Death at Daisy's Folly (6 page)

“That unkempt man who was sitting in this chair a moment ago. The one wearing the unspeakable jacket.”

Lady Metcalf laughed merrily. “Oh, yes,” she said. “All those bulges in his pockets. Lillian, my dear, you have always fancied the strange ones. Whatever happened to that young man you made such a pet of in Paris—an artist, wasn't he?” She paused. “This one's name is Charles Sheridan. Sir Charles.”

“M-m-m.” Lady Lillian arched her eyebrows. “He is quite attractive, rather, in a rustic way. I wonder I have not seen him before. Is he a sportsman?”

“I fancy not,” Lady Felicia replied. “But perhaps our American friend can tell us more. I believe they are acquainted. This is Miss Ardleigh, Lillian. Miss Ardleigh, I present Lady Lillian Forsythe.”

Lady Lillian turned to Kate, held out her hand, and said in a charmingly delicate flutter of run-on sentences, “Miss Ardleigh? So good to meet you, and do please forgive my inquisitiveness, but you really must tell
all!
Who are Sir Charles's family? Where are their estates?”

Feeling half a traitor, Kate said, “He comes from Suffolk, near Ipswich. His elder brother is the Baron of Somersworth.”

Lady Felicia sat back, smiling lazily. “Ah, he is a detrimental, Lillian.”

Kate frowned, not liking the sound of the word, not liking, even more, Lillian Forsythe's interest in Sir Charles. “What is a detrimental?” she asked.

“A man who is an imminently eligible suitor in every way but circumstance,” Lady Felicia said. “A younger son who will not inherit, with no settled income.” She gave Lady Lillian a pointed glance. “Detrimentals are suitable chiefly for married women—or wealthy widows.”

“Oh, Felicia, you are so
shocking,”
Lady Lillian said, examining the tips of her black gloves. “And what are Sir Charles's chief interests, Miss Ardleigh?”

Kate felt a sharp twinge of jealousy. The woman was remarkably beautiful, and although she seemed rather too brittle and calculating to appeal to Sir Charles, she was of his social class. If she were aggressive enough ...

“His chief interests?” Kate murmured. “Bats, I believe.” The remark was true, if disingenuous. Sir Charles had made an extensive study of the habitats of various bat species in the east and south of England.

“Bats!” Lady Felicia's laugh was a mocking tinkle. “What did I tell you, Lillian? You always manage to fall into love with the strange ones.”

Lady Lillian arched her plucked brows. “One does quite relish a challenge, doesn't one?”

 

Charles, leading Lady Warwick from the veranda, was conscious of the curious eyes on them—and of Daisy's gloved hand, light on his sleeve, her lovely face turned up to him. It was a face he knew, for their families were acquainted. His father and Daisy's stepfather, Lord Rosslyn, had both been interested in horses and had been friends, on and off the turf. He remembered his parents commenting, when he was quite young, that since he and Daisy were of the same age and class, she would be a suitable daughter-in-law.

But the magnitude of the fortune Daisy had inherited from her grandfather, Viscount Maynard, destined her for a husband of greater stature. It had been thought for a time that she would wed Leopold, the youngest of Victoria's sons, for the Queen herself was intent on a match between them. The Royal matchmaker was disappointed, however, when Daisy preferred Lord Warwick, one of Leopold's equerries and heir to the Earl of Warwick, whose ancestral home was Warwick Castle. Since then, Her Majesty had not been favorably inclined toward Daisy, and after rumors of her affair with the Prince of Wales reached the Queen's ears, she was forbidden to appear at Court. This was only a minor misfortune, of course, for the Prince and Princess held their own court at Marlborough House, where Daisy was in frequent attendance.

Charles did not know Daisy well, but the woman intrigued him. She was, he felt, far more complex than the silly spendthrift the press portrayed. She had an intelligent interest in politics and government that, Charles suspected, was partly responsible for the Prince's attraction to her, and she had an unfashionable concern for the less fortunate that was at odds with her fashionably lighthearted facade. Her political interests were not likely to endear her to those who worried that the Prince might mix State secrets with his pillow talk. But it was her tendency toward impulsiveness that worried Charles. The Countess of Warwick could easily find herself in trouble.

“This isn't just about the excursion, is it, Charles?” she asked when they were out of earshot of the luncheon gathering.

“No,” he said. “I felt that Wallace was becoming altogether too—”

Daisy's face closed. “I no longer find Reggie amusing. He should not have been invited if Sir Friedrich had not insisted.”

Charles raised his eyebrows. Daisy had not always disliked Reginald Wallace. The two of them had been the talk of the town one season while Lord Warwick was in Mexico, exploiting a gold-mining franchise. The affair had been most unfortunate, ending when Wallace's wife threatened to sue for divorce. But divorce was impossible, of course, utterly unimaginable. It meant scandal, and scandal meant absolute ruin. Even the innocent parties would have been completely ostracized, their only recourse to go abroad to live. The unimaginable was averted when Lady Wallace was killed in a riding accident. But that had been five years or so ago. Daisy Warwick's affairs had taken quite a different turn since. Everyone knew that she and the Prince were lovers.

But Charles felt it would be presumptuous for him to remark on either relationship. He simply said, “Well, then, shall we talk about tomorrow's excursion?”

“What about it?”

“HRH has agreed to go to Chelmsford?”

Daisy made a pretty mouth. “He has agreed, although I am quite sure he's doing it to humor me. That's why I arranged for Bradford to drive that new automobile of his. I thought the novelty of the ride might make the destination more palatable. Bertie says he is looking forward to it.”

Charles understood. Albert Edward, Bertie to his closest friends, was a pleasure-loving man who was usually at great pains to avoid anything ugly or repulsive. Charles could think of no place more abhorrent—and least likely to please His Highness—than the one to which Daisy proposed to take him. To agree, the Prince would have to be deeply infatuated, and even then, Daisy was taking a risk.

“Well, then,” he asked, “what do you want of me, Daisy? What is to be my role in your expedition?”

She dropped his arm and turned toward him, her lovely eyes wide. “Why, to document our visit, of course. Your photographs might be used to illustrate a magazine article.”

Hearing that, he felt even more uneasy. “What magazine article?” he persisted.

“Don't you see?” she asked. She half turned away from him. “If His Highness shows concern about the appalling conditions of the poor, those in power in the government will find it in their own interest to support a reform of the Poor Law. As Mr. Blatchford says, the Prince himself does not have to do anything. He can shape the course of events simply by paying attention to the right issues at the right moment.”

“Mr. Blatchford? This excursion was his idea?”

“No,” she said. And then, grudgingly, “Well, I suppose he did suggest it.” She turned, her blue eyes dark. “What's wrong with that, Charles? If the idea is a good one, what does it matter whose it was?” And if I have influence over any man, great or small, is it not my obligation to use it to the good?”

Charles eyed her soberly. Reginald Wallace had spoken more accurately than he knew. “It matters because Blatchford is an acknowledged Socialist,” he said. “There are many in high places who fear Socialism more than they fear plague. Even the Queen herself is afraid of the power of the people.”

It was true. The press tended to portray Victoria as a benevolent monarch, universally loved by her people, but in actuality, she was extraordinarily unpopular. The common people resented her obsessive grief for the Prince Consort and her decades-long seclusion at Balmoral, and said openly that she was derelict in her duty. For the last ten years, radical MPs had pressed for the elimination of the monarchy and the establishment of a republic. Not long ago, a writer in the East London Observer had noted that “men and their families are hovering on the brink of starvation, and there is grave reason to fear that a social revolution is impending.” And Victoria herself was haunted by the specter of what she called “a new French Revolution in England” that would rise up and overthrow the monarchy, a fear that was fueled by every new report of labor unrest or Anarchist violence. To many, these were desperate times.

Daisy's mouth tightened and she raised her chin. “Really, now, Charles,
you
are becoming tedious.”

Charles could not tell whether Daisy knew what he was hinting at and refused to acknowledge it, or was so charmed by the idea of shaping the Prince's character, and hence the social policies of the Crown, that she was blind to others' views of her ambitions. But in either case, he would get no farther with her.

“Then I shall hold my tongue and ready my cameras,” he replied lightly. “And you, my dear Countess, will have your photographs, unlovely though they may be.”

“Thank you,” she said with dignity, and nothing more was said about tomorrow's excursion. But Charles felt, apprehensively, that Daisy was playing with fire. There were those at Buckingham Palace who would be desperately alarmed if they believed she had inflamed the Heir Apparent with such incendiary Socialist ideals as the reform of the Poor Law.

And that was exactly what some would think when they heard that the Countess of Warwick had taken the Prince of Wales to the Chelmsford Workhouse.

When lovely woman stoops to folly
And finds too late that men betray
What charm can soothe her melancholy,
What art can wash her guilt away?

—OLIVER GOLDSMITH
The Vicar of Wakefield

 

 

T
h' work‘ouse?” Lawrence asked incredulously. He held up his cup for another pouring of strong black tea. ”Th' Countess is aimin' to drag 'Is Royal ‘Ighness t' th' Chelmsford
Work'ouse
?”

“That's as they say,” said Amelia, lady's maid to Miss Kathryn Ardleigh and Lawrence's sweetheart. Lawrence, who was Lord Marsden's manservant, knew that if she had her way, the two of them would be married tomorrow. But he'd insisted that the grand day be postponed until their meager savings were enlarged and his goal was within reach, which surely would not be long off now. Lord Marsden, who was a motorcar fiend, was initiating him into the mysteries of driving and automobile maintenance and had generously promised to make him into a motor mechanic and chauffeur. Lawrence was even hoping to be sent on a six-week apprenticeship to the automobile manufactory in Paris, where he could learn everything there was to be known about motorcars. And a few years hence, when there were many vehicles needing repair, he could open his own mechanic's shop.

“‘Tis a puzzle t' me,” Amelia said with great sadness, “why anybody 'ud want t' go t' such a place as the Work- ‘ouse on a pleasure trip. Fair full o' 'eartache, ‘tis.”

Lawrence patted Amelia's hand. Her sister had died in the workhouse, and he knew the depth of her sorrow. “Them wot's respons'ble fer Jenny's dyin' got their reward, right enough,” he said consolingly.

It was teatime in the large, windowless servants' hall at Easton Lodge, and the trestle benches were crowded with the estate servants and the servants of guests—the rowdier lower echelon servants, that is. The Uppers had gathered in the housekeeper's parlor, reportedly supping on Madeira cake, several sorts of jam, and glasses of claret. Fairy-food, Lawrence thought disdainfully, slathering butter on a slab of bread and forking a slice of cold mutton from the platter in front of him. Give him a proper tea with thick slices of brown bread, a bit of cold joint, and a cup of the strongest, hottest tea that could be had. So fortified, he'd work until bedtime.

“Th' work‘ouse,” murmured Amelia again. “It don't seem right, some'ow.”

“ ‘Ard to credit,” agreed Wickett, a dapper, bandy-legged coachman in the green-and-gold livery of Easton Lodge, seated opposite. “I 'eard they're leavin' arter breakfast i' that newfangled motor wot b‘longs t'—” He broke off, squinting suspiciously at Lawrence across the wooden table. “Say, now. Ain't ye Sir Marsden's man, wot mekkanics motors?”

Lawrence nodded. “Aye, that's me.” He had but an hour ago arrived on the mail train from London, laden with the spare tire, the extra drive belt, the cask of petrol, and the calcium carbide that were wanted to ensure that Mr. Marsden's Daimler was in tip-top form for His Highness's trip on the morrow. And now to learn that the Prince was to go to the poorhouse!

“Whoops!” The bandy-legged Wickett threw back his head and guffawed, showing stained and broken teeth. “Well, then, yer fer it, laddie. Ye'll be wanted t' go ‘long, no doubt—an' so will me lady's brougham an' pair. I saw that wunnerful motor when Lord Marsden drove in this mornin', clinkety-clanketty. It'll never git t' Chelmsford. Why, it's all o' thirteen mile there 'n' another thirteen back!”

“Lit‘le enough you know,” Lawrence retorted warmly. “That motorcar flew from Colchester in less'n three hours, an' that's twenty-five miles.” He omitted to mention the breakdown the motorcar had suffered, which would not have cost them so much time if it had not occurred near nightfall. “Why, that Daimler 'ud make it t' Lunnon in 'alf a day, easy.”