Daisy burst into gales of laughter. “I’ve just met him!” she gasped.
“Who? Ramon Novarro? Where? Not at your stuffy old museum!”
“Not Ramon, a Ruritanian prince.” She told Lucy about the Grand Duke Rudolf Maximilian.
“Darling, how too, too romantic!” Lucy, who prided herself on her hard-headed practicality, was at heart far more of a sentimentalist than Daisy, as witness her choice of films. Her amber eyes glowed. “And how sad. Is he good-looking?”
“Not as handsome as Ramon Novarro, and much too young for you, darling. A good five years younger than us, at a guess.”
“And no money,” said Lucy mournfully.
“Even less than Binkie, I should think, and no job.”
“Darling, grand dukes simply don’t takejobs, like mere mortals. Especially reigning grand dukes.”
“He hasn’t got anything to reign over,” Daisy pointed out.
Lucy sighed.
As good as her word, she developed the plates next morning. They were all absolutely hopeless.
“Never mind, darling,” she consoled Daisy. “I’m going down to Haverhill this weekend for Grandfather’s birthday—can’t miss it, it’s his eightieth, the old sweetie—but next week I’ll go to the museum with you and get some good shots.”
While Lucy was toasting the start of the Earl of Haverhill’s ninth decade, Daisy joined the Fletchers for Sunday dinner, her nephew having by then gone home to Kent. Mrs. Fletcher actually unbent enough to commend Derek as a nice-mannered child.
“Spoilt, though,” she added hastily, as if horrified to find herself praising anything associated with Daisy, “but what can you expect, his father being a lord.”
Daisy, Alec, and Belinda escaped for the afternoon by taking Bel’s new puppy, Nana, for a walk on Primrose Hill.
During Lucy’s absence, Daisy also typed up her notes and started to get her article into its final shape. The quantity of excess information reminded her of her idea for a more scientific article. She popped into the nearest W H. Smith’s and found several suitable magazines, surreptitiously scribbling down their addresses and editors’ names without buying anything but theDaily Chronicle. Letters of enquiry went out by the second post on Monday.
Soon after Daisy’s article and Lucy’s splendid photographs set sail across the Atlantic, two magazines replied, expressing their total lack of interest. A third wanted the complete text before deciding, and a fourth requested resubmission at a later date, as the next fifteen issues were already filled. Slightly disappointed, Daisy went off to Shropshire to do the research for the next article in her series on minor stately homes forTown and Country.
Much as she might wish to, she could hardly visit that part of the world without staying a night or two with her mother, at the Fairacres Dower House. She found the Dowager Lady Dalrymple as disapproving as ever of Alec’s middle-class background and distasteful profession, yet making plansfor an elaborate—and expensive—wedding in St. George’s, Hanover Square.
“Who is to pay for this, Mother?” Daisy asked, exasperated.
“I dare say your cousin Edgar can be brought to understand his obligation, since he so cruelly exiled us from hearth and home.”
“Mother, you know Edgar had no choice but to succeed to the title,” Daisy could not help saying for the thousandth time, “and he offered us a home.”
“As though I should accept that man’s charity! A schoolmaster, so underbred, and the way Geraldine puts on airs is quite shocking.” Lady Dalrymple counterattacked: “When are you and Mr. Fletcher going to set the date? I disapprove of long engagements, and the church must be booked months in advance.”
Daisy at once started to think about registry offices. She also wondered, rather dolefully, whether Alec could get a guaranteed leave of absence from the Metropolitan Police to be married, or if a sudden complex case might tear him from the altar—or the registry office equivalent. Frightful thought!
Her mother always had a depressing effect on her spirits but she revived as soon as she left Fairacres. Her recovery was completed when she reached Mulberry Place. On the table in the tiny hall, an extravagantly vast bouquet of chrysanthemums awaited her, and Alec’s card with a note saying simply, “Missing you.”
Beside the vase was a heap of letters, accumulated during her absence. Daisy flipped through them, recognizing the handwriting of her sister, two friends, a cousin. Then a business-size, typewritten envelope. Another rejection, no doubt.
But it wasn’t.Dilettantimagazine wanted her article, as long as she could let them have it by the end of September. If so, would she please telephone as soon as possible to confirm.
“Lucy?” she called up the stairs. No response.
Only three weeks! Still, it was not like starting from scratch. She already had a good start on the research, and she had made the acquaintance of all the people she would need to interview. Reaching for the telephone she and Lucy had had installed just a month ago, Daisy confirmed.
She was dying to share the news with someone who would appreciate it, but she always tried to avoid phoning Alec at the Yard, and he was often out of his office anyway. Mrs. Potter, the charwoman who “did” for Daisy and Lucy and took a deep, admiring interest in their work, had already gone home. Daisy rang through to Lucy on the studio extension, but there was no answer.
Three weeks—she had better get cracking. She telephoned the Natural History Museum and made appointments to see the Keepers of Zoology and Botany in the morning.
