Page 6 of Daisy and the Duke
“Turn left,” he muttered, seeing the huge tree that split the water into two separate, tumbling brooks.
He glanced down the righthand path, feeling a bit contrary. Who was that old woman to tell him where to ride?
But then he heard something, and paused. Singing? The sound was faint and far away, but something about it was enchanting. And it came from the direction of the left-hand path.
So that is where he rode.
Chapter 2
At about the same timethat Tristan and Jack were pulling up to the steps of Lyondale, another scene was unfolding not far away.
Rutherford Grange had been the home of the barons of Rutherford for centuries, so entwined with the family that locals often skipped the full name of the place and referred to it simply as “the Grange.” The land behind the great house was forested, and the green trees were just beginning to blush with color as the summer closed and autumn entered. Beyond the trees, a range of hills rose, bare stone peeking out in patches. Birds sang in the high branches and a soft breeze rustled the dry leaves and grasses. It was as fine a day as anyone could ask for.
Daisy Merriot didn’t get to see any of this glory, for she was working in the kitchens alongside the house’s servants.
Daisy plunged her hands into a washtub of scalding water and scrubbed the next dish vigorously. Soap bubbles flew out, but she paid no mind. This task needed to be finished quickly, or the servants would fall behind schedule, and that made the lady of house quite cross. No one wanted this, least of all Daisy, who faced her wrath more often than anyone else.
“Here, Elaine,” she said, pulling the clean dish out of the water and handing it to the other servant to dry. “We’re almost done.”
“We’re never done,” Elaine grumbled, taking the dish.
“Well, then be happy it’s so, for we have stable work to keep us occupied,” Daisy said, trying to look on the bright side.
“It’s not right, my lady,” Elaine insisted, slamming the dry plate down a little too hard. “You ought to be up in the great hall, instead of that…woman.”
Daisy sighed, for this was an old, old conversation among the servants of Rutherford Grange. “You mean to sayLady Rutherford.”
“Aye,Lady Rutherfordup there, while you toil as a scullion in your own home.”
It was true that, at the age of twenty, Daisy never expected for her life to look this way. But then, she never expected her father to remarry when Daisy was twelve, or for him to die so soon after, or the news that the last will and testament of the Baron Rutherford turned out to be quite different than expected. Rather than Daisy inheriting the title and estate, it seemed that the baron’s surviving spouse would receive them instead, as well as the guardianship of Daisy until her twenty-first year.
A few days after her father’s funeral, Daisy learned that she was not to be addressed as the Honorable Margaret Merriot anymore, but rather as plain Miss Margaret, or (by more and more folks) simply as Daisy. And she would not return to school at Wildwood, but would instead remain at Rutherford Grange to help the family through this difficult time. Somehow, that meant Daisy taking on the management of the house and the lands, while performing ever more daily tasks that kept her among the servants and the tenants instead of with her stepmother and stepsister, Lady Rutherford’s own daughter, the Honorable Bella Merriot by courtesy. How quickly things changed.
The young, grieving Daisy was bewildered and confused by all the sudden upheavals following her father’s death. Those first few weeks were a blur of despair, and the next few months not much better. Her great love for the estate of Rutherford Grange was all that kept her going—she knew this land better than anyone else, and she knew how to manage the house and the grounds to keep the income relatively steady, and to keep the tenants working and fed.
All that was six years ago, and it now seemed like another person’s life. Daisy once dreamed of marrying and having a family and growing old at Rutherford Grange. Now, only one of those things would likely happen, and not in the manner she first imagined.
Still, she thought,it’s home. And it’s better to be here than in some strange and cold building far away, where no one knows me and no one cares about me.
“Miss Daisy,” a man said. “Her ladyship wants to speak with you.”
“Thank you, Jacob.” She smiled at him. Jacob was married to Elaine, and they’d been at Rutherford Grange since Daisy was born. She couldn’t imagine doing all this work without them to help her. Yes, there were other servants in such a great house, but not as many as there used to be, and none so dear to her heart.
As Daisy climbed the servants’ stairs from the kitchen to the first floor, and then moved to the grand staircase that led to the parlor, she passed several portraits of her family. At the top of the stairs, she paused in front of the large oil painting of her father.
“Good day, Papa,” she said quietly. She always greeted him when she passed by, fancying that he still watched over her.
Her schoolfriend Poppy had expressed (in very colorful terms no young lady should know) that the late baron must have been mad when he placed Daisy under the care of her stepmother.
Daisy had dutifully replied, “I am certain Papa thought he was acting in my best interests. After all, I have a home and I am fed and clothed.”
“You would have had those things as Lady Margaret,” Poppy had said. “Now you have a pallet by the embers.”
“That’s an exaggeration—I have a bedroom, just as before. And as a young baroness with no guardian, I should have been a target for fortune hunters,” Daisy pointed out.
“That sounds much more fun,’” Poppy had noted with a sly smile.
Now, as Daisy gazed upon the portrait of her father, she wished she could speak with him just once more, even for an hour. She had so many questions, and no way to find answers. The image looked out at her, almost as real as the man himself. The baron was not a tall man, nor could he have been termed a Corinthian in any way. But he possessed an amiable smile and kind eyes, and the painter had captured these qualities in oil. In the painting, he sat in a dark leather chair, wearing a black jacket over a snowy-white shirt. His cravat had been tied simply, as he’d done in life. Her father had not been a fussy man, nor overly concerned with details. Perhaps that was to Daisy’s detriment.
