Poppy (19 page)

Where did one keep drink? In the cellar possibly. She pushed open the door, lit a candle, and went down the stairs. There was a rack of wine bottles, but all the names were unfamiliar to Poppy. However, she managed to recognize the champagne by its tinfoil seal at the top, and seized a bottle. She went up to the kitchen and scrabbled in the cupboard for the glasses. Of course! They were in the sideboard in the drawing room.

“Champagne!” said the duke upon her return. “How festive!”

“It was all I could find,” mumbled Poppy, opening the sideboard. She bit her lip. On a shelf below the glasses was a row of bottles: whisky, brandy, sherry. “There’s other things here,” she said over her shoulder.

“No! Champagne will do very well… if you will join me. You obviously do not drink very much, or you would be more aware of the contents of your sideboard. I see you are wearing black again.”

“My father,” said Poppy. “He was buried today.”

“I’m sorry.”

Poppy gave a weary shrug. “I’ve lived with his death for so long. I mean, the way he was drinking, it was bound to happen sooner or later.”

The duke felt at a loss. Under these sad circumstances he could hardly begin a flirtation, although he felt sure that Poppy must find the death of her father a relief.

“How are your sisters?” he asked politely, pouring champagne.

“Very well,” said Poppy, her face lighting up as it always did when she thought of her sisters. She added more coal to the fire, and said in a low voice as she stared into the leaping flames, “I’m sorry about the stage thing. I suppose I seem ungrateful.”

“Not at all,” he said, studying her curiously. “I am sure you wanted to be independent of the Plummett family.”

“Yes.”

“I have, however, instructed MacDonald to renew your allowance.”

Poppy swung around, the brass tongs in her hand, her face the picture of dismay. “Oh, no! You mustn’t,” she said. “I can take care of myself.”

He rose and came forward, took the tongs from her nerveless fingers, set them down on the hearth, and took both her hands in his. “You must allow me to take care of you, Poppy,” he said in a low voice. “You are a great success, but it may not always be so, and you may weary of the strain of theater life. And think of your sisters’ futures.”

“You are—too good,” said Poppy in a small, broken voice. “How can I ever thank you?”

She looked up trustingly into his eyes and surprised a flicker of something unpleasant on his face—cynicism?—but it disappeared immediately, and he was smiling at her in that bewitching manner.

“I have missed you, Poppy,” he said softly. “Did you think of me at all?”

Poppy nodded dumbly, staring down at her boots.

Her acting really is superb, thought the duke in amazement. But play her carefully. Friendship. Now, that is a good idea.

“I think we are friends, Poppy,” he said accordingly, while his mind hoped she would not see through all this mush.

“Yes,” said Poppy softly. “And you do forgive me for going back to the theater? You really do?”

“Yes,” he lied, noting with pleasure the firm note of sincerity in his voice. “I really do. I know it is not a conventional thing to suggest, but perhaps you might care to have dinner with me tonight. I will not take you anywhere where you will be recognized. What about that place on the river?”

“In this weather?” asked Poppy, suddenly happy, but trying to remember her father’s death and feel appropriately sad.

“Oh, I don’t think it will be too bad,” he said, looking out at the gently falling flakes in the whitening garden. “The theater is closed, is it not?”

“All right,” said Poppy suddenly.

“Then I shall take my leave and call for you at eight.”

He shrugged himself into his coat, and she walked him to the door, standing on the step and looking up into his face as the snowflakes swirled gently around them.

“Till tonight,” he said softly, and she smiled shyly up at him, intensely aware of the happiness in her heart; intensely aware of the moment, of the whispering, dancing snow sparkling in his white hair, of the still-cold air, of the new feeling of comfort and trust she had in his very presence.

I must remember she is an actress
, he told himself savagely as he strode down the path.
But, God, she’s beautiful. Beautiful but heartless. I must remember that!

The snow stopped falling before eight o’clock, yet there was enough snow for it to be pretty without being uncomfortable or dramatic. A small moon was riding high above a transformed London, the edges of the sooty buildings picked out in white.

Because of the weather, they were the only guests in the little dining room by the river. The duke set himself to draw her out, asking her questions about the theater, about her sisters, about her old neighbors in Cutler’s Fields. Lulled by wine and good food, and the intimacy engendered by the empty dining room and the snow outside, Poppy relaxed and talked and talked, more than she could remember having talked to anyone before. He studied her face. She looked so guileless and innocent that he felt a momentary qualm.

“What about Cyril Mundy?” he asked. “The newspapers seem to be making much of your relationship.”

“Oh, Cyril.” Poppy sighed. “I had forgotten about him. He’s—well—very possessive.”

“Have you given him reason?”

“No, of course not,” said Poppy in surprise. “I mean
Cyril
. Don’t be silly.”

So she knows Cyril’s problem
, he thought, not realizing that she did not know a thing at all.

“He’s much more beautiful than Oscar Wilde anyway,” said the duke, smiling.

“Oscar…?” Poppy frowned, and then her face cleared. “Oh, the playwright chap,” said Poppy vaguely.

He leaned forward. “Tomorrow is Sunday, Poppy—May I call you Poppy? You may call me Hugo. There, now, we are really friends. You are not expected at the theater, are you? Or is the Watch Committee less vigilant than it was?”

“No, I’m not expected until Monday night,” said Poppy slowly.

“Come with me to Everton,” he said. “It will look pretty in the snow.”

“Well…” Poppy hesitated. “Perhaps Emily and Josie would enjoy—”

“No. Just you.” He smiled into her eyes, and she felt her bones melting. “Just for the day.”

Poppy looked at him doubtfully. It suddenly did not seem at all respectable. But then his mother would be there, and guests, as well as all those servants.

“If you’re sure it would be all right,” she said. “I don’t like leaving Emily and Josie. I usually spend the day with them on Sundays.”

“Only one Sunday,” he teased. “That’s all I ask.”

“Very well,” said Poppy, wondering why she felt so apprehensive. They were friends… weren’t they?

But her qualms had disappeared by the end of the evening. He behaved formally and courteously, and did not flirt with her once or imply any close intimacy other than friendship.

Her decision to go was further fortified by her servants. Mrs. Abberley scented a romance in the offing and looked forward to telling the servants in the street the next day—quite casually, of course—that madam was spending the day at Everton. And so she encouraged Poppy in her decision to go. Such is the magic of a title. If plain Mr. Bloggs from Bermondsey had asked Mrs. Plummett to spend a day with him at his home, then Poppy would naturally be expected to refuse, for after all, everyone could see that Mr. Bloggs was up to no good. But a duke! Ah, that was different.

Was Poppy staying the night? Poppy thought not, but Mrs. Abberley advised her to pack a few clothes. She would be expected to change for dinner.

The morning brought a little more snow… and Cyril. He came breezing in, very sure of his welcome, and then went very still and quiet when Poppy informed him of her impending departure for Everton. His long lashes quickly veiled his eyes, and he twisted the toe of one elastic-sided boot in the pattern on the carpet.

“So we’re all forgiven,” he said. “Kiss and make up, eh? I hope it doesn’t spoil your performance.”

Poppy looked at him in dawning awareness. “Was that why you invited him on the opening night? Was that why you got him to come?”

Cyril shrugged his elegant shoulders, still not looking at her.

“And you hope I’m not going to be happy now,” raged Poppy, “because that might spoil my heartbreaking performance!”

He looked straight at her then, his eyes hard and cold. “I’m not afraid of that,” he said. “You don’t think for a minute he’s going to
marry
you.”

“We’re friends, that’s all,” said Poppy hotly.

“Are you sure? Are you sure he doesn’t want revenge for dragging his precious family name across the boards?”

Poppy nodded to Gladys to pick up her trunks. She had heard the clatter of the arriving carriage, and suddenly did not want Cyril to meet the duke.

“Good-bye, Mr. Mundy,” she said firmly. “I think our friendship is at an end.”

“Oh, no,” said Cyril, smiling and shaking his head. “You’ll be running back to my arms very soon.”

Poppy followed Gladys out of the front door. The duke, who was about to enter the garden gate, saw her approaching, and waited for her, holding the gate open.

Poppy felt a twinge of apprehension. She half turned back to Cyril, who smiled slowly and whispered so that only she could hear, “Keep your legs crossed.”

The blood flamed in Poppy’s face, and she raised her hand to strike him, but he caught her wrist and stared down mockingly into her furious eyes.

“Don’t make a scene, Sheila,” he murmured. “
So
unladylike. What on earth will His Grace think?”

Poppy tore her wrist free and marched down the path, her head held high.

“What was all that about?” asked the duke curiously.

Cyril heard the question and waited with bated breath. He hoped she would not tell the duke.

“Nothing. Nothing at all,” said Poppy grimly.

Cyril heaved a sigh of relief.

Everton looked grander and more imposing than Poppy had remembered. Even the warm welcome of the staff, even Stammers’s happy smile and Mrs. Pullar’s deep curtsy could not quite remove the feeling that she was an intruder.

Now, the duke’s own father’s death had not caused him overmuch grief, and therefore he naturally assumed that Poppy would suffer no reaction from her father’s death. In this, he did not take into account the close ties that bind the working-class family together, the compassion for the frailties of humanity that makes them, in the long run, grieve heartily for a useless parent. The duke, like most of the aristocracy, had been several times removed from his parents since his birth, first by a series of wet nurses, then a governess, then a tutor, then boarding school, then Oxford, and then the army—a rigid and austere life devoid of the womblike, dirty closeness of the lower strata, which is what makes the aristocracy good soldiers and excellent prisoners, but not very compassionate or endearing when it comes to understanding the rest of the human race.

Yet Poppy was unaware that her brain could tell her, firmly, that it was just as well that her wretched father was out of the road, and that nothing in his useless life became him like the leaving of it, while her emotions could suddenly surface in an agony of loss and longing. Therefore she grew quite pale and shaken as she mounted the staircase behind Mrs. Pullar, and she clutched at the banister for support, while the duke surveyed her anxiously, wondering if she was onto his game. He was not a stupid or insensitive man, but he really did believe Poppy to be one of the world’s greatest actresses, both on and off the stage, and in this he was not quite to be blamed. He had had women chasing him all his life for his title and fortune, and therefore he honestly never dreamed that anyone could possibly love him for himself alone. And so after a moment’s hesitation he tidied up his mind and set it back firmly on the track of seduction.

His mother was in the South of France, there were no guests, and no one was likely to call. The snow was falling heavily outside, and he had Poppy entirely to himself. Yet he had forgotten blissfully about the vast army of servants.

Mrs. Pullar ushered Poppy into a different set of rooms than those she had shared with Freddie.

“I hope you’ll find everything to your taste, madam,” said Mrs. Pullar, as if presenting Poppy with a meal. “I was distressed—we all were—to learn of your father’s death, madam, and on behalf of the staff I wish to convey our deepest sympathies.”

“Thank you,” said Poppy, feeling tears rising to her eyes.

“There, now, madam,” said Mrs. Pullar, lowering her voice to a whisper to honor the dear departed. “I did not want to make you upset, or I would never have mentioned it.”

Poppy from Cutler’s Fields had not yet learned to control her emotions. She was suddenly overcome by grief for her father and his wasted life, and throwing back her head, she burst into tears and roared and cried, while Mrs. Pullar ran around her in distress, making little chirping, birdlike noises of sympathy.

“What on earth is all this blasted row?” demanded an amused voice from the doorway.

Mrs. Pullar raised shocked eyes to His Grace’s mocking face. “Oh, Your Grace. Poor madam is crying… about her father, you know.”

“Oh, that,” said the duke lamely, trying to compose his features into a suitably serious expression.

“I will not intrude further on Mrs. Plummett’s grief,” he said stiffly. “When Mrs. Plummett has recovered tell her luncheon is about to be served.”

“Perhaps a tray up here…” ventured Mrs. Pullar, but the duke countered that with a stern “Luncheon. Downstairs,” and left the room.

He went down the stairs slowly, feeling upset and puzzled. Poppy was not fitting into the role in which he had cast her.

He received another setback on entering the small dining room, where he hoped to enjoy an intimate little meal with Poppy. Stammers was there, wearing a black tie and a black armband.

“One of your family dead, Stammers?” demanded the duke, pouring himself a stiff whisky and soda.

“No, Your Grace,” said Stammers in hushed tones. “I am observing the death of madam’s father.”