Daisy’s Betrayal. Nancy Carson

to them, but gave them their jobs as if making a request and with an open smile to which they always responded positively. In so many big houses, girls were unhappy, often abused and sometimes even beaten. The staff of Baxter House were thankful they were well treated and appreciated. Nobody ever took it upon herself to rebel and make things uncomfortable for everybody else.

      As soon as there was a vacancy for a maid Daisy recruited Sarah, her sister. She was fourteen by that time and a good, reliable worker, although not as bright as Daisy. Daisy even managed to secure her an increase on what she had been earning but Sarah would have come for less, glad to get away from that house in Holly Hall. Sarah settled in promisingly and Daisy was happy to have her under her wing. Most nights Sarah would go to Daisy’s little room on the top floor, where they would talk until the small hours, before returning to the room she shared with Hannah Bissell, a kitchen maid the same age as her.

      ‘Have you got a sweetheart?’ Sarah asked one night as she lay sprawled across Daisy’s legs.

      Daisy was sitting up in bed attending to her fingernails. ‘You know I haven’t,’ she replied. ‘Have you?’

      Sarah smiled bashfully and shook her head. ‘Have you ever had a sweetheart, Daisy?’

      ‘Once,’ she answered honestly. ‘For a while. His name was Charlie Bills. He was the baker’s boy when I worked at the Spencers’.’

      ‘Did you love him?’

      ‘I suppose I did. At first, at any rate. Leastwise, he made me feel all soppy.’

      ‘Did you let him kiss you?’

      ‘Yes, sometimes.’

      ‘Is it nice to be kissed by a boy?’

      Daisy smiled patiently. ‘I think that might depend on the boy – and on how much you like him.’

      ‘Would you like a sweetheart again?’ Sarah enquired after listening carefully to Daisy’s answers.

      ‘If somebody came along who I fancied.’

      ‘Tell me the kind of man you fancy,’ Sarah said dreamily.

      ‘Oh, I have a vivid picture of my ideal husband in my mind’s eye,’ Daisy told her, and Sarah’s beautiful clear eyes flickered with interest. She sat up on the bed attentively, her back erect, her legs crossed under her cotton nightgown. ‘He’s very handsome with dark, wavy hair and kind, smiling eyes. He’s quite tall, with a straight back, not given to slouching … He’s clever, amusing, and good at making interesting conversation.’

      ‘Ooh, yes,’ Sarah enthused. ‘You don’t want some duffer who can’t keep up a decent chat, do you? And will he be rich, Daisy?’

      ‘Rich enough. Rich enough to afford our own servants.’

      ‘What about Mr Robert then?’

      ‘Mr Robert?’ she said with a shudder. ‘Are you serious? I can’t stand Mr Robert.’ Mr Robert was the middle son of Jeremiah Cookson of Baxter House. Unmarried, he still lived there. Daisy had already noticed the way Mr Robert looked at her. If he had designs on her, though, he could forget it.

      ‘He’s got a handsome friend,’ Sarah said, her long eyelashes veiling her eyes. ‘I wish I was a bit older.’

      ‘Oh? And what’s his name, this handsome friend of Mr Robert?’

      Sarah sighed and picked a stray piece of cotton from her nightdress. ‘I dunno …’ There followed an introspective pause. ‘Anyway,’ she said eventually, ‘how are you going to meet somebody that rich, who’ll stoop to marry you?’

      Daisy smiled as she realised that Sarah had already got the measure of the marriage market; she knew that wealthy middle-class sons would never demean themselves by marrying below their station, even if bedding housemaids and other girls of the lower classes was not out of bounds.

      ‘Oh, I shall.’ Daisy shrugged nonchalantly. ‘I just know I shall. I can put on airs and graces if I need to. I can easily copy the elegant women I see visiting Mr and Mrs Cookson.

      ‘You’ve set your sights high, our Daisy.’

      ‘Lord, you sound just like Mother,’ she said with mock disdain. ‘But if you’ve got any sense, you’ll set your sights high as well. Don’t be satisfied with some beer swilling navvy, or ne’er-do-well iron-worker like our father – not that I want to demean him,’ she hastily added. ‘But just look at our mother … You don’t want to end up like her, poor as a church mouse, not knowing where the next meal is coming from.’

      ‘I want to get married young and have lots of children, Daisy.’

      The older sister stifled a scornful laugh. ‘You’ll have lots of children whether or no if you marry somebody who gets pie-eyed every night and makes you do disgusting things with him, whether you want to or not. Marry a man with something about him. Marry somebody who’ll respect you.’

      ‘Oh, I wouldn’t marry a nobody,’ Sarah said, catching on quicker than Daisy thought she would, for she was often slow on the uptake. ‘I’ll try to be like you. I’ll aim high. I’ll marry somebody with plenty of money, or not at all.’

      ‘Good,’ Daisy said. ‘Life will be so much easier, so much more comfortable.’

      ‘Mmm …’ Sarah mused. ‘It’s just finding somebody …’

      ‘Well, you’re a bit young yet to be thinking of marriage, our Sarah. There’s no rush.’

       Chapter 2

      On New Year’s Eve, in 1888, a party had been arranged at Baxter House and Daisy had done most of the organising, although Mrs Cookson herself had written and sent out all the invitations. It was to be a grand evening and the Cooksons’ immediate family, friends and business associates would be there; altogether, some fifty guests.

      ‘I think informal dining would suit us all better,’ Mrs Cookson said as she sat at the table in the breakfast room with a notepad in front of her. To her right was Daisy, to her left Martha Evans, the cook.

      ‘With so many people to cater for, ma’am, I agree,’ Daisy commented and looked at Cook for her confirmation.

      ‘I’ll prepare whatever I’m asked to,’ Martha said.

      ‘A buffet dinner that people can eat while they stand and talk. Any suggestions, Daisy?’

      ‘Well, a variety of meats in dainty sandwiches would be a start, ma’am.’

      ‘I could cook some ham, roast a joint of beef, a few chickens,’ Martha suggested. ‘Even some venison if we can get it. Then there’s smoked salmon, poultry and game birds. I could bake some little savoury pies and tarts as well, ma’am.’

      Daisy nodded her head in agreement.

      ‘A good selection of cheeses as well, I think, Cook. The men enjoy their cheese after a meal. Oh, and I think a hot soup later, to see everybody homeward, would be a very satisfactory touch. Don’t you think so, Daisy?’

      ‘Yes, that would be very well appreciated, I believe, ma’am.’

      Daisy had never seen so many varieties of cheeses when the grocer’s boy delivered them. For dessert Martha prepared syllabubs, fools, hot fruit tarts and pies, egg custards, creams and even ice cream. It was all to await the hungry revellers in the dining room, where lavishly dressed trestles had been laid out to accommodate it. Everything looked and smelled mouth-watering. The staff, of course, had their own cache of food in the kitchen, which they picked at when they had the opportunity. A trio of musicians had been hired to perform in the function room of the house, where a hearty coal fire burned in the opulent marble grate.

      At eight o’clock the first carriage arrived