Scandal in Spring
Page 34
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She fled the library immediately. The hem of the yellow gown trailed after her, curling around the edge of the doorjamb before disappearing like the last ray of the sun slipping over the horizon.
And Matthew wondered bleakly how he was going to interact with her in a normal manner ever again.
It was a time-honored tradition for the mistress of a country estate to act as Lady Bountiful to the tenants and local villagers. This meant giving assistance and advice, and donating necessary items such as food and clothing to those who needed it most. Lillian had performed the duties willingly until now, but her condition had made it impossible.
There was no question of asking Mercedes to substitute for her—Mercedes was too abrasive and impatient for such an undertaking. She did not like to be around sick people. She made the elderly uneasy, and something in her tone inevitably caused babies to cry.
Therefore Daisy was the logical choice. Daisy didn’t mind visiting day at all. She liked taking the pony cart out by herself, to deliver parcels and jars, read to those with bad vision, and collect news from the villagers. Even better, the informal nature of the errands meant she didn’t have to dress fashionably or worry about etiquette.
There was yet another reason Daisy was glad to go to the village…it kept her busy and away from the manor, so she could focus her thoughts on something other than Matthew Swift.
It had been three days since that dreadful parlor game and its consequences—namely, being kissed out of her wits by Matthew. Now he was behaving toward her as he always had, cool and courteous.
Daisy could almost believe it had been a dream except that whenever she was near Swift, her nerves began throwing off sparks, and her stomach swooped up and down like a drunken sparrow.
She wanted to discuss it with someone but that would have been too mortifying, and somehow it would have felt like a betrayal, though of whom she wasn’t certain. All she knew was that nothing felt right. She wasn’t sleeping well, and as a result she was clumsy and distracted in the daytime.
Thinking she might be ill, Daisy had gone to the housekeeper with a description of her condition and had been dosed with a nasty spoonful of castor oil. It hadn’t helped in the least. Worst of all, she couldn’t keep her mind on her books. She had read the same pages over and over again, and they had no power to interest her.
Daisy had no idea how to put herself to rights again. But she thought it would be a good thing to stop thinking about herself and do something for someone else.
She set out mid-morning in the big open pony-cart drawn by a sturdy brown pony named Hubert. The cart was laden with china jars filled with food, bolts of flannel, wheels of cheese, parcels of turnip-fed mutton, bacon and tea, and bottles of port.
The visits were generally quite pleasant, the villagers seeming to enjoy Daisy’s cheerful presence. Some of them made her laugh as they slyly described how it had been in the old days when Lord Westcliff’s mother had come to call.
The dowager countess had dispensed her gifts grudgingly, expecting a great show of gratitude. If the women hadn’t curtseyed deeply enough, the dowager countess had asked sourly if their knees were stiff. She had also expected to be consulted about what names they should call their children, and she had instructed them on what their views on religion and hygiene should be. More aggravating still, the countess had brought food that had been mixed in an unappetizing jumble, meats and vegetables and sweets all crammed together in the same tin.
“Gracious,” Daisy exclaimed, setting out jars and fabric bolts on the table. “What a wicked old witch she was! Just like the fairy tales…” And she regaled the children with a dramatic recitation of Hansel and Gretel that sent them giggling and screeching beneath the table, peering out at her with delight.
By the end of visiting day, Daisy had filled a little book with notes…would it be possible to locate a specialist to look at old Mr. Hearnsley’s failing eyes and might the Blunts be given another bottle of the housekeeper’s tonic for Mr. Blunt’s digestive complaints?
Promising that she would convey all questions directly to Lord and Lady Westcliff, Daisy climbed back into the now-empty pony cart and headed back to StonyCrossPark.
It was almost twilight, long shadows of oaks and chestnuts crossing the unpaved road leading away from the village. This part of England had not yet been deforested to feed the fleets and factories that had sprung up in the major cities. The woodlands were still pristine and other-worldly, scored with small cartways half-buried by overhanging branches thick with leaves. In the gathering shade the trees were wreathed in vapor and mystery, like sentinels for a world of druids and warlocks and unicorns. A brown owl glided over the lane, mothlike in the darkening sky.
The lane was quiet except for the rattle of cart wheels and the clop-clop of Hubert’s iron-shod hooves. Daisy kept a firm grip on the ribbons as the pony quickened his pace. Hubert seemed nervous, his head tossing from side to side.
“Easy, boy,” Daisy soothed, forcibly slowing his pace as the cart’s axle rattled over a rough patch. “You don’t like the forest, do you? No need to worry—we’ll reach open ground soon.”
The pony’s fidgeting continued until the vegetation had thinned and the overhead foliage had disappeared. They passed into a dry sunken lane that was girdled by a forest on one side and a meadow on the other. “There, nervous Nellie,” Daisy said brightly. “Nothing to worry about, you see?”
As it turned out, her confidence was premature.
She heard a few heavy cracks coming from the forest, twigs and branches snapped underfoot. Hubert nickered apprehensively, swinging his head toward the noise. A loud animal grunt caused the hairs to rise on the back of Daisy’s neck.
And Matthew wondered bleakly how he was going to interact with her in a normal manner ever again.
It was a time-honored tradition for the mistress of a country estate to act as Lady Bountiful to the tenants and local villagers. This meant giving assistance and advice, and donating necessary items such as food and clothing to those who needed it most. Lillian had performed the duties willingly until now, but her condition had made it impossible.
There was no question of asking Mercedes to substitute for her—Mercedes was too abrasive and impatient for such an undertaking. She did not like to be around sick people. She made the elderly uneasy, and something in her tone inevitably caused babies to cry.
Therefore Daisy was the logical choice. Daisy didn’t mind visiting day at all. She liked taking the pony cart out by herself, to deliver parcels and jars, read to those with bad vision, and collect news from the villagers. Even better, the informal nature of the errands meant she didn’t have to dress fashionably or worry about etiquette.
There was yet another reason Daisy was glad to go to the village…it kept her busy and away from the manor, so she could focus her thoughts on something other than Matthew Swift.
It had been three days since that dreadful parlor game and its consequences—namely, being kissed out of her wits by Matthew. Now he was behaving toward her as he always had, cool and courteous.
Daisy could almost believe it had been a dream except that whenever she was near Swift, her nerves began throwing off sparks, and her stomach swooped up and down like a drunken sparrow.
She wanted to discuss it with someone but that would have been too mortifying, and somehow it would have felt like a betrayal, though of whom she wasn’t certain. All she knew was that nothing felt right. She wasn’t sleeping well, and as a result she was clumsy and distracted in the daytime.
Thinking she might be ill, Daisy had gone to the housekeeper with a description of her condition and had been dosed with a nasty spoonful of castor oil. It hadn’t helped in the least. Worst of all, she couldn’t keep her mind on her books. She had read the same pages over and over again, and they had no power to interest her.
Daisy had no idea how to put herself to rights again. But she thought it would be a good thing to stop thinking about herself and do something for someone else.
She set out mid-morning in the big open pony-cart drawn by a sturdy brown pony named Hubert. The cart was laden with china jars filled with food, bolts of flannel, wheels of cheese, parcels of turnip-fed mutton, bacon and tea, and bottles of port.
The visits were generally quite pleasant, the villagers seeming to enjoy Daisy’s cheerful presence. Some of them made her laugh as they slyly described how it had been in the old days when Lord Westcliff’s mother had come to call.
The dowager countess had dispensed her gifts grudgingly, expecting a great show of gratitude. If the women hadn’t curtseyed deeply enough, the dowager countess had asked sourly if their knees were stiff. She had also expected to be consulted about what names they should call their children, and she had instructed them on what their views on religion and hygiene should be. More aggravating still, the countess had brought food that had been mixed in an unappetizing jumble, meats and vegetables and sweets all crammed together in the same tin.
“Gracious,” Daisy exclaimed, setting out jars and fabric bolts on the table. “What a wicked old witch she was! Just like the fairy tales…” And she regaled the children with a dramatic recitation of Hansel and Gretel that sent them giggling and screeching beneath the table, peering out at her with delight.
By the end of visiting day, Daisy had filled a little book with notes…would it be possible to locate a specialist to look at old Mr. Hearnsley’s failing eyes and might the Blunts be given another bottle of the housekeeper’s tonic for Mr. Blunt’s digestive complaints?
Promising that she would convey all questions directly to Lord and Lady Westcliff, Daisy climbed back into the now-empty pony cart and headed back to StonyCrossPark.
It was almost twilight, long shadows of oaks and chestnuts crossing the unpaved road leading away from the village. This part of England had not yet been deforested to feed the fleets and factories that had sprung up in the major cities. The woodlands were still pristine and other-worldly, scored with small cartways half-buried by overhanging branches thick with leaves. In the gathering shade the trees were wreathed in vapor and mystery, like sentinels for a world of druids and warlocks and unicorns. A brown owl glided over the lane, mothlike in the darkening sky.
The lane was quiet except for the rattle of cart wheels and the clop-clop of Hubert’s iron-shod hooves. Daisy kept a firm grip on the ribbons as the pony quickened his pace. Hubert seemed nervous, his head tossing from side to side.
“Easy, boy,” Daisy soothed, forcibly slowing his pace as the cart’s axle rattled over a rough patch. “You don’t like the forest, do you? No need to worry—we’ll reach open ground soon.”
The pony’s fidgeting continued until the vegetation had thinned and the overhead foliage had disappeared. They passed into a dry sunken lane that was girdled by a forest on one side and a meadow on the other. “There, nervous Nellie,” Daisy said brightly. “Nothing to worry about, you see?”
As it turned out, her confidence was premature.
She heard a few heavy cracks coming from the forest, twigs and branches snapped underfoot. Hubert nickered apprehensively, swinging his head toward the noise. A loud animal grunt caused the hairs to rise on the back of Daisy’s neck.
