Daisy and the Duke by Elizabeth Cole

Chapter 11

Tristan arrived back at Lyondalewell after dark had fallen. No one asked where he’d been, no one questioned his decisions. That was his life now, so different from living the life of a soldier, where every aspect of the day was tightly regulated and there was always a superior officer ready to jump on your neck for a minor infraction.

Perhaps there were a few benefits to being a duke, he thought, recalling his encounter with Daisy. He’d never meant for it to go so far, but one thing had led to another, and Daisy’s innocent enthusiasm and her utterly bewitching lack of prudery led Tris much further than he’d intended. Before he could think twice, he was so deep into lust that he was absolutely ready to take her virginity, right there in the woods.

That’s what this is all about, isn’t it?she’d asked, not accusingly, but certainly with a clear-eyed realization that Tristan was taking advantage of her. It didn’t much matter that she wanted him to—if he’d listened to her and made love to her then, he’d still be a heel. Tristan could name a dozen soldiers in his regiment alone who had left young women ruined or pregnant, not through malice but sheer stupidity. Men did not exactly think straight when alone with a woman. This simple fact was undoubtably why the daughters of the gentry were kept under lock and key until they were engaged. If Daisy hadn’t lost her inheritance, Tristan wouldn’t have been allowed within a hundred feet of her without a chaperone.

He’d have to guard himself closer in the future, at least until he could figure out how to formally propose to Daisy without the whole shire going up in flames. Because Tristan was certain of one thing: if he wasn’t going to have Daisy, he wasn’t going to have any woman.

Tristan entered the parlor, drawn to the sound of music. Inside, candles glittered in crystal sconces while Miss Wallis played the pianoforte with admirable skill. Jack was there as well, sitting in a velvet upholstered chair, listening attentively, though a book lay facedown on his lap.

Tristan waited until the song ended before stepping through the doorway. “Good evening,” he said. “You play wonderfully, Miss Wallis.”

“Thank you,” she replied with a nod. “His grace bought this piano for me.” She stood up, tidying the loose sheets of music on the top of the pianoforte. “If you’ll excuse me, I do think it’s time to retire. Good night.”

Jack stood up as Miss Wallis left the room, and Tristan was glad his friend was feeling well enough to be able to observe the little niceties of etiquette again. Tris knew it killed Jack to be thought impolite, even though it was quite clear that his illness was the cause.

As Tris walked to the side table to pour himself a brandy, Jack sank back down to the chair. “You missed supper,” he noted. “I think Miss Wallis was worried that you’d fallen off your horse and snapped your neck somewhere. She was only playing so long to keep me company, and to keep her own mind occupied.”

“I was perfectly fine,” Tristan said with a laugh. “Just a long ride, that’s all.” But the words made him realize once again that his actions did matter to other people, even the simple action of staying alive affected the whole household and estate. He added, contritely, “I suppose I should make an effort to return before dark.” And after all, soon he wouldn’t need to haunt the woods, waiting to run into Daisy because his letters all somehow went astray. Soon, it would all be solved!

Jack gestured to the desk. “By the way, your correspondence is there, just in case you don’t want to wait till morning. Including a package from London, I note.”

He eagerly moved to the desk, putting down the glass of brandy and picking up the slightly bulky package from London. Yes, there was the name of the appraiser he sent the diamond to. Tristan felt a thrill of excitement. This note would contain the confirmation he needed to live life his way. He could take care of the declining estate. He could set Miss Wallis up with an annual income so she never need fear being made homeless. He could get Jack back on his feet and ready to open his own law office, if he liked. He could ask Daisy to be his wife, with no concern about her lack of dowry or the cries of the local worthies that he picked an unsuitable girl. Daisy—Miss Margaret Merriot—was eminently suitable, and everyone would know it when they saw her dressed as a duchess, dripping with diamonds from the duke’s very own mine.

“Well?” Jack’s voice interrupted his reverie. “Are you going to open it?”

“Yes, yes.” Tristan shook himself. “I was just…thinking of all this means.”

He could see that Jack was as impatient as himself, so he cut the string and opened the package. The diamond half rolled out of the paper it had been wrapped in, and Tristan picked it up and cradled it as he took the letter in his other hand. He skimmed the first paragraph, then…

…I wish to assure you, your grace, that I took all possible care in examining this stone, to be sure that a mistake was not made. The most detailed tests were conducted. I regret to report that although it superficially resembles a diamond in the rough, and to most eyes would be assumed to be a diamond, this stone is not of the same mineral composition as a true diamond, even a low-quality one with multiple imperfections. It is a variety of quartz, which has no value on the market for precious minerals.

Unfortunately, it is all too easy to mistake this type of stone for diamond. The fault is certainly not your own, and I am glad that I could correct any misapprehension at an early stage. A full report of the examination is enclosed. If your grace has any further questions, my firm stands ready to answer them at your convenience, and of course we are most happy to conduct business on your behalf if you are interested in purchasing or selling real diamonds. It is an honor to serve your grace in this matter….

Tristan read the words over and over, trying to fit them into his universe, and failing.

“What’s it say?” Jack asked anxiously. “What is the conclusion? Is it not a good diamond?”

“It’s not a diamond at all.” Tristan swallowed, his throat painfully tight. “It’s just a stone. A rock. A piece of trash. Cater now has ten thousand pounds of my money to dig up some useless rock.”

“Give me the letter.”

Tristan handed the Jack the letter and the folded report. He could barely think. How was this possible? John Cater wouldn’t lie, not a good friend like him, but the partner, this man who Cater met… He could be a swindler ready to steal from all of them.

And like a fool, Tristan walked right into the trap.

Paper crinkled while Jack read over the report, his legal mind no doubt taking in every word.

“I’m so sorry, Tris,” he said at last, a soft and un-lawyerly phrase that made Tristan understand that things were dire indeed.

“There’s no way to get the loan recalled, is there?” Tristan asked.

“No. By definition, any such investment is a gamble, and—”

“And I lost. God, what am I going to do now?”

“I don’t know, Tris. It was a nice thought, having a source of income that would free you from the usual expectations of your position, and the financial issues you’re facing. But I warned you…”

“You did,” Tristan said, gripping the stone in his fist. That damned stone. He’d dreamed of having it cut into a fabulous shape, put in a necklace, and offering it to Daisy on the day he married her.

But the stone was nothing. In a sudden fit of rage, he hurled it into the fireplace. It bounced against the fireback and dropped into the flames. He hoped it melted and disappeared forever.

“I’m never going to get the money back,” he muttered. The bank could come down on him at any moment, demanding repayment or taking the very land from under him. Land he now realized meant something to him after all, land that kept people working and fed. And he was so stupid that he risked it all on a whim. “What am I going to do?”

“Hold a ball.”

“What?”

“Listen to me, Tris. You tried one way, and it didn’t work. Now it’s back to the old reliable. You have to marry well. Find some eligible lady who’s got the income you need, and you’ll give her the title she needs. This is how things work.”

“I hate how things work.”

“You don’t have to love it, but you do have to do it. People are depending on you.”

Tristan knew Jack was right. He knew it all too well.

* * * *

Daisy heard snatches of rumors through the network of servants in the region, since servants made for the very best gossips. Every time something was delivered to the Grange, people talked. Every time Elaine went to the village, people talked. Apparently the duke was planning something, something big enough to get the whole county murmuring. In the kitchen of the Grange, Daisy kept to her work and was merely glad that none of the gossip was about the duke meeting a certain young lady in the woods one afternoon.

The stolen hour she’d shared with Tristan seemed more and more like a dream with every passing day. Was it possible that they’d really lain that close together and touched each other the way they did? Was it possible that Daisy exposed her body and heart in such a shameless way? Was it possible that she was hopelessly in love?

The last question was what occupied her day in and day out. Daisy worried very much that she’d let her heart run away, all the way to a duke. And considering her situation, there was no hope of winning him. He would court some daughter of the gentry in a calm and proper manner. He’d marry her and bring her to Lyondale, where she’d be the new duchess, all while Daisy watched from the servants’ quarters of Rutherford Grange, her heart broken and battered.

How could she have let this happen? The first meeting was pure chance, but after that…she’d allowed herself to believe in impossibilities. And Tristan took her interest as any man would, and enjoyed the clandestine moments without promising anything. And honestly, what could he promise? Was it Tristan’s dream to marry the impoverished daughter of a dead neighbor, who now had no title and no legacy to speak of? No. He liked Daisy, and she was clear-eyed enough to know that he had taken risks to spend time with her, risks he should have avoided.

But the end of their story was inevitable. Daisy might wish otherwise, but what good could a wish do against the full force of society and tradition?

Then one morning a footman from Lyondale arrived at the Grange with a letter for Lady Rutherford. Daisy happened to be in the parlor when the baroness received it, and thus was present for the woman’s cry of delight as she read the news out loud.

“Ah, at last! The Duke of Lyon is holding a ball. A masquerade ball, at Lyondale!”

“When, Mama?” Bella asked.

“In ten days. My goodness, that’s not much time. We shall have to ensure that you look absolutely perfect, darling. This is a very important event, I don’t have to tell you. When the duke sees you arrive, he must be dazzled.”

“If it’s a masquerade,” Daisy asked, “how would he know who has arrived?”

“Silly Daisy,” the baroness said indulgently. “You’ve never been to such an event. Yes, the guests are masked. But everyone is announced the same as ever. The costumes are merely for fun.”

“What do you want your costume to be, Daisy?” Bella asked. “I’ve got no notion what I should go as.”

“Daisy is not attending.” The baroness’s words were soft, but attracted the attention of both girls.

“Am I not invited?” Daisy asked, feeling her heart contract. Would Tristan do that, perhaps to send her a message that their brief dalliance was over?

“Technically, you are. The Merriot Family, it says, and you are a Merriot.”

I’m more of a Merriot than you, Daisy thought, rebellion, so long held in check, now rising in her all at once. I was born a Merriot.

“But my dear, what would you wear? You have nothing and ten days is not enough time. The inclusion of you in the invitation is simply the result of how it is worded. A politeness, nothing more.”

The matter-of-factness in her stepmother’s tone made Daisy want to cry. Was that it? She was nothing, just an appendage who had been inconveniently named Merriot, so that her stepmother couldn’t simply toss her out with the rest of the rubbish.

Bella was silent, staring at them both with wide blue eyes. What thought lay beyond them—if any—Daisy couldn’t tell.

Then the baroness folded the invitation back up and smiled. “Well, we’ve a lot to do, haven’t we? Bella, we must go to your room and see what gown will be best adapted for a costume. There is just no time for one from whole cloth. That sky-blue one with the pearls is your finest. Perhaps we will make you into a snow princess? With a silver and pearl tiara and a long fur-trimmed cape. Wouldn’t that be pretty?”

“Yes, Mama,” Bella murmured, and her mother swept her along to the upper floor, leaving Daisy alone in the room.

The silence surrounded her, a vast, empty feeling that left Daisy cold. Her eyes pricked, and she was suddenly having difficulty breathing. So this was what it was like to be forgotten.

Just then, Elaine popped her head into the parlor. “There you are, Miss Daisy! Jacob’s been asking for you, he needs help with…what’s wrong?”

She hurried to Daisy, who was barely holding in her sobs. Daisy started to explain, discovered that tears were running down her face, and she could barely speak.

Without waiting a moment, Elaine hustled Daisy down to the kitchen, which was warm and filled with the yeasty odor of baking bread. As Daisy calmed down enough to relate what happened, especially hearing Lady Rutherford’s pronouncement that she would not be allowed to attend the ball, Elaine tutted sympathetically. She gave her hug after hug, telling her that the Grange couldn’t do without her and that fancy lady upstairs didn’t appreciate Daisy as she ought to.

“If I was given an invitation, you’d bet I’d go!” the older lady declared, heedless of the flour decorating her cheeks.

Daisy smiled sadly. “Well, the baroness is right about one thing. I don’t have an appropriate gown.”

“What about that lovely yellow one you just made?”

“That’s not a ball gown,” Daisy said. “I’d need something much different, not to mention that it’s a masquerade, and I certainly don’t have something that would suit as a costume. I’m afraid my attending really is out of the question, no matter how much I may want to go.”

Elaine sighed, shaking her head at the unfairness of it all. Then she said, “Now I hate to make you work, my dear, but the fact is that Jacob had to fix the fence for the chickens—again!—and he’s had no time to dig in the garden. And I’ll do that, but that means I can’t go to the village to do that marketing. I know her ladyship wants you to stay on the estate, but it’s not as if we’ve got extra hands sitting idle!”

No, Daisy thought to herself, there were fewer workers every year, as the baroness let some go to save the cost of paying them. “You’re right. As long as no one sees me go or come back, I should be fine. It shouldn’t take long to harvest some mushrooms or nuts.”

“Oh, thank you, miss. That’s all I really need for tonight—the rest of the marketing can wait till tomorrow.”

In fact, Daisy was glad of the task. It would give her something to do, instead of wringing her heart dry by the kitchen table.

Daisy took a basket and plunged into the woods. For once, she hoped that she would not meet Tristan. She didn’t think she could stand to see him, knowing that it might be for the last time.

The pickings in the woods were growing slim, as the autumn advanced and all the creatures of the forest hunted for their own sustenance. Daisy got some late nuts and a few mushrooms, but this would likely be her last foray before winter set in. Then she realized she was approaching Tabitha’s cottage, and she hurried her pace, hoping to see the woman while she had the chance.

“Tabitha!” she called out when the cottage came into view. She spied the woman tending a leaf fire in her front garden.

“Why, hello, child!” Tabitha’s face crinkled up with pleasure. “What a nice surprise. Come in and sit awhile, if you can spare the time. I just made some raspberry tea.”

“That sounds lovely.” Daisy kissed the old crone on the cheek and then set her basket down by the door.

“Out picking nuts?” Tabitha asked. “I got a good crop of chestnuts, too many for my taste. You’ll take some back home when you go.”

At the word home, Daisy felt the despair rise up again. The Grange felt less like home with each passing hour. “Oh, Tabitha, I’ve had the worst day.”

“Did you now? Tell me.”

So once more Daisy poured out her sorrows, adding a hint of what she’d concealed from everyone else so far—namely, that her heart twisted every time she thought of Tristan. His wry comments, his discomfort with his title but his determination to do his best anyway. How he kissed her so sweetly. And how she knew it was an impossible dream, but she dreamed it anyway.

“Love is a tricky thing,” Tabitha said seriously. “It twists and turns, and it can hurt you before it heals you. But I know that in the end, you’ll be happy.”

Daisy sighed, picturing what Tabitha must mean: someday Daisy would meet a good, solid man who would overlook her material lacks and make a little life somewhere. Perhaps she would be happy…as soon as she put aside her dream of a life with a duke.

“I just wish I could just go to the ball!” Daisy said. “I know it’s a silly wish, but I’ve never been to one, and I’ll never get the chance again. Oh, I’m miserable and I hate it!”

“There, there, my dear. Not every day is full of sunshine, as you know. But not all days are grey, either. You’ll feel better soon, and you’ll see your path.”

Daisy gulped down the raspberry tea, and tried to smile. “I know. I’m just…wallowing.”

Tabitha laughed. “Everyone needs a good wallow now and then. Like a pig wallows in mud. It’s messy, but it feels good to them.”

“I’m glad you’re willing to listen. I hate to bother you with my troubles.”

“Nonsense. Other people’s troubles are no trouble for me. Now you hurry home with these chestnuts. And remember that old Tabitha is always here, should you need me.”

Daisy kissed her goodbye and walked off, feeling a bit more like her old, calm self. Tabitha was right, and she was fussing over things she couldn’t change. It would be better to take things day by day, working to make the Grange the best home it could be. After all, her father’s people had been barons and baronesses of Rutherford Grange for centuries. She had a duty to uphold that tradition, even if the title was no longer going to her.

She decided to walk back along the road, having a full basket now. A short while later, the rumble of a carriage behind her made her step to the side to let it pass. She was surprised, however, to see the phaeton stop.

“Mr. Kemble?” she asked, seeing him lean over to greet her. “Good evening!”

“To you as well, Miss Merriot.” He smiled. “This is my new compromise with my doctor. I get to be outside, but with no exertion to speak of.”

“That sounds most sensible,” she said, pleased to see how healthy he looked.

“May I offer you a ride to the gates of the Grange?” he asked politely. The driver of the phaeton had already leaned over to open the door, so Daisy climbed in, not wanting to be rude.

“Thank you,” she said. “I was just gathering some nuts for our dinner.” She gestured to the basket.

“Sounds very industrious. Perhaps one day I’ll be able to do as much.” He looked rather hopeful about it, and Daisy thought that a good sign.

He asked if the ladies of the Grange had received their invitation to the ball.

Daisy nodded, but added that she herself would not be attending.

Mr. Kemble frowned. “Whyever not? Please come. There will be fireworks. Have you ever seen fireworks?”

“No. I’ve read about them.” Daisy paused. “Forgive me, but wouldn’t his grace hate fireworks? They’re so close to the explosions during the war.” Having heard the story of his experience, and seeing how he’d reacted to the noise while they were by the pond, Daisy doubted if Tristan wanted to hear anything loud or violent.

“It’s true,” Kemble confirmed. “But I had the idea that if he should see and hear such sounds in a place where he’s having a good time, it will help to recalibrate his mind. Of course, that presupposes this party is a place where he’ll have a good time.” He looked at her. “If you’ll be there, the duke’s chances of enjoying the evening will improve considerably.”

“But you see, I can’t, as I have nothing suitable to wear for such an occasion.”

“Oh, I hadn’t thought of that,” Kemble said, looking upset. “We just assumed…since the baroness…”

“Bella will be there,” she assured him. “Along with Lady Rutherford.”

“Yes, but I know that Tris…” He trailed off, looking preoccupied. “There must be something…”

The carriage came to halt. “Rutherford Grange, miss,” the driver said, leaning down once more to open the door for Daisy.

She alighted and then accepted the basket Mr. Kemble handed over to her. “Thank you for the ride, and you mustn’t be concerned that I can’t come to the ball. It’s a very kind gesture to invite me, but I am aware that it’s not practical.”

Mr. Kemble looked sad. “I wish there was a way to change your mind.”

“It’s my wardrobe that one would have to change, Mr. Kemble. But it would take a miracle. Please don’t worry about it anymore. Good night!”

“Well, I reserve the right to worry,” Kemble said, leaning back in his seat. “Good night, Miss Merriot.”

Daisy spent the next few days as she usually did. Life was busy, but she managed to send a few letters. One went to Camellia, who was abed with a nasty cold according to her last letter. Daisy told her that if it persisted, she’d arrange to send some of Tabitha’s throat drops. Despite the abundance of apothecaries in London, Daisy secretly believed Tabitha’s cures were more reliable. Another letter went to Rose and Poppy, in which Daisy told them about the ball. It was still exciting, even though she herself wouldn’t be able to attend.

The routine of life at the Grange was interrupted only by Lady Rutherford fussing about every last detail of Bella’s outfit. A seamstress couldn’t be found at such short notice, so Daisy used one of the baroness’s old fur wraps to trim a floor-length cape for Bella. Daisy was kept busy pressing fabrics and stitching up stockings and running about on the littlest errands.

The mornings grew cooler day by day. The leaves on the oaks had turned and the leaves on the birches fell. It was that perfect season between seasons, when the sky was silver in the morning and gold in the evening. But the afternoons were still mellow and warm, like a second summer, with skies bluer than any June day.

She encountered Tristan later that day, while she was walking through a meadow at the very corner of the Grange property. He was riding, and seemed to only cross her path by chance, but Daisy suspected that luck was not what brought him to the spot. He brightened when he saw her, and Daisy waited for him, feeling her heart rise.

“Daisy,” he called when he was close enough. “I’m happy to see you.”

“I’m happy to hear that,” she returned, feeling warmth in her belly at the sight of him. “What brings you here?”

“Stormer, obviously,” he said with a smile, as he dismounted and walked over to her.

“I meant…” she began.

“I know what you meant, darling Daisy.” He took her hand in his. “I was hoping to see you. One would think you’ve been hiding from me.”

“No, never.” She avoided telling him that the baroness had ordered her to remain at the Grange. Knowing Tristan, he’d blame himself for Daisy’s restrictions. “I’ve been busy. There are a lot of preparations to make for your event,” she said, thinking of how she had to sew some extra pearls onto Bella’s gown later.

“Yes, I can’t wait to see you there. Don’t tell me your costume! I want to be surprised. You know, this is only going to be tolerable with you there, Daisy.”

Daisy bit her tongue. So Mr. Kemble hadn’t passed on her regrets. Or perhaps he had tried, but Tristan hadn’t listened. And she had so hoped that she wouldn’t have to refuse his invitation personally. Regardless, there was no way she could appear at a formal event at Lyondale in what she called her best dress. She just couldn’t.

She opened her mouth to tell him she couldn’t attend, but what came out instead was, “That’s…that’s most kind of you.”

“It’s not entirely kindness,” Tristan said cryptically, not noticing her discomfort in his own distraction. He glanced back toward Lyondale. “Damn, I wish I could stay with you longer, but I should go back. I had a devil of a time getting out for this short ride. There are too many things to do.” He smiled at her again. “There will be fireworks.”

“So I heard,” she replied, unable to meet his eyes.

His smile faded. “There will be more than one kind, possibly.”

“Oh? What?” she asked, curious despite herself.

“That’s a secret. And perhaps it won’t come to pass.”

“You’re being very mysterious, your grace.”

“I like it better when you say my name.” He looked at her with an expression of both heat and longing and it stirred a fire in her belly. “Daisy,” he said then, his voice raw. “No matter what happens…”

“Tristan?” she asked, alarmed at his tone. “What’s wrong? What’s the matter?”

“God, Daisy, there’s so much I want to tell you and I don’t have the time, but maybe at the ball…”

“About the ball—” she began to say.

“No, don’t make me think of it. The fact that you’ll be there is the only reason I’m tolerating the notion. Unfortunately, I can’t stay. I wouldn’t want anyone to get the wrong impression.” He gave her a crooked smile, and moved back to Stormer, mounting up before looking around the meadow. “It’s pretty here. Is this one of the places you keep as meadow for the livestock?”

“Yes, your grace.”

“See? I’m learning! God, I can’t wait till this stupid party is over and we can talk about planting schedules again. Did you know you can make any topic riveting, Daisy?”

“I do my best, your grace.”

“Tristan, sweetheart. I told you I don’t want any your graces from you. Good night!” He rode off.

She felt a smile spread over her face as she listened over and over to the memory of him saying her name.

Daisy felt a little shiver, and shook herself. She was letting her daydreams get quite out of hand again. It didn’t matter anyway. She couldn’t go to the ball, because she had nothing to wear. “But I want to go,” she said out loud, and knew it was true.

“I want to go,” she said aloud to the gathering night. “I want to go. I want to go to the ball. Please.” She wasn’t sure who or what she was asking, but she remembered her conversation with Mr. Kemble about the need for a miracle. She looked at the sky and found one of the first faint stars. “I wish for a miracle,” she said to it, her voice rising slightly. “Just one evening with him. Please let me go to the ball.”