Scandal in Spring (18 page)

Dependable,
Daisy thought. Wrapping a corner of the clean towel around her fingers, she wiped at the mud on his face and blotted the rain caught in his day-old beard. The dark bristle of his jaw fascinated her. She wanted to stroke her bare fingers over it.

Swift held still, his head bent to make it easier for her to reach him. "I hope the others have more success at finding a doctor than I did."

"They may not make it back in time," Daisy replied. "Things have progressed rapidly in the last hour."

He pulled his head back as if her gentle dabbing at his face bothered him. "Aren't you going back in there?"

Daisy shook her head. "My presence is
de trop,
as they say. Lillian hates being crowded, and Annabelle is far more able than I am to help her. But I am going to wait nearby in case…in case she calls for me."

Taking the towel from her, Swift scrubbed the back of his head, where the rain had soaked into the thick hair and made it as black and glossy as a seal's pelt. "I'll return soon," he said. "I'm going to wash and change into dry clothes."

"My parents and Lady St. Vincent are waiting in the Marsden parlor," Daisy said. "You can stay with them— it's far more comfortable than waiting here."

But when Swift returned, he didn't go to the parlor. He came to Daisy.

She sat cross-legged in the hallway, leaning back against the wall. Lost in her thoughts, she didn't notice his approach until he was right beside her. Dressed in fresh clothes with his hair still damp, he stood looking down at her.

"May I?"

Daisy wasn't certain what he was asking, but she found herself nodding anyway. Swift lowered himself to the floor in a cross-legged posture identical to hers. She had never sat this way with a gentleman, and had certainly never expected to with Matthew Swift. Companionably he handed her a small glass filled with rich, plum-red liquid.

Receiving it with some surprise, Daisy held it up to her nose for a cautious sniff.

"Madeira," she said with a smile. "Thank you. Although celebration is a bit premature since the baby still isn't here."

"This isn't for celebration. It's to help you relax."

"How did you know what my favorite wine was?" she asked.

He shrugged. "A lucky guess."

But somehow she knew it hadn't been luck.

There was little conversation between them, just an oddly companionable silence. "What time is it?" Daisy would ask every now and then, and he would produce a pocket watch.

Mildly intrigued by the jangle of objects in his coat pocket, Daisy demanded to see what was inside it.

"You'll be disappointed," Swift said as he unearthed the collection of items. He dumped the lot into her lap while Daisy sorted through it all.

"You're worse than a ferret," she said with a grin. There was the folding knife and the fishing line, a few loose coins, a pen nib, the pair of spectacles, a little tin of soap— Bowman's, of course— and a slip of folded waxed paper containing willowbark powder. Holding the paper between thumb and forefinger, Daisy asked, "Do you have headaches, Mr. Swift?"

"No. But your father does whenever he gets bad news. And I'm usually the one who delivers it."

Daisy laughed and picked up a tiny silver match case from the pile in her lap. "Why matches? I thought you didn't smoke."

"One never knows when a fire will be needed."

Daisy held up a paper of straight pins and raised her brows questioningly.

"I use them to attach documents," he explained. "But they've been useful on other occasions."

She let a teasing note enter her voice. "Is there
any
emergency for which you are not prepared, Mr. Swift?"

"Miss Bowman, if I had enough pockets I could save the world."

It was the way he said it, with a sort of wistful arrogance intended to amuse her, that demolished Daisy's defenses. She laughed and felt a warm glow even as she recognized that liking him was not going to improve her circumstances one bit. Bending over her lap, she examined a handful of tiny cards bound with thread.

"I was told to bring both business
and
visiting cards to England," Swift said. "Though I'm not entirely certain what the difference is."

"You must never leave a business card when you're calling on an Englishman," Daisy advised him. "It's bad form here— it implies you're trying to collect money for something."

"I usually am."

Daisy smiled. She found another intriguing object, and she held it up to inspect it.

A button.

Her brow creased as she stared at the front of the button, which was engraved with a pattern of a windmill. The back of it contained a tiny lock of black hair behind a thin plate of glass, held in place with a copper rim.

Swift blanched and reached for it, but Daisy snatched it back, her fingers closing around the button.

Daisy's pulse began to race. "I've seen this before," she said. "It was part of a set. My mother had a waistcoat made for Father with five buttons. One was engraved with a windmill, another with a tree, another with a bridge…she took a lock of hair from each of her children and put it inside a button. I remember the way she took a little snip from my hair at the back where it wouldn't show."

Still not looking at her, Swift reached for the discarded contents of his pocket and methodically replaced them.

As the silence drew out, Daisy waited in vain for an explanation. Finally she reached out and took hold of his sleeve. His arm stilled, and he stared at her fingers on his coat fabric.

"How did you get it?" she whispered.

Swift waited so long that she thought he might not answer.

Finally he spoke with a quiet surliness that wrenched her heart. "Your father wore the waistcoat to the company offices. It was much admired. But later that day he was in a temper and in the process of throwing an ink bottle he spilled some on himself. The waistcoat was ruined. Rather than face your mother with the news he gave the garment to me, buttons and all, and told me to dispose of it."

"But you kept one button." Her lungs expanded until her chest felt tight on the inside and her heartbeat was frantic. "The windmill. Which was mine. Have you…have you carried a lock of my hair all these years?"

Another long silence. Daisy would never know how or if he would have answered, because the moment was broken by the sound of Annabelle's voice in the hallway.
"Daaaisyyyy!"

Still clutching the button, Daisy struggled to her feet. Swift rose in one smooth movement, first steadying her, then clamping his hand on her wrist. He held his free hand beneath hers and gave her an inscrutable look.

He wanted the button back, she realized, and let out an incredulous laugh.

"It's mine," she protested. Not because she wanted the dratted button, but because it was strange to realize that he had possessed this tiny part of her, kept it with him for years. She was a little afraid of what it meant.

Swift didn't move or speak, just waited with unyielding patience until Daisy opened her fingers and let the button drop into his palm. He pocketed the object like a possessive magpie and released her.

Bewildered, Daisy hurried toward her sister's room. As she heard the sound of a baby crying, her breath stopped with anxious joy. It was only a few yards to her sister's door, and yet it seemed to be miles.

Annabelle met her at the door, looking strained and weary but wearing a brilliant smile. And there was a tiny bundle of linen and clean toweling in her arms. Daisy put her fingers over her mouth and shook her head slightly, laughing even as her eyes prickled with tears. "Oh my," she said, staring at the red-faced baby, the bright dark eyes, the wealth of black hair.

"Say hello to your niece," Annabelle said, gently handing the infant to her.

Daisy took the baby carefully, astonished by how light she was. "My sister— "

"Lillian's fine," Annabelle replied at once. "She did splendidly."

Cooing to the baby, Daisy entered the room. Lillian was resting against a stack of pillows, her eyes closed. She looked very small in the large bed, her hair braided in two plaits like a young girl's. Westcliff was at her side, looking like he had just fought Waterloo singlehandedly.

The veterinarian was at the washstand, soaping his hands. He threw Daisy a friendly smile, and she grinned back at him. "Congratulations, Mr. Merritt," she said. "It seems you've added a new species to your repertoire."

Lillian stirred at the sound of her voice. "Daisy?"

Daisy approached with the baby in her arms. "Oh, Lillian, she's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen."

Her sister grinned sleepily. "I think so too. Would you— " she broke off to yawn. "Show her to Mother and Father?"

"Yes, of course. What is her name?"

"Merritt."

"You're naming her after the veterinarian?"

"He proved to be quite helpful," Lillian replied. "And Westcliff said I could."

The earl tucked the bedclothes more snugly around his wife's body and kissed her forehead.

"Still no heir," Lillian whispered to him, her grin lingering. "I suppose we'll have to have another one."

"No, we won't," Westcliff replied hoarsely. "I'm never going through this again."

Amused, Daisy glanced down at little Merritt, who was falling asleep in her arms. "I'll show her to the others," she said softly.

Stepping into the hallway, she was surprised to find it was empty.

Matthew Swift was gone.

* * *

When Daisy woke up the next morning, she learned to her relief that Mr. Hunt and Lord St. Vincent had returned safely to Stony Cross Park. St. Vincent had found the south road to be impassable, but Mr. Hunt had had more luck. He had found a doctor in a neighboring village, but the man had balked at riding out in a perilous storm. Apparently it had taken a fair amount of bullying from Hunt to convince him to go. Once they had arrived at Stony Cross Manor, the doctor examined Lillian and Merritt and pronounced them both in excellent condition. In his assessment the baby was small but perfectly formed, with a well-developed pair of lungs.

The guests at the manor received the news of the birth with only a few regretful murmurs about the baby's gender. But seeing Westcliff's face as he held his newborn daughter, and hearing his whispered promises that he was going to buy ponies and castles and entire kingdoms for her, Daisy knew he could not have been any happier had Merritt been a boy.

As she shared breakfast in the morning room with Evie, Daisy was aware of a most peculiar jumble of emotions. Aside from the joy that her niece had been born and her sister was fine, she felt…nervous. Lightheaded. Eager.

All because of Matthew Swift.

Daisy was grateful that she had not yet seen him today. After the discoveries she had made last night, she was not certain how she would react to him. "Evie," she entreated privately, "there is something I need to talk to you about. Will you walk in the gardens with me?" Now that the storm was over, weak gray sunlight seeped through the sky.

"Of course. Although it's rather muddy outside…"

"We'll stay on the graveled paths. But it must be out there. This is too private to be discussed indoors."

Evie's eyes widened, and she drank her tea so fast it must have scalded her tongue.

The garden had been disheveled by the storm, leaves and green buds scattered everywhere, twigs and branches lying across the usually immaculate path. But the air was fragrant with the scents of wet earth and rain-drenched petals. Breathing deeply of the invigorating smell, the two friends strolled along the graveled walkway. They knotted their shawls around their arms and shoulders while the breeze pushed at them with the impatience of a child urging them to quicken their pace.

Daisy had seldom known a relief as great as unburdening herself to Evie. She told her about everything that had transpired between herself and Matthew Swift, including the kiss, finishing with the revelation of the button he carried in his pocket. Evie was a better listener than anyone Daisy knew, perhaps because of her struggles with her stammer.

"I don't know what to think," Daisy said miserably. "I don't know how to feel about any of it. I don't know why Mr. Swift seems different now than he did before, or why I am so drawn to him. It was so much easier to hate him. But last night when I saw that blasted button…"

"It had never occurred to you until then that he might actually have feelings for you," Evie murmured.

"Yes."

"Daisy…is it possible his actions have been calculated? That he is deceiving you, and the button in his pocket was some kind of pl-ploy?"

"No. If you had only seen his face. He was obviously desperate to keep me from realizing what it was. Oh, Evie…" Daisy kicked morosely at a pebble. "I have the most horrible suspicion that Matthew Swift might actually be everything I ever wanted in a man."

"But if you married him, he would take you back to New York," Evie said.

"Yes, eventually, and I
can't.
I don't want to live away from my sister and all of you. And I love England— I'm more myself here than I ever was in New York."

Evie considered the problem thoughtfully. "What if Mr. Swift were willing to consider s-staying here permanently?"

"He wouldn't. The opportunities are far greater in New York— and if he stayed here he would always have the disadvantage of not being an aristocrat."

"But if he were willing to try…" Evie pressed.

"I still could never become the kind of wife he would need."

"The two of you must have a forthright conversation," Evie said decisively. "Mr. Swift is a mature and intelligent man— surely he wouldn't expect you to become something you're not."

"It's all moot, anyway," Daisy said gloomily. "He made it clear that he won't marry me under any circumstances. That was his exact wording."

"Is it you he objects to, or the concept of marriage itself?"

"I don't know. All I know is he must feel
something
for me if he carries a lock of my hair in his pocket." Remembering the way his fingers had closed over the button, she felt a quick, not unpleasant shiver chase down her spine. "Evie," she asked, "how do you know if you love someone?"