by Poppy
She watched Granma churning by the open door. "I could learn to do that."
"I know you could, child. There's nothing wrong with your head. Daisy says you're better with the books than Andy."
"When did she tell you that?"
"She told Nellie. The family takes her to London when they open their house every year. And Davvy gets into port now and again."
Smile lines crinkled around Granma's eyes, age-washed to the palest blue. "Daisy's fond of her family, she is, now Barney's not making her life a misery. He ain't been near any of us for years now. Of course she's never made us known to you because it wasn't fitting."
"You're our family, too."
"Not fitting," Granma repeated firmly. "You're a king's daughter, and Andy's a gentleman's son. Your lives will run on a different path than ours, and you can thank the heavens for it."
"We're here, and Daisy was glad to send us."
"We're glad to have you," Granma said placidly. "Good blood is wild blood sometimes when it's young. You'll settle soon."
Poppy looked down rebelliously at her idle hands. She did not have even a deck of cards to amuse her. "You still could teach me to chum."
"I trade my butter for winter feed for the cows and people like my churning. I make good sweet butter." Granma's face softened. "You'll never need to know hard work like this, child. Your mother's raised you proper for a proper marriage, and a gentleman might not be happy to have his wife know rough work."
''Maybe I'll never marry with no dowry."
"Now it'll work out. T'ain't reasonable to expect Daisy to sell the rubies for that. Things like those rubies go down in a family. Your girl, when you have one, will get them."
Poppy moved her shoulders, fighting the intolerable feeling of being bound in idleness in a cage that would open only to release her into another cage as tightly closed and barred. In desperation, because in London she despised nothing more, she suggested, "Daisy had a friend show me how to work in Berlin wool. If I had some, I could make a chair seat."
"Now, you're not to go to the village except with us on a Sunday, straight to church and back, and you know it." Again Granma softened. "Why don't you go for a walk in the woods? Squire keeps it for hunting and fishing, but nobody will think you're a poacher or mind if you pick a few wild flowers. You'll be safe enough. People is frighted of the Squire. He had a young man visiting, relative of his wife, thought he could throw one of the lasses down in the hay field and take her. Squire beat him near to death with his riding crop."
Poppy had looked at the well-kept woods, glimpsed the glades and paths that stretched from behind Gramps's place to the manor house barely visible on a faraway hill. She had thought that would be even more forbidden than the village.
She was thoughtful as she walked out of the cottage and wandered aimlessly through the woods. She had always accepted that her mother wanted them to call her Daisy, because then people often assumed they were her younger sister and brother until they knew them better. That made things easier, though none of the gentlemen had ever objected to them until Mr. Hammett. It made him feel old to be reminded Daisy had two large children. She realized suddenly that Daisy had always looked forward to the day when she and Andy would live quite separately from her. Daisy was a good mother, but she did not dote and sacrifice herself. She must be counting the time until she could be free of responsibility for them.
Poppy shivered. She would not marry someone like Mr. Hammett's friend. Then what was she to do? She would simply have to wait and seize an opportunity when it came along.
London was opportunity. London had everything. When they returned there, she would begin to investigate immediately. Meanwhile the woods were deep and pleasant.
On the third day, she found the stream. She ran and plunged her arms into the sunlit, limpid water beyond the rippling verge. Deep, deep, the center was deep enough for swimming. She looked around her and laughed aloud. That weeping willow with branches sweeping all around it to the ground might have been planted there as a dressing room. When she swept the branches aside and crept in on the moss-covered ground, she was in a little house almost high enough for her to stand.
She tore off her clothes and plunged into the water. Only when she was back in the willow shelter, teeth chattering but skin tingling, did she realize she had no way to dry herself. Would Granma notice if she came back with only two petticoats under her cotton dress? Never. She dried herself and left the wet petticoat hanging inside on a branch. Enough breeze and sun crept through to dry it for the next day.
That night Poppy was thoughtful. Some of the paths looked as if they were used for riding, with branches cut back for the riders'safety. Tomorrow she would explore deeper toward the manor house.
Because, though Granma and Gramps would never guess it, she could both ride and swim. Once, years before, when Daisy was between permanent gentlemen, a lovely man had taken them all to the seashore for a month. Daisy had had to duck in and out of a bath-house rolled into the water, but the children had been allowed to swim naked and free. The lovely man, in a suit that covered him from neck to elbows to below the knees, took them out beyond the waves and taught them swimming strokes and how to kick. That wonderful, free feeling with the water all around her intoxicated Poppy. Whenever they had dragged her out, blue-lipped and prickly-skinned, she screamed and screamed, until the gentleman thought of bribing her with a ride on the ponies that trudged up and down the sand. Poppy had a vague idea the lovely gentleman had been a school-master who genuinely loved children and fortunately one with private means. When he disappeared at the end of the month, giving Daisy a charming opal and pearl ring, Poppy swam fearlessly and could ride the largest ponies, not much smaller than a real horse. Even Andy could paddle alone and keep his balance in a saddle.
Now she was sure that where there was swimming, there must be riding. All over the country, horses were left running free in pastures. She only had to locate one.
After four days of searching, she found the pasture at the far end of the woods. She had been looking too close to the manor. This pasture, watered by a branch of the stream which ran through one corner, was obviously for horses that were seldom taken into the stables. Two of the horses were too old for riding, two were colts, one limped, one was a plow horse, but the sorrel was perfect. She hung over the fence, eyes shining. The sorrel was a small horse with white feet and a gentle look. She was not young, but she was spirited and had a lively gait. Poppy yearned to ride the little mare. There was her horse, and over there was a gate leading , to the woods.
That evening she found an old bridle hanging forgotten in the smithy and smuggled it out, hidden in the folds of her skirt. When she cleared the table after tea, she filled her handkerchief with sugar.
The sorrel was a coquette, but on the third day Poppy got the bridle on her and led her through the gate and mounted there. "Keep your knees in," the lovely gentleman had instructed. "Knees and hands are everything." Who needed a saddle? A couple of times she slipped off when the sorrel jumped playfully at a shadow, but she simply led her back to the gate and mounted again.
By the end of the week, the sorrel knew her and would come prancing and shaking her head, pretending to shy, but waiting for her. Once or twice Poppy saw that grain had been thrown into the pasture, but that must have been done early in the day. She refused to worry, for she never saw anybody near the place. So she would ride to the stream, tie the horse while she swam, and then dress and ride back again to the pasture.
If she smelled faintly of horse when she got home, so did Andy and Gramps, and nobody noticed. Granma said she had never seen a girl so hard on her clothes, she might as well sleep in them, but that was all. Nobody seemed aware the sun was burning her hair a brighter red-gold and that her skin was warmly creamy all over.
One day she swam longer than usual. Tomorrow was Sunday, and by the time they returned from church, it was always too late to slip away, a day lost. She paddled and kicked, rolling and twist
ing and whirling in the water that tickled her skin like champagne, only sorry she had to be careful not to wet her hair so Granma would not suspect.
"So this is where you bring Penny?"
Poppy shrieked and dived, coming up behind a rock out in the middle of the stream. She brushed her soaking hair out of her eyes and, peering over the rock, saw a tall masculine figure, blackened to a silhouette by the sun in her eyes, standing on the bank.
"Come back here, you thief."
She quavered, "I never stole a penny in my life."
"Coppery Penny," he said impatiently, and his voice was young. "My horse. My first horse after I got too big for a pony. And you do steal her. You've had her out every day since I got home. I went to the pasture, and she wasn't there, and in the morning I could tell she'd been ridden. You didn't wipe her down. Her coat's a disgrace."
"I didn't have a cloth or comb," Poppy said and shrieked again as something brushed her bare thigh, and a shadow darted past her in the water. "Oooh, Go away. Go away this instant. I've got to come out."
"Come, then. Besides, you turned her out warm without a rug over her. She's not a young horse. She's my horse, and I won't have her mistreated."
The monster fish was close again. "Go away. Go away. I didn't mistreat her. I didn't hurt her."
"I don't think you know how to treat a good horse."
That was too much. This was no London blood who would regard a country girl like any other chance-met animal, something to be used and thrown away without a thought or qualm. This was a young man, little older than herself. "You don't know how to treat a lady. Go away and give me a chance to get out of here."
"Aren't you a child?"
"I am not. My clothes are in under that willow tree, and I want them."
The silhouette retreated slightly. "You're not supposed to be in that stream either, frightening the fish."
"Then let me get out."
"All right. All right. But I've got Penny, and we'll be over behind that oak."
Poppy scrambled up the bank, into the shelter of the tree, and hurriedly put on her clothes. Rubbing her dripping hair with the damp petticoat, she realized she did not have a comb. One look and Granma would know.
"Are you ready?"
Poppy stepped out of the shelter of the willow. "Do you have a comb?"
"Of course not. What is this?"
He came close, leading Penny, and stood looking at her. He was a tall, handsome young man with hair the color of strong tea and bright gray eyes set far apart in a strong, square face. His country clothes were worn, but Poppy knew good boots and tailoring when she saw them.
"You must be the Squire's son."
"Of course."
"Home from school?"
''For the long vacation."
Poppy knew a weeping woman or a frightened woman made a gentleman uncomfortable, and a gentleman could not like a woman who made him uncomfortable.
So she smiled dazzlingly and said, ''What are you going to do? Because I'm going to be in trouble enough at home about this," and she touched her wet, tangled hair.
He stared, his eyes widening as he looked at her from small feet to glowing face and shining hair. "Home? Who are you?"
"The smith's granddaughter," Poppy said discreetly.
"Oh, one of those." He must know of cousins living nearby. "What are you doing here?"
"My brother and I are here for the summer, and I didn't have anything to do." Poppy widened her eyes and drooped her mouth. "I didn't mean any harm. I thought nobody minded. A few times I did think I heard the gamekeeper in the woods, but he always seemed to veer away from me."
"Orders. My father'd rather have poachers scared off than caught. Costs too much to support their families after."
Poppy laughed. "Are you scaring me off?"
"No," he said slowly. ''No, I'm not scaring you off. I don't have much to do during the holidays myself. And it's not much fun riding alone."
"I won't be able to get away tomorrow," Poppy said and fingered her tumbled curls. "Maybe never again."
"I know." He plunged a hand in the pocket of his tweed jacket. "Penny's coat is so rough I brought her comb. Could you use that?"
"I could use anything," Poppy rejoiced.
They met almost every day at the willow. Edmund Chalmers found a small saddle he had used as a boy and brought it and found a branch strong enough to hold it. He would ride his horse from the stable, get Penny from the pasture, and meet Poppy by the stream. He worried about the saddle, but Poppy assured him she saw no reason women had to ride sidesaddle. He showed her the proper way to hold the bridle, how to signal the horse, and how to judge the gaits. Before, she had ridden for the pure joy of action and motion, but Edmund showed her it could be an art and one at which she could excel.
Day by day, he brought more things to the willow tree. He brought rugs, pillows, and a picnic basket with cutlery, dishes, glasses. Every day he brought a large lunch he had had Cook put up for him. Shyly, he brought a silver-mounted comb, towels, and scented soap so Poppy could freshen up before she went home. The willow began to resemble a small summer house by the stream.
They rode and picnicked and then, Edmund leading Penny back to the pasture, they would part to go home for their evening meals. On a few occasions, when Edmund had to pay calls with his mother and sisters, Poppy went alone to the willow house and swam all afternoon. Other days she did not miss the water. Edmund and the rides and the lunches were enough.
If they had not ridden too far and long, after they had eaten the cold chicken "and ham and cheese and pasties and thick slices of bread and the buns and rich, fruit-filled tarts and sipped wine cooled in the stream, they would stretch out on the rugs. Warmed by the sun, soothed by the soft summer breeze, they talked the afternoons away. Poppy guessed Edmund had been so much at school that he did not know the country people well and assumed she was the daughter of one of the smith's children who had gone into good service and therefore would travel with the family. She would not risk telling him about Daisy, but she still could talk about France, the summer at the seashore, and seeing the Crystal Palace, and mourn the wonders she was missing at the Exhibition.
Edmund was happy at Oxford, but once he took his gentlemanly degree, he had no wish to study further. He thought his father would let him take the grand tour, and then he would return and try to interest the Squire in some of the new scientific methods of farming. He was quietly content with the prospect.
Under the muted talk ran another silent, powerful conversation. As the days went on, it grew more open. It was in Edmund's fingers brushing her breast, smoothing the thin material of her dress over her thighs, lingering to follow the neckline of her gown. It was in Poppy's breath warm against his cheek as she talked, her head resting on his shoulder, in her hands learning to know the smooth rippling muscles she could feel even through his jacket.
They were in no haste, but the summer was young and sweet, and their veins ran hot, young blood. One day before she knew what was happening, she found herself flat on the rug with Edmund bending over her, his lips greedy and his hands impatient at the buttons of her bodice. She reached up to pull him closer, eyes closing, lips parting, whole body softening. Then Edmund's horse stamped, and Penny nickered impatiently. The spell was broken.
Poppy sat up, brushing the tumbled, disheveled hair out of her eyes. "Oh, Edmund; no, no."
"We mustn't," he said and jumped up and ran to lean his head against a tree and pound at the bark with angry fists.
Poppy wept that night, softly, so nobody in the little two-room cottage would know. She could not give him up. She could not stop seeing him. Her lips knew his, her body knew his touch. Her ears knew the sound of his voice, her eyes the exact way his hair curled around the crown of his head, her fingers the strong muscles of his young body. She moaned and turned her hot face deeper into the pillow. She had to see him. She had to be with him. He was happiness and ecstasy and warmth. Without him, she was weak, and lost in a
desolate world that held nothing.
If she went on seeing him, she knew what would happen. He could not marry her, nobody needed to tell her that. She did not want her young life ruined, to become spoiled goods no decent man would want. Yet she was too weak to give him up and knew Edmund was not old enough or strong enough to make the break with her himself.
They tortured themselves there under the willow-tree. They swore they would not, they must not, and tore themselves out of each other's arms and parted in agony. They knew this must stop, yet they met again each day. Finally one afternoon Poppy sank back with a sob and blindly drew Edmund to her, knowing she had lost her battle and that the end must be tragedy, yet without the strength to do anything but kiss him more deeply and hold him close.