Poppy (11 page)

For all his faults and snobberies, Lord Archibald cast an eye over the new Mrs. Plummett, decided she would do after all, and promptly turned his full attention to his meal, since he was passionately fond of his food. Not so Lady Mary.

Lady Mary was a fierce follower of the Reform Movement in dress, which advocated the end of the corset and “logical” clothes, free from the rigors of tight-waisting. Buttons must be
buttons
, not ornaments. Embroidery was a frivolous waste and did not
do
anything. Unfortunately, the members of the Reform Movement did not have a very good eye for either line or color, and they retained the high-boned collar, which was responsible for so many ills.

Lady Mary was therefore attired in a shapeless mud-colored garment with a collar so whaleboned, so high, and so tight, it did absolute wonders when it came to aggravating her already nasty temper.

She stared long and coldly across the table at Poppy, searching in her mind as to the best way to begin her attack but nervous of the duke’s cold scrutiny.

Fortunately for Lady Mary, Freda was seething. She guessed the duchess was responsible for the glowing ladylike image that was Poppy, and she burned with jealousy. She wanted more than anything to marry Hugo, and she felt his rejection of her was caused by his mother’s displeasure.

“You look very fine in your borrowed plumes, Poppy,” said Freda with a thin smile.

“Mrs. Plummett,” corrected Poppy gently.

Freda’s penciled eyebrows shot into her hairline. “Indeed,” she murmured. “We learn quickly. But then we can’t all be actresses. Do you miss the theater life?”

Poppy opened her mouth to reply, caught the duke’s warning look, realized she was being baited, and turned to Annabelle. “I hear you are a fine horsewoman,” said Poppy. “Perhaps you might come to the stables with me this afternoon and tell me what you think of my progress.”

Annabelle turned red with pleasure. “Love to,” she said gruffly.

“Answer Mrs. von Dierksen’s question, girl,” snapped Lady Mary. “She asked you if you missed that theater life.”

“That is very kind of you,” said Poppy, ennunciating each word carefully. “You probably started riding when you were very small.”

Annabelle Cummings’s otter eyes shone with a film of sentimental tears as she remembered her first mount. “Oh, I had such a beautiful pony when I was a little girl. Would you like to hear about him?”

“Very much,” said Poppy, smiling into her eyes.

“Mrs. Plummett! I insist!” barked Lady Mary.

But apparently Annabelle had become deaf to Lady Mary as well. The opportunity to enthuse about her childhood was hardly ever given to her. In a tumbled rush of “rippings” and “jollys,” she poured out her love for her first pony, Buttercup. It went on in an uninterrupted spate for quite half an hour while Poppy’s flattering attention never wavered. Poppy had found a friend for life. Not even Ian had paid poor Annabelle so much attention before.

Freda eyed the table coldly. Lady Mary was furious, and Lady Bryson, Sir Bartholomew’s upholstered wife, was looking sour. But Poppy had the amused and indulgent approval of the rest of the table, with perhaps the exception of Lord Archibald, who was intent on his food.

The duchess was beaming at her pupil, and the duke was looking amused. Sir Bartholomew was watching Poppy with a silly, avuncular smile, and Ian Barchester was studying the rise and fall of lace on Poppy’s bosom with single-minded interest, which verged on the vulgar. Freddie had resigned himself to a sober day, and was remembering the pleasures of the night as he gazed fondly at his wife, a doting look on his face.

Nevertheless Freda waited until Annabelle eventually ran dry, and she moved back to the attack quietly. “This life must seem very grand to you,
Mrs. Plummett
, after Cutler’s Fields. Not quite the most salubrious part of London, you must admit.”

Poppy felt her temper rising dangerously, but while Freda was speaking Annabelle had been racking her simple brain for some way to regain the attention of this newfound friend. Then she remembered some gossip about Poppy being concerned for the welfare of her little sisters.

“Your sisters are still there,” said Annabelle. “It must be awful for them.” This was said with such sincerity and warmth that it quite took the sting out of Freda’s words.

“Yes,” said Poppy. “But Freddie and I are going to have a little house with a garden. Just think! A garden!”

“Dear me,” murmured Freda. “Are you going to have roses round the door as well?”

“Yes,” said Poppy simply. “Masses of them.”

“How jolly,” said Annabelle, this vision conjuring up several romantic pictures in her mind. “Can I come on a visit?”

“Any time you like,” said Poppy with such a charming smile that the duke blinked.

“I’m good with little ones,” said Annabelle seriously. “Not much good with grown-ups.” Here she gave a loud, awkward laugh and blushed painfully.

“You know something,” said Poppy, smiling, “I’m not very good myself.”

“As our American cousins would put it,” said Freda, laughing, “you can say that again.”

“You must find some of our forms of speech and manners very strange,” said the duchess, her eyes like gimlets. “Unfortunately, in high society we still have ill-bred people inflicted upon us who consider rudeness fashionable. Do not follow their bad example, Poppy dear. A lady must always have consideration for others.” The duchess, having felt she had dealt with that one very nicely, proceeded to be extremely rude herself.

“As for you, Freda,” she said, “you are a shockingly bad example for a lady of your years. Good Heavens, you must be nearly forty and should certainly know better.”

“I am nowhere near forty,” snapped Freda, who was in fact thirty-five.

“Really!” exclaimed the duchess. “Did you hear that Queen Alexandria has just had her face peeled? It’s supposed to have done wonders for her. Why don’t you try it, Freda darling?”

“I think I take very good care of my appearance, thank you,” said Freda in a cold rage. “I have all my faculties, and my
teeth
, for example, are perfect.”

That cut went home, for the duchess was sensitive about her broken teeth, and spent nights of agony with them rather than go to the dentist. She smelled constantly of oil of cloves, which she smeared across her gums to deaden the pain.

Poppy watched the duchess with interest. She, Poppy, wanted to learn how a lady would deal with that one. As she watched, the duchess no longer seemed like Ma Barker, but more like a formidable matron of high pedigree.

“Mrs. von Dierksen,” said the duchess awfully. “If you will look on the bedside table in your room, you will find a Bradfords with the fastest trains underlined in it in red. I suggest you read it and take the soonest and fastest.”

Freda wondered desperately how she had managed to get herself into this awful situation. Hugo was no help. His face was like a mask, and he was staring into the depths of his coffee cup.

“But I am my darling Hugo’s guest,” she cried with that light, rippling laugh. “You would not turn me out, dear Duchess.”

“Oh, yes, I would,” said that lady.

“Then I shan’t go until Hugo tells me to,” returned Freda.

Everyone looked at the duke, who was peeling an apple. He had been struck by a sudden vision of Poppy wearing a white frilly gown and sitting on a swing in the pale light of a summer evening. She was laughing up at him as he stood behind her. He shook his head impatiently. His brain was turning to mush.

“Hugo!”

“Yes, Mother.”

“What are you going to do about it?”

“Do about what?”

“Oh, goodness.” The duchess sighed. “You have not been listening to a word that has been said.”

“No.”

“Then I shall have a word with you in private, if you have quite finished your luncheon.”

“Very well, Mother,” said the duke with a sigh. He smiled suddenly and blindingly at Poppy for no apparent reason that anyone could see, and followed his mother from the room without waiting to allow the other ladies to leave first.

Freddie, not insensitive to the storm clouds gathering now that his wife’s two main champions had left the room, said hurriedly, “I say, Poppy, let’s take the motor out. It’s a lovely day,” and Poppy, feeling her courage ebb, assented, although she was sure that the outing would inevitably end in the nearest boozer.

Annabelle caught Poppy’s arm as she reached the door of the dining room. “
I
think you’re ripping,” whispered that young lady. “Come to my room when you get back.”

Poppy nodded and walked out, feeling the venom from two pairs of eyes boring into her back.

Poppy put on some fine if antiquated sables—courtesy of the duchess—and felt very grand indeed. As she settled herself in the motor she could not resist a quick glance up at the windows in the hope that someone was looking, although who that someone might be she would not even admit to herself.

But there was no one there, and she felt a little pain in her heart and a reluctance to leave the grounds. Freddie suddenly seemed like a stranger, and she realized with a shock that he
was
a stranger. What did she know of him? What did he think? What did he
feel
?

Nevertheless, the day was as sunny and breezy as her husband’s mood. He drove very fast, exceeding the speed limit on the open road. To Poppy’s amazement and delight, Freddie drove for a couple of hours, racing down through country lanes where the fresh green of the hedges streamed past and startled cows lumbered away, terrified by the strange noise.

A motorcar was still enough of a novelty to turn all heads as Freddie and Poppy passed.

At last Freddie began to slow the motor down, and eventually turned into the graveled drive of a small country hotel, where he ordered tea to be served to them in the garden.

It was bliss for Poppy to sit quietly under the shade of the old elms, feeling the sun’s warmth on her shoulders, and listening to her husband’s idle chatter.

Her spirits rose by the minute, and it was with relief that she began to feel she truly loved Freddie. No hardened drunkard would have passed so many tempting inns.

Poppy took her courage in both hands. “Freddie,” she pleaded, “I don’t see that we need to stay at Everton longer than another day. You could start work, and we could have that house, and Emily and Josie—”

“Oh, stop rushing me into work,” said Freddie petulantly. “And I must say, Poppy, you do so go on a lot about those sisters of yours. I mean, I’m your husband now. Well, I certainly proved that last night, ha-ha. I should come first. I mean to say that those girls are used to that slum. They can wait a bit longer.”

Before Poppy could reply, a plump young maid came forward and bobbed a curtsy. “Mr. Plummett? A gentleman on the telephone for you.”

Freddie leapt to his feet with alacrity.

“We got the telephone, mum,” said the maid, proudly and unnecessarily.

“How did whoever it is know my husband would be here?” demanded Poppy.

“I don’t know, I’m sure,” said the girl. “It’s all magic to me, them telephones is.”

She bobbed another curtsy and left.

Poppy sat very still. She was furious with Freddie, furious and bitter. The happy contempt with which he had said “that slum” had stabbed her to the heart. She sat alone, as sun and shadow swept across the grass at her feet, feeling her body and soul hurt so very dreadfully. Never would these people accept her, she thought wearily. Even her husband had contempt for her origins, contempt, Poppy knew with sudden instinctive insight, which would grow as his lust weakened.

So she sat in her borrowed furs and borrowed voice, waiting to return to her borrowed home, feeling young and beaten and friendless.
That’s what I get for using people, she thought sadly. I’ll just have to try to be a good wife. Being bitter won’t help. I’ve made my bed
—But she could not finish the thought, because it conjured up an image of a naked, panting Freddie.

“Well, old girl,” cried Freddie, walking outside, rubbing his hands. “Better get back. We’ve a long way to go.”

“Who was that on the telephone?” asked Poppy, her voice cold and flat.

“Er—oh,
that
telephone call. Sniffy. Good old Sniffy.”

“And how did good old Sniffy know you were going to be here at exactly this time of the day?”

“Look, Poppy,” said Freddie, trying to force his weak face into stern and commanding lines. “There’s no need to take that attitude with a chap if a chap wants to talk to his friends. Not the done thing, y’know. You’re my wife, and anything I do should be all right with you.”

“Let’s go,” said Poppy quietly.

They drove in silence, Freddie pushing the motor as far as it would go. The greening countryside raced and spun, and soon Everton loomed up in all its magnificence, staring down at this puny machine, this little piece of grubbiness of the new century, and waited for that interloper, Poppy Duveen, to climb from the car in her borrowed furs.

The duke witnessed her arrival from his study window, which was over the main entrance. For one split second he did not recognize the girl as Poppy, this woman who held her head so erect, whose white, tight face seemed almost luminous in the setting sun.

He’s hurt her, the clumsy oaf
, thought the duke angrily, and then he told himself severely that it was none of his business.

As the dressing gong sounded that evening, Poppy, sitting at the dressing table, saw in the looking glass that her husband was sidling quietly out of the door. She opened her mouth to say something, to stop him from going. She knew he was going to join Sniffy somewhere, no doubt to drink and play cards. But her heart was still too heavy, and so she picked up the hairbrush and began to brush her hair in long, even strokes.

No sooner had Freddie left, however, when he was replaced by Annabelle Cummings, who arrived breathing heavily and carrying a small jewel box.

“It’s just a silly little coral necklace,” she said gruffly, putting the box on Poppy’s dressing table. “I noticed last night that you didn’t have any jewelry.”

Poppy felt her eyes filling with tears at the unexpected kindness and blinked them away, embarrassed. Annabelle was a highly sentimental soul and saw nothing wrong with this show of emotion.