a breathless halt and looked around the crowded ballroom, she could see no sign of the Duke’s tall figure.
Freddie dutifully called on the Nottenstones the next morning to ask the Countess’s permission to take Daisy to Henley on Saturday. He then left, slightly dazzled with the warmth of his reception from the Countess, but, as she confided to the Earl later, the Countess was pleased to see that Daisy had netted an eligible suitor so quickly.
“Old Neddie is not exactly the most respectable of parents,” she said. “And then, of course, the girl appears to have no dowry. I must say I am surprised Neddie Chatterton even has enough to give her an allowance. The French casinos must be luckier for him than the English ones.”
“Probably still cheating,” said her husband dryly.
To Daisy’s disappointment Saturday turned out to be a damp, misty day. Beads of moisture gleamed on the shining paint work of the motorcar as she gingerly climbed in and waited for the chauffeur to crank up the engine. She was wearing a new light tweed motoring dress with a motoring hat which the Countess had assured her was the latest thing. It was like a magnified version of a man’s tweed cap and swathed in suffocating layers of veiling. After they had putt-putted decorously down the road for a few minutes, Daisy pushed back her veil. The damp air was making it stick uncomfortably to her face.
Henley itself was shrouded in heavy mist as if the town had taken to wearing the latest in motoring veils as well.
It had been a singularly quiet journey and all Daisy’s attempts at light conversation had been met with monosyllables. She decided he was nervous.
“Well… here we are,” burst out her companion finally. “You’ll soon meet the mater.” He turned and gave Daisy a singularly sweet smile and her spirits rose.
She felt mature and confident. Mrs. Bryce-Cuddestone was sure to like her. Her wedding dress would be of white satin with seed pearls. The bells of London Town would proclaim her married happiness. And the Duke of Oxenden would lose his bet.
Chapter Six
The motorcar swung into the driveway of an imposing Victorian mansion, hidden in a thick grove of trees to screen it from the vulgar gaze. It looked gray, cheerless, and forbidding. Daisy put it down to a trick of the weather.
They were ushered into a chilly drawing room by a cadaverous butler who informed then that he would ascertain whether Mrs. Bryce-Cuddestone was “at home.” Daisy looked at Freddie in surprise. Surely his mother was expecting them!
The drawing room reminded her of the parlor at The Pines, only on a larger scale. The mahogany furniture was more massive, the stuffed birds more predatory, and the marble statuary, colder. Heavy red cloths swathed the tables, heavy red cloth draped the mantel, and acid-green velvet screened the offending sight of the legs of an upright piano. A floral Wilton carpet was covered with coconut runner paths at strategic points, and three sets of curtains hid the damp garden from view: heavy red velvet ones on top, lace under those, and muslin ones underneath to trap the last bit of daylight.
A prickly, angular cactus swore at them from the empty fireplace and multiple photographs of various Bryce-Cuddestones glared at them from all points of the room.
There was a smell of dust, potpourri, and Brown Windsor soup.
Daisy was starting to feel irrationally guilty and was just beginning to wonder what on earth she had to feel guilty about, when the door opened and Mrs. Bryce-Cuddestone stood on the threshold.
She was a vast, imposing woman, rather like a figurehead on a tea clipper; all bosom and chin. She was dressed in black silk, ornamented here and there with various cameos of Greek ladies who also had large bosoms and thrusting chins. Her masses of iron-gray hair were set in rigid curls. She had obviously resorted to a mixture of sugar and water to get the effect, for little sugar crystals clung to various iron curls
Freddie dutifully called on the Nottenstones the next morning to ask the Countess’s permission to take Daisy to Henley on Saturday. He then left, slightly dazzled with the warmth of his reception from the Countess, but, as she confided to the Earl later, the Countess was pleased to see that Daisy had netted an eligible suitor so quickly.
“Old Neddie is not exactly the most respectable of parents,” she said. “And then, of course, the girl appears to have no dowry. I must say I am surprised Neddie Chatterton even has enough to give her an allowance. The French casinos must be luckier for him than the English ones.”
“Probably still cheating,” said her husband dryly.
To Daisy’s disappointment Saturday turned out to be a damp, misty day. Beads of moisture gleamed on the shining paint work of the motorcar as she gingerly climbed in and waited for the chauffeur to crank up the engine. She was wearing a new light tweed motoring dress with a motoring hat which the Countess had assured her was the latest thing. It was like a magnified version of a man’s tweed cap and swathed in suffocating layers of veiling. After they had putt-putted decorously down the road for a few minutes, Daisy pushed back her veil. The damp air was making it stick uncomfortably to her face.
Henley itself was shrouded in heavy mist as if the town had taken to wearing the latest in motoring veils as well.
It had been a singularly quiet journey and all Daisy’s attempts at light conversation had been met with monosyllables. She decided he was nervous.
“Well… here we are,” burst out her companion finally. “You’ll soon meet the mater.” He turned and gave Daisy a singularly sweet smile and her spirits rose.
She felt mature and confident. Mrs. Bryce-Cuddestone was sure to like her. Her wedding dress would be of white satin with seed pearls. The bells of London Town would proclaim her married happiness. And the Duke of Oxenden would lose his bet.
Chapter Six
The motorcar swung into the driveway of an imposing Victorian mansion, hidden in a thick grove of trees to screen it from the vulgar gaze. It looked gray, cheerless, and forbidding. Daisy put it down to a trick of the weather.
They were ushered into a chilly drawing room by a cadaverous butler who informed then that he would ascertain whether Mrs. Bryce-Cuddestone was “at home.” Daisy looked at Freddie in surprise. Surely his mother was expecting them!
The drawing room reminded her of the parlor at The Pines, only on a larger scale. The mahogany furniture was more massive, the stuffed birds more predatory, and the marble statuary, colder. Heavy red cloths swathed the tables, heavy red cloth draped the mantel, and acid-green velvet screened the offending sight of the legs of an upright piano. A floral Wilton carpet was covered with coconut runner paths at strategic points, and three sets of curtains hid the damp garden from view: heavy red velvet ones on top, lace under those, and muslin ones underneath to trap the last bit of daylight.
A prickly, angular cactus swore at them from the empty fireplace and multiple photographs of various Bryce-Cuddestones glared at them from all points of the room.
There was a smell of dust, potpourri, and Brown Windsor soup.
Daisy was starting to feel irrationally guilty and was just beginning to wonder what on earth she had to feel guilty about, when the door opened and Mrs. Bryce-Cuddestone stood on the threshold.
She was a vast, imposing woman, rather like a figurehead on a tea clipper; all bosom and chin. She was dressed in black silk, ornamented here and there with various cameos of Greek ladies who also had large bosoms and thrusting chins. Her masses of iron-gray hair were set in rigid curls. She had obviously resorted to a mixture of sugar and water to get the effect, for little sugar crystals clung to various iron curls
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