Daisy and the Duke by Elizabeth Cole
Chapter 4
Dear Heather,
I have put off writing to you only because I feared I had nothing new to say. But now I can fill pages, for I have met a gentleman who I never would have dreamed I might say one word to…and yet I can report to you (please burn this letter as a favor to yours truly) that not only have I spoken with him, I have ridden with him, walked with him, and (please, please burn this) even flirted with him.
Here is the worst of it: he is the new Duke of Lyon! I didn’t know, and he did not enlighten me. Until my stepmother saw him and recognized who he was! (You would understand if you saw him, for he was dressed no better than I.)
Heather, you have always been the fearless one among us and so it is you I must ask. What should I do concerning this acquaintance, which is both dizzying and terrifying to contemplate? I am all too well aware of my social position, my lack of wealth, to even attract a gentleman, let alone one so exalted as a duke. And yet, I dare to hope that he has looked on me with a certain regard that is unfeigned. And he does not seem at all what I would have expected a duke to be. But perhaps I am letting my heart run away with my head. When he sees Bella, he’ll no doubt forget me. Advise me to forget him, dear friend, and I will heed your wisdom. Or I will try! But I must hear the thoughts of another whom I trust, for my own thoughts are a maelstrom….
Daisy put down the pen, wearied by recounting even the bare facts of her encounter with the duke. If she told her friend Heather all the truth—that the man had (maybe, perhaps) nearly kissed her while they were riding—well, even Heather might faint.
All in all, it had been a most disturbing day. Immediately after the duke had left, Lady Rutherford insisted on hearing all the details of Daisy’s encounter, mostly to divine any clues that would help her own daughter’s pursuit of him. Hence there were dozens of questions about whether he mentioned other ladies in the county, or if he expressed a preference for a certain color, or if he had hobbies.
“Well, he was riding when he came upon me. And the horse is worth a fortune on its own,” Daisy said, hoping the scrap of information would placate her stepmother. (It was difficult enough to relate a safer, more boring version of the meeting—one that did not include her memory of riding with her body pressed to his.)
“Excellent,” Lady Rutherford had purred. “Bella rides well, and she can use the good horse for any excursion with the duke. I must ensure she has a new riding habit made. Go finish dinner, dear Daisy. The vicar will be here at any moment.”
Daisy did not eat with the family most evenings, and certainly never when the vicar, Mr. Hornthwaite, came. She avoided him as much as possible. For a man of God, he was astonishingly petty and venal. Yet Lady Rutherford counted him a great friend, and often had him to Rutherford Grange. Daisy wondered if the vicar’s favor was why people in the village were always so polite to Lady Rutherford and her daughter, even the tradesmen who were constantly owed money.
As usual, Daisy ate with Elaine and Jacob and the other servants, then sat by the fire mending clothes while Elaine cleaned up the kitchen, singing Welsh folk songs. Elaine sang as naturally as other people breathed, and her choice of tune signaled her mood. Welsh songs invariably meant she was feeling out of sorts and ready to do battle. Jacob raised one eyebrow at Daisy and whispered, “The vicar’s presence always brings out her Welsh side. Don’t worry, lamb, she’ll be sunny again tomorrow.”
After the vicar left and the house was quieting, Daisy went upstairs with an armful of mended clothing. She deposited one gown on Lady Rutherford’s bed. A housemaid who was tidying up nodded in thanks. “Oh, you mended that! Thank goodness, Miss Daisy. You’ve got a finer hand than I do, and those ruffles haunt me. Her ladyship’s always treading on them and she refuses to have it taken up.”
Daisy knew why it was so. Lady Rutherford wished most passionately that she were two inches taller, and she believed a longer gown would convey the impression that she herself was taller. In fact, the only result was that Daisy mended hems regularly.
She continued to Bella’s room with the bulk of the clothing. Daisy put the gowns into the clothespress herself, which was where Bella found her when she walked in.
“Is it true that you mistook a duke for a stableboy?” Bella asked, her voice quiet but incredulous. “Mama told me just before the meal.”
“He was exercising a horse when I encountered him,” Daisy said defensively. “And he did not once mention his title until your mother saw him and shouted it from the rooftops.”
“Oh, Daisy, how could you not put two and two together? His name…”
“How was I supposed to know? He introduced himself as Mr. Brooks, not His Grace, Duke of Lyon!”
“But it’s all anyone’s been talking about for weeks. The new duke is a war hero, scarred in battle. He’s young. And he’s finally come to Lyondale, a year after gaining the title. Honestly.”
“Perhaps that’s the talk over tea, but I’m not taking tea with you and your mother and those who come calling.” No, Daisy was usually overseeing the making and serving of the tea. How could she hear any gossip among the society ladies?
Bella was regarding her with narrowed eyes. “How long did you speak with him?”
“Not long,” Daisy hedged, sticking to the story she’d offered Lady Rutherford. “He simply happened to be passing me along the track. And he slowed down and walked with me to Rutherford Grange. Out of a sense of chivalry, I suspect. He offered to carry the mushrooms,” she added suddenly, remembering her amusement at the gallantry.
“Well, it sounds as if he’s got some manners, even if his background is…odd.”
“Odd?”
“Daisy, do you listen to anything? That man ought never to become a duke. There were four—five? No, four—men ahead of him, with titles already and breeding besides. He’s a third cousin or some such. Barely gentry. He’s never spent time among society and he’s half-savage from serving in the army. But fate plucked him from the heap and placed him at the top of the ten thousand. Like putting a crown on a puppy dog.”
“Do you think the new duke needs to be housebroken?” Daisy asked innocently. “Shall we send some old newspaper over?”
“Daisy!” Bella covered her mouth to stifle a laugh. “That is a most improper subject to jest about.”
“I shan’t repeat it.”
“What does he look like?” Bella asked. “The rumor is that he’s crippled and twisted up and acts like a brute.”
“Nonsense,” Daisy declared. “Yes, he’s got a scar on his face. But he’s tall and rides well and is very hand—” She broke off, scared that she might reveal too much of her raw impressions of the man. “He was quite civilized,” she said. “A brute would not have escorted me home.”
“That’s true,” Bella mused. “All the same, I’m afraid of him.”
Daisy hadn’t felt scared in the duke’s presence. And yet she could guess that he would be very intimidating if he chose. A soldier by trade, and now one of the most powerful men in the land…perhaps Bella was right to be nervous.
But Bella would still obey her mother and try to win a proposal from him. What a strange world, Daisy thought as she headed to her own bedroom.
She had a chamber in the old Norman part of the house, a square block that towered over the newer structure. Daisy liked it, because it was out of the way and offered a fine view of the forest to the east, which made for a pleasant way to get up in the mornings. It was furnished oddly. The bedframe was a massive thing in dark stained oak, carved all over with little flowers. The bed must have been three hundred years old, and was now horribly out of fashion. The rest of the furniture—a table and chair, the washstand, a small cabinet for clothing—were all similarly mismatched, drawn from other places in Rutherford Grange. Daisy didn’t mind at all. Everything in this room belonged to her family, and thus it was part of her.
Daisy had strange, broken dreams in which the new Duke of Lyon appeared quite frequently. In her dreams, she had no trouble responding to his comments with the sort of wit she never mastered in waking life. Unfortunately, all the witticisms evaporated with the dream, and she remembered nothing of what she might have said.
“Not that it matters,” she told herself. Lyondale was only a mile or two away, but it might as well be on the top of a glass mountain for all that she was likely to see the inside of it.
Daisy wished she could lie in bed and relive her brief time with the duke, who had been so human and kind when they spoke. But she had to get up. There were many tasks to be done around the house, and several fell to Daisy, who had been taking on more and more as the years passed.
That morning, she harvested vegetables from the garden and picked apples in the orchard. She gathered eggs from the henhouse, and noted the presence of fox pawprints around the outside, though all the birds were accounted for.
“That fox is back,” she told Elaine when she returned to the kitchen. “I don’t know what we’ll do if the hens stop laying again.” Meat was expensive and reserved for the baroness and her daughter, so a steady supply of eggs was important.
At the news, Elaine clucked like a hen herself. “We need a dog to scare away those creatures.”
“We can’t afford a dog,” Daisy said sadly. She loved animals. But funds were simply too tight, and a well-trained dog would be difficult to find at a good price.
“Oh, by the way. A cart drove by while you were working outside, and brought a package that had been delivered to you in the village.”
Daisy found the large package in the front room and opened it, revealing a bolt of fine cotton cloth. “Oh, dear,” she murmured. An envelope fell out, and she recognized the handwriting of her friend Poppy St. George.
“Well?” Elaine poked her head around the corner. “What is it?”
Daisy read aloud:
Dear Daisy,
I hope this message finds you well. As you might remember, I have stepped in to help two days a week here at my stepfather’s shop, following my older sister’s marriage. It is quite a change from just living at the house with Rose, but I bring her samples of the fabric to touch when I come back, and we make a game of it. In any case, the business is much involved in cotton imports. I have included some samples of a new product, a cotton produced only in one province of India. It would be most appreciated if you could evaluate the cloth and offer us your sincere opinion on its quality. I remember well that you are an excellent seamstress.
Do put the fabric through its paces (please do not tell anyone how I am mangling my metaphors) and write to me when you have time to consider its worth. If you find it acceptable, I will advocate for importing it in greater quantities. I hope the value of the cloth will compensate you suitably for the time you spend evaluating it. Take care, my dearest Daisy. I hope to visit you someday, along with Rose, who says she’d love to spend time in the country. Perhaps our families can arrange for us to come out next spring. Or you can come to London and stay as long as you like. Sometimes I wish we were all still at Wildwood, snug and happy with Mrs. Bloomfield to guard us against the world! But alas, we all must grow up. Do write and tell me your news!
I remain your affectionate friend,
Poppy StG.
Daisy put the letter down and felt the quality of the cotton again. It was a lovely pattern, varied rosettes and faint stripes, all in yellows ranging from pale sunshine to mellow gold.
“A sample, is it?” Elaine said. “That does look like fine fabric, miss.”
“Indeed.” Daisy read between the lines perfectly well. Though couched as a matter of business, the gift was just that—a gift. She did not like charity, but neither could she deny that she needed the fabric. “I can sew a new dress from this, and there will be enough left over to line the hood of your cloak.”
“That would be a relief once winter sets in,” Elaine said, pleased at the notion. “Such a bright color will be warming all on its own.”
However, winter was still a ways off. The afternoon proved warm, and Daisy spent the time weeding the vegetable garden to allow the best growing for the remaining crops. In a month or so, the mornings would be rimed with frost, but early fall still felt like summer, and she relished the golden days.
When she returned to the house, the mood was strangely ecstatic. “Daisy, come here at once!” Lady Rutherford called. (If another, lower-born woman had done this, it would be considered a shout. But Lady Rutherford never shouted.)
Daisy hurried into the parlor where both Lady Rutherford and Bella stood, their faces glowing. Lady Rutherford gestured impatiently. “Come here and read this.”
“An invitation came,” Bella said, forestalling any mystery.
Daisy took the invitation, feeling the weight of the heavy, expensive paper. She read the line her stepmother indicated with one long bony finger.
The Duke of Lyon requests the presence of Lady Rutherford, the Honorable Miss Bella Merriot, and Miss Margaret Merriot at dinner on Thursday the 20th.
“I’m invited too,” she said, not believing it until she read her own name on the paper. How had he known her full name? Oh, doubtless Miss Wallis told him. Daisy often saw the woman at church.
“Yes.” Lady Rutherford wrinkled her nose. “The duke is exceedingly generous. Well, you may come. Bella may need assistance with her ensemble. You have that green gown still, don’t you, Daisy? That should serve.”
It would barely serve. Daisy thought of the dark green dress with a slight shudder. The gown looked acceptable from a distance, but anyone sitting near her at dinner would see how many times it had been patched and mended and let out and remade. The gown had once belonged to Lady Rutherford, but it was now Daisy’s, since the baroness declared it was far more frugal to reuse things than “waste” money on new clothing.
“Bella, that new cream silk gown will look stunning at a dinner,” Lady Rutherford went on. “The candlelight will cast such a perfect glow on your skin. You’ll wear my pearls for the evening.”
“Oh, Mama, may I?” Bella asked, her eyes widening.
“Certainly, darling. This will be a very important night. The night the duke first sees his future bride!”
Surely he’d be so dazzled by Bella’s beauty that Daisy would fade to nothing in her secondhand gown. But then she remembered the bolt of yellow cloth. The twentieth was soon, but the new style of dresses made for quick work. The bodice was simple and the skirt loose and flowing. Daisy even had some jewelry that had been given to her upon her mother’s death. The collection lay in a locked box that Daisy hid at the bottom of her basket of mending. She rarely had a chance to wear any of it, but there were fine pieces she could use for a dinner party. Not the beautiful ruby necklace, which was too fancy, but there was a lovely pearl pendant…or the silver locket with her mother’s hair curled inside. Yes, that would work very well. Daisy could also make an impression that night!
“I’ll go see that Bella’s gown is aired properly,” Daisy said quietly. “And I have some sewing to do as well.”
The others weren’t even listening, chattering about the potential guest list and who might wear what on the twentieth. Daisy slipped away, quiet as a mouse.
A mouse with a plan.