her away. She wore a good blue satin dress that matched her eyes, with a tight bodice and puffed sleeves; the height of fashion.
‘I think … In fact, I’m sure I prefer Fanny, if you don’t object,’ Robert said with a wink to Lawson. ‘It has a certain ring to it.’
‘All right. Fanny, then,’ Fanny answered with an acquiescent smile. ‘If you’d rather.’
‘That’s settled then … Amy, would you pass Miss Lampitt a drink? What would you like, Fanny?’
‘Oh, a glass of port, please.’
Amy, another servant, who was looking after the welcoming drinks, handed Fanny a glass of port, then a glass of whisky to Lawson. They moved on, into the main room, chatting amiably.
Daisy sighed, envious of the girl despite her name. She had done well for herself to attract the attention of somebody like this Lawson Maddox. And yet she felt sorry for Fanny as well. Fanny was on tenterhooks lest she make some awful social gaffe that would reveal her true status. She was brave and yet, the way she looked at Lawson so adoringly, it was obvious she would walk barefoot through burning coals for him.
When the last of the guests had arrived and had been welcomed Daisy went to the kitchen to check how things were progressing there. Martha the cook assured her that everything was under control. So she went upstairs to her room simply to check herself in the mirror. Oh, it was for him. Certainly, it was for him. A wisp of stray hair tickled her neck and she tucked it back into place. She pinched her cheeks and bit her lips to redden them and inspected the overall effect. She was not displeased with what she saw. She had been given permission to wear an unpretentious dress that suited the evening and she had bought it specially. It was midnight blue, very plain, made up of separate bodice and skirt, with a modest décolletage. Mrs Cookson had also permitted her to wear a little plain jewellery, so she wore a thin silver cross and chain and matching earrings that had been given to her by Charlie Bills once as a Christmas box. With her hair piled up she looked appealing and yet demure. Her demeanour was entirely different to Fanny’s. Although they came from similar backgrounds, Daisy knew she did not betray her true beginnings when out of uniform; and wearing that tasteful though inexpensive dress, nobody who was not already aware she was the Cooksons’ housekeeper would be any the wiser. It occurred to her then to try a little experiment and put her theory to the test.
So she walked slowly, confidently downstairs, practising her poise as she went. The party was getting noisier and the musicians were struggling to be heard over the buzz of conversation and laughter. Skeins of blue smoke were drifting through the hall and being drawn up the staircase by the lure of an open window at the top. She made her way to the main room and entered unnoticed. For a while she stood and watched with interest the couples dancing a military two-step. She must have been there for about ten minutes, excusing herself with a smile if she found she was inadvertently standing in the way of couples trying to get past her … when Mr Robert Cookson sidled up.
‘Daisy! My word, you look ravishing. Won’t you have the next dance with me?’
It would have been impolitic in the extreme to have refused so, when the trio embarked on the next dance, a polka, she joined him and whirled around him nimbly.
‘You dance very well,’ he said when they met face to face for a few seconds.
‘Thank you,’ she replied with a broad smile at the next conjunction. ‘It’s what servants do sometimes in their spare time.’
‘Dancing is not the activity I heard they do,’ he said, with a provocative flick of his eyebrows and a smug grin as he twirled around.
Her skirts rustled as he brushed uncomfortably close to her at their next turn.
‘How so, Mr Robert?’ she said, retaining her smile. ‘If you mean what I think you mean, I am not aware of any unsavoury goings on at Baxter House.’
‘Fiddlesticks, Daisy! It goes on everywhere.’
‘In some houses, maybe … But not here, I can promise you. In any case, it’s a delicate subject to discuss whirling round on the dance floor.’
‘Quite the lady, aren’t you?’ he commented, and she could not make up her mind whether he was being sarcastic or complimentary. ‘How old are you now, Daisy?’
‘I was always led to believe it impolite to ask a woman her age,’ she answered, avoiding his eyes.
‘That depends on the eminence of the woman,’ he said cuttingly, putting her roundly in her place. ‘So what is your age? Twenty-one? Twenty-two?’
‘About that,’ she replied, humiliated and yet determined not to give him the satisfaction of a direct answer.
‘And not married yet. Nor even courting, I am led to believe.’
Daisy could scarcely believe his outrageous directness. As they tripped across the dance floor she looked directly into his eyes. ‘Mr Robert, I can assure you that no man I have ever met has made me yearn to be married to him, either for love, money, or convenience.’
‘My dear Daisy,’ he guffawed, overlooking or failing to note the rebuff.
Thankfully, at that moment, the dance ended. At once Daisy made a move to leave him and he unhanded her. She stood for some minutes, her head down, dejected at Robert’s disparaging attitude.
When she looked up she saw that people were once more dancing, though she had not noticed the trio strike up again, nor the sound of skidding feet marking the polished wooden floor as couples swivelled graciously around each other. So many straight backs and elegantly inclined heads. This throng, apart from the uncaring Mr Robert, was the cream of Black Country society. She scanned the sea of faces as they danced, and she spotted him on the floor again. His back was towards her and his partner was Fanny. Was he trying to make a cuckold of his friend?
‘Pardon me for saying so, but any man who would leave you standing on your own at the edge of a dance floor clearly doesn’t deserve you,’ a man’s voice whispered very close to Daisy’s ear. ‘Especially since you’re standing directly beneath a sprig of mistletoe.’
She turned her head to see who had spoken. At the sight of Lawson Maddox and his twinkling eyes she gave a blushing smile, and looked up at the mistletoe optimistically.
‘May I introduce myself?’
‘No, please,’ she replied with breathless ambiguity at being taken by such a pleasant surprise.
‘Lawson Maddox. I hope you’ll pardon me but I’ve been watching you and, apart from the polka you danced with my friend Mr Robert Cookson, you’ve been standing alone. I assumed therefore that you are unescorted. Don’t you know anybody here?’
‘Oh, yes, yes,’ she said recklessly. ‘I am with others.’
‘Are you a relative of Mr or Mrs Cookson?’
‘No … But I am connected,’ she added obscurely. Obviously, he did not know she was merely a servant. And why should she confess it?
‘Connected by trade, then? Through your parents, perhaps?’
She gave an indefinite half nod. She had no wish to lie and, she thought, the best way out of answering directly, which would certainly turn her into a liar, was to turn the
