by M. C. Beaton
He took her to a small, discreet restaurant that supplied private rooms for its customers, and there Poppy battled for her virginity for the first time. Like most of the folks in Cutler’s Fields, her morals were not of the strongest, but she was damned if she would lose her maidenhead to this pawing Highland satyr.
The fact that he almost succeeded in his goal frightened Poppy nearly out of her wits. Although she was normally a sturdy, healthy girl, she had to combat a sudden attack of faintness. She did not know it was engendered by the high-boned collar of her gown—that dreadful fashion that stops the flow of blood to the brain and is responsible for more fainting fits than tight lacing—until he wrenched at the fastenings at the back of her gown. The collar sprang loose, hot blood flowed freely again, and Poppy socked Lord Frank on the nose, which was quite easy to do, since his fat face was only inches from her own, Lord Frank having forced her body back over the table until she could feel the contents of the soup tureen beginning to soak into her dress.
He fell back in surprise, glaring at her wrathfully. “Don’t you know who I am?” he screamed. “I’ll have you ruined! I’ll have you horsewhipped! I’ll—” But whatever else he was about to say was silenced by a smart crack as his starched shirtfront, released from its moorings by all the exertion, flew up like a window blind and smacked him across the face.
The last sound he heard of Poppy Duveen was her robust cockney laughter as she made her escape.
Poppy felt she had learned a useful lesson, but she was reluctant to return so soon to Freddie. She did not, on the other hand, wish to forego her suppers, and so she carried an oilskin bag concealed in her large reticule, into which she would slip goodies for Josie and little Emily.
And so on the next night she again ignored Freddie because the intensity of his courtship was beginning to embarrass her as did the courtship of Alf, the bread delivery boy. She selected a distinguished-looking gentleman with gray hair, not knowing it was as near as she could get to the image of that man with the white hair whose face continued to haunt her dreams.
Her new beau was called Jeremy Bartholomew, and he was quiet and polite and morose. He took her to the Cavendish Hotel and made a great fuss over her in a sort of cold, calculating way, which puzzled Poppy until Mrs. Bartholomew appeared with the pudding and just as flambé. At first Poppy was alarmed and guilty, but then, noticing the smirk of satisfaction on Jeremy Bartholomew’s face, Poppy realized she had been “set up” to act the part of the Other Woman. While the Bartholomews were happily engaged in a marital row of quite stupendous proportions, and obviously enjoying every bit of it, Poppy quietly stacked up her oilskin bag and made her escape.
I shan’t go out with any of ’em again, she thought sadly. ’T’ain’t worth it. I don’t care if all the girls do it. I’ve got used to all them posh places, and it ain’t no fun nohow.
With that she entered her home quietly so as not to wake the sleeping girls… and landed into chaos.
Ma Barker stood in the kitchen, looking in a towering rage, and Emily and Josie sat crouched by the fire, their skinny arms tightly around one another for comfort, while thumps and bumps and groans came from upstairs.
“Wot’s all this?” demanded Poppy, roused like a tigress by the sight of her little sisters’ distress. “Why ain’t the girls in bed, Ma?”
“It’s ’im,” said Ma Barker, pointing to the ceiling with her clay pipe. “Had to tie ’im down. S’awful. ’E broke open yer savings box—I dunno when—and ’e’s bin at the dogs and then the Pig and Crumpet, and it’s all gone.”
“Gawd!” said Poppy in a low voice. “I’ll kill ’im.”
“Better kill the landlord too,” sniffed Ma. “Mr. Rides ’as bin round for the rent. ’E ’asn’t bin paid in six month, and yer out tomorrer if yer can’t find the money.”
Poppy sat down heavily, her face grim. Then she looked at her small sisters and her face softened. “Come here, ducks,” she said gently. “You’ll have some sugarplums, and then Poppy will sing you to sleep.”
“What’ll ’appen to us?” wailed Josie. “Will us go to work’ouse?”
“Not while there’s breath in my body,” swore Poppy. But she was frightened. She had had to borrow her next week’s pay in advance to pay for new dancing shoes, stockings, and greasepaint. No other landlord would take them in without the rent in advance.
Still, she fought down her fears until the little girls had at last fallen asleep, their white faces looking sticky and content, lulled by songs and sweets.
Poppy returned to the kitchen and faced Ma Barker. “Well,” she said grimly, “wot on earth ’ave I got to sell?”
“Nuthin’ but yerself,” said Ma Barker. “Don’t one o’ them fellows want for to marry you?”
“Freddie does,” replied Poppy, her mind racing.
“You’ll ’ave to take ’im,” said Ma Barker. “’Ere now, ducks. You’ve got tears in yer eyes. You ain’t in love with nobody, are ye?”
Poppy squared her shoulders, recalled the image of a handsome face topped with white hair, staring over the crowd as she sang at the fair, and threw it firmly out of her mind.
“No, Ma,” she said. “Freddie it’ll ’ave to be.”
Chapter 3
Mr. Benjamin Lewis was in a towering rage when Miss Poppy Duveen announced that she was leaving the stage to marry the Honorable Freddie Plummett.
“You’re throwing yourself away,” he thundered at the bewildered Poppy, “on a penniless fool.” But Poppy only shook her head in bewilderment. For how could such a well-dressed man who “talked proper,” who had stumped up the rent, who had just bought a new motorcar, be penniless? She refused to listen to the rest of the tirade and therefore missed hearing a lot of useful facts about her husband-to-be. She thought instead of Freddie’s happiness and kindness. At least she had been honest with him, she told herself. She had said fair and square that she only liked him, was not in love with him, and was marrying him to provide a home for Emily and Josie.
Poppy was still quite dazzled by her good fortune. She was sad that the wedding would not take place in church, Freddie hinting at all sorts of angry relatives, especially his uncle, the formidable Duke of Guildham. They were to be married the next day at Chelsea registry office as quietly as possible. Emily and Josie were to be bridesmaids. Pa Barker was to give Poppy away, since she did not trust her father to stand upright for the short ceremony. Freddie had seemed strangely reluctant to supply a best man for himself, saying he had no friends and was a quiet chap who liked to be by himself. Alf, the bread delivery boy, had therefore been pressed into service, muttering dire imprecations.
And so they were married on a blustery March day, with Ma Barker sobbing loudly through the service, which seemed indecently short.
Poppy was not dressed in white, since she considered that regalia only fitting for church and since she could not afford it anyway. She wore instead one of her stage costumes, presented by a much softened Mr. Lewis.
She was Mrs. Freddie Plummett all too quickly. Poppy hugged Emily and Josie and commended them to the care of Ma Barker until she could send for them just as soon as the couple’s week’s honeymoon in Brighton was over.
They drove off in Freddie’s shining new motorcar, Poppy craning her head back to catch a last glimpse of Emily and Josie.
Mrs. Freddie Plummett… she thought wonderingly as she settled back and studied her new husband’s somewhat weak profile. The car was an open one, however, and she soon had to concentrate on holding on to her hat.
She was grateful to Freddie for his easy acceptance of her family at the wedding, for he had been singularly sweet to Josie and Emily. He had paid the rent without question and had given Poppy some money for her trousseau. She was so grateful, in fact, that she did not pause to think it strange that such a young man-about-town should have had no friends to see him off.
As they rolled down the Lewes Road into Brighton, Poppy caught her breath and forgot about anything and everythin
g else as she stared at the panorama spread out in front of her.
Poppy had never seen the sea before. As they approached the town the clouds parted, and yellow, watery sunlight flooded down across the choppy water. “Oh, lumme!” muttered Poppy, clasping her hands tightly in her lap and blinking the sudden rush of tears from her eyes. Her mind began to weave rosy fantasies. Surely they could live here by the sea, she and Freddie. She pictured Josie and Emily, running on the beach, their cheeks plumped out with good food and rosy from the fresh air.
Her wondering eyes took in the Kubla Khan splendor of the Royal Pavilion, the flags snapping in the stiff breeze, the long pier, and the tall hotels.
Freddie rolled to a stop in front of the most imposing one called the Brighton Palace, and Poppy sat very still, suddenly nervous as a liveried porter ran out to fetch their luggage.
Walking just a little pace behind Freddie, as if seeking protection from the shadow of his thin shoulders, Poppy crept nervously into the entrance hall of the hotel and felt they had wandered into Buckingham Palace by mistake.
Her boots sank into the thick carpet. White-and-gold columns soared off into infinity, and somewhere near at hand an orchestra was playing selections from Die Fledermaus.
In that moment, she admired Freddie as never before. With what ease he signed the register with a breezy word for the desk clerk, who looked as grand as a bishop! With what unconcern and bravery did he lead her into the little glass-and-gilt elevator, as if it were an everyday thing to be borne silently heavenward.
Thoroughly intimidated, Poppy stood silently in all the glory of one of the hotel’s best suites while Freddie tossed a coin to the page who had deposited their meager luggage. Only when the servant had gone did she let out her breath in a slow gasp of wonder. She stared in delight at the reproduction Louis XV furniture, at the enormous bowls of hothouse flowers, and at the cheerful fire blazing under the canopy of a marble fireplace.
Freddie led her into the bedroom and pointed to a door at the far side. “That’s the bathroom if you want to freshen up,” he said, stroking the ends of his mustache, his pale blue eyes suddenly nervous. “Thought we might take a stroll.”
“Oooh, yes,” breathed Poppy, seeing nothing strange in this. After all, no girl worth her salt made love in the afternoon, even Poppy knew that.
She pushed open the door of the bathroom and clapped her hands in delight. Imagine having a porcelain bath. Imagine just turning a tap and hot water coming steaming out. No heating up kettles on the fire at the Palace!
With a little sigh of pure happiness Poppy ran an enormous bath and poured in half a jar of rose-scented bath salts—courtesy of the hotel management—took off her clothes, and sank in. After half an hour she was still lying in the bath, her fair skin beginning to take on the appearance of a prune, not knowing that on the other side of the door her husband was going through agonies of embarrassment, envisaging her drowned but not having the courage to call out to her or—God forbid!—open the door.
It was with great relief that Freddie began to hear her move about at last. He fortified himself with several glasses of champagne—also courtesy of the management—and settled himself to wait patiently.
When Poppy at last appeared he suggested they first have a bite of luncheon and then take their stroll.
Two hours later, dazed with food and overlong immersion in a too-hot bath, Poppy dreamily took his arm as they turned through the turnstile and walked along the pier.
How thrilling to see the water sucking and surging so far below! The town was thin of company, but a few mashers turned around to eye “the handsome widow,” for Poppy had changed from her wedding outfit and was dressed from head to foot in black, that being still the only color she could afford at the secondhand-clothes shop.
Freddie began to feel amorous. He knew that his friends and relatives would come down on him like a ton of bricks when they learned of his marriage, but for the moment he did not regret it. He was well and truly in love with Poppy and could not quite believe he had secured the prize. Freddie was no snob himself, but he was sensitive enough to be aware of the snobbery of others, and sometimes the picture of his uncle’s formidable presence rose to haunt him. But at that moment, flushed with food and wine and sea air, he wanted to rush Poppy back to the hotel and into bed.
He pulled tentatively at the ends of his waxed mustache. “I say, Poppy…” he began, when he suddenly heard his name being called and swung around with a feeling of trepidation. Then his face cleared. It was only Boodles Hunter and his friend Sniffy Vere-Smythe.
“Wot yer doin’ ’ere, old cock?” cried Sniffy, who prided himself on his mock cockney.
“Just taking the air,” said Freddie, smiling. Two pairs of masculine eyes bored into Poppy’s, and then turned their inquiring gaze upon Freddie.
“I say, old man,” said Sniffy plaintively, “what about an introduction?”
Freddie hesitated a fraction, and then presented Poppy. “My wife, Mrs. Plummett,” he said.
“Blimey!” said Sniffy. “Cor stone the crows.”
“’S right,” said Poppy cheerfully. “We’ve bin and tied the knot terday.”
“I say, you do that awfully well,” said Sniffy in surprise. “That cockney accent.”
Poppy became aware for the first time that Sniffy had been putting it on, and she blushed red. Sniffy was a mild, vacuous young man and his friend Boodles was squat and square with a face that looked as if it had been carved out of mahogany and just as mobile.
“Pity you’re tied up,” said Boodles gruffly. “Splendid game lined up. Baccarat,” he added, his voice dropping to a whisper.
Love fled from Freddie’s soul to be replaced by a hectic gambling fever.
“I say,” said Sniffy hurriedly with a sympathetic look at Poppy, “newlyweds and all that. I mean to say…”
“Oh, Poppy don’t mind,” said Freddie breezily. “Little woman will want to take a nap, eh!”
Poppy, who was beginning to feel sleepy with food and fresh air, gladly agreed to return to the hotel.
Freddie eagerly began to question Boodles about the game, and Sniffy fell in step with Poppy.
“Feel guilty, Mrs. Plummett,” he said awkwardly. “Don’t feel old Freddie should leave you.”
“I don’t mind,” said Poppy cheerfully, although she made an effort to modify her cockney accent. “It’s all right, reelly. Does Freddie play cards much?”
“Oh, no!” lied Sniffy quickly. “Only from time to time.”
That afternoon, Poppy slept heavily and did not awaken until the light was fading over the sea. She scrambled hurriedly from bed and dressed quickly, and then went into the sitting room. No Freddie.
She bit her lip, suddenly feeling small and gauche surrounded by all the lonely magnificence of the Brighton Palace. The hotel was very quiet.
Poppy drew up a chair to the window and stared out at the sea until she could see it no longer as night fell.
As the evening wore on and there was no sign of Freddie, Poppy began to become angry. Certainly she had made no bones about her reason for marrying him, but he ought to at least have spent the first day with her to keep up appearances. And he had professed to be head over heels in love with her.
She was just about to call it a day and go to bed when the door opened and her husband sidled in. He looked shamefaced and nervous, and Poppy’s angry words died on her lips. Did she not herself feel nervous at the thought of consummating this strange marriage?
“You’re late,” she said mildly.
“Sorry, darling,” said Freddie with a weak smile and a pathetic attempt at his old jaunty air. “Not used to being married, you know. Shall we go to bed?”
“Yes,” said Poppy, blushing. “Give me a little time ter change.”
After a quarter of an hour Poppy sat up nervously in bed in a severe white linen nightgown—courtesy of the secondhand shop and thrown in free since she was a good customer—and called to her husband.
“What’s that on your face?” cried Poppy.
“A mustache binder,” mumbled Freddie, standing on one foot and then the other.
“Oh, take it off,” said Poppy, laughing, made bold by his timidity. “I mean ter say, ’ow can I kiss you?”
“Oh, yes, that,” muttered Freddie, but he removed the mustache binder and put it on the bedside table and climbed into bed.
“Aren’t you going to put out the light?” asked Poppy nervously.
“Oh, drat.” Freddie climbed from the bed, turned down the gas, and scuttled across the floor and climbed in again, where he lay rigid as a board, flat on his back.
Well, one of us’ll have to do something, thought Poppy. She leaned over on her side and put her arms around him, feeling for the first time how thin and almost adolescent his body was.
Freddie began to kiss her feverishly, and Poppy kissed him back as enthusiastically as she could, although his mustache tickled and one of his toenails, which needed cutting, was scratching against her bare leg. After this had been going on for quite some time and Poppy was beginning to feel heartily tired of it all, Freddie found courage to unfasten the front of her nightgown. He seized one of her breasts and began to knead it furiously, which enticed not one hormone in poor Poppy’s tired body. She was just about to complain when, with a glad cry, he threw back the restraining bedclothes, hitched up her nightdress, and covered her voluptuous body with his skinny one.
Nothing happened.
Poppy, lying with her nightgown over her face, knew that something was wrong. Ma Barker’s premarital talk rang in her ears: “Sometimes, there’s some o’ them can’t get it up at furst. ’Ave to be kind, that’s wot.”