Daisy’s Betrayal. Nancy Carson
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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.’
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