Before she made up her mind, Geraldine reappeared. Daisy let her lead the way into the drawing room.
The Dowager Lady Dalrymple was standing at the French window on the far side, silhouetted against the comparative brightness, looking over the terrace, the lawn, and the gardens. Daisy hoped she hadn’t got there soon enough to see them sneaking round by the side door.
The dowager turned on hearing their footsteps. “Good afternoon, Geraldine.”
“Good afternoon, Maud.”
“Hello, Mother.”
“Won’t you sit down? To what do I owe the pleasure?” Geraldine enquired, as if she didn’t know.
“Isn’t it obvious?” the dowager declaimed, her voice throbbing. “You cannot suppose I have no interest in the man who is to take the place of my husband and my son?”
“Cousin Edgar succeeded Father,” Daisy objected. “Besides, this chap who’s coming this afternoon may not be the one.”
“A shopkeeper! A hawker of baubles! At least a schoolmaster may be a gentleman. Of sorts.”
Geraldine bridled. “Edgar is a gentleman in the best sense of the word,” she said with some heat.
“Precisely.” She paused to let her meaning sink in. “When do you expect this … this person to call?”
“Mr. Raymond Dalrymple did not give a precise time, just midafternoon.”
“Not a gentleman. In any sense of the word.”
“He must be driving down,” said Daisy. “One never knows when a puncture will strike.”
“For a writer,” said her mother, “you use words rather inaccurately. A puncture cannot strike.”
“You will take tea, won’t you, Maud?” Geraldine said hastily. “Daisy, would you mind ringing?”
Lowecroft, arriving in response to the bell, seemed more deferential than usual towards Geraldine. Daisy got the impression that he was, in his dignified way, cocking a snook at her mother. Clearly conscious of his altered demeanour, Geraldine perked up. The dowager, no fool, missed nothing of the byplay. Her lips tightened.
Daisy wondered whether the butler had been listening at the door and heard her mother’s snide remarks. He wouldn’t take kindly to denigration of his master, whatever his own opinion of that eccentric peer.
“Tea, Lowecroft. Unless you’d prefer lemonade, Maud?”
“Lemonade would be pleasant,” the dowager acknowledged reluctantly.
“Good idea,” said Daisy.
Supplied with lemonade and crisp, sweet, light-as-air wafers, Daisy’s mother got round to asking after her grandchildren. As she had completely ignored their existence the previous day, Daisy took this sudden solicitude with a pinch of salt. A wayward impulse made her begin with Belinda, in whom the dowager had even less interest than in the twins.
“Belinda’s doing very well at school. She’s even thinking she might like to go on to university, though it’s much too early to make a decision, of course.”
“Belinda…? Oh, your stepdaughter. I cannot approve of excessive education for young ladies … but of course, the child doesn’t quite—”
“Mother!”
“I’m very fond of Belinda,” Geraldine put in hastily. “A nice child, and bright. And having seen many decidedly unintelligent boys going on to fritter away everyone’s time at Oxford and Cambridge, I don’t believe it can be right to waste a good brain just because it’s female.”
“If Bel wants to continue her studies when she’s seventeen or eighteen, she shall. Miranda, too. She loves picture books and she knows most of her ABCs. Oliver is more interested in trains at present. Not content with his wooden train, he builds his own with his blocks.”
“Not what I would describe as a useful accomplishment. Still, you did at least produce an heir.” The dowager gave Geraldine a disparaging look, then transferred it to Daisy. “Though it hardly matters, since there is no title to inherit.”
Daisy’s mother was the only person who invariably succeeded in bringing her to the boiling point. It must have been obvious because Geraldine, with an alarmed glance at Daisy, said, “Will you have another wafer, Maud?” and thrust the plate towards the dowager, as if to stop her mouth. “And may I pour you some more lemonade? Daisy, let me refill your glass.”
They both accepted. The social amenities restored, the dowager took a sip and said graciously, “An excellent notion. June is seldom so hot. I believe we shall have a storm.”
As if to confirm her prediction, a distant mutter of thunder made itself heard. Though they were sitting by the open window, not a breath of a breeze relieved the stifling heat. Heavy clouds darkened the sky, but no rain fell. Conversation languished.