Princess Daisy (20 page)

As the tail-coated waiter handed Daisy the white menu bordered in brown and gold, with the date printed at the bottom, she gave a sign of anticipation, although she knew it nearly by heart now, after almost three years of such lunches. She had long since passed the stage of chicken pie, of lamb chops, even of roast sirloin of Scottish beef, the three favorites on which she had first settled. Stash had, in the beginning, tried to lead her carefully through the menu, but he quickly found out that there was no way he could convince or cajole her into ordering something new. She had no interest in “training her taste buds,” she said to him, repeating his pedantic phrase with a teasing look. He often wondered where his nimble girl, who never faltered in her attempts to make her own decisions, had learned to be so adamant in those backwoods in which she had spent those early years of her life. But even when she was first confronted by the grandeur of the service of the Connaught, Daisy’s smile informed the mâitre d’hôtel that she represented no one on earth but herself and that since she had wanted chicken pie every Sunday for a year, that was what she would order.

“Well, Princess Daisy,” the mâitre d’hôtel greeted her with relish, “what is your choice today?”

“What,” she asked, “is the
‘croustade d’oeufs de caille Maintenon’
besides eggs?”

“Tiny quail eggs, served with creamed mushrooms and hollandaise on little pastry
barquettes.
”

“Daisy, you had eggs for breakfast. Why don’t you start with some smoked Scotch salmon?” Stash asked.

“That’s listed under the ‘extras,’ Father,” Daisy rebuked him gravely.

Stash sighed inwardly. No matter how often he explained
to her that she was permitted to order from the extras, she never would. Her habits of thrift, learned so young, couldn’t be forgotten even in this restaurant in which the final bill would represent such an astonishing total that one or two extra dishes wouldn’t be noticed. She went to the Connaught because he took her there, but nothing he could say had ever convinced her to order an extra, not even the
Salade Caprice des Années Folles
, surely the most delightfully named dish in the world.

“If I might suggest,” said the mâitre d’hôtel, “the trolley of hors d’oeuvres so that you have your choice, and then, perhaps, the lobster grilled with herbs—we have just received a superb shipment from France—”

“Are they still alive?” asked Daisy.

“But of course! They
must
be alive before we cook them.”

“I’ll have a Lancashire hot pot then,” announced Daisy, not knowing what on earth it was but determined not to directly cause the immediate death of a single lobster.

Ah, thought the headwaiter, Prince Valensky must take care. If the little girl should become, disaster of disasters, a vegetarian, we might not see her every Sunday.

Lunch finally ordered, Daisy and Stash settled into the easy conversations he enjoyed now more than any other single thing in his life. He was teaching her his world, little by little, and she, in turn, brought him all the excitements of her life at school and acquainted him with the small adventures of her friends. But today she had something special on her mind.

“Father, in your opinion, do I have to do maths?” asked Daisy.

“Naturally—they teach it in school, don’t they?”

“Yes, but I hate it and I can’t study my maths and do a proper job on my new pony. How can I ride Merlin every afternoon after school and then muck out her stall and turn over her bedding, groom her with the curry comb and vacuum her all over and use the body brush and the rub rag and the hoof pick and …”

“All that takes exactly one half-hour and you know it,” Stash said, laughing at the dramatically detailed list she’d presented him in the hope that he’d be impressed. “You still have time for maths.”

Daisy, a seasoned strategist, abandoned Merlin instantly. “Anabel says she doesn’t see why I have to do maths—she never did and she says she never missed it. Anabel says
she’s never balanced a checkbook in her life and the only reason for maths is to balance checkbooks or find out if the fishmonger is cheating you and if you tell him he is, you won’t get the best fish so you might as well resign yourself.”

“So Anabel has become your authority on education?”

“Anabel is my authority on many things,” said Daisy with dignity. “However, if you gave me three good reasons why I have to do maths, I’d try, even though I think there’s something missing in the place in my brain where most people have maths.”

“I’ll give you only one good reason because I don’t need another—Lady Alden
requires
that all girls at her school do maths.”

“I think it’s most unreasonable of Lady Alden … most unreasonable,” Daisy grumbled.

“Did Anabel teach you to say things are unreasonable?”

“No, you did. You said it was most unreasonable of me to want to jump Merlin over the railings in Wilton Crescent.” Daisy’s face crinkled in mischief. She changed her moods so rapidly that Stash sometimes wondered if he was talking to a child, a grown woman, a scruffy farmboy or a sage member of Parliament.

“I’m afraid you’re a pagan, Daisy.”

“I wouldn’t mind. Don’t they dance around trees and do strange things when the moon is full?”

“I believe those were Druids. Pagans are like the ancient Greeks or Romans, people who worshiped many gods, not just one.”

“Oh, good, I think I’d like to be one. Like you are, Father.”

Heading her off this unpromising subject Stash asked quickly, “How’s Merlin getting used to the stable?” Merlin, the latest in a series of ponies, each taller than the last, was named after Stash’s old favorite, now retired from the fray. Daisy’s horse was stabled in Grosvenor Crescent Mews, a few minutes away from Wilton Row, where the Valensky house was located. The stable had been run by Mrs. Leila Blum for twenty years. It was dark, with cobbled floors, and Merlin occupied one of the four loose-boxes rather than a less spacious stall where she would have to be tied up.

“She’s as happy as the day is long,” Daisy said importantly. “There’re a few black cats hanging about and she
gets along very well with them, but Merlin really and
truly
wants a dog. She
craves
a dog, passionately.”

“She does, does she? Did she say what kind of dog?”

“Just a dog.”

“She ‘craves’ it passionately?”

“Absolutely.”

“Something tells me that Merlin’s been talking to Anabel.”

“No, Father, she communicates with me. You know horses can, if they like.”

“Hmmm. Daisy, isn’t it time for a sweet?”

Daisy inspected her father’s face closely. For three years she had been trying to get him to buy her a dog. He wasn’t a man who loved dogs, he wasn’t a man who even liked dogs, and he had resisted her successfully. Today, by the light in his eyes, she realized it was hopeless to pursue the subject.

“I’d love a sweet,” Daisy said. The matter was not yet settled, but it was only a question of time. She had no intention of giving up.

Stash signaled the waiter who wheeled over one of the dessert trolleys, shining objects of solid mahogany on four silent ball bearings, with several levels of trays, each covered in an array of desserts: chocolate, lemon and raspberry mousse, bread-and-butter pudding, rice pudding, apple tarts, assorted pastries, poached fruit in port, fresh fruit salad served with thick cream from Normandy, large, rich cakes and
mille feuilles aux fraises
. The doting waiter, worthy inheritor of the Connaught tradition, never waited for Daisy to make the agonizing choice but simply filled a plate with small samples of every dessert on the trolley, except for the rice pudding. After dessert, while Stash had his coffee, the waiter, as he did at each table, brought a silver compote on which lay a variety of miniature sweets: fresh strawberries dipped in chocolate, tiny eclairs and cherries iced in frosting. Each one of them lay in a fluted paper cup. While Stash stared fixedly at the floor, Daisy deftly swept every single one of these delicacies into her small handbag, which she had lined with her best handkerchiefs in anticipation of this loot The first time she had done it Stash had been horrified.

“Daisy! A lady can eat as many of those as she likes
at
the table, but she doesn’t take them away with her!”

“They’re not for me.”

“Oh.” Stash knew immediately for whom they were
intended. She was taking them to the other. He never mentioned them again but endured in silence the humiliation of the weekly incident. Daisy would not have allowed him to order a box of the candied treats for her, he knew, because then they would be “extra” and he couldn’t bring himself to deprive her of the pleasure she took in her gift to her sister.

When Stash had received the telephoned news of Francesca’s death from Matty Firestone, he had started to consider his options even as he booked the flight to Los Angeles. Almost immediately he realized that someone had to be told the story which had been, until now, kept absolutely secret from all the world. He needed help in managing the future and Anabel was the only person he trusted. During the few days that Stash was away in California, Anabel managed to find Queen Anne’s School, the best home for retarded children in England, and make arrangements for Danielle to live there.

She drove Stash’s big car to the airport to meet the little band since he had been adamant about the need to keep the arrival of the children hidden, even from his chauffeur. As they came through customs she saw Stash, walking ahead, with Daisy’s hand in his. The little girl was as confused by the rapidly changing events of the last week as she was grief-stricken. She still didn’t quite understand how it was possible that her mother had driven off one afternoon and had not come home. How could she be dead? Neither Matty nor Margo nor Stash himself had yet been able to bring themselves to explain the details of the accident to her, and Daisy was engulfed in the reality of her childish fears of abandonment. Behind Stash walked Masha, carrying Danielle who had retreated into a world of silence and immobility. Quickly, without asking questions, Anabel drove them to the school which was located in the country outside of London.

When they arrived at the large building which had once been the main house of a great private estate, and was still surrounded by wide lawns, fine old trees and flower gardens. Stash told Masha, Daisy and Anabel to wait in the car for him. He picked Danielle up, the first and last time he ever touched her, and stepped out of the car, putting Danielle’s feet firmly on the driveway. Daisy jumped out and followed him, hanging on to his leg as he started up the steps, Danielle silently trailing behind.

“Daddy, where are we going? Is this where you live? Why isn’t Masha coming, too?”

Stash kept climbing the wide steps. “Daisy darling, your sister’s going to live here for a while. It’s a wonderful place, a school for her. You’re coming to live with me in my house in London.”

“NO!”

He stopped, bent down and spoke earnestly to the disbelieving and defiant child. “Now, listen to me, Daisy, this is very important. All the things you know how to do that she can’t—like telling time and reading the cards I send you and jumping rope? Well, if she lives at this school for a while she’ll learn how to do all those things from the best teachers in the world and then you’ll be able to play together the way you’ve always wanted to …”

“I
love
to play with her exactly the way she is—oh,
don’t make her, Daddy, don’t
—she’ll miss me so much. I’ll miss her—please, please, Daddy!” As she began to understand the implacable extent of his intentions, Daisy’s defiance turned to terrible fear.

“Daisy, I understand that it’s hard, but you’re thinking only of yourself. Danielle will get to like it here very quickly and there are many other children for her to play with. But if she doesn’t live in a special place like this, she won’t learn. Now, you don’t want that to happen to her, do you … you don’t want to keep her from learning all the grown-up things that you can do? It wouldn’t be
fair
, you know that. Now,
would that be fair, Daisy?
”

“No,” she sobbed, tears running down her face, down her neck and disappearing down the front of her dress.

“Come along and you can see her lovely room and meet some of the teachers.”

“I can’t stop crying … I’ll make her cry, too.”

“You
have to stop
. I want you to tell her all the things I said. You’ve always said that she understands you, best.”

“She won’t understand now, Daddy.”

“Go ahead and try.”

Finally Daisy controlled herself enough to communicate with her sister in their private language. After only a short while Danielle was weeping huge tears and howling like a small animal.

“She said: ‘Day, no go!’ ”

“But didn’t you tell her about all the things she’d learn?” Stash said impatiently.

“She didn’t know what I meant.”

“Well, that just shows I’m right. If she learns the things they can teach her here, she
will
understand. Now come on, Daisy, get her to stop that terrible noise she’s making and we’ll both take her to her nice room and she’ll be fine, just fine, before you know it.”

The dedicated professionals who ran the institution were accustomed to, as they put it, “unfortunate scenes” when a child was finally left in their excellent care, but nothing had prepared them for the parting of Daisy and Danielle. All of them who were unlucky enough to be present found themselves in despair and some of them were reduced to unprofessional tears by the time Stash finally pried Daisy away, as gently as he could, although he eventually had to use brute force.

After Daisy, shrieking and struggling and kicking, had been bodily carried down the corridor from Dani’s room and bundled into the car, Stash determined that such emotional traumas could only be bad for her. The following Sunday, when he had promised Daisy that she could visit her sister, he refused to take her, carefully explaining that it was for her own good and for Danielle’s good, too. The little girl listened intently to every word he said and, deigning no reply, merely turned away and went to her own room.