Daisy thought of Pandora, shrieking with laughter as she pelted around the frozen garden in the altogether. “I assure you, the boys are in great good health. Would you like some lemon cake?” Oh, and your niece is also quite healthy, as am I.
Walter never asked about Chloe, and hadn’t attended her christening. He was god-father to Kenneth, and he’d certainly taken an interest in Henry, but toward his only niece, he appeared indifferent. Walter was married, though Mrs. MacVeigh, despite being fifteen years her husband’s junior, did not enjoy robust health, and their union had yet to bear fruit. Perhaps the limitations of Walter’s affection were those of a quasi-bachelor uncle.
“No lemon cake for me,” Walter said. “I do not care for lemon. How are things at Dorning Hall?”
Casriel was the ranking title in the shire, and thus the doings in his household were of interest throughout the neighborhood.
“Much as usual. A procession of guests, family, neighbors, and everything in between graces the Hall, and Casriel and his countess manage the whole with a serene good cheer.” Except when Daisy made her obligatory midweek calls. Then, Grey was an awkward host, and Beatitude nowhere in evidence.
Daisy understood her sister-in-law’s absence, for Beatitude was a widow, and the company of other widows was no woman’s idea of great good fun. Then too, Bea was on the brink of her second confinement and much in need of rest.
“What of the others? Casriel isn’t your only sibling.” Walter finished the tea and set the cup and saucer on a side table. He rose and began a perambulation about the parlor, and Daisy felt as if she were being made to recite for Headmaster’s visit to the schoolroom.
“Ash and Lady Della write happily of their wedding journey in Portugal. Oak appears to be enjoying life at Merlin Hall.” Both brothers were on the newly side of wed and thus wrote short, cheerful notes to Casriel that left much unsaid.
“And the king’s man?” Walter inquired, peering at a drawing Henry had done of his papa on a horse. The figures were nearly unrecognizable, but this was the family parlor, and Eric had made an appropriate fuss over his oldest son’s scribbling.
Daisy kept the drawing on display because she needed to recall that Eric had been a devoted father to all three children, always willing to stop by the nursery of a morning or read them an extra story on a stormy night.
“Valerian is working on another book,” Daisy said, referring to the brother who served as the local magistrate, “and talking of taking Emily up to Town when the weather moderates.”
“That leaves the rake, the farmer, and the houndsman,” Walter said, moving on to stand at the window. “Do you ever consider knocking down the garden walls? The view would be improved, methinks.”
“The walls allow us to grow the more tender fruits, Walter, and mean the flowers start sooner and last longer. Then too, a parent appreciates the safety to be had in a walled garden, and the children like the privacy. Eric made a sort of resting place for the family pets in one corner, and the children like knowing the old dogs and various pantry mousers repose within the garden walls.”
Walter wasn’t as tall as Eric had been, and he hadn’t Eric’s blond, ruddy appeal. Walter was dark-haired, going gray at the temples, and solidly built, particularly around the middle. A burgher rather than a squire. Eric had said that Walter would always choose to drive a gig over time spent in the saddle and a sermon over a drinking song, and Eric had been right.
Walter had been fifteen years Eric’s senior, but Daisy doubted that Walter had ever been a dashing young swain. He was dependable and conscientious, and she wanted him out of her house in the next quarter hour for reasons she could not articulate.
Perhaps Lord Penweather could have told her why.
“A restful view says much about the consequence of a family’s dwelling,” Walter opined, “and I am also convinced that domestics need to know their places.”
Daisy dunked a piece of shortbread in her tea. “You refer to Mrs. Michaels.”
Walter regarded the shortbread dripping from Daisy’s fingers, his expression disapproving. “I do. Eric didn’t care for her. She is ungracious toward even family.”
Eric had adored her, from a respectful distance. “She keeps the manor spotless, and Eric never voiced a complaint about her to me. He wasn’t one to spare me his criticisms either. Won’t you have more tea?” For two cups was considered the polite limit, and then Daisy could chivvy Walter on his way.
“Thank you, no. I see the weather has become disobliging, another reason you ought not to hare about on your own, my lady. Eric would not want you to catch a lung fever.”
Eric is dead, and for all our difficulties, I did not want him to pitch headfirst from his horse. “You are good to be concerned, Walter, but I have the constitution of a plow horse.”
He sent her another brooding, faintly disapproving glance. “Eric was in his prime when the Lord saw fit to call him home. See that you do not tempt fate, my lady. Having assured myself of your present good health, I will bid you good day.”
He bowed, leaving Daisy no polite choice but to accompany him to the front door.
“You will take care on the roads,” she said, holding his coat for him, “and give my love to Cassandra.”
Cassandra MacVeigh was a pretty, sociable creature who was probably well suited to Walter’s phlegmatic personality, despite being only a few years Daisy’s senior. Daisy wanted to like her sister-in-law, but hardly knew Cassandra even after five years’ acquaintance.
“Mrs. MacVeigh does not fare well during the colder months,” Walter said. “She took Eric’s death very hard and is much in want of the distractions of the capital.” He accepted his hat from Daisy, then his scarf. “I am glad to see that you are bearing up, my lady, but you ought not to be gallivanting about the countryside so early in your bereavement.”
The little declaration sat ill, but then, Walter was hardly the soul of smooth politesse. That honor belonged to Daisy’s brother Valerian.
“Thank you, Walter, though calling next door to see my brother must be the tamest gallivanting known to woman. Thank you as well for braving the elements on such a day.” Now please leave, and don’t feel compelled to return until Beltane at the earliest.
A thunder of little feet sounded from above. Walter tapped his hat onto his head, sent a dubious glance at the main staircase, and departed.
Not half a minute later, Henry came sliding down the bannister, followed by Kenneth. Chloe, who was still too little to manage that maneuver on her own, bumped down the steps on her backside.
“We want to go outside,” Henry announced. “Mr. Newman and Miss Rutherford said we might if you allow it.”
The governess appeared at the top of the steps, her cheeks flushed, her smile apologetic.
“A fine idea,” Daisy said. “We can catch snowflakes on our tongues and then have a pot of chocolate and some biscuits when we’re properly refreshed by our outing.”
Shrieking and hopping around followed, and while Daisy buttoned coats and laced up boots, she pondered a nagging question: What had Walter been doing in the estate office, and should she start locking all but the public rooms against his next unannounced visit?