by Poppy
A voice roared, "There they are, at it like they are every day. I told you, Marster, I told you how it was, and now tell me you can't believe it of your boy. Tell me your own eyes are lying now."
Poppy recoiled and flung herself away and up, on her feet with one lithe motion. She stared incredulously at the bluff, hearty man with eyes so like Edmund's that he had to be the Squire and at the roughly dressed man beside him, dangling an ax from one huge brown hand. She shrieked at the sight and jumped to the brink of the stream and teetered there.
"Don't be a fool, girl," the Squire growled. "The ax is for the tree." He looked at the clutter on the ground and peered through parted branches at the things inside the willow. "Quite a little dollhouse you have here. Any treasures you want before we cut it down? All right, Gallens, chop it fine. Edmund, take the horses back where they belong. I'll escort your young acquaintance to the smithy."
"Oh, no," Poppy whispered.
"Oh, yes," the Squire said. He grasped her wrist and started through the woods, leaving her to stumble along beside him.
Running, shaking, Poppy panted, ''We didn't-we hadn't-we were just-we went riding."
"Only on horseback, I hope for your sake," the Squire said bluntly. "You're the whore's daughter, aren't you?"
"I'm-" Poppy began. Then she tightened her lips and said with as much dignity as she could manage while being dragged along at a half run, "I'm Poppy Smith."
Edmund had not come with them. He had not protested. He had not even spoken. Poppy blinked tears from her eyes and tried to straighten her dress and smooth her hair with her free hand. The way through the woods had never seemed so short. In no time, she could hear the light tapping of Andy's hammer on the anvil.
"Smith," Squire roared, and Gramps came popping out of the smithy door. "Smith, here's your grand-daughter. Best send her back to London before she causes trouble here."
Gramps ducked his head. "What's she been doing, Squire?"
"Riding my horses for one thing. And you can hope that's the only thing. I found her with my son."
Andy popped out of the door, hammer swinging from one hand, a white-hot horseshoe in tongs in the other. "What's that you're saying about Poppy?" He drew back the arm holding the tongs.
"Boy," Gramps growled and chopped his hand down on Andy's elbow, sending the tongs and white-hot iron flying. "Sorry, Squire, he's just a child."
"Have you money enough for their fares on the railroad?" Squire asked, reaching for his pocket.
Poppy's face flamed. "We've the money. We don't need anything of yours."
"Keep that in mind and don't come back," Squire said. He turned away on his heel and strode off.
They were on their way back to London before dark.
Chapter Four
POPPY was as restless as a bird in springtime. The Queen's weather was holding, and all London basked under the August sun. Peters had taken Daisy to drive in her carriage in the park as usual, although one of the papers had printed that it was as shocking for members of the demimonde to appear there as it would be for gentlemen to smoke, especially at the fashionable hours of five to seven. The Queen herself, with Albert, often appeared at that time, as did the Duke of Wellington. Daisy tossed her head, said the Great Exhibition should prove the world was changing like lightning every day, and went off to join the gentlemen on horse-back and the ladies in their carriages to be stared at by the cornmon people hanging on the railings.
The cottage on Pallminster Lane was too small and too quiet to contain Poppy's energy. She peered out at the tiny garden between the cottage and the carriage house, but she had watered the red and white geraniums and brushed the London soot from the brick walks before the afternoon heat struck down. She drifted back to the bow window in the parlor and pushed aside the red brocade overcurtain and lace undercurtain and peered through the gauze. A butcher boy, standing up in his little cart, was shrieking impudence at a beer wagon. Out of sight around the comer, a flower girl called, "Sweet flowers, sweet flowers, a'blowing and a'growing." Farther away, an oyster vendor shouted his wares.
Nothing moved on Pallrninster Lane. The ladies had retired to their rooms to rest before they dressed for dinner, and the gentlemen had not yet returned from offices, businesses, coffee shops, or their clubs.
She drifted over to the fireplace and put two small sticks on the glowing embers, for the brick cottage held the damp even in midsummer. She considered the mantel with its gold-looped and fringed red velvet draping and the silver, gilt, and china ornaments grouped around the ornate clock. She wandered to the mirror over the tufted loveseat and considered her new cream-and bronze-striped afternoon frock. The ruffles around the bodice and on the elbow-length sleeves set off her glowing skin, and the color emphasized the red-gold of her hair and the brilliant amethyst of her eyes. The new slippers of satin and bronze kid were as pretty as they were tight.
She listened to the house. She smiled as she heard the kitchen door close. Mrs. Peters was not supposed to leave them alone in the cottage, but she was sneaking over to the carriage house to snatch a nap before Daisy returned from the park to inspect the dinner preparations. A chair creaked upstairs. Andy doubtless was groaning over his Latin because the new tutor was merciless with the rod. This tutor, who had formed a small class to urge half a dozen lackwits into learning enough to return to their usual schools in the fall, had seen no reason to refuse to take on an undesirable if his fees were doubled and he had a whipping boy to frighten the others into diligence. Andy was paying the price of two years idleness, which made it hard for him to keep up even in such company. Poppy did not sympathize, although sometimes she helped him, just to learn the lessons herself. She had enjoyed every minute of their classes with The Rev, except when she had had nothing to do because Andy was so slow. She had also looked forward to her ballet and music lessons with her mother's friends in the ballet. Now those had stopped, too.
Daisy had given many reasons. She was more accomplished than most young ladies. Bookish women were unfeminine, and gentlemen did not like that. But Poppy had heard her mother tell Mr. Hammett that she hoped to find a younger son or a widower who thought beauty and royal blood enough without a dowry, and have the girl married before the winter was over.
Poppy sighed rebelliously. Last year she had been always busy, always had something to do and practice and study. Now she had nothing, and this winter would be worse after the Exhibition closed. Daisy had been mercilessly strict since Gramps had sent them home.
She sighed again and pressed closer against the glass. Down at the end of the lane, there was that old Italian witch, one of the refugees from the revolutions on the Continent in forty-eight, with her cage of fortune-telling birds. Poppy clasped her hand to the chatelaine dangling from her belt and, feeling the shilling tucked into her scissors case, ran out, careless of the door left open behind her.
"A fortune," she gasped. "Your best fortune, please," and held out the shilling.
Grabbing the shilling in one band, the old crone thrust a stick into the cage. A bird jumped on it and plucked a paper from the box of fortunes.
Poppy tore it open and read. Her eyes darkened almost to purple. "No, no. This isn't right. I don't want this one."
The old woman cackled. "My birds tell all, and it is always right," she gloated, then clumped away to disappear around the comer.
Poppy read again. ''Flames will open a path before you, and bars of gold will cage you. Marriage is your fate. Beware. Beware." She shuddered, crumpled the paper, and threw it in the gutter. She had never believed in fortunes anyhow. "Nonsense," she said, and ran back to the house.
Still she could not forget the fortune. "Marriage" and "Beware" it had said. She did beware. She shuddered, thinking of the men Daisy might produce for her to marry if she got desperate enough. But a girl could hardly refuse to marry when no man had offered yet. Neither could she run away. She would not go on the streets. No decent household would have Daisy's daughter, even as a housemaid, let
alone a governess. There was nothing to do but to wait and see what happened and, yes, beware, beware.
She idled back to the bow window, sat down at the card table, and took the newest deck of cards from the drawer. Her hands were discouragingly small, so she could not palm cards, but she practiced crimping for the cut, double shuflling, and dealing from the bottom. She had been practicing for three years, ever since the gambling gentleman who had kept Daisy so short a time because he had a run of bad luck and was too fine spirited to ask a lady to accept less than the best, had showed her what he knew, although he swore he never used the tricks. She should learn them well-not to cheat, he had advised piously but with a twinkle in his hooded eyes, but so no one could ever cheat her. She had liked him because he had liked her and Andy, not like this Mr. Hammett, who was acting more permanent every day.
She would not think about Mr. Hammett. He was generous, but he was mean-spirited and dull, never taking Daisy anywhere, not to the Cremore where something was always happening-fireworks, balloon ascents, equestrian performances, not to mention the dancing, promenades, and singing-or even to the ballet or one of the theaters. He just turned up three evenings a week, ate an enormous dinner, and dozed the rest of the evening away in front of 'the fire while she and Andy crept around their rooms trying not to remind him they were there.
She frowned at a jack that somehow had dropped on the polished table. In the gambling gentleman's hands, the cards had come alive and flown. She could do it, too, if she kept practicing.
As she scooped the deck together, she glanced outside, and her eyes widened. A gentleman was getting out of a hired cab. He was quite young and attractive in a strangely individual way. His coat was beautifully tailored, but the darker collar was a touch flashy, and his skin had a clean, waxy pallor that emphasized his dark eyes. He stood there, glancing up and down the street, turning his head so that she saw the slight curve of his short nose. With his dark, lively glance, he reminded her of something. She had once seen a beautiful, exotic bird in a cage with just that lively look and air of elegance. He sent the cab away, and was coming to the door.
Mrs. Peters was not there to answer it, and Poppy did not hesitate. She ran without even feeling the tight new slippers, opened the door, and smiled up demurely. He stared at her and mumbled. She caught only the word "viscount."
"I'm sorry, but my mother is driving in the park."
"Your mother?" His dark, lively glance saw her completely, and he mumbled again, "Yes. Yes. I did hear something. I thought, a child."
She knew she should not, but she did. "Would you care to come in and wait, sir?"
His quick glance flickered over her again, and he stepped inside. It was only a matter of minutes before he had put away his hat and cane, mumbling something all the while about being newly returned to London from the Continent. He saw the cards on the table and seated himself across from her.
Poppy fluttered her lashes and admitted if he would name his game, she might comprehend the play. She and her brother sometimes held a hand. Then, time after time, the Viscount had more luck than should have been possible for a gentleman trying to stare down the neck of her bodice. She leaned back, pretending to adjust the gold scissors dangling from the chatelaine, and surreptitiously dried her fingers on the red velvet, strawberry-shaped pincushion. They were not playing even for coppers, but she hated to lose, and somehow every time she crimped for him to cut, the cards came back miraculously smooth and cut to his advantage. Feeling reckless and giggling inwardly, she pretended to fumble the shuffle and risked holding a king in her small palm, ready to drop in front of her when she dealt.
The Viscount's white fingers clamped down on hers. With his other hand, he forced her fingers open and pulled out the king. Throwing back his head, he roared with laughter.
"I thought so, you little vixen," he cried, the mumble gone and his dark eyes glittering. "A lady in Vienna cheated me once when I was fifteen but no one since, I'll swear."
Poppy tugged futilely at the fingers circling her wrist. "It's my hands. They don't grow."
"I'd say you've grown very satisfactorily," the Viscount said, smiling with set teeth as he stood up and jerked her to her feet and into his arms.
Poppy gasped. Daisy's gentlemen callers were genteel and knew better than to treat her like a parlor maid.
The Viscount, still laughing, was kissing her, her face, her neck, the softness where the ruffle on her gown dipped in front. Then he stopped laughing, and a fire flickered far back in his eyes. He was mumbling again and tugging her toward the loveseat.
Poppy dug her heels into the carpet and tore her mouth from his and shrieked, "Andy, Andy!" He lifted her from her feet and swung her toward the loveseat as she thrashed wildly, fingers clawing, elbows punching at his waistcoat, feet kicking at his knees. One foot hit solidly, and he swore and stumbled. They thudded down on the carpet with his weight crushing Poppy beneath him.
"You wildcat," he growled, ripping her bodice open to the waist. "Stop scratching or I'll beat you until you'll be happy to purr for me."
Poppy tore one hand free, snatched out the gold scissors, and thrust upwards. The sharp points caught on his neckcloth, ripping through it, and scratched a long bleeding line across his neck to his ear. He growled like an animal, a guttural sound without words, clenched her wrist, and twisted it until she screamed and dropped the scissors. With a hiss of satisfaction, he wrenched her numbed arm down under his knee and, kneeling above her, deliberately slapped her face, first one way and then the other, until her head thudded back and forth against the floor. Half blinded by tears of pain and rage, she gasped wordlessly, her breath knocked out of her. Then, over his shoulder, she saw Andy beside the fireplace, flourishing a flaming stick of kindling.
Sparks flew around the room, and a burning ember lit in the Viscount's hair, but he went on slapping and pounding, apparently too enraged to feel it.
"Andy, no, no," Poppy gasped.
From nowhere, a long arm reached out and snatched the stick and threw it into the fire, brushing Andy away and across the room. The same arm swung around and plucked the Viscount from Poppy as if they were a pair of puppies scuffling on the floor.
"Have you any explanation for this disgraceful scene, sir?"
Poppy had heard the voice before, so deep and vibrant, yet so deadly soft. Struggling to her hands and knees, she looked up and saw a tall dark man, face expressionless, hands now quietly clasped on his gold-headed cane. A sense of power emanated from him, dominating the room. She knew him. She had seen him someplace before.
The Viscount's face was white as he dabbed with his tom neckcloth at his bleeding wound. He looked around the room, first at the curtains and upholstery, where small sparks still glowed, then at Andy, huddled where he had been thrown on the floor, and finally at Daisy, whom he had not seen enter and who was perched tensely on the velvet chair by the fireplace, fanning herself with her lace handkerchief. He tried to speak, but not even a mumble came out.
"Any explanation?" the deep voice insisted.
The Viscount found a thin sound in his throat. "I'm just back from the Continent, and I came to call on" -he permitted the slightest suggestion of a sneer to tint his words-"Mrs. Smith. Or perhaps you know her as Daisy."
"I know Mrs. Smith as a valued client of our bank."
The Viscount's waxen face took on a tinge of yellow. "Of course," he mumbled. "Of course." He dabbed at his neck again, fumbled at his hair, and stared unbelieving at the burned ends that came away in his hand. "I came to call and the"-he wet his lips with a darting tongue--"young lady answered the door. We played at cards while we waited, and she tried to cheat me."
The dark man nodded toward Poppy, who was on her feet and trying to pull the shreds of her tom bodice and chemise together over her bare breasts. "That justifies this?"
The Viscount found a few grains of courage. "I started to shake her, and you won't deny she's a tooth-some piece."
"She's a young girl, and I
know your reputation as a gambler and libertine," the unemotional voice said. "Be grateful I don't care to dirty my hands on you."
"She tried to cut my throat with her scissors, and that young ruffian attempted to brain me with a burning log," the Viscount sputtered.
"We can hardly hope she murdered you, and your head is notoriously thick." The Viscount blustered, ''Look at this room. Look at it. I was assaulted.
"You intended rape."
"She enticed me."
"You are a helpless innocent, seduced by a young girl and beaten by a boy?" the voice mocked. "That is the story you want me to tell?" The Viscount edged toward the door. "Not unless you want the girl's reputation ruined."
"Just a minute." Strange cat's eyes looked around the room and went back to the Viscount. "I was not proposing to tell all London. I had in mind a gentleman we both know in Vienna. Our bank had a note from him, today discussing limits to be put on your account there. Perhaps it would be best if neither of us mention this in any connection."