Poppy (10 page)

“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.

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 her 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.

There was a clatter of hooves, and the duke and Freda rode out from under the window. Freda was wearing a very dashing green velvet riding habit with gold lace at the throat and cuffs. She looked a superb figure on a large dappled horse, which curvetted and tossed under her easy mastery of the reins. The duke called something to her, and she threw back her head and laughed, and then they cantered together, side by side, down the drive.

Poppy watched them until she could see them no more, her eyes hard and dry and very bright.

The words of the music-hall song rang in her ears:

Lord Archibald Plummett and his wife, Lady Mary, arrived that very same day. Lord Archibald was a heavy, round, serious young man with a fat face, which wore a perpetual expression of disapproval, making him look like a discontented baby.

The duchess went forward to meet them, wishing for the hundredth time that Mary were not quite so tall.

Lady Mary stripped off her gloves in a threatening manner. “I gather Freddie’s made a fool of himself with some quite unsuitable creature,” she said.

“Not at all,” said Her Grace. “We find her very pleasant and quite pretty. Hugo even goes so far as to point out that she is much too good for Freddie.”

“Pretty, is she,” sneered Lady Mary. “Well, we can’t stand here. Have the girl sent for, and I shall look her over and give my verdict.”

“You will do nothing of the kind, Mary,” came an acid voice from the main stairs, where the duke was making his leisurely descent. “Must you wear such repellent hats, Mary? I swear they are almost as bad as your manners.”

Lady Mary went puce. The duke was the only person who could manage to get under her skin, since he was, after all, the only one with enough courage to stand up to her.

“Good morning, Archie,” continued the duke. “What brings you here? You might have sent me a wire.”

“Little bird told me you were in need of help,” said Archibald sourly.

“Freda telephoned you, did she,” said the duke. It was not a question. “What an interfering lot of busybodies you all are. Well, since you’re here, you may as well stay. Unless of course you plan to treat the new Mrs. Plummett to any discourtesy.”

“I shall treat her as I treat everyone,” exclaimed Lady Mary.

“That is exactly what I am afraid of,” countered the duke.

“Don’t speak to Mary like that,” grumbled Lord Archibald. “Girl’s as common as dirt, I hear. Lives in some slum in Bermondsey.”

“Since you have invaded my home without waiting for an invitation, I shall speak to you any way I please,” said the duke nastily.

“Really,” bristled Lady Mary. “I have never known you to be quite so rude. One would think you were in love with the girl yourself.”

“Don’t be vulgar!” snapped the duke, and Freda, listening avidly at the top of the stairs, just out of sight of the group in the hall, heard the anger in his voice and felt a qualm of unease. It was just as well Poppy Duveen
was
married.

Lady Mary decided that retreat was the best policy, and mustering up her dignity and her tweed skirts, she marched up the stairs, head held high. Lord Archibald stumped behind her in his Norfolk knickerbockers, mumbling under his breath.

Once in their room, Lady Mary lost no time and sent immediately for the housekeeper, Mrs. Pullar.

“Ah, Mrs. Pullar,” she began, taking off her hat and revealing a hairstyle that was exactly the same depressing shape and color as the hat she had just removed. “This new Mrs. Plummett. Bad show. Not what you’re accustomed to.”

“Not at all, madam,” agreed Mrs. Pullar, deliberately misunderstanding her. “Mrs. Plummett is a highly intelligent lady with a nice regard for the servants.”

“So she should have, considering that’s her social level,” remarked Lady Mary while Mrs. Pullar looked at the floor and burned with hate. “What does she look like?”

“Very sweet and pretty, my lady.”

“So His Grace appears to think. Don’t you agree, Mrs. Pullar?”

“That I do not know,” said the housekeeper, “but I shall inform His Grace of your question, and no doubt His Grace will inform my lady of his answer.”

“Here, now, this is only between us, Mrs. Pullar,” said Lady Mary, slightly shaken.

“On the contrary, my lady,” said Mrs. Pullar. “It is my duty to inform His Grace of everything concerning His Grace. Will that be all, my lady?”

Lady Mary opened and shut her mouth, and then gave a jerky little nod. Hugo, she knew, would be furious with her for having dared to question one of the servants.

Unaware of the new problem, Poppy was trying to reason with Freddie. He had lost his euphoria engendered by the night before, when he had had a splendid time. He had felt no end of a fine fellow, and had suggested they take a spin somewhere and seal their joy with a bottle of champagne. Poppy declined grimly. They must obey the rules of the house, and the rules of the house were that Freddie should not drink. At last, sullen and defeated, a sober Freddie presented himself at the luncheon table.

Poppy’s wardrobe had been growing rapidly under the busy hands of Her Grace’s lady’s maid. She was wearing a beautiful lace blouse with a high collar. Soft folds of lace spilled in a cascade over her excellent monobosom. It was considered indecent to reveal the fact that a woman possessed
two
breasts, and if your corset could not achieve the desired effect, then you stuffed a small satin pillow down your front to obliterate the cleavage.

A long, heavy linen skirt emphasized Poppy’s tiny waist. Her thick blond hair was impeccably dressed over her forehead in the current mode. Gilbert, the lady’s maid, had persuaded her not to frizzle it as most ladies did, since it had a natural curl. Her pink cheeks owed all to health and nothing to art.