You’re a Doll, Daisy! Chapter One — Beginning Our Tale with a Family Affair.Chapter One

Beginning Our Tale with a Family Affair.

Before we begin, it must be said that this tale does not take place in a world that shall be found between the pages of an Austen novel. That is to say, our characters, decked in flowing nylon gowns and plastic jewels, inhabit the world of a 1965 Regency drama.

I am conscious that the large false eyelashes and beige lipstick have oftentimes been somewhat distracting to onlookers but I am not at liberty to alter the world in which our story takes place, and I hope you shall not think any less of our heroine if a little mascara cascades down her cheeks every time she weeps. Weep she shall aplenty; misery seemed apt to follow this pretty creature throughout every walk of her life.

I shall not suppose to ask my reader to like the characters you shall shortly hereafter meet — sure, I did not always like them very much myself. Many of our players are quite worthy of being despised. Lastly, I shall say, the archaisms of style, language and spellings employed in this tale were chosen for no better reason than my liking them. And with no further delay, I invite you to imagine the most beautiful, doll-featured girl in the world, for that is our heroine.

This young woman was determined to be unconquerably and invincibly affable; every word said to her was delightful or clever, or at the very least, diverting. There was no insult she could not suffer with remarkably good humour and the motions of a frown were entirely unknown to her face. Perhaps that is why, at the age of thirty, our heroine had still the prettiest face in England.

In the assembly rooms at Bath, Tom Finsbury sat beside this young woman — to whom his entire soul and heart were fastened — and his aged father, who was married to her. She was, though not five months separated their days of birth, Tom’s stepmother. Save for rebuking or instructing, Sir Charles was little inclined to speak to his wife and had long ago prevented the lady from forming any friendships, such was his jealous rage at the prospect.

Tom was ugly, stupid and unmarriageable and Daisy’s fondness for him could only be a mark of her good humour. He was a fool and a natural jester and as such, Tom’s friendship with his stepmother was quite tolerated. So unlovable did Tom appear in the eyes of his father that Sir Charles remained entirely oblivious to the effect this stammering blockhead had upon his wife’s heart.

By a happy accident of old age and infirmity, Sir Charles was so close to the precipice of total deafness that he could not hear a single thing unless it was bellowed to him.

‘I should like to take a bath when we return home,’ said the young lady in a low voice to Tom without offering him a glimpse of her eyes. Tom smiled but would not reply. A great many eyes rested upon this family party. Tom naturally attributed this to the large port-wine stain under which the left side of his face was blanketed; a part of his features that, to his lover, made the sum of his pretty face only more perfect. Daisy, with greater accuracy, attributed the lingering eyes to a shouted conversation Sir Charles was having with his neighbour.

‘Congratulate me, Mrs Davies? This porcine creature here,’ he said, somehow raising his voice further and jabbing Daisy in her middle, ‘carries the weight of nothing but her own idleness and overindulgence.’ Daisy offered Mrs Davies the most beautiful and charming little laugh. Sir Charles, plagued that last year by a particular branch of infirmity, could have had no reason but a suspicion of cuckoldry to believe his wife might be big with child and not cake.

Tom had many reasons, or perhaps we should say, memories, from which he ought to have at least suspected that Daisy’s sudden expansion since their arriving in Bath was not only by cause of the rich meals. And had this gallant young hero thought anything of Daisy’s ever-plumpening neckline except that it was very pleasing for him to behold, he might have wished to appear a jot less offended on Daisy’s behalf.

Upon hearing the offence, our gallant hero was incensed; the face behind his glorious straw moustache was quickly overrun with a crimson rage. ‘Damn your eyes, sir!’ As Tom rose to his feet, he knocked over a wine glass, and his chair clattered to the floor. ‘My stepmother is an angel, a damned angel. Hang it, sir, hang you, sir, you confounded wretch, I will not allow you to speak to your wife in that way!’

If you looked hard enough, you might have seen his armour sparkling in the candlelight; Daisy did. Sir Charles was not angry at his son’s preposterous display of attachment to Daisy, rather, he was very much amused by it. Tom had such a talent for being ridiculous and without ever trying. In fact, the morning Sir Charles and Daisy were wed, Tom had leapt from his seat, shouting, ‘Faith, Daisy! You cannot, you cannot marry this old tyrant. Good God! You are the thread with which my heart is hemmed; you are in every stitch of my soul!’ All, of course, to no effect except laughter from his father.

Returning to the assembly rooms, among the sounds of Sir Charles’ booming laugh, Tom began to shout, ‘Hang it, man, someone fetch me a gun! I do not care how old you are. We shall settle this like men!’ He was overcome with such a Herculean countenance, such a musk of manliness, that — had it not been for their being together in a busy public room — Daisy would have climbed dear, sweet Tom like a fig tree!

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