Daisy’s Betrayal. Nancy Carson

but continued to charm the plump barmaid.

      ‘I see the working-class in action at our ironworks,’ Robert said, having quaffed his drink and pulled a face of disapproval. ‘They’re so bloody anxious to get away from it that their only ambition once outside is to get fuddled out of their small minds and enjoy themselves.’

      ‘And who can blame ’em, poor sods,’ Lawson remarked.

      Robert surveyed the sea of animated faces. He nudged Lawson. ‘I fancy that … She’s my target. See her? That fair-haired one standing by the stove.’

      ‘The best of luck,’ Lawson said.

      ‘See you later … maybe.’

      Lawson watched with detached amusement as Robert made his way over to the girl, hesitant at first lest he was gatecrashing some existing arrangement; then, when he was fairly sure she was not spoken for, he struck. The girl smiled and received him cordially, if slightly abashed as he took the floor with her.

      Lawson sensed somebody else at his side. He turned to look and met two smiling eyes that were green and wide, gazing back at him. The girl’s lips were full, her mouth clean and appealing. Her hair was a rich auburn, pinned up in a fashionable style. She was trying to attract the attention of the barmaid.

      ‘It’s my friend that’s occupying her with his glib talk,’ Lawson said apologetically over the background noise. ‘I’ll see if I can attract her attention for you … If it goes on much longer we’ll need a crowbar to prise ’em apart … Jack, can you let go your poppet a minute? There’s a delightful young lady here waiting to be served …’

      The barmaid smiled apologetically and turned to the girl.

      ‘Allow me, miss,’ Lawson intervened. ‘What’s your fancy?’

      She looked at Lawson’s drink. ‘Stout will do fine. What you’re having.’

      ‘I wouldn’t recommend it. It’s stout and gin mixed.’

      ‘I’m no stranger to stout. Nor gin for that matter.’

      ‘Here … Try it first …’ He allowed her a sip.

      ‘Oh, I thought the gin might spoil it,’ she said with a lilt in her voice. ‘But it makes it dance on your tongue.’

      He turned to the barmaid. ‘Another pint of this stuff for my lovely friend here.’

      Jack turned to look the girl up and down approvingly, then smiled knowingly at Lawson.

      ‘So what’s your name?’ Lawson asked.

      ‘My friends call me Kate. What’s yours?’

      ‘Oh … Percival.’

      ‘Percival? Lord! I’d never marry anybody called Percival and that’s a fact.’

      ‘Hey, you’re taking a lot for granted, Kate.’

      The girl chuckled amiably. ‘Have I not seen you here before?’

      ‘I don’t know. Have you not?’ he mimicked good-naturedly.

      She shrugged. ‘What’s a masher like you doing in here, though? Don’t you have a pretty little wife to go home to?’

      ‘Do you wish to apply for the vacant position? I can tell you, there have been a lot of applicants.’

      ‘Well now … looking at you, I’m not surprised.’ She sipped her drink and licked her lips sensuously as she looked into his eyes. ‘Are you a man of vast experience then?’

      ‘I’ve been known to dabble here and there. To be honest, I might even fancy a dabble with you later.’

      ‘You’re cocksure, Percival,’ she quipped pertly. ‘I wouldn’t lay money on you getting your way.’

      ‘Then I won’t,’ he replied, humouring her. ‘But then you don’t seem that sort of girl.’

      ‘Nor am I indeed.’

      He raised his glass. ‘Then here’s to the challenge.’

      ‘A challenge, am I?’ She raised hers and took another drink.

      ‘Why don’t we dance, Kate? Then we’ll finish our drinks and I’ll take you for a ride in my gig.’

      She smiled coquettishly. ‘Your gig? You have a gig? Well, fancy now! All right then. Why don’t we dance?’

      On 19th April, Good Friday, less than a month after his proposal, Lawson Maddox and his bride signed the register at St Thomas’s church. Although Lawson had sent out invitations to many of his top-drawer friends, some had not accepted. The redoubtable Mr Alexander Gibson, father of the artist whose work Daisy had adored so much, sent his regrets and Lawson wondered whether it was because Gibson had discovered he was marrying a woman who had been a servant; worse still, the dishonoured servant of his good friend Jeremiah Cookson. Well, that was up to him; Lawson knew Alexander would not hold it against him once he met Daisy. Jack Hayward was best man and Sarah was vividly beautiful as the bridesmaid. Mary Drake had all hell’s game trying to get Titus to attend and, in the finish, he didn’t. He would not shift, mainly for fear that somebody might kick his gouty foot, and no amount of cajoling worked.

      So, in the absence of her father, Daisy was given away by her solitary uncle on her mother’s side. After the ceremony, however, she insisted that Lawson drive her home so that her father could see her again in her lovely satin dress. Otherwise, he would not catch sight of her again till she had returned from honeymoon.

      ‘Wish me well, Father,’ she said earnestly, and she could see he was pale and fatigued.

      ‘I wish yer the very best of everything, my angel,’ he replied from his armchair, his throbbing foot lodged safely in its wicker basket. ‘And I’m just sorry as I couldn’t be there to gi’ yer away, but I daresay as your mother’s enjoying herself … Lawson, just mek sure as yer look after this babby o’ mine.’

      ‘Have no fear, Mr Drake.’

      The wedding breakfast was held at the Dudley Arms Hotel. Jack Hayward gave a witty speech and Lawson replied, lauding the qualities of his new wife with equal wit. Sarah giggled with wide-eyed admiration at Jack’s conversation. Jack seemed dangerously taken with her, and Lawson felt obliged to quietly warn his best man to quell any fantasies he was nurturing about the bride’s very young sister.

      ‘But she’s interested,’ Jack complained.

      ‘I don’t care,’ Lawson said firmly. ‘Leave her be. She’s my wife’s sister.’

      Daisy looked around her, hardly able to comprehend that these people assembled were celebrating her wedding. She had hardly had a chance to get used to the idea herself; with all the work and organising she’d had to do, she’d hardly had time to think about it. She had been in a whirl ever since Lawson had proposed. Now, she scanned the guests, drawn mostly from his acquaintances and those of his family who still remained: his Great-Aunt Hannah whose necklace of jade did not suit her donkey-brown dress and made her look austere. The Reverend William Reyner Cosens, slim and clean-shaven except for his handsome sideburns, looked his usual aristocratic self, clinging to a glass of warm ginger beer. Her own Aunt Lucy was there, dowdy and old-fashioned, with nobody talking to her, especially not the well-dressed lady friends of Jack Hayward and Robert Cookson, bubbling in their modish dresses and full of themselves. Then she saw her mother with tears in her eyes because her older daughter had married so well.

      A male quartet appeared, sporting identical, well-clipped moustaches and shiny hair, and entertained the guests for half an hour with some novelty songs and sparkling harmonies. After that, the bride and groom changed for their journey. Daisy wore a new outfit in the fashionable nautical style and a flat, sailor-style, broad-rimmed hat perched on her head.

      Outside, on the steps of the Dudley Arms, Daisy turned her back on the carriage that was to convey them to the station and waved to her guests. Everybody smiled