by M. C. Beaton
“What is it, Gladys?” said Mrs. Pullar, with an awful frown.
“I s-saw madam on the stage,” stammered Gladys, “and she does sing so beautiful.”
“Go back to your work,” said Mrs. Pullar, red with anger. Mrs. Plummett had shown herself to be a lady, therefore the sooner they all forgot about that stage business the better.
Gladys backed away quickly, looking frightened, her hand to her mouth in a way that poignantly reminded Poppy of little Emily.
Poppy threw caution to the wind.
“Would you like me to sing to you?” she asked the retreating Gladys.
Gladys was too terrified to reply, and Mrs. Pullar too shocked, but the menservants all shouted a hearty “Yes, please, ma’am!”
The dinner abovestairs had drawn to the walnuts-and-port stage, the ladies had retired to the drawing room, and the servants were preparing to relax over their own meal.
James, the second footman, offered to get his accordian.
With infinite relief Mrs. Pullar espied the magisterial figure of Stammers entering through the green-baize door.
She went quickly over to him. “Mr. Stammers,” she hissed. “Mrs. Plummett has offered to sing, and it’s not quite-quite, if you know what I mean.”
But Stammers secretly thought Mrs. Pullar exceeded her authority, and he enjoyed every opportunity he could of putting her down.
“Splendid idea,” he said, brushing past Mrs. Pullar. “We’ll make it like a concert. Good evening, madam. I gather we are about to have the honor of hearing you sing. It is a privilege, madam.”
Now, if Poppy had sung one of her more vulgar numbers, it is no doubt that she would have made a formidable enemy in Mrs. Pullar.
But she chose to sing “My Little Gray Home in the West,” a sentimental ballad that was Mrs. Pullar’s favorite.
Poppy was not only possessed of a remarkably sweet and clear voice, but when she sang she forgot about class or accent or Emily and Josie back in Cutler’s Fields and sang for the sheer joy of it. Poppy firmly believed in the sentiments of the songs she sang, from gray-haired mothers to little gray homes to old-mill streams. She was a very human, very vulnerable girl, but was possessed of an essential goodness and love of life, which shone out when she sang.
Mrs. Pullar’s hard mouth relaxed into a soft smile, and her eyes were dreamy, and James played the accordian softly while Poppy sang and sang.
In the drawing room, the gentlemen, with the exception of Freddie, had joined the ladies. Dinner had been a long and tedious affair. It had been reported to His Grace that Mr. and Mrs. Plummett were not in their rooms, and the head groom had said that Master Freddie had taken his motor out “for a spin.”
The duke assumed Poppy was with him, and although he did not blame Poppy for this breach of good manners, he did blame Freddie, and felt angrier with that young man then he had ever been before in his life.
Over dinner, he had been so immersed in concocting the splendid dressing-down that he was going to give Freddie when that young man returned that he had paid not the slightest attention to what anyone said to him, and when Freda had tried to draw his attention, he had merely stared at her with an abstract look.
He had a very forceful personality and had successfully managed to depress everyone, including his mother, who was usually immune to her son’s rare fits of bad temper.
The duke was sure that Freddie had headed straight for the nearest pub, since before dinner he had had a fruitless time of it trying to find a drink, the servants having been given strict instructions to serve him nothing stronger than lemonade.
All at once the duke was concerned for the new Mrs. Plummett’s welfare. The girl was common and quite impossible, but she did not deserve to be out in the pouring rain in an open motorcar.
It was with great relief that he heard the noisy clash of gears and churning gravel below the windows, which heralded Freddie’s arrival home.
He quickly left the drawing room, where the rest were playing cards, and made his way to the hall.
Stammers was already opening the door.
Freddie staggered in. His hair was plastered down with rain, and his collar was hanging from its stud. His eyes had the glazed and mindless look of the totally drunk. He looked at his uncle and giggled faintly, and then fell in a sodden heap on the floor.
“Take it to bed,” said the duke, disgustedly, to Stammers. “And get my carriage brought round. I can only assume that Mrs. Plummett has been left in the pub.”
“Oh, no, Your Grace,” said Stammers. “Madam is belowstairs entertaining the staff.”
“Really?” barked the duke. “Stammers, I would have expected you to have prevented such a thing. Mrs. Plummett, despite appearances to the contrary, should not be belowstairs, nor should she be encouraged to consort with the staff.”
“It is not like that at all, Your Grace,” said Stammers loftily. “The situation is unusual, I admit, but Mrs. Plummett, Your Grace, sings like a true lady, and never, ever have we had such enchantment in our humble quarters.”
“Dear me,” said the duke acidly. “You have been reading novels again, Stammers.”
He stepped over Freddie’s unconscious body and pushed open the green-baize door that led to the lower regions, realizing with vague surprise that he had never seen the inside of the kitchen area since he was four years old.
The servants started to rise, and Poppy faltered in midnote. The duke waved his hand as a signal for them to be seated, pulled forward a chair, and sat down.
Poppy continued to sing, losing herself in the song, oblivious to his presence. It was the sad little ballad she had sung in the rain that day at Cutler’s Fields, and the duke was amazed once more at the pathos and yearning and dignity that the girl could bring to cheap music.
When she had finished and was curtsying to the applause, the duke came forward and took her arm. “It was most kind of you to entertain the staff, Mrs. Plummett,” he said, “but your husband has arrived home and requires your attention.”
He smiled and nodded to his staff, and then led her firmly out and up the stairs in silence until they reached the hall, where the only sign of Freddie was a damp pool of rainwater in the middle of the floor, which the servants had, as yet, neglected to mop up, being too enthralled with Poppy’s impromptu concert.
“What’s up with Freddie?” asked Poppy.
“Drunk,” said the duke coldly. “I did not send anyone to find you, Mrs. Plummett, because I assumed that you were with your husband. Pray, do you plan to give entertainments in my kitchen every night?”
Poppy flushed, feeling unreasonably angry at the cool lack of emotion in his voice.
“They asked me to,” she flared.
“I have no doubt,” he said, staring at her curiously. “What interests me is, how did you come to be belowstairs in the first place?”
“I lost my way,” mumbled Poppy.
“Speak up, girl,” snapped the duke. “I cannot hear a word you are saying.”
“I said I lost my way,” yelled Poppy. “Stone the bleedin’ crows, guv, wot the ’ell was I supposed to do?”
“There is no need to take that tone of voice with me,” said the duke in freezing accents. “I merely wish to know why you did not immediately ask a servant to conduct you to the dining room.”
“’Cos they asked me to sing, you deaf bleeder,” said Poppy, quite beside herself with rage and humiliation. Her newly acquired upper-class accent had crumbled.
“I am not deaf,” said the duke, “nor is there any reason to be so angry. I must gather, therefore, that you are unaccustomed to servants and had not the courage to make any demands.”
“Yes,” said Poppy, too humiliated to do other than tell the truth.
“Then you should send for me and tell me these things,” said the duke patiently. “I am an ordinary man who happens to live in a very large house with a very large staff, which can be bewildering to most people. You now belong to this society, since you
married my nephew, and I suggest you accustom yourself to it as soon as possible. You must be open and honest and ask me any questions you like. My mother and myself will be only too glad to instruct you. Don’t bristle, girl. You surely do not want to spend the rest of your life living with your own servants, as you will no doubt have them when you set up your own establishment with Freddie.”
He suddenly smiled down into her eyes, and Poppy felt only that she wanted to get away from this man who made her feel so elated, so frightened at the same time.
“Good night,” she said suddenly, and ran for the stairs.
“Mrs. Plummett!” came the cool and mocking voice below her.
She faltered, stopped, and turned around.
“If you could not find your way down,” he said, mounting the stairs slowly toward her, “then I doubt very much if you will be able to find your way back. I will conduct you to your room.”
“Hugo!”
Freda had come out of the drawing room on the first-floor landing and was staring down at him.
“What are you doing, darling?”
“Escorting Mrs. Plummett to her room,” the duke said, tucking Poppy’s nerveless hand under his arm and leading her up toward Freda.
“Well, really, Hugo. You are neglecting your guests shamefully. One of the servants can show her. That is, if you can find one of the servants. We had to ring the bell for about fifteen minutes before that Stammers deigned to appear with the chicken sandwiches. I took it upon myself to have a sharp word with him.”
“You did, did you…” said the duke in a light voice that nonetheless held a hard edge. He ignored the fact that Poppy was trying to tug her hand free. “Then as soon as I see Mrs. Plummett to her quarters, I shall take it upon myself to have a word with you, Freda.”
He escorted Poppy past her and on up the next flight of stairs while Freda turned on her heel and stalked back into the drawing room.
Poppy glanced up at the duke nervously, for she sensed he was angry, but he met her glance with an amused smile and tapped her hand lightly with his own.
“Ah, Mrs. Plummett, now you must see what I mean. You cannot go on seducing my servants from their duties.”
“I didn’t mean no harm,” said Poppy. “We’re friends, ain’t we?”
He stopped and looked down at her long and consideringly. “Yes, Mrs. Plummett,” he said at last. “I think we are.”
Poppy felt a sudden lighthearted rush of happiness. Freddie would be so pleased that his formidable uncle liked her, and that was the only reason she was so happy. There was, after all, no other reason. She was a married woman.
A very married woman, she thought rather sadly after she said good night to the duke again and walked through her sitting room and pushed open the bedroom door.
The servants had undressed Freddie and put him to bed. He was snoring quite horribly, and the room reeked of the stale smell of beer.
Poppy looked at him for a long while, and then began to prepare herself for bed. “Oh, nights of love, Oh, nights of passion,” she sang, then realized what it was she was singing and stopped abruptly, gave a little sigh, and climbed into bed beside her husband.
Poppy was fully awake when a pale rose dawn flooded the room and the birds chirped noisily in the ivy. Freddie was a champion snorer. He did not keep to the same repetitive sound but played many variations on the original theme. He whistled, he roared, he gasped, he grunted. Poppy had tried pushing him onto his side, but he kept rolling back again, and each time the snores became louder.
She climbed from the bed and walked over to the window and looked out. A light, silvery frost was already melting from the grass and trees. She opened the window and leaned out, breathing in the morning smells of clean air and woodsmoke.
Suddenly she felt she could not stay in the room any longer.
She dressed in a serviceable wool skirt and jacket—black—and put on her old cracked boots and the hat with the pheasant’s feather, then donned her old cloak. After leaving the room Poppy turned down the corridor in the opposite direction from the night before and found to her delight that she soon reached the top of the main staircase without getting lost at all.
She ran down the steps, sternly avoiding the temptation to slide down the long and shining banister, unlocked the main door with its massive key, swung it open as quietly as she could, although it seemed to take all her strength to do it, and then tried to close it quietly, but it crashed-to with a reverberating bang.
Poppy took a deep breath of clean morning air and turned around—and gulped.
The duke, dressed in jodhpurs and hacking jacket, riding crop in hand, was standing at the foot of the front steps, looking at her, his immobile face registering neither surprise nor welcome.
Poppy opened her mouth to explain what she was doing, but then closed it firmly again. She had an instinctive awareness that it was vulgar and unnecessary to justify all one’s actions. She was not doing anything wrong.
On the other hand, she was going for a walk, and since the duke was handy, he would know the best place to go. And so she asked him.
For a long time he stood looking at her as if turning over some problem in his mind. Then he said quite abruptly, “I am going riding, Mrs. Plummett. Do you ride? Then come with me. It is time you started. What you are wearing will do well enough.”
Now, Poppy considered this very high-handed treatment indeed, and was tempted to tell him so, but on the other hand, she was flattered by his interest, and Freddie would be so pleased if she kept his wicked uncle happy.
The horse the duke selected for her was very placid and old, more like an animated sofa.
A sidesaddle was put on its wide back, and Poppy received her first instruction on how to mount from the mounting block. The duke himself selected a more sedate mount than he would normally have chosen, put Poppy’s horse on leading reins, and together they ambled sedately out of the stables into the blazing and golden light of a truly beautiful morning.
Poppy from Cutler’s Fields lost her fear of the animal, although she felt very high above the ground, and became engrossed in the sheer beauty of the morning. They ambled slowly down the drive under the high arch of the trees, a delicate green tracery against the pale blue of the newly washed sky.
“Branches are down everywhere,” said the duke. “It was quite a storm.” But Poppy only heard the peace of the morning.
It did not last long. “Now we shall canter,” said the duke, “and you must learn to post. Just do what I do.” But to poor Poppy, it all seemed very strange as she lurched wildly from side to side like a sack of potatoes until, laughing and breathless, she begged him to stop.
“I shall have my head groom instruct you,” he said impatiently as they once again proceeded along at a snail’s pace. “In fact, I suggest you begin your lessons this afternoon. I shall ask Freda to lend you a riding habit.”
“Oh,” said Poppy, glancing at him from under her lashes. “And do you think madam will do that?”
He frowned quickly but did not reply. After some time he said, “I enjoyed what I heard of your concert last night, Mrs. Plummett. It was generous of you to give of your talent so freely.”
Poppy looked at him in surprise.
“Most professional singers,” he elaborated, “guard their voices very carefully.”
“Oh, I aren’t professional,” said Poppy blithely. “I sing for anyone. Oh, are we going back?” She felt disappointed as he turned the horses around to lead them back to the house. All of a sudden she wanted to make a crack in his amazing self-possession.
“D’you think I’m common?” she asked lightly.
“Yes.”
“Oh!” Poppy gulped. “That was very rude of you.”
“Only truthful. I would never lie to you, Mrs. Plummett.” Again that charming smile.
“I can’t ’elp—help—being common,” said Poppy almost tearfully. “I was born that way.”
“True,” he said gently. “But yo
u have a natural charm and grace, which is something no one can acquire. Your voice will change, and you will become accustomed to households like this. What is a lady after all, but a series of social gestures. Now, you, Mrs. Plummett, have none of the social arts, but you have so much more to offer than the ordinary woman, and once you add those social arts to your other assets, you will be devastating.”
“Really!” cried Poppy, forgetting her distress in all the pleasure of this heady compliment. “What assets? I ain’t got no money.”
“Your face, Mrs. Plummett, your figure, and your very great beauty.”
“Are you flirting with me?” asked Poppy, made bold by all these compliments.
“Yes, I am. But that too will be part of your training.”
“Oh, deary-dear. Then you didn’t mean none—any—of all those nice things.”
“Oh, yes, I most certainly did. I am honest even when I am flirting, and you should be complimented, Mrs. Plummett; I do not normally flirt before luncheon.”
“Shall I go hunting?” asked Poppy, all of a sudden anxious to change the subject.
“If you attend to your lessons, and if I consider you good enough.”
It was strange, mused Poppy, the way these feelings of happiness came over her all of a sudden. It was nice being married, for it was thanks to Freddie that she was carrying on an intimate conversation with a real-live duke!
They were approaching the front of Everton when Poppy threw back her head and began to sing in that same unself-conscious manner with which she used to serenade Cutler’s Fields. She sang “John Peel” in a merry, lilting voice while the duke halted the mounts and listened to her with single-minded pleasure. He was conscious of Freda standing on the top step, glaring—but only just.
“What on earth is all this caterwauling?” demanded Freda crossly.
Poppy started the second verse.
“‘D’ye ken that bitch whose tongue is death?’” she caroled, glaring straight at Freda. The duke gave a splutter of laughter, and Freda turned away, two spots of color burning on her cheeks.