Poppy (6 page)

Built of yellow-gold stone, enriched with splendid carving, Everton was a magnificent and awe-inspiring sight.

Numbly Poppy alighted from the car. She was frightened—so very frightened. It was almost like the very first time she went on stage. As Freddie took her arm and marched her up the wide steps, her heart thudded and her vision blurred.

A magnificently liveried footman opened the door. “’Lo, Henry,” said Freddie, handing the footman his hat, gloves, and cane. “Where’s everbody?”

“In the drawing room, sir,” said Henry, “being that the weather is inclement.”

Poppy shivered on his arm and stared in awe at the magnificence of the painted hall, her eyes dazzled by color and carving.

“Oh, there’s old Stammers,” said Freddie, espying the butler making his stately approach “I say, Stammers, take us up and introduce us. This is the new missus.”

Stammers bowed in Poppy’s direction. “Do I understand, Master Freddie, that I have the honor of announcing the new Mrs. Plummett?”

“Ah, just so,” said Freddie, tugging his mustache.

Freddie was beginning to wonder if he had done the right thing. He had not let any of his relatives know about his marriage because he was sure they would have stopped it. Back in the car, he had thought there to be no harm in introducing Poppy now that the marriage was a fait accompli. He eyed his bride nervously as they followed Stammers up the great curved staircase. She looked very trim and respectable in a tightly fitting black gown with a high-boned collar. Thankfully she had left her rather shabby cloak with the footman. Her black hat was small but dashing and tipped saucily over one eye, and she appeared to be remarkably neat after the journey. But you never could tell with Uncle Hugo. Devilish hard to please. Oh, well…

Stammers threw open the double doors of a vast drawing room.

A group of elegant people were standing with drinks by the fireplace at the far end of the room, which seemed to be a mile away across a gleaming expanse of polished floor upon which priceless Oriental rugs floated like islands.

Poppy put one small foot over the threshold, and all her fears left her. She was on stage.

Stammers cleared his throat.

“The Honorable Frederick and Mrs. Plummett!” he announced.

Heads snapped around as if jerked by wires.

Her head held high, Poppy strode lightly toward them. Then her step faltered as a tall, handsome man detached himself from the group and came to meet them.

“Mrs. Plummett,” he drawled in a light, mocking voice. “What an unexpected surprise.”

“My uncle,” said Freddie.

“Blimey!” said Poppy.

The Duke of Guildham was that man who had watched her sing in Cutler’s Fields, the man whose image she had had to tear up the night she had decided to marry Freddie.

Witness to the arrival of the new Mrs. Plummett were the Dowager Duchess of Guildham, the duke’s mother; the duke himself and his mistress, Freda; Sir Bartholomew Bryson, a choleric neighbor, and his upholstered wife; and Ian Barchester, a weedy young man, and his fiancée, Annabelle Cummings, a strapping girl with goggling eyes like a constipated otter. Fortunately for Poppy, who found them all terrifying enough, it was a very small house party by Everton standards.

The duchess alone looked reassuring. She bore a striking resemblance to Ma Barker, possessing a pugnacious, florid face and broken teeth, Her Grace having a pathological fear of the dentist.

“Freddie, dear, dear boy,” said the duke, taking Freddie’s arm, “do step along to the study with me for a little chat.”

“Oh, all right,” said Freddie with a pathetic attempt at nonchalance. “Come along, Poppy.”

“I am sure Mrs. Plummett will excuse us,” said the duke, gently disengaging Freddie’s hand from Poppy’s arm. “Mother, please look after Mrs. Plummett.
Now
, Freddie…”

Freddie threw a hunted glance back over his shoulder at Poppy, and he was borne inexorably away. Poppy gave him a wink, and then turned to smile at the duchess, who had come bustling up.

“My dear, you must be
frozen
,” said Her Grace. “Let me introduce you.” She rapidly performed the introductions, but Poppy only heard Freda’s name. So Freda was not the duke’s wife. Who, then? Fiancée?

“And have a little something to drink,” the duchess was urging as she led Poppy to the fire. “Such a surprise. Freddie is so secretive. When were you married?”

“Yesterday,” said Poppy, beginning to feel uneasy again under the impact of haughty, examining eyes.

“Only
yesterday!
” exclaimed the duchess. “What will you have, my dear? Sherry? A little wine? Champagne?”

“Whatever you’re having, Duchess,” said Poppy, hoping that this was the correct way to address such an exalted figure, although she had taken an immediate liking to the duke’s mother.

“Oh, I’m disgustingly old-fashioned, my dear,” said Her Grace with a great hoarse laugh so like Ma Barker’s. “I’m drinking warm gin.”

“Oh, Gawd, don’t drink that, Duchess,” said Poppy earnestly. “It’ll rot yer drawers.”

The duchess blinked. There was absolute silence in the room, broken only by the sound of the wind soughing through the branches of the trees outside and the crackling of the wood fire on the hearth.

Now, Poppy realized she had been overly familiar, but was not sophisticated enough to let matters drop, and so she went from bad to worse trying to explain her gaff.

“It reelly does,” she said, “not that I touches it meself, but there’s some that does, and they tells me.”

“Lor’,” drawled Freda. “Do you come from Cutler’s Fields by any chance?”

“Yes,” said Poppy, somewhat defiantly.

“Dear me,” murmured Freda. “Poppy Duveen in person.”

“Who?” demanded the duchess.

“Poppy Duveen,” repeated Freda in a louder voice. “I think you will find that Mrs. Plummett has trodden the boards.”

“Gad! Disgrace!” mumbled Sir Bartholomew Bryson.

“Wot you say?” grated Poppy, rounding on him.

“He said ‘disgrace,’” explained Annabelle, her eyes gleaming. The otter had found a fish.

Ian tittered awfully. But the real reason Poppy was becoming more and more furious was the cool and mocking vision presented by Freda. Her heavy brown hair was fashionably frizzed over her forehead, and the exquisite silk of her gown was cut in a way that made poor Poppy’s heart ache with envy.

“Look ’ere,” said Poppy, hands on hips. “I bin on the boards. So wot? I made an honest living. Or are you agin
that?
”

Freda clapped her hands softly and longed for Hugo to return to see what he thought of this slummy nightingale now.

“No one’s against anything,” said the duchess. “You do take on so. Here, drink this and stop looking like Alice. It won’t shrink you or poison you. Come and sit beside me on the sofa and tell me all about how you met Freddie.”

The stocky little duchess pressed a goblet of gold liquid into Poppy’s hand and drew her down onto an exquisite little sofa.

“And don’t stand there staring and sniggering in that vulgar manner, Freda,” added the duchess to Poppy’s great delight. “Not at all the thing. It may be all right in Germany, but we do not do it in England.”

Freda made a graceful, deprecatory move with her long, white fingers and turned to talk to Sir Bartholomew and his wife.

“Now…” said the duchess, turning to Poppy.

Poppy swallowed a great gulp of the liquid in her glass and nearly choked. It was brandy, although she did not know it. A warm glow began to pervade her, and Poppy smiled sunnily at the duchess and told her all about the wedding, carefully, however, not mentioning that she had married Freddie only to pay the back rent.

The duchess smiled warmly back while her mind raced. This was appalling! Freddie was a pest. The girl’s voice was impossible, and her family! Cutler’s Fields in Bermondsey! Still, Freddie had married her, so one would just have to make the best of things. Hugo would know what to do.

Unaware of the alarmed thoughts racing through the duchess’s head, Freda watched the seemingly growing friendship between the ill-assorted couple and did not like it one bit. Poppy was most dreadfully common, but she was an extremely beautiful girl. Freda still remembered the duke’s interest in her, and felt obscurely that Poppy should be put in her place and the lid slammed well down.

“Isn’t she too simply awful for words?” breathed Annabelle.

“Yes,” replied Freda automatically while her mind raced.

The duke’s heir, Lord Archibald Plummett, was a stickler for the conventions, and would not approve of Poppy one bit. Neither would his wife, Mary, who was always obsessed with the idea that the peasants were about to rise from their damp cellars and carry the upper classes off to the guillotine.
I shall telephone them
, thought Freda suddenly.
Hugo’s mother is being too affable. If Miss Poppy Duveen is not aware of her great presumption, then it’s time she was
.

A footman entered and walked over to the duchess and Poppy. Freda watched as Poppy flushed slightly, and then rose to her feet, following the footman from the room.

Summoned to Hugo’s presence
, thought Freda.
I would dearly love to be able to hear what goes on
.

Feeling light-headed and strangely divorced from her surroundings by the effects of the brandy, Poppy followed the claret-and-silver livery of the footman along a series of corridors, past long windows reflecting different views of the park, where untidy nature danced silently in the blustery wind.

At last the footman held open a door for her and stood aside. Poppy swept in, and then stopped in dismay. The duke, sitting behind a large mahogany desk, was bending over some papers and did not look up as she came in. There was no sign of Freddie.

At last he raised his head, his eyes hooded. “Sit down, Mrs. Plummett,” he said, studying each nervous movement as she pulled a chair forward and sat facing him across the desk. He put the tips of his fingers together and stared at her consideringly over them.

“Well, Mrs. Plummett,” he said at last, “this marriage has come as a great surprise.”

Poppy opened her mouth to say something, but no sound came out.

There was a strong air of sexual magnetism surrounding the duke, but Poppy did not recognize it as such. She only knew that he somehow caused her to feel very young and very gauche.

He waited politely a few moments, and when she did not reply the duke went on. “Freddie seems to have ignored the question of how he is going to support you, Mrs. Plummett. I gather there was no question of marriage settlements.”

“Wot on earth are they?” Poppy managed to get out.

“Never mind,” said the duke. “The fact is that I gather you have no place to live.”

“Here!” exclaimed Poppy in alarm, although at the back of her mind something registered with pleased surprise that she had said “here” instead of “’ere.” “Freddie’s got a place in town, ain’t he?”

“He has indeed,” replied the duke smoothly. “Unfortunately he cannot return there, since he has a bevvy of creditors awaiting him on his doorstep, and I have no intention of settling his bills. I have done so in the past. Now it is different. He is a married man and must shoulder his responsibilities. You will no doubt be having children, and they must be provided for. Forgive me for being so direct,” he added, noticing with surprise the dull blush suffusing Poppy’s face.

Poppy was remembering her abortive wedding night, but he wasn’t to know that, and the duke assumed the girl was plagued with overly nice morality.

He waited again, but Poppy had risen and was pacing up and down the small paneled room in an agitated manner. He admired her figure and her heightened color with the eyes of a connoisseur. The new Mrs. Plummett, he reflected, was certainly very much a woman. He would not have credited Freddie with enough virility to appreciate such a magnificent specimen.

“And so,” he went on, “I have found a job for Freddie in the City. I have given him letters of introduction to a certain firm of stockbrokers. He will start in a modest way until he learns the business. I shall supplement his income until such time as I consider he is earning sufficient to support you both.”

“Support the four of us!” said Poppy, stopping her pacing.

The duke raised his eyebrows. “You cannot mean Freddie’s parents, of course, since both are dead. Do you mean your own to live with you?”

“No,” said Poppy, registering with surprise that Freddie had had parents and that both were dead. She had never thought of Freddie as having parents. She had somehow imagined vaguely that he had entered the world complete with mustache, monocle, and natty gents’ suiting. “I mean Josie and Emily, my sisters.”

“Have they no one to care for them?”

“No,” said Poppy, sitting down and beginning to relax. She was always at her best when she was worrying about someone other than herself. “See, Pa drinks something chronic, and he gets violent. Not at all naice,” she said, trying to imitate the duke’s accent and failing quite miserably.

“Can you not control your father’s drinking?”

“Garn!” said Poppy. “You can’t control anyone’s drinking.”

“Really? Then to put it bluntly, Mrs. Plummett, I think you have to.”

“’
Ave
to!” exclaimed Poppy, forgetting her newfound aspirates in her alarm. “Nobody down Cutler’s Fields can do anything with Pa. They’ve all tried.”

“I was not talking about your father,” said the duke. “I was talking about… Freddie.”

“Freddie don’t drink, not much, leastways,” said Poppy urgently.

“I am not usually so open in discussing private family matters, Mrs. Plummett. I do not approve of this marriage, but now that you and Freddie are married, I feel it my duty as head of the family to see that it at least has a chance of working. I therefore take leave to tell you that Freddie drinks and gambles to excess, which is the recurring reason for his being perpetually in debt.”

“Blimey,” said Poppy miserably.

“As you so put it,” observed the duke, “blimey. I fear you have not wed the wealthy husband you had hoped for.”