Her Every Wish (11 page)

D
aisy ended
up in a park a mile away, her feet hurting, her lungs complaining, and her hands trembling.

She hadn't won.

She'd let herself believe it was possible. She'd put everything she had into the proposal and the presentation. She'd done well—better than anyone else. She knew she had.

She just hadn't done well enough. There could be no
well enough
for the likes of her.

She hadn't won.

She
couldn't
have won. She felt as if she'd lost not only her chance at a future, but at that short-lived confidence Crash had showed her. How could she go to him now? She'd gone as fast as she could and smashed headlong into their laughter and their jokes. She felt splintered into pieces.

She'd been lying to herself. There had never been any way to win. Not ever. She'd been setting herself up for disappointment from the first.

Now that the future she'd let herself desire was torn from her grasp… Now she had to look clearly at what would happen to her.

She could marry. She could likely marry Crash. It was not the drab, suffocating fate she'd once feared. She'd just started hoping for…more.

She looked up. The park was empty, the branches devoid of leaves. The grass underfoot was brown, a hard blanket of ice encrusting the soil. Brick walls, covered with dead ivy, met her gaze. She could feel the future she'd let herself dream of falling from her grasp.

“I might never have any of my dreams. They might all be stolen from me.” The sound of her voice rang out in the quiet.

The words were colder than the winter air. She listened to those words. Tasted them,
knew
them, made herself believe them.

When would she learn? She never got her wishes. She'd let herself believe, and she knew how stupid that was. When was she going to learn to stop wishing? How bloody would they have to slap her hands before she finally learned her lesson and gave up?

Her eyes stung and she looked up at the gray sky. She should just accept what she had. Things were going well with Crash. That was more than she'd hoped even a week ago.

Loving Crash was easy; she'd fallen back into it with an ease that was hardly surprising. She'd scarcely ever stopped.

Loving herself was harder. How long would she have to wait until she stopped yearning for more?

She exhaled into the wind.

How long until she finally gave up? She waited, listening, yearning for the answer. It came on the next breath.

Until she didn't have hands to reach with. Until she lacked a heart to hope with. Until her every wish had been smashed into dust.

She was not made for giving up. Not ever, and especially not
now.

She had never needed to prove to herself that wishing was futile. When she fell, there was only one thing to do: Get back on and go faster, and faster still.

Daisy inhaled, stilled her hands on her skirts, and started walking.

T
he chandelier was just
as bright, the damask silk paper just as expensive.

Daisy had changed. She refused to feel out of place in her friend's home, no matter how expensive the furnishings.

“Daisy.” Judith came into the room, followed by a maid who did her best not to frown suspiciously at Daisy. Judith, at least, was smiling.

Daisy's heart was pounding, both from the brisk walk and from fear. But she held out her hands to her friend.

“Judith.”

Judith took her fingers and grimaced. “You're cold as ice,” she said. “What brings you here this fine Saturday evening? If I had known—”

“I know,” Daisy interrupted. “You'd have sent the carriage. But I don't need a carriage.” She exhaled. “I need…”

Judith motioned for her to sit. “Is everything well? Your mother? Yourself?”

Daisy set the papers she had brought with her on the table. “I entered a…competition. Of a sort. It started a week ago.”

Judith looked at her. “You said nothing of this to me.”

“I didn't want you to know.” Daisy moved the top paper. “If I had, you would have known how much I wanted to win. And if you had known that…”

Daisy held back a moment. If she had told Judith the truth, her friend would have offered to help. Of course she would have. And Daisy would have felt she didn't deserve it.

“You would have known how desperate I felt,” Daisy said. “Everything in your life is…” She gestured, an expansive swing of her arm that encompassed the sparkling glass windows, the oil lamps, the crystal chandelier sending gleams of light throughout the room.

Judith frowned. “You felt desperate? And you didn't tell me?”

“I don't want to be the fly in your ointment,” Daisy said. “The person you always worry about. You've achieved everything; you shouldn't be bothered with my complaints. I don't want to be the reminder in your life of what you've escaped.”

Judith looked at Daisy, her eyebrows drawing down. Slowly, she exhaled. “Daisy.”

“I didn't want to leech off you,” Daisy said. “I wanted to feel I had something to contribute to our friendship.”

“Oh, Daisy. I'm so sorry, so, so sorry. If I've made you feel—”

Daisy shook her head. “I didn't want to burden you with it.”

Judith exhaled. Then she motioned Daisy to lean in, and when she did, she whispered. “Daisy. The servants think I'm beneath them.”

Daisy looked at her friend. “Your pardon?”

“Everything I do—how I dress, how I eat, how I plan menus—meets with resistance. ‘Are you sure, my lady? The Dowager wouldn't.' The servants are unfailingly kind and polite, but the reminder that I don't belong is incessant.”

Daisy took Judith's hands.

“The servants have been in the family for generations. They mean well. It's getting better, but…” Judith sighed. “Then there are the children. Benedict has gone from telling me he won't go back to school to saying he has no intention of staying in England. Theresa fights with the dowager marchioness
daily.
And we still have no word of Camilla. What is the point of all this when…?” Judith trailed off, then raised her chin. “No, I know what the point is. It will all work itself out. But the transition is…not easy.”

“Oh, God.” Daisy squeezed her friend's hands. “You never said anything to me. Not one word. Why did you never say anything?”

“How could I complain to you? What was I to say? That I was envious of you? That I wished everything might be simple again?”

They exchanged looks.

“And Christian?” Daisy asked in a low voice.

“As wonderful as ever,” Judith said. “He's the only reason I haven't given up and set fire to the building. I thought Theresa would do it; no, it's more likely to be me.”

“About that competition,” Daisy said. “Fifty pounds was the object; the winner with the best plan for a business was to receive the entire amount. They didn't technically
say
it was for men only.”

Judith winced. “Oh dear.”

“Precisely,” Daisy said. “It turned out about as well as one might imagine. But my plan was sound and…” She slid the papers across the table. “Here. I need a business partner. You provide the capital. I'll provide the labor. We'll split the profits.” She glanced at her friend. “I'll ask for forty percent.”

“Mmm.” Judith picked up the pages and started reading. “Daisy. This will not help my social standing.”

“Will it not?” Daisy shrugged. “There's something I've learned in the last few weeks. When you feel yourself on the verge of falling, you need to go faster. To not apologize for who you are, what you have come from. Apologies sound like excuses. You're brilliant, Judith, and kind, and funny, and anyone who does not like you is unworthy of you.”

“Easy to say.”

“I know.” Daisy looked at her friend. “But has giving a damn about them changed how they react to you?”

“No.”

“Then why bother giving one?”

Judith frowned. She tilted her head. “Yes,” she said thickly. “Yes. And I need a friend. A real friend, a female friend. Christian is wonderful, but I can't go forward without you. Daisy, this is…” She trailed off and waved the papers. “This is brilliant. I love it.”

For a moment, Daisy almost contradicted her. Then she remembered what Crash would say about apologizing. She lifted her chin and managed a smile in return. “I know it is. They were idiots not to award me the money.”

Judith gave her a nod. “We'll draw up the papers. Do everything properly. And it will give me an excuse to get out of this godforsaken gown after all.”

“I suggest a work dress,” Daisy intoned, “of sheerest lace and rubies.”

Judith grinned at her. “Of course. We shall accept nothing less.”

C
rash had tried
to make his way to the stage immediately, but Daisy had disappeared in the congratulatory throng that surrounded Mr. Flisk after the competition came to an end.

He'd given up trying to reach her after three minutes attempting to elbow well-wishers aside. The absence of Daisy fed his ire. Didn't any of these idiots know that Daisy ought to have won? Did they not care that the grocer making the award had purposefully humiliated her during what should have been a moment of celebration? That the entire thing was a cruel travesty?

Every congratulation that he heard felt like coals heaped on his head.

Finally, afraid of losing his temper, he backed away from the entire mass of idiots and waited. He waited while the happy cluster of friends and acquaintances slowly dissipated, watching every person who pulled away from that tight, crowded knot, one by one.

After fifteen minutes, it was clear that she had escaped by some other route. He left the square with a quick, sure stride. But she wasn't on the street outside, conversing with any of the other folk. She wasn't around the corner. She wasn't at her flower shop. He tried first one park, then the other, the footpath by the canal, the river walk, her own home, his rooms, and then, just in case he'd missed her, all those locations once again.

He ended up at his aunt's flat. Daisy had gone there once. Maybe she had visited again.

Merry voices rang from inside; they stopped all at once at the sound of his knock.

His aunt answered the door a minute later. She frowned at him.

“Crash. What are you doing here? It's whist night.”

“Is, ah, is…” He trailed off.

He'd expected to see the usual three women here, playing alongside the little pencil sketch of Martha Claving. But Martha's picture had been moved to the mantel. Now there were four women.

The fourth was Daisy's mother.

“Ah.” He blinked, unsure of what he was seeing. “Mrs. Whitlaw. Um. Is your daughter…”

His aunt just shook her head. “No, Crash, she isn't here. We thought she was with you.”

He didn't know what these women were doing together. Why were they discussing him and Daisy?
He
had barely discussed the matter with Daisy.

“Where's the rum?” Harriet asked.

“I don't have—”

“Hmm.” She sniffed. “No rum, no entrance.”

His aunt barred the door.

“Also, no Daisy, no entrance. What are you doing?”

“What am
I
doing?” He threw up his hands in bafflement. “What are the lot of
you
doing?”

Behind him, Daisy's mother rolled her eyes. “What does it look like they're doing? They're teaching me how to cheat at cards.”

His aunt made a shooing motion. “Get out. Go away. We don't need you.”

Crash refused to give up; he just needed to regroup. He made his way home, up the stairs to his rooms. He came to the final landing and stopped.

Daisy sat just outside his door, looking as tired as he felt. She huddled on the floor, her arms around her knees. She looked up at him with wide, hurt eyes. Then she smiled.