Summers, True

by Poppy

  "And courtesies between rivals who sometimes need each other's good will."

  Poppy nodded. This confirmed what Dex had told her.

  "That again is beside the point," Mr. Wilton said. "Your appearance at this dinner would be a most propitious signal of your return to the city. And to your husband if that is what you wish."

  Poppy understood. Mr. Wilton thought it wise for her to appear with Jeremiah in public where he would be forced to treat her graciously. Then later he would not dare reject her on some pretext.

  Phillipa, uninterested in either business or innuendos, had been wriggling with impatience. Now she burst out, "People will expect you to wear a grand gown, something splendid Have you had anything new since you married?" She clapped both hands over her mouth and looked at Poppy with contrite eyes before she cried, "Oh, darlin," I said nothing to the other ladies, only to Mr. Wilton, but I couldn't help noticing you never put your hand in your pocket like everybody else."

  Mr. Wilton said, "Phillipa is to have her own money and no accounting asked. A man should do no less for his wife."

  There was another reason he did not like Jeremiah, Poppy realized. "The dress I wore to the theater is handsome."

  "People will remember it," Phillipa said impatiently and turned to Mr. Wilton. "You recollect the blue, the one you said was too heavy and fussy, that you didn't like? The one I selected for myself?"

  "A handsome dress, but a trifle matronly for a bride," Mr. Wilton said and consulted his watch. "The dinner begins in less than an hour, hardly time to go home, greet your husband, and change your apparel. You could appear in good time if you would permit Phillipa "to dress you here. The gown will become you mightily, and I will never permit her to wear it. At least not when I am her escort."

  "Which means never," Phillipa cried, clasping her hands. "Oh, Poppy, please do. It is a handsome gown, and it would be a pity to waste it."

  "Most suitable for a young matron joining her husband at an important affair," Mr. Wilton approved and stood up. "I suggest you ladies go to Phillipa's rooms now. I'll send the luggage up to you, and I'll have a carriage waiting when you are ready."

  He was again advising and guiding her strongly. He was right. If she confronted Jeremiah first in public, before his admirers and supporters, he must receive her warmly or make a degrading scene from which his reputation would never recover. If tears had not been a luxury she could not afford, Poppy could have wept in gratitude. They were making everything unbelievably easy for her.

  While she pulled off her suit and washed, Phillipa produced the dress. Of dark blue taffeta, the skirt was all ruffles curled back to show the lighter blue linings, like the petals of a half-open rose. The bodice was heavily beaded in the same light silvery blue. Even holding it up to show, the heavy materials and colors almost wiped out PhilIipa's delicate beauty.

  "It's not for you," Poppy agreed. "But I must pay you for it." Then as Phillipa's lips quivered, she said, "We'll settle that another time."

  PhiIlipa cried, "Oh, it's so good to have you back. Can you wear the matching slippers? You feet are smaller, but these tie around the ankles."

  Poppy brushed her hair into a high coronet held by the jeweled Chinese pins. With those, the gold necklace, the jade earrings and pale blue gloves, she knew she would decorate any banquet table handsomely. Then for her entrance, she put on the mandarin robe glittering in all its barbaric beauty. What Jeremiah would do when she appeared, a regal shining figure, she did not know, but he was adroit at seizing his public opportunities.

  "You're enough to win him the nomination all by yourself," Phillipa said naively. "They got up this big dinner, you know, because there's been so much criticism and public feeling."

  "Public feeling? Because I haven't been at his side?"

  ''That wouldn't have made Mr. Wilton vow he would fight him to his last breath."

  "Then why is Mr. Wilton being so good to me?"

  "You are our friend," Phillipa said. "No, it was the shooting." Then she clapped her hands over her mouth again. "Db, you didn't know that, either. I think I shouldn't have told yon."

  "What shooting?" Poppy said tightly.

  ''The editor, Amberson, the one who was always writing such editorials about Mr. Dunbar."

  "Jeremiah shot him?"

  "Met him on the street and dared him to fight."

  "Not for the first time," Poppy remembered. "And Amberson did?"

  "That's what was so terrible," Phillipa confided. ''Mr. Amberson always said political differences could not be settled by guns. Only there he was with one in his hand. People say," Phillipa's voice sank to a whisper, "somebody shoved it into his hand, and the minute he saw it there, Mr. Dunbar shot. They had it all planned."

  Poppy sank into a chair. "I can't go through with it. I don't care. It doesn't matter. I can't be married to a man like that."

  "But you've got to go, Mr. Wilton thinks you should," Phillipa wailed. "He wouldn't have said about the dress and the carriage and everything if he hadn't thought you should go. It isn't as if Mr. Amberson was killed dead."

  "Just killed?"

  "Not killed at all. Just shot a little so his paper only missed a couple of issues. He's writing it right there Poppy from his bed in the print shop. Only I think he must be out of bed by now."

  Poppy stood up slowly. She felt incredibly old and tired. "Then since my husband only planned a murder and did not succeed, perhaps I should join him." In a terrible way, she thought, they were two of a kind. She, too, had shot and had been fortunate she had not killed. "No, I'm all right, Phillipa, dear. You'll hear from me tomorrow."

  All during the ride to the hall where the dinner was being held, Poppy thought it was as well she was too numbed with shock to feel anything strongly. She could only walk in, making her glittering appearance, head high, and wait to see what happened. Jeremiah would do whatever he considered of benefit to himself. She doubted he would point a finger at her and publicly label her a Jezebel. That would reflect on him too badly. More likely, as Mr. Wilton confidently expected -and Mr. Wilton was a shrewd man-whatever Jeremiah felt, he would force himself to welcome her back as his beautiful helpmate providentially returned for a gratifying and important occasion.

  She walked into the building and stood for a moment by the great double doors, looking in without being seen. The hall was brilliantly lit and gaudily decorated in red and white, with streamers hanging from the ceiling and banners draped around the walls proclaiming "Dunbar, Duty, Democracy"; "Dunbar for Order"; and "Dunbar, Devotion, Decision." The air was thick with cigar smoke, heavy perfumes, and the stench from the flaring lights, so the bowls of red and white roses on the great horseshoe-shaped table were already drooping. Jeremiah was seated on a raised dais in the center of the horseshoe. Behind him, a band was playing deafeningly loud. Obviously dancing was intended later, for the vacant center floor was highly waxed.

  Peering through the smoky haze, trying to hear above the thumping of the band and the clamor of voices, Poppy was tempted for a moment to turn and flee. She could see the men, some black-suited, some in brilliant dress uniforms, and the ladies with jewels shining in their hair, but she could recognize nobody. Then a waiter saw her hovering and bustled forward officiously.

  "Have you a ticket, miss?"

  "I'll sit beside my husband," Poppy said clearly and swept into the hall.

  She paused deliberately in front of the doors, a glittering regal figure, while every head in the room seemed to turn toward her. She fancied the music faltered for a moment. On the dais, Jeremiah rose to his feet, leaning forward tensely, supported by his hands on the table, staring through the smoke-filled air. Poppy swept around the side of the room, walking toward him, and now she recognized faces from her wedding reception. She smiled and nodded to them. She noticed a number of the men were there without their wives. Perhaps her absence, though smoothly explained, had hurt him. She walked steadily forward until she faced Jeremiah and looked at him with steady, level ey
es.

  "Have you saved no seat for me?" she asked in a clear, carrying voice.

  "My dear wife," Jeremiah whispered. "My dear wife. How did you get here?"

  Again she had knocked the breath out of him, Poppy thought grimly. "You did not think I would miss your great occasion? I only regret my coach was so delayed I had time only to change on the way and come directly here."

  Jeremiah straightened, and color flooded back into his face. She had reminded him that this was his great occasion and she was his wife, come to do him public honor. "My dear," he cried strongly, "my very dear. I had given up hope you would feel you could come. Everybody, move down. Make a place for my wife."

  Plates were pushed aside, and chairs shoved rogether to leave a space beside Jeremiah. A waiter brought another chair, placed it, and Poppy sank into it gracefully and smiled around.

  "What a happy and handsome company you have here. I am well returned, indeed."

  ''Indeed,'' Jeremiah said, his voice sinking to a menacing growl for a breath before he smiled widely under eyes that regarded her with stony coldness. "Are you sure your health will stand this strain?"

  Poppy turned her head and smiled again all around the room. She could not meet his look because she was suddenly cold with fear. In public, she was Jeremiah's dear wife. In private, she did wonder what her health would be. That had been a threat, and Jeremiah had meant her to understand it as such. Remembering the way he had torn her wedding dress to shreds, she knew he was capable of anything once they were alone. It would be, she thought, chilling even while she picked up a fork and pushed the food around her plate, something as deadly and as unprovable as the attack on Amberson.

  "You are a brave woman to make ,this great effort, Mrs. Dunbar," the man on her other side said.

  "My health is excellent, never better," Poppy said loudly.

  "You are right, she is a brave little woman," Jeremiah said, catching her hand and crushing it in his. "You are here, my dear, that is enough. Do not strain yourself with the effort of talking."

  "I will be listening to your speech," Poppy said, widening her eyes, and made one more effort to protect herself. "Mr. Wilton will be interested to have me report to him tomorrow what you have said."

  "Why should Mr. Wilton be interested?"

  "Because I have been much with his sister-in-law these last months."

  Jeremiah's eyes were contemptuous and hate-filled above smiling lips. "I know the company you keep, dear lady. Now please give the appearance at least of enjoying this food."

  Chapter Forty-six

  POPPY went on smiling, but she felt her face go white. Jeremiah intended to punish her, every day and every hour. In public, appearances would be maintained. In private, her life would be a hell of brutality.

  "Mr. Wilton is not here tonight," the man on her other side observed.

  He was somebody from Sacramento, but she could not remember his name. She tried to shore up the frail timbers of the Wilton protection around her. "He is much preoccupied with his approaching marriage. Phillipa has been insistent that I return to town for it."

  "But he did not accompany you?" Jeremiah sneered.

  "Since there is so much shooting in the streets, as usual he was kind enough to loan me his carriage," Poppy said.

  She had angered Jeremiah afresh. Now he was white, and his lips were a thin line of barely controlled rage. She would pay for that remark when they were alone.

  On her other side, the man whispered into her ear, "Is Wilton withholding his support because of that affair? He and who else? Many others?"

  Poppy saw the red flicker deep in Jeremiah's eyes. He had heard. "I have been out of town," she excused unsteadily.

  "Then it will reflect," the man said sharply. Just then there was a stir by the big double doors.

  They swung open, and the loud hum of conversation in the room died down to a shocked silence as Amberson strode into the center of the empty, shining floor.

  He was carefully dressed in a light gray suit with the coat slung over his shoulders. His right arm was in a sling, but a gun dangled from his left hand.

  Beside her, the man from Sacramento pulled away whispering, "Under the table. He's a lefty. Last time the gun was in his right hand, and Dunbar never could explain that."

  "So these are the people who think you worthy of public office," Amberson said, standing erect and quiet and letting his gaze turn slowly all around the horseshoe-shaped table. "I disagree. Bring up your gun, Dunbar. I'll give you the chance you didn't give me, a fair exchange of shots."

  "I'm not armed. I don't carry a gun. Guards! Remove this man!"

  Nobody stirred as Amberson stood waiting, his gun still hanging by his side. "Shall I give you a count?" he asked.

  "I have no gun," Jeremiah shouted. "This is a respectable dinner, and you are disturbing the ladies. Please leave."

  "I'll be happy to accompany you outside," Amberson offered.

  "I have no gun. I won't shoot."

  "You won't force me to appear the murderer here."

  The company around the table stirred, and a sharp buzz of conversation rippled over the room. Poppy sensed somebody had moved close behind her, but she dared not turn to look. She could not look away from Amberson's slender figure, his brilliant eyes shining in his haggard face.

  "You corrupt everything you touch, Dunbar. I see your fine mottos, but I am doing less than my duty as a citizen of this democracy if I do not protest openly and demonstrate by every means in my power that you are unfit for public office."

  "If it's a debate you want," Jeremiah said, his voice loud with relief.

  "You forced this manner of debate on me. Now you are demonstrating you are a coward." Amberson broke off, his feverish gaze shifting past and above Jeremiah's head to somebody behind him.

  "Now you mustn't say that about our brave Fire Captain," a voice drawled. A black-coated arm came over the table and laid a gun at Jeremiah's hand. "She's all cocked and set to go, Cap'n."

  Jeremiah stared down at the gun as at a deadly reptile. Then with a convulsive backward jump, he overturned his chair and started to his feet, hands outflung to avoid touching the gun. But Amberson was slowly raising his, pointing it with lethal steadiness straight at the white shirt front.

  "Shall I give you a count, or do you want to check the loading?" he asked evenly.

  Jeremiah made a strangled sound deep in his throat, and his hand darted toward the gun, clutching it and shooting even as he raised it. Amberson's shot followed seconds later, and Jeremiah reeled back, his face dissolving in a blur of red, spattering blood.

  "You know where to find me," Amberson said, then turned and walked out of the hall.

  The black-coated arm jerked Poppy away and turned her face against his shoulder. "Don't look, Miss Poppy," said a voice she remembered from the Palace. It was Pete, the bartender. "Come on. Let me get you out of here."

  "I –I– "

  "There's nothing you can do," Pete insisted, still urging her along the wall of the building away from the huddle of bodies surrounding the heap on the Boor. Then he said anxiously, pulling back enough to look down into her face, "You hate me to touch you, Miss Poppy, because I handed over that gun?"

  "Why should I?" Poppy whispered through the long shudders that were shaking her from head to toe.

  "I figured Amberson got dealt from a crooked deck last time, and he was entitled to a fair shootout," Pete said simply. "He's a good man, and he deserved it."

  "Just get me a carriage," Poppy whispered.

  "I'll see you to your boardinghouse."

  The days that followed would never come clear in Poppy's mind. She had a mental picture of Mrs. Stander hurrying into the hall as if to bar and hold her there, and then her shocked gray face when the waiter explained the situation. She knew she stumbled up to the rooms of her wretched memories, and little Mary appeared to light the lamps and fire. She knew the next day she managed to talk:

  to officials and lawmen and no
d assent to something referred to as arrangements. She knew proper mourning clothes appeared from somewhere. She managed to get into them, ride alone in a carriage to the church, and then in the mile-long funeral procession to the cemetery. She knew she went back alone to the rooms, and time passed, and she saw nobody but Mary. Somehow she learned, perhaps Mary told her, perhaps she read a paper, that a hearing was held, and Amberson was released with a mild reprimand. Jeremiah dead had no supporters who felt strongly enough to come forward and demand vengeance.

  Then Mrs. Stander was before her, hands folded at her waist. She said something about the rooms.

  "Move?" Poppy said dazedly.

  "I'm not running a hotel with fancy service, ma'am, and you've not been down to a meal in ten days. This is a boardinghouse, and I need these rooms for boarders. I've a long waiting list."