Scandal in Spring
Page 60
She did not regret her decision…but she was not so naive as to believe everything would be easy from now on. Quite the opposite. There was the issue of where they were to live, and when Matthew would take her back to New York, and if she could learn to be happy far away from her sister and friends. There was also the unanswered question about whether she would be an adequate wife for a man who so fully inhabited a world she had never quite found a way to fit in. And last, the not-insignificant question of what kind of secrets Matthew was harboring.
But Daisy remembered the soft, vibrant note in his voice when he had said, “You’ve always been everything I thought a woman should be.”
Matthew was the only man who had ever wanted her just as she was. (One had to discount Llandrindon since his infatuation had flared up just a bit too quickly and would likely subside with equal speed.)
In this regard, Daisy reflected, her marriage to Matthew would not be unlike Lillian’s with Westcliff. As two strong-willed people with very different sensibilities, Lillian and Westcliff often argued and negotiated…and yet this didn’t seem to weaken their marriage. Quite the opposite, in fact—their union seemed all the better for it.
She considered her friends’ marriages…Annabelle and Mr. Hunt as a harmony of similar dispositions…Evie and Lord St. Vincent with their opposite natures, as necessary to each other’s existence as day and night. It was impossible to say that any of these pairings was superior to the others.
Perhaps, in spite of all she had heard about the ideal of a perfect marriage, there was no such thing. Perhaps every marriage was a unique creation.
It was a comforting thought.
And it filled her with hope.
After the interminable dinner Daisy pleaded a headache rather than endure the ritual of tea and gossip. It was half true, actually—the combination of light, noise, and emotional strain had caused her temples to throb painfully. With a pained smile, she made her excuses and headed toward the grand staircase.
But as she reached the main hall, she heard her sister’s voice.
“Daisy? I want to talk with you.”
Daisy knew Lillian well enough to recognize the edge in her tone. Her older sister was suspicious, and worried, and she wanted to thrash out issues and problems until everything had been discussed exhaustively.
Daisy was far too weary. “Not now, please,” she said, giving her sister a placating smile. “Can it wait until later?”
“No.”
“I have a headache.”
“So do I. But we’re still going to talk.”
Daisy struggled with a rush of exasperation. After all her patience with Lillian, the years of unquestioning support and loyalty, it didn’t seem too much to ask that Lillian refrain from badgering her.
“I’m going to bed,” Daisy said, her steady gaze daring her sister to argue. “I don’t want to explain anything, especially when it’s obvious you have no intention of listening. Good night.” Seeing the stricken look on Lillian’s face, she added more gently, “I love you.” She stood on her toes, kissed her sister’s cheek, and went to the staircase.
Lillian fought the temptation to follow Daisy up the stairs. She became aware of someone at her elbow, and she turned to see Annabelle and Evie, both of them looking sympathetic.
“She won’t talk to me,” she told them numbly.
Evie, usually hesitant to touch her, slipped her arm through Lillian’s. “L-let’s go to the orangery,” she suggested.
The orangery was by far Lillian’s favorite room in the manor, the walls constructed of long glass windows, the floor wrought with fancy iron grillwork that let in gently warmed air from stoves down below. Orange and lemon trees filled the room with fresh citrus fragrance, while scaffolding loaded with tropical plants added exotic top notes to the scent. Torchlight from outside sent intricate shadows through the room.
Finding a small grouping of chairs, the three friends sat together. Lillian’s shoulders slumped as she said glumly, “I think they’ve done it.”
“Who’s done what?” Evie asked.
“Daisy and Mr. Swift,” Annabelle murmured with a touch of amusement. “We’re speculating that they’ve had, er…carnal knowledge of each other.”
Evie looked perplexed. “Why do we think that?”
“Well, you were sitting at the other table, dear, so you couldn’t see, but at dinner there were…” Annabelle raised her brows significantly. “…undercurrents.”
“Oh.” Evie shrugged. “It’s just as well I wasn’t at your table, then. I’m never any good at reading undercurrents.”
“These were obvious undercurrents,” Lillian said darkly. “It couldn’t have been any clearer if Mr. Swift had leapt onto the table and made an announcement.”
“Mr. Swift would never be so vulgar,” Evie said decisively. “Even if he is an American.”
Lillian’s face scrunched in a ferocious scowl. “Whatever happened to ‘I could never be happy with a soulless industrialist’? What happened to ‘I want the four of us to be together always’? Curse it all, I can’t believe Daisy’s done this! Everything was going so well with Lord Llandrindon. What could have possessed her to sleep with Matthew Swift?”
“I doubt there was much sleeping involved,” Annabelle replied, her eyes twinkling.
Lillian gave her a slitted glare. “If you have the bad taste to be amused by this, Annabelle—”
But Daisy remembered the soft, vibrant note in his voice when he had said, “You’ve always been everything I thought a woman should be.”
Matthew was the only man who had ever wanted her just as she was. (One had to discount Llandrindon since his infatuation had flared up just a bit too quickly and would likely subside with equal speed.)
In this regard, Daisy reflected, her marriage to Matthew would not be unlike Lillian’s with Westcliff. As two strong-willed people with very different sensibilities, Lillian and Westcliff often argued and negotiated…and yet this didn’t seem to weaken their marriage. Quite the opposite, in fact—their union seemed all the better for it.
She considered her friends’ marriages…Annabelle and Mr. Hunt as a harmony of similar dispositions…Evie and Lord St. Vincent with their opposite natures, as necessary to each other’s existence as day and night. It was impossible to say that any of these pairings was superior to the others.
Perhaps, in spite of all she had heard about the ideal of a perfect marriage, there was no such thing. Perhaps every marriage was a unique creation.
It was a comforting thought.
And it filled her with hope.
After the interminable dinner Daisy pleaded a headache rather than endure the ritual of tea and gossip. It was half true, actually—the combination of light, noise, and emotional strain had caused her temples to throb painfully. With a pained smile, she made her excuses and headed toward the grand staircase.
But as she reached the main hall, she heard her sister’s voice.
“Daisy? I want to talk with you.”
Daisy knew Lillian well enough to recognize the edge in her tone. Her older sister was suspicious, and worried, and she wanted to thrash out issues and problems until everything had been discussed exhaustively.
Daisy was far too weary. “Not now, please,” she said, giving her sister a placating smile. “Can it wait until later?”
“No.”
“I have a headache.”
“So do I. But we’re still going to talk.”
Daisy struggled with a rush of exasperation. After all her patience with Lillian, the years of unquestioning support and loyalty, it didn’t seem too much to ask that Lillian refrain from badgering her.
“I’m going to bed,” Daisy said, her steady gaze daring her sister to argue. “I don’t want to explain anything, especially when it’s obvious you have no intention of listening. Good night.” Seeing the stricken look on Lillian’s face, she added more gently, “I love you.” She stood on her toes, kissed her sister’s cheek, and went to the staircase.
Lillian fought the temptation to follow Daisy up the stairs. She became aware of someone at her elbow, and she turned to see Annabelle and Evie, both of them looking sympathetic.
“She won’t talk to me,” she told them numbly.
Evie, usually hesitant to touch her, slipped her arm through Lillian’s. “L-let’s go to the orangery,” she suggested.
The orangery was by far Lillian’s favorite room in the manor, the walls constructed of long glass windows, the floor wrought with fancy iron grillwork that let in gently warmed air from stoves down below. Orange and lemon trees filled the room with fresh citrus fragrance, while scaffolding loaded with tropical plants added exotic top notes to the scent. Torchlight from outside sent intricate shadows through the room.
Finding a small grouping of chairs, the three friends sat together. Lillian’s shoulders slumped as she said glumly, “I think they’ve done it.”
“Who’s done what?” Evie asked.
“Daisy and Mr. Swift,” Annabelle murmured with a touch of amusement. “We’re speculating that they’ve had, er…carnal knowledge of each other.”
Evie looked perplexed. “Why do we think that?”
“Well, you were sitting at the other table, dear, so you couldn’t see, but at dinner there were…” Annabelle raised her brows significantly. “…undercurrents.”
“Oh.” Evie shrugged. “It’s just as well I wasn’t at your table, then. I’m never any good at reading undercurrents.”
“These were obvious undercurrents,” Lillian said darkly. “It couldn’t have been any clearer if Mr. Swift had leapt onto the table and made an announcement.”
“Mr. Swift would never be so vulgar,” Evie said decisively. “Even if he is an American.”
Lillian’s face scrunched in a ferocious scowl. “Whatever happened to ‘I could never be happy with a soulless industrialist’? What happened to ‘I want the four of us to be together always’? Curse it all, I can’t believe Daisy’s done this! Everything was going so well with Lord Llandrindon. What could have possessed her to sleep with Matthew Swift?”
“I doubt there was much sleeping involved,” Annabelle replied, her eyes twinkling.
Lillian gave her a slitted glare. “If you have the bad taste to be amused by this, Annabelle—”
