Poppy (17 page)

“Poor Hugo,” murmured Freda. “Such a performance. Mrs. Plummett quite outshone what was going on on the stage.”

Now, Poppy had been quite overset by her recent emotional turmoil, and her thin veneer of breeding cracked and disappeared.

“You bleedin’, silly cow,” she said viciously to Freda, standing with her hands on her hips. “S’pose o’ course
you
didn’t come to hear the music. Trolling for another fancy man, eh!”

Freda slapped Poppy hard across the face. And Poppy drew back her fist and drove it into Freda’s stomach.

The operagoers who were awaiting their carriages outside began to stream back in as word spread of the delicious scene.

For the first time in his life the duke completely lost his well-bred social poise. All he wanted to do was to get as far away as possible from this disgusting scene. But he could not abandon Poppy, goddamn her to
hell
. With one quick movement he stooped, picked up Poppy, slung her over his shoulder, and ran with her from the Opera House and down Bow Street as fast as he could, twisting and turning around the back streets bordering the Strand, till at last he set her roughly on her feet and shook her until her teeth rattled.

“How dare you!” he said. “How dare you!” And then all at once his anger fled as quickly as it had come, and he began to laugh and laugh, because the whole thing was so ridiculous, so ludicrous, while Poppy sniffed miserably into her black-edged handkerchief and wished she were dead.

“Oh, Poppy!” he said when he could. “You’ll be the death of me, you terrible girl.” And somehow the fact that he had called her Poppy took away all her misery, to be replaced with that exhilarating, bubbling happiness.

“Your face is a fright,” the duke said. “I tell you what. We’ll return and find my carriage, and I shall take you to a quiet place for supper down on the river, and by the time we get there your eyes should not be so swollen.”

They drove to a little inn on the Thames, near Richmond, where the windows of the chintz dining room were open to the warm summer air, and the Thames sparkled silver as it turned and twisted on its long way to the sea.

Poppy did not know what she had eaten. She knew she had drunk more champagne than was good for her, for the dining room seemed to swim away, leaving only the duke’s face in front of her, suspended over the champagne glasses, while he talked of France and the society in Deauville.

“You’re drunk,” he said at last in an amused voice. “We shall take a walk by the river until your head clears.”

And so they walked by the turning, moonlit water, Poppy’s skirt whispering over the grass. She staggered slightly, and he caught her hand, and in one blinding moment Poppy thought,
I will never forget this. When I am very old I will remember this
.

She felt the strength of his fingers and his nearness, saw the faint smile curving his lips, his white hair silver in the moonlight, the willow branches trailing in the water, and heard the harsh cry of some water bird in the rushes.

“I think it is time to go,” he said in a curt voice, releasing her hand, and she looked up into his face anxiously, frightened she had offended him, but he gave her a slight smile of reassurance and led her slowly back through the dining room and outside to the inn, where his carriage was waiting.

She fell asleep on the road home, only awakening outside her villa to find that he had an arm around her shoulders and that her head was resting on his chest. She blushed and straightened up.
Please let him want to see me again
, she prayed desperately.
There is so little time left
.

The show was due to open in a week. In three days time the signs would be up outside the theater, with her name shining under the gas flares. And then she would never see him again.

He led her to her front door, where a sleepy Mrs. Abberley was awaiting them.

He bowed before her. Oh, God! He was going to leave without saying a word!

Then, “If you can bear my company again, Mrs. Plummett, I shall call for you at the same time tomorrow,” he said quietly.

“Yes. Oh, yes,” said Poppy, her eyes shining.

He gave her a little nod and walked away from her down the path to his carriage.

“What has happened to you, girl!” Mr. Lewis roared from the pit the next day. “Your heart’s supposed to be
breaking
. Put some feeling into it.”

That evening, the duke took her to a play, and afterward to dinner at the Cavendish.

“Poppy!” wailed Mr. Lewis on the next day. “Take that silly grin off your face.”

Suddenly it was the last day, the day before her name went up in lights. Miraculously, the press had not reported anything about her, either as an actress or as the Honorable Mrs. Poppy Plummett, who had disgraced herself at the opera.

The duke was calling for her that evening, and although he did not know it was to be their last together, Poppy did, and felt immeasurably miserable.

She sat in the garden to await him, her heart thudding against her ribs. She would need to act as she had never acted before, so that he would not suspect anything was wrong.

The summer had fled very quickly. A chill, stiff wind was sighing in the yellowing leaves of the apple tree.

And then all at once he was there, at the top of the stairs. And he was saying, “I’m sorry, my dear. I cannot escort you this evening. My mother is a trifle unwell, and I must travel to Everton. But tomorrow…”

His voice trailed off at the sight of her white face. The light was fading fast, and black clouds were piling up to blot out the setting sun.

“Oh, my dear,” he said, coming quickly toward her. “Does it matter so much?”

Poppy gave a choked little sob and flew toward him, threw herself into his arms, and turned her face up to his.

He folded his arms tightly about her and bent his head and kissed her, fiercely and savagely, while the yellow leaves spun about them in the rising wind, and their senses swung slowly and slowly around, then faster and faster and faster as his kiss deepened and lingered, until they seemed to be spinning together in a void.

At last, shaken and startled, the duke raised his head and looked down at her. Slowly the hard, handsome lines of his face became altered with tenderness. “Oh, my love…” he began.

“No!” cried Poppy, despairing. “
No!
”

She wrenched herself from his arms and ran into the house.

When he gathered his wits enough to follow her, it was to be met by an apologetic and worried Mrs. Abberley, who said that the mistress had locked herself in her room, saying she wouldn’t see anyone.

“Tell Mrs. Plummett I shall call on her tomorrow,” he said slowly. “Tell her I have something very important to discuss with her.”

All at once he thought he had found the reason for Poppy’s sudden distress. Of course! She thought he had been merely philandering. But he had been in deadly earnest.

It was then he realized he was in love with her, and probably had been since the first moment he set eyes on her.

Well, that was all right, for he would tell her tomorrow.

The very next day, Poppy’s name was hoisted high above Lewis’s Theater in the Strand while a press release was being sent to the newspapers. The theater had managed to keep Poppy’s home address a secret, but nonetheless they had managed to dig up quite a bit of background. They all carried the one main message, however, to millions of breakfast tables:
The Beggar Princess
by Cyril Mundy, an Australian unknown, would open on Saturday, with the Honorable Poppy Plummett in the lead.

The
Times
carried an amusing article about ladies of the stage who had married
into
the aristocracy, adding sarcastically that it was a change to find someone who was “coming out” again. The Duke of Guildham’s family tree was extensively explored. The duke, said all the papers, was not available for comment.

Retribution was swift. Mrs. Plummett received a chilly little note from Mr. MacDonald, saying her allowance was canceled forthwith, and expressing extreme displeasure at her lack of gratitude.

Poppy’s servants, who did not know that her stage career did not have the blessing of the duke, were undisturbed by the coming first night.

Freda von Dierksen smiled a slow, little smile. She felt sure Hugo knew nothing of Poppy’s return to the stage. Now, if she, Freda, could arrange a little claque for the gallery on opening night, she could perhaps ruin Poppy’s stage career.

“There you are!” said Lady Mary to Lord Archibald. “I saw through that minx. I told you she was vulgar. I told—You’re not listening to me!”

Lord Archibald, who had been communing with a Herodotus pudding, raised his head. “I’ll send round to the theater for tickets,” he remarked. “Fine figure of a woman.”

“
Tcha!
” said Lady Mary.

Annabelle Cummings’s parents looked at their gawky daughter in dismay. First the cancellation of her marriage, and now this. For Annabelle had stated her firm intention of visiting the Lewis Theater on Saturday night. “Poppy will need me” was all she would say.

“We should have kept Annabelle in France,” wailed her mother.

Boodles Hunter and Sniffy Vere-Smythe discussed the news over brandies and sodas at their club. “Outrageous!” said Sniffy. “And poor Freddie hardly cold in his grave!”

Boodles looked wise. “I say, old chap,” he said, leaning forward and tapping Sniffy’s knee. “Poppy was quite a dasher, you know. Don’t need to go offering marriage to that sort of gel, don’t you know.”

“You mean…” said Sniffy.

Boodles nodded slowly and tapped the side of his nose. “May as well try our luck at the stage door, what! You never know.…”

Ian Barchester fumed over the news and thought he had found the reason for Annabelle turning him down. What else could one expect when one’s fiancée had been consorting with that sort of female?
I could go along and throw a few eggs
, he thought, his eyes glistening with anticipation.

The pawnshop at Cutler’s Fields was besieged again. Close friends and neighbors like Ma Barker had been sent good seats. Alf, the bread delivery boy, had been sent twenty gallery seats by Poppy, so that he would bring along the rest. Worn finery was brought out, spoons were popped, and a charabanc was hired to take everyone up to cheer for Poppy on her opening night.

The Duke of Guildham sat in his study with his head in his hands, feeling like an utter fool. He must have been mad, he thought. He had been about to bestow his ancient name and fortune on a strumpet, an ungrateful guttersnipe who melted in his arms and defied him behind his back. He knew her allowance had been stopped. He hoped she was a dismal failure. He hoped they booed her out into the gutter. He hoped she took to the streets. He hoped when she was peddling that fine body of hers for hard cash, she would sometimes think of all she had so carelessly, so brutally thrown away. Perhaps she would not sink so low. Perhaps she would sell matches on a windy street corner. He could see her now, all her beauty gone, withered and pinched, begging for pennies while he strolled past with some beauty on his arm.

“I thought she was low. I never thought she was cunning,” said his mother, walking into the room. “You must stop her using the Plummett name.”

The duke remarked sourly what everyone could do with the Plummett name, and where they could put it.

“Oh, Hugo,” snapped his mother. “
You
are surely not going to see her again.”

“
I!
” said the Duke of Guildham. “Don’t be ridiculous, Mother!”

Downstairs in the servants’ hall at Everton they knew mysteriously that Poppy’s allowance had been stopped. Somehow they could not think badly of her.

“After all,” said Mrs. Pullar, “it’s hard to take charity,” and Stammers smiled on her quite warmly for the first time.

As for Poppy, she felt numb, and her performance at the dress rehearsal was wooden to say the least.

“What in hell’s name is up with the girl?” screamed Mr. Lewis to Mr. Pettifor and Cyril Mundy as they sat in the pit. He tore at his hair, and then stared in dismay at the resultant oil on his hands.

Cyril hated Poppy at that moment. He saw the ruin of his dream in that sad-faced, wooden figure on the stage.

“Get Guildham. Get the Duke of Guildham to come on opening night. I don’t care how you do it,” said Cyril viciously. “She’s in love with him. Why didn’t I see it before? Those sisters of hers have been letting hints drop. Get him.”

“How?” said Mr. Lewis.

“Tell him,” said Cyril slowly, “that if he finds anything in the performance unladylike, or anything of which he does not approve, you will remove Poppy from the part. Give him a box, and tell her he’s there.”

“But he’ll want her removed anyway to stop us using his family name,” said Mr. Pettifor, biting his nails and squinting at the stage.

“Too bad, sport,” said Cyril callously. “We’ll deal with that problem when we come to it.”

And then it was opening night. Poppy sat staring at the looking glass in her dressing room, her face like a mask.

“What’s the matter with you?” pleaded Hetty Parget, who had dropped in for a chat. “Cyril’s furious with you. He told me you’ll ruin the show.”

“I’m tired, that’s all,” said Poppy wearily.

“There’s your cue,” said Hetty. “Oh, Poppy, snap out of it, there’s a dear. Elaine Pym’s out front, and she’ll be thrilled if you’re a failure.”

Poppy only smiled vaguely and walked out. She felt none of that old excitement, those racing pulses she used to feel before walking on the stage. Her first number was supposed to be a happy one. She did not feel happy, she did not feel wretched; she felt nothing. And that’s exactly the way she wanted to remain. Uncaring… anesthetized.

In a tired, tinny voice, not at all like her own, she started to sing.

“Did you tell her Guildham was in a box?” hissed Mr. Lewis to Cyril. “Not yet,” said Cyril feverishly. “I’ll make that bitch sweat tears at the right moment.”

“Booo! BOOOOOO!” yelled a harsh chorus of voices from the gallery. Freda’s claque had started to earn their pay. Poppy’s voice faltered. In that moment the outraged contingent from Cutler’s Fields went into action. The leader of Freda’s claque got a right to the jaw from Alf. The rest of the claque were set upon and punched, whacked, and even bitten. Mrs. Tyson’s fourteen children pulled hair. At last, defeated, Freda’s claque sank back in their seats, leaving Cutler’s Fields triumphant.