Summers, True

by Poppy

  The women, their white caps bobbing like the heads of pecking hens closing in to kill a sick member, pressed a half circle on each side. In front of her, the priest elevated his crucifix and began to intone some garbled Latin.

  She had to get out of here. The man's voice was rising with each word, hysterically shrill, and she thought she saw a thin line of froth on his lips. The mutter of the women was deepening into an ominous growl as their white caps bobbed closer and closer around her until she could smell the stale odors of their clothes. When they touched her, violence would flare,

  Only the priest barred her way to the open space leading to the street. With a rush, she ran toward him and pushed past. As she did, he lurched on his unsure footing, tripped on the rough cobbles, and went down. His head hit the stone with the sound of a ripe melon breaking open. The women howled and closed Mound him.

  Poppy ran. She threw away the cabbage, gathered up her skirts, and raced down the streets to their rooms over the beach. She tumbled up the steep, dark stairs and burst into the sitting room, panting. Andy and Jack were seated on the bench in front of the fire, home early.

  "No luck this morning," Jack said. In the poorly lit room, he did not notice her white, terrified face. "The fish moved farther out. We may go out on the evening tide and stay the night."

  Andy piped up. "We're hungry, and you haven't even started to cook."

  "Please," Poppy gasped and stopped to catch her breath, still rasping from the run. "Please. I went to the market."

  Jack stared at her face and asked sharply, "What is it? What happened?"

  "I went to the market," Poppy repeated, still too shocked to put the reality into words. She held out her shaking hands. "I went, and they've been selling us cat. For rabbit."

  Andy gagged. "They haven't!"

  "That wouldn't make you look like this," Jack said. "What happened?"

  "They laughed, and the priest came."

  "I've seen him. Not at all the usual type of man to be attached to a religious community."

  ''The women were with him and the big boys and girls," Poppy said with difficulty. "A mob, a mob."

  "Why?"

  "He held up his crucifix, and he was doing something with it."

  "Probably an incantation against evil. He had an odd, fanatic look."

  "I wanted to get away. They had me surrounded. I pushed him. He fell." Poppy covered her face with her shaking hands and whispered, "His head cracked on the cobblestones. A terrible crack. A horrible sound."

  "Then you may have killed him," Jack said calmly. "If you did, we have minutes to get out of here." He suddenly sounded like the Navy officer he was, his voice commanding. "I will leave and appear to be going back to the basin. Andy, you go to the fountain in the lower square as if you were looking for some playmate."

  "I don't have any."

  "Go to the fountain," Jack ordered. "Not hurrying. But go. Take your jacket and cap. Poppy, you go out on the beach and along it as if you were going to the tide pools directly below the square with the fountain."

  "We know," Andy piped.

  "Take your shawl. Go up among those high rocks at the end of the beach. I've got the money, and I'll meet you both there as soon as I can, without being seen."

  "Are we going to stay up there and throw down rocks on anybody who tries to get Poppy?" Andy cried.

  "We're going to meet there and then wade around the headland. It's rocky but shallow. There's more rocky beach on the other side that we can follow until we're well out of sight and can climb up the cliff. I'm sure there are enough shrubs growing on the side so we can make it to the road above the shore. Then we run for our lives."

  "Where does the road lead?" Poppy questioned, shocked.

  "Don't argue. Let's get that far first. Out. Out. Both of you. As fast as you can without attracting attention."

  Chapter Eleven

  THE small roadside inn, perched on a point of rocks CI high over the sea, was only half a dozen miles from Les Sables d'Olonne, but it seemed a different world. Designed to accommodate travelers along the coastal highway, it was provincial only in its carefully calculated appearance. Alone in the dining room with windows looking out over the water, waiting for Jack and Andy to rejoin her, Poppy stood in front of the fire and tore at her hated, dingy peasant dress. She turned back the long sleeves, making cuffs to show her pretty wrists. She unbuttoned the high, tight neck and tucked it under in a more flattering neckline. Lifting her skirt, she ruthlessly tore off the ruflle of her petticoat and arranged it in the neck to make a dainty white edging. She curled her hair around her finger until it formed long ringlets on each side of her face. She still felt miserably shabby and drab, but she had done what she could.

  Then she looked around uneasily. They had not been followed. She was certain of that. Nobody was going to jump out at her and scream, "Murderess." Yet her skin prickled a warning she was being watched.

  A board creaked somewhere, and she whirled. There, that inconspicuous door in the corner was open the barest crack. She ran, flung it open, and saw the back of a heavily built man in a handsome traveling coat hurrying down a short hall. As he turned the corner at the end, he glanced back furtively, and she caught a fleeting glimpse of a sallow-skinned face, with dark darting eyes and a short, slightly hooked nose.

  She fell back, chilled. It was a birdlike face. For a moment, the remembered fear of those bobbing white hats like pecking hens closing around her started a scream welling in her throat. Then she caught at her courage. The man had the face of an aristocrat, and if it looked familiar, it was probably only a type she recognized. The same thing had happened the first time she saw Jack.

  As if the thought had summoned him, he walked into the room, acting completely the English lord for all his salt-stained, shabby clothes. The proprietor followed, gesturing, bowing, and assuring him that he understood how much the English enjoyed these long walking tours en famille. Food would be on the table as soon as the young gentleman finished soaking his sprained wrist in hot water. And a picnic basket was being prepared to take with them, though surely they would be in St. Gilles by dinner time.

  Jack motioned her to a chair at a table by 'a window and sat down opposite. "Thank goodness it was his wrist, not an ankle. Madame will bandage it, and we can leave as soon as we eat."

  "For St. Gilles?"

  "Of course not. I only said that so if they trace us here, they'll look for us there. That's a port, and the coast is too dangerous. As you know, the fishing fraternity communicates swiftly."

  "Then where will we go?"

  "We're walking straight overland to Nantes. I don't know whether the rails have reached there yet, but if they haven't, we'll have a choice between a river boat or a barge and a public coach."

  "How far?"

  "Half the distance it would be if we followed the coast."

  "How far?"

  "I wish we had a map, but I've a fair memory for such things. I'd guess not over fifty miles. It's flat, low country and easy walking. We'll try to stay out of sight, and we may have to sleep in haystacks for a couple of nights. This isn't Cornwall with its daily rains."

  "Today, tomorrow, and two nights at least," Poppy estimated. "After Nantes, what?"

  "Paris."

  "Paris is expensive."

  "Paris is our only possible chance of money now. Dexter Roack, Or his bank."

  "Oh, no."

  "Oh, yes. After all, I'm the one he's chasing, and I'm willing. Shh. Here's Andy, and there's our food. Don't argue in front of the boy. He's too excited now."

  Jack was right. First they must get out of this country of primitive, hate-filled people. Then they could argue destinations.

  Andy bolted his food, wild to get on with this adventure. They left the inn and told him they were going to walk inconspicuously, not hiding in a way that would cause suspicion but keeping out of sight as much as possible. They would use paths instead of roads, walking at night as long as they could see by moonlight,
sleeping out in fields. Andy whooped and danced. This was like playing Robin Hood, but it was real.

  Poppy was grateful for her good brown walking boots. Jack had saved the compass from his boat, and he set a sure, straight line across the fertile countryside. At this time of year, the harvest was finished, so only rarely was anyone in the fields to see them pass. Barking dogs ran out at them from farmyards but did not pursue them. The towns were small and easy to avoid. Poppy concentrated on holding the steady pace Jack set, which was to walk an hour and rest, walk another hour and rest; she was lost in the sheer monotony of the movement and the flat land around them. The nizht was eerily quiet, but they found a haystack in an isolated field and slept soundly. They were on their way again before the first pink streaks of dawn showed in the sky. The next day was cold and gray but it did not snow as they had feared, and again they found a hay-stack for shelter.

  By the time they reached the outskirts of Nantes, Poppy was miserably aware of the bedraggled appearance they presented. The white ruffle on her dress had long since been discarded. Their clothes were soggy and their boots mud-caked. All the better, Jack assured her coolly, as now they could pass for a family of poor English fishing folk come to attend the funeral of a French maternal grandmother in the hopes of an inheritance.

  "Sailors have a new story for every port, a different one for each girl," he explained, smiling.

  "I do not think our next port should be Paris," Poppy said.

  "You're not giving up to Dexter Roack?" Andy guessed. "Oh, you can't, Jack, when you want to be a captain."

  "Let me worry about that. The important thing is that this is a Catholic country."

  Andy's eyes grew very round and blue. "So a priest is twice as important as a person? And they have the guillotine?"

  "You're putting it too high, but Poppy does need the most powerful friends she can find. And the bank is the most powerful one I know. As we are now, I don't even dare inquire how badly the priest was hurt."

  Poppy's head drooped. "I suppose a river barge is the cheapest way," she surrendered.

  "Especially if Andy and I work." Jack's face lit up. "A long, slow trip but we're in no hurry. And beautiful. First the river and then the canals."

  He found a room in a cheap inn by the river and left Poppy there while he and Andy went off to inquire along the wharfs. She ordered pitchers of hot water, though she knew such extravagant madness would be noticed, and scrubbed herself from head to toe. The water was black when she was through, but her hair was still dull and gummy, and her legs were gray streaked. She dared not order more water. She promised herself that when she reached Paris she would have endless baths to scrub and soak in, again and again.

  She was smiling at the thought as she opened the door to Andy and Jack. They came tumbling into the room, their faces set and white.

  "Poppy, Poppy," Andy cried and flung his arms around her, weeping.

  "Stop that," Jack ordered. "Poppy, go downstairs and get in the closed carriage that's waiting. Go wherever the man takes you. Eventually we'll meet you somewhere."

  "Eventually? Where? What is this?"

  "Oh, Poppy, you killed him, and they know we're in Nantes," Andy wailed.

  "No," Jack said in a thunderous whisper. "Be quiet, Andy. It's not that bad. We don't know you killed him, but I think the police are looking for us."

  "Oh, no!" she said, covering her face with her hands.

  "Fortunately sailors learn to watch out for weather signs in strange ports," Jack said grimly. "I saw a gendarme following us and looking as if he were comparing our faces to a mental description."

  "Only you weren't with us, and he must have been looking for three together," Andy said tremulously.

  "I went straight to the bank's representative here," Jack said. "I told him I thought the police had orders to arrest you on sight. So nobody must get that sight. I told him you had to be got to Paris secretly and as fast as possible. He's waiting."

  "This is the bank's man? In the carriage?"

  "Yes. I told you they had an excellent communication service. He'll get you away from here and to wherever he decides is safest. We hadn't time to arrange that, but he'll get word to me."

  "How did you arrange this much?"

  Jack lifted one eyebrow in an ironic grimace. "I am a Westmoreland. Now will you please hurry, but discreetly? I think you should try to give the appearance of a lady on her way to a rendezvous with the gentleman in the closed carriage. For the benefit of Madame the Proprietress. A bientot." He kissed her lightly as he opened the door.

  Chapter Twelve

  Once in the carriage, Poppy again began to feel like a parcel in process of shipment, allowing herself to be forwarded docilely from place to place. At first, she did not even know her destination.

  When she was told, she did not know why the bank, which she was beginning to think was an all-knowing, all-powerful octopus with tentacles stretching all over the world, decided she should go to Paris instead of being sent back to England. She thought the bank must use every means of communication: carrier pigeons, couriers, telegrams, private and public mails-and pure magic. Anonymous gentlemen, all serious, aloof, and silent, whisked her from one place to another, and she was always expected at each new place. A room would be ready at an inn and a meal prepared and served.

  On the second morning, a portmanteau of clothes was delivered with her breakfast chocolate and rolls. She unpacked a brush and hairpins, flannel nightgown, stockings, gloves, two scarves, a tight bonnet that almost concealed her bright hair, and a shawl to replace her stained, tattered one. She could have wept with surprise and gratitude. She would still be shabby and in need of a complete change of clothing, but at least she need not cringe every time she caught sight of herself in a mirror. Without time and a dressmaker, she could not have done better for herself. Two days later she was told, by her gentleman escort of the day, she would be put on the train to Paris that night and met when she arrived.

  When the train pulled into Paris in the morning, another anonymous gentleman plucked her out of the crowd and into a carriage. They drove into an area she remembered vaguely as a discreetly fashionable quarter, although not one where the wealthy and titled lived. The gentleman escorted her up to a suite of rooms and left as the door opened.

  A small, gray-haired woman in a maid's uniform and cap took Poppy's shawl and bonnet and said, unsmiling, "I am Delphine. I have a small meal ready. Or would you prefer to bathe first?"

  "A bath, please." During all those weary, jolting, traveling days and nights, there had never been enough time or water to wash completely. She had simply averted her eyes from the gray streaks on her legs and arms and hastily covered them with clothing. "Then perhaps I could have a tray in the bedroom?"

  "Certainly."

  The rugs were thick, and the furniture more delicately elegant, satin and gilt and curved polished wood, than any she was accustomed to in England. Delphine quickly filled the hip bath with steaming water. Poppy pulled off the hated black blouse and skirt, dropped them on the floor, and tossed her dingy undergarments on top of them.

  Delphine picked them up with two fingers and held them at arm's length. "I have a night shift, dressing gown, and slippers for you. You have no further use for these?"

  Poppy stopped, half in and half out of the water. "I must go shopping," she protested, alarmed.

  "Certainly. I believe that is arranged for tomorrow. Today you rest." Delphine made an irritated sound, as if dealing with an unreasonable child, removed the clothes, and returned carrying a plain street costume of thin blue wool. "I also have this. Will cleaning the shoes be satisfactory? Your feet are so small."

  "Clean them, if there's anything left under the mud."

  "They were good boots," Delphine said. "I think these things will have to do until you can procure something more suitable tomorrow."

  Poppy ducked under the water and shivered with pleasure as she straightened and reached for the soap. She looked at the b
lue dress doubtfully as she soaped a sponge. "It looks rather large."

  Delphine almost smiled as she pinched the material at the shoulder and waist and glanced from the dress to Poppy and back. "I can take a few tucks while you rest. Some gentlemen simply do not have the eye for estimates. Then tomorrow, something more suitable."

  "More fitting," Poppy corrected, laughing, and attacked one filthy foot and leg vigorously. "I'll need more water for my hair."

  "Rest, and another bath later. One will never remove that dirt," Delphine agreed. "A gentleman will be calling, but not until nine tonight."

  The food was light but delicious. Poppy had not tasted any like it since she had been in Paris with Daisy. She slept well in the softest, widest bed she had ever occupied. She got up only to bathe, eat again, then rest on a chaise longue in front of the bedroom fire and leaf through a fashion magazine. She supposed this evening's anonymous gentleman would tell her what she was to do next, but she could not fret over it. She had met too many anonymous gentlemen, all uniformly pleasant, courteous, and dull, and they had conspired only to bring her to this charming and luxurious apartment. The next one could intend her no harm. She had heard of girls enticed into brothels, but she was serenely sure the bank had no such dealings.