She put Poppy to bed, heavily sedated, and set about the melancholy task of informing George's parents, who had returned to Walsall the previous night under the impression that their son had perhaps indulged too well in the excellent champagne.
The next few days were fraught with niggling little problems concerning the hotel, but Marigold had leisure to see that Poppy had descended into a mood of despondency deeper than any she'd ever known before, and even Ivy seemed preoccupied about something.
Two weeks later Poppy was induced to rise from her bed and join her sisters for dinner in the private parlour. It was the first time she'd ventured out of her room. She refused even to go to George's funeral, leaving Marigold and Ivy to represent her.
Now she picked at her food, although she drank deeply of the wine Marigold poured for her. Marigold tried to maintain a normal conversation but Ivy refused to respond, and Poppy said nothing at all.
After the maid cleared the dishes and they moved to sit before the fire, coffee cups at hand, Ivy at last spoke.
'Poppy, Marigold, I have something to tell you.'
'What is it?' Marigold asked, her attention mainly on Poppy.
'I hoped you'd never have to know. Especially Poppy. But it's no good, I have to tell you. I need help.'
Marigold looked sharply at her. Was that a smile on Ivy's lips? No, she was trembling. She was afraid of something. All Marigold's protective instincts rose.
'What is it?' she demanded more urgently.
Ivy took a deep breath and glanced across at Poppy, ignoring the conversation, lost in her own deep misery.
'I'm going to have a baby and George is the father.'
*
'It happened in London,' Ivy explained. 'George bumped into me at one of the exhibitions, and asked me for tea afterwards. I thought he was taking me to an hotel restaurant, but before I knew what had happened we were in a lift and he dragged me into his room. I tried to get away but I couldn't. It was horrible, unspeakable!' she shuddered.
Marigold marvelled at her sister's self-possession. At fifteen and a half most girls would have been prostrate with fear and anger to be in such a situation. Ivy was disgusted, distressed even, but calm and lucid, quite devoid of tears and wailing protests.
Poppy listened with angry incredulity as Ivy repeated her accusation, and then burst out in defence of her dead husband.
'You lie!' she said furiously, shaken out of her misery. 'George loved me, he wouldn't have touched a trollop like you!'
'He did more than touch!' Ivy flashed back at her.
'He told us he'd seen you with a man,' Marigold tried to calm the discussion. 'Why should he even admit to having seen you if he had – done this to you?'
'To throw the blame on whatever man he said he saw,' Ivy said swiftly. 'Apart from Silas Frome I was alone with no other man, and I thought we were going to a restaurant in the hotel. You don't think I'd let any man do that to me, do you, especially not Poppy's fiancé.'
'Why didn't you tell us before the wedding?' Marigold asked.
'Because it isn't true,' Poppy retorted.
'I didn't want to admit such a shameful thing had happened,' Ivy whispered, hanging her head. 'Not until I knew it was going to be obvious soon anyway! And I knew you loved him, truly loved him, Poppy, I thought I'd be ruining your life if I accused him. Besides, he'd have denied it. You'd have believed him. You don't believe me now.'
'You wouldn't care a jot about ruining my life! You were furious when you thought I was going to escape from you at last! You hate anyone else to be the centre of attention and you hate to think we might love someone else more than we love you! Look what happened to my puppy! You were jealous of poor little Scrap and I fully believe you poisoned him! You know how to well enough, with those everlasting weeds you keep digging up! In fact I wouldn't put it past you to have poisoned George! No-one else – '
'Poppy! You don't know what you're saying!' Marigold interrupted angrily, shocked that Poppy could even think such evil things, let alone say them.
Poppy stared at her, then collapsed into hopeless tears.
'You always loved her best and believed her rather than me,' she sobbed, and before Marigold could reject the accusation she ran from the room.
Marigold followed her, but Poppy locked her door and refused to open it or even answer. At length Marigold gave up and went back to find Ivy, pale but composed, where she had left her.
'What are we to do?' she said slowly. 'You'll have to go away, but where?'
'I've been thinking about it,' Ivy replied slowly. 'Truly, Marigold, even if Poppy won't believe me, the baby is George's. If we said she needs to get away after George's death, and the two of us went abroad somewhere, we could write home in a little while and say she was pregnant. She could pretend the baby is hers. And it would be George's. It's possible,' she went on eagerly, warming to the idea. 'They did spend the night together, no one else knows how ill he really was, and anyway they could have slept together before the wedding. George could hardly wait, I wouldn't be surprised if they did,' she added as if to herself, and shuddered.
'You've planned it all,' Marigold said slowly.
'I've had several weeks now to think about it and plan. The fact George died gave me the idea of pretending the baby is Poppy's. Surely she would accept a child that was his?'
'I doubt it, but it's possible. She'd be very angry with you. If she agreed could you live with her for several months, alone in a strange place?'
'I would have to. What else can I do? I can't get married, there's no-one to marry me. And why should a man accept another man's child? At least Poppy would be taking her husband's child.'
For several weeks Poppy refused to consider the idea, but then she sank back into the lethargy which had gripped her before Ivy revealed her condition.
'For goodness' sake stop badgering me!' she exclaimed one morning in a rare show of animation. 'What do I care? If it will stop your everlasting mythering I'll go with Ivy. I'll bring the brat back, but I won't admit it's George's. People can think what they like but I'll employ a nurse. At least I have the money to do that as George's parents have insisted I have what he owned.'
'So where would you like to go?' Marigold asked Ivy. 'You'll have to go soon, you are beginning to show and the modern clothes won't be much help for many more weeks.'
'I heard Lydia Makepeace talking about a lovely little village in Switzerland,' Ivy suggested. 'She and her family went there in the summer. She says it's very quiet but the hotel is good.'
'You'd prefer Switzerland and all that snow and ice to somewhere like the south of France?' Marigold asked in surprise.
'We might see people we know, like Silas Frome or guests who use the hotel in the south of France,' Ivy pointed out. 'It's not so likely we'll see anyone in a small Swiss village. Besides, I'd like to paint snow scenes and mountains for a change. It's so flat round here!'
By September Marigold was in London to wave them goodbye. She had insisted on buying furs and boots, making sure they were both well equipped for the Alpine winter. She had been so preoccupied making all the arrangements as well as negotiating for another hotel she hoped to buy, this time in Coventry, it wasn't until she was on the train going home she had leisure to think.
Then Poppy's wild accusations kept ringing in her head. They couldn't be true! Ivy was a child still. Poppy was distraught. Poppy. It should have been Ivy, the wronged innocent, who had hysterics and begged everyone to help her. Instead she'd been unnaturally calm with her suggestions all ready, and appeared to have worked it all out carefully.
Poppy had raved about her dog's death and that had indeed been strange. She also revealed how much money she had taken from Ivy's secret hoard, but that was so large a sum Marigold at first refused to believe it. When Poppy insisted she was right Ivy was challenged, and rather ruefully admitted she had found and kept a purse someone had dropped.
'I'd no idea whose it was, Marigold. I should have told Pa, I know, but i
t gave me such a thrill to think I had some money I could use for drawing materials, or perhaps to buy us all treats.'
It was all reasonable but the nasty, niggling suspicion remained however hard Marigold tried to thrust it away from her. During the long journey back from London she found herself recalling incidents from their childhood when Ivy had managed to wheedle Mom or Pa into doing things she wanted. She'd almost always got her own way, whether it was getting out of school or going the direction she wanted on their walks.
Shaking her head in disgust at her own suspicious nature Marigold turned her attention to the problem of the new hotel. It would need extensive rebuilding and Bill was eager to form a partnership and share the cost of this. Until now Marigold had refused even to consider a partnership, but this venture would be expensive, and she wondered if she would be wise investing so much of her capital into one project.
As the train drew into New Street she thrust her worries about Ivy to the back of her mind. There was simply no point in dwelling on suspicions that could never be proved.
*
Poppy made it perfectly plain as soon as they left Marigold, that although she had to be with her sister she would spend no more time than absolutely essential with her.
'So don't think that because you've got your own way in coming I shall be your slave for the next four months,' she said curtly.
'More than four months,' Ivy said gently.
'What do you mean? You'll have the brat in less than four months, and then we'll be able to go home.'
'But you will not have been married for nine months then,' Ivy said softly. 'I can add up, Poppy, even if you can't. We'll have to say the baby was born later than it will be. Unless you want people to nudge one another when you try to claim it's a seven month child?'
Poppy bit her lip furiously. She had totally forgotten the discrepancy in time.
'The fact remains,' she retorted, 'I shall take my meals with you for the sake of appearances but I don't want you to be everlastingly plaguing me.'
Ivy smiled a secret smile and Poppy fumed inwardly. Why was it with her younger sister that she always had the feeling she was being manipulated?
Poppy's determination to avoid all unnecessary contact with Ivy suited the latter perfectly. She had chosen the village a mile or so outside St Moritz deliberately. She intended to discover, if she could, what had happened to Richard. Her letters appeared to have had the desired effect but Ivy always wanted to be certain. Only then could she make foolproof plans. She'd intended to come anyway, but this inconvenient pregnancy had provided her with an excellent excuse.
Ivy spent the first week looking about her, noting the layout of the town and studying maps of the area. Her first task was to locate the farm to which she had written.
She was rather dismayed to discover it was so far away, much further than she could comfortably travel in a day. It was also high up in the mountains so that it would soon be cut off for months. If she didn't find it almost immediately she might have to wait until the spring.
They had been in St Moritz for a month and Ivy had become resigned to waiting. She could ask questions in the meantime. Several of the local people were happy to practise their English. More and more foreigners were coming to Switzerland in both summer and winter, and to know something of their languages was always useful.
Until now Ivy had discovered nothing and met no-one who knew the Müllers. This morning she was sitting in a cafe, indulging in a rich cream cake with a girl a few years older than herself, Margarethe Pohl, whom she had met the previous day.
'You know someone here?' Margarethe said carefully.
'I think so,' Ivy replied cautiously. 'A friend, someone my brother knew at school. We heard he had settled with some people called Müller, on a farm in the mountains to the south.'
'An Englishman? He is young?'
'Yes. He flew aeroplanes,' she added suddenly, and Margarethe's frown cleared.
'Ah, yes, I know!' she exclaimed in delight.
'You do? Where is he? Is he still at the farm?' Ivy asked eagerly.
'No, no, he left some time ago. A year, two years, I forget.'
Ivy felt a stirring of apprehension. 'Where did he go?'
'They died.'
'Richard died? How? When? How could he have gone if he's dead?'
'I am muddled. I don't speak so well. Inge's parents – no, that is not right – her aunt and uncle, yes, that is it, her aunt and uncle died.'
'Inge? Who is she?'
'The girl. The girl who lives with the Englishman.'
'They are married?' Ivy smiled slightly. So much for Marigold's faith in Richard's love.
'No, not that. I will explain.'
Haltingly, often searching for words, she did so.
'The Müllers died, the winter the Englishman came, I think. Or perhaps the next. I don't know how, but Herr Müller was ill for many months before he died. Then Inge sold the farm and bought a house here in St Moritz, which the Englishman manages for her as an hotel.'
Ivy stared at her in astonishment and then burst out laughing. How strange that both Marigold and Richard should have become innkeepers.
'Where is this hotel?' she asked, controlling her laughter when she saw Margarethe looking at her in astonishment. 'Shall we go and look at it?'
'You want to meet him?' Margarethe asked eagerly. She had a romantic soul and scented some mystery.
Ivy nodded, signalled to the waiter, and paid their bill. Then she and Margarethe strolled through the town until they came to a trim, neat little hotel, the balconies still colourful with pots of geraniums, the shutters newly painted in green.
'That's him,' Margarethe breathed, and although after so many years it was unlikely Richard would recognise her Ivy pulled up the collar of her fur coat until it almost met the brim of her fur hat.
'Is it the same one?'
'Yes.' Ivy nodded. He was older, naturally, and bearded, but there were lines round his eyes and streaks of grey in his dark hair which made him look even older than his twenty-eight years.
'What is Inge Müller like? How old is she?'
'Almost twenty, I think. She is pretty, dainty, and rather silly, from what people say. Of course her name is not Müller. It was her mother's brother who died. She is named Schwartz.'
'Do you know her?'
'No, we have never met. Do you want to meet her?'
'I don't think so. Margarethe, don't say anything about this. It would be embarrassing if he were to discover I'd been asking questions about him, and not been to see him. But I think he and my brother had a quarrel.'
Margarethe promised, and Ivy was well satisfied with her discoveries. During the next few months she observed Richard from afar, and saw Inge when the girl went marketing.
To her disappointment they did not appear to be other than hotel owner and manager. Certainly on the few occasions when Ivy saw them together there was nothing lover-like in Richard's behaviour, although he did occasionally appear to escort Inge to social events in the town.
Further discreet enquiries by Ivy led to a middle-aged woman who had known Frau Müller, and she gave Ivy more details of the tragedy up in the mountains.
'It would be so suitable if the poor child married the Englishman,' this lady sighed. 'He was so good to her, and she needs a man to care for her as well as to run her business. They are very circumspect but it is not right they should be working so closely together.'
'Does he live in the hotel then?'
'Yes, and though I for one would believe no evil of dear Inge, people talk. They certainly do talk.'
***
Chapter 17
The child was due at the end of February, but Marigold did not expect her sisters to return to England until May at the earliest. She decided to go into partnership with Bill just for the hotel in Coventry, and the winter was fraught with problems getting this latest hotel ready for opening. She was thankful not to have to worry about Ivy and Poppy.
The
last letter had been from Poppy at the end of January, saying the doctor in St Moritz expected the child to come early. Marigold heard no more but was too busy to be concerned. Then on the first of March Poppy and Ivy arrived in Edgbaston.
'Where is the baby? What happened?' Marigold demanded of Poppy, for Ivy had retired to bed before Marigold reached home.
'It was born three weeks ago and died almost at once,' Poppy said brusquely.
'Poor mite! Was it small or weakly?'
'It was large and seemed quite strong, had lusty lungs, anyway. Ivy refused to feed it, gave it a bottle, and in the morning it was dead in its cradle. Apparently it happens sometimes like that, especially in the valleys where people are rather backward.'
Marigold was puzzled by Poppy's tone.
'You sound cynical,' she said questioningly. 'Which valleys, and what has that to do with Ivy and her baby?'
'Valleys in Switzerland, everywhere. Villages and towns where people have too many babies and cannot feed them all. They take care to smother those extra mouths they cannot feed, the inconvenient children.'
'Poppy! Are you suggesting that Ivy – no, it's impossible!'
'Is it? She never wanted the baby. She managed to make you believe it was George's child and tried to foist it off on me.'
'You still believe it wasn't his?' Marigold asked gently.
'Of course it wasn't! But it was very convenient for her that he'd been in London at the same time, and then that he died and couldn't deny it!'
'Perhaps she was frightened to admit anyone else could be the father. Oh, Poppy, she was so young!'
'She knew exactly what she was doing, believe me. She wasn't the slightest bit interested in it while she was carrying it, and never once said anything about what we might do once it was born.'
'Perhaps she dreaded having to give it up,' Marigold suggested.
'You always try to see the best in people but there isn't any best in Ivy! She never had a moment's feeling for the poor little child. Perhaps as well it died with a mother like her!'
'What happened?'
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