Her Every Wish (10 page)

He held her afterward. He didn't ever want to let go. He felt soft and vulnerable and almost afraid of what might come next.

But they had to disengage. They had to lie next to one another.

They had to look in each other's eyes. He had to stroke her cheek and say the words that he most feared. “Daisy, darling. We have to talk of the future.”

She exhaled, leaning her forehead against his. “The final round of the competition is tomorrow. I don't know how to think beyond it.”

And yet beyond it was where they had to go.

The truth, sometimes, was a weapon. He didn't want to wound her, but…

He exhaled. “We both know you should win. We know it.”

But.
That last word went unspoken.

She looked him in the eyes. “We both know I won't.”

He shut his eyes.

“I'm not stupid,” Daisy said. “Just ambitious.”

“If we'd found ourselves here together, earlier,” Crash said, “things might be different. I'd saved money, you know. But I've already committed what funds I have to a first order of velocipedes. They'll arrive in two months, and what I have left needs to be spent a lease. If I had known then, I might have made different choices. But if tomorrow goes as…”

He couldn't make himself say it.

Daisy sat up. “You were right,” she said. “You were entirely right when you told me I lied to myself.”

“No, Daisy…”

She didn't look at him. “I've spent all these years telling myself I won't get my wishes. My little game with Judith saved me from disappointment. It let me label my every wish as foolish and insubstantial. Impossible. A game. A dream of things that would never come to pass. I believed I would never get anything I wanted.”

“That won't happen. I won't let it happen.”

She folded her arms around her legs.

“No.
I
won't let it happen. This wish, Crash?” Her voice shook. “This one? This wish for Daisy's Emporium? I tried not to let it sink its hooks into me. I tried not to want it too hard. But it's too late. I want it. I want it so much I can taste it.”

He slid toward her, putting his arm around her.

“You were telling me that I can believe in you,” Daisy said. “That you'd never hurt me. I know you won't. What I don't know is…” Her voice shook. “Is whether I can believe in myself.”

“Oh.” He hurt, looking at her. “Oh, Daisy.”

She gave a little sniff and looked at him. That determined look came into her eye—the one that he'd seen when they'd first met. He'd fallen in love with her then.

“But I will.” Her chin squared. “I need to. I need to believe that I can do this. That if I just pedal fast enough, I won't fall. Not this time.”

“Daisy.”

She set her hand on his shoulder. “I won't come to you feeling myself a failure. I want to prove that I can do this. Ask me what our future holds after I've won my own destiny. Ask me after I've accomplished everything I never believed I could really prove.”

He felt a hint of panic. She was walking away. Again. Telling him he wasn't good enough, that he couldn't be enough for her…

“I need to go fast,” she said. “I need to pedal with all my might. I cannot go as fast as I need if you are there to hold me up.”

“Are you saying that I'll hold you back?”

She looked back at him, not saying a word.

He inhaled, swallowed the indignant response that leapt to his lips. Swallowed the pain. The part of him that wanted to argue, to make her listen, to…

To do what he'd done last time.

He blew out a breath instead. “I think,” he said after a moment, “that you also need to know.” He swallowed. “Last time we found ourselves here, talking of the future, things went…badly.”

Her eyes darted to her hands.

“I think you need to know,” he said, “that I won't hurt you again. That this time, I'll listen.”

Her eyes widened a moment, and then shut. “Maybe. Maybe that, too.”

He slid his arm around her. He didn't want to say the next words. Not with all they could entail. But he had to do it. “I'll never hold you back. Never. Not even if it means letting you go.”

He didn't let go, not right away, and she didn't move away. Not for minutes. He did his best to memorize the scent of her, the complex smell of lavender soap and something sweet beneath that. He committed the feel of her skin, smooth and soft, to his store of thoughts. He learned the shape of her in his arms by heart. Just in case.

They sat there, holding one another, until the last bit of sun disappeared from his window, cloaking them in darkness.

“Go, Daisy,” he finally said. “Go fast. Don't stop. I'll see you tomorrow after the competition.”

D
aisy woke
on the day of the final presentation in the hours that were too dark to properly be called morning. The world seemed preternaturally still. When she peered through the curtains, the street she looked out on was cloaked in fog.

She could almost pretend the building across the way had vanished. That her entire uncertain future had been swallowed in mist. There was nobody but her, her and her mother. In that moment, winning seemed possible.

Likely, even.

I could win.
The thought threaded through her like the bright ribbon she wove through her hair.
I could win.

This irrational hope did not vanish. Not as the sun crept to the horizon, spilling pink mist down the street. Not as she dressed, doing up her buttons, making sure she looked like a respectable, sober woman who could start a business and succeed.

I could win.

She felt as if she were on a velocipede, the wind whipping around her face as she pedaled with all her might. She felt as if her arms were wings. If she raised them, she might take flight. As long as she went fast enough, she'd never fall.

I could win.

She nurtured her treacherous, dangerous hope as she marched down the streets to the gathering. Those who were headed the same way saw her and whispered behind their hands.

She invented a conversation for them.

Look. That's Miss Daisy Whitlaw. She could win.

When one of them let out a burst of explosive laughter, she smiled and nodded at them. They were laughing because they knew how ridiculous the other men would look when she won.

I can win,
she told herself as people filled the square, sitting first on benches, then bunching in groups along the edges. The crowd grew large, then larger still, its noise a hum that tried to slide under her skin.

I can win.

I can win,
she repeated as the grocer introduced the contenders. He lingered before introducing her.

“Finally, Mr. Daisy—” He stopped, pausing for the ugly laughter that erupted from the crowd. “Right. It's
Miss
Daisy Whitlaw. Our favorite female.”

I can win.
She wouldn't let that little witticism destroy her confidence. Not this time. Not again.

I can win,
she told herself as the other contenders gave their final speeches. The proposals were much improved over the course of the week, she had to admit. Viable, even. She applauded each one politely. But deep down, she knew the truth.

I can win.

No, more than that.

Mine is better. I should win.

The grocer called her to come to the front, and she squared her jaw.

I
will
win.

Daisy stood. As she did, the man next to her set his hand on her wrist. Her heart was already pounding; her throat was dry. She looked down at the fingers clawed into her cuff, followed the arm back to the glaring face of Mr. Flisk.

“There are men here with wives and children,” he hissed at her. “You're making a spectacle of yourself with your selfishness.”

For a second, her throat dried.
Selfishness.
Spectacle.

Then she remembered how to ride a velocipede: look forward and pedal faster. She imagined his words bouncing off a glittering ball that surrounded her. And Daisy pulled her sleeve from his grasp and proceeded to the front.

The crowd seemed a hostile force, more so even than the time before. She looked over the sea of faces. A man in the front sniggered. Behind him, a woman sat with a stony face, her arms crossed in disapproval.

This time, they'd known she was going to be here, and they were prepared. A low murmur of unhappiness rose like a susurrus from the crowd.

It was not all that rose. She saw it coming as if in a dream. A potato flew through the air to splat rottenly on the boards in front of her.

“For shame!” someone called out. “For shame!”

Her stomach gave an involuntary lurch.

But there was nothing to do except go faster. Harder. She inhaled and rolled her shoulders back. Her chin went up an inch. Let them all hate her. She didn't care. Except…

In the first row, a little girl with bright red curls was seated on her father's lap. She was watching the stage, and at the sight of Daisy standing up front, her eyes widened. She tugged her father's sleeve, whispering urgently.

Her father shook his head, but the little girl waved her hands in excitement and gave Daisy a gap-toothed smile.

There, at the very back, Daisy's mother sat, bundled in scarves, smiling as best as she could. Crash stood against one of the back walls, watching her intently.

To the right, in the third row, a young woman gave Daisy a tremulous smile. Two rows down from her sat Mrs. Wilde, wearing a tulip in her buttonhole and leaning forward.

Daisy wasn't entirely alone.

She could win. She
would
win.

She wasn't going to apologize for her existence. She didn't need to be forgiven for her ambition. She wasn't going to pretend she didn't matter to assuage their fears.

Let them throw their rotten produce. Let them tell her she was nothing. Let them call her selfish for wanting the same chance as any man. Daisy didn't care; she was going to win.

She squared her shoulders, reached down, and picked up the potato. It was a slimy, shattered mess.

“Women.” She said the word loudly, projecting her words to the entire crowd. She held the potato up. “We all know it's an ugly world out there.”

That disapproving murmur faltered just a little bit, and Daisy bulled her way into the temporary silence.

“You have been told all your lives that you are a part of the ugliness,” Daisy said. “That your only value is to others. That you must labor on piecework, or bend over a desk copying words, or work a loom in a factory. You've been told your only value is what you make for others. You've been told that you'll lose your beauty and once you do, there's nothing more to you.”

“For shame!” someone in the crowd yelled.

Daisy ignored him and went on. “Daisy's Emporium of Handpicked Goods is more than a general store. It's more than a bookseller, or a flower shop, or a tea shop. We'll sell fresh-cut flowers, chosen for their lifespan, so that for a mere halfpenny a week, you'll have something pretty in your life. We will have scarves and gloves that are designed to be splendid as well as serviceable. All these years, you've believed that society has given up on you. And all these years, you've refused to give up on yourself. Daisy's Emporium is for you.”

The murmurs had not stopped, but Daisy continued.

“We will have not just goods, but gatherings. For no cost at all, you'll be able to attend a course that will show you how to use a few ribbons to beautify a space, how to make curtains that will make your rooms both warmer and brighter. For those who can't attend, we will sell halfpenny booklets on those same subjects.”

Daisy wasn't going to stop now. She was going to win.

“Men.” She addressed the crowd. “You are no doubt thinking you have no place at Daisy's Emporium, and I'll grant you the goods I have will be chosen with women in mind. But many of you may wonder about curtains as well, and you'll not be shamed for attending. Daisy's Emporium is for you, too.” She took a deep breath. “Now let me lay out the financials of Daisy's Emporium.”

“For shame!” someone called again, but repetition had eroded those words of their hurt. This time the call seemed muted.

She went into detail: The cost of goods. The estimates she'd received. The work she would need to do. Where she'd print the booklets. What sort of courses she had planned, and how they'd pay for themselves with sales of tea and goods while still providing additional income for the local women who might teach.

She talked about the number of unmarried women on the parish rolls, and how few of the main businesses on the commercial street were intended to meet their needs.

“I believe,” Daisy said in conclusion, “that this is an opportunity to not only establish a business, but to better the surrounding environment. I hope that Daisy's Emporium is chosen for us all.”

There was a moment of silence as Daisy gave her final curtsey.

She looked over the crowd—at the little girl in the front, still beaming up at her. At Mrs. Wilde, who gave her a tremulous smile. At the woman in the second row who had stopped frowning and was now looking thoughtfully into the distance.

“Thank you.” She turned and swept back to her seat.

“For shame!” someone yelled halfheartedly, but there was a good amount of applause, too. Loud, and more than would come from one or two people being polite.

She'd done well. She knew she had.

Daisy was going to win. She had to believe that to keep the smile on her face. To walk calmly back to her seat with her head held high. She was going to win. Nobody else had gone through parish records to talk about the demand for their business, nobody but her. Nobody else had official estimates from suppliers. Nobody else had a plan anything like hers, and damn it all, if they weren't going to award her the win, she wanted them to at least be embarrassed by their stupidity.

She sat facing the crowd and smiled. Let them call for her shame; they could call forever. She had no shame in besting everyone else.

She had to stay like that, frozen in place, smiling, for long minutes while the judges conferred. The murmur of the crowd grew to a dull roar as people argued over their favorites.

She'd done well. She
would
smile. She had already won; the only question was whether they would award her the victory or steal it from her hands. She wouldn't let any of them see the slightest crack in her composure.

She sat in place, her hands clenching because her teeth should not.

Finally, the grocer came to the front. “Ladies and gentleman,” he said, “after much deliberation, we have reached a near-unanimous decision.”

Daisy would not lean forward. She would not scoot to the edge of her seat. She would not hold her breath.

The man turned to gesture at the stage. “Our winner is…”

He let his sentence trail off suggestively, and oh, that was cruel.

Because her imagination slid her name into that gap.
Miss Daisy Whitlaw.
Every fiber of her being yearned to hear that.
Miss Daisy Whitlaw. Say it. Miss Daisy Whitlaw.

She felt as if she were watching him in a dream. He gestured expansively and spoke. “It's Miss Daisy Whitlaw!”

Her world seemed to fade. It
was
a dream. It had to be. He'd said her name. He had actually said her name.

But it couldn't be a dream. In a dream, his pronouncement would have been met with thunderous applause. Now, the crowd simply murmured in confusion. Someone started clapping madly; Daisy wasn't sure who. But it was just one person.

She didn't care who applauded her or how few. That had been her name. Her name. She'd won. She had really won. It had worked; she had actually won.

Her hopes jumped high, so high. Her heart hammered in her chest.

It wasn't just the money. It wasn't just that she'd won against impossible odds. It was that she'd been brilliant, and they'd been forced to recognize it. She'd fought for her wish, and she had prevailed. The impossible had come to pass.

Daisy felt light-headed. She was not going to faint; she wasn't. She was going to accept the award graciously, sweetly, fairly. She'd make sure they never regretted it.

She started to stand. She'd scarcely stood up from her chair when the grocer let out a loud, wheezing laugh.

“Just a little joke, ladies and gentlemen! I do so love my jokes; I hope you'll forgive me that one. We all know that this esteemed panel could never err in so grotesque a fashion.”

Daisy's behind hit her seat. For a moment, she could scarcely breathe. Little spots swam in front of her. The edges of her vision darkened. She swayed in place.

She had to force herself to take one breath, then another. She wasn't going to faint on stage. The cruelty of the man. Raising her hopes up, only to smash them into the ground. Calling her dreams grotesque in front of everyone.

She was not going to cry in front of them all. She
should
have won. She could have won.

She hadn't.

She steeled her chin, planted a smile on her face, and looked ahead, unseeing.

She scarcely heard the words that followed.

“Mr. A. Flisk,” the grocer said, “your plan for a dry-goods store has been selected as the winner of the contest.”

Daisy couldn't process the sounds that assailed her. Not the applause, tinged with a derisive note. Not the congratulatory speech the grocer gave, nor the grateful acceptance that Mr. Flisk delivered. She fixed a vacant smile on her face and stared into nothing.

She hadn't won. They hadn't let her.

She waited as hands were shaken, as ribbons were bestowed. She waited until the crowd was dismissed and people began leaving the arena in a great mass.

She didn't want to talk to anyone. Not anyone at all.

She slid behind the stage and slipped through an alley. The street on the other side was bare still; she'd avoided them all. Thank God.

When she was sure nobody could see her, she started running. She didn't stop for a long time.