Debutantes: In Love (26 page)

‘I fear that I am quite unwell,’ she gasped and then her face contorted with pain. By the bulge in the bedclothes she had one of the big stone hot-water bottles by her side, but that would not be enough to account for the crimson flush on her cheeks. Daisy touched her forehead gently. It was burning hot. Some aspirin lay beside her and a mug of Mrs Pearson’s special cough-and-cold remedy made from turnips, brown sugar and lemon juice, but Great-Aunt Lizzie was beyond such simple treatments. Daisy took her hand and held it for a moment. The pulse was tumultuous.

‘We’ll get the doctor to you very soon,’ she promised, replacing the hand under the blankets.

‘Your father,’ gasped the old woman, and Daisy nodded understandingly. ‘Don’t trouble yourself, Great-Aunt Lizzie. I’ll look after everything.’ She felt tears come to her eyes as she ran down the stairs to where Morgan stood waiting for her in the hall.

‘You go for the doctor, instantly, Morgan. Tell him that she needs to be in hospital. She’s burning with fever and she has a terrible pain. Tell him . . .’ She lowered her voice. ‘Tell him that my father . . .’ she hesitated, glancing at Bateman’s impassive face. ‘Tell him everything,’ she ended. She had complete trust in Morgan and she saw his face warm with understanding as he looked down at her. He nodded – a world of sympathy in his eyes – and then was gone.

‘I’ll go down to the kitchen, Bateman, and have a cup of tea there before I see my father,’ she said when the door had shut behind Morgan. She didn’t wait for a protest, but went straight down, leaving him hovering in the hall. Mrs Beaton, the cook, would be easier to talk to about what was really going on. Bateman had such huge loyalty that he would not even appear to question any decision the Earl might make.

Even the kitchen was not as warm as usual. Probably because the vast old oven was being fuelled with wet wood rather than coal. Mrs Beaton was whisking up some eggs and gave a little scream at the sight of her.

‘What happened to my father, Beaty?’ asked Daisy bluntly as she pulled out a stool and sat herself as near to the stove as possible.

‘Just opened the letter from Sir Denis’s lawyer – that’s what Mr Bateman says – and once he had read it he just sat there and didn’t move.’ The cook looked around furtively and then whispered, ‘Don’t tell anyone. I saw the letter when Nora brought down the waste-paper basket. They want to take Beech Grove Manor away from him and use the rents to repair the house and put the estate in order. It gave him a terrible shock. That’s the way he’s been ever since – just sits there staring into the empty fireplace. When Nora tried to make up the fire he sent her out. We’ve been so worried about it all; not for ourselves – us old folk want to retire and Nora will easily get another job – no, it’s for his lordship.’ It seemed to be a relief to Mrs Beaton to talk, and everything poured out – all about the stubbornness of Great-Aunt Lizzie and then orders about unnecessary fires, about how the coalman was turned away when he came with his usual delivery.

Things can’t be that bad, thought Daisy. Her father should not condemn the mainly elderly servants, as well of course as Great-Aunt Lizzie, to lead that sort of existence in his house. After all, he had been ridiculously insistent on paying for their presentation dresses. He need not have done that. Elaine would have preferred to do it herself and certainly she had plenty of money. In fact, Daisy knew that she planned to give the money back to him by some means or other.

She looked around the huge kitchen. There just were not enough servants to run the place. Would it perhaps be best, after all, if her father were forced to leave it – perhaps came to some agreement with Sir Denis and retired to a small house in the village, or even to a flat in London? These things happened to other landowners. It was a bad time for farming.

And yet, she knew his stubborn nature and she knew how much Beech Grove Manor meant to him.

To please Mrs Beaton she had some scrambled eggs piled on top of home-made wholemeal bread with her cup of tea. ‘Good old hens, still laying those nice brown eggs,’ she said lightly. And then, anxiously, ‘Does my father eat anything?’

Mrs Beaton shook her head with a heavy sigh. ‘I send some up,’ she said, ‘I’ll set a tray for him, but it’ll come back untouched. Same with Lady Elizabeth. If it weren’t for the servants, there would be no need for me to be here.’

‘You’ll always be here,’ said Daisy, trying to smile. ‘It’s this wretched court case that is upsetting my father. They are having a hearing in just over a fortnight, and perhaps when that is over and done with he will feel better.’ I’ll get Justin to go with him, she thought, and wished that she had telephoned Violet before she left London. Still, she would see her father first – perhaps Morgan might be able to persuade him on some pretext to leave the library and give her time for a few phone calls. Elaine should know how ill her aunt was, she thought, and then remembered that Elaine hated her. And Violet would not want to leave London; and Poppy was just engaged . . . and Rose – well, Rose was a darling, but only a little girl despite her long words.

Me and Morgan, we’ll just have to cope on our own, she thought, and turned her attention back to Mrs Beaton, who was explaining how the previous earl had kept everything to himself. ‘The trouble was that the present earl, your father, always had his mind on the soldiering and he had no interest in the estate,’ said Mrs Beaton confidentially. ‘Now his brother, Mr Robert – the Honourable Robert Derrington, I should say; how he used to laugh about that title, poor fellow, saying that it sounded so stuffy – well now, Mr Robert, he had a great interest in the estate and he knew everyone and was full of ideas for farming for profit – that’s what he used to say. He’d come in and sit there, just where you’re sitting, and he’d say, “If only Michael would come home and take an interest in things. My father is still stuck in the eighteenth century” – that’s what he used to say. He managed everything for the old earl, but he had no liberty to carry out his own ideas. That’s what he used to say anyway, but he was only nineteen or twenty years old. As time went on he would have been trusted more and more, I dare say. It was a terrible shame that they quarrelled – father and son falling out over that silly business.’

‘The governess, wasn’t it?’ asked Daisy idly. She forced herself to swallow some more scrambled eggs. She didn’t feel hungry, but she did not know what the coming hours would bring.

‘That’s right – that Miss St Clair. Pity she ever came to the house, though she was nice with the child, with Lady Elaine – I’ll give her that. But she should have discouraged Mr Robert from hanging around the nursery so much. Any pretext would do him. Making the child, Lady Elaine, I should say, laugh with his old one-eared rabbit or telling her jokes. But of course it was the governess that he had his eye on. And she had a couple of afternoons off as Lady Elizabeth liked to do educational things with the little girl – and I suppose that was when the trouble started. He taught the governess to ride, and goodness knows what happened out there in the woods.’

Daisy smiled. She could just imagine. How many love affairs had those ancient woods seen? she wondered.

‘But then things came to a head,’ continued Mrs Beaton. ‘There was the big row with the old earl. Mr Robert took himself off to London – and I did hear that his father stopped Mr Robert’s allowance – trying to bring him to heel, I suppose – but it didn’t work. Mr Robert just went off and joined the army – the second battalion of the Buffs here in Kent, and the next thing we heard was that he was killed in that nasty Boer War. Don’t know why they have to have all these wars, and that’s a fact. People getting killed before their time and leaving the old people behind to mourn them.’ Mrs Beaton sighed heavily and put some goose fat into a large pan. A pot of potatoes simmered on another part of the stove and Daisy guessed that dinner this evening was going to consist of scrambled eggs and potatoes. What would Sir John and Lady Elaine make of that? She got up from her stool and went towards the door.

‘I think I’ll go up and see Great-Aunt Lizzie again,’ she said. ‘Morgan has gone for the doctor. I’m sure that they’ll want to send her to hospital. She’s very ill. I’ll pack a few things for her, just in case. Thanks for the lovely scrambled eggs, Beaty.’

Mrs Beaton made some enquiry about London as she went out, but Daisy pretended not to hear. She did not feel like any gossipy conversation about balls. All of that seemed to be light years away. She would not endeavour to see her father just now, she decided. She would wait for the doctor’s arrival and then just usher him into the Earl’s presence.

Had Michael Derrington slipped over the edge into madness? she wondered as she climbed up the back stairs. Stories she had heard of his father had often suggested to her mind that he had been slightly insane. How absurd to make such a fuss because a young man flirted with a pretty governess.

Robert, of course, was probably destined to marry Elaine and to keep the other half of the Carruthers’ fortune in the Derrington family. It would have all been very neat. Two brothers marrying two sisters – and both of them heiresses. That was why there had been such fury when he had fallen in love with . . .

Suddenly Daisy stopped on the stairway. With a governess called Miss St Clair. Rose had told the story, but she had called the governess Lucinda.

Lucinda meant nothing, but St Clair . . .

Great-Aunt Lizzie was fast asleep, moaning slightly, but her eyes were closed and her breathing heavy. Daisy moved around the room quietly packing a couple of nightdresses and a toilet bag and some other necessities into small suitcase which she found on top of the wardrobe.

And then, as the old lady still slept, she went quietly out of the room and up the stairs to the gallery where hundreds of framed family photographs decorated the walls.

‘There were none of the governess – but then Great-Aunt Lizzie had removed all pictures of Elaine when the scandal of the seventeen-year-old girl’s pregnancy had become known to her relations. No doubt, somewhere in the old lady’s secret desk drawer there would be a photo of the blonde little girl with her governess.

But there were plenty of Robert Derrington – from a child of about three, clutching a soft toy, a one-eared rabbit; to a school boy with a cheeky grin; right up to a dark-eyed, dark haired young man with a nice smile, though none of him in the uniform of the famous Kent regiment, the Buffs. By that stage the break with his father must have stopped the exchange of photographs. And Great-Aunt Lizzie, of course, would have been furious at the young man’s refusal to fall in with her plans.

He would have been my uncle if he had lived, thought Daisy and then, suddenly, another thought came to her.

No, she was the child of Elaine Carruthers and Clifford Pennington, who was killed in a hunting accident aged only seventeen. Robert Derrington had, of course, no blood relationship to the illegitimate daughter of his brother’s sister-in-law.

Chapter Thirty

Friday 9 May 1924

‘Daisy, your father . . . he’s not well . . . shell-shock . . .’ Between bursts of painful coughing Great-Aunt Lizzie clutched at Daisy’s sleeve and fixed her fever-bright eyes on the face of her great-niece. Daisy had managed to make her swallow a draught of Mrs Beaton’s home-made cough syrup and her breathing was a little easier.

‘Don’t worry about anything, Great-Aunt Lizzie. I’m home now and I’ll look after Father.’ Daisy endeavoured to make her voice calm and reassuring. She dabbed a cloth soaked in lavender water on the woman’s burning forehead and wished that the doctor would hurry. At his own request Dr Taylor had gone alone into the library and he had been a long time shut up with the Earl. One part of Daisy wished that she could hover in the hallway and try to find out what was happening, but the other half wanted to call him out and get him to attend the more urgent case of the elderly woman who was in immense pain.

‘Don’t worry, Great-Aunt Lizzie,’ she repeated. ‘Don’t try to talk. Talking makes you cough and coughing hurts, doesn’t it?’

The only answer was a moan. The incoming breath seemed to squeak in the woman’s lungs. Daisy got to her feet resolutely and went out of the bedroom, closing the door quietly behind her and running lightly down the stairs. Morgan was kneeling on the floor in front of the huge fireplace in the hallway. He had carried in a large dusty log and was lighting some newly split pieces of kindling under it. Despite her feelings of anguish and terror, Daisy almost smiled at the sight. Morgan was never one to sit still for a moment. He had only been back in the house for about fifteen minutes and already he had managed to organize some heat.

‘I’ve lit a fire in the dining room also,’ he said looking up at her, ‘and I have some wood in the basket for one in the library.’

‘Oh, Morgan, we’ll have to get the doctor to Great-Aunt Lizzie; she’s very ill.’ Daisy held herself very straight, trying to stiffen her spine and resisting a surprising impulse to throw herself into his arms. She thought for a moment. Dr Taylor’s soothing tones, talking about a horse that he had bought, came from the library, but her father did not seem to be responding. There is no time for this, she thought impatiently. She felt a little ashamed at her lack of sympathy, but Great-Aunt Lizzie’s need was greater. Unfortunately her father’s troubles could not be cured by a bottle of medicine. It might be half an hour before the doctor could coax him to say a word, and then what?