Chapter 2
When Daisy left her room and turned towards the stairs, Lady Tyndall was coming out of a room ahead of her, the last on the right. She saw Daisy and waited for her.
“I hope you’ve managed to rest a bit after that dreadful journey.”
“Oh yes, thank you. I put my feet up for a while.”
“That is my sitting room.” She gestured back at the door she had just closed. “You are very welcome to make use of it, to relax in, or for your writing.”
“That’s very kind of you, Lady Tyndall. My bedroom seems to have everything I need.” Even a second bed, which she wished Alec was occupying.
“I know Gwen had a desk moved in for you. I wasn’t sure if it was adequate for a professional journalist.”
“Perfectly. I’m looking forward to writing about your celebration. I hope my dashing away like that didn’t upset Sir Harold so much that he won’t be willing to tell me the rest of the history.”
“Harold isn’t used to being thwarted.” Lady Tyndall gave her a tired smile. “Usually, I don’t find it worth the effort to cross him, but I could see you were in dire need of rescue.”
“I was,” Daisy said gratefully. “It’s one of those flies in the ointment they don’t warn you about. In general, I’m very well.”
“I’m glad. I was unlucky; my pregnancies were very difficult. But you look blooming.”
“I’m healthy as a horse, and with an appetite to match, I’m afraid.”
“Don’t worry, there will be plenty to eat at tea.
Pam is always hungry, and Jack—if he’s too thin, it’s not because he doesn’t eat enough.
He’s just a boy still, in many ways. But he’s too old to accept his father’s laying down the law, if Harold would only realize it.
” Lady Tyndall had been speaking half to herself.
As she and Daisy reached the foot of the stairs and started across the hall, she gave herself a little shake and said, “I expect Gwen told you we have another guest.”
“Yes, a Mr. Miller?”
“He’s a friend of Jack’s . . .rather unsuitable, I’m sorry to say. Not quite what you might call ‘out of the top drawer.’ I hope you won’t mind meeting him.”
“Of course not, Lady Tyndall. I’m a journalist, after all. I write about all sorts of things and talk to all sorts of people. My articles about stately homes were the thin end of the wedge in a way, something I could do that most journalists can’t.”
“I’ve read some of them. Most impressive.” She ushered Daisy into the drawing room.
Everyone in the room was at the windows, absorbed by the sunset, a spectacular fiery blaze set off by expanses of cool green and lemon yellow. They turned as Lady Tyndall shut the door against draughts from the hall.
“ ‘Red sky at night, shepherd’s delight,’ ” Jack Tyndall quoted. “It looks as if we’re going to have good weather for the fireworks. I’m glad you didn’t come all this way, Mrs. Fletcher, just to attend a washout.”
“So am I,” Daisy assured him.
“May I introduce a friend of mine? Martin Miller—he’s an aeronautical engineer.” This last was pronounced in a defiant tone.
The man who stepped forward was not in the least what Daisy had anticipated.
The “bounder,” far from being dressed in flashy bad taste, wore a perfectly acceptable dark suit, well cut, if not of Savile Row tailoring.
He was older than one might have expected of a friend of the youthful Tyndall heir, with the beginnings of crow’s-feet at the corners of his eyes and dark cropped hair greying at the temples.
At least forty, she judged; perhaps that was why his influence over Jack was feared, though he seemed rather on the serious side, more likely to be a good influence than bad.
As for his possible influence on Gwen, he wasn’t particularly good-looking, but there was nothing to object to in his appearance. And Gwen was a spinster of twenty-seven in a world where a large proportion of men of “suitable” age and class had perished in the War.
“How do you do, Mr. Miller.” Daisy offered her hand and he shook it, his clasp firm, warm, and dry—no handshake like a filleted fish to make Sir Harold take against him.
“Were you building aeroplanes during the War? My husband was in the Royal Flying Corps, a spotter pilot. Perhaps you had a hand in producing the ‘crates’ he flew?”
He smiled, but his eyes were wary. “I did, though not so much actual production. My company was mostly working on design.” The final g of working was voiced, faintly but distinctly grating on the ear and placing his origins firmly in the Midlands and the lower middle class.
Not that Daisy cared, but Sir Harold was bound to take a dim view.
“What are you doing now?” she asked. “I mean, now that we don’t need fighters any longer. I presume you’re a believer in the future of air passenger travel?”
Jack intervened eagerly. “We still need war planes! Germany can’t be trusted.
And now Winston Churchill—he was Minister for Air after the War, remember?
It took awhile but he ended up convinced of the necessity of air power.
Now they say he’s going to join the Conservative cabinet, and he’s bound to push for rearmament. ”
“Ridiculous waste of money!” Sir Harold had come in unnoticed. “The Bosch knows when he’s beaten. As for air travel, no one in his senses would risk his life in the air only to save a little time.”
“With all due respect, sir,” said Miller, “a number of airlines have been operating here and in Europe for several years. Now that the government has formed Imperial Airways and started to subsidize—”
“Ridiculous waste of money!”
Daisy was torn between interest and trying to think of a polite way to escape.
“That’s a matter of opinion, Father. The fact is, people are going to go on designing and building aeroplanes, and I want to be one of them.”
“And my company needs bright young engineers like Jack.”
“Over my dead body! What this country needs is landowners who take care of their land. Where should we be without farmers to feed us, eh? Jack’s place is right here, running the place like twenty generations of his forefathers.”
“But I’m not in the least interested in farming, sir,” Jack protested. “Babs knows all there is to know, and what’s more, she likes doing it.”
“Babs is a girl.” The baronet glared at his eldest daughter, who had just come in, switching on the electric lights at the door. “No, by George, Babs is a woman, and if she doesn’t stop messing about on the estate and hurry up and find herself a husband, she’ll be past praying for.”
Babs shot her father a look of venomous dislike.
Though she had changed from trousers into a tweed skirt and long hand-knitted cardigan, it was obvious that she didn’t expend much effort on her appearance.
She had made no attempt to disguise with powder and lipstick the effects of her outdoor activities on her complexion.
Her straight dark brown hair was bobbed very short.
She wore flat shoes, and her only jewelry was a Victorian ring, a diamond and ruby half hoop, on her ring finger.
An heirloom engagement ring, Daisy assumed, destined never to be joined on the work-roughened hand by the intended wedding ring. Gwen’s ring finger was bare, she thought; could it be a sign that Gwen had new hopes? And if so, was Martin Miller their focus?
With an abrupt nod to Daisy, Babs went over to her mother and Gwen. Both were still standing at one of the windows, looking out, but Daisy guessed from their taut stance that both had been listening to the altercation behind them.
They turned to greet Babs. The family resemblance between the three women was obvious.
All were slight and fine-boned, perfect for the current low-waisted, straight-up-and-down fashion.
In Lady Tyndall’s case, this was emphasized by the frailty of ill health, as Daisy had already noted.
In contrast, the way Babs moved suggested a wiry strength still brimming with restless energy after a day out and about on the estate.
As for Gwen, Daisy remembered the delicate prettiness of her girlhood and wondered which was most responsible for its fading: the passage of time, the loss of her fiancé, or the anxieties of life with her irascible father.
Gwen was still pretty when she smiled, but now, distressed, she looked quite plain. Seeing Daisy stuck amid the squabbling men, she said something to Babs, who shrugged. After a moment’s hesitation, Gwen visibly braced herself and moved forward to extricate her friend.
By this time, the antagonists were repeating themselves. Daisy decided she wasn’t going to learn anything new. She was about to slink away to forestall the rescue effort, when a couple of maids came in with the tea things.
The argument stopped short. One maid started to set out cups and saucers and plates of bread and butter, cakes, and biscuits on the tea table, near the fireplace.
The other girl went to draw the cream-and-gold curtains, hiding the last embers of the sunset.
The room was transformed from a scene of battle to the cosy haven proper to afternoon tea.
Lady Tyndall went to sit behind the table, ready to pour.
Under cover of the bustle, Gwen apologized. “I’m so sorry, Daisy. I didn’t realize you’d got caught up in the conflict.”
“Merely as an observer. They forgot I was there. I dare say I could have sneaked away without their noticing.”
“Jack used to be good at coping with Father, but since he came down from Cambridge, he’s become so stubborn. . . .”
“I imagine he’s growing up. He knows what he wants to do with his life—which, I must say, sounds to me perfectly reasonable—and he has Mr. Miller to back him. Miller seems to be a staunch, sensible sort of a chap.”
“You like him?” Gwen asked eagerly.
“I like what I’ve seen of him. I haven’t seen nearly enough of him to form an opinion. Have you known him long?”