The Snow Globe by Judith Kinghorn Page A

his feet, muttering something toward the window about heartburn, and excused himself. After that, everyone seemed to slump in collective relief.
    Daisy glanced up at Ben, sitting directly opposite her, between Lily and Iris, but her profound disappointment in her father seemed to have eked into everything and everyone around her. Benedict Gifford was less than she’d been expecting. He was not at all as she remembered him. He was older, a good deal older, and his hair was thinning and not dark after all. He did not look at her, had barely said a word to her since his arrival, and when he did speak she was surprised by his voice: tremulous and slightly high-pitched. But Daisy, too, had been unusually quiet, mainly due to the nausea—which swept over her at regular intervals, and through which she had been on the point of excusing herself and running to the cloakroom; but also because she had decided not to speak unless she had to when her father was in the same room.
    It had stopped snowing and Lily suggested a walk through the grounds after lunch, which everyone agreed would be rather lovely. They could take the old toboggan from the coach house, Miles said,and head over to the Devil’s Punchbowl. Then Nancy came in with the tray of coffee and a telegram for Mabel.
    When Daisy heard the name, she at first wondered if she was simply more ill than she’d realized, maybe even delirious. But then her mother said it again. Coincidence surely, Daisy thought, smiling and feeling her face flush. Mabel remained turned toward Nancy, giving an update on the numbers for dinner.
    â€œDo apologize to Mrs. Jessop, but I’ve only just received confirmation,” said Mabel, and Nancy—with an odd sort of smile, Daisy noted—left the room.
    â€œConfirmation?” repeated Daisy.
    â€œYes, only just had it confirmed. Mrs. Vincent and her son, Valentine, will be joining us for Christmas.”
    Daisy glanced over to Iris, who seemed oblivious and was talking to Dosia; she looked to Lily, who was busy making eyes at Miles, and then to Noonie, as she slithered a last peach into her mouth. Daisy felt sick. She felt hot. She stammered, “But . . . but . . .
who
is this Mrs. Vincent? And why is she coming here?”
    â€œDaisy! Really. Where are your manners?”
    â€œI think I need to speak with you, Mother. In private.”

Chapter Eight

    Mabel sat down at her desk, seemingly unperturbed but momentarily distracted by the ever-increasing paperwork and scrawled lists in front of her. “Gracious, so much to do,” she said with a sigh. Then she turned to Daisy, standing in stupefied silence. “And so?”
    â€œWell . . . it’s just that . . . I think you need to know . . .”
    â€œYes?”
    â€œKnow a few things.”
    Mabel blinked and shrugged. “A few things . . .”
    â€œI’m not entirely sure about Mrs. Vincent.”
    â€œNot sure? What on earth do you mean?”
    Daisy began to pace about the room and then stopped. Her head spun. She said, “We don’t know her.”
    â€œ
You
don’t know her, perhaps, but Mrs. Vincent happens to be an old friend of your father’s.”
    â€œDo you know her?”
    â€œYes, of course I do. Not as well as Daddy, but I’ve met her on a number of occasions. She’s an actress, a rather fine actress. And she’s also a widow and has only her son, Valentine. So I decided to invite her for Christmas.”
    â€œ
You
invited her?”
    Mabel smiled as she nodded.
    Like a lamb to the slaughter,
Daisy thought, as another wave of nausea rose through her. “Oh, Mummy . . . But Margot is . . .”
    â€œAh, so you have heard of her. She is rather famous, and I do believe you
have
met her, when you were quite small—after your father and I took you to see her on the London stage in—”
    â€œYou mean