Daisy’s Betrayal. Nancy Carson
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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.
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