her, making Lord knows what comments and giggling. Lawson was about five minutes. When he returned there was a look of thunder on his face. ‘All I could get out of the swine was a sovereign, so he still owes me nineteen shillings. But I’ll be back next week. And he knows he’d better have the money by then or he’ll be evicted.’ He jumped agitatedly into the cabriolet and flicked the reins. ‘But what if he can’t afford to pay?’ Daisy suggested, reminded of the plight of her own mother and father sometimes. ‘What if the poor man, whoever he is, has been off work sick, and earned no money?’ ‘He’s not been off work, he’s not sick. He’s an inveterate gambler though. I know that for a fact. If he didn’t waste his money betting on horses and dogs he might have some money left to pay his rent. I don’t see why I should subsidise his gambling.’ ‘I see,’ Daisy conceded, unwilling to defend the tenant more for fear of alienating Lawson. They drove forward no further than twenty-five yards and stopped again. ‘Now for that Molly Kettle.’ He jumped down again. ‘She owes more than is good for her. This one’s a sot – spends it all on gin. D’you think I should subsidise her drinking?’ he asked. ‘No, course not,’ she answered, unable to dispute his logic. ‘I shan’t be a minute.’ Daisy made up her mind to ask him whether he owned all the houses in the terrace, even though it was none of her business. But if he was putting on this show of ownership to impress her, she presumed he would not mind her asking. Then a young girl of about thirteen casually appeared from the house Lawson was visiting, possibly coming out to inspect her. She was very dainty, with long, dark hair that framed a lovely, angelic face. The girl smiled appealingly but soon went back into the house, clutching herself around the shoulders to ward off the cold. Daisy felt an affinity with her, recalling her own youth before she went into service. The girl reminded her so much of herself at thirteen. ‘Who was that young girl?’ Daisy asked when Lawson returned. ‘Oh, one of Molly Kettle’s daughters.’ ‘She’s very pretty.’ ‘Yes, I suppose she is.’ Daisy said, ‘Do you mind if I ask you something?’ ‘Depends what it is?’ ‘How many houses in this terrace do you own?’ He laughed. ‘All of them. And more besides.’ ‘Well, well. Lawson Maddox, the great landlord,’ she commented. ‘Would you describe yourself as a kind and understanding landlord?’ ‘Would I hell!’ he guffawed. ‘There’s no sentiment in business – and that’s what it is – business.’ Once more he flicked the reins and the horse hauled them away. ‘And these crafty devils will try and fleece you for every last penny … But enough of them. Now I’m going to take you somewhere warm. I bet you’re frozen solid.’ ‘Yes, please.’ She nodded and shivered at the same time. ‘Thanks for being so patient, Daisy … Giddup!’ The horse broke into a trot once more and they headed back towards the centre of the town. Eventually, they drew up at the fountain in the market place and Lawson let the horse drink before he tethered it. He handed Daisy down and took her arm as he led her towards the Dudley Arms Hotel. ‘A drink will warm you,’ he said attentively. ‘And there’ll be a good fire in the saloon.’ He saw that she was reticent about going in but he smiled to reassure her. She needed little persuading; the thought of a warm fire and a drop of some smooth, warming drink inside her was very appealing. ‘What would you like?’ he asked as he sat her at a table close to the fire. She remembered that Fanny had asked for port when she arrived at the party. ‘Port, please.’ Lawson went to the bar and came back with her port and a glass of whisky for himself. He sat beside her and looked into her eyes. ‘I’ve been looking forward to this,’ he said in an intimate whisper. ‘Getting you on your own, I mean, and having you all to myself.’ Daisy smiled happily. She held his admiring gaze while her legs seemed to turn into jelly. ‘I can see now it’s not just your mouth that’s beautiful. Those eyes … Good God, they sparkle more brightly than fine-cut sapphires. I was trying to remember what it was about you that first attracted me. I think it was your whole demeanour but especially your mouth. I just wanted to kiss your lips, to taste them, to feel how soft they were on mine. Do you remember, I warned you that you were standing under the mistletoe?’ Her stomach started to churn as if a belfry full of bats was flitting madly about inside when she thought about him kissing her. Then he put his hand on hers and her heart started thumping against her ribs, just to augment the internal agitation. And, just to top it off, her face reddened at his words. ‘Such a virtuous blush,’ he said, squeezing her hand. She coloured even deeper and sipped her port to try and hide her face. She felt its rich, sweet smoothness as it slid down her throat. ‘I imagine it’s not the first time you’ve said that to a girl,’ she suggested. He shrugged. ‘Maybe not. But I’ve never meant it more than I do now. Tell me about your family, Daisy. I only know what I see and I’m dying to find out about you.’ ‘I’d much rather hear about you,’ she replied, deliberately trying to sidetrack him. ‘You promised you’d tell me what happened to your family.’ ‘I said I’d tell you when I knew you better. I can’t honestly say I know you any better now than I did on New Year’s Eve, except that you might feel sorry for some of my tenants.’ He gave a chuckle at that observation. ‘I’ve only spent a half-hour with you yet. Tell me about yourself first.’ Daisy sighed, a deep heaving sigh. What should she tell him? That she was a working-class girl from the terraced houses of lowly Campbell Street and in the service of his friends the Cooksons – and lose him? Or should she lie and say she was the only daughter of a wealthy ironmaster and heiress to his fortune, and maintain the deception for what little time it took to be found out, and then be deservedly cast aside for it? Despite her romantic fancies, she always believed that it paid to be honest. Her father told her once that in order to keep up deceit you need a very good memory. So she decided to tell Lawson the truth. If he rejected her because of her working-class status he might as well admire her for her honesty. And this early on her aching heart would more easily mend after the rejection. ‘I’m a nobody, Lawson,’ she began, gazing blankly into the ruby depths of the port. ‘My father was an iron puddler at the Woodside Iron Works …’ She felt herself trembling and never more insecure. ‘I’m just a housekeeper at the house of your friends, the Cooksons. My younger sister is a maid there. When we met on New Year’s Eve I was on duty but … but Mrs Cookson said I could stay and enjoy the party.’ She looked earnestly into his eyes. ‘I really enjoyed your company, Lawson … and dancing with you …’ He let go of her hand and her heart sank into her boots. To disguise her embarrassment she sipped her port. But when she put her glass back on the table he took her hand again. She looked forlornly into his eyes. ‘It’s all right,’ he whispered with his easy smile. ‘I already knew.’ ‘So you were testing me.’ He nodded. ‘But that’s not fair,’ she pouted. He laughed again. ‘It makes no odds to me who you are, or who you ain’t. At least you’re honest. You’re not like the others. You’re different. You’re chaste, you have honour. Many of those who consider themselves well bred lack those very virtues.’ ‘But now I feel naked in front of you,’ she said self-consciously. ‘I feel exposed and vulnerable.’ ‘An interesting analogy. Then let me denude myself. Let’s be naked together …’ His steely blue eyes seemed to pierce hers and she could barely hold his gaze at this astonishing innuendo. An erotic picture materialised in her mind’s eye of the two of them standing naked in front of each other, and it seemed he could see into her head and read what she was thinking with that steady, unnerving look of his. ‘I have no breeding either,’ he admitted frankly. ‘So I’m not shackled by the constraints and prejudices of the gentry. I’m the son of a corn merchant, Daisy, my dear. My mother died giving birth to me and I was brought up by my father till I was ten. Then he died. Fortunately for me, he’d been an enterprising soul and he left me half a dozen properties in trust. His executors made sure that the income from them paid for my schooling and my board. When I was twenty-one I took control of those properties and, by being enterprising myself, I’ve added to them. Now I earn a pretty penny, and my enterprises have brought me into contact with many wealthy families, such as the Cooksons.’ ‘Thank you,’ she breathed. He looked at her puzzled. ‘You’re thanking me? For what?’ ‘For accepting me for what I am. For being honest about yourself. I was afraid to tell you the truth about myself for fear you …’ ‘For fear I what?’ She shook her head. She could not say what she wanted to say because it would have sounded too presumptuous. ‘For fear I would reject you?’ She nodded and looked into her port again. ‘I’d be a fool if I did, Daisy. You’re a gem.’ Chapter 4 (#u9b12c5ec-05e5-5e37-93a1-a6f7ad75b7a1) Daisy’s life had suddenly changed and she existed in a delightful romantic dream. Oh, she was profoundly in love, and no mistake. And the first signs were brilliant. Lawson seemed as taken with her as she was with him. She could hardly believe her good fortune. They’d only met a few days earlier – but already she had an illogical yet compelling fancy that they might indeed progress further. She would not let herself think beyond that, however. She did not have the courage to contemplate herself as mistress of her own home, supporting him in his business enterprises, ordering about her own servants, choosing new furnishings and smart new clothes for herself; it was all too much to hope for. It was too much to envisage herself in a position where she could materially help her mother and father. To have wished for all that and ultimately have it denied would have been too great a disappointment to bear. So she tried to look no further than their next assignation. It was to be on her evening off, on Wednesday. Like the Sunday before, it seemed an eternity coming. It was a cold evening but dry. As she walked up St James’s Road to meet him she looked up at the sky and saw how clear it was. There would be a hard frost that night. Once again she had arranged to meet Lawson outside the police station and once again his cabriolet was standing outside the Saracen’s Head, the fine black horse tethered to a gas lamp. Once again he beckoned her to join him and, once again, she skipped biddably across the road to be at his side, her heart in her mouth. ‘Maybe we should arrange to meet outside the Saracen’s,’ she suggested lightly. He smiled genially. ‘Or even inside.’ Like the last time they met she could smell drink on his breath. ‘Where are you taking me?’ ‘Jump in.’ He handed her up into the carriage. As she settled herself, he untethered the horse, got in beside her, flicked the reins and turned the carriage around in the street. ‘Fancy some cockfighting?’ ‘Cockfighting?’ At once she was alarmed. ‘I thought cockfighting was illegal.’ He laughed irreverently. ‘Lots of things are illegal, Daisy. That doesn’t stop ’em going on.’ ‘Are you serious, though? You’re not serious, are you? You’re going to take me to a cockfight?’ ‘You’ll love it. It’s great sport. Great fighting spirit those birds have … I’ll let you into a secret … I have a financial interest.’ She wanted to ask in what way but thought it best not to poke her nose in. For a few seconds she was quiet, wishing to be taken anywhere but a cockfight, for she knew she would loathe it. ‘I’ve missed you, Daisy,’ he said, and his welcome remark was like the direct hit of an arrow from Cupid’s bow. ‘I’ve thought about you a lot since Sunday.’ ‘Have you honestly?’ Suddenly, her eyes brightened, delighted that he should admit it. ‘The only problem was that I couldn’t picture your face in my mind’s eye. Let me have a good look at you.’ As he drove he turned to look at her in the puny light from the town’s gas lamps. She tilted her face towards him with a self-conscious smile and was aware of involuntarily blinking. ‘Your eyes,’ he said. ‘So beautiful. So clear. I’ve been dreaming about your eyes.’ They turned right, into High Street then came to a halt by the crossroads. ‘Here we are.’ ‘It was hardly worth getting in the gig,’ Daisy commented. ‘We could have walked.’ ‘Why walk when we have a fine trap like this?’ They stopped outside a drab coaching house called the Old Bush. Daisy looked at it with apprehension. She recalled when she was a child her father telling her that the ‘Tally-Ho’ coach used to leave this inn every day for Birmingham and London. It was not the sort of establishment a wholesome young woman would consider frequenting, and she mentioned this to Lawson. ‘You’re with me, Daisy. People respect me. They won’t think any the less of you for being here. Anyway, it’s likely you won’t know anybody anyway, so it ain’t gonna matter.’ Thus chided, she followed him inside. In the public bar he asked her what she would like to drink. ‘Port,’ she said. ‘A port and brandy – your best,’ he ordered from the bartender. ‘I only asked for a port,’ she protested meekly. ‘It’s cold out there in the yard. The brandy will keep you warm.’ ‘In the yard?’ He looked at her patiently and smiled. ‘Yes, in the yard. There’ll be a ring for the birds to fight in, with seats all around. There’s no room inside suitable for cockfighting … Thanks,’ he said, turning to the bartender. ‘And a large whisky …’ ‘But if it’s outside in the yard, won’t some bobby hear what’s going on when he does his rounds?’ ‘Be assured, Daisy,’ he said, whispering into her ear, ‘the beat bobby will turn a deaf ear.’ He handed her the port and brandy, which she sipped gingerly, then he took the watch out of his waistcoat fob and looked at the time. ‘We’ll finish these then go into the yard. Proceedings are due to start at half past eight.’ Daisy could feel the brandy warming her and was thankful for it. She looked around her. She felt grossly out of place in that smoke-filled bar, even with Lawson at her side. Although she was working-class herself she did not feel any empathy at all with the folk that surrounded her. They were not her equals. Most were ill-kempt, ill-mannered and rough. They yelled at each other across the room, they coughed asthmatically and spat rudely into spittoons that lay at strategic locations on the sawdust floor. Those folk closest to her stank, as if they hadn’t had a decent wash down for months. She longed to go outside into the fresh air of the yard, cold or not, so finished her drink much sooner than she normally would. ‘Another?’ Lawson asked kindly. She nodded. ‘Please. Then can we go outside? I don’t like it in here. Some of these folk smell.’ She wrinkled her nose to emphasise her point. ‘There must be a big opportunity to sell tin baths in this town, but nobody’s addressing it, I venture to say. Maybe you should, Lawson, since you’re so enterprising.’ He laughed at her derision and paid for the drinks. He led her through a door at the back of the room, down a dismal passage and through another door. Already, about forty men and women were assembled, some standing, some sitting, arguing, laughing, hooting and bawling, nearly all smoking. As soon as one of the men saw Lawson he stepped up to him, shook his hand and led him to a bench that was evidently reserved for him. Other men acknowledged him deferentially as if he were the local squire, then looked Daisy up and down curiously. She could feel men’s leering eyes following her as she followed Lawson to their bench. ‘Tasty bit o’ fanny, that,’ she heard one man say. ‘Trust Lawson Maddox to come up with the goods,’ his companion replied venerably. She smiled to herself as she sat down. Never had she considered for a moment that Lawson was entirely without sin. He was too good-looking and far too outgoing to have led a sheltered life. Perhaps he’d left a string of broken-hearted lovers behind him. That didn’t bother her at all. Men were men, and the more women they knew before marriage, the better. It was the way of the world. Even she understood that. The thing that pleased her was that right now Lawson was with her, nobody else. However many women he’d known, she was the one in his company that night. It was a stimulating thought. She thought of Fanny who wore her heart on her sleeve. Of course Daisy wanted Lawson to want her more than he’d wanted all the others, Fanny included, but the greatest stimulation came from knowing that all those other women must have desired him as much as she did herself, and that confirmed her own good taste. It also strengthened her determination to make him her own for all time, to make certain he wanted nobody else. She turned to him and smiled, her eyes sparkling with adoration. ‘Tell me about cockfighting,’ she said. ‘Explain how it works.’ ‘You’ll soon catch on. It’s just fowl trying to tear each other to shreds. Mind you, you have to realise they’re bred for it. Tonight it’s a Welsh main—’ ‘Main?’ ‘Contest. In a Welsh main we pair off sixteen birds. The eight winners are then paired off to decide the two semi-finals. Then there’s a fight between the best two birds left, to decide the ultimate winner. There’ll be plenty of betting going on, especially as we approach the final. I shall be taking bets.’ ‘You?’ He leaned towards her and put his mouth to her ear. ‘Easy money.’ He pulled out his watch again and checked the time. Daisy saw men carrying their birds in wicker baskets, like the ones pigeon fanciers used. One or two opened the lids and she saw them attaching what looked like knives to the backward-facing claws of the birds. ‘What are they fixing to the birds’ feet?’ she asked, nodding in the direction of the handlers. ‘Gaffs. They’re like spikes. Sometimes they use knives … To try and cut the other cock to pieces.’ ‘Ugh, that’s terrible!’ Daisy protested. ‘No wonder cock fighting’s illegal. You surely don’t expect me to sit and watch it, do you?’ ‘I told you, you’ll be all right.’ She had not noticed a queue forming in the gap between the benches at Lawson’s side. Those men who could write, and women too, were handing him slips of paper and coins. He pocketed the money, and handed the slips to Daisy. ‘Sort them by the name of the bird,’ he instructed, ‘and keep a tight hold of them. That’ll keep your mind off the cockfight,’ he said. There were such names as Vulcan, Phoenix, Golden Eagle III, and others, all stupidly pretentious names as far as she was concerned. She sipped her drink and accepted another slip of paper; Razor Bill was the name written on that five-shilling bet. Very soon the meeting was called to order by the pitmaster, who sat astride a chair facing the wrong way. The chair’s back had a lectern like a desktop attached to it. Daisy realised it was a library chair, but the incongruity of its use that night, compared with the more cultured purpose for which it had been made, struck her. He announced the commencement of the spectacle and the first two cocks were brought into the ring by their owners. The shining metal gaffs were already strapped to the birds’ legs. The two men held the cocks face to face, bill to bill, for a few seconds and the poor birds quickly became very agitated. A sudden murmur from the crowd told her that the men had let go of the birds. As they attacked each other ferociously there was a roar. Feathers flew as they flailed at each other, jumping in the air, wings flapping, as they each tried to inflict fatal injury to the other with those deadly metal spikes. At the first sight of blood the men and women screamed even louder at the two victims, which was how Daisy viewed both birds, irrespective of which one might survive. One bird fell over and seemed to submit. There were groans from some of the crowd and frenzied cheers from others. The handlers stepped into the ring again, picked up the birds and thrust them together once more, breast to breast, until they were both agitated enough to continue fighting. One of the cocks was badly cut and bleeding but it did not curb his will to overcome his opponent. The handlers let go the birds and they went on as before, squawking and thrashing in a rain of feathers. After another minute or so, the injured cock collapsed. The first fight was over. ‘I can’t watch any more of this,’ Daisy complained. But Lawson affected not to hear her as people swarmed around him to collect their winnings. He took the slips of paper that bore the name of the winning cock and smiled affably as he paid out to those who had won. Another queue formed, of people wanting to place bets on the outcome of the next fight. ‘Do you want a bet on the next fight?’ he asked her and she wondered whether he was joking. ‘You’re not taking my money,’ she answered defiantly. ‘Take my advice and place a guinea on Razor Bill. And let it ride in an accumulator.’ She had no idea what he was talking about but it all sounded very foolhardy. ‘I haven’t got a guinea, Lawson. And if I had, I wouldn’t squander it on a bet. And certainly not on one of those poor birds.’ He smiled equably. ‘Then I’ll lend you a guinea. If Razor Bill wins – and I reckon he’s got a good chance – you can pay me back.’ ‘Do I have to pay you back the winnings as well.’ ‘No, course not. You can keep the winnings.’ Daisy smiled at him. This sounded more interesting. ‘Then I’ve got nothing to lose.’ He nodded, his eyes warm on her. ‘You’re catching on. Of course you’ve got nothing to lose.’ He handed her a blacklead pencil. ‘Write yourself a slip for a guinea accumulator.’ She did as she was bidden. Razor Bill was next on, his first fight against Vulcan. To her utmost surprise, she found herself watching with interest. Razor Bill, his little eyes gleaming, attacked several times, found his mark and drew blood. But before the other bird could use his gaffs Razor Bill knowingly withdrew. Poor Vulcan was game enough but not in the same league. Eventually he collapsed and Razor Bill was declared the winner. ‘The money you’ve won will go on his next fight, and so on,’ Lawson said. ‘What if he loses his next fight?’ ‘You’ve still lost nothing.’ Between fights Daisy saw people go inside the house and come out eating hot pies, the aroma of which drifted across to her and made her feel hungry on that cold, frosty night. But she could not eat, not with all that blood and gore from those poor mutilated fowl. And yet, with each fight her horror diminished. She was becoming desensitised to the horrifying ruin the cocks inflicted on each other. She even found herself on the side of certain fowl and actually cheered them on along with the rest of the bawling spectators, to Lawson’s great amusement and satisfaction. She could hardly wait for Razor Bill’s next fight. When it came, he won that as well and she was delighted. He won the semi-final too and she could scarcely believe it. When the big fight came, the final, she was on the edge of her seat with excitement. Bets were coming in fast and furious and, despite her own elation, she diligently retained all the betting slips, putting those for Razor Bill in her right coat pocket and all those for Jet Red, his opponent, into her left pocket. The crowd was wild with excitement, clamouring for blood, but nobody was more excited than she was. The appeal of this cruel and bloodthirsty sport, the nature of which she loathed, became clear; it was betting. Betting, the thrill of the gamble, was the fuel that fed it. The final was a long and equal fight, accompanied by a protracted chorus of ranting and shouting. Daisy’s heart was in her mouth when she saw that Razor Bill was down with Jet Red on top of him, and she looked questioningly at Lawson. But Razor Bill was up again just as quickly and striking back, his head down, his neck feathers out. Both birds were tired and in a sorry state after four encounters. Neither seemed capable of finishing off the other. Then Razor Bill took the initiative and charged, steel spurs glinting in the gas lights. Jet Red was down on the floor, weak and desperately trying to shake off his adversary, but he could not do it, and he lay, gasping for breath until he was picked up by his owner. Razor Bill had won and Lawson reckoned he owed Daisy two hundred and fifty-six guineas. ‘Two hundred and fifty-six guineas?’ she repeated in utter astonishment. ‘I can’t take that much money from you.’ ‘Course you can. That was our agreement. Razor Bill won. I told you he might.’ ‘But it’s a fortune, Lawson.’ ‘I’ll say it’s a fortune.’ ‘I don’t think you understand. It’s more than four years wages for me … Four years … It’s probably more than you’ve taken the whole evening.’ He winked artfully. ‘Before I met you tonight I placed a bet myself with another bookie. I had a five-guinea accumulator on Razor Bill.’ ‘Five guineas? So you’ve won … more than twelve hundred and fifty guineas.’ ‘Not a bad night’s work, eh?’ ‘But how did you know that Razor Bill would win?’ ‘Oh, I didn’t. You can never be certain. But he has good form. He’s in fine condition and he has a good trainer … But there was a sentimental motive that made me bet on him …’ ‘I didn’t realise you were sentimental.’ ‘I am about cocks,’ he said, with a twinkle in his eye. ‘He belongs to me, you see. I own him. I always bet on my own cock-a-doodle …’ Daisy was not so prudish as to be shocked by this innuendo, rather she was amused by it. Lawson’s unconventionality was acceptable, not only because he broke the rules of what was expected in polite society, but he had also made her rich. For the sake of writing a few words on a piece of paper, at his behest, she was better off by two hundred and fifty-six guineas. It was magic. Now she had money enough to spend on a doctor for her father – all thanks to Lawson Maddox. She blessed the day she met him. The trouble was, it turned out that Dr McCaskie had been right in the first place. Her father’s illness was incurable by medicine. ‘For a patient who is consumptive I prescribe not medicine, but a new mode of life,’ he told them on the day of his visit. ‘We cannot cure anybody of consumption. Endless steadfastness, courage, self-discipline and self-denial are the key. If I can get Mr Drake to alter his mode of life I am giving the correct treatment in some measure.’ But how far could her poor father go in altering his way of life? He would need the support of not only her mother, but Daisy and Sarah as well. Well, Daisy would give hers to the absolute best of her ability, for as long as her windfall lasted. She wanted to pay for her father to enter a sanatorium but, not surprisingly, he refused. They argued with him, they cajoled, they tried gentle persuasion. All failed. So her mother’s care and application of a rigid, monotonous discipline was what they depended on for him. Doctor McCaskie also decreed that Titus Drake was to be given three good meals a day. ‘No special diet is necessary,’ he explained, ‘but the food has to be thoroughly masticated and digested. He is allowed a little alcohol – rum in warm milk. He should have a little cod liver oil every day, for it will be beneficial. As many hours as possible must be spent in the open air and, when he is indoors, the windows are to be widely opened, or even taken out of their sashes …’ ‘In this vile January weather?’ Mary queried, looking at the doctor as if he’d lost touch with reality. Dr McCaskie ignored her look. ‘Your husband has to be made to rest and he must maintain a cheerful attitude of mind …’ That amused Daisy; she hadn’t seen her father smile in years. ‘Additionally, he must carry a special receptacle to spit into, which should contain disinfectant fluid or a solution of mercury salt. He must never swallow his phlegm. Also, he has to sleep by himself. All this is necessary,’ he went on. ‘Mrs Drake, you must breathe through your nose at all times to avoid picking up the infection, and wash your hands every time you handle anything of your husband’s—’ ‘Pah! I never touch him,’ Mary interjected with distaste. ‘And if they can stand to do all this, will his health improve?’ Daisy asked sceptically, because it all sounded rather like shutting the gate after the horse had run off. ‘Truly, I cannot say for certain. But it is the only chance he has got. If he is foolish and lapses, then his health will not improve.’ Lawson and Daisy became regular companions, although her evenings off and Sunday afternoons were the only times they could be together. Every other Sunday she was given the whole day off and it was on the mornings of those days that she visited her mother and father. Sometimes, during the week, her duties took her into the town and then she would make a quick diversion to their house in Campbell Street, less than five minutes’ walk from the market place. There was not a profusion of eating houses in Dudley but, on a couple of occasions, Lawson entertained her at the Dudley Arms Hotel and at the Fountain Dining Rooms. He made her feel like a princess. He never failed to bring her a gift; some trinket that she could wear or place on the mantelshelf in her little attic room at Baxter House. Lawson was becoming increasingly attentive, to Daisy’s great satisfaction. The weeks passed in a haze of tantalising romance and sweet talk, and Daisy began to wonder whether Lawson loved her enough to make her his bride. She had thought long and hard about it. The very fact that she was contemplating the possibility told her how much she wanted already to be his wife. She pondered all aspects. At night she went to bed in her attic bedroom in a reverie of romance, imagining delightful evenings curled in his arms on a sofa in front of the fire, weaving dreams and planning what names to give their children. She imagined laughter ringing through the house as they decided how they would design each room. She imagined trips to the shops to choose new furniture, bone china dinner sets, tea sets and silver cutlery for when they entertained his influential friends. Oh, she would love being married to Lawson. She had not failed to consider their love life either. Lawson was always sweet and attentive. He made her ache with desire with his delicious, lingering kisses, but he had not made the suggestion or contrived to manipulate her into a situation where he might have tried to take advantage of her. She was still intact of course, yet here was the one man for whom she would gladly lose her virginity without a second thought, so much did she love him. Each time they met, she wondered if this was the occasion he would take her to his home. She was dying to see his house, to assess its potential, to plan what she would do to improve it when she became Mrs Lawson Maddox. But never did he suggest that he might one day take her there. Daisy wondered, anxiously, if it was because he was already married. It would explain a lot. The thought made her grossly unhappy. She was hooked like some poor fish dangling on the end of a line and the possibility that she might actually be sharing him with another woman began to worry her. One Wednesday evening Daisy and Lawson were invited for supper at the house of one of his well-to-do friends. They played whist and the lady of the house played piano and sang very pleasantly for them. It was a convivial evening and Daisy drank port. She was becoming very attached to port; it seemed to boost her confidence. Lawson never embarrassed her by letting on to any of his high-class friends that the lovely young lady who accompanied him was merely a servant; which had more to do with his own self-esteem than hers, although that never crossed her mind. When they left and were in the cabriolet, she asked him the question that was consuming her. ‘Are you married, Lawson?’ He guffawed and almost spooked the horse. ‘Good God, no. Whatever gave you that idea?’ She shrugged in the darkness, but felt anxiety slough off her like a constricting skin, since he was manifestly not lying. ‘Because you’ve never taken me to your home. I wondered if you were hiding a wife there. I just wonder if you are serious about me, if you really care for me.’ ‘Oh, I’m in dead earnest, my love,’ he answered directly, looking into her wide eyes. ‘But my home is like the Sack of Carthage and you would not be impressed … Besides, there are two more reasons why I ain’t taken you there. Firstly, whilst I can hardly wait to lure you into my bed, I want to behave like a gentleman. You see, despite this ardent desire to bed you, I respect you and regard you as a lady, even though sometimes you don’t quite see yourself as one.’ ‘Oh, Lawson … I appreciate I’m not a lady born and bred, but I do try … I do try to be like a lady,’ she protested. ‘So would you like me to show you my home?’ ‘I’d love you to.’ ‘Right. I shall make a very determined effort to have the house cleaned up and made presentable. Then I shall invite you to dinner and you will dine like a lady. We shall have a very romantic evening of it and I might even ply you with strong drink …’ ‘Strong drink?’ She chuckled at the inference. ‘Shall I need strong drink?’ The following night, Sarah went to Daisy’s room for a gossip and to have a moan about another of the girls. They dispensed with those trivialities quickly and Daisy saw this as an opportunity to confess what she should have confessed weeks ago. ‘Sarah,’ she began quietly, taking Sarah’s hand and holding it gently. ‘There’s something I have to tell you. I hope you won’t despise me but it’s been worrying me exactly how to tell you. So I’ve decided to come straight out with it … I’ve been seeing Lawson Maddox … regularly, in my free time … I know how you’ve admired Lawson yourself, Sarah, so I think it’s only fair I should let you know … We’re in love and very serious about each other. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if—’ ‘You’re courting Lawson?’ Sarah said tersely. ‘Even though you know I fancy him? That’s not very nice, our Daisy. That’s not a very nice trick to pull across your sister.’ She withdrew her hand from Daisy’s, aggrieved, and shuffled agitatedly on the bed. ‘There was no intention to slight you, Sarah.’ Daisy was struggling to state her case without seeming insensitive. ‘It just happened. We met and suddenly there was this magic … Oh, I love him dearly …’ ‘And does he love you?’ ‘Oh, yes. He says so – often … Oh, please don’t be resentful, Sarah. I had hoped for your good wishes.’ ‘You told me once that gentlemen don’t marry servants.’ ‘And what I said holds true. But Lawson is not gentry born and bred. His father was only a corn merchant. But Lawson’s done well for himself. For all his hob-nobbing with the well-to-do, he doesn’t see any distinction between us.’ ‘Lucky you,’ Sarah said scornfully and made as if to rise from Daisy’s bed. Daisy took her hand again to prevent her going. ‘Wish me well, Sarah,’ she pleaded. ‘You know that Lawson is much too old for you anyway.’ Sarah shrugged but remained where she was. ‘All the same, it doesn’t mean to say you can’t fancy somebody older.’ Daisy could see from the look in Sarah’s piqued eyes that she was coming round, that she just wanted a fuss made of her. ‘You’re such a beautiful creature, our Sarah, men will be falling over themselves to win you. I bet the boys are already lining up.’ The compliment elicited a smile from Sarah. She shrugged again, shyly. ‘There is one lad who comes to the kitchen most days. One of the delivery lads.’ ‘Oh? How old?’ ‘Eighteen.’ ‘That’s more the age for you, our Sarah. Far more sensible. What’s his name?’ ‘Roland.’ ‘So who does he work for?’ ‘Parker’s.’ ‘And you like him?’ ‘Yes. He makes me laugh.’ Daisy nodded her assent, glad that they’d got that one big hurdle out of the way, content to condone Sarah’s flirting with a grocery boy. ‘Well, that’s nice. But don’t get too serious at your age. There’ll be plenty more, I promise.’ Chapter 5 (#u9b12c5ec-05e5-5e37-93a1-a6f7ad75b7a1) Lawson did not employ a live-in maid-of-all-work to do his domestic chores, for such an arrangement would have been unseemly for a bachelor of his standing. He chose not to employ a man-servant either, or a married couple to look after him. Hence, he lived his life alone. His laundry he sent out regularly and usually he dined at whichever hostelry he happened to be in when he was hungry. Although he had some respect for his surroundings, it was only when he sent for Molly Kettle and her young daughter, Flossie to clean for him that the house became truly tidy. Flossie was the pretty girl who had cursorily inspected Daisy as she sat in his cabriolet in Albert Street while he wheedled seriously overdue rent out of her mother. The cleaning was in lieu of part of the rent that Molly owed. This particular series of cleaning events, as well as some serious redecorating by a local tradesman, took some weeks and Lawson, whenever he saw Daisy, would enthuse about how fine and dandy it was all turning out. Daisy was completely overwhelmed that he was going to all this trouble to impress her. The very thought made her smile with satisfaction. Marriage had to be his intention. If he merely wanted to seduce her he could have rented a room at the Dudley Arms Hotel or at any number of inns in the area. But he wouldn’t do that. Already he’d told her he wanted to be gentlemanly; he wanted to treat her like a lady and she relished his consideration. Not that she would have baulked at being seduced before her wedding night. She knew that a girl’s initiation must happen sooner or later, and suspected that it would be memorable wherever and whenever it happened. She imagined that farm girls who lost their maidenhood in some dusty hayloft recalled it just as readily and with as much pleasure as if it had occurred in the warmth and luxury of their master’s and mistress’s soft featherbed. Daisy knew from talking to girls that some of them used the graves of the dear departed in the town’s bone yards as a bed. But such licentious outdoor shenanigans were not for her; they were hardly the antics of a lady. Meanwhile, a dinner party had been planned at the Cooksons’ for 16th March. Invited guests were the wealthy and very eminent Mr and Mrs Alexander Gibson, Alderman and Mrs George Folkes, whom Daisy had never seen before, and Mr and Mrs Ernest Bagnall of Tipton, whom she had. The best silver was of course to be used. On the morning of the party Daisy asked one of the maids, Elsie Morpeth, to make sure every piece was all cleaned and ready. As noon approached she was stopped in the passageway to the kitchen by the same Elsie. ‘Oh, Miss, some of the silver’s a-missing,’ she informed her, wringing her hands as if anticipating being blamed for it. ‘Missing?’ Daisy queried incredulously. ‘How can any be missing?’ Elsie shrugged. ‘I don’t know, Miss, but they bain’t nowhere. I’n searched high and low.’ ‘Which pieces can’t you find, Elsie?’ ‘At fust, I thought as it was just two servin’ platters, but when I come to fill the salt cellar, I could see as the cruet’s gone an’ all.’ ‘They have to be somewhere,’ Daisy said calmly. ‘Things don’t just go missing.’ At that point, Mrs Cookson came along. ‘Good morning, ladies.’ She always greeted her girls as ladies. ‘Is everything all right?’ Daisy naturally felt obliged to report what Elsie had just told her and did so. ‘I wonder if it has anything to do with that burglary in January,’ she suggested. ‘No, Daisy. I think not. We have used the silver since then and nothing was missing.’ ‘Yes, you’re right, ma’am. I’ll have a proper search made.’ ‘Please do, Daisy. And let me know the outcome.’ ‘As soon as I can, ma’am.’ Daisy went into the kitchen, which was always the centre of activity when meal times were due. She asked if anybody knew anything of the whereabouts of the missing silverware. There was a general shaking of heads. ‘Perhaps we can all double check cupboards and sideboards,’ Daisy suggested. ‘Before lunch.’ As they all dispersed, leaving Cook and a kitchen maid who had been hired just for the day to help out, Sarah beckoned Daisy to one side. ‘I think I know where the missing silver plates and cruet are,’ she said. ‘Thank God. Then you’d best tell me, our Sarah, before Mrs Cookson blows her wig.’ She took Daisy’s hand and led her out of earshot, through the heavy door of the kitchen. ‘I think they’m at the pawnbrokers in the town.’ ‘At the pawnbrokers? How come they’re at a pawnbrokers?’ ‘I can explain,’ Sarah bleated defensively in a pathetic little voice. ‘I think you’d better.’ ‘Roland … You know, that lad I told you about …’ ‘Parker’s the grocer’s boy?’ She nodded. ‘He asked me if he could borrow some silver. He asked me if I would get some for him.’ ‘What the devil did he want with Mr Cookson’s best silver?’ ‘He said he was going to pawn them to get money to wager on a horse. He said he needed the money desperate and he pleaded with me to help him. He said that if the horse won he would be well off and be able to buy the silver back and pay me some money for my trouble besides. I remembered all that money you won on that bet, our Daisy, and thought it would be a good idea. I mean, he was going to bring it back.’ ‘Oh Sarah,’ Daisy rasped angrily. ‘Are you out of your mind? Do you know how serious this is? Didn’t you realise it wasn’t your property to lend in the first place? Do you understand what this could mean? For both of us?’ Daisy saw tears tremble on Sarah’s long lashes. The poor, innocent, beguiled child. She had never been as canny as Daisy, nor would she ever be. ‘I’m so sorry, our Daisy,’ she said sincerely. ‘I didn’t mean any harm. I just thought I would be a shilling or two better off when he brought it all back.’ ‘And can he get it back? Can he get it back quick? Before Mrs Cookson finds out?’ ‘Shall I run up to Parker’s and see if he’s there?’ ‘I think you’d better … Right now. This minute. And don’t come back without it.’ Daisy waited on tenterhooks, concerned that Mrs Cookson might come seeking news and she would have to lie. She waited half an hour. Three quarters. An hour. Eventually, Sarah returned. She was carrying nothing and her eyes were red from crying. ‘He said he sold the pawnbroker’s ticket, our Daisy,’ she whined breathlessly. ‘I went to the shop and had a look. I asked them not to let go of the silver, as we would be back for it. But they said as it ain’t there any more. It’s already gone.’ ‘Oh, my God.’ Daisy covered her face with her hands in horror. ‘You know what this means?’ ‘Oh, Daisy, I’m so sorry,’ Sarah blubbered. ‘Have I got you into trouble as well?’ ‘I sincerely hope not.’ Daisy sighed gravely. ‘I just wonder what’s the best way of handling it to save you getting into trouble … If I can get away with denying that I know who’s responsible I will. I’ll try and protect you. But Mrs Cookson isn’t stupid … Oh, I know you’re not the brightest of God’s children, our Sarah, but you’re no criminal. I’d better go and see Mrs Cookson.’ Daisy found Mrs Cookson just as she was about to take lunch. ‘Any news on the silverware, Daisy?’ ‘Bad news, I’m afraid, ma’am. It was lent to somebody – on the strict understanding that it would be returned, of course. Sad to say, the person who borrowed it pawned it.’ ‘Pawned, did you say?’ ‘Yes, ma’am.’ ‘Why would anyone want to pawn my silverware, Daisy?’ ‘To raise money, ma’am. The idea was to gamble the money, then win enough to buy it back and return it safely here.’ ‘And who was that person?’ ‘I’m not certain, ma’am. One of the trades people, I believe.’ ‘Daisy, you are being evasive. I want chapter and verse. If the police need to be involved, I want them here. Do you hear?’ Daisy let out a great, troubled sigh, and nodded. ‘But who from this household has been impertinent and stupid enough to lend my best silverware to one of the tradesmen?’ ‘I cannot say, ma’am.’ ‘Does that mean cannot, or will not?’ ‘I cannot, ma’am.’ ‘Very well. Then every servant in this house is under suspicion. What has happened here is tantamount to stealing and no employer will tolerate it. Lord knows, enough of this kind of thing goes on, but I thought we had earned sufficient respect from our staff to prevent such things happening in this house. I will not tolerate it and neither will Mr Cookson. We try, as employers, to be fair with everybody. We go out of our way to be fair.’ ‘Indeed you do, ma’am. I have to agree. You are model employers.’ ‘Does anybody below stairs have any genuine cause for complaint about how they are treated?’ ‘Certainly not, ma’am.’ ‘Then why are we treated so shamefully?’ ‘I can’t imagine, ma’am,’ Daisy said resignedly. ‘I suspect whoever it was saw no harm in what they were doing if the silver was to be returned. Certainly, they wished you no harm.’ Mrs Cookson eyed Daisy suspiciously. ‘And I think you know more about this than you are admitting, Daisy.’ Daisy did not respond. ‘Of course, I cannot conceive that you had any hand in it.’ ‘Indeed I did not, ma’am,’ she said indignantly. ‘All the same, I want the police here. I shall send Gerald with a note at once. It is the course of action my husband would take. It is the only sensible course I can take.’ ‘I understand, ma’am.’ ‘They will resolve this if you cannot, even if they have to arrest each and every one of the staff. Please send Gerald to see me at once.’ Daisy was hopelessly torn. She did not know whether to come out with the truth just to clear her own name. But she could not point the finger at poor Sarah and condemn her to the possibility of several years’ penal servitude when there was a chance she might still escape blame. So she said no more and went to look for Gerald. Half an hour later, with lunch postponed, a police officer sporting a huge moustache arrived. He had everybody assembled in the kitchen and Daisy explained broadly what had happened, without naming Sarah. ‘So who was responsible for letting go this silverware?’ he asked pointedly. Nobody answered, nobody moved. ‘Well, somebody must know.’ Everybody seemed preoccupied with looking at their shoes and not at the policeman. It was clear that nobody was going to snitch on their workmates. ‘Well I’m sure everybody wants their dinners,’ the policeman said ominously, his moustache twitching. ‘But there’ll be no dinner till I get an answer. And if I have to troop you all up to the police station, throw you in a cell and clap you in irons, I will …’ ‘It was me,’ Sarah said meekly, and then began to wail. Mrs Cookson looked at Daisy studiedly. She had read Daisy. She knew that Daisy had deliberately tried to shield her sister, knowing all the time she was responsible for this senseless error of judgement. Daisy’s heart sank as, with dawning clarity, the implications of her obstructive vagueness intensified. She went over to Sarah and wrapped her in her arms. ‘There, there,’ she whispered. ‘You are no criminal. You didn’t understand what you were doing, did you? Just tell the police officer exactly what happened then everything will be all right.’ Eventually Sarah ceased her weeping and, when the others had been dismissed, she told the policeman all she knew, naming Roland, the grocer’s lad. She apologised profusely to Mrs Cookson and made a formal statement admitting her part in the affair. After lunch, Mrs Cookson sent for Daisy again. ‘Sit down, Daisy.’ Her voice was as sharp as a shard of glass. ‘Thank you, ma’am,’ Daisy said, trying to keep her voice even, quaking with apprehension. ‘Daisy, I am profoundly disappointed in your younger sister but, quite frankly, I am even more disappointed in you. Sarah has shown incredible stupidity in being persuaded by some scallywag to part with silver that is the property of Mr Cookson. Of course, she must be punished. I appreciate that she was duped and she is not wilfully criminal. However, I am unable to allow her to continue her employment here. Furthermore, my husband might well wish to press charges. We must not set any precedent and appear to the rest of the staff to be too lenient. If we were, we would risk others’ further exploitation. Do you see, Daisy?’ ‘Yes, I see, ma’am. But do you really have to press charges?’ She sat without moving as a shaft of weak sunlight was suddenly cast across the table between them. ‘I think that is being rather harsh, if you’ll pardon me for saying so. After all, she was not the criminal element, as you have yourself implied, ma’am. She was duped.’ ‘And I suspect that that is the reason you tried to shield her, Daisy.’ Her eyes dropped to the floor and she looked absently at the rug that lay beneath her feet. ‘Sarah is just a poor misguided girl who failed to use her common sense, ma’am. She’s young and innocent. She’s not a felon. She’s made a silly mistake. You could hardly expect me to betray her when there was a chance she might not be blamed.’ ‘So you betrayed me instead, your employer. That really doesn’t impress me, Daisy. Your loyalties should lie with those who provide your bread and butter.’ ‘Ma’am, I am sorry …’ Daisy could hear the indignation rising in her own voice, but was unable to control it. ‘But if you think that you, or any employer for that matter, should come before any member of my family, then you neither know nor understand me. Certainly I will never stand by and see my sister’s regretful lapse blown out of all proportion. That can only mean resentment and mistrust are going to fester between us. I don’t believe I could work here in such circumstances, ma’am.’ ‘Do I understand then that you wish to resign as housekeeper?’ ‘I honestly don’t believe I have an alternative, ma’am,’ Daisy said. Daisy left Baxter House that evening and so did Sarah. At first she thought she was in a bad dream and that soon she would wake up and escape the sudden shame and anxiety. Sarah was beside herself with humiliation and remorse, mostly that her blind stupidity had cost Daisy her position. She was not so concerned about herself. They deposited themselves upon their mother and father and shared the tiny boxroom that Sarah used to sleep in before she started work. Daisy still had almost all of the money left that she had won on her bet, but it would not last forever. Finding as good a position in another house would not be easy, especially if Mrs Cookson was reticent about giving her a good character. But she decided to put such worries behind her until she had talked things over with Lawson next day, the evening of which they had laughingly, frivolously agreed would be so romantic as he wined her and dined her at his renovated house. The last thing on her mind by this time, however, was romance. She met him as usual at three o’clock outside the Saracen’s Head. They headed for the Dudley Arms Hotel, a Sunday afternoon routine they had slipped into since their very first tryst. ‘I’ve got some bad news,’ she said as soon as he delivered their drinks to the table. She explained in detail what had happened while he listened carefully, twisting his whisky tumbler around in his fingers. ‘Well, well,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘What a to-do.’ ‘But do you think I was right to put Sarah first, even though she’d done wrong?’ ‘Blood’s thicker than water, Daisy. It’s no surprise to me that you did.’ ‘But I couldn’t see the poor child hurt more, Lawson. She’s the world to me. If she hasn’t got me to stand by her, who has she got?’ He drew his mouth down at the corners and nodded pensively. ‘Well, it seems to me we have something to celebrate.’ ‘Celebrate?’ She looked at him curiously. ‘What on earth is there to celebrate?’ ‘The fact that you’re a free woman. That’s what there is to celebrate.’ Daisy continued to look puzzled. ‘You know what I reckon we should do?’ he said. ‘What?’ ‘Get married.’ She gasped with pleasure. ‘Get married? Oh, Lawson, are you sure? I’d like nothing better.’ ‘So will you marry me?’ ‘Yes, yes. Of course I’ll marry you.’ Her eyes sparkled with happiness. Not only would her future be assured but it would help alleviate so many problems at home. Then she frowned with apprehension as another thought struck her. ‘You’re not teasing me, are you?’ ‘Course I’m not teasing you, you fool. You’re a free woman, I’ve just had my house cleaned and redecorated from top to bottom … and, what’s more, we could employ Sarah as a maid.’ She sighed at his overwhelming but welcome impetuosity but there was a smile on her face again. ‘You, Lawson Maddox, are so unpredictable. You’ve been a bachelor all these years, yet suddenly you suggest marriage and you haven’t known me three months yet.’ ‘I know. It’s absolute madness. But I’m in love with you. I’m besotted. I told you.’ She laughed joyously. ‘When shall we do it?’ ‘What about Easter? I shall make all the arrangements. So, I propose that you come with me now, young Daisy, to see your future home.’ ‘You mean your house?’ ‘The same. I’ve hired a cook for the night as you know, and she is there right now preparing that lavish meal I promised. I don’t see the point in wasting it. Do you?’ ‘Not really.’ Daisy’s lips curled into a smile of contentment. ‘I shall merely behave like the gentleman I am and, out of respect, refrain from seducing you afterwards.’ He laughed out loud. ‘Well, I’m glad you’ve not asked me to marry you just as an excuse to seduce me, Lawson. So … d’you think I should remain a virgin until my wedding night?’ A smile spread across his handsome face and she could see a warm light in his eyes. ‘Oh, yes … Of course you have to be a virgin on your wedding night. Oh, without doubt …’ He had speculated about her deflowering before, half serious, half joking, in very intimate and sensual whispers, and just talking about it had warmed her to the prospect. She knew Lawson would be gentle and considerate, and the very thought of all that tender intimacy made her temples throb. She would never admit as much, but she had been looking forward to it like nothing else. Because they were getting married so soon she would not have long to wait. Daisy chuckled with delight. Her life had again switched from catastrophe to unbelievable good fortune in just one day. This time she was being delivered from spinsterhood, to become the beloved wife of one of the Black Country’s most eligible bachelors. Lawson’s house was situated on Himley Road, in the area of Dudley called Sunnyside in the parish of St James. It was not a grand house – nothing like Baxter House – but it was a substantial family home nonetheless, a gentleman’s residence. It stood in its own grounds with a drive that ran in a wide sweep from the front gate to the stables at the rear. The garden was unkempt, as one might expect from a bachelor with no family ties, but its interesting lie offered good potential. Inside, Daisy envisaged filling each of the bedrooms with their children. Lawson had spent a small fortune on the interior, that much was obvious, including tasteful new furniture. Everywhere smelled of new paint and wallpaper. He’d even gone to the trouble and expense of having new linoleum laid all through and had bought some fine rugs that graced the floors. He led Daisy to the scullery where the glorious aroma of roast beef was already enticing. He introduced her to the hired cook who was very deferential and curtsied. Already Daisy felt like the lady she was about to become and could hardly wait to be mistress in what was to be her own kitchen. As they left her, the cook placed a pan of water on the hob to boil, ready for the potatoes, and hung the kettle over the fire on a gale hook, ready to brew a pot of tea. Lawson took Daisy upstairs to show her the bedroom that would be theirs. It was large and airy, with a clean and inviting feather mattress on an intricate brass bedstead. The window looked out onto the road at the front and had an extensive view southwards over the innumerable pits and grey, miserable slag heaps of Russell’s Hall. The corporation catch pound was uncomfortably close. Beyond it, the middle distance was alive with locomotives huffing and puffing to and from a wharf on the mineral railway that connected it with the vast Himley Colliery at Old Park. Yes, it was a decent enough house, but the view … She was not going to live here for the view, though; she would happily live in a pigsty for the privilege of being Lawson’s wife. ‘As you might have expected, this was my father’s house,’ Lawson informed her as he showed her another bedroom. ‘Sarah could sleep in this room when she becomes our maid.’ ‘We can’t have our Sarah as a maid, Lawson,’ Daisy said flatly. ‘It’s impossible.’ ‘Why is it impossible? It’s not impossible. I want her as our maid.’ ‘It’s not done, Lawson. No lady of any house would ever employ her own sister as a maid. It would betray her own roots. Don’t you see?’ ‘My God!’ he exclaimed. ‘You’ve turned into a snob already.’ ‘I’m no snob, but we have to protect our social standing. Your social standing. What would your friends think?’ ‘Well, that’s settled then.’ ‘I presume there are proper servants’ quarters, Lawson?’ ‘Yes, on the next floor. In the roof. My father had servants. A full complement, even after my mother died.’ ‘Can we see?’ He led her up another flight of stairs to the second storey, to rooms that were small, bare and cold, typical of the garrets servants normally occupied. Suddenly, Daisy could see the situation of a servant from both sides. She had lived in rooms like this. Only yesterday she had resided in one little better. Now she was viewing this garret from the perspective of an employer … Well, not quite. She doubted she would ever lose sympathy for employed servants. ‘We’ll need to make these rooms a bit more welcoming,’ she said. ‘I wouldn’t like to sleep in rooms this dingy.’ He laughed. ‘You’re the expert, Daisy. Do as you see fit when the time comes.’ When she had seen enough of upstairs, including a quick peep at Lawson’s study, he escorted her back downstairs and into what he called his sitting room, where a welcoming fire burned in a low, stone grate. Daisy was drawn to the oil painting that hung above it, in which two beautiful young women, clothed in diaphanous attire that purported to be in the style of classical Greece or Rome, reposed languidly on a bench constructed of smooth white marble veined with the most delicate grey and blue tracery and draped with tiger skins. Daisy had no idea it was possible for anybody to paint marble with such realism and skill. Never had she seen such perfection. The artist had seemingly painted every individual hair of the tiger skin too, had captured every last detail of the bright poppies that adorned the lush garden in which it was all so tantalisingly set. Umbrella pines stood out against a sea and sky of vivid blue and a mysterious, mountainous land on the distant horizon. It all looked so idyllic, so enchanting that she could not help but gasp. ‘This is beautiful,’ she said simply, unable to draw her eyes from it. ‘I’ve never seen anything like it. Just look at the skill that has gone into painting this … Just look at the skin of these girls, their clothes. It’s all so unreal and yet so perfectly realistic.’ ‘I’m glad you like it,’ Lawson said indifferently. ‘Who painted it? Where did you get it?’ ‘It was painted by a young artist called John Mallory Gibson, the son of Alexander Gibson, whom you might even have met at the Cooksons’ home.’ ‘You mean the Alexander Gibson, the bigwig? One of the guests at Baxter House last night?’ He nodded. ‘The same. He and I do business from time to time.’ ‘You know him well?’ ‘Yes, I know him well. His son sent him this. Thought he might like it. And Alexander gave it to me.’ ‘Why would he give you such a painting when he must have treasured it? I mean, he would treasure it if his son painted it, wouldn’t he?’ ‘He gave it to me because he wanted me to have it, presumably.’ ‘I’ve never seen anything like it,’ Daisy repeated. ‘Mr Gibson’s son is a fine artist. Where does he live, this John Mallory Gibson?’ ‘In London, I believe.’ She nodded. ‘The sea and the sky are so blue. It gives me the impression of endless sunny days, of carefree girlhood. It’s beautiful … Where do you think it’s supposed to be?’ ‘Italy, I suspect.’ She looked outside at the drab, grey landscape, then with large, almost pleading eyes at Lawson. ‘I wouldn’t object if you wanted to take me to Italy for our honeymoon.’ He laughed at that. ‘I wish I could. But since I can’t, where would you like to go?’ ‘Oh … Well …’ She pondered a moment. ‘I’d love to see London. The Tower, Buckingham Palace, the Houses of Parliament.’ ‘And I’d love to see Bath. So we’ll stay a few days in London, then move on to Bath. How does that sound?’ ‘Oh, Lawson,’ she cooed. ‘You’re too good to me.’ The hired cook presented a very palatable meal that evening. While Lawson and Daisy dined like a lord and lady, planning their marriage, she skivvied in the scullery. Before she left, Lawson announced to her that he and Daisy were to be married; she wished them well. Afterwards, they decided to break the news to Daisy’s mother and father and to Sarah. It would be a welcome relief from the cataclysmic events that had overshadowed and shamed them since yesterday. He had not met her parents, nor been to their house, and at once Daisy started making excuses, telling him not to expect anything grand. ‘Don’t worry. I’m marrying you, not your parents,’ he said. She needn’t have worried. Lawson took it all in his stride, studying the property with an expert eye. Mary Drake fussed over him like a she-cat with a prize kitten and Titus was on his best behaviour, not breaking wind once. (Titus’s health had improved a little, thanks to Dr McCaskie’s arduous regime.) Sarah was as fidgety as a kitten with its first mouse in Lawson’s company and her long eyelashes swept down every time he glanced in her direction. Lawson, conversely, seemed entirely at home and quite taken with Daisy’s family. They ended up in a little public house in the market place called the Seven Stars. It was heaving with men, swearing and spitting and coughing and smoking and God knows what else. Daisy could not imagine why Lawson persisted in dragging her to such sleazy town bars, populated by men reeking of stale sweat. There were three other women in there, not the sort she would associate with by choice. It troubled her that everybody seemed to know Lawson, including the unsavoury women, and that they, in particular, looked Daisy up and down with curiosity. One of them, no older than herself, seemed as if she wanted to speak to Lawson; she kept edging forward and hovering around them. But Lawson, to his credit, turned his back on her and smiled at Daisy with all his love in his eyes as he gulped his whisky. Then, to her complete surprise, he announced to everybody that he was about to be married and introduced her as his bride. There were a few whoops of surprise, and some comments as well that were none too savoury from the more inebriated, but when he said the next round of drinks was on him, everybody congratulated them both and placed their orders at the bar. Later, when he delivered Daisy to the bottom of the entry in Campbell Street, Lawson was slurring his words idiotically. ‘Are you sure you’re going to be all right?’ she asked, concerned. ‘Yesh. Don’ worry.’ His eyelids were lazy and she was worried that he might fall asleep as he drove home. ‘I hope the horse can find his way,’ Daisy said with amused patience. ‘Because I doubt if you will.’ He grinned stupidly. ‘Docker’sh a fine horshe. He knowsh hish way around.’ She planted a kiss on his cheek then slid down from the cabriolet. ‘Thank you for everything, Lawson. Don’t forget you’re supposed to be calling for me tomorrow night.’ ‘How could I forget that?’ he replied. She stood and waved as he drove off at a rapid rate, oblivious to everything in his drunken state. Chapter 6 (#u9b12c5ec-05e5-5e37-93a1-a6f7ad75b7a1) Arthur Hayward, a long-standing friend and drinking partner of Lawson Maddox, had died of pneumonia at a devastatingly young thirty-two. Arthur had inherited his father’s prosperous lamp-making business. He left a grieving young widow and three small children. The funeral was held at St Thomas’s church on a bitterly cold and blustery Thursday at the end of March in 1889. The churchyard was surrounded by appropriately black-painted iron railings. Afterwards, everybody was invited to the assembly rooms at the Saracen’s Head. The wake was well attended and convivial, with family who otherwise seldom met brought together with friends to reminisce on the highlights of Arthur’s short life. At first there was just a murmur of respectful voices but, after a drink or two, those same voices grew more voluble, and laughter began to pervade the reverential gloom. Although the service had been attended only by men, a few women now joined the gathering. They individually threaded their way across the room with a rustle of long black skirts and clicking heels, stopping to offer their condolences to the bereaved widow, who was sitting in state ready to receive them. Then they exchanged courtesies with this or that group as they glided in solemn mourning towards the fire that was burning consolingly in its grate. Lawson found himself standing at the bar with Robert Cookson and Jack Hayward, the deceased Arthur’s younger brother. All had started the commemoration by drinking pale ale but, as the afternoon wore on and dusk inexorably cast its grey mantle over the town and the lamps were lit, they had shifted onto harder stuff and the late Arthur became further removed from their thoughts. ‘I’ve got some news to share with you,’ Lawson said, as he casually picked up the last of the ham sandwiches that were now curling at the edges and dried on top. ‘I’m getting wed.’ ‘You’re getting wed?’ Jack Hayward queried incredulously. ‘When?’ ‘Good Friday.’ ‘Jesus! What madness has seized you?’ ‘I’m in love,’ Lawson answered nonchalantly and took a bite. Jack flashed Robert a quizzical look. ‘Did he say what I thought he said?’ Robert shrugged a limp, inebriated shrug and drew up a high stool, scraping it harshly along the linoleum floor. ‘He just said he’s in love, Jack.’ Jack turned to Lawson, his glass in his hand. ‘The only person you’re in love with, Lawson Maddox, is yourself. Who’s the poor, unfortunate wench? She should be warned about you.’ ‘She wouldn’t listen. She’s in love with me.’ Robert, resting his backside on the stool, was suddenly struck by the light of realisation. ‘Don’t tell me it’s that Daisy Drake who used to be our housekeeper. I’ll wager it is.’ He took a gulp of his whisky and held it in his mouth to savour it while Lawson nodded and grinned. ‘You mean he’s marrying a servant wench? Bloody hell, Lawson. You can do better than a servant wench.’ ‘She’s a treasure,’ Lawson said, his affability enhanced by the banter he always enjoyed with his friends. ‘Servant wench or no, I’d be mad not to marry her. She’s a gem. And I defy anybody to tell she ain’t from the upper classes.’ ‘I trust you’ve sampled the goods already, Lawson,’ Robert leered. ‘Indeed, I take it she’s up the stick already if you’re marrying her so quick?’ Lawson put the last piece of sandwich into his mouth, chewed it and smugly picked up his glass. ‘Come on, Lawson. Since when have we had any secrets? You’re generally very forthcoming with information about your conquests.’ ‘Well, she ain’t up the stick. And I ain’t ashamed to say that I ain’t even sampled the goods yet. The truth is, I don’t want to sully her before the wedding night. She’s pristine, Robert. Intact – and there ain’t many still intact at twenty-two. You know I like my women intact. And as sure as hell I ain’t about to marry a woman who ain’t.’ ‘Hang me, but I ain’t a bit surprised she’s intact,’ Robert said. ‘Saved herself all these years, she has. Just for me. I’d have to be a right vandal—’ Jack called the bartender. ‘Three more whiskies, my man. We’ve a celebration here.’ He turned to Lawson. ‘I can see the attraction in marrying a virgin, Lawson, and I understand that finding one over the age of twenty-one must be a bit of a novelty, especially among the working-classes. But if she’s a looker to boot …’ ‘Oh, she’s a looker all right. And honest with it. Straight as a die.’ ‘But, hang it all man, why d’you want to get married in the first place? I’ve never known you short of women.’ ‘I’m taken with her, Jack. She amuses me, she’s intelligent … and like I say, she’s beautiful.’ ‘Oh, she’s worthy and no mistake,’ Robert Cookson said resolutely. ‘I expect you’ll have a lot of fun with her between the sheets. Always quite fancied her meself, but she’d have no truck wi’ me.’ ‘Because she’s got the good taste of a born lady.’ Lawson parried. ‘In any case, I get fed up with the sort of women I’ve been mixed up with. Daisy’s like a breath of fresh air. She’s bright. I can talk to her.’ ‘But who wants to just talk?’ Jack remarked, full of bravado. ‘How long have you been courting?’ ‘Three months, give or take a day or two.’ ‘You dark horse. And you ain’t touched it yet? No horizontal exploits? Christ, you’ll be getting boils on the back of your neck.’ ‘Unless, of course, he’s been getting it elsewhere on the quiet …’ Robert suggested, winking and tapping the side of his nose. ‘Ah … That’s more like it,’ Jack agreed. ‘You’ve been dipping your wick elsewhere, eh, Lawson?’ ‘The duty of every Englishman,’ Lawson replied with a roguish gleam in his eye. ‘Anybody afresh?’ Robert enquired. ‘Anybody you’d like to pass on?’ Robert looked at the women in black, still standing in front of the fire, talking. A couple of them were young and not unattractive and their perfume mingled with the smoke and the sweet aroma of whisky, a sensual cocktail for Robert who had been drinking all afternoon and, by now, had an exaggerated sense of his own desirability. ‘I wonder if any of those women are wearing drawers,’ he said fancifully. ‘They’re no nearer you, whether or no,’ Lawson said. ‘You’re fuddled.’ Robert sighed and took another swig from his drink. ‘You’re right, Lawson, I am. I reckon we could do with a change of scenery. Granted, a couple of those fillies are worthy, but it strikes me they’ve taken this funeral a bit too much to heart. This is supposed to be a sort of celebration of Arthur’s life, for God’s sake.’ ‘One happens to be Arthur’s broken-hearted widow, Robert,’ Lawson reasoned. ‘All the more reason for us to go out and find a bit of lively female company.’ ‘I’ll drink to that,’ Jack said. ‘Is there still a cock and hen do of a Thursday night at the Castle and Falcon? There’d doubtless be some likely wenches there.’ ‘Let’s have a look,’ Lawson replied. ‘But let’s get something to eat first. I’m starving.’ So the three men bid farewell to their hostess, walked to the market place and entered the Railway Vaults. There, they ate hot pies and reverted to pale ale to pace their drinking. They talked about women, about venereal disease, about Salisbury the prime minister and the Irish question, then, inevitably, about women again. As it approached nine o’clock, the trio ambled boisterously to the Castle and Falcon in Wolverhampton Street with its brass-bound barrels piled up behind the bar. As they went upstairs to the assembly room, a band was playing, trying hard to be heard over the squeals and the guffaws of the rag-tag folk already in there. The appeal of cock and hen clubs was that men of all classes could move between women of all social groups at will, even different races since so many had been drawn to the Black Country seeking work. Gentlemen mixed freely and uninhibitedly with the working-class girls of the town. Indeed, some of those girls thought they had done rather well for themselves when they managed to attract the attention of a swell, although it was seldom more than one encounter, unless they genuinely liked each other. ‘What shall we drink?’ Robert called to his companions over the noise. ‘Stout and gin,’ Jack suggested in jest. Lawson laughed incredulously. ‘I’m game. Stout and gin it is.’ ‘Three pints of stout with a large measure of gin in each,’ Jack shouted to the barmaid, a plump girl of about nineteen. ‘And have a drink yourself.’ That last comment drew her attention. She smiled at Jack and began to pour. ‘The thing I like about these cock and hen nights is seeing the lower orders at play,’ Robert said into Lawson’s ear. ‘They really enjoy themselves, you know. And they drink like fish. Just watch.’ ‘It’s not surprising. They must get thirsty from their exertions.’ ‘They don’t worry about their mode of dress either, ’cause they don’t have the money to buy decent, I suppose.’ Jack passed them their drinks but continued to charm the plump barmaid. ‘I see the working-class in action at our ironworks,’ Robert said, having quaffed his drink and pulled a face of disapproval. ‘They’re so bloody anxious to get away from it that their only ambition once outside is to get fuddled out of their small minds and enjoy themselves.’ ‘And who can blame ’em, poor sods,’ Lawson remarked. Robert surveyed the sea of animated faces. He nudged Lawson. ‘I fancy that … She’s my target. See her? That fair-haired one standing by the stove.’ ‘The best of luck,’ Lawson said. ‘See you later … maybe.’ Lawson watched with detached amusement as Robert made his way over to the girl, hesitant at first lest he was gatecrashing some existing arrangement; then, when he was fairly sure she was not spoken for, he struck. The girl smiled and received him cordially, if slightly abashed as he took the floor with her. Lawson sensed somebody else at his side. He turned to look and met two smiling eyes that were green and wide, gazing back at him. The girl’s lips were full, her mouth clean and appealing. Her hair was a rich auburn, pinned up in a fashionable style. She was trying to attract the attention of the barmaid. ‘It’s my friend that’s occupying her with his glib talk,’ Lawson said apologetically over the background noise. ‘I’ll see if I can attract her attention for you … If it goes on much longer we’ll need a crowbar to prise ’em apart … Jack, can you let go your poppet a minute? There’s a delightful young lady here waiting to be served …’ The barmaid smiled apologetically and turned to the girl. ‘Allow me, miss,’ Lawson intervened. ‘What’s your fancy?’ She looked at Lawson’s drink. ‘Stout will do fine. What you’re having.’ ‘I wouldn’t recommend it. It’s stout and gin mixed.’ ‘I’m no stranger to stout. Nor gin for that matter.’ ‘Here … Try it first …’ He allowed her a sip. ‘Oh, I thought the gin might spoil it,’ she said with a lilt in her voice. ‘But it makes it dance on your tongue.’ He turned to the barmaid. ‘Another pint of this stuff for my lovely friend here.’ Jack turned to look the girl up and down approvingly, then smiled knowingly at Lawson. ‘So what’s your name?’ Lawson asked. ‘My friends call me Kate. What’s yours?’ ‘Oh … Percival.’ ‘Percival? Lord! I’d never marry anybody called Percival and that’s a fact.’ ‘Hey, you’re taking a lot for granted, Kate.’ The girl chuckled amiably. ‘Have I not seen you here before?’ ‘I don’t know. Have you not?’ he mimicked good-naturedly. She shrugged. ‘What’s a masher like you doing in here, though? Don’t you have a pretty little wife to go home to?’ ‘Do you wish to apply for the vacant position? I can tell you, there have been a lot of applicants.’ ‘Well now … looking at you, I’m not surprised.’ She sipped her drink and licked her lips sensuously as she looked into his eyes. ‘Are you a man of vast experience then?’ ‘I’ve been known to dabble here and there. To be honest, I might even fancy a dabble with you later.’ ‘You’re cocksure, Percival,’ she quipped pertly. ‘I wouldn’t lay money on you getting your way.’ ‘Then I won’t,’ he replied, humouring her. ‘But then you don’t seem that sort of girl.’ ‘Nor am I indeed.’ He raised his glass. ‘Then here’s to the challenge.’ ‘A challenge, am I?’ She raised hers and took another drink. ‘Why don’t we dance, Kate? Then we’ll finish our drinks and I’ll take you for a ride in my gig.’ She smiled coquettishly. ‘Your gig? You have a gig? Well, fancy now! All right then. Why don’t we dance?’ On 19th April, Good Friday, less than a month after his proposal, Lawson Maddox and his bride signed the register at St Thomas’s church. Although Lawson had sent out invitations to many of his top-drawer friends, some had not accepted. The redoubtable Mr Alexander Gibson, father of the artist whose work Daisy had adored so much, sent his regrets and Lawson wondered whether it was because Gibson had discovered he was marrying a woman who had been a servant; worse still, the dishonoured servant of his good friend Jeremiah Cookson. Well, that was up to him; Lawson knew Alexander would not hold it against him once he met Daisy. Jack Hayward was best man and Sarah was vividly beautiful as the bridesmaid. Mary Drake had all hell’s game trying to get Titus to attend and, in the finish, he didn’t. He would not shift, mainly for fear that somebody might kick his gouty foot, and no amount of cajoling worked. So, in the absence of her father, Daisy was given away by her solitary uncle on her mother’s side. After the ceremony, however, she insisted that Lawson drive her home so that her father could see her again in her lovely satin dress. Otherwise, he would not catch sight of her again till she had returned from honeymoon. ‘Wish me well, Father,’ she said earnestly, and she could see he was pale and fatigued. ‘I wish yer the very best of everything, my angel,’ he replied from his armchair, his throbbing foot lodged safely in its wicker basket. ‘And I’m just sorry as I couldn’t be there to gi’ yer away, but I daresay as your mother’s enjoying herself … Lawson, just mek sure as yer look after this babby o’ mine.’ ‘Have no fear, Mr Drake.’ The wedding breakfast was held at the Dudley Arms Hotel. Jack Hayward gave a witty speech and Lawson replied, lauding the qualities of his new wife with equal wit. Sarah giggled with wide-eyed admiration at Jack’s conversation. Jack seemed dangerously taken with her, and Lawson felt obliged to quietly warn his best man to quell any fantasies he was nurturing about the bride’s very young sister. ‘But she’s interested,’ Jack complained. ‘I don’t care,’ Lawson said firmly. ‘Leave her be. She’s my wife’s sister.’ Daisy looked around her, hardly able to comprehend that these people assembled were celebrating her wedding. She had hardly had a chance to get used to the idea herself; with all the work and organising she’d had to do, she’d hardly had time to think about it. She had been in a whirl ever since Lawson had proposed. Now, she scanned the guests, drawn mostly from his acquaintances and those of his family who still remained: his Great-Aunt Hannah whose necklace of jade did not suit her donkey-brown dress and made her look austere. The Reverend William Reyner Cosens, slim and clean-shaven except for his handsome sideburns, looked his usual aristocratic self, clinging to a glass of warm ginger beer. Her own Aunt Lucy was there, dowdy and old-fashioned, with nobody talking to her, especially not the well-dressed lady friends of Jack Hayward and Robert Cookson, bubbling in their modish dresses and full of themselves. Then she saw her mother with tears in her eyes because her older daughter had married so well. A male quartet appeared, sporting identical, well-clipped moustaches and shiny hair, and entertained the guests for half an hour with some novelty songs and sparkling harmonies. After that, the bride and groom changed for their journey. Daisy wore a new outfit in the fashionable nautical style and a flat, sailor-style, broad-rimmed hat perched on her head. Outside, on the steps of the Dudley Arms, Daisy turned her back on the carriage that was to convey them to the station and waved to her guests. Everybody smiled at her and waved back and the stylish lady friends of Jack and Robert threw rice. It had occurred to her earlier that Robert’s lady friend, whom she had thought might have been Fanny, was not indeed. She had been introduced as Miss Amelia somebody or other. Lawson handed Daisy into the carriage and they were driven away. ‘I’ve got a confession, Lawson,’ she said, as she arranged the folds of her skirt. He looked at her ominously, not knowing what to expect. ‘Oh? What’s that, my darling?’ ‘I’ve never been on a train before. Will it be crowded?’ He smiled, relieved it was something so trivial. ‘I doubt it. Not in first class anyway.’ ‘How long will the journey take?’ ‘We should be in London by about eight.’ ‘So soon?’ ‘I know. The wonder of modern railways. We’ll be in time to take dinner in the hotel.’ Was this really happening to her? How could she have been so fortunate? What great goodness had she performed in her life that she was being rewarded thus? In Castle Hill she stared out through the weak afternoon sunshine at the passing traffic. A troupe of bare-footed urchins squatting at the gate of the Castle Grounds seemed incongruous next to the pristine white statue of the Earl of Dudley erected only the previous year. A steam tram huffed asthmatically up the hill from the opposite direction. Old women wearing black shawls carried baskets as they trudged towards the market place. Daisy glanced at Lawson, at his magnificently handsome face beneath his expensive, shiny top hat, and again she could not believe her good fortune. Less than four months ago they were strangers. They had met with polite words, given each other polite attention and admiring glances. He had not guessed then that she was merely a servant. As their affair blossomed and she nervously received his first kisses, she could never have guessed he would choose her to be his wife. She would endow him with all the love and affection it was possible for one person to give another. He deserved it. It was his due. He never so much as looked at another woman in her company. Never had she met anybody so focused on her, so generous, so affable, so pleasant to be with. And she had yet to experience the ultimate expression of love between a man and a woman. But it would not be that night, nor the next, nor, she suspected, the one after that. She took his hand. ‘Lawson, I have another confession …’ She smiled into his eyes apologetically. ‘What this time?’ he asked. ‘I’ve started my … you know … My monthly visitor arrived. On Wednesday.’ ‘Hang me!’ he said, piqued. ‘I think the gods are conspiring against us. Ah, well, there’s nothing to be done. We’ll just have to wait.’ He squeezed her hand affectionately and she didn’t feel so badly about it. ‘You don’t mind?’ ‘It’s not a question of minding.’ ‘I wouldn’t have wished it for the world, Lawson, not on our wedding night, but what’s a girl to do to stop it?’ He laughed at the irony of her words. ‘What some girls wouldn’t do to start it …’ ‘But we shall most likely be at Bath before we can …’ He patted her hand. ‘Then roll on Bath, eh?’ They reached Paddington Station as it was getting dark. In the noise and bustle a porter close by was lighting gas lamps while another took their baggage to a line of hansoms. Daisy tripped along behind, astounded by the number of private carriages and horse-drawn buses that screamed advertisements from every side. The roads seemed jammed full of them and everywhere the street noise was unbelievable. More than four million souls inhabited that vast city, and it showed. They reached their hotel. Once she had unpacked, Daisy suggested that they have dinner, then take a walk in London’s bright gas-lit streets. In the comfortable dining room they sat at a table next to a young man and two elderly ladies, one silked, one velveted. The young man, she noticed, kept looking at her through rimless spectacles and made her feel uncomfortable. She felt the urge to do what she would have done in her early years – bob her tongue at him – but she could not behave thus now she was a lady. So she listened and spoke more attentively to Lawson, and held his hand across the table to confound the young man. Lawson ordered a bottle of champagne and a bottle of red burgundy. She had tasted champagne before at Baxter House and told him so. ‘And did you like it?’ he asked, humouring her. ‘Once I got used to the bubbles tickling my nose.’ Talk of Baxter House set them conversing during their meal about the people that Lawson knew who had visited the house. ‘What happened to Fanny?’ Daisy asked. ‘Did she and Robert not hit it off?’ ‘Fanny? Oh, I think he still sees Fanny from time to time,’ he answered dismissively. ‘He plays the field, doesn’t he?’ ‘Robert? No more nor less than any other single man in his position. His father is pressing him to wed, but he doesn’t admire the girl his father would have him marry.’ ‘Oh? Who is she?’ ‘Some mine-owner’s daughter.’ ‘Wealthy, I presume.’ ‘Why else would he want them to marry?’ ‘And Jack?’ ‘Jack will now be running the family firm. I daresay he’ll need a good woman to anchor him down.’ Time passed quickly. Before they knew it they had finished their meal and the bottle of wine and the bottle of champagne were both empty. ‘I know I suggested we go for a walk,’ Daisy said, ‘but I’m so tired. Shall we go up?’ ‘You go on up, my love,’ he answered. ‘I think I’ll go to the saloon and have a whisky … and maybe a cigar as well. Even a game of billiards, if I can find somebody to play against. Do you mind?’ ‘No, course not.’ She truly did not mind. It was considerate of him. It meant she would be able to undress without that first embarrassment and awkwardness she was sure to feel if he was there to watch. She could be in bed, covered up in her nightgown by the time he came up. Possibly asleep. There would be no deflowering anyway. Not tonight. ‘I’ll see you later. I’ll try not to wake you if you’re asleep.’ She stood up but hesitated to go. ‘I’m so sorry, Lawson … To be such a disappointment on your wedding night.’ He smiled tolerantly. ‘It doesn’t matter,’ he whispered. ‘I can wait.’ Reassured, she went up to their room and he headed for the saloon. He ordered himself a whisky, bought a cigar and meandered into the billiards room. There was no other soul in there. He set up the three balls and cued a few casual shots, potting the red, then making a couple of cannons but, uninterested in playing alone, he returned to the saloon. He sat down and contemplated events. The significance of what he had done that day in marrying Daisy was only then beginning to dawn on him. This delightful, innocent young woman depended on him. She trusted him. Like any gem, she was beautiful; the most beautiful woman he had ever set eyes on. Not that her beauty overawed him. It did not. He could handle it. Certainly he would be the envy of all his friends with a wife so lovely and so delightful. But it was not just in outward beauty that she outshone everybody else. She was blessed with a serenity that most other women lacked. But did he love her? Whether or no, she was a prize worth the having. He admired and desired her. But love? Love, surely, tended to be associated with need. The greater your need for somebody, the more you seemed to love them. Much depended on what your need was. If you needed somebody to cook and sew you could hire a maid, of course. If you needed somebody just to fornicate with, you could hire a prostitute and have a different one every night of the week so long as you could afford it. If, on the other hand, you needed somebody to enhance people’s perception of you, then your need was based on vanity. A beautiful woman, somebody you could wear like a glittering piece of jewellery, was hugely effective in gaining the attention and respect of others. And the more beautiful the woman – the more desirable – the higher your peers would esteem you. Was not that the way of the world? Did it not come down to personal vanity or personal well-being in the long run? Did not vanity and well-being fuel need, and thus our self-regard, which we pretend is our love for somebody else? But a woman’s needs … They were subtly different to a man’s. A woman needed security, somewhere comfortable and safe to raise her brood. When she met a man who declared his love – which was the irresistible hook that caught any and every woman – would she not surrender herself to him and trade her sexuality to acquire his security and protection? Then, would she not justify her submission by convincing herself that she loved him? Love. Need. Vanity. Sex. Marriage … Children. Children … Ugh! The prospect of children horrified him. The thought of witnessing the physical beauty of his wife marred by the disfiguring ugliness of pregnancy was abhorrent. But he would see how it went, this marriage lark – without children. In the long term he had no doubt it would not change him. He was a realist if nothing else. In bed, in the dark, one woman was much like another. Poking the same fire, night in night out, tended to become a chore, whoever’s grate it was and however beautifully constructed. And if it was his own grate … Well, he was going to be master in his own house; he could pick and choose if and when he would poke his own fire and liven the flames that burned in it. But tonight, he would honour his bride with his presence, if only a passive, admiring presence. He stubbed out his cigar and drained his glass. He stood up and walked out of the saloon and headed towards the stairs. At the front door, two young women, flightily dressed and flaunting smooth, rounded bosoms, bantered with each other in their strange cockney accents and giggled. One of them saw him through the glass and she nudged her friend. With big eyes, she beckoned Lawson to come to them. Prostitutes. He never went with prostitutes. Why take the risk of catching something incurable? Nonetheless, it was tempting. They were young. They might be clean. He smiled at their vivacity and, with a great effort of will, turned his back and walked upstairs. Chapter 7 (#u9b12c5ec-05e5-5e37-93a1-a6f7ad75b7a1) Lawson had not seen Daisy with her hair down before and he looked at her for some seconds as she brushed it, savouring the sight. He unfastened his cuffs, took off his necktie and removed his collar. ‘Tomorrow we’ll hire a hansom and have a look at the Houses of Parliament and Westminster Abbey,’ he said. ‘Then we’ll have a bite to eat and go to the Tower of London and see how they’re getting on with that Tower Bridge they’re building.’ ‘I wouldn’t mind spending a whole day in the National Gallery,’ she answered as she got up from her stool. ‘You know how I enjoy nice paintings.’ ‘We’ll go there on Monday. On Sunday afternoon we’ll go to tea at Buckingham Palace, eh? I bet her blessed Majesty Queen Victoria would be keen enough to hang the kettle over the fire, lay her best chenille cloth over the table and bring out her home-made fruit cake.’ Daisy laughed happily as she pulled back the bedclothes and slid between the sheets. She looked at him and sighed. ‘Oh, I love you so much, Lawson …’ He sat beside her on the bed and put his arm around her. He kissed her on the cheek affectionately. ‘I love you as well, Daisy. With all my heart. Now get some sleep.’ ‘But I want to feel the warmth of your body next to mine,’ she breathed. ‘I’ve been dreaming about it for weeks.’ He shook his head and chuckled. ‘I want to feel your body next to mine, my love. I want nothing more. But I’m not about to get myself worked up into a lather if I can’t have you because of your … your circumstance. If I take my beauty sleep instead and appear to ignore you, you won’t be offended, will you?’ ‘Oh, Lawson, I’m so sorry about tonight …’ Paddington Station was overtly grand and pungently aromatic, as well as being excessively noisy with the hideous roar of steam locomotives and their ear-splitting whistles. Porters and guards hurried to and fro, opening carriage doors, stowing luggage and giving other unmistakable signs that the departure of the 9.45 to Bristol was approaching. A footplateman was leaning out of his cab, routinely watching, waiting for the signal to depart. Lawson hurriedly gave a silver threepenny bit to the porter who was leaving them, having stashed their luggage inside their first-class carriage just in time. A whistle blew and the great blast of steam from the locomotive’s funnel was like Krakatoa erupting. ‘We only just made it,’ Daisy said, feeling the first forward movement of the train as she got her breath back. ‘Well, you were in no rush to get up and have breakfast.’ She chuckled. ‘I’m on honeymoon.’ ‘The honeymoon begins at Bath,’ he proclaimed. ‘In earnest.’ She smiled and nodded acquiescently, then looked out of the window at the dismal hulk of a gasometer and the lines of drab houses along the Paddington Canal. ‘How long is this journey likely to take, Lawson?’ ‘About two and a half hours. Sit back and enjoy the scenery.’ In no time they had travelled through the pleasant suburbs of New Kensington and Notting Hill, through fields verdant in their new spring greenery, and had reached Ealing Station. Daisy sat with her head against the soft squab of the headrest as they crossed over the Thames at Maidenhead. They traversed some spectacular countryside adorned with villages, farmsteads and quaint church towers that peeped over the tops of trees like lookouts. The river appeared again as soon as they pulled out of Reading Station. Daisy was fascinated by the ever-changing vista of a countryside she had never expected to see. At Pangbourne an elderly gentlemen entered their compartment. A profusion of untrimmed hairs sprouted from his nose and ears. He raised his hat to Daisy and offered a polite good morning to Lawson, then settled down to read his newspaper. His presence inhibited their intimate discussion of the treats she could expect in Bath but not her affectionate smiles that flashed across the compartment from time to time. Lawson tried to strike up a conversation with the man, but he was more interested in his newspaper. However, they did glean from him that the train would stop at Swindon long enough to visit the refreshment rooms. The first-class side of the refreshment room was exquisite, elaborately decorated in arabesques and supported by columns painted to imitate inlaid woods. The mirrors, the hangings and the furniture would have done justice to the dining rooms of nobility. Daisy sat at a table while Lawson went to the counter and was rapidly served by an obliging young woman. He bought a selection of sandwiches, two Banbury cakes, a pot of tea and a pint of pale ale. Soon they were back in their compartment and on their way. Daisy knew they had arrived at Bath when the train slowed down as it emerged from a deep, beautifully landscaped cutting. The line of carriages, like a regal procession, sedately crossed a castellated viaduct built in yellow stone high above the River Avon. Daisy beheld a striking panorama of the city, a profusion of golden buildings bathed in spring sunshine, like some new Jerusalem, she thought, spreading up the surrounding hills. She enthusiastically nudged Lawson. ‘Oh, look at the view.’ Lawson smiled indulgently and patted her hand. ‘Oh, please can we take a walk, Lawson? I’m dying to see the shops.’ ‘As soon as we can. But first things first. We’ll have to find a hansom to take us to our hotel.’ They alighted from the carriage, a porter took their baggage, and they headed for the row of hansom cabs already lined up outside in Dorchester Street. Daisy gasped when she saw the imposing fa?ade of the Grand Pump Room Hotel. Inside, she was amazed to be taken to their third-storey room in a lift, of all things. At once, Lawson decided to take a swim in the Royal Baths attached to the hotel, foregoing their walk. ‘Why don’t you come and watch when you’ve unpacked?’ he suggested. ‘I understand there’s a balcony for spectators.’ The bedroom was large and ornate with a red patterned carpet. The wallpaper was maroon with an overpowering floral theme and a huge stone fireplace burned logs that gave off a pleasant outdoor aroma of leaves burning in autumn. The four-poster seemed high and when Daisy sat on it to take off her hat, it was comfortable enough. When she had unpacked and spruced herself up, she decided it was time to watch Lawson swim. Apprehensively, she entered the lift once more and was taken to the ground floor where she was directed along a spacious corridor that took her past private bathrooms and dressing rooms. She noticed a sign that announced a Cooling Room for Ladies and deduced that ladies were indeed allowed to use the baths. As she turned around, she could see the magnificent swimming bath below with its classical marble statue at the far end. Lawson saw her and waved, then continued swimming. When they returned to their room, Lawson, tired from his exertions, slept. Daisy went to one of the private bathrooms and drew a hot bath. As she undressed she pondered the absolute luxury of hot running water. The bathroom filled up with steam and she slid her plain lisle stockings down her legs and slipped off her new drawers. She ran hot water into the wash basin and thoroughly laundered the rolled-up napkin she had been wearing – for use another day – and saw that it was unstained. Her heart leapt with joy at the realisation that she and Lawson could at last consummate their marriage. Relieved, she stepped into the bath with a smile on her face and slid into its comforting warmth, contemplating her forthcoming initiation. At dinner, they sat opposite each other in the elegant dining room. They started with salmon in a shrimp sauce and then roast lamb with mint jelly and fresh vegetables. Lawson requested a bottle of Beaune and drank most of it himself. But he messed his food about, something he always seemed to do, and refused any pudding. ‘Aren’t you hungry?’ ‘Oh, I’ve had enough. I’m not a big eater.’ ‘It surprises me, Lawson. I mean, you’re tall and … I would have thought you needed your food.’ He made no comment. ‘I enjoy my food,’ Daisy commented, ‘but I can be excused for not clearing my plate. I don’t want to get fat. What do you think of the food here?’ ‘It’s a bit plainer than it was in London. But it’s tasty enough.’ He quaffed his wine. ‘Anyway, what would you like to do tomorrow?’ She half smiled. ‘After we’ve seen all the shops, you mean?’ ‘We’re not spending all day walking from shop to shop.’ ‘Well, we could wander around the abbey, I suppose – if you like. And I’d love to see that place that’s built in a half-moon.’ His eyes creased into an attractive smile. ‘You mean the Royal Crescent.’ His look warmed her a little. ‘If that’s what they call it. It’s near a park as well, according to the guide book. If the weather holds fine, we could take a walk there in the afternoon.’ She sipped what remained of her wine and glanced across the room. The fender’s brasswork reflected the flickering firelight and a waiter collected plates from another table. She looked into Lawson’s eyes. ‘My darling, I’ve had a lovely time so far …’ Her hand found his across the table and squeezed it. ‘Good. I’m glad.’ ‘What about you?’ ‘Well … I’ve been trying to come to terms with my new situation. Becoming a married man all of a sudden …’ She felt her pulse quicken and her face flush with apprehension. ‘I hope you’re not going to tell me you’re regretting marrying me already?’ ‘Not regretting it. But it’s suddenly come as quite a shock to the system. My life will be different … I’ll have to get used to it, won’t I? I’ll have to come to terms with it.’ She frowned into her empty glass. ‘We could get unmarried, Lawson, if that’s what you want,’ she said quietly. ‘I believe you can have a marriage annulled if you haven’t consumed it.’ ‘The word is consummated …’ He chuckled momentarily at her mistake, but instantly became serious again, irked by her compliant self-sacrifice. And yet, at the same time he was touched by it, for he imagined it would break her heart if she had to face such a trauma. ‘Please tell me that’s not what you want, Lawson.’ ‘That’s not what I want, Daisy, be assured … Let me order you another drink. I could certainly do with one.’ He hailed a waiter. ‘Two glasses of your best brandy, my man.’ ‘Brandy?’ she said. ‘You’ll have me drunk. Still, I don’t care as long as you still want me.’ ‘Of course I want you.’ The soft crescent of her mouth transformed into a relieved smile. ‘I’m glad. You had me worried.’ ‘Look, I haven’t married you because of some lark or some madcap bet with my friends. I’ve thought this thing through … What I wanted to say is this … As well as my love for you, I want you to understand that my being married will give me more social respectability—’ ‘So you’re only interested in social esteem. You don’t really love me.’ ‘Of course I love you. How many times must I tell you? But love isn’t everything. There are other considerations, less romantic, and I want you to understand them. Greater acceptance in society, by virtue of being married, is one of them.’ ‘Then you should have married an heiress, not an unemployed domestic servant.’ ‘Don’t demean yourself, Daisy. Yes, I know you’re neither an heiress nor the daughter of some nabob, but you have the look and the bearing. And I need you. I need you to keep me on the straight and narrow.’ ‘You need me,’ she repeated with some disenchantment. She wanted him to love her, not just need her. Love must be the overriding feature of their marriage. ‘Yes. I need you. I have many faults and I’m aware of them. If you don’t know them yet, I daresay they’ll manifest themselves soon enough.’ ‘Such as?’ ‘I’m erratic and moody – I know this. I can be as high-spirited as a pig with a potato one day, and down in the dumps the next—’ ‘Drink can do that to you. Too much drink … You do drink too much, Lawson, I hate to tell you.’ ‘You’re nagging me already.’ ‘I’m your wife,’ she sighed. ‘I want to help you. I want to look after you. I’m trying to keep you on the straight and narrow …’ ‘But you don’t have to nag me. As I said, I know my faults.’ ‘Sorry.’ ‘As I was saying … I have a vile temper as well, I’m excitable, impulsive, I couldn’t care less what my friends or anybody else—’ ‘Lawson, you are the most intelligent, the most generous, the nicest, the most interesting person I’ve ever met in my whole life.’ ‘Yes, I’m all of those things …’ He smiled with a sham smugness that amused her, but was almost immediately sombre again. ‘I’m sometimes over-emotional. Intellect and emotions seem to rule me, Daisy. I also get very jealous, you know …’ ‘You’ve no reason to be jealous where I’m concerned.’ ‘No, I don’t think I have. But I want you to know what I’m like under the skin. I need you to understand me and, when you understand me, to direct me.’ The waiter brought their brandies and deposited them on the table with a flourish and Lawson thanked him. ‘You’re untidy,’ Daisy proclaimed when the waiter had gone. ‘I’ve noticed that already.’ ‘And you don’t mince your words …’ He smiled again and tasted the brandy. ‘We shall have a successful marriage, Daisy, you and I,’ he said expansively. ‘You are the exact opposite of everything I am. I envy you your virtues, you know. Your innocence, your warm-heartedness, your affability … You’d give away your last penny if you thought it would help the person you were giving it to, whereas I wouldn’t – I’m far too selfish. You’re patient. I’m not. You’re organised, I’m generally in utter chaos. I’m volatile, I’ve never once seen you flustered. You’re even-tempered—’ ‘I’m also free of my monthly scourge,’ she said quietly and dipped her nose into her brandy glass without looking at him. He guffawed and his eyes brightened. ‘Then why are we sitting here? Come on, let’s go upstairs … Lord, I’ve got a stirring in my loins already. Take the brandy with you …’ He rose from his chair eagerly, then went round to Daisy and drew back her chair as she rose, a radiant smile on her face. ‘Why didn’t you say so sooner, save me rambling on the way I did.’ ‘At least I know you better because of it,’ she said as she took his arm. ‘At least I know what to expect in future.’ ‘Oh, ignore me, Daisy. It was the drink talking …’ They undressed by candlelight. As she lay naked in bed awaiting him, the dipping flicker of yellow light added warm colour to her pale skin and threw dancing shadows on the wall behind him as he got into the right hand side of the bed and lay beside her. At once they were in each other’s arms. He was instantly aroused as he savoured the sleekness of her body, the feel of her soft, silky skin pressed lightly against his. It was a once-in-a-lifetime experience this, the very first time with a virgin wife, and he was not about to rush it. ‘Aren’t you warm enough?’ he whispered. ‘You’re trembling.’ ‘I’m not cold, Lawson. Just a bit nervous, that’s all.’ ‘There’s nothing to be nervous about, sweetheart. I love you. I’ll look after you.’ Her baptism of sexual experience was upon her as he traced faint lines all over her body in gentle strokes with the tips of his fingers. She shuddered with delight at the sensations and this new experience of intimacy incited a warmth of desire that welled up inside her. With his eyes shut, he found her mouth and kissed her tenderly, but eagerly and there was no mistaking his hunger, his need for her. While they kissed, his right hand explored more of her, sending fresh, delectable shivers up and down her spine. He pressed himself against her and cupped one round, yielding breast in his hand and felt her nipple harden between his fingers. Then he left a trail of kisses down her neck and across her breast till he found that nipple and nuzzled it like a suckling child. His tongue flicked delectably across it and the sensations astonished her. She had tried to imagine all this before of course, alone in her bed in Baxter House and in the boxroom at Campbell Street. But she had not expected that his warm, firm flesh against hers would be so stimulating. She could feel that familiar wetness between her legs and, when he touched her there, she was surprised at how utterly pleasant it was. His fingers caressed her so skilfully that she could not help but utter little sighs and groans at the pleasure of it. After a while, he rolled onto her and slid down her body, leaving a moist trail of tender little bites that went rapidly cold across her belly. He slithered lower, until his face was snuggled in her dark, moist curls. His tongue lapped inside her and around her, and the sensations were mesmerising. She arched her back and held his head to draw him further into her and, when he gave her tender little bites she lay and wriggled, and gasped in a crisis of ecstasy and stupefaction. Her heart was pounding hard as he slid his body up over her again and she received his wet, lingering kiss with a hungry, open mouth. He raised himself up on his arms to relieve her of his weight, then looked down between their bodies to where he was nudging her, to where he was pressing for entry. ‘I’ll try not to hurt you,’ he breathed. ‘But it might, for a second or two.’ ‘I don’t mind, my love. I want you …’ Her hands were on his hips, half expecting to have to hold him back if the pain was too great. She felt him enter, winced as he seemed to stretch her, and she whimpered at the sudden, sharp but anticipated twinge at his first gentle push. ‘I’m sorry …’ He halted. ‘No … It’s all right,’ she cooed. ‘Don’t stop … Slowly …’ Holding her breath, she gripped his buttocks and, without further thrusting, he allowed her to pull him into her at her own pace. She let out a little groan as slowly, cautiously, he filled her up. In some distant recess of her mind she could hear herself quietly sighing as she felt him moving gently inside her, against her … So this was lovemaking … This was how it felt … Well, it was not at all unpleasant, this ultimate expression of love … In fact, the longer it went on the more pleasant it became, the more heightened became her emotions … Soon, she felt Lawson pulsing within her and he let out a great grunt … and then he ceased to move any more, to her disappointment. He slumped, relaxed, spent. ‘Are you all right?’ she asked, unsure whether this was normal. He nodded, his face in the pillow. ‘Never better.’ She hugged him. ‘Have I made you happy, Lawson? I haven’t disappointed you, have I?’ He shook his head, then rolled off her onto his back and closed his eyes. She ran her fingers gently across his chest, moist with perspiration. By the dancing candlelight she glanced adoringly at his handsome face, at his dark hair all ruffled, at his pulse beating fast in the hollow of his neck. ‘I love you, Lawson Maddox,’ she whispered. ‘Oh, I love you so much.’ She had given herself eagerly, earnestly, and now it was all over. ‘Hold me, Lawson,’ she sighed, snuggling up to him. ‘Love me …’ She wanted to share with him the spiritual closeness, this newly reinforced bond. It had been a wonderful experience, far more pleasant than she had expected. He stirred slightly, his breathing steady as she waited for his response. She realised with frustration that he was asleep already and she drew the bedclothes up around them. She blew out the candle and lay awake for ages, overjoyed that they had consummated their marriage, that it was much nicer than she had dared hope … Yet she felt there should have been something more … She was disappointed as well that Lawson was not awake to talk about it, to tell him how she felt. Then he stirred again. ‘Don’t forget to wash yourself out,’ he muttered, and rolled over onto his side. Next morning they awoke early. She greeted him, her eyes bright with tenderness, her lips smiling her commitment. He made love to her again. This time, there was no lengthy foreplay to make her squirm with desire, and Lawson’s whiskery growth was scratchy against her smooth face as he thrust inside her more urgently than he had last night. But afterwards, she held him lovingly and was pleased to see him contented. Bath was wonderful. They visited everywhere there was to visit, saw everything there was to see. That day they managed a tour of the city centre, peering in the shop windows of Milsom Street. They visited the recently discovered suite of Roman baths, they took tea in the Pump Room and tarried to listen to the fine band that played some beautifully serene music. When they had satisfied their curiosity as to the peculiar taste of the warm mineral water, they returned to their hotel and made love again. Next day, Daisy was enchanted by the King’s Circus with its exquisite relief carvings, and thrilled to learn that some of the houses had been owned and occupied by such legendary figures as William Pitt the Elder, Clive of India and David Livingstone. They saw the Assembly Rooms, sadly dilapidated, but she imagined the genteel balls of a bygone age, the tea-parties, the card-playing. Queen Square fascinated her with its houses which were on one side the mirror images of those on the other. She was amused at the Bath chairs and the people who used them. Pulteney Bridge was a treasure trove of little shops and tea rooms that fooled her into thinking she was on a street and not walking over the river. Only when they walked along Grand Parade and she could see the bridge did she marvel at the illusion. Every day they made love, usually more than once – at times of the day her mother would have frowned on – and Daisy was content that her husband found her so desirable. But she remained disappointed that always, afterwards, she yearned for some tenderness, some show of added affection, while Lawson always seemed oblivious to her needs, usually dozing off. When he touched her, when they laughed and teased and it was obvious they were going to make love, she was always excited, always pleased to give herself. Always there was the promise that some scandalously astounding pleasure was about to explode within her, though it had not yet. Oh, lovemaking was nice, to be sure. It made her toes curl … But surely there was more to it if what some of her friends had told her was true … And why did he expect her to wash herself out afterwards every time? Surely he realised she wanted his children? Chapter 8 (#ulink_65d40b61-d411-5268-ba40-db5f49110258) On their first full day back at home in Himley Road, Daisy got up, washed and dressed before Lawson. While she waited for Lawson to venture downstairs she explored the cellar and foraged for coal. She lugged a bucketful up the stone steps to light a fire in the scullery range. Using a draw-tin, the coals quickly ignited, so she would soon be able boil a kettle and brew a pot of tea. As she washed her hands she realised that having returned too late the previous evening to do anything about it, she was now faced with the disturbing reality that there was no food in the house to make breakfast, and no fresh milk to make tea. Pondering whether she should don her hat and coat and rush to the nearest corner shop, she stepped into the sitting room. At once she was drawn to the magnificent painting of the young girls draped over their Italian marble bench and could not help pausing to look at it for a few seconds, before turning to the bleak, uninspiring landscape outside her front window. As she peered out, she saw a milk float coming down the hill. She rushed to the front door, waited for it to approach, then hailed the milkman. He stopped, touched his cap and alighted from the cart. ‘Morning, ma’am,’ he greeted cordially. ‘Can I be of help?’ ‘I take it you don’t deliver milk here?’ she said. ‘No, ma’am. Never bin axed.’ ‘Could you? In future?’ ‘Cerpaintly, ma’am. Am you the missus?’ She smiled at this description of herself. ‘Yes, I’m the missus. And could we have a couple of pints this morning, do you think?’ ‘No trouble. I generally carry extra milk. Yo’ never know who’ll be wanting extra.’ ‘I’ll fetch a couple of jugs then. I won’t be a minute.’ When she returned the milkman was making a new entry into his well-worn record book. ‘Maddox is the name, in’t it?’ he queried. ‘You know it already,’ she remarked with some surprise. ‘I’ve heard it mentioned.’ ‘Well I’m Mrs Maddox. To tell the truth, I’m new over this side of town. We were only married a little while ago.’ She held out the enamelled jugs. ‘It’s our first day back from honeymoon.’ He ladled milk into both of them. ‘Honeymoon, eh? Bin somewhere nice?’ ‘London and Bath.’ ‘London and Bath, eh? Very nice. Yower husband must be as wealthy as folk mek him out to be then, eh?’ ‘Wealthy? I wouldn’t know. I’m not privy to his financial affairs.’ ‘Well, ignorance is bliss, or so they say. Eh, Mrs Maddox?’ ‘I daresay you’re right, Mr …’ ‘Turner. At your service. Would yer like me to call tomorrer?’ ‘Please. Every day, if you would.’ ‘No trouble. I collect me money of a Saturday.’ ‘I’ll have it ready … Tell me, Mr Turner, is there a butcher locally you could recommend. And a grocer?’ ‘There’s Randall’s in Salop Street.’ He nodded in the direction he’d come from. ‘Top of the hill and turn left. They say his meat’s all right. Next to him there’s a grocer and greengrocer.’ ‘Thank you, Mr Turner. I’ll see you tomorrow.’ Mr Turner returned his ladle to his milk churn, touched his cap and stepped up onto the float again. Back inside, the fire had caught nicely. Daisy filled her kettle from the tap in the brewhouse outside and hung it on a gale hook over the fire. She looked around the freshly whitewashed scullery. It was all new to her and she had to find her way around. She located the teapot, the caddy, and spooned tea-leaves into the pot ready, then searched the cupboards and the cellar head for food. There was nothing she fancied; only stuff she would have to throw away. She made a note of the kitchen utensils, which were a legacy from Lawson’s father’s days, and decided she would need everything new. Lawson came down and stood in the door frame, smartly dressed. ‘I see you’ve lit a fire already.’ ‘There’s not much coal in the cellar, Lawson. We’ll need more. We’ve nothing for breakfast either, save for some milk I just got from the milkman I saw coming down the road. I asked him to call every day. I think I’d better run up the road and get some bacon or something.’ ‘There’s some ginger biscuits in a biscuit barrel in the sideboard,’ he said. ‘They’ll do for now. I’m not particularly fussed about breakfast, to tell the truth.’ ‘I’ll need some money, Lawson,’ she said apologetically. ‘For meat and bread and provisions. I could do with finding a hardware shop as well. We don’t have any pots and pans to speak of. Nor knives and scissors and such like. Lord only knows how that cook you hired managed.’ ‘You’re the housekeeper. How much do you want?’ She shrugged. ‘Hard to say. But I do need to stock up.’ He fished his wallet out of his pocket and rummaged through the coins. He began picking out gold sovereigns. ‘Will ten pounds do?’ ‘Ten pounds? Good God, yes. Ten pounds should be plenty.’ He handed her the coins. ‘Are you able to drive me there and back, Lawson?’ she asked. ‘I’m only thinking about carrying all that stuff.’ ‘Not today, Daisy. I’ve got a busy day today. First I’ve got to fetch the horse from Jones’s stables. Then I’ve got business to attend to, people to see. I’ve been away more than a week, remember. You’ll have to manage as best you can.’ ‘What time shall you leave?’ ‘As soon as I’ve wet me whistle.’ The kettle started boiling, spitting water into the fire and hissing impatiently. She took a cloth and lifted it from the gale hook and poured water into the teapot. ‘So when shall I see you back?’ she enquired pleasantly. ‘I’ll be back for tea, I daresay.’ She stirred the pot, put the lid on and smiled at him. ‘And I’ll have a lovely hot dinner ready for you … Now, let me see if I can find that biscuit barrel …’ When she returned, Lawson said, ‘I can see that you’re going to need a maid, Daisy. Remind me to see to it.’ ‘Oh, I can see to it, Lawson. I’m used to it. I’ll put a notice in the window at the post office or something. A maid-of-all-work is what we need.’ The thought of having a maid enthralled her. A maid would underline her own uplifted social status. ‘A maid-of-all-work would be very useful … and wouldn’t cost a fortune either.’ A long queue of women waited to be served in Randall’s, the butcher’s shop the milkman had told her about, and Daisy just managed to squeeze through the door at the end of it. Rabbits, chickens, and half pigs hung stiffly from galvanised steel hooks attached to the ceiling on the other side of the counter. In the window was displayed a pig’s head made of plaster and painted in glossy paint, with a painted plaster apple in its mouth and surrounded by sprigs of real parsley, all on a white enamelled tray. Near it were some plaster representations of pork pies and sausages. The chopping block, a cylindrical section of a thick tree trunk, stood upright in a corner behind the counter, its top scrubbed and uneven with wear, but now spattered with blood, flecks of meat and shards of bone from the day’s butchering. Sheets of tripe draped the far wall like thick curtains, and two strips of fly paper, dotted with dead flies, hung three feet apart above the wooden counter. The wooden floor was strewn with sawdust. Конец ознакомительного фрагмента. Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес». 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