The Ladies In Love Series

by M. C. Beaton

  “Naughty Mrs. Plummett,” murmured the duke, lifting her down from her horse. He was startled to find that something like an electric charge was running straight from his hands, which were around Poppy’s tiny waist, right through his body.

  In his usual way, he forgot everything else and applied his mind to the problem. Had he ever felt like this before when touching a woman? There had been that mistress of his. Oh, when was it, 1891? Or was it ’92? But no, it had not been like this. Now, his busy mind questioned, if he could receive this type of physical reaction just by touching her waist, what would it be like to—

  “I say, Uncle, what are you hugging Poppy for?”

  Freddie had appeared behind them, looking alone and palely loitering. The duke surveyed him with irritation, still clasping Poppy around the waist. Just like Freddie to come along and bleat just when he was getting an answer to his fascinating problem. Then he realized that the subject of his musings was blushing rosily in his arms, and he abruptly let her go.

  “Ah, Freddie,” he said, swinging around. “My study, I think.”

  “Oh, no,” protested Freddie. “Look, my head is killing me.”

  “My study. Now!”

  “Oh, very well,” said Freddie sulkily. “But what were you doing hanging around Poppy’s waist like that?”

  “I was teaching her to ride.”

  “Is that what you call it?”

  “My study, Freddie. And, Mrs. Plummett, my head groom will be waiting for you in the stables, say, at three o’clock in the afternoon.”

  “Will you be there?” asked Poppy, suddenly shy.

  “Good God, no. Freddie will accompany you.” And with that the duke marched off into the house with Freddie shambling at his heels.

  Poppy waited for a few moments, irresolute, and then followed them into the house. She plucked up her courage and approached one of those terrifying footmen in livery and asked him where she could find breakfast.

  The breakfast room was on the ground floor, at the back, at the end of a chain of twists and turns. It was a small, bright room, full of sunshine. A carved sideboard was groaning under the weight of many covered dishes.

  There was no one else in the room. Poppy picked up a plate and wandered from dish to dish. There was enough food to give the whole of Bermondsey a good breakfast. At last she selected some toast and kidneys and bacon and sat down at a corner of the table to eat.

  Stammers at last appeared and informed Mrs. Plummett that the other guests and Her Grace were breakfasting in their rooms.

  Relaxed and soothed by an unfashionably strong cup of Indian tea followed by several slices of toast dripping with butter, Poppy began to turn over in her mind the events since her wedding.

  Foremost in her thoughts was concern for her sisters. It was all quite pleasant here, and very exciting and very grand, but it had little to do with the reality of family responsibilities. And the duke had called her common. Well, so she was. But she was an actress and could surely fast learn the tricks of this society trade. Just ask, the duke had said. She would. She would ask his mother. Not that she was anxious to please the duke, of course, but for Freddie’s sake. She may have married him for all the wrong reasons, but the least she could do was to be as good a wife as possible.

  And so Her Grace, the Duchess of Guildham, was somewhat surprised when a very nervous Mrs. Plummett presented herself in that lady’s boudoir, begging for instruction in the social arts.

  The duchess was silent for a moment while her mind raced. Her shrewd little eyes raked over Poppy. Something would certainly have to be done about her. While the duke had been down in the kitchen, listening to Poppy sing, Sir Bartholomew, his wife, Harriet, Annabelle Cummings, and Ian Barchester had avidly discussed the low horror that was Poppy, and one and all had come to the conclusion that the best thing was to get rid of her as soon as possible and make sure Freddie kept her out of sight. But the girl had a certain quality, decided the duchess. And she was by way of being a sort of actress, so that should make life easy. All this flashed through Her Grace’s mind in a few moments, and then she smiled, showing all her broken teeth.

  “Certainly, my dear,” she said. “You are a very sensible girl to ask for advice. If you will forgive my saying so, I think your speech is the biggest drawback. You must modify your accent. Start by speaking very slowly and carefully. Don’t use double negatives. Don’t say ‘I haven’t got no whatever it is.’ It should be ‘I haven’t got any,’ and so on.”

  “I was told that at school,” said Poppy, wide-eyed like a solemn child, “but I forgot.”

  “And then there are ways of eating and receiving guests and dealing with servants and—oh!—so many things,” said the duchess, warming to her task. “Sit down, do. We will not go down for luncheon, but we will have a tray up here, where we can talk. Now, firstly, until you become accustomed to the ways of social conversation, you must simply listen and say only yes and no as required. People love a good listener, and everyone will think you vastly intelligent and very prettily behaved in consequence.

  “We must do something about your clothes. I never throw anything away, and I used to be as slim as you, believe it or not. Of course, the styles are antiquated, but the materials are very good. I shall have my lady’s maid, Gilbert, take your measurements and prepare something for you to wear to dinner this evening.

  “Now, you must not mind Freda and Annabelle. The one is malicious and vulgar, and the other is just plain silly. They will no doubt try to bait you this evening. Do not rise to it. I always ignore rude remarks, and believe me, it does make the other person feel very silly.”

  “I’ll try to remember,” said Poppy, feeling overwhelmed.

  The duchess became more and more animated under the rapt attention of her new pupil, yet all too soon it was time for Poppy’s riding lesson. Although Freda had not been asked to supply a habit, and therefore could not have refused to do so, Poppy wore the same clothes she had worn in the morning and was thrilled to bits when the head groom said, gruffly, that she had good hands and a good bottom and that he thought she would learn very quickly.

  Later on, Mrs. Pullar was waiting, with a huge bunch of keys, to take Poppy on a tour of Everton, and Poppy, with the unbounded energy of youth, trotted happily behind her from cellar to attic, fascinated by everything she saw and deeply impressed by the housekeeper’s knowledge. Mrs. Pullar was as enchanted as Her Grace. Poppy’s sunny nature and enthusiasm were infectious, and as Stammers remarked later, he had never seen “old sour puss” in such a good mood.

  Poppy was further elated by the personal attentions of no less than Her Grace’s lady’s maid, who came to prepare Mrs. Plummett for dinner, fitting her into a lilac chiffon gown of a wickedly simple cut. Gilbert even cracked a smile when the ebullient Poppy remarked airily that Her Grace must have been quite a girl.

  It was only when she gathered up the short train of her gown and followed the liveried back of a footman, sent expressly to guide her to the dining room, that Poppy realized with a lurch of her heart that she had not seen Freddie all day, and what was worse, she had not thought of him once.

  Her treacherous mind had been solely concentrated on what the duke would think of her new appearance.

  The footman threw open the double doors of the dining room. As Poppy was slightly late, the party was already seated, and all the men rose to their feet.

  “By Jove!” muttered Sir Bartholomew, eying Poppy’s creamy shoulders. His wife gave him a venomous look.

  “You look very pretty tonight,” said the duchess, shaking out her napkin. Annabelle infuriated Freda by muttering, “Here. Here.” Annabelle was really a simple-minded county girl at heart and could no more sustain a resentment against anyone than she could feel any sympathy for a fox being torn apart by hounds.

  Ian gave Poppy a wet look, and Freda stared at her plate.

  “Where’s Freddie?” asked Poppy, trying to modulate her voice carefully.

  “He will not be
joining us this evening,” said the duke indifferently. “He is indisposed.”

  “Then why isn’t he in his bed?” asked Poppy in surprise.

  “Because he has moved into his old rooms in the west wing,” said the duke.

  Poppy opened her mouth to question him further, but something in his face stopped her. Her mind worked feverishly. What on earth was Freddie thinking of! He had said he loved her, and had looked as if he had meant it. Why this change of heart?

  She was so preoccupied with this worry that she ate her food in total silence apart from an abstract yes and no to Sir Bartholomew on her left and Cyril on her right. When Freda had tried to bait Poppy by complimenting her on her abrupt change of accent, she had merely looked at Freda vaguely and replied, “Thank you,” returning her attention to her worry about Freddie. Freda had been left to feel she had been very efficiently snubbed.

  At last the ladies rose to leave the gentlemen to their port. Poppy excused herself, saying she had left something in her room. When the door of the drawing room was safely closed behind the ladies, Poppy found one of the now less terrifying footmen and demanded to be taken to her husband.

  When they got to the door of Freddie’s room, Poppy tried the handle and found it locked, and her lips tightened.

  “Freddie!” she called. “Let me in!”

  “Can’t!” came Freddie’s voice from the other side. “Uncle Hugo’s locked me in.”

  “What!” screamed Poppy. “What for?”

  “I dunno!” shouted Freddie. “Be a good girl and see if you can get the key.”

  Poppy swung around, her hands on her hips, and glared at the waiting footman. “You ’eard ’im,” she said. “Get it!”

  “I can’t, madam,” said the footman, backing away. “His Grace said as how Master Freddie was not to get out.”

  “Bleeding interference,” muttered Poppy. “See ’ere. Take me back to that drawing room. I’ll be back, duckie,” she called to Freddie.

  The gentlemen had joined the ladies by the time she returned. The duke was sitting beside Freda on a sofa in front of the fire. His head was bent close to hers, and he was holding her hand.

  Somehow this cozy sight aggravated Poppy’s already flaming temper. She bore down on them.

  “Wot you done with Freddie?” she demanded. “I want the key to let ’im out.”

  “You can’t have it,” said the duke coldly.

  “Wot is this?” screamed Poppy, hopping up and down with rage. “A prison?”

  “Come with me,” said the duke severely, rising to his feet and hurrying her out of the room. He refused to speak until they were in his study and the door was shut firmly behind them. He lit the oil lamp and waved Poppy into a chair, taking his usual seat behind the desk.

  “Now, Mrs. Plummett,” he said severely. “I will overlook your vulgar scene in the drawing room just now—”

  “Very kind,” sneered Poppy.

  “Since the circumstances are unusual,” he went on firmly. “I urged Freddie to take up his new position, and he said he wished to remain here a further two weeks to enjoy a honeymoon. He then announced his half-witted intention of not joining us for dinner this evening because of a baccarat game in the neighboring county. I refused to let him go, and he agreed, sulkily, to stay. Unfortunately, he had somehow got hold of some drink, and just before dinner he appeared in my rooms, shouting his intention of going. I wished to spare you the spectacle of your husband in this kind of state, so I frog-marched him to his old rooms and locked him in.”

  “You shouldn’t have done that,” muttered Poppy, although she had a sudden vision of herself and Ma Barker locking up her father so he could not reach the Pig and Crumpet.

  Gathering her courage, she went on. “I am not a child, you know, and Freddie is my husband and my responsibility.”

  The duke looked at her for a long moment, suddenly forgetting about Freddie as he contemplated the vision that was Poppy in the lilac gown. She sat very still, her face slightly flushed, waiting for his reply. There was a tiny blue vein throbbing against the whiteness of her skin just near her throat. If he looked a little closer…

  “Your Grace!” came Poppy’s voice sharply, her hand fluttering to her throat.

  He flushed slightly, and then dug in the pocket of his evening jacket and produced a key, silently handing it over the desk to her.

  Poppy took it, and they surveyed each other in silence. She could not understand why all of a sudden she was so reluctant to leave.

  “My mother tells me she has been instructing you,” the duke said quietly. “She tells me you are an apt pupil, and my head groom informs me you have the makings of a fine horsewoman. I’m proud of you, Mrs. Plummett.”

  Poppy blushed rosily with pleasure at this unexpected praise. “I didn’t do so well with me manners tonight,” she ventured shyly.

  “Ah, well,” he replied, producing his sudden mocking, yet sweet, smile. “The provocation was great. It is not every young bride who finds that a wicked uncle has locked her husband in his rooms.”

  “I s’pose you were doing what you thought best,” said Poppy, settling slightly in her chair.

  He got to his feet, but somehow she knew instinctively that he did not want her to leave. He picked up a box of vestas and lit the fire, which was already made up in the grate, performing the simple task with the single-minded absorption that was beginning to fascinate Poppy. She watched the light from the leaping flames play on his white hair and lean, handsome face, thought briefly of her husband awaiting his release, and then forgot about him completely.

  The duke took out a snowy handkerchief and wiped his long fingers fastidiously. “Tell me about your sisters,” he said. “You must be worried about them.”

  Poppy smiled at him gratefully. “Oh, I am.” Once again her voice slid easily into a pattern of the duke’s well-bred tones. “Pa gets drunk and violent, you see, although Ma Barker—she’s a friend of mine—has the girls staying with her until I get back. This house—you know, the one you said I should live in with Freddie—has it got a garden?”

  “I don’t know,” replied the duke, picking up a paper knife and studying it. “I leave all that sort of thing to my man of business. Is it so important?”

  “Ooooh!” Poppy took a deep breath. “Ever so important. Only think! Grass and flowers and maybe a tree!”

  The duke watched the play of emotion on her expressive little heart-shaped face. He remembered Cutler’s Fields in the rain.

  “A garden you shall have, Mrs. Plummett,” he said. “I shall even arrange a tree and a swing.”

  “Oh, thank you!” breathed Poppy, and the duke’s eyes flickered around the room for a moment, as if he was embarrassed, and she wondered if she had been too effusive.

  Again that comfortable silence fell between them, almost a drugged silence, while the one savored the other’s presence: Poppy merely accepting it, and the duke, this time, refusing to analyze his feelings.

  At last he seemed to give himself a little shake, and he said quietly, “Your husband will be awaiting his release.”

  “Oh!” said Poppy, rising hurriedly to her feet and blushing, and wishing she did not blush so easily.

  She walked to the door, and then hesitated, her hand on the knob. She was, thought the duke, completely unaware of her stunning beauty.

  “Well…” she began, reluctant to break the moment, to leave the security of the study.

  He made a little dismissive movement with his hands.

  “You’d better go, Mrs. Plummett,” he said gently.

  And Poppy did, feeling sad, and not yet knowing why.

  Chapter 6

  Freddie was voluble in his gratitude. “I knew you’d square the old boy,” he said, embracing Poppy warmly. “But dash it all, it’s too late to go anywhere now.”

  Poppy took a deep breath. Somehow she had to tell him that his drinking and gambling days were over, but she did not have the courage to do so. Perhaps if she fulfilled h
er marital duties…

  “Let’s go to bed,” she said shyly.

  “I say, jolly ripping idea,” said Freddie enthusiastically. “It should be all right, you know, darling. I’m not worried about a thing tonight.”

  And it was all right—as far as Freddie was concerned, that is. It was a short, sharp, and violent experience for Poppy, who had hoped romantically that the consummation of their marriage would engender some passion in her heart for this husband of hers.

  Freddie lay across her body, happy and content and snoring most awfully, while Poppy stared up into the blackness of the ceiling and thought of the duke, feeling that the failure of her marriage was somehow all his fault. She wondered too if all men made love like Freddie. Memories of the gossip of Cutler’s Fields drifted through her head; of the women in the washhouse on winter days, gossiping among the steam. “How’s it with your Jimmy?” “Oh, not so bad. He don’t bother me much. I can sleep most nights.” And the answering raucous laughter and the “thank gawds.” Sexual intercourse in Cutler’s Fields meant another baby, another mouth to feed. It was a world where the women banded together in sympathy against the lusts of the men. “They’re only after one thing.”

  Then what about all the sentiments—of love and longing and tenderness—in those little songs Poppy sang? She had thought those emotions luxuries of the upper class, but here she was in the upper class, and it was all just the same.

  Poppy gave a little sigh. She hoped she was not pregnant. That would be a terrible responsibility, added as it would be to the responsibility of providing for two children already. Three, mocked her tired brain. Three… counting Freddie.

  She shoved him over impatiently to one side, and then heaved herself up on one elbow and studied his face, searching in her heart for one spark of tenderness. His face was relaxed under its little waxed mustache, almost adolescent in repose.

  Sunlight was beginning to filter through a chink in the curtains. Poppy shrugged impatiently and climbed from the bed. She drew open the curtains and stared blankly at the glory of the morning.