by M. C. Beaton
But when Freddie at last flung his long, thin legs over the edge of the bed and sat staring into space, Poppy could not understand why he did not say anything. He merely sat there, his face expressionless, gazing in front of him.
In Cutler’s Fields if you were happy, you laughed, if you were sad, you cried, if you were angry, you ranted and raved or struck out. But Poppy could only guess that Freddie’s code of manners was different. It was only later that she learned that in Freddie’s world it was considered vulgar to give way to emotion.
Poppy, however, with age-old instinct and generosity, felt she should make the first move. “I’m so frightened and nervous,” she said quietly, stroking Freddie’s thin back, “that I’m enough to put any man off. It’s all my fault. Don’t worry about it, Freddie dear.”
Then Freddie turned around and looked at her, his weak eyes alight with love and gratitude. “Oh, you’re a trump, Poppy,” he murmured, taking her in his arms and laying his head against her breasts. “You’re too good for me. The thing is, Poppy, it’s not just us. It’s—it’s something else terrible that’s worrying me.”
“Tell us, there’s a love,” murmured Poppy, cradling his head in her breasts and rocking him gently as she was accustomed to rock away the fears of Josie and Emily.
“I’ve—I’ve lost all the money,” said Freddie in a low voice. “I’m stuck, old girl. I can’t pay the hotel bill.”
Poppy continued to rock him, although her heart seemed to stand still. She had thought of Freddie as a tower of strength—he who could treat headwaiters so casually.
She did not have Freddie’s rigid code of manners, but she did have the indomitable spirit of a certain type of East End Londoner, and also a boundless compassion for the frailties of fellow human beings. A picture of a tall, imposing man with white hair flashed for a moment across her inner vision: a man to take care of a woman, a man who would not lose all his money on his wedding night.…” She thrust the image ruthlessly away.
“Now, then, Freddie dear,” she said gently. “Wot did you do before? It’s ’appened—happened—before, ’asn’t—hasn’t it?”
“Yes,” mumbled Freddie. “But dash it all, I wasn’t married.”
“Go on,” said Poppy gently.
“Well,” said Freddie. “I just sort of walked out without my luggage… sort of.”
“And didn’t they take you to court?”
“No… er… my uncle sort of sorted things—doesn’t like stains on the family escutcheon, and all that.”
Poppy mentally bade farewell to her meager trousseau.
“We’ll do that, duckie,” she said, cuddling him. “Now go to sleep.”
And Freddie did, as easily and consciencelessly as a small child, while Poppy lay staring into the darkness and fighting off the wave of sadness and loneliness that threatened to engulf her.
No longer did Emily and Josie run along the golden sands of her mind. As a pale dawn light filtered into the overly ornate bedroom, Poppy began to wonder if she had made a serious mistake in leaving the stage.
A vision of the squalor of Cutler’s Fields flashed across her mind, and she found to her surprise that she was heartily wishing herself back there.
Freddie was blithe and refreshed by morning. No qualm of conscience seemed to smite him as he walked calmly out, whistling, with Poppy on his arm.
“Fine day for a stroll, sir,” said the desk clerk, smiling, and Freddie waved his cane by way of salute and said he hoped there were shrimps on the menu for luncheon. Then as if suddenly thinking of it, he turned to Poppy. “You know what, darling,” he said. “I think we might take a spin along the cliffs. Here, fellow, see that my car is brought round.”
To Poppy, their wait on the marble steps of the Brighton Palace seemed to go on for hours and hours, although it was, in fact, a matter of minutes.
She kept expecting to hear a harsh voice crying out, “Pay your bill now, sir!” But soon enough the car was there, and Freddie took the wheel. After a few dreadful coughs and jerks the motorcar started, and soon the hotel faded behind them.
The weather was raw and cold, and Poppy shivered in the open car, praying it would not rain.
“Where are we going?” she shouted at last above the noise of the rushing wind.
“To my uncle’s,” yelled Freddie.
“The duke,” whispered Poppy through pale lips, but Freddie did not hear and had already begun to sing as if he hadn’t a care in the world.
One large tear rolled down Poppy’s cheek. To Freddie, abandoning one’s clothes was of little moment. He might have been a snake sloughing off its old skin. But for Poppy, it was giving away all the love and stitching of Cutler’s Fields. What sacrifices had old Ma Barker had to undergo to supply those pink satin ribbons for the underwear?
“Won’t be long,” shouted Freddie, oblivious of her distress. “He’s got a little place near here.”
Poppy relaxed slightly. “Little place” did not sound so bad. And they would only drop in for tea or something, and they would soon be on their way.
But her heart misgave her when Freddie cheerfully tootled his horn outside a tall, imposing pair of wrought-iron gates and a lodge keeper came running out to open them.
“Morning, Giles,” called Freddie. “The duke at home?”
“Yes, Master Freddie,” said the lodge keeper, touching his cap. “He’s entertaining a house party.”
“Good!” said Freddie breezily. “Then he won’t mind two more.”
“Freddie!” cried Poppy desperately as the motorcar putt-putted its way decorously through a large estate. “We can’t stay. We ain’t got no togs.”
“Doesn’t matter,” said Freddie airily. “Uncle’s got plenty, and his mother’ll find you something.”
“Oh, Freddie!” wailed Poppy. “I’m scared!”
Freddie stopped the car and looked at her in amazement in the sudden silence.
“Not you, Poppy!” he said wonderingly. “I would have said you weren’t scared of anything.”
Poppy bit her lip, but Freddie’s eyes were slightly watery from the cold, and he looked exactly like little Emily pleading for some treat that Poppy could not afford.
“I’m all right,” she said, and he flashed her a radiant smile. “Though what they’ll make of me I dunno,” she added in an undertone that Freddie did not hear.
The drive wound its well-ordered way through a thickly wooded estate. After several miles they emerged from the woods and found themselves in full view of Everton, the Duke of Guildham’s “little place.”
“It’s larger than Buckingham Palace,” moaned Poppy in despair. And, in this, she was right.
Everton had been built by the Plummetts, one of the small group of families who ruled England during the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries and had much more power than the king.
They approached it from the northwest, where its splendid facade was reflected in the still water of a vast, ornamental lake and set against a background of trees, hazy with the light-green foliage of early spring.
Built of yellow-gold stone, enriched with splendid carving, Everton was a magnificent and awe-inspiring sight.
Numbly Poppy alighted from the car. She was frightened—so very frightened. It was almost like the very first time she went on stage. As Freddie took her arm and marched her up the wide steps, her heart thudded and her vision blurred.
A magnificently liveried footman opened the door. “’Lo, Henry,” said Freddie, handing the footman his hat, gloves, and cane. “Where’s everbody?”
“In the drawing room, sir,” said Henry, “being that the weather is inclement.”
Poppy shivered on his arm and stared in awe at the magnificence of the painted hall, her eyes dazzled by color and carving.
“Oh, there’s old Stammers,” said Freddie, espying the butler making his stately approach “I say, Stammers, take us up and introduce us. This is the new missus.”
Stammers bowed in Poppy’s direction. “Do
I understand, Master Freddie, that I have the honor of announcing the new Mrs. Plummett?”
“Ah, just so,” said Freddie, tugging his mustache.
Freddie was beginning to wonder if he had done the right thing. He had not let any of his relatives know about his marriage because he was sure they would have stopped it. Back in the car, he had thought there to be no harm in introducing Poppy now that the marriage was a fait accompli. He eyed his bride nervously as they followed Stammers up the great curved staircase. She looked very trim and respectable in a tightly fitting black gown with a high-boned collar. Thankfully she had left her rather shabby cloak with the footman. Her black hat was small but dashing and tipped saucily over one eye, and she appeared to be remarkably neat after the journey. But you never could tell with Uncle Hugo. Devilish hard to please. Oh, well…
Stammers threw open the double doors of a vast drawing room.
A group of elegant people were standing with drinks by the fireplace at the far end of the room, which seemed to be a mile away across a gleaming expanse of polished floor upon which priceless Oriental rugs floated like islands.
Poppy put one small foot over the threshold, and all her fears left her. She was on stage.
Stammers cleared his throat.
“The Honorable Frederick and Mrs. Plummett!” he announced.
Heads snapped around as if jerked by wires.
Her head held high, Poppy strode lightly toward them. Then her step faltered as a tall, handsome man detached himself from the group and came to meet them.
“Mrs. Plummett,” he drawled in a light, mocking voice. “What an unexpected surprise.”
“My uncle,” said Freddie.
“Blimey!” said Poppy.
The Duke of Guildham was that man who had watched her sing in Cutler’s Fields, the man whose image she had had to tear up the night she had decided to marry Freddie.
Chapter 4
Witness to the arrival of the new Mrs. Plummett were the Dowager Duchess of Guildham, the duke’s mother; the duke himself and his mistress, Freda; Sir Bartholomew Bryson, a choleric neighbor, and his upholstered wife; and Ian Barchester, a weedy young man, and his fiancée, Annabelle Cummings, a strapping girl with goggling eyes like a constipated otter. Fortunately for Poppy, who found them all terrifying enough, it was a very small house party by Everton standards.
The duchess alone looked reassuring. She bore a striking resemblance to Ma Barker, possessing a pugnacious, florid face and broken teeth, Her Grace having a pathological fear of the dentist.
“Freddie, dear, dear boy,” said the duke, taking Freddie’s arm, “do step along to the study with me for a little chat.”
“Oh, all right,” said Freddie with a pathetic attempt at nonchalance. “Come along, Poppy.”
“I am sure Mrs. Plummett will excuse us,” said the duke, gently disengaging Freddie’s hand from Poppy’s arm. “Mother, please look after Mrs. Plummett. Now, Freddie…”
Freddie threw a hunted glance back over his shoulder at Poppy, and he was borne inexorably away. Poppy gave him a wink, and then turned to smile at the duchess, who had come bustling up.
“My dear, you must be frozen,” said Her Grace. “Let me introduce you.” She rapidly performed the introductions, but Poppy only heard Freda’s name. So Freda was not the duke’s wife. Who, then? Fiancée?
“And have a little something to drink,” the duchess was urging as she led Poppy to the fire. “Such a surprise. Freddie is so secretive. When were you married?”
“Yesterday,” said Poppy, beginning to feel uneasy again under the impact of haughty, examining eyes.
“Only yesterday!” exclaimed the duchess. “What will you have, my dear? Sherry? A little wine? Champagne?”
“Whatever you’re having, Duchess,” said Poppy, hoping that this was the correct way to address such an exalted figure, although she had taken an immediate liking to the duke’s mother.
“Oh, I’m disgustingly old-fashioned, my dear,” said Her Grace with a great hoarse laugh so like Ma Barker’s. “I’m drinking warm gin.”
“Oh, Gawd, don’t drink that, Duchess,” said Poppy earnestly. “It’ll rot yer drawers.”
The duchess blinked. There was absolute silence in the room, broken only by the sound of the wind soughing through the branches of the trees outside and the crackling of the wood fire on the hearth.
Now, Poppy realized she had been overly familiar, but was not sophisticated enough to let matters drop, and so she went from bad to worse trying to explain her gaff.
“It reelly does,” she said, “not that I touches it meself, but there’s some that does, and they tells me.”
“Lor’,” drawled Freda. “Do you come from Cutler’s Fields by any chance?”
“Yes,” said Poppy, somewhat defiantly.
“Dear me,” murmured Freda. “Poppy Duveen in person.”
“Who?” demanded the duchess.
“Poppy Duveen,” repeated Freda in a louder voice. “I think you will find that Mrs. Plummett has trodden the boards.”
“Gad! Disgrace!” mumbled Sir Bartholomew Bryson.
“Wot you say?” grated Poppy, rounding on him.
“He said ‘disgrace,’” explained Annabelle, her eyes gleaming. The otter had found a fish.
Ian tittered awfully. But the real reason Poppy was becoming more and more furious was the cool and mocking vision presented by Freda. Her heavy brown hair was fashionably frizzed over her forehead, and the exquisite silk of her gown was cut in a way that made poor Poppy’s heart ache with envy.
“Look ’ere,” said Poppy, hands on hips. “I bin on the boards. So wot? I made an honest living. Or are you agin that?”
Freda clapped her hands softly and longed for Hugo to return to see what he thought of this slummy nightingale now.
“No one’s against anything,” said the duchess. “You do take on so. Here, drink this and stop looking like Alice. It won’t shrink you or poison you. Come and sit beside me on the sofa and tell me all about how you met Freddie.”
The stocky little duchess pressed a goblet of gold liquid into Poppy’s hand and drew her down onto an exquisite little sofa.
“And don’t stand there staring and sniggering in that vulgar manner, Freda,” added the duchess to Poppy’s great delight. “Not at all the thing. It may be all right in Germany, but we do not do it in England.”
Freda made a graceful, deprecatory move with her long, white fingers and turned to talk to Sir Bartholomew and his wife.
“Now…” said the duchess, turning to Poppy.
Poppy swallowed a great gulp of the liquid in her glass and nearly choked. It was brandy, although she did not know it. A warm glow began to pervade her, and Poppy smiled sunnily at the duchess and told her all about the wedding, carefully, however, not mentioning that she had married Freddie only to pay the back rent.
The duchess smiled warmly back while her mind raced. This was appalling! Freddie was a pest. The girl’s voice was impossible, and her family! Cutler’s Fields in Bermondsey! Still, Freddie had married her, so one would just have to make the best of things. Hugo would know what to do.
Unaware of the alarmed thoughts racing through the duchess’s head, Freda watched the seemingly growing friendship between the ill-assorted couple and did not like it one bit. Poppy was most dreadfully common, but she was an extremely beautiful girl. Freda still remembered the duke’s interest in her, and felt obscurely that Poppy should be put in her place and the lid slammed well down.
“Isn’t she too simply awful for words?” breathed Annabelle.
“Yes,” replied Freda automatically while her mind raced.
The duke’s heir, Lord Archibald Plummett, was a stickler for the conventions, and would not approve of Poppy one bit. Neither would his wife, Mary, who was always obsessed with the idea that the peasants were about to rise from their damp cellars and carry the upper classes off to the guillotine. I shall telephone them, thought Freda suddenly. Hugo’s mother i
s being too affable. If Miss Poppy Duveen is not aware of her great presumption, then it’s time she was.
A footman entered and walked over to the duchess and Poppy. Freda watched as Poppy flushed slightly, and then rose to her feet, following the footman from the room.
Summoned to Hugo’s presence, thought Freda. I would dearly love to be able to hear what goes on.
Feeling light-headed and strangely divorced from her surroundings by the effects of the brandy, Poppy followed the claret-and-silver livery of the footman along a series of corridors, past long windows reflecting different views of the park, where untidy nature danced silently in the blustery wind.
At last the footman held open a door for her and stood aside. Poppy swept in, and then stopped in dismay. The duke, sitting behind a large mahogany desk, was bending over some papers and did not look up as she came in. There was no sign of Freddie.
At last he raised his head, his eyes hooded. “Sit down, Mrs. Plummett,” he said, studying each nervous movement as she pulled a chair forward and sat facing him across the desk. He put the tips of his fingers together and stared at her consideringly over them.
“Well, Mrs. Plummett,” he said at last, “this marriage has come as a great surprise.”
Poppy opened her mouth to say something, but no sound came out.
There was a strong air of sexual magnetism surrounding the duke, but Poppy did not recognize it as such. She only knew that he somehow caused her to feel very young and very gauche.
He waited politely a few moments, and when she did not reply the duke went on. “Freddie seems to have ignored the question of how he is going to support you, Mrs. Plummett. I gather there was no question of marriage settlements.”
“Wot on earth are they?” Poppy managed to get out.
“Never mind,” said the duke. “The fact is that I gather you have no place to live.”
“Here!” exclaimed Poppy in alarm, although at the back of her mind something registered with pleased surprise that she had said “here” instead of “’ere.” “Freddie’s got a place in town, ain’t he?”