Chapter 12
TWELVE
“I’m afraid you have just missed the Hebrew Character.
” Lord Dalrymple came down the steps and shook Alec’s hand warmly as he got out of the big green Vauxhall that had met the Fletchers, Martha Dalrymple, and Nurse Gilpin at Malvern station.
“Never mind, quite common and not particularly attractive.”
“One of the claimants is Jewish?” Alec asked, startled. Unlikely—but possible, he supposed, as Jews were matrilineal.
The viscount looked equally startled. He pushed his pince-nez lower on his nose and peered at Alec over the top.
Daisy stepped down from the car with a hand from the chauffeur. “Thank you, Truscott. A butterfly, darling,” she advised Alec, not that he hadn’t already realised, given his host’s obsession. “Or a moth. Or even a dragonfly.”
“Moth. Setaceous Hebrew Character, Xestia c-nigrum. Ah,” said Lord Dalrymple triumphantly, “you’re the Large Copper, Daisy’s young man. Butterfly,” he added in parentheses. It was the first time Alec had known him to crack a deliberate joke about his passion.
Laughing, he clarified: “Her husband, sir. Alec Fletcher.”
“Yes, indeed. I believe I attended your wedding? Some time ago, was it not? I had forgotten.”
Alec forbore to remind him that he had given Daisy away and provided a grand reception.
Daisy kissed his cheek, as Belinda appeared from the car with Oliver in her arms, followed by Mrs. Gilpin carrying a wiggling Miranda.
“You remember Belinda, Cousin Edgar.”
“Of course, my dear.” He patted Bel’s cheek. “Small Red Damsel.”
“I’m not small anymore, Uncle Edgar, and my hair isn’t as red as it used to be. It’s getting fairer. Or is that a butterfly?”
“Damselfly. Ceriagrion tenellum.” He smiled at her, then peered at Oliver as Alec set him down.
“My brother, Oliver. He was only a baby when we came last year. He can almost talk now. Oliver, say hello.”
“Dada,” said Oliver firmly, reaching out to Alec.
Miranda was more obliging: “Heyo,” she said with a beam.
Lord Dalrymple beamed back. “Heyo, Miranda. Would you like to see some butterflies?”
“Buf’eyes?”
“I’d like to,” said Belinda. “I’ll bring them both to your conservatory later, all right, Uncle Edgar?”
“Certainly, certainly. You can help me release the Migrant Hawker.”
“I take it, sir,” said Alec dryly, “that you haven’t imprisoned a wandering pedlar?”
“Butterfly,” said Daisy, “or moth.”
“No, no, dragonfly. It hatched this morning. Pretty dragonfly,” he said to Miranda.
“Dagfwy? Manda pitty.”
“So you are, my dear, so you are.”
“What nonsense, Miss Miranda,” Nurse Gilpin intervened. “Vain as a peacock, that’s what you’ll be. If your lordship’ll excuse us, I’d like to get them settled in the nursery.”
“I have several Peacocks that will probably hatch in a few days.”
“Bird or butterfly?” Alec asked, laughing.
“Oh, butterfly, my dear fellow, butterfly. Inachis io, don’t you know.
Geraldine was talking about acquiring some peacocks for the terrace, but I can’t abide their screeching.
For my taste, it’s too like a rabbit’s scream when a fox or stoat gets it.
” On this gruesome note, he stepped forward to greet Martha, whom Truscott was solicitously handing down from the Vauxhall.
She looked apprehensive, unsure of her welcome. “And here is the Beautiful Demoiselle.”
“Mrs. Samuel Dalrymple,” Daisy introduced her. “Demoiselle” was hardly appropriate for the by-now distinctly pregnant young woman!
However, perhaps Edgar was not so oblivious as his choice of words suggested. He offered Martha his arm, patted her hand, and said, “I’m very happy to meet you, my dear. Don’t worry, we’ll take good care of you until your husband arrives.”
At last the butler succeeded in ushering everyone out of the heat and glare of the July afternoon into the cool dimness of the hall, lit only by the clerestory and lantern of the cupola high above.
“Her ladyship is in the drawing room,” Lowecroft announced. “Tea will be served shortly. Perhaps the ladies would like to go to their rooms first?”
“I’ll go up too,” Alec said firmly.
Ernest was waiting by the stairs to escort them, and upstairs a maid was in attendance. Belinda was thrilled to find she had risen to the dignity of a guest room of her own, instead of one of the nursery bedrooms. In fact, she was in Daisy’s old room, as Daisy and Alec had the second-best bedroom.
“Mummy, do you think that means I’m supposed to have tea with the grown-ups, not with the babies?” she asked anxiously.
“I expect so, darling. You can come down with us to say hello to Aunt Geraldine, and if it looks as if you’re not expected you can quietly fade out, all right?” Daisy turned to the maid. “Are the other … guests already here?”
“Lord and Lady John will be staying at the Dower House, madam. There’s others as came yesterday,” she added in an ominous tone, “but who they may be, I’m sure it’s not my place to say.”
She made sure they had everything they needed, then departed.
“It sounds as if the servants don’t approve of the heirs of the body,” said Alec.
“Darling, it sounds to me as if they strongly disapprove.”
“They’re your relatives.” He was determined not to be drawn into Daisy’s family affairs. “I’m not going to get involved. I’d rather face a gang of thugs than massed Dalrymples, unless you’re by my side to protect me.”
Daisy giggled. “Then hurry up, do. I’m dying to see how Vincent and Raymond get on with each other.”
They washed off the inevitable grime of a train journey. When Belinda tapped on the door, Daisy sent her to see if Martha was ready.
Meeting on the landing, Alec saw that Martha was wide-eyed with apprehension, daunted by the prospect of facing a roomful of strangers.
He was not a little apprehensive himself—of a week of boredom or, alternatively, of hordes of squabbling relatives whose ruffled feathers Daisy would expect him to help to smooth.
With a certain fellow feeling, he gave Martha his arm and escorted her down the wide stairs to the hall.
Daisy followed with Belinda, doing her best not to act as if Fairacres were still her home. She wondered whether Martha found the mansion any more intimidating than she had—at first sight—the Hampstead house.
“I wish Derek was here,” Bel whispered to her.
As they reached the foot of the staircase Lowecroft, adept in the magical art of butlerdom, appeared from nowhere and ushered them into the drawing room.
Geraldine came to greet them. Behind her, three men stood up: Raymond, Vincent, and a stranger. Belatedly Edgar followed suit. With him rose a boy he had been chatting to, a dark lad of about Belinda’s age. An unknown lady remained seated.
Daisy presented Martha to Geraldine, who welcomed her kindly though with a distracted air. General introductions followed, not without some difficulty, as many of those present had the same surname.
Raymond Dalrymple favoured Daisy with a half bow, shook hands with Alec, gave Martha a nod and a hard stare, and ignored Belinda.
Vincent Dalrymple was all smiles and complaisance.
The unknown woman turned out to be his wife.
Mrs. Vincent Dalrymple was a handsome woman who spoke excellent English with a slight French accent and was dressed and made up with the Parisian chic attained without effort by so many Frenchwomen.
Her manner was graciously condescending to Daisy, as if she already knew her husband to be the true heir. She couldn’t—could she?
To Martha, Mrs. Vincent didn’t bother to be gracious. She was coldly polite, after a glance with narrowed eyes at the younger woman’s obvious pregnancy. After an appraising look at Belinda, she bent enough to say, “My elder daughter must be about your age.”
“What’s her name? Is she here?” Bel asked eagerly.
“Certainly not. The children are en vacances on the Continent with their governess.”
Geraldine swept onwards. “Daisy, this is Mr. Crowley.”
So the stranger was the one who had told Tommy he was escorting a Dalrymple scion to England.
In his late thirties, Mr. Crowley was dark haired, extremely good-looking, with green eyes and an engaging smile that displayed very white teeth.
Altogether too much of a good thing, Daisy thought.
What was his association with the unknown Dalrymple and why was his attendance necessary?
He grinned at Daisy and, as if reading her mind, said, “I’ve brought my stepson over to take his chances in the Dalrymple stakes.”
Doubtless he had had to answer the same question, spoken or implied, over and over again, she realised crossly.
He turned to the boy beside him, between him and Edgar. “Benjamin Dalrymple, son of my late wife and her first husband, Lucas Dalrymple, of Port-of-Spain, Trinidad.”
An orphan, then. Benjamin, a lanky lad about Bel’s age, was as dark skinned as Daisy’s Indian friend Sakari.
Though his features were more European than African, his short-cropped hair was crow-black and tightly curled.
Daisy had been vaguely aware of these facts since her first glance at the assembled company, but she hadn’t paid much attention, concentrating on the adults.
It hadn’t crossed her mind that he was one of the would-be heirs.
He bowed slightly, looking apprehensive.
“Hello,” said Belinda, eschewing the formal “how do you do” with which she had addressed the grown-ups. She went straight to the question that most interested her: “How old are you?”
“Twelve, miss.”
“I’m thirteen. So’s Derek. My name is Belinda but you can call me Bel.”
He beamed. “You can call me Ben. Or Benjie, but I like Ben better.” His voice had an attractive lilt, rather like Martha’s, though less strong and with a mixture of other elements. It sounded almost Welsh to Daisy’s ears.
“Bel and Ben. I bet people will get confused.”
“Who’s Derek?”
“My cousin. My stepcousin, really. And my friend. You’re a sort of stepcousin too, I expect. You came from Trinidad?”