Poppy (13 page)

The duke had left his mother as Poppy was making her way downstairs, and he returned to his study. He looked down from the window on what he thought was the last of Poppy.

He was startled at the staff turnout. They were not, as far as he could see, saying farewell to a social equal, but to a very respected lady. She seemed very small and frail, her normally robust health dimmed by the widow’s weeds and the background of the slate-gray day.

He felt the beginnings of unease tinged with loss, but his mind immediately closed down like a steel trap on his emotions.

The coachman cracked his whip, and the carriage rumbled off.

Poppy sat very straight, her back rigid with sorrow.

The splendor of Everton glared down on her retreating back. “Good-bye, upstart,” it seemed to be saying. “We have repulsed such as you before, and we will repulse them again.”

A dry, rattling sob shook her body from head to foot. But they would not make her cry. She would never let them make her cry again.

“
Damn the bleedin’ lot of them!
” said Poppy Duveen.

The lamplighter was moving slowly down a quiet, tree-lined street in St. John’s Wood when Poppy arrived at her new home.

A thin mist hung in the gathering dusk. The lamplighter raised his brass pole, and another gas flower bloomed in the failing light. Water dripped from the trees. After the bustle and clamor of Cutler’s Fields, and Poppy’s stay at Everton, it all seemed terrifyingly quiet to her.

Poppy and her maid alighted from the carriage that had brought them from the station. She hesitated outside the gate, looking in wonder at the house, some of the pain in her heart melting away.

It was one of those small mock-chalet buildings so beloved of the English since the first cottage
ornée
was built, with wooden fretwork on the tall, pointed gables. The house was painted a washed-out pink and had smart white shutters, open to show the soft lamplight within.

Poppy opened the gate and moved slowly up the mossy path beneath the shadow of two fragile lilac trees.

The front door swung open, and Emily and Josie tumbled out, laughing and crying and shouting, “Oh, Poppy. It’s luverley. Just like a dream. Innit, Poppy?”

Poppy bent her head over them as she hugged them fiercely, her throat tight and dry. Then she looked over their heads to the plump figure of the housekeeper, bobbing a curtsy on the step.

If Everton had done nothing else for her, it had taken away Poppy’s fear of servants. She greeted the housekeeper with easy grace, and said she would not inspect the house until the morning, since she was very tired.

She listened with half an ear to the girls’ chatter, and when the housekeeper announced that supper was to be served in the dining room, Poppy nodded her head and sent one of the housemaids up the stairs with the girls to supervize the washing of their hands.

The cook-housekeeper, Mrs. Abberley, was very impressed when the duke’s housemaid, unloading Poppy’s small trunk in the tiny hall, whispered to her, “Mrs. Plummett’s real quality, you know. Don’t you believe what any o’
them
says about her.”

Poppy ate her supper without noticing what it was, and listened to Emily and Josie without hearing a word they said.

She kissed them good night warmly, but pleaded that she was too tired to sing to them. With a sigh of relief, she went next door to her own bedroom.

She crossed to the window as she unpinned her hat, and looked down into the shadowed garden, faintly lit by the light from the kitchen downstairs.

Dominating the center of the garden was an old apple tree, and suspended from the apple tree was a swing.

And then Poppy felt the anger begin to smolder, to glow, to burn.

“Dreams made to order,” she said bitterly. “There’s probably even roses round the door. Give the silly little bitch what she wants, but keep her out of sight.”

She stared at the swing, her hands clenching and unclenching. Then she remembered the duchess’s words: “
Something like Lewis’s Lovelies, featuring the Honorable Mrs. Freddie Plummett
.”

“Why not?” said Poppy, her lips curling in a slow smile. “That’ll larn ’em. Just let me find a school for the girls. I’ll get back on the boards, and we’ll see how Mr. High-and-Mighty likes
that!
”

The next morning Poppy awoke early and made her way downstairs to take stock of her new surroundings. A pale, watery, yellow light filtered through the drawn blinds. She wandered from room to room, feeling the peace of the house beginning to ebb into her, and experiencing the beginnings of wonder that it was all hers.

Downstairs, there was a sitting room to one side of a small hall and a dining room to the other. At the back was a small morning room and a tiny library full of dusty almanacs and bound journals. Kitchen, pantry, and scullery were in the basement. There was no bathroom, and the water closet was at the end of the garden, tastefully wreathed in honeysuckle.

Long French windows opened from the study, and a small flight of wrought-iron stairs led down to the back garden. She opened the windows and walked down the steps, standing on the dew-soaked lawn and looking around her in growing delight. The birds were chirping busily in the branches of the apple tree, and the swing hung motionless in the still morning air. There were clumps of bushes and flowers, the names of which Poppy did not know, that at first glance seemed to have been planted at random but upon closer inspection had been placed that way to give the garden a pleasing, informal air.

Poor Freddie
, thought Poppy sadly.
Perhaps things would have been all right had he lived
. But in her heart of hearts she knew they would not have.

It was pleasant to return to the clean, quiet house, which smelled of beeswax and lavender, as well as the aromas of breakfast.

Poppy decided not to wake the girls. How marvelous to know that they were having a good sleep, undisturbed by drunken rantings and ravings. How marvelous to be served a sizzling breakfast by a quiet, well-trained housemaid. Poppy thought of her anger of the night before. She had been very silly to think of revenge. She was grateful, deeply grateful, for the quiet security of her surroundings.

Soon she was joined by Emily and Josie, their faces flushed with excitement. They could hardly eat their breakfast, and at last it was Josie who asked in a trembling voice, “Are we reely goin’ for to live ’ere, Poppy?”

“Yes, as far as I know,” said Poppy, smiling at the wonder and relief on their faces.

“Will ’e like us?” piped up Emily. “Your feller with the eyeglass?”

“He’s dead!” said Poppy, too startled to tell other than the truth.

“Dead?” repeated Josie. “Then it’s just you and us, Poppy?”

“Yes.”

“What ’appened?”

“An accident… an automobile accident.”

“And was you awful sad?”

“Yes, very.”

Both little girls tried to look sympathetic and downcast, but death was an almost everyday occurence around Cutler’s Fields, and soon Josie and Emily’s eyes began to shine again.

“Could we—could we play on that there swing?” asked Emily.

Poppy nodded, and both little girls arose solemnly from their chairs, dying to rush away but trying to respect Poppy’s grief.

They left the room as quietly as mice, and soon she could hear their excited shouts echoing in the back garden.

They need mourning clothes
, she thought,
and I must find a school
.

But as it turned out, these small items had not been overlooked by the duke or his efficient man of business, Mr. MacDonald.

Mr. MacDonald called late in the morning. He was a plump, fatherly looking Scot with small twinkling eyes and an air of great good humor, which belied the fact that he had none at all.

“Well, Mrs. Plummett,” he began when they were seated in the study on either side of the tea tray, “I have here instructions from His Grace as to the girls’ welfare. You seem like a sensible lady to me, and will not take it amiss if I point out—as His Grace has pointed out—that the young girls will need a wee bit of training before they go to the local seminary. Bit of polish required, I gather.”

He gave a hearty laugh, while Poppy watched him, cold-eyed. “So to that end,” he went on pompously, “we have employed a governess, a Miss Villiers, who will be arriving this afternoon.

“Let me see. The servants have the rooms in the attic. Hmm. Well, now, I have it. There’s a wee room on the first floor back. Aye, that will do her fine.”

“Wait a bleeding minute,” said Mrs. Poppy Plummett. “Did nobody think to consult my wishes?”

He looked at her in almost insolent surprise. “Would you have known how to choose a governess?”

“It would have taken a little more time,” replied Poppy slowly, “but, yes, I could ’ave found someone myself.”

But ever honest, she privately admitted to herself that she would probably have sent the girls straight into the local seminary without stopping to consider the humiliations they might have had to endure because of their cockney accents.

“But since you seem to have everything arranged,” she added, “we’ll see how it works out.”

He then opened his briefcase and drew out a sheet of paper and carefully explained about her allowance and about how to draw money from a bank, and Poppy swallowed her pride and tried to overcome her dislike of the man, for what did she know of banks and banking? And he certainly explained it very lucidly.

The allowance was generous enough to keep her in a certain style, provided she lived fairly modestly.

As he rose to leave, his business having been concluded, he turned and looked shrewdly at her. “You will not be thinking of going back on the stage, Mrs. Plummett. His Grace expressly desires that you shall not.”

Poppy flushed with anger. “That is a matter for me to decide.”

“Then I take leave to tell you, your allowance would cease. The house is in your name, and we cannot do anything about that.”

Had he left matters there, then Poppy would have accepted them, but Mr. MacDonald did have a penchant for bullying women, and so he could not leave well enough alone.

He took up a position in front of the small fireplace, stuck his thumbs in his waistcoat, and proceeded to pontificate.

“See here, now, Mrs. Plummett, you’ve feathered your nest very well. Not exactly Bermondsey, is it?” Poppy winced. “So I suggest you count your blessings and behave sensibly. You owe the Plummett family a great deal, and it is only fitting gratitude to respect their wishes.”

Poppy rose gracefully to her feet and touched the bell. Mrs. Abberley answered promptly. “Mr. MacDonald is just leaving,” said Poppy quietly.

MacDonald opened his pursed rosebud mouth and closed it again. Like the good servant she was, Mrs. Abberley sensed immediately the gentleman was not welcome and held the door open firmly, waiting patently for him to leave.

“Think on what I have said,” said Mr. MacDonald, pausing on the threshold, but Poppy had moved to the window and was watching her two young sisters playing on the swing.

She wanted to be free of the Plummett family, with their perpetual hurts and humiliations. If only Mr. Lewis would take her back! But then her heart sank. It would not be nearly enough to support herself and the girls and pay the staff. It was no use thinking the servants would easily find other jobs. The queues at the employment agencies bore witness to the horrendous state of unemployment. She would be patient and wait and see.

March moved into April, and before Poppy seemed to have time to turn around, it was May. She had banished the duke firmly from her mind, although the sight of a tall man with white hair on a crowded London street still had the power to set her heart hammering against her ribs.

She made several visits to Cutler’s Fields, but her former friends treated her with awe and respect, with the exception of Ma Barker, who never changed. Her father’s deterioration was alarming, but anyone with Poppy’s upbringing knew there was little one could do about it but pray.

Emily and Josie were rapidly turning into little ladies under the expert care of Miss Villiers, a small, sandy-haired lady with an anxious rabbitlike face, who had become devoted immediately to Poppy.

Poppy grew tired of her widow’s weeds as May blossomed into June and an unaccustomed heatwave spread over London.

She had been very thrifty to date with her allowance, and decided to buy herself some clothes. She still had only a nodding acquaintance with her neighbors, and as far as she knew, none of them was aware of her recent bereavement.

Poppy had instinctively picked up one good lesson at Everton: It was a mistake to be on overly familiar and ingratiating terms with one’s own servants. They did not appreciate it in the least. Nonetheless she managed to maintain an easy relationship with Mrs. Abberley and the two housemaids, Gladys and Rose.

She had consulted Mrs. Abberley accordingly over the question of going into half-mourning so soon, and Mrs. Abberley had said stoutly that she saw no harm in it, which said a lot for her loyalty to Poppy, because it was still an age when widows, when they went into mourning, often stayed in it for life.

The sunshine had made Poppy weary of black. Everything about her was black, from her heavily veiled hats to her underwear and her very handkerchiefs.

It was not that she was callous enough to have forgotten Freddie. In fact, she was unaware that she was fonder of him now than she had been when he was alive. She could only remember that he had loved her, and, well… other people… had not.

Poppy had hardly been out of the quiet residential area, apart from the few visits to Cutler’s Fields, since her arrival. The golden days had drifted past, with Poppy sitting in the garden, sewing or reading, listening to the soft murmur of Miss Villiers’s voice as she instructed the girls. Little by little the memory of Everton, with its attendant hurts and humiliations, began to fade. She did not see any more of Mr. MacDonald, and therefore had nothing to spark her to rebellion.

The house enfolded her in its well-ordered peace and quiet, and Poppy—to whom quiet and tranquillity had been a hitherto unbelieveable luxury—gradually became lazy and content.