Storm Damage

by Lorna McKenzie

  “Shall I pick you up?”

  “No, thank you. We don’t want people to think we’re an item, do we?”

  He didn’t answer—he didn’t need to.

  Little groups had gathered outside the picturesque village church, amicably chatting in the stiff October breeze. Poppy was talking to Esther and George when Guy joined them.

  “As you said—I was surprised. He’s a different man in the pulpit. All that talk of Christian charity—and loving thy neighbour!”

  “Desmond’s a very caring man under all that bluff,” Esther informed him. “If you’re in trouble, spiritual or temporal, he’s a good man to turn to. He was once an army chaplain. He’s very approachable, for a vicar.”

  “Yes, I suppose he would be. But I still wouldn’t send my daughter along for advice!”

  Esther and her husband turned to speak to someone else.

  “Do you have a daughter?” Poppy taunted.

  “Of course I damn well don’t! I’m not married, and I’ve always been very careful in that respect!”

  Poppy’s blood ran cold as a new worry surfaced. No precautions had been taken by either of them that night. Surely fate wouldn’t be so unkind—not her first time?

  A team of builders and restorers were at the Hall when she arrived the following morning. They had been there some time, she gathered, discussing the basic structural work, so she and Guy were able to get down to the business of a colour scheme for the drawing room, the first room to be decorated, straight away.

  Guy let her decide without interference, endorsing everything—to her surprise. The walls were to be papered in a silk-finish covering several shades lighter than the peachy tone in the Aubusson carpet; this was to be cleaned to restore its brightness. All the stucco work was to be brilliant white.

  “What about the ceiling medallions? Could they be restored?” Poppy enquired.

  They had been painted over, but faint traces of shepherdesses and their loves could be seen through the paint, and she was sure there was a book of the original designs somewhere.

  “That would be expensive,” said one restorer doubtfully.

  “How expensive?” asked Guy. A figure was named, astronomical to Poppy’s ears. “Fine—whatever the lady decides.”

  Everything would be restored and refurbished, just as Poppy had dreamed! The brown curtains were to be replaced by other velvet ones in a soft creamy beige to match that in the carpet, while peachy lampshades in pleated silk would adorn delicately wrought wall candelabra, replacing dingy parchment. The huge settees and armchairs were to be reupholstered and covered in fabrics to tone with the rest of the furnishings.

  “No buttoned leather?” enquired Guy.

  “Definitely not! These seats are wonderfully comfortable—well, they will be when they’ve been re-sprung. Keep the leather look for your study. Oh! I’m sorry, Guy, if you want leather…I mean, it’s your home, and…”

  “Forget it, I was teasing. I told you I’d trust your judgement, didn’t I?”

  Soon the experts had gone and Poppy muttered something about leaving.

  “Have some lunch first. It’s the least I can offer you. I have a casserole simmering in the oven.”

  “You can cook?”

  “I surely can. But don’t tell Esther or Madge. This is one of Esther’s.”

  And it was delicious.

  “I never thought Percy Hugh had a lot of money to leave,” Poppy commented between mouthfuls.

  “Not a brass farthing!”

  “Well then, how…”

  “How am I going to pay for all this? I’m not exactly a pauper, Poppy. I had several thousand head of cattle to sell along with the ranch before I came over.”

  “Two inheritances! Aren’t you the lucky one?”

  “No!” His vehemence startled her. “My father was a gambler. He squandered his father’s money. It was Mother’s that paid for my education in England.”

  “So that’s why you’ve no Aussie accent!”

  “Mother never ceased to be the English gentlewoman. If I had but known I would one day own a small corner of England, I’d have been down to inspect it like a shot. Instead I slogged my guts out over there to build up the biggest ranch for thousands of miles, working alongside the men. That’s the only way I know how to live—I can’t imagine being a gentleman farmer, just sitting back and giving orders.”

  After lunch Poppy did leave. Later she heard his car go past, and paused to say a silent prayer for him at the hospital. She worked all afternoon till it was getting dark, but still hadn’t heard Guy’s car return. Perhaps he went by while she was on the phone; perhaps he had things to do, people to see before he returned. What was it to her? She put a record on loud, and tried not to strain over the noise for the roar of a Jaguar engine.

  Her phone rang soon after six.

  “Poppy?”

  She mustn’t sound too irrationally pleased that he was calling her.

  “Hello, Guy. I didn’t hear you get back.” Damn! She hadn’t meant to say that! “How did you get on?”

  “They’ve decided to hang on to me for a couple of days,” he informed her, his voice grim.

  And he’d chosen to tell her!

  “They did? Why?”

  “Oh—tests, brain scans: that sort of thing. Anyway, I obviously didn’t come prepared. No shaving gear—nothing. And I wondered…”

  “You want me to go and get it?”

  “Perhaps you could borrow some from Robin…?”

  “Oh, I’ll get yours, if you like.”

  “I locked up, dummy.”

  “Oh, don’t worry—there’s always a spare key in the second geranium pot along on the terrace.”

  “Wonderful! I suppose every burglar for miles around knows it, too!”

  “Do you want your things, or not?”

  “Yes,” he growled. “Visiting’s at seven.”

  The pips went and she didn’t hang on to see if he fed in any more money. Seven—that didn’t leave long.

  She had a sketchy wash and put on some lipstick and mascara, then dressed in a chestnut-brown sweater with a rust skirt. A matching shawl went over her shoulder, worn like a plaid. Low-heeled boots completed her outfit. Before leaving her cottage she gathered together some fruit, flowers from the garden—rich ruby, bronze and gold chrysanthemums and dahlias—and a tin of homemade biscuits: it was the best she could do without prior warning.

  Guy was obviously a tidy, methodical man, so she had soon collected together the things he needed.

  Poppy was just letting herself out of the Hall when a white Mercedes sports car shot into the drive. She paused on the steps and watched as a tall, immaculate blonde slid out, slinky as a cat in a slim-fitting suit of hyacinth blue that matched somewhat hard eyes. The basque of the jacket made the most of her slender waist. She had model-girl proportions: boyish breasts; narrow hips; and long, long legs in high, spiky shoes. Her silvery-blonde hair was coiled into a neat chignon, adorned with a velvet bow, her makeup so perfect it could have been enamel.

  Poppy hated her on sight!

  “Is this the right place?” she enquired in a supercilious drawl, a scowl marring the perfection of her smooth, tanned skin. “I’m looking for Cranford Hall.”

  “This is Cranford Hall,” Poppy conceded.

  “Oh, good. Tell Guy I’m here, would you?”

  Poppy’s hackles rose. Who did the woman think she was?

  “He’s not here. Is he expecting you?”

  “I have an open invitation,” the blonde replied in her superior tone. “Who are you? And do you know where he is?”

  Poppy would have liked to lie and say no. As the other woman came nearer, she noticed fine lines around her eyes. She must be thirty—or more. She derived curious satisfaction from the fact.

  “I’
m a neighbour. Guy’s in hospital,” she reluctantly confessed.

  “In hospital! My God! What’s wrong with him?”

  Poppy had an insane desire to giggle, but managed to keep a straight face. The mere thought of any permanent damage to Guy somehow wiped the smile off her face. “A tree fell on him—or rather on his car.”

  “Is he…?”

  The blonde looked more annoyed than distressed.

  “He’s just having a few tests—he has a memory lapse around the time of the accident. They want to find out if there’s any permanent damage. He may never recover those lost moments, it seems.”

  “Really?” Hyacinth blue eyes slid away—there was something decidedly sly about her, Poppy decided. “Tell me what happened.”

  How could Poppy not? She told her what she knew of the accident—she had heard all about the crushed cab of the Range Rover by now—but omitted the fact that he’d spent the night at her cottage.

  “So if he hadn’t been there at that particular second…” The blonde looked thoughtful. She looked up, straight at Poppy. “If he hadn’t stopped to phone me, he would have reached the Hall all in one piece. How absolutely ghastly!”

  She sounded like a bad actress, reading her lines all wrong.

  “I’d better get along,” said Poppy. “I don’t want to miss visiting hours.”

  “Oh, you don’t need to go. I can take those things.”

  “He asked me to go, and who knows what the shock of seeing someone else might do to him in his fragile condition?” she said with exaggerated concern.

  “Y-yes, all right, then. I’ll follow you.”

  They walked into the ward together. Guy’s eyes settled on Poppy the minute she entered the room, her bright hair loose about her shoulders, her wide green eyes warm and caring as they sought his. He looked dark and vibrant against the stark white bedding, and strangely incongruous in stripey hospital pyjamas. It was only when they reached his bed that he noticed the other girl, who was clearly put out. Poppy laid her armful of goodies on the end of the bed, and while she did so the blonde hurled herself into Guy’s arms.

  “My poor darling! And to think it’s all my fault!”

  “What! Nerissa, what are you doing here?”

  Poppy looked from one to the other. She could have sworn that Guy looked irritated, while Nerissa—silly name—was all false adoration.

  “Darling, if I hadn’t taken so long making my mind up, you could have got off that phone and arrived safely at the Hall before that wretched tree fell!”

  “What phone? What are you talking about, Nerissa?”

  Nerissa laughed. “You can’t have forgotten that, darling! You rang up to propose, and I…eventually accepted.”

  Poppy blanched. This woman was engaged to Guy!

  “I—er—I didn’t realize,” Poppy put in. “Look, if you’ll excuse me, I’d better go. You’ll have lots to talk about.”

  “You can’t go straight back, Poppy.” At last Guy addressed her. “Lovely flowers—from your garden?” She nodded. “Did you find everything?”

  “I think so, and there’s some fruit and biscuits in the tin there.”

  “Oh, how neighbourly,” drawled Nerissa. “Darling, I can’t wait to see inside the Hall. We’ll soon smarten the place up—it looks a bit dreary at the moment. Thank God you look all right—I didn’t know what to expect.” She cast Poppy a deliberately reproachful glance. “When will you be out of here?”

  “In a couple of days, I imagine.”

  “Oh, good! I’m staying with the Pemberton-Stuarts near Salisbury, so I’ll pop down again when you’re out—I hate hospitals!”

  “I’m not that keen myself! Never mind, I expect Poppy will bring me whatever I need.”

  Which went down with Nerissa about as well as with Poppy herself.

  “I think hospital visiting is more in Madge’s line. Perhaps she’ll bring Annabel.”

  “Darling, who are these people?”

  “They’re—oh, some of my new neighbours. How long did you stay in Australia?”

  “Long enough! God, all that dust and flies! I spent six weeks there altogether. Still, just think, if I hadn’t accepted my cousin’s invitation, we’d never have met!”

  “No,” said Guy thoughtfully.

  “I’m off,” said Poppy, sick of playing gooseberry. “Hang on to the spare key; then you can let the builders in, in case they want to make a start before I’m allowed home.”

  “Perhaps you’d like me to stay at the Hall, and tell them what to do,” suggested Nerissa.

  “No, I’ve already done that, and the drawing room decor has already been decided. The decorators can make a start there.”

  “You’ve chosen a colour scheme?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, I’m sure if you’ve chosen it, I’ll love it.”

  “I’m very happy with it. Poppy advised me—she has a wonderful way with colour.”

  “You mean…”

  Narrowed blue eyes moved in hostile perusal over Poppy’s pink face. She lifted her chin and glared back, then looked at Guy.

  “I really have to go, Guy. Shall I ask a nurse to bring something for that pain?”

  Her emerald eyes glittered wickedly over Nerissa’s slender back, but when the other woman turned her gaze in puzzlement to meet eyes gone suddenly blank, she entirely missed the reciprocating sparkle in Guy’s.

  “Thanks, Poppy. You do that.”

  What Poppy actually did was dash hell for leather out of there, before Nerissa could hurry after her and pour out all the venom and recriminations she could see the other woman storing up in what, Poppy was certain, was a very scheming head. She drove home in equal haste, blinking hard to dash away inexplicable tears. Was Guy really going to marry Nerissa? Had he, way down in the antipodes, fallen in love with her, and invited her to marry him? Did Nerissa love Guy, as much as…

  Yes, poor, foolish Poppy had fallen in love with her dashing, arrogant landlord, who saw no reason why he shouldn’t bundle her from her lifelong home into some other, as yet undecided abode—anywhere so long as she didn’t cause him inconvenience. Well, he could think again—Poppy wasn’t giving up that easily!

  Chapter Four

  For the rest of that day and all through the next, Poppy worked away till she had a pile of fronts and backs and sleeves of sweaters to be pressed and sewn into garments. She was still working late in the afternoon when she heard a car slew to a halt outside her gate. Heavy footsteps on her path were followed by a peremptory rap on her door.

  “Goodness, where’s the fire?” she asked, opening it to be confronted by Guy Devereau’s thunderous face.

  “Where the hell were you today?” he demanded.

  “Wh-what?” she asked, puzzled and astounded by his attitude. “Have I missed something? What are you talking about? When did they discharge you?”

  “I had letters to post, and things I needed from the shops…I discharged myself.”

  “You fool! And I’m not your personal skivvy, Guy Devereau! Get your damn fiancée to do your chores!”

  “I don’t want Nerissa. Damn it, woman—I don’t remember proposing to her.” He brushed past her and sat down heavily on one of the kitchen chairs. “Tell me about that night, Poppy. I mean, from the moment I arrived here.”

  “Why?” she asked, knowing full well why—Robin had already spelt it out for her.

  “Because I can’t bear to have a gap in my memory. For pity’s sake—can’t you understand? Robin may have been joking, but suppose there is something I can’t bear to remember? Suppose I did propose to Nerissa, and immediately regretted it?”

  “Is that likely?”

  “I knew her in Australia.”

  “So I gathered. Did you know her well?”

  “Not as well as she’d have liked, I fancy
. She was only there for a holiday. She’s witty and attractive, true, but I couldn’t see any point in starting something destined for an abrupt ending.”

  “She might have decided to stay.”

  “No, she hated Australia. Nevertheless, I was tempted to have an affair with her—I don’t, however, remember considering her as wife material.”

  “Why not?”

  “I’ve always had this fanciful idea that I would one day meet and immediately recognize the woman who would be my wife—you know, eyes meeting across a crowded room, seeing my unborn children in her eyes—that sort of nonsense. What was my frame of mind when I drove down here, I wonder? What could have prompted me to stop en route, phone up Nerissa and propose? When could I have done that?”

  “Perhaps when you stopped to eat? I offered you food and you said you had eaten somewhere on the road. Do you remember where?”

  “No, I don’t, so you’re probably right—that’s when I must have called her.”

  “It was a foul night. Perhaps she reminded you of sunny Australia? Do you fancy a cup of tea?”

  “Thanks,” he accepted. “Did I talk about the journey at all?”

  She set the kettle to boil. “No, not at all.”

  “What the devil am I going to do, if I don’t remember?”

  “You must remember how you felt about her in Australia. Were you pleased to see her at the hospital? Did you lie there missing her after she’d gone?”

  She turned to face him when there was no answer. He was staring at her strangely.

  “Do you want me to be honest, Poppy?”

  “Y-yes,” she said doubtfully.

  “I find the prospect of cuddling up on a chilly night to the slim perfection of Nerissa a whole lot less appealing right now than the warm, soft curvaceousness”—he stood up and started towards her—“of a certain Poppy Winters,” he finished, sliding his arms round her and pulling her against him.

  She went warm all over but tried to hold herself rigid and not give in to the almost overwhelming urge to put her arms round his neck and mould her shape to his.

  “Is that a fact?” Her voice was embarrassingly husky. He nodded gravely. “Well, I’m not in the market for acting as stand-in for your absent fiancée! Take your hands off me, Guy.”