Daisy Ashton Abroad

By Susan Leona Fisher

Set in the period of the Crimean War (1853-6) to the start of the Indian Mutiny (1857) this fictional portrayal features several real historical figures and draws on the correspondence, journals and books written at the time. The fictional heroine, Daisy, was born in Jamaica and is of mixed heritage, but has been reared in an aristocratic household in London, where she receives an education but no place in society. She trains as a nurse and goes to the Crimea, where she encounters the rivalry between Florence Nightingale and Mother Francis Bridgeman and her party of Catholic nuns, which is reflected also in tensions within the army medical service. She also meets young diplomat Lucas Denton and we watch their relationship develop over the brief, intermittent meetings that often characterise wartime. The story is told by Daisy writing in the first person, rather in the style of a journal.Set in the period of the Crimean War (1853-6) to the start of the Indian Mutiny (1857) this fictional portrayal features several real historical figures and draws on the correspondence, journals and books written at the time. The fictional heroine, Daisy, was born in Jamaica and is of mixed heritage, but has been reared in an aristocratic household in London, where she receives an education but no place in society. She trains as a nurse and goes to the Crimea, where she encounters the rivalry between Florence Nightingale and Mother Francis Bridgeman and her party of Catholic nuns, which is reflected also in tensions within the army medical service. She also meets young diplomat Lucas Denton and we watch their relationship develop over the brief, intermittent meetings that often characterise wartime. The story is told by Daisy writing in the first person, rather in the style of a journal.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Susan Fisher
• Release date: Sep 21, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223911494

Susan Leona Fisher

Susan Leona Fisher began writing fiction on her retirement, having been a technical/academic writer in her former working life. She was born in London and now lives in the Yorkshire Dales, having lived in various places in between, due to  her clergyman husband’s various postings. Her route to publication was via the New Writers’ Scheme run by the Romantic Novelists’ Association, of which she is a member. She has written 20 historical romances in settings ranging from the ever-popular Regency period to the Second World War. One of them, A Master of Litigation, made the final for historical romance in the Romantic Novel Awards 2018. She has also written several contemporary romances and one non-fiction biography.

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Daisy Ashton Abroad

A romantic adventure set in the 1850s

by

Susan Leona Fisher

Author’s website

www.SLFisherAuthor.co.uk

Copyright © 2022 Susan Leona Fisher

All rights reserved. The right of Susan Leona Fisher to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior permission in writing of the author. Nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published.

All characters, events and places in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain or those stated as being based on reality, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, or places, is purely coincidental.

First published on Amazon Kindle by Susan Leona Fisher, 2022

Available from other e-retailers and in print from Amazon

Cover illustration

‘Galata’ by Alexander William Adair, 1855 (public domain)

Galata was a suburb of Constantinople

About the story

Daisy Ashton knows little about her origins or how she came to live under the guardianship of the Marquess of Chantry, until an overheard conversation enlightens her. But now her protector is dead and she marks her 21st birthday by setting out to make her own way in the world. Her only close friend thus far has been William, the Marquess’s horse-groom. When he volunteers for the British Army and goes to the Crimea, she determines to find a way to follow. Meanwhile, rising young diplomat, Lucas Denton, is keeping an eye on her, concerned for her wellbeing in the face of one Lord Calthwaite’s dishonourable intentions and not a little attracted to her himself. Daisy at last finds a way to travel to the East and leave behind the petty tittle-tattle and jealousies of so-called society ladies. Little does she expect to find another kind of warfare raging amongst the dedicated but strong-willed women nursing at the front!

Acknowledgments

As ever, my thanks to the British Library, whose resources at the Boston Spa Reading Room, their digital collection and the British Newspaper Archive enabled me to research helpful background of persons, places and events that provide the setting for this story (for readers interested in more detail, see historical note and bibliography at the end). Much appreciation also to the people of the time who wrote letters, diaries and memoirs, many of which have been preserved and provide such a rich source of contemporary awareness. Several of my characters are inspired by real persons but given different names, personalities and life stories. Some real historical figures appear as themselves. Florence Nightingale, Mary Seacole and Lord Raglan, will be well known, while others, like Mother Francis Bridgeman and Miss Mary Stanley, may be less so. Many of the events and interpersonal tensions included in the story really did occur, as did much of the correspondence and conversations, which I sourced from historical records. However, Daisy herself is entirely fictitious, did not work as secretary to Mother Bridgeman nor be subject to discipline by Miss Nightingale. Lucas Denton is very loosely based on Richard Lyons, a diplomat of the time.

A nurse should implicitly obey the instructions of the medical attendants in the charge of any case placed under her immediate care, prepare and administer the wants ordered for the patients, giving them medicine or nourishment at stated times if required so to do, but initiate nothing of her own accord.

(Letter from Sir John Hall, Principal Army Medical Officer during Crimean War, to Miss Florence Nightingale, 2nd April 1856)

Dedication

To the early pioneers of medical provision for the armed services and in particular to those who led the way in developing the role of women.

Table of Contents

Foreword

1: A social occasion

2: Conversations in the library

3: Preparing for war

4: Unexpected encounter

5: A ride in the Park

6: An invitation

7: The tea party

8: Cholera

9: A change in accommodation

10: A battle won

11: Call to arms

12: A few surprises

13: Pillow talk

14: Alternative plans

15: Preparing to embark

16: Voyage East

17: Constantinople at last

18: Negotiations

19: Koulali

20: Daisy prescribes

21: Consequences

22: A wedding and an unwanted reunion

23: A revelation and an offer

24: Balaclava

25: Sad partings

26: Happy meeting

27: Closing months of war

28: Return to England

29: Daisy reclaims her rights

30: Out East again

31: Escape to safety

Postscript

Historical note

Bibliography

Foreword

Several years have now passed since the events that will unfold to the reader in the following pages, a period that has changed me markedly. Some might say I lost my innocence and I suppose that is true—at least in the sense that an idealistic young woman, determined to relieve the suffering of sick and injured soldiers, is changed by the realities of war in a foreign land. To witness the British Army, ill-provided for in every way to face the mammoth task that lay before it in the Crimea, was both heartrending and frustrating, for the medical service was equally wanting in premises and provisions.

Just as an untimely early September storm may flatten the golden wheat, ripe and ready for harvest, while the ancient oak trees stand firm beside the field, so it was in the Crimea. Some indeed were scythed down, but many more fell sick, withered and died, including a sizeable number of army medical officers and volunteer doctors and nurses. But some stood tall and unbending, dedicated, disciplined and robust, especially the nuns. It was due to a particular group of Sisters that I was, after several frustrated attempts, able to travel there at last and contribute my services, but more of that later.

Somehow I survived, while many did not. Perhaps I take after my namesake, a tough daisy, strongly rooted with my head close to the ground. I did get trodden on at times, squashed but not destroyed, for I soon sprang up again. It was a situation in which will-power and strength of character and, let us be honest, occasional rule-breaking, got things done. Above all, the camaraderie and mutual respect of my nursing colleagues, or at least some of them, helped us occasionally to smile and cope in the face of much adversity.

In my case, I also acquired a kind of guardian angel, although at the time I thought of Lucas Denton as an interfering, insufferable, superior-acting aristocrat, who thought he was in charge of everything. You will no doubt believe me a hypocrite when you learn, as you will, how much I enjoyed his kisses! I have no doubt that, without him, I would not have survived—neither those two years nor what followed. But more of that later.

You are possibly beginning to imagine that I—Daisy Ashton—was at that point in my life a Little Goody Two-Shoes setting out on my personal mission of charitable good deeds. I want this to be an honest account, so I must confess to another motivation, which at the time was a powerful one. I was in love with William Thornbury, or at least I thought so. The adoration I’d experience on first meeting him, when I was eight years old and he was sixteen, never diminished over the years, but I’m not certain I really knew what being in love was...until later.

William looked after the horses in the Marquess of Chantry’s substantial stables at the back of the grand town house in Grosvenor Street that I’d called my home of sorts for thirteen years. That is, he was so employed until he answered the jingoistic call to arms, which came almost forty years after the bloody Battle of Waterloo had closed that long chapter against the French. In a reversal of those times, on this occasion the French were our allies and the enemy Russia. What perverse games we do play.

1: A social occasion

Saturday 3rd December 1853 London

December is an odd choice for hosting a grand dinner in Town. Her Majesty and entourage have already retreated to Osborne. Many aristocratic houses are now vacated in favour of country residences and hunt balls, or for a sojourn at Brighton, where a different grand dinner might be enjoyed nightly, throughout the month leading up to the Christmas festivities. Indeed, most of the occupants of this house will be making for the family’s country seat before the week is out. But first, the Dinner Party.

My most common source of information in this household is, I have to confess, below-stairs gossip. In this particular case, I heard it from the cook, who’d been given her instructions by the housekeeper, who’d been personally charged by the mistress, following the unceasing pleas of the Lady Amelia, that they MUST hold a dinner party before departing for Hampshire, for a particular Gentleman is in Town and he’s bound to attend seeing as his father is abroad with the navy and his mother requires an escort.

I know little of the man, short of his name, and imagine that Amelia’s information is based, not dissimilarly to my own, on society gossip, too. For all Amelia’s flirtatious intentions, her pretty blonde curls, blue eyes and a figure that generally earns a second look—of appreciation by the gentlemen, but envy from the ladies, no doubt—she can have no idea whether this much-anticipated dinner guest might already be promised in marriage. Should this turn out to be the case, or should The Honourable Lucas Denton fail to appear, Amelia will be full of whining complaints, as she ever is when life disappoints her or she fails to get her own way.

But I run ahead of myself. Allow me to introduce my—I was going to say family, but that would be both presumptuous and tactless. Let us refer to them as my household instead. Come through the capacious entrance hall with its black and white marble-tiled floor and huge central chandelier and follow the wide corridor towards the rear of this somewhat grand mansion in Grosvenor Street. Pay homage to the ancestors lining the walls as you pass, until you reach the small parlour. It is a pretty room, overlooking a neat formal garden at the rear of the property. You will have to take my word for that, since night has now drawn in and all is darkness outside.

No one shall disturb us, since they are all upstairs preparing for tonight’s occasion. I yet have time before my own duties for the evening begin. I love the restful décor of this room, with its cream paint-work and rose-pink walls, echoed by gentle pale pinks, blues and greens in the upholstery and also in the Axminster rug lying in front of the pale marble fireplace. Opposite the fireplace, a large canvas of colourful roses quite fills the wall. I can almost smell them, until I realise it’s the rose-scented soap I washed with a short while ago.

There’s a chill to the atmosphere, for no one’s bothered to light the fire, even though it’s laid there ready. Nor are the curtains drawn, so we shan’t linger long, but I shall at least light the lamp, so we can view the miniatures that fill the alcoves on either side of the fireplace.

To the left in the darker corner of the room are some old faces, mostly larger pictures in slightly tarnished ornate gilded frames. The biggest depicts the first Marquess, a broad-faced gentleman with a substantial wig and a glimpse of a portly belly, dressed as one might expect for a contemporary of George the Second. He would be the present Marquess’s great grandfather. I’ll not bother with introductions to the various other departed, except perhaps one, the most recent venerable gentleman to quit his mortal coil. It was upon Lionel Chantry’s sudden death that his son Robert inherited the title a little over a year ago and earned the right to be addressed as Lord Chantry and sit in the House of Lords.

As I gaze upon Lord Lionel now, I am paying homage to the man who was my godfather and the reason I was brought to live in this household at the tender age of eight. His likeness sits below those of his ancestors. The black ribbon has been removed by someone, now that a year has passed. In agreeing to take me off his friend Mr Ashton’s hands and bring me from Jamaica to England, he transformed my life, for I have resided here these past thirteen years and received the same education as his two daughters. That must surely be beneficial. Indeed, without it I should not have developed the language skills or dexterity to put pen to paper and write down this account.

Not that Lord Lionel Chantry had much to do with me over the years. To own the truth, I was a little in awe of him, but as I grew older, I did learn to respect him too, for he was of a liberal turn of mind and was known to voice those views in the House of Lords. As soon as I had gleaned sufficient fluency and vocabulary from the governess, I began to read the newspapers avidly. Consequently, I became aware that the late Marquess had supported the removal of restrictions on imported grain to make the price of that staple food—daily bread—more readily available to the poor and that he further spoke on the urgent need to relieve the starving people at the time of that awful famine in Ireland. His son is of a diametrically opposite point of view, a traditional Tory set on protecting the landed class and with little sympathy for those less fortunate than himself.

Next to the image of the late Marquess is one of his Marchioness, Fenella, looking petite and pretty. She was actually his second Marchioness and is his widow now, though still very much alive herself. It must feel strange to be referred to as the Dowager, now that her step-son and his wife are the new Marquess and Marchioness, especially given that she is but one year older than him. Of her predecessor, the first Marchioness and mother of Lionel Chantry’s six children, there is no sign. I never knew her, for she died long ago, soon after which Lord Lionel wed the Lady Fenella, an action that apparently precipitated the removal of all traces of the mother of her six step-children. There were to be no offspring from the second marriage, whether by design or accident, I know not.

The rose-pink wallpaper has faded over the years, but reveals its original colour in occasional patches that must formerly have been covered by frames that have since been rearranged. To the right of the hearth is a similar arrangement of the younger generations. In the central place of honour, is a pair of matching, highly-polished mahogany frames, the inner oval shape highlighted by a thin ring of gilt. These likenesses show the new Marquess of Chantry, Lord Robert, facing his lady, the beautiful Georgiana, each face lit with a warm smile. They were made some years ago. These days the smiles are fewer, by all accounts. Above the couple, displayed in a semi-circle, is a younger version of Lord Robert, along with his five siblings in order of age, the last being of Lady Amelia as a small child. Beneath Robert and Georgiana are the likeness of their own four children.

I detect sounds from the front hall, whose marble floor and high ceiling tend to create echoes along the corridors. Amongst them, I make out the sonorous tones of Mr Jenkins, the butler. He is something of a tartar and I’d best get to my station. You may have already gathered that my own portrait does not hang on the parlour wall with the rest. Indeed, my likeness has never been undertaken. I occupy a strange position in this household, neither family nor servant. I once shared the schoolroom with Lady Amelia and her slightly older sister, who has since wed and lives in the west of England. Over the years I have become what might be deemed an unofficial assistant to the housekeeper, Mrs Dodds, so I have my uses. Pretty girl like you, she once remarked, bound to make a good match. This way you’ll be able to run your own household without blinking an eye. I can teach you all you need to know.

Before leaving the parlour, I pause before the gilded mirror, which fills the entire chimney-breast above the fire-place, to examine my reflection. My wavy chestnut hair, which had been allowed to grow long when I was a child, is now cut in a practical short style and is mostly hidden beneath a white, lace-edged cap, to match the white, cotton gloves on my hands. My plain gown, in dark grey, does nothing much for me, with its long, tight sleeves and slightly flared skirt, with just the one petticoat beneath. You will at once gather that I am not a follower of current fashions, which involve the use of several underskirts, one of which must be padded to create that wide bell-shape that is apparently required.

I read recently that someone is planning to produce a new version with metal hoops to replace the heavy horse-hair padding. I catch myself smiling now, showing my dimples and arching my well-defined dark brows that match my dark long lashes. Dwelling for a moment longer on the thought of metal hoops I wonder if stern fathers and guardians might view the modern voluminous fashion as a way to keep over-keen suitors at bay. After all, a gentleman cannot easily clasp his beloved to his bosom, without causing the hoops to rise up behind, potentially revealing not only her ankles, but the backs of her knees or worse, her stocking-tops!

Turning away from the mirror, I catch my full-length view reflected in the long dark window. I rarely study my own reflection, for I have little vanity, save knowing I am clean in body and neatly clothed. It is more important what you do, than how you look. Nevertheless, my outline shows the close-fitting gown with the neat buttons from the high neck down to the hem. Mrs Dodds insists I not wear an apron, because I am better than a housemaid. I wonder, as I observe the revealing nature of the close-fitting gown, whether she realises just how provocative it might appear to a man with a gleam in his eye. Not that such notice would promise the prospect of a good marriage and a decent household to run, as envisaged by Mrs Dodds. I am realist enough to know that I shall probably end up in a cottage with a labouring husband. I doubt an aristocratic man displaying that gleaming perusal of interest, would have marital vows in mind!

With an impatient tut of disapproval I turn away from my self-examination and quit the room.

Ah, there you are, Daisy, the butler greets me. Has Mrs Dodds explained?

Yes, Mr Jenkins, I reply. I am to receive the guests’ outerwear from the footmen, memorise the names and arrange them in the cloakroom. I’m then to have my supper before...um...doing the whole thing in reverse. I promise I shan’t give Mr Dunworth’s great coat to Sir Giles Smith.

That brings a hard-won smile from Mr Jenkins, for Dunworth is six foot tall and almost as broad, while Sir Giles, at five foot seven or eight, is only an inch or so taller than me and wraith-thin. I take up my position to one side of the broad staircase, which rises from the hall before splitting into two symmetrical flights that continue up and meet again on the landing above. The cloakroom is situated in one corner, with its door directly beneath one of these flights, making me an anonymous, hidden figure, strictly not to engage with the guests. That latter instruction I hardly credit with a need to take seriously, since it comes from Lady Amelia. Who is she to tell me what to do or not to do? I shall certainly respond if a guest addresses me directly.

I hear, but do not see, the family descending the main staircase. I also smell them, at least the females of the party, as a powerful whiff of scent wafts my way. I believe Amelia has discovered a particular floral concoction from Creeds favoured by Her Majesty, which is said to be all the rage. It contains rose and bergamot, which are quite pleasant, but, unfortunately, it also includes musk, which gives it a cloying, heavy, somewhat overpowering smell that tends to make me gag. Robert doesn’t much indulge in the use of fragrances, or, if he does, they tend to be overwhelmed by the smell of tobacco, which he ever carries around with him in the taint of its smoke embedded in the fibres of his jackets. As for me, I can’t afford fragrances, not even that lovely eau de cologne with its scent of orange blossoms, but at least the household stocks fine perfumed soaps.

The family group is discussing the guests they expect and I catch the silken swish of satin gowns, as his lordship escorts his wife Lady Georgiana, his step-mother Dowager Lady Fenella and his sister Lady Amelia to the reception room, where they will greet the guests. The Marquis with all his women—I imagine that is why Sir Giles Smith and Mr Dunworth have been included in tonight’s guest list, to balance the numbers. The former is a widower and the latter unwed.

I have, in fact, already seen Amelia’s gown, since she insisted on modelling it for me. It has a tight bodice to a cinched waist, from which the voluminous skirts form the huge, but allegedly fashionable, bell shape. These overemphasised skirts rather remind me of illustrations of the army’s bell tents, except they must be considerably more colourful as well as stitched with copious rows of flounces, which add to the overall girth. Amelia’s gown falls away at the top to reveal bare shoulders and a daring neckline, and it has puffed sleeves and a contrasting woven sash with a cream lace trim to enliven the plain blue of the fabric. The colour, Amelia informed me, flatters her eyes. No wonder, therefore, that half her wardrobe, which is a substantial one, favours the same shade.

At times I ponder the question of how intelligent men cannot see through the pretty packaging to the vacuous and quite vain young woman beneath. She receives plenty of callers and her dance card, at the many balls she attends, is invariably full—or so she informs me. Nevertheless, at the age of twenty-five, she remains unwed and un-betrothed. Indeed, I am unaware of her receiving any offers, but I may be wrong. At one time, I recall, she had her sights set on a duke’s heir. Tonight’s gentlemanly prospect is a younger son and his father is only a baron, which makes him a plain Mister with the courtesy of Honourable in front, if he cares to use it. But at least, I heard her say a few days ago, he is only six-and-twenty years of age. I suspect she fears being married off to a gouty old duke to beget him a late heir. A Baron’s youngest son would be better than that, and possibly he has other attributes. Mayhap he is very rich, or, failing that, very handsome. It is highly unlikely I will discover anything further about him, kept apart from the guests as I am.

Talking of guests, they now begin to arrive and I amuse myself by silently rehearsing the names in my head as I arrange the coats and cloaks in the little room. By the time all sixteen guests have been welcomed, de-robed and escorted to be announced to their hosts, I can point to each garment in turn and name the party which owns it. The prompt completion of my task allows me to go off duty in fairly quick order. It would have been another story three days ago, when one of those dense late autumn fogs we often get in November brought the capital’s traffic to a standstill. I go round the arrangement of coats and cloaks once more and smile a little as the image of a lady choir conductor comes to mind. At that moment, Mr Jenkins pops his head round the door to call me for supper and frowns as he observes me pointing.

Just counting they’re all present and correct, I jest, before following him down below stairs to the servants’ hall. A few upstairs maids and two of the footmen are busy serving pre-dinner hors d’oeuvres and drinks to the guests, but the rest of us have time to eat before nearly everyone will be involved in serving and later clearing up after dinner. The exception is me, for I will be excused until the first guests make their departure. However, I am expected to stay within calling distance, so shall retreat to the library until needed. This is situated off the hall, on the same side as the cloakroom, so it is easy to slip from the one into the other, once I am summoned back on duty.

Apart from a goodly supply of reading matter, another advantage of borrowing this room is that the fire is lit and the curtains closed against the dark night, for it is Lord Robert’s habit to take a brandy here while perusing correspondence or other business before retiring each evening. The maids do their best with lavender polish, but the aroma of stale tobacco smoke lingers.

The late Marquess, Lord Lionel, enjoyed the writings of Charles Dickens and had collected all his novels to date. Possibly enjoyed is the wrong verb. Given his political attitudes, I guess he was impressed with the way the writer put across social issues in an entertaining story with memorable characters, some of whom were quite wicked but found redemption, while others were paupers who unexpectedly found wealth. A dedicated shelf is given over to the various volumes. His lordship’s last purchase was David Copperfield. I had privately vowed, so long as I resided in this house, to continue the collection. Thus, as soon as the full novel was available in September this year, I purchased the latest one, Bleak House, even though it took most of my carefully hoarded pin money to obtain the Morocco-bound version to match the rest.

Having already finished reading the serialised version in Household Words I had not actually opened the book myself, apart from for the purpose of inscribing the following dedication on the first page: In grateful memory of LC from his goddaughter DA. After all, he had taken me in, educated me and provided room and board for the past dozen years. But he is no longer in charge, his son Robert is. None of Lord Lionel’s children has ever been particularly well disposed towards me. Now that the formal period of mourning has been completed, I suspect it will not be long before I am given my marching orders. I imagine there would be some reluctance to perform such a deed in the month of Christmas, however.

For a moment I envisage being relegated to the mews stables, like the Christ Child. The stables are very familiar to me and a comfort, for that is where William spends most of his time. It is, after all, where William gave me my first kiss—and other things. Please do not condemn me as immoral, for we have not behaved as a married couple are permitted. But we have found ways to pleasure each other. I see nothing wrong, if we are one day to be married. William tells me we must wait, for I am young yet. Perhaps he forgets that I am soon to turn one-and-twenty. In another life I would by now have been presented and offered for, but I am not a well-connected young lady with a dowry. Whenever I hint to William of future plans, a crease of worry appears across his handsome face. The other servants know that we are fond of each other, but only Mrs Dobbs has spoken to me about it—and not in encouraging terms.

I know Mr Thornbury holds a special place in your heart, Daisy, and that he reminds you of the people you left behind in Jamaica, but you would never be permitted to wed, you being like a white girl. Perhaps that is a view shared by William, which would explain his lack of enthusiasm for setting a wedding date.

I give some thought to Mrs Dodds using the phrase like a white girl. It is ironic that, spending my early years where I did and never, that I recall, seeing myself in a mirror, I thought my face must be dark like the other household staff. When at last I discovered it wasn’t, I was at least pleased to see my eyes were brown, but more like weak tea than dark chocolate.

I remember that moment I first saw William. The ship had docked at Bristol and the Marquess’s coachman collected me and the lady escorting me. Apart from a few dark-skinned men at the docks, I saw no familiar dark faces on the journey to London. In those days I spoke two versions of English, the one I was supposed to speak in the Plantation House when serving Mr and Mrs Ashton, and the Pidgin spoken amongst the workers, the former slaves, on the estate. Then we drew into the mews and William stepped forward at once to see to the horses. The story goes that I gave him a broad smile and threw myself into his arms, uttering something in Pidgin. He, born and bred in London, understood not one syllable. Later, I taught him a few words, but I think it’s all forgotten now.

Whatever happens about me and William, I know I must make my own way in the world. A few ideas are mulling around in my head and I have cut out and kept some advertisements for vacancies that regularly appear in the papers. I recall the governess’s parting words to me in a quiet moment when she was making her farewells. That was a few years ago now, but I have never forgotten. You have a fine mind, Daisy. Never give up on seeking something worthwhile to do with your life. And never doubt what a lovely girl you are, not only so very pretty, but with a kind nature—beauty inside as well as out. Those other two are full of their own importance, but they are nothing beside you. Believe in your own worth, my dear girl. I had been sorry to see her go. As it happened, she was dismissed, not for misdemeanour or lack of skill, but because of the two sisters’ vanity. Lord Lionel had laid down the law—if you both wish to spend all my money on fine gowns for your come-out, then I’m not forking out for a governess any more. Besides what can a middle-aged spinster teach you about preparing for marriage.

Mrs Dodds said similar affirming things to me over the years and those two ladies are responsible for any confidence I do bring to living my life. But that is for another day. Right now, I curl up on one of the leather armchairs in the corner, turn up the lamp on the table beside me, and open the book. It begins, appropriately enough, with fog, an apt image for my current understanding of my future.

I am a few chapters in when two loud raps sound from the knocker on the front door. My first thought is how strange to have a caller on the night of a dinner party. Everyone has arrived and by now they must all be sat at table, being served their meal. There are no late guests. Perhaps it is someone wishing to speak with Lord Robert, ignorant of his prior social engagement. Whoever it is, I am already on my feet. I cannot be found in here. I close my book over a finger marking my place, as I make for the curtains. They are heavy, full-length velvet, which helps keep the autumn chill from the room. Unfortunately, they also create a space of distinctly cool air between the curtains and the long windows and I have no shawl. It is too late to find another hiding place. Two things