Page 15 of Daisy and the Duke
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 Rutherfordnevershouted.)
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.”
