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In time, nurse carried the baby away. Darcy sat upon the side of her bed until sleep overtook her. When she awoke, he was gone. A silk pillow lay just beyond her hand. Upon it lay three red roses.

Chapter 30

The House That Daisy Built

Once in a while Blind Fortune bestows her gifts on such as can use them.

That was Daisy’s justification for becoming so rich, so fast. After taking an exhilarating roll in her share of the money, she went on holiday to Brighton.

It did not suit her.

She hied back to London and immediately returned to her previous haunts. Against all good judgement, she did not hide her new found riches, she flaunted them. If pushed as to how she came in possession of such a fortune, her answer was always the same.

“Me auntie died.”

Faster than that, everybody in the Dials knew Daisy had enough money to live anywhere she wanted, in any manner she chose. All the money, in all the banks in London, could not, however, make her a lady (at least as defined by nobs of the West End). She had no delusions about that. Her precipitous rise was not in class—she was who she was and always would be. Her elevation was one of situation.

Daisy’s mother had always held that there was no making a silk purse out of a sow’s ear and Daisy figured she was right. Money allowed her within elbow-rubbing distance of quality folks and she did not much like what she saw. Before riches befell her, she had taken quite a gander at them as they scurried up Drury Lane, handkerchiefs covering their noses lest they be offended by her foul approach. When it came to sows, the fancy folk with their fart-catching footmen following fast behind were pure pork. There were whores aplenty walking the streets of the Mayfair. Their game was as fine as any strumpet in St. Giles Parish.

Caught between these two reprehensible worlds, Daisy decided to build her own social order.

She bought a decaying old mansion house a block away from Regent Street and had it pulled down. In its place she erected a house to match any other. (This action sent the surrounding property values into a stunning state of flux.) The bricks were painted white, the pillars black, and the fence surrounding the place, red. No blowsy women screeched ribald repartees at passing men as they had on Gowell Street. Daisy thought that a pity.

Once the cashmere drapes were up and the Smyrna carpets down, she hired a quartet of footmen to stand by the door. Just to agitate the ladies of the ton, she sometimes ambled into stores where they shopped. Soon she had enough trappings of the rich that she could pass for a lady of society—so long as she did not open her mouth. It was merry work indeed to watch the shopkeeper’s expression alter when she flashed her money and then told them where to send her purchases. In the end, money always over-ruled discrimination.

She then set about filling her house with her own special sort of servants. They were more like guests who worked for their keep. As she was not exacting when it came to letters of recommendation, she had her pick of maids and footmen from a host of origins. (Many were suspected of having lodged within hollering distance of Old Bailey.) Due to Daisy’s relaxed standards, her residence soon became a haven for indigent whores, wayward thieves, and motherless urchins. So long as they did not bring the law to her door, she let them be.

In her house, all of her maids seemed to be unmarried wenches in a family way. Every room in her house became so thick with fallen sisters that it looked as if Daisy was into missionary work. She was not. It mattered little to her what arrangements her girls had made for their ever-lasting souls. She asked nothing of them so long as they did not try to sell it to her. Daisy still harboured an abhorrence of religiosity. From what she’d seen, nothing was so cold as Christian charity.

Her penchant for rescuing damsels with a bean up the spout meant that she curried a more than passing relationship with a doctor up the street. He was a sot, but better than no help at all when a baby came due. He had been a surgeon until his hands grew too shaky to hold a knife. His coat was that of the butcher trade, stiff from blood, it boasted his years of practise. It stank like a slaughterhouse.

Daisy demanded “Why don’t you wash that blessed coat?”

The man was haughtily self-righteous, retorting, “Would you have an executioner pare his fingernails before chopping off somebody’s head?”

She did not ascertain exactly how one had anything to do with the other and kept a keen eye on his doings. With time and repetition, she became a fair midwife herself. Sometimes, however, all did not go well. Despite due care, mothers died. More often, babes were stillborn. At times, both were called. Whatever the tragedy, Daisy upped for the burial and paid for a grave-watcher to boot. Those hastened to the grave through misfortune or chance became known within the household as Daisy’s Dear Departed. To be recognised for something other than being a carnal oddity was fine with her. She guessed that she had truly found her calling—she who God had made barren—was the womb and the way of babes of the left hand.

———

It was easy to see how her house came to be overrun with rag-tags and riff-raff, outlaws and working class agitators. Its corner lot was well-situated; she had an empty great room and an open-door policy. So long as they paid for the ale they drank and did not tear the drapes, they could make free with their speeches all the night long. She had always been a late-riser anyhow.

By virtue of the size of her house, she had more trouble from the righteous looking for a handout than from starving beggars. Panderers for the Lord and crammer-weaving politicians came by daily in want of a donation. No matter their cause, her response was all-inclusive.

“Piss off!”

She knew trouble was bound to find her. Ill-will from do-gooders and fifty-odd men gathering each night was certain to alert the wrong sort.

As seditious meetings were prohibited, those within her walls claimed to be simply a reading society. Unfortunately, they did more arguing than perusing literature. Defying the law did not bother her conscience, but Daisy knew any minute torch-bearing reactionaries could set fire to her rafters. It was worry enough that she began to have a look at the newspapers. She was not untaught, but words above two syllables gave her trouble. As part of her refashioning programme for her wayward wards, she vowed to improve on that. Disinclined to invite a tutor into her house, she looked amongst her own maids and found one who had been convent-raised (an education considered good as gold to Daisy).

Mary Catherine Patrick was a day maid with a perpetually runny nose and a penchant for sad tales of woe. Daisy spent part of every day at the cook’s table, reading books of varying lengths and difficulty to Mary Catherine. Although she could be talked into lifting her skirts for a kind word or a piece of hard candy, Mary Catherine soon became a bit of a pet. It did not escape Daisy’s notice when one of the firebrands of the society began to sweet talk the girl. Not unlike the others of his ilk, his orotundity included healthy doses of what he called “the working man’s plight.”

“I’ll wager he’ll stand for Parliament one day,” said Mary Catherine.

Disdainful of men in general and politicians specifically, Daisy said, “Yea, he’s given yer a poke and told yer he’s doing yer the favour, now hasn’t he?”

As Mary Catherine’s
apron was tied under her armpits to cover her belly, she had no riposte. In truth, her new man-friend was not her baby’s father, but she did not have the heart to tell Daisy (or her man-friend) that. Belly or not, every night she was in the middle of the raucous speechmaking in the downstairs hall. She saw that as entertaining as any man’s kisses.

“Cash, Corn and Catholics” was their rallying cry, but the dearth of jobs was the real issue. Once the Lords Lieutenant was given leave to apprehend all printers, writers and demagogues responsible for seditious and blasphemous material, even Daisy was outraged. Whatever Habeas Corpus was, it had been suspended. That meant she had to close her doors to their meetings lest she be drug off to Old Bailey herself.

Thereafter, the only men who came to Daisy’s house came to visit with her already fiddled-with maids. Peace seemed to have been restored, but unrest simmered near the boiling point.

Daisy’s foremost concern was the neediness under her own roof. At the rate babies were dropping, she knew time would come to improve her accommodations. A dormitory would be nice. Perhaps after that, a school. Or at least that was how she saw it play out in her mind’s eye. She was no longer known as Daisy Mulroney, but The Marmot Mother of Method Street.

All in all, she was rather pleased with herself.

Once in a while she thought of little Sally Frances. If asked, she would have said that she hoped never to see the girl again.

She meant no ill will.

Sally gone meant Sally was free. She had escaped St. Giles Parish and all that came with it.

Chapter 31

Elysium Fields

The Darcys had forsworn inviting their children to perform for the delectation of captured guests. However, even the most reluctant parent cannot refuse when the audience is much in want of being amused.

Young Anne, Cathy, and Janie sat together on the piano bench, each ready to take their turn at the keys. After several months of practise at the pianoforte, Georgiana believed that her young students were prepared to play for a receptive audience.

She announced, “Lady Catherine admires proficiency upon the instrument. But as she no longer finds herself a good traveller, we shall take Anne and Cathy to Kent week next to exhibit their progress.”

To this, Fitzwilliam made the aside, “When the bell heralds a caller at Whitemore, there is no longer cause for alarm.”

Looking all round, Georgiana continued, “Pray, allow us a rehearsal for my aunt.”

Consent was cheerfully given.

The little girls were far too young to be truly accomplished, but their enthusiasm was well-represented. Moreover, everyone enjoyed the sight of their tiny slippers dangling from the piano stool as they plunked on the keys. When they compleated the piece (as it was), Georgiana helped them down and they curtsied.

Before the last notes were wrenched from the instrument, Fitzwilliam had called, “Huzzah! Huzzah, I say!”

His daughter, Anne was clearly the superior of the three, but he applauded them all equally. Georgiana beamed proudly, insisting that the girls were true musical prodigies.

Elizabeth whispered to her, “It is clear that Anne has inherited her mother’s talent.”

Georgiana blushed, clearly pleased by the observation. When the exhibition was concluded, little William was then brought centre stage. The other children were then allowed to trot back upstairs to the nursery.

The Gardiners had come thither from London just to admire the newest Darcy. All admired his healthy cheeks, strong legs, and happy disposition. He had large eyes surrounded by a tangle of lashes, but William’s hair was a lighter shade of brown than his siblings. Their hair was thick, his was surprisingly wispy. In the sunlight, it was almost gold. Elizabeth held him in her lap for all to admire. By clasping each of his mother’s forefingers for leverage, he tightened his podgy knees and drew himself upon his feet. His legs wobbled like a new calf’s, but he managed to maintain his foothold. His father looked upon the struggle with great paternal pride. Mr. Darcy was not one to crow, but his wife was happy to do so for them both.

“Look there! Is he not the strongest boy in the county?” she exclaimed. “You are as sturdy as you are handsome, Willy!”

For a countenance that was so recently overspread with pride, Mr. Darcy’s expression hastily altered. Such a suggestion left him keenly displeased.