Daisy’s Betrayal

‘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. Naïvely, Daisy was encouraged. She scrutinised the girl carefully for clues as to her background. People intrigued her and always had; she observed them habitually, noticed their behaviour, their facial expressions, their reactions when spoken to, their body movements. One didn’t always have to hear a conversation to know what somebody was saying when the rhetoric of their movements and mannerisms told so much. The first thing that struck Daisy about the girl was her looks. She was not beautiful in the classical sense – she lacked the finesse, the innate elegance of a well-bred lady – but she had a pretty face, enhanced by a smooth, cared-for complexion and sleek, fair hair. Daisy could not help but notice her bare shoulders either, or the way her creamy breasts nudged at her décolletage with a youthfully firm resilience that defied both gravity and the constraints of corseting.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Oh, a glass of port, please.’

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

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

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

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

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