The Flower Girls (2 page)

“You’re Poppy Lord,” he announced, striding now towards her, his arm outstretched. “How do you do?” he said. His accent, unlike his appearance, was refined, but distant. There was little warmth in his greeting. His voice was deep and not unpleasant. The reverse actually.

“Are you…are you Jasmine’s husband?” she asked. She offered her hand. His hand was cold but his clasp was firm.

He didn’t smile. “You might say that,” he answered enigmatically. “Jasmine isn’t here; I’m afraid I don’t know where she is.”

* * * *

The room was large but comfortable. A fire roared in the grate and there was the hum of background heating too from a large radiator. All mod-cons. She even had her own small bathroom—well, just a shower and a toilet and a sink, very adequate. The heavy brocade curtains were drawn across the windows. Dragging her feet across the floor, she peered out but all was darkness. She could see nothing but a huge moon and several twinkling stars.

The soup and sandwich she’d taken had filled her; she hadn’t been able to finish the delicious cheese and bread. Too tired to take much in, when Seth Sanderson suggested she might like to go bed she agreed immediately.

Alone in the room Mrs. Carrington had brought her to—someone not merely a cleaning woman but a housekeeper-cook it seemed—she had time to reflect on Jasmine and her disappearance. Not that Seth Sanderson was worried. She did that a lot, apparently, took off. Yet she knew Poppy was coming; it seemed a peculiar thing to do. Not that her frequently “taking off” was not
peculiar
as well. Just what was Jasmine up to? It didn’t seem as if her life even remotely resembled what she’d written about in her e-mails.

Poppy pulled off her clothes and then scrambled beneath the duvet. It was snug and warm and when she extinguished the light the darkness wrapped around her. There was nothing threatening in it, in fact she welcomed the peace and quiet. Her mind was poised ready to leap into action, to analyze and try to explain just what Jasmine was up to, but her physical tiredness was too strong and she fell into a deep and dreamless sleep.

* * * *

Refreshed, Poppy woke up to see light sneaking in through a crack in the curtains. The fire in the grate had long since died but the room retained the heat of last night. The radiators were obviously very efficient. Scrambling from the bed, she went to the window, threw back the curtains and looked out. A milky sun touched the hills, there were splotches of purple and the trees shimmered in the light. It didn’t look as unappealing as yesterday. Poppy knew that was because it looked nothing like lush Florida, she admitted, she had been resentful arriving in such a cold and bleak place after her long sojourn at Tampa Bay. Resentful too because Jasmine had made her give up so much. A moment’s anger stirred. To add insult to injury her sister hadn’t deigned to stay around to greet her. So much for Jasmine being a virtual prisoner, held in a miserable house by a man who treated her contemptuously. Of course the latter was probably true, but Jasmine was obviously no prisoner, otherwise she wouldn’t have been able to skip off when she liked.

Quickly Poppy unpacked her bag before taking a shower. Dressed in jeans and a warm sweater, she went in search of hot coffee. The stairs creaked a little but other than that there was no noise. No radio to break into the silence. Once in the hall she stood, trying to pick out the door she’d come through. Unable to decide, she opened the one to the left of her—it was a narrow passageway but wafting up was the smell of coffee and bacon. Her mouth swirled with juice, she was hungry and she was desperate for coffee. Marching along the corridor without a sense of fear, she came to another door, and not bothering to knock, she opened it. It was a wonderland.

A huge kitchen, copper and brass everywhere, a large table at which three men sat, one of whom was Seth Sanderson. There was a mound of toast, a coffee pot and standing at a huge range was Mrs. Carrington. There was lots of conversation, the men were talking and joking. The scene was so unexpected that Poppy stood for a moment, taking it all in and yet feeling at once a little shy. Had she bounded into somewhere that was private?

It was one of the men who saw her; he stood from his chair, causing the others to look in her direction. The other, younger man stood too but Seth Sanderson didn’t.

“Poppy,” he said, “do come in, sit down; coffee?” His words should have sounded welcoming but the way he said them was decidedly chilly.

The coffee was far too tempting. Aware that Mrs. Carrington had turned from the stove to give her a narrow-eyed glance, she nevertheless scuffled shyly to take the chair he indicated.

A hot mug of coffee was set beside her. She took it black and sipped it appreciatively.

“Bacon and eggs and what you will?” Mrs. Carrington asked.

“I’d love a bacon sandwich,” she said. Ah, that was something she’d missed dreadfully, a BLT just somehow didn’t make the grade when compared to hot bacon and crusty white bread.

“Bacon butty it is,” Mrs. Carrington said, not unpleasantly.

Seth introduced her to the men. Mr. Carrington, the older gentleman who’d first noticed her entrance, and his son Jason.

Jason asked if she’d had a good flight. It gave her an opportunity to say something—yes it was good if you liked flying but she loathed flying and it always made her so tired.

“It’s a long journey from Manchester,” Jason conceded.

Mrs. Carrington came with two plates, serving first Seth and then Mr. Carrington, returning to the stove for a plate of food for Jason.

“Bacon butty coming up in a minute,” she confirmed, as if suspecting that Poppy would be concerned about the delay.

“No worries,” Poppy said pleasantly.

The men fell on their food and ate silently. Poppy squirmed a little uncomfortably on her chair, not knowing quite what to do. It was odd how this domestic scene had robbed her of her normal confidence. After all she was used to dealing with people; there was little that fazed her, she was normally quietly confident.

“Yes, it was rather a long journey,” Poppy said, picking up on Jason’s previous statement. “The train and then that grumpy driver.”

“Donalds?” Jason said. “He’s a miserable old sod.”

“Jason,” Mrs. Carrington warned.

“He was really.” Poppy managed a little laugh. “He wouldn’t get out of the car to put in my bags.”

“He wouldn’t. He’s like that with everyone, er well everyone except Mr. Sanderson.” Jason gave a shy smile in Seth Sanderson’s direction. “No one dare treat Mr. Sanderson that way.”

Seth apparently decided not to confirm or deny it but said, “So, Colin and Jason, one of you needs to be in the lambing shed today, the other needs to carry on with the coppicing. I don’t mind which you choose but that coppicing really needs finishing today. I have to go into town but I can relieve you with the lambing tonight. Joe Davies is coming over at ten, he’ll give you a lift; is that okay?”

Lambing equaled farming in Poppy’s head. So somewhere there was a working farm. She hadn’t noticed anything like that around the house and decided that after breakfast she’d explore. She knew she couldn’t leave, even if Jasmine had lied to her. She’d have to see her sister to find out what was going on. Besides she’d given up
everything.

Damn Jasmine.

It was hard not to feel resentful. Anger bubbled away, broken only when Mrs. Carrington slammed a plate in front of her. The smell of bacon had a very soothing effect but Poppy knew it couldn’t last. Jasmine as usual had let her down.

“Is there anyone who might know where Jasmine is?”

The kitchen had emptied with a flurry of grabbed jackets, squeaking boots on the stone floor and a door slamming. Mrs. Carrington was a long time replying. Poppy had almost formed the question again.

“No one I know,” the woman said, drawing up to the table and piling plates and knives and forks.

“I can’t understand it,” Poppy muttered.

“Can’t you?”

“No. I mean Jasmine sounded urgent. Desperate even.”

Something that could have been a laugh came from the older woman, then with plates piled she sidled back to the sink.

“I gave up my job. My life, everything.”

“More fool you then.”

“You can say that again.” Poppy stood. Gathering her own plate, she took it to the sink. “Is there anything I can do?”

“Do?”

“To help?”

“To help me do you mean?”

“Anyone.”

“No. Unless you’re any good with lambs there’s nothing here for you to do.”

“Is this a working farm?”

“No, not as such. Mr. Sanderson keeps a few lambs but he isn’t a farmer, if that’s what you mean.”

“I see. Well, what does he do?”

“You’ll have to ask him.”

Poppy sighed. “I think I’ll go for a walk.”

“Well don’t go too far, I’d hate to have to call on a search party to look for you.”

Poppy thought to say
she’d
hate that too but decided to be silent. No good antagonizing anyone more than necessary. But she’d made up her mind about something. If Jasmine wasn’t back in three days then she was off, and she wouldn’t ever come back, no matter what Jasmine said.

* * * *

He drove from town. His hands were tight on the steering wheel. Uncomfortable. Just what was Jasmine up to? Inviting her sister. Not that Jasmine’s disappearance was anything unusual. Everyone knew the woman took off whenever the fancy came upon her. And what about the sister? Jasmine had never even mentioned she had a sister, let alone had invited the woman to stay. Was it a con? That had been his first suspicion. Something cooked up by Jasmine and Poppy Lord? But the older girl seemed so genuine. And it wasn’t as if he was a mug to be taken. Jasmine knew damn well he was no fool and wouldn’t be taken in by any cock and bull story. No, he made up his mind the woman was Jasmine’s sister. As to why Jasmine had never mentioned having a sister, well there were a lot of things that Jasmine failed to mention.

So what if Jasmine had said nothing about her sister or her imminent arrival? It was just the kind of thing she would do. But it was inconvenient.

It could be that the reason that made sense was that Jasmine hadn’t known that Poppy was coming; however it wasn’t really an explanation he wanted to accept. Poppy appeared to be a straightforward kind of girl and not one to make up a story like that. However, what did he know? He hadn’t realized just what Jasmine was really like. Her sister could be cut from the same cloth.

He turned the vehicle back onto the drive at Heaton Grange. Grabbed the provisions and slammed back into the house. It was oddly silent. In the kitchen he saw Mrs. Carrington had cleared up after breakfast and was nowhere to be seen. He unloaded the bag of groceries, shoved stuff into the freezer and pantry. There was still a pot of coffee on the hob. He poured a measure into a cup and then sat at the kitchen table.

Mrs. Carrington came bustling in. “I didn’t know you were back, Mr. Seth,” she said. “Did you put the shopping away?”

“Yes, no problem.” He sipped the coffee thoughtfully.

“Mrs. Sanderson’s sister’s gone for a walk,” she announced.

“I hope she doesn’t get lost.” He tried to smile at the irony of it but the smile died on his lips.

“I doubt it; she seems to know what she’s about.”

Compliments,
he mused, and that was as rare as snow in summer from the woman. He grabbed the newspaper, flicked through it, finished his coffee and then said he would be in the library if he was needed.

“There’s a nice fire in there,” the woman announced.

He saw she was right. The fire roared in the grate, casting scarlet shadows across the room. For a moment he stood by the hearth, hand on the mantelshelf. His mind wanted to draw him in to meditate on the past. Deciding to have none of it, he hurried to the computer, turned it on and settled in his chair. Work was a great panacea of all ills, he decided.

* * * *

It was so fresh. There was something wonderful about the air. Poppy breathed deeply. Snuggled into her dark blue sweater and a fleece she’d found behind the kitchen door, she was warm enough.

The sickly sun had overcome whatever ailed it and shone high and bright in a clear blue sky. Even the dull grass had a sparkle now. She stuck to the lane, then a fingerpost denoting a footpath tempted her. It was a steep path but she could see where it led. Straight across the moor and up to the very top of the hill. It was a well-used path; there were stones to aid her progress so when she reached the top she was barely breathless. From the top the whole of the county spread out before her. To the right were rolling hills, and deep in the valley a river tumbled over rocks. There were some huge boulders and she sat on one staring out. There was a majestic wildness about it all. Time had stood still here, there were no fences. Nothing appeared to be man-made; there were no houses or outbuildings, there was nothing but the land.

She knew Jasmine wouldn’t have liked it. Jasmine the city girl, she would have seen nothing worthwhile here, this place would have smothered her. Instinctively she knew what was wrong. Jasmine had made a mistake, she’d married the wrong man and he, very probably, had married the wrong girl. How sad. Reluctantly she thought that it applied to them both, the brooding Seth Sanderson and the ditzy Jasmine. Jasmine wouldn’t have been able to tolerate the life he offered. This wilderness would have choked the lifeblood from her. But she must have known what he offered before accepting to marry him—or was she blinded by the house and the trappings she thought it brought? Jasmine had never made a fortune. She was a model but not a fashion one. She was too small in height. Although she’d done some lingerie modeling for catalogues her main work came from hands and feet, hair products and make-up. She was that good-looking.

Yet Jasmine, well Jasmine had been panic-stricken. It was there in her letters, a real fear of Seth Sanderson.
“If only I had known he could be so…”
But then there was nothing to follow that statement. She telephoned once and was a little more descriptive—cold she said, he could be so cold. Cruel, silent, not understanding, those were just words and Jasmine hadn’t given any examples. Certainly Jasmine never did reveal much, she barely offered any explanation about anything; it was nothing more than a hint or two and these missives never revealed where Jasmine went when she left the house. In fact it seemed as if she never left the brooding house, as she called it. Yet Seth Sanderson had to have some idea, surely. This was such a remote place. Someone had to have seen
something.
Even had Jasmine gone into the nearest town—wherever that might be—there should be someone who might have seen her. The complaints from Jasmine, her begging her sister to join her had come as a surprise too. Before that Jasmine hadn’t even bothered to let her sister know that she’d married.