by Teresa Crane
Eloise put her head on one side, and the shining raven hair slithered about her shoulders. ‘Will you tell her? About me and Kit?’
‘No. It would upset her too much. There’s no need.’
Poppy remembered all too well her own perhaps unreasonable but nonetheless painful reaction to Michel’s revelation about the girl called Chantal. How much more adversely might Isobel’s reaction be in her present fragile state?
‘I agree. So – what will you do?’ Eloise asked interestedly.
‘I don’t know. But I’ll at least do my best to get her off that filthy stuff!’ She pointed to the phial that Eloise still held.
Eloise shook her head. ‘Kit’s tried that. I doubt you will succeed where he has failed.’
There was a moment’s bleak silence. ‘Kit knows?’ Poppy’s voice was raw with pain.
‘Poor Poppy. It gets worse, doesn’t it? Yes, Kit knows.’
Very slowly Poppy turned and walked to the open door, where she turned, to find Eloise watching her with something outrageously close to sympathy in her face. ‘I still don’t believe you. Kit wouldn’t do something like that. He couldn’t. He doesn’t have it in him.’
The brief flash of warmth was gone. ‘Believe what you like, Poppy,’ Michel’s sister said, the words truly indifferent, and she turned back to the mirror, lifting her arms and beginning with deft hands to put up her hair.
‘Does Michel know? What you claimed happened? What you’re doing?’
Eloise reached for a hair-grip. ‘You must surely know him well enough to know that my principled young brother would not approve. Will you tell him?’
Poppy nibbled her lip. ‘I don’t know.’ She stood for a moment, watching the smooth, competent movements. ‘Eloise?’
‘Yes?’ Her hands stilled, the other woman met her eyes in the mirror.
‘Please – go away and leave them alone. Nobody’s getting anything out of this! Think of young Peter.’
‘I do.’ Eloise’s voice was suddenly fierce. ‘I do think of him! I think of him fatherless! His father didn’t even know I was with child when he was killed. Oh, yes, Poppy – I think about that often. And no, I won’t go away. You English have a saying, I believe – “Revenge is a dish best eaten cold.” I have waited a long time.’ She smiled a small, chill smile. ‘I will not give up my supper now.’
*
The Enevers arrived back from the city in the early evening, Robbie all but asleep on his father’s shoulder. Isobel walked into the kitchen first, talking as she came. ‘Hello, Poppy. Goodness, what a wind! But at least it seems to be dropping a little now. I wouldn’t be surprised if we got some rain. They’ll be disappointed in the city if this weather keeps up for long and spoils the August race—’ She stopped so suddenly that Kit, walking behind her, almost cannoned into her.
‘Hello, Isobel,’ Poppy said into the silence.
Kit, who still had not seen what rested upon the table by Poppy’s hand, hefted Robbie a little higher on his shoulder. ‘I think the best thing is to get this young man to bed right away.’ His eyes fell upon the bright box, and he too fell silent. ‘I’ll take him up,’ he said at last.
Neither sister spoke as he left the room. It was, at last, Isobel who broke the silence. ‘That’s mine.’ Her voice was cold with anger. ‘Where did you get it?’
‘I went into your room to collect the dirty clothes. You’d left it sticking out from under the bed.’
‘How dare you? How dare you!’ Unwittingly, Isobel echoed Poppy’s own cry to Eloise. She reached a shaking hand to snatch the box. Poppy did nothing to prevent her. Isobel clutched the thing to her as if it were a precious child. ‘You had no right!’
‘I know. And I’m sorry. But it’s done. And now I have to talk to you.’
‘I don’t want to talk about it.’
‘But, Isobel, you must—’
Her sister shook a curly, stubborn head, her face set. ‘No. It’s none of your business.’
Poppy stared at her in disbelief.
Isobel’s eyes were huge, ablaze with fear and anger. ‘I mean it. This has absolutely nothing to do with you. You have no right to interfere. I’ve promised Kit I’ll try to give it up. After the baby. But not now. I can’t. Poppy, you don’t understand!’ Sudden tears welled, spilled, and ran unheeded down the thin face that had once been so smooth and bonny. ‘You could never understand, no matter how hard you tried! You’re not like me. You’re strong. I don’t think you’re afraid of anything. I’m afraid of everything. Everything! I’m afraid of life and I’m afraid of death. I’m afraid of losing Kit. I’m afraid – terrified! – of having this child.’ She paused for a moment, dashing a hand across her wet cheeks, fighting unsuccessfully against her tears. ‘I get so depressed. I get so that I feel that life simply isn’t worth living. I don’t know why. It’s just something in me. I’m sometimes afraid I’m going to lose my mind entirely,’ she added in a miserable whisper, and bowed her head, sobbing.
Poppy leaned forward, urgent and fierce. ‘But, Isobel, can’t you see? This isn’t making it better!’ She gestured towards the box. ‘If anything, it’s making it worse!’
‘No!’ There was desperation in her sister’s eyes and voice. ‘You don’t understand,’ she repeated in stubborn despair. ‘You don’t know what happened before. You don’t know how awful it’s been.’
‘You’ve both told me—’
‘No.’ Isobel’s voice was quieter now, though the tears still ran. ‘Neither of us has told you the whole truth. Neither of us has told you that I once attacked Kit with a kitchen knife because I convinced myself that he was going to leave me. Nor that, in Paris, I twice tried to kill myself.’
‘Isobel!’ Appalled, Poppy reached a hand across the table to her.
Isobel, her head bent, took it, her own hand cold and lax. ‘I don’t know if I really meant to do it, or whether I just wanted to make Kit feel guilty.’ She lifted drowned eyes to her sister’s face. ‘You don’t know what it’s like to be me.’
Poppy could find absolutely no reply to that. When Kit came back into the room they were still sitting at the table, hands clasped, in silence.
‘Isobel,’ Kit’s voice was gentle, ‘do you think perhaps you should get some rest? It’s been a very long day for you.’
Isobel nodded unhappily. Poppy watched as with infinite tenderness Kit put an arm about his wife and helped her to her feet. She turned her wet face into his shoulder for a moment, and stood trembling a little within the comfort of his encircling arm, before, still supporting her, he led her from the room.
He came back perhaps ten minutes later. Poppy had not moved. She neither spoke nor turned her head when he entered the room. Her face was sombre.
Kit walked to where the bottle of whisky stood on the dresser. ‘Drink?’ he asked quietly.
Poppy shook her head.
He poured a glass for himself and crossed the room to sit in the chair that Isobel had vacated. ‘I’m sorry. We should have told you. You were bound to have found out sooner or later.’
‘Is it true that Isobel tried to kill herself in Paris?’ Poppy asked abruptly.
There was a short silence. ‘To be honest, I’m not sure. She certainly tried to harm herself. Whether she actually intended to die, I don’t know. I suspect probably not. She was in a very disturbed state at the time. That was when she was first prescribed laudanum. She became dependent. She went through a very bad time breaking the habit.’
‘And when Eloise turned up here, she discovered that and started supplying her again?’
He glanced at her. ‘You’ve made that connection, then?’
Very deliberately, holding his eyes, Poppy said, ‘I’ve spoken to Eloise.’
The silence this time was much longer.
‘You’ve spoken to Eloise,’ Kit repeated carefully.
‘Yes.’
He waited.
‘She told me that you killed Peter,’ Poppy said.
He drew a great, sighi
ng, resigned breath and dropped his face into his hands for a moment.
All of that unhappy day the niggling seeds of doubt had been growing. She waited until he lifted his head to meet her eyes before she asked bluntly, ‘Did you?’
‘No.’ The word was quiet, the more convincing for being entirely unemphatic.
‘She says she has a letter, from a witness.’
‘Who then conveniently died,’ said Kit, wryly. ‘Yes, she’s told me that, too.’
‘Have you ever seen the letter?’
He shook his head. ‘It’s no kind of evidence, anyway. Anyone could have written it. She could have written it herself.’
‘That’s what I said.’
He put his elbows on the table, turning the glass in his hands, his eyes pensive upon it. ‘I didn’t kill Peter, but I can’t prove it. Any more than Eloise can prove that I did.’
‘The circumstances were such that you could have done.’
‘Yes.’ The word was simple. He lifted his eyes, clear and steady, to hers. ‘I can’t help you, Poppy. You have to make up your own mind.’
To take the word of a stranger whom she disliked – however she felt about her brother – against that of someone she had known and loved for most of her life. The choice was made for her. ‘I believe you.’
‘Then there’s no point in speaking of it again, is there? The past is past, and its dead are buried, whatever Eloise likes to think. Isobel is our priority; we must concentrate on protecting her. From herself, and from others.’
The words reminded Poppy of the reason for their trip. ‘What did the doctor say?’
He shook the sombre mood from him. ‘He seemed to think she’s doing well. She must rest, of course, and not become agitated. Her blood pressure is up. But, apart from that, physically she’s fine. Which reminds me—’ he smiled a little over the rim of his glass ‘—Lucia came with us – my Italian isn’t quite up to something like this – and heard us talking about your birthday. She wants to throw a party for you. On the day of the Palio.’
‘That’s kind.’ Even preoccupied as she was, Poppy herself could hear the ungracious lack of enthusiasm in the words and added hastily, ‘It really is. There’s no need. They hardly know me.’
‘They want to. And since we’re all going to be there anyway, we can hardly refuse, can we?’
She shook her head. ‘Kit—’
He sipped his drink, eyebrows raised enquiringly, waiting for her to go on.
She was frowning, nibbling her lip. ‘What is it?’
‘Michel,’ she said. ‘I hate having secrets from him. It’s a sort of lying, isn’t it?’
He considered for a long moment, absently running a finger around the top of his glass until the sound of it rang in the silence. ‘I have no right to ask it,’ he said at last, ‘but I’d really much rather you didn’t speak to him about all this. I can’t see how it could help and it might very well do greater harm. Michel’s a splendid chap – I’ve never known nicer – I don’t think he’d like or approve of Eloise’s purpose here. She’s causing enough mischief already. If we rouse her further by implicating Michel – and possibly turning him against her – God knows what she might decide to do. We mustn’t let Isobel be any further upset. Can you imagine her reaction if Eloise chose to tell her about the past? If she finds I’ve been lying to her? No, I truly think the fewer people who know, the better. I’m sorry to ask, but would you please say nothing? For Isobel’s sake? At least for a while?’
Reluctantly she could see the logic of that, and was acutely aware too that the secrets of which they spoke were not hers to share, even with Michel – perhaps even especially with Michel. She nodded.
He tossed back his drink and set the glass on the table. ‘Thank you.’ He stood up. ‘I’d best go and check that Isobel’s all right.’ He came around the table to stand behind her, a light hand on her shoulder. ‘Don’t worry. And don’t let this spoil your special birthday. Everything will be all right, I promise. Eventually Eloise will get tired of her games and leave us alone. I’m sure of it. I think she may even be getting a little bored already. With any luck, she’ll leave with Peter when he goes back to school.’
‘I will not give up my supper now.’
Poppy smiled, a little wanly. ‘Perhaps.’
*
‘Eloise, how is our small invalid?’ Michel, passing from Bernado’s house on his way to the Tenuta, had come across his sister, leaning at her gate, obviously waiting for him, a small package in her hand. ‘Is he well enough to come with me today?’
Eloise shook her head. ‘He still complains of feeling unwell. A touch of the sun, I’m sure. The silly child will not keep his sun-hat on. But I’m sure it’s nothing serious.’
‘He’ll be well enough to come to the race on Friday?’
‘Oh, yes. I think so.’ She held out the parcel. ‘Will you take this up to the house with you? A small present, for Poppy’s birthday. Wish her many happy returns from me.’
Michel took it, tucked it into his pocket, feeling as he did so the hard edges of the little box that already rested there. Then he leaned to kiss his sister’s cheek. ‘Give Peter my love. Tell him to get well quickly. I’ll see you later.’ He turned and left her. In a moment she heard him whistling cheerfully; the very set of his shoulders, the jaunty lift of his head speaking of happy high spirits. She watched him, half-smiling, until he disappeared around the corner.
*
In the event, Poppy’s birthday did not turn out to be the disaster she had foreseen. In the couple of days that had followed her discovery, they had all behaved with careful courtesy to each other, and the subject had not again been mentioned. On the day of her birthday Kit brought her breakfast in bed, and when she came down to the kitchen it was to find it and the courtyard decorated with paper chains, ribbons and coloured bunting. A birthday cake with her name on it rested in pride of place upon the dresser shelf and a small pile of gifts graced the big old table. Robbie could scarcely contain his excitement and pride as he stood before her clutching a card upon which were stuck brightly coloured paper shapes. ‘I maked it for you,’ he said, glowing with self-importance, ‘for your birfday.’
Poppy bent to hug him, took the sticky, dog-eared thing that was smudged with small fingerprints. ‘Darling, it’s beautiful! Thank you.’
‘Maked chains, too,’ he said, eager that she should not miss the importance of his contribution to the festivities, ‘with Mummy.’ He picked up Dog, tucked him comfortably under his arm, beaming immodestly.
‘Buon compleanno, Signorina!’
‘Umberto! How lovely!’ The little man was standing in the doorway, his smile at least as wide as Robbie’s and his arms full of cut flowers. ‘For me? Grazie!’ In her delight she kissed him, and his brown skin darkened further in a blush of pleasure. Touched, she took the flowers, burying her face in them; then as she lifted her head she caught sight of a small brown package on the table, a package with English stamps upon it and addressed in a hand so familiar that even in these unexpected circumstances she recognised it immediately. ‘How on earth did that get here?’ She picked up her father’s gift, turning it in her hands in unfeigned astonishment.
Isobel was smiling at the expression on her sister’s face. ‘It was waiting at the post office when we went into town the other day. You didn’t think he’d forget, did you?’
‘Well, yes,’ Poppy said, surprised into honesty. ‘I suppose I did.’
‘Aren’t you going to open it?’
The package held a short, stilted note of congratulation – signed, equally stiltedly by both her father and Dora – and a gold ring set with sapphires that both young women recognised immediately as having belonged to their mother. It was an unexpectedly thoughtful gesture that brought quick tears welling to Isobel’s eyes and even set Poppy blinking.
‘Open Robbie’s!’ Robbie demanded impatiently, and the moment was gone. Smiling, Poppy sat down at the table. Robbie had chosen for her – all
by himself, his straight-faced parents assured her – a little china statue of a dog with quite the ugliest face Poppy had ever seen. ‘Look, Dog,’ the child said, holding up his precious toy. ‘Dog,’ and beamed again at the adults’ laughter. Isobel and Kit had bought her a beautifully made leather handbag; but Kit, in addition, had painted her a little picture of the Tenuta nestling on its hillside, the tower rising behind it.
‘A small keepsake,’ Kit said, as she kissed him in thanks. I’d have made it bigger, but I had to bear in mind you’ll have to take it home with you!’
‘It’s lovely, really lovely! I’ll treasure it—’ Poppy turned as a shadow fell across the doorway. ‘Michel!’
The party complete, Kit insisted on opening one of the two extravagant bottles of champagne he and Isobel had brought back from the city for the occasion. Everyone exclaimed delightedly over the pretty pendant Michel had found for her, and a touch more surprisedly over the silk scarf that Eloise had sent. The moment Poppy opened the package, she smelled the drift of perfume that clung to it; the perfume that Eloise always wore. Very carefully she folded the pretty thing and put it back in the paper. ‘It’s very nice,’ she said politely. ‘Please thank her for me.’
‘I shall.’ Michel bent to kiss her, took the pendant from her and straightened to fasten it about her neck. ‘There.’ He stepped back, holding her hands in his, pulling her to her feet. ‘C’est belle, non?’ There could be no mistaking the warmth in his eyes as he looked at her; nor, Kit thought a little ruefully, watching them, could any onlooker misinterpret the happy glow on Poppy’s face as she thanked him. He did not for a moment begrudge them their love, but not for the first time he found himself wishing that Poppy had found someone else to fall for. Someone not quite so closely connected to Eloise Martin.
It was a long and happy day. In her bedroom that night, Poppy lit the lamp and stretched tiredly. The ring her father had sent glinted upon her hand, and she looked at it pensively. Then she turned to the mirror to inspect the pretty golden pendant Michel had given her. She touched it gently with her fingertip, smiling before setting the ugly little dog carefully in place on the chest of drawers. ‘Dog likes dog,’ Robbie had informed her gravely. She smiled again. Then she shook the scarf Eloise had sent out of its wrapping and stood looking down at it. Again the wave of perfume drifted from it, heavy on the warm night air. Wrinkling her nose, she picked the thing up, opened a drawer, stuffed it as far to the back as it would go and slammed the drawer shut with a satisfying bang. And though it could not be said that her thoughts exactly matched those Kit had harboured that morning, the faintest of echoes was certainly there.