Poppy (21 page)

She pushed open her front door and shut it behind her, leaning her back against it and closing her eyes.

“Welcome home,” said a cynical voice.

Her eyes flew open to see Cyril, elegant as ever, lounging at the open door of the sitting room. “You haven’t got much time,” he added. “We’re due at the theater in an hour.”

“I can’t,” said Poppy quietly, closing her eyes. “Ever again.”

“You’ll do it,” he said, moving forward, and again she felt that familiar possessive grip on her arm. “You’ll do it, because you know who’s going to be in the audience tonight? His Majesty, King Edward.”

“Blimey!” said Poppy.

“As you say, sport. So let’s forget what he did to you, and how your poor heart is obviously breaking, and let’s go!”

The Duke of Guildham’s newspaper informed him next day that King Edward had been present at the Lewis Theater and had been overheard to remark that the acting of Mrs. Poppy Plummett had been the most moving performance he had ever witnessed.

“That makes two of us, Your Royal Highness,” said His Grace, and he hurled the newspaper on the fire and watched it grimly while it blazed and roared; watched it until it shriveled and turned as black as Poppy Plummett’s scheming little heart.

There was a lot to be said for youth. As spring came around again Poppy was still playing to packed houses, and the ice began to thaw from her heart. She began to come to life outside the theater as well as in, and it was on one lovely spring day that she was at last able to detach herself enough from her own troubles to notice that Hetty was looking rather peaked.

Poppy felt a pang of compunction. Hetty’s devoted love for Cyril had never wavered as far as Poppy could see, and Poppy could only guess that Hetty was upset over Cyril’s seemingly devoted love for Poppy.

Poppy still found Cyril a puzzle. Why he should wish to be constantly in her company and yet show none of the warmth of a young man toward a young woman, was beyond her.

She asked Hetty for afternoon tea on Sunday, to see if she could do anything to help the girl. She had told Cyril firmly that she wished to keep Sundays to herself and her little sisters, so she was more than usually annoyed to find him on the doorstep a good hour before Hetty was due to arrive.

“I can’t entertain you, Cyril,” said Poppy crossly. “I’m expecting Hetty this afternoon, and although she’ll be glad to see you, I am not. I don’t mean to be rude, but I
did
tell you that I like Sundays to myself.”

Cyril took her arm and led her into the garden. “But I want to speak to you,” he said seriously, “and I’ve decided it can’t wait. It won’t take long.”

“Very well,” said Poppy wearily, wondering as she looked at his handsome face why it was that he aroused no interest in her whatsoever.

“I think it’s time we announced our marriage,” said Cyril firmly.

“
What!
”

“Oh, come along, Poppy,” said Cyril. “You must have expected this. Everyone thinks we’re just waiting until your mourning period is over. We make a handsome couple,” he added without a trace of humor.

Poppy took a deep breath. “Look, Cyril. I’ve
been
married, and once was enough. I won’t marry again.”

“Nonsense,” he said. “Think of the publicity. Which brings me to another point. You could be the rage of society. I’ve found out you’ve been getting all sorts of invitations from titles and turning ’em down. Did you never think of me? It’s all right for you, you’ve been consorting with dukes.” Poppy winced. “But I’d like to get my foot in that sort of door.”

“All right,” said Poppy wearily. “Only I won’t marry you. Go away, Cyril.”

“I’ll go,” he said. “But I’ll be back. You’ll marry me whether you like it or not, Poppy Plummett!”

There was a dismayed little gasp from the top of the steps, and both swung around. Hetty had arrived early, and she stood looking at the pair with wide, stricken eyes. Cyril mumbled something, and then brushed rudely past her, disappearing into the house.

“Oh, don’t look like that!” cried Poppy, rushing forward and leading Hetty toward the table. “He doesn’t mean it. He
can’t
mean it. He doesn’t really love me!”

“He doesn’t love any of
us
,” said Hetty dully. “But I still love him, and that’s the tragedy of it. He’s ever so beautiful. I s’pose he told you about that awful day?”

Poppy shook her head. “What happened?”

Hetty was silent for a long time. The sun struck down between the fragile drifts of blossom on the apple tree, and a light breeze sent a flurry of petals whirling to the ground.

Like snow
, thought Poppy, and all at once she remembered the snow that had swirled around them as she and the duke stood on the step, and she closed her eyes in pain.

“It was in January,” began Hetty suddenly, in a dull voice. “I was so crazy about him that I began to think he loved me. You know how it is, when you think the other person must have the same emotions as yourself and your mind plays tricks.”

Oh, yes, I know
, thought Poppy, but she remained silent.

“He came along to my dressing room, looking for you. Instead of running away as he usually does, he stayed to chat. He looked so marvelous, you know, and I thought, ‘All this love
can’t
be one-sided.’ So—I—rushed forward and kissed him. On the mouth.”

A tear glittered on Hetty’s rouged cheek, and she brushed it away with an impatient hand.

Emily and Josie were playing somewhere in the house, and their shrill cries came faintly over the warm air.

“Cyril just stood there, looking at me with such disgust,” whispered Hetty. “It was awful. Then the door of my dressing room opened, and that new little dancer at the time, Jeremy, came in and said, ‘Been looking for you everywhere. You busy, Cyril?’ And Cyril took out his handkerchief and
scrubbed
his mouth and said, ‘You’ve just come in time. Hetty’s been importuning me.’ And Jeremy laughed, and they stood together in the doorway, looking back at me with the same sort of expressions on their faces, as if I was something sloppy and dirty. Oh, Poppy. I thought my heart would break. He’s one of those. And it doesn’t make any difference.”

“One of—” Poppy sat with her mouth open stupidly while thought after thought rushed through her mind. And then she knew. “Oh, poor Cyril,” said Poppy.

“I heard him asking you to marry him,” Hetty went on, “and it was like a knife through my heart.” This dramatic phrase sounded strange, as it was accompanied by Hetty’s genteel dabbing at her mouth with a lace handkerchief. “I would have him, Poppy. On any terms.”

“Well, I won’t,” said Poppy while she thought hard. “Hetty dear, please put him out of your mind. He isn’t worth it. He’s rather cruel.”

“I’ll try,” said Hetty with a watery smile. She picked up her teacup, her little finger carefully sticking out at right angles, and drank with delicate little slurping noises.

“We’ll talk about something else,” said Hetty bravely. “How’s that duke fellow, Poppy?”

“Very well, as far as I know,” said Poppy hurriedly.

“He’s by way of being a relative of yours,” pursued Hetty.

“Oh, here’s Annabelle!” cried Poppy with relief. Annabelle came bounding down the steps. She was wearing a divided skirt and a striped blouse with a hard celluloid collar. A very small, very hard straw boater was clamped down on her hair, and she was perspiring with cheerful gusto. “I came on my bicycle,” she explained. “Oooof!” She slumped down in a garden chair. “It’s hot! What are you girls talking about?”

“Men,” said Hetty gloomily.

“Oh, talk about something else,” said Annabelle, taking off her hat and fanning her flushed face. “I’m fed up with ’em.”

Hetty looked in surprise at Annabelle’s homely features.

“Are there a lot of chaps in your life?” she asked.

“Oh, lots,” said Annabelle. “I’ve a lot of money, you see, and that’s the attraction.”

Poppy looked at her in quick sympathy, but Annabelle did not seem in the slightest distressed by this state of affairs; only mildly hot and bothered.

A shadow fell across the table, and the three woman looked up. Cyril was standing there, his hands thrust in his blazer pockets.

“I thought you had left,” said Poppy crossly.

“Now, you wouldn’t send me away,” said Cyril, pulling up a chair and helping himself to tea.

“I want to talk to you in private,” said Poppy sharply, and he put down his teacup and said, “Very well.”

She led the way into the house and through to the sitting room at the front. “About this marriage,” she said, swinging around to face him. “I’ve decided to accept.”

“I am very honored,” said Cyril smugly. “I knew you would.”

“Ah, but I think it only fair to give you my reasons,” said Poppy.

“They are the same as mine,” teased Cyril. “We look very well together.”

“It’s not exactly that,” said Poppy. “I’m weary of the stage and would like to have children.”

Cyril’s face went absolutely blank. Then he said slowly, “Plenty of time for that.”

“Oh, no,” said Poppy, going up and winding her arms about his neck. “I can’t wait.”

Poppy panted as heavily as she could, and moistened her lips till they glistened, and then she pulled Cyril’s head down toward them. He stared at her lips in awful fascination, and then quickly jerked his head away. “The servants…” he mumbled.

“Of course,” said Poppy, smiling seductively and drawing back. “Never mind. We have all the time in the world. Come back tonight after everyone has gone.”

“Really, Poppy,” said Cyril stuffily. “Behave yourself! You’re a lady now, remember?”

“Well,” said Poppy impatiently. “How soon can we be married?”

“I’ll need to think about it,” said Cyril, edging a finger into his collar. He walked to the window and stood looking out at the garden.

“Coo-ee!” called Annabelle’s voice from the hall. “I’m leaving!”

“I’ll go with her,” said Cyril, and before Poppy could protest he had fled into the hall. A moment later the door slammed, and she looked through the window to see him walking down the path with Annabelle, talking gaily.

Poppy heaved a sigh of relief and went to join Hetty in the garden. “Cyril doesn’t want to marry me any longer,” she said, and then regretted it as she saw the new look of hope on Hetty’s face.

I was awful to poor Cyril
, thought Poppy,
but how else could I have got rid of him?
She decided to accept one of those many titled invitations that Cyril coveted so much. It was the least she could do.

After Hetty had left, Poppy flicked through a small pile of crested cards, selecting one at random. Mrs. Poppy Plummett and friend were invited to a concert at eleven o’clock on Friday evening at a Lady Epton’s. She could go after the show and take Cyril with her. Perhaps the duke might be there. But that thought caused her such acute pain that she winced as if she had been stung.

During the week, Poppy found to her pleasure that Cyril was no longer constantly at her side. But she found she missed him. For all his flashes of malice and cruelty, he was the one person who had easily accepted her background, and that meant a lot to her.

So she was pleased to see his face light up in the old way when she told him she had accepted the invitation to Lady Epton’s.

“I hope we don’t disgrace ourselves.” He laughed. “Why not see if that friend of yours, Annabelle, can get herself invited. She’d keep us in order.”

“It’s a concert,” said Poppy vaguely. “We won’t have to say anything, and I don’t want to stay too late.”

Poppy decided not to wear mourning. She had treated herself to a new evening gown, a frivolous scarlet silk thing all the way from Paris. It had a daringly low neckline and a naughty little bustle. She was no longer dressing to please anyone but herself.

She had bought herself a heavy antique necklace of garnets to go with it, and long gold-and-garnet earrings, which almost brushed her white shoulders. She dressed her hair high on top of her head in a more severe style than she usually wore, in order to counteract some of the flamboyance of her gown.

Cyril thought she looked magnificent, but he no longer felt at ease with her. In order to keep Poppy’s mind off marriage, and as soon as they were settled in the cab that was to take them to Lady Epton’s, he said, “You never told me what happened at Everton. Did the duke get frisky?”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” said Poppy stonily, and then added in a lighter voice, “Let’s talk about us instead.”

“No,” said Cyril stubbornly. “I feel I have a right to ask. I thought you were in love with the fellow.”

“Stone the crows, I don’t want to talk about it!” said Poppy, turning her face to look out at the lights of the Strand.

They traveled in silence until they reached the Epton mansion in Eaton Square. Cyril looked with pleasure at the policeman on duty, at the red carpet stretched across the pavement, at the striped awning and the banked hothouse flowers on the step.

Lady Epton was a thin, angular widow who prided herself on being up-to-date. Like many members of society, she enjoyed luring the latest “fad” to her salon, be it a tattooed wrestler, a visiting Turk, or an actor. She was proud that the elusive Mrs. Plummett had decided to accept her invitation. She wondered whether she should ask Poppy to sing, but decided against it. She didn’t want to frighten away such a catch.

Teeth snapping, eyes popping, Lady Epton ushered Poppy and Cyril into a music room at the back of the house, where a great number of guests were already seated in order to listen to a chamber music quartet. They were just in time for the beginning of the concert.

Cyril fell asleep almost immediately, but Poppy sat and listened, entranced as the music soothed her turbulent emotions and wound its way dreamily around her brain. The long windows were open to a garden beyond, and faint breaths of warm, sooty air crept into the room.

At last the concert ended, and Cyril came awake as neatly and noiselessly as he had fallen asleep.

“Well, that’s that,” said Poppy. “Let’s go.”

“Not without our supper,” said Cyril. “Oh, look! There’s Annabelle!”