Poppy (9 page)

The horse the duke selected for her was very placid and old, more like an animated sofa.

A sidesaddle was put on its wide back, and Poppy received her first instruction on how to mount from the mounting block. The duke himself selected a more sedate mount than he would normally have chosen, put Poppy’s horse on leading reins, and together they ambled sedately out of the stables into the blazing and golden light of a truly beautiful morning.

Poppy from Cutler’s Fields lost her fear of the animal, although she felt very high above the ground, and became engrossed in the sheer beauty of the morning. They ambled slowly down the drive under the high arch of the trees, a delicate green tracery against the pale blue of the newly washed sky.

“Branches are down everywhere,” said the duke. “It was quite a storm.” But Poppy only heard the peace of the morning.

It did not last long. “Now we shall canter,” said the duke, “and you must learn to post. Just do what I do.” But to poor Poppy, it all seemed very strange as she lurched wildly from side to side like a sack of potatoes until, laughing and breathless, she begged him to stop.

“I shall have my head groom instruct you,” he said impatiently as they once again proceeded along at a snail’s pace. “In fact, I suggest you begin your lessons this afternoon. I shall ask Freda to lend you a riding habit.”

“Oh,” said Poppy, glancing at him from under her lashes. “And do you think madam will do that?”

He frowned quickly but did not reply. After some time he said, “I enjoyed what I heard of your concert last night, Mrs. Plummett. It was generous of you to give of your talent so freely.”

Poppy looked at him in surprise.

“Most professional singers,” he elaborated, “guard their voices very carefully.”

“Oh, I aren’t professional,” said Poppy blithely. “I sing for anyone. Oh, are we going back?” She felt disappointed as he turned the horses around to lead them back to the house. All of a sudden she wanted to make a crack in his amazing self-possession.

“D’you think I’m common?” she asked lightly.

“Yes.”

“Oh!” Poppy gulped. “That was very rude of you.”

“Only truthful. I would never lie to you, Mrs. Plummett.” Again that charming smile.

“I can’t ’elp—help—being common,” said Poppy almost tearfully. “I was born that way.”

“True,” he said gently. “But you have a natural charm and grace, which is something no one can acquire. Your voice will change, and you will become accustomed to households like this. What is a lady after all, but a series of social gestures. Now, you, Mrs. Plummett, have none of the social arts, but you have so much more to offer than the ordinary woman, and once you add those social arts to your other assets, you will be devastating.”

“Really!” cried Poppy, forgetting her distress in all the pleasure of this heady compliment. “What assets? I ain’t got no money.”

“Your face, Mrs. Plummett, your figure, and your very great beauty.”

“Are you flirting with me?” asked Poppy, made bold by all these compliments.

“Yes, I am. But that too will be part of your training.”

“Oh, deary-dear. Then you didn’t mean none—any—of all those nice things.”

“Oh, yes, I most certainly did. I am honest even when I am flirting, and you should be complimented, Mrs. Plummett; I do not normally flirt before luncheon.”

“Shall I go hunting?” asked Poppy, all of a sudden anxious to change the subject.

“If you attend to your lessons, and if I consider you good enough.”

It was strange, mused Poppy, the way these feelings of happiness came over her all of a sudden. It was nice being married, for it was thanks to Freddie that she was carrying on an intimate conversation with a real-live duke!

They were approaching the front of Everton when Poppy threw back her head and began to sing in that same unself-conscious manner with which she used to serenade Cutler’s Fields. She sang “John Peel” in a merry, lilting voice while the duke halted the mounts and listened to her with single-minded pleasure. He was conscious of Freda standing on the top step, glaring—but only just.

“What on earth is all this caterwauling?” demanded Freda crossly.

Poppy started the second verse.

“‘D’ye ken that bitch whose tongue is death?’” she caroled, glaring straight at Freda. The duke gave a splutter of laughter, and Freda turned away, two spots of color burning on her cheeks.

“Naughty Mrs. Plummett,” murmured the duke, lifting her down from her horse. He was startled to find that something like an electric charge was running straight from his hands, which were around Poppy’s tiny waist, right through his body.

In his usual way, he forgot everything else and applied his mind to the problem. Had he ever felt like this before when touching a woman? There had been that mistress of his. Oh, when was it, 1891? Or was it ’92? But no, it had not been like this. Now, his busy mind questioned, if he could receive this type of physical reaction just by touching her waist, what would it be like to—

“I say, Uncle, what are you hugging Poppy for?”

Freddie had appeared behind them, looking alone and palely loitering. The duke surveyed him with irritation, still clasping Poppy around the waist. Just like Freddie to come along and bleat just when he was getting an answer to his fascinating problem. Then he realized that the subject of his musings was blushing rosily in his arms, and he abruptly let her go.

“Ah, Freddie,” he said, swinging around. “My study, I think.”

“Oh, no,” protested Freddie. “Look, my head is killing me.”

“My study. Now!”

“Oh, very well,” said Freddie sulkily. “But what were you doing hanging around Poppy’s waist like that?”

“I was teaching her to ride.”

“Is that what you call it?”

“My study, Freddie. And, Mrs. Plummett, my head groom will be waiting for you in the stables, say, at three o’clock in the afternoon.”

“Will you be there?” asked Poppy, suddenly shy.

“Good God, no. Freddie will accompany you.” And with that the duke marched off into the house with Freddie shambling at his heels.

Poppy waited for a few moments, irresolute, and then followed them into the house. She plucked up her courage and approached one of those terrifying footmen in livery and asked him where she could find breakfast.

The breakfast room was on the ground floor, at the back, at the end of a chain of twists and turns. It was a small, bright room, full of sunshine. A carved sideboard was groaning under the weight of many covered dishes.

There was no one else in the room. Poppy picked up a plate and wandered from dish to dish. There was enough food to give the whole of Bermondsey a good breakfast. At last she selected some toast and kidneys and bacon and sat down at a corner of the table to eat.

Stammers at last appeared and informed Mrs. Plummett that the other guests and Her Grace were breakfasting in their rooms.

Relaxed and soothed by an unfashionably strong cup of Indian tea followed by several slices of toast dripping with butter, Poppy began to turn over in her mind the events since her wedding.

Foremost in her thoughts was concern for her sisters. It was all quite pleasant here, and very exciting and very grand, but it had little to do with the reality of family responsibilities. And the duke had called her common. Well, so she was. But she was an actress and could surely fast learn the tricks of this society trade. Just ask, the duke had said. She would. She would ask his mother. Not that she was anxious to please the duke, of course, but for Freddie’s sake. She may have married him for all the wrong reasons, but the least she could do was to be as good a wife as possible.

And so Her Grace, the Duchess of Guildham, was somewhat surprised when a very nervous Mrs. Plummett presented herself in that lady’s boudoir, begging for instruction in the social arts.

The duchess was silent for a moment while her mind raced. Her shrewd little eyes raked over Poppy. Something would certainly have to be done about her. While the duke had been down in the kitchen, listening to Poppy sing, Sir Bartholomew, his wife, Harriet, Annabelle Cummings, and Ian Barchester had avidly discussed the low horror that was Poppy, and one and all had come to the conclusion that the best thing was to get rid of her as soon as possible and make sure Freddie kept her out of sight. But the girl had a certain quality, decided the duchess. And she was by way of being a sort of actress, so that should make life easy. All this flashed through Her Grace’s mind in a few moments, and then she smiled, showing all her broken teeth.

“Certainly, my dear,” she said. “You are a very sensible girl to ask for advice. If you will forgive my saying so, I think your speech is the biggest drawback. You must modify your accent. Start by speaking very slowly and carefully. Don’t use double negatives. Don’t say ‘I haven’t got no whatever it is.’ It should be ‘I haven’t got
any
,’ and so on.”

“I was told that at school,” said Poppy, wide-eyed like a solemn child, “but I forgot.”

“And then there are ways of eating and receiving guests and dealing with servants and—oh!—so many things,” said the duchess, warming to her task. “Sit down,
do
. We will not go down for luncheon, but we will have a tray up here, where we can talk. Now, firstly, until you become accustomed to the ways of social conversation, you must simply listen and say only yes and no as required. People love a good listener, and everyone will think you vastly intelligent and very prettily behaved in consequence.

“We must do something about your clothes. I never throw anything away, and I used to be as slim as you, believe it or not. Of course, the styles are antiquated, but the materials are very good. I shall have my lady’s maid, Gilbert, take your measurements and prepare something for you to wear to dinner this evening.

“Now, you must not mind Freda and Annabelle. The one is malicious and vulgar, and the other is just plain silly. They will no doubt try to bait you this evening. Do not rise to it. I always ignore rude remarks, and believe me, it does make the other person feel very silly.”

“I’ll try to remember,” said Poppy, feeling overwhelmed.

The duchess became more and more animated under the rapt attention of her new pupil, yet all too soon it was time for Poppy’s riding lesson. Although Freda had not been asked to supply a habit, and therefore could not have refused to do so, Poppy wore the same clothes she had worn in the morning and was thrilled to bits when the head groom said, gruffly, that she had good hands and a good bottom and that he thought she would learn very quickly.

Later on, Mrs. Pullar was waiting, with a huge bunch of keys, to take Poppy on a tour of Everton, and Poppy, with the unbounded energy of youth, trotted happily behind her from cellar to attic, fascinated by everything she saw and deeply impressed by the housekeeper’s knowledge. Mrs. Pullar was as enchanted as Her Grace. Poppy’s sunny nature and enthusiasm were infectious, and as Stammers remarked later, he had never seen “old sour puss” in such a good mood.

Poppy was further elated by the personal attentions of no less than Her Grace’s lady’s maid, who came to prepare Mrs. Plummett for dinner, fitting her into a lilac chiffon gown of a wickedly simple cut. Gilbert even cracked a smile when the ebullient Poppy remarked airily that Her Grace must have been quite a girl.

It was only when she gathered up the short train of her gown and followed the liveried back of a footman, sent expressly to guide her to the dining room, that Poppy realized with a lurch of her heart that she had not seen Freddie all day, and what was worse, she had not thought of him once.

Her treacherous mind had been solely concentrated on what the duke would think of her new appearance.

The footman threw open the double doors of the dining room. As Poppy was slightly late, the party was already seated, and all the men rose to their feet.

“By Jove!” muttered Sir Bartholomew, eying Poppy’s creamy shoulders. His wife gave him a venomous look.

“You look very pretty tonight,” said the duchess, shaking out her napkin. Annabelle infuriated Freda by muttering, “Here. Here.” Annabelle was really a simple-minded county girl at heart and could no more sustain a resentment against anyone than she could feel any sympathy for a fox being torn apart by hounds.

Ian gave Poppy a wet look, and Freda stared at her plate.

“Where’s Freddie?” asked Poppy, trying to modulate her voice carefully.

“He will not be joining us this evening,” said the duke indifferently. “He is indisposed.”

“Then why isn’t he in his bed?” asked Poppy in surprise.

“Because he has moved into his old rooms in the west wing,” said the duke.

Poppy opened her mouth to question him further, but something in his face stopped her. Her mind worked feverishly. What on earth was Freddie thinking of! He had said he loved her, and had looked as if he had meant it. Why this change of heart?

She was so preoccupied with this worry that she ate her food in total silence apart from an abstract yes and no to Sir Bartholomew on her left and Cyril on her right. When Freda had tried to bait Poppy by complimenting her on her abrupt change of accent, she had merely looked at Freda vaguely and replied, “Thank you,” returning her attention to her worry about Freddie. Freda had been left to feel she had been very efficiently snubbed.

At last the ladies rose to leave the gentlemen to their port. Poppy excused herself, saying she had left something in her room. When the door of the drawing room was safely closed behind the ladies, Poppy found one of the now less terrifying footmen and demanded to be taken to her husband.

When they got to the door of Freddie’s room, Poppy tried the handle and found it locked, and her lips tightened.

“Freddie!” she called. “Let me in!”

“Can’t!” came Freddie’s voice from the other side. “Uncle Hugo’s locked me in.”

“What!” screamed Poppy. “What for?”

“I dunno!” shouted Freddie. “Be a good girl and see if you can get the key.”

Poppy swung around, her hands on her hips, and glared at the waiting footman. “You ’eard ’im,” she said. “Get it!”

“I can’t, madam,” said the footman, backing away. “His Grace said as how Master Freddie was not to get out.”