Death at Daisy's Folly (13 page)

“Good morning to you, Kate,” the Prince added in an avuncular tone. He was wearing a Norfolk suit, an ankle-length tan duster buttoned across his bulging middle, and a white yachting cap with the Royal insignia. A silver-headed walking stick was tucked under his arm.

Kate, who was as yet unaccustomed to the idea of being directly addressed by a prince, dropped a nervous curtsy. “Good morning, Your Highness. I trust you will enjoy your drive to Chelmsford.”

“Thank you, Kate,” the Prince said good-naturedly. He leaned closer and lowered his voice. “Frankly, I can't think why anyone would want to visit a workhouse.” He glanced fondly at Daisy, who was dressed in a pale blue duster, her face and hat swathed in blue tulle. “Except our hostess, of course, who feels such sympathy for the poor—and is constantly trying to educate me.” He looked around. “By the by, has anyone seen Reggie this morning?” When everyone shook their heads, he frowned. “Well, whatever he wanted to talk to me about can jolly well wait until we get back.” He raised his voice. “Well, Marsden, is your motorcar ready?”

“Ready, sir,” Bradford said, and saluted smartly. “Come aboard.”

The Prince clasped his hands behind his back and paced around the automobile, frowning judiciously. “But where is the man with the red flag?”

Daisy stepped forward. “I hardly think it likely that you will be arrested, Bertie. But if you would be more easy, we can provide a man.”

“Oh, pshaw! Let them arrest us.” The Prince threw back his head and roared with laughter. “That would be a splendid joke, now, wouldn't it? I can just see the headlines in The Times. ‘HRH Arrested for Motoring Offense.' It would give Mama something new to complain about.” He accepted the goggles Bradford handed him and got into the Daimler, which listed to one side under his weight. “Come on, then,” he cried. “Let us be off!”

Kate stepped back a little distance as Bradford pulled out the throttle and the rattle of the Daimler's engine increased to a smooth chatter. At the last moment, Andrew Kirk-Smythe raced out of the stable and hopped into the motorcar's jump seat, a vis-à-vis arrangement that faced passenger and driver. Sir Charles, surprised that Kirk-Smythe was going along, handed Daisy into the brougham and got in himself, and the coachman shook the reins, clucking to the horses. Behind them, Lawrence and another coachman climbed into the supply wagon. The parade clattered off at a smart pace, the Daimler at its head.

At Kate's elbow, a man spoke dryly. “An impressive entourage, is it not? Ironic that they are so elegantly equipped for a visit to a workhouse.”

Kate turned, recognizing her dancing partner of the evening before. “Impressive, yes,” she agreed. “I wonder, though, whether His Highness is quite prepared for the journey. Twenty-six miles seems a long way to ride in that noisy contraption.”

“My thought exactly,” Sir Friedrich said, and gave a dry chuckle. “I should have expected Daisy to pay more attention to HRH's creature comforts.” He offered her his arm. “Since you are about so early, Miss Ardleigh, what would you say to a walk? Or may I call you Kathryn?”

“Certainly,” Kate said, watching the procession as it disappeared around the curve. “Please do, Friedrich.” She hadn't quite got into the habit of calling princes and lords by their familiar names.

 

As they drove off, Charles waved good-bye to Kate, but she was talking to Friedrich Temple and did not notice. He leaned back and folded his arms, feeling quite out of sorts.

“I didn't know Kirk-Smythe was meant to come along,” he said darkly, although that had nothing to do with his pique.

Across from him, Daisy was settling her skirts into the seat. “You didn't?” she asked with some surprise. “But then, I suppose no one has told you that he is Bertie's personal bodyguard.”

“Ah,” Charles said. There had been several attempts on the Queen's life, and in the current time of unrest, it was only prudent to assign a man to protect the Royal person. It occurred to him that this intelligence explained Kirk-Smythe's offer of the preceding evening. As a Royal bodyguard, it was his business to know the servants.

They rode in silence for a time. It was difficult to see through the blue tulle that swathed the Countess's face, but Charles thought she looked pale and drawn, as if she had spent a sleepless night. He was intrigued again, as he often was, by the complexity of her character. Daisy Warwick appeared to have everything a woman could want—beauty, fortune, a congenial husband, the attentions of a prince. But beneath these superficialities, what were her real desires? What did she imagine she was born to be and do? What dreams compelled her onward?

“I have been wanting to talk to you, Charles,” she said, in a voice that he had to strain to hear. They had turned out of Easton lane and into the road to Chelmsford. “The accident that befell Bertie's groom yesterday—I understand that you are looking into it. What have you learned thus far?”

“Precious little, I fear. The boy died from a blow to the head. I am inclined to believe that it was inflicted by some means other than a horse's kick, but I cannot be sure. What clues there might have been were destroyed by the staff when they took him out of the stall.”

Daisy clasped her hands in her lap and looked out across the landscape. “What . . . what sort of clues would you have looked for?”

“The exact position of the body would have been instructive,” he replied. “Or evidence that someone else had been in the stall, or that the boy had been in the loft above. But I could find nothing, and failing that—”

“Then it is best to accept the obvious explanation. The lad simply had the misfortune to be kicked by a horse.” Daisy leaned against the seat with an expression, Charles thought, almost of relief. “I'm sure it would be of some comfort to his mother to know that her poor boy died while he was doing his duty. I think we may consider the matter closed.”

Charles raised his eyebrows. “I fear,” he said, “that His Highness thinks otherwise.”

Daisy frowned. “Bertie wants you to continue your investigation?”

“He has taken quite an interest in this matter. He asked me last night to interrogate the servants.”

She looked alarmed. “My dear Charles, that is out of the question! You know how servants gossip. Every question will spawn some wild tale or other. Rumors of murder are certain to reach the guests, and then the newspapers. The whole thing will be an appalling embarrassment for all concerned, Bertie, most especially.” Her lips firmed. “He has not thought the matter through to its logical conclusion.”

Charles sat back, pondering. He understood Daisy's desire to bring the matter to a close, and he himself saw little usefulness in questioning all the servants. But a thorough investigation would do more to allay rumor than a quick cover-up, and he did mean to talk to Deaf John.

“I think you can trust me to proceed in a way that will keep rumor to a minimum,” he said. “And I must follow HRH's instructions.”

She considered for a moment, then said with a sigh, “Oh, very well. But I really do mean to speak to Bertie about this.” She was silent for a longer time, and her face softened.

“On quite another subject, I fear I must make a confession, Charles. Last night, after you and Lillian left to dance, I told Kate about your brother Robert's illness, and about your expectations.”

Charles looked at her, startled. “You told her?”

“I am
dreadfully
sorry,” Daisy said contritely. “I realized immediately, of course, that she did not know. I hope I have not made things difficult for you.” She was watching him closely, her dark blue eyes intent. “She is a beautiful woman, although I think not schooled in the ways of our society. Do you care for her, Charles?”

Charles managed a half smile. “That's hardly the point, is it? She told me this morning that a match between us is unsuitable, and I daresay she's right. When Robert is gone, I must do what I was born to do—take my place at Somersworth.”

Daisy raised her eyebrows. “That is not all bad, I hope.”

He shook his head, feeling suddenly quite dismal. “It is hardly a life for Kate. She is an independent-minded woman. The Americans have spent two hundred years cutting themselves free of tradition, you know. They fancy themselves more spontaneous, more impulsive than we—and they are, to a great extent. They have no patience for the fetters of duty.” If he and Kate were by some miracle to be wed, it would not be long before she became irritated by the restraints under which they would perforce live.

Daisy leaned forward. “Forgive me for speaking frankly, Charles, but I know from my own experience how it is to be confined in a life of obligation when your own desires call you to something else. As for what lies ahead, you must honor your
own
wishes, not those others may have for you. And you must speak more frankly to Kate. If you love her, tell her so. Permit
her
to choose her life as she would have it. It is arrogance to assume that you know what her choice would be before it is put to her.” Her smile was gentle. “Especially since, as you say, she is a woman of independent mind.”

Charles sighed, thinking that Kate had already announced her choice. As far as she was concerned, the match was unsuitable. But he only said, “Thank you for the recommendation, Daisy. I shall consider it.”

Daisy sat back, smiling a little, and once more Charles thought how drawn and pale she seemed. “It is easy to speak with assurance of another's life, Charles. If only I could speak so confidently of my own.”

Stone Hall, furnished and decorated as a museum of past ages, was a paradise for illicit assignations, with quaint Elizabethan rooms where the lovers could sit and talk seriously of politics and literature, or no doubt, in many cases, cover more dangerous ground.

—MARGARET BLUNDEN
The Countess of Warwick: A Biography

 

 

T
he night before, Friedrich Temple had proved to be an accomplished dancer whose skill had brought out the best in Kate, and she had enjoyed their waltz. This morning, she was pleased at his invitation to walk, for the air was cool and clear and the season more nearly resembled October than November. The hawthorn and bittersweet were decorated with tiny bright fruits, a few glowing leaves still clung to the lower branches of the service trees, and the thick grass was littered with acorns, hazelnuts, and beechnuts. A few finches fed on dogwood berries and yew, and a thrush sang throatily from its perch on a half-bare oak.

It was indeed a glorious morning, and Kate almost wished that she had accepted Lady Warwick's invitation to drive to Chelmsford. Her short exchange with Charles had been terribly uncomfortable, however—she had not expected to hear him say, “I
do
want to marry you” in quite so forthright a way, and the feelings his words had awakened in her had nearly unsettled her resolve. But a match between the fifth Baron of Somersworth and Irish-American Kate Ardleigh (alias Beryl Bardwell) could only make them both desperately unhappy. No, it was well that she had not gone on the expedition, and for the rest of the weekend she would have as little to do with Charles as possible. With that firm determination, she turned her attention to the man beside her.

Friedrich, who was in his early forties, was tall and sandy-haired, with a Germanic stiffness of manner and an imperious glance that at first had rather taken her aback. But last night she had learned that his mother was a German countess and his father a military man, which accounted for a great deal. This morning, she decided that he was no stiffer than other British gentlemen and that it was his erect bearing and scholarly-looking gold pince-nez that made him seem imperious. And he was interested in her American point of view. After strolling for a time in silence, he quizzed her on what she thought of the house party.

“It has been quite interesting so far,” she replied truthfully. Beryl Bardwell, in fact, had sat up past two a.m., making notes on everything she could remember of the snippets of dinner-table conversation she had overheard and the drawing-room exchanges she had witnessed afterward. “I am learning a great deal about the rules of English society. We Americans pay much less attention to social rules, I have found.”

Friedrich turned a frowning look on her and said, “My dear Kathryn, what you see here this weekend are not the rules of
English
society.”

She tugged the skirt of her gold-colored walking suit away from the thorny branch of a rosebush and glanced at him. Behind his glasses, his eyes were a sharp, pale blue. “Not English?” she asked lightly. “Then what rules are they? Russian? German? French?”

Friedrich pursed his lips. “What I mean to say,” he replied with some care, “is that the company gathered here at Easton is a very small segment of English society, which can afford to make its
own
rules.” He gestured at the smooth green lawn to their right, where the yellow silk tent was being set up for the refreshments that would be served at the evening's fireworks entertainment. “The glamour and luxury that you see around you, the extravagant food and clothing and jewels, the idle pleasure and easy flirtatiousness—all this is peculiar to the Marlborough set. It is not typical of English society at large—and, I fear, not the best of society for our future king.” The last had a moralistic ring and he bit it off, as if he had not meant to speak with so judgmental a tone.

For a few moments, they stood watching the workmen. Some were anchoring the tent, others were laying out the fireworks at the far side of the lawn, still others were setting up a small outdoor dais for the musicians.