“You can help me, Poppy,” he said softly, ignoring her request.
“How?”
“I felt nothing—nothing at all when Nerissa kissed me. Do you suppose that’s because of my amnesia? I mean, I really tried to kiss her meaningfully back, but nothing happened—no shooting stars, no violins playing. If I were to kiss you by way of an experiment, as it were, do you think the result would be the same? I’m getting desperate! I want to be certain this is a temporary state, and that when I marry Nerissa, everything will be quite normal.”
How could he be so cruel, using her like that? Then it occurred to her that perhaps he was deadly serious. Perhaps he wanted to be sure he could feel nothing for any woman. He had been the one to pull away last time, when she had responded so passionately. How could she let him kiss her now, without giving away her feelings for him?
“Poppy?”
His head lowered slowly. She pressed her hands against his shoulders, intending to keep him at bay, but he locked her against his body, one arm purposefully circling her waist, the other hand sliding up to anchor in her hair and tilt her face up to his.
“Poppy.”
He breathed her name against her lips and claimed them with his own. Her hands stilled on his shoulders, arrested by the feel of his lips sliding against her own, warm and firm and wholly inviting. With a muffled cry she slid her arms round his neck, pressing herself closer. Or was he doing the pressing? They clung in urgent need, their kisses growing ever wilder. His hands moved possessively over her back, exploring its curves and indentations, pulling her even closer. His normal reactions were in no way diminished! She felt his warm fingers moving over the soft skin of her midriff. Her head fell back with a helpless little gasp, offering the slender column of her throat to his questing lips. He stilled and looked down at her, the pupils of his eyes large and black, circled by a narrow band of gold.
“I’m not sure what we’ve just proved,” he told her hoarsely, not attempting to remove his hands.
Flushed with need and embarrassment, she asked, “Can I have my body back now, please?”
For reply he slid his hands free and tugged her sweater into place, then took her hands from their resting place round his neck and lowered them to her sides.
“I’d say, Poppy, that if I’m going to go ahead and marry Nerissa, then I’m going to need a lot of help from you in recovering my memory.”
So long as it wasn’t that kind of help! If she were to disclose what had really happened on that stormy night, if it were to jog his memory, he would also remember proposing to Nerissa and his feelings for the other woman—Poppy couldn’t bear that.
“The kettle’s boiling. I’ll make that tea,” she said.
For the next week there was much to-ing and fro-ing along the lane to the Hall. Workmen’s vans, delivery vans, utilities—they came and went. Poppy concentrated so hard on her work that her output went up by leaps and bounds. Her orders were completed—she was going to have to look for further outlets for her sweaters. Perhaps she should embark on a sales mission to London and aim for the big time.
Guy had stayed away and she wondered if he’d now recovered his memory and was too appalled by what had passed between them and too shamefaced to see her, or if he’d decided that the sort of help he had elicited on his last visit was too risky, considering her hopeless reaction.
As she weeded her vegetable patch one frosty Saturday morning at the end of October, she became aware of several sounds in the lane outside. From the direction of the village came the high-pitched buzz of a moped approaching up the lane, still out of sight round the bend outside her cottage. From the other direction came the distinct sound of a horse’s hooves cantering carelessly down from the Hall. The next moment all hell was let loose. The moped skittered to a halt, to the dismayed cries of its rider. At the same time, a horse whinnied and the shrill tones of Nerissa cut the air.
“You stupid girl! Don’t you realize this is a private road? What the devil are you doing speeding up the track like that?”
“I wasn’t speeding,” came the shocked and frightened tones of Annabel. “I couldn’t see you for the bend.”
Another horse cantered more slowly to join the group, coming to a halt.
“What the devil’s going on here? Are you all right, Annabel?”
It was getting too interesting for Poppy to go on pretending to mind her own business. She sauntered over to the gate.
“Having a party?” she enquired with a smile, which was rapidly wiped away at the sight of Annabel’s tearful demeanour and torn jeans. Ignoring the others, she went out and righted the moped, helping Annabel to her feet. “Come in, love, we’ll soon have you cleaned up.”
They had barely reached her gate when Nerissa stormed into the fray once more.
“Well, darling, say something! That stupid girl came careering round the corner and almost unseated me. Surely this is a private road, isn’t it?”
“Cool it, Nerissa. Can’t you see the girl’s hurt?”
He slid down from his huge black stallion and handed Nerissa the reins. The next moment he was at Annabel’s other side, helping her into Poppy’s warm kitchen.
“Just sit there,” he ordered the frightened girl, skillfully unfastening her helmet and removing it. “Does anything hurt?”
“Only my leg.” She indicated the torn jeans’s area. “I caught it on the pedal. Apart from that, I’m all right, I think.”
“You didn’t bang your head?”
“I didn’t fall right off—I just sort of crumpled in an undignified heap,” she explained in a wobbly voice. “I was coming to see Poppy. What does she mean, it’s a private road? Surely I can use it to visit Poppy, can’t I?”
“Of course you can. Nerissa doesn’t understand. How fast were you going?”
“How fast do those things go? Thirty-five maximum, downhill, with a good following wind!”
“Whereas your dear fiancée was galloping along the road as if the hounds of the Baskervilles were in hot pursuit!” put in Poppy.
“Don’t exaggerate, Poppy!” Guy gave her a scathing look, before returning to Annabel. “I think I can leave you in my neighbour’s capable hands—she might even patch your jeans for you!” Which brought him a scathing look from Poppy. “She’s very good at tending the injured, anyhow. Now, I’d better get back to Nerissa.”
What had he meant by that remark about her tending the injured? Had he recovered his memory?
“How go the experiments?” she couldn’t help but ask quietly, halfway along her path. “Reacting nicely to Nerissa?”
“I seem to be avoiding that kind of experiment these days,” he surprised and pleased her by answering, his eyes at the same time resting hungrily on her mouth.
“So you still can’t remember?”
“Unfortunately—or perhaps fortunately—no.” They had ceased walking altogether, and just stood there looking into each other’s eyes. “I still have a feeling you hold the key to those lost hours, Poppy Winters.” She coloured delicately. “By the way, I’m having a trio of cottages renovated behind the hall. Would you care to come and look at them?”
“I’m not a professional decorator.”
But she was pleased he had asked her, just the same.
“That wasn’t the reason. I thought you might like first pick of them for your new home.”
She blanched, then the heat of anger rose to suffuse her face. “I’m not leaving here, Guy Devereau. I’ll fight you in the courts if need be…”
His eyes narrowed. “You’d lose.”
“That remains to be seen. Anyway, hadn’t you better go and pacify Nerissa?” she suggested sweetly.
“Bother Ne…”
He seized her shoulder, but at that moment Nerissa’s voice could be heard, loudly complaining. The next instant her head appeared above the wall.
/> “Come along, Guy. It’s far too nice a morning to waste, and Midnight’s getting restless.”
“Coming, Nerissa.”
His hand fell away but he kept his eyes on Poppy’s. “I’ll be seeing you.”
She stood there watching as he disappeared through the gate, aware of Nerissa’s puzzled scowl, then turned back into the house.
“Why were you coming to see me, Annabel?” Poppy enquired as she cleaned up the younger girl’s grazed knees.
“Two things, really. First of all, I’d like to order a sweater to go with a skirt I’ve just made…”
“You make your own clothes?”
“I sometimes design them, actually,” Annabel replied modestly. “Which brings me to the second matter I wanted to ask you about.”
“Which is?”
“Well, I suppose you had some kind of training for the work you do?”
“I did my stint at art college, if that’s what you mean.”
“That’s precisely what I mean. Oh, don’t think I have plans to set up in competition with you—as if I could, anyway.”
“What, then?”
“Well, I decided to take a year off after my A levels, to discover what I wanted to do. I rather fancy studying fashion design, but I haven’t a clue how to get started. I was hoping you could help.”
Poppy was only too delighted, and, by the time she had finished giving Annabel the benefit of her knowledge, they were well on the way to becoming friends.
Chapter Five
“Forgive my curiosity, Poppy, but why have you brought two large suitcases with you to market?”
It was a mild, muggy Wednesday in mid-November, market day in their county town of Dorchester.
“I’ve got some orders to deliver to my retail outlets, Esther. All the shops are on High Street and South Street, so I can drop you off first, if you like. You don’t need to hang around.”
In fact, Poppy had brought with her not only the sweaters shops had ordered but a good many extra ones as well that she was hoping to sell. She had just discovered that in future she would need to increase her income considerably.
“I don’t mind waiting. I haven’t got much shopping to do.”
Poppy emerged from her last call, pale and disappointed.
“Are you all right, love?” asked Esther. “I thought you looked a bit peaky when you picked me up.”
“I’m fine,” she lied, “but I’m going to have to look for different outlets. The story’s the same everywhere. Nothing’s shifting, apparently. There’s not much money about, and what there is is being spent on basics, not luxury goods, like original-design sweaters.”
“Perhaps you should open a market stall!” Esther laughed.
“That’s not a bad idea.”
The mere thought of standing out in the cold brought a return of the nausea she had suffered the last few mornings. She parked near the vast market site, where they went their separate ways after arranging to meet afterwards. Poppy paused beside one stall selling just sweaters. They were cheap, quite well made, but mostly acrylic.
“What can I interest you in then, love?” asked the stall holder, a young man in his late twenties. He was tall and fair, with a cheeky grin—not bad-looking apart from rather shifty eyes. “Cor, with that hair, you should be wearing green. Trust Dave Hadden to know what suits a lady.”
“So they tell me—it’s not one of my best colours, actually.”
“How about a nice Arran-style sweater? Keep Jack Frost at bay—if you want to keep him at bay, that is.”
“How do you go about getting a stall here?” she surprised him by asking.
“You don’t look like no market-stall holder, though there’s a group of ladies like yourself doing a roaring trade in leather goods. What kind of line are you in?”
“Sweaters, actually,” she laughed.
“You’ve got a bit of a cheek, haven’t you? Sizing up the opposition, all blatant like that?”
Poppy sighed.
“It was only a tentative idea. Mine are original designs—I couldn’t afford to sell them at these prices.”
His eyes narrowed speculatively.
“Got any samples with you?”
“Well, there’s this one,” she said, opening her jacket to reveal the autumn-leaf design, “and I’ve got a suitcase full in the car.”
“Cor!” His eyes ran over her shapely form as he examined the sweater she wore. “Sweater’s nice, too.”
“It’s the sweater you’re supposed to be looking at,” she told him tersely.
“It’s very nice—maybe we could do a deal. I’ve always fancied going upmarket.”
“You mean you’d sell them for me? How about price?”
She told him what she charged the shops who bought them from her, and then added a percentage for their own profit.
“I couldn’t give you anything like that, but I reckon I could take them off your hands, if we can agree on price.”
She did want to sell them, didn’t she? They haggled a bit while all the time she did sums to work out whether it was worthwhile dealing with him. She could, after all, spend the time going further afield to shops in Salisbury, Bournemouth, Exeter, or she could just beaver away producing bigger quantities, which Dave Hadden would be certain to buy. What should she do?
“Okay, I’ll bring them along, and if you like them, you can have the first lot at your price,” she agreed at last.
“Is he giving you a good price?” were Esther’s first words, when Poppy told her what she had done.
They were lunching in the Horse with the Red Umbrella. The café had once been a theatre, and the rather odd name had been the title of the last production staged there.
“Not bad in the circumstances, I suppose. He wants to go upmarket—at present he’s selling mass-produced Arrans and Shetlands. He’s not actually paying a lot, but it’ll save me the hassle of marketing them myself.”
“Is that what you want? You did once mention making a sales trip to London’s West End.”
“I know—I suppose I’m settling for the easy option.”
“Any particular reason?”
“Oh, I don’t know, I suppose I’ve been feeling a bit under the weather and can’t-be-bothered-ish lately.”
Like suffering from several days’ morning sickness! There was little doubt about it, Poppy was almost certainly pregnant—her feelings on the matter swung from excitement to downright terror.
“Robin said you weren’t your usual self when he took you to the cinema last week.” Robin not infrequently took Poppy out when the two of them were at a loose end—purely as a friend. “Perhaps you should see a doctor,” Esther laughed.
“I saw one only last night—two, in fact! That was a marvellous dinner, Esther.”
“Thanks. I think I might have enjoyed it a little better if Guy hadn’t brought that Nerissa with him. She really is a pain. But seriously, love, you ought to have a word with George.”
She glanced sideways at Poppy’s pale face, pausing momentarily on the violet shadows beneath her eyes with a puzzled frown.
“Perhaps I will,” Poppy agreed, having no intention of doing so for the time being. “Have you finished your shopping, Esther?”
“I’ve just got to call back at the chemist’s and pick up some drugs we don’t keep at our dispensary. How about you?”
“I’ve finished. Oh dear, I don’t think I can eat that, after all.”
They always finished lunch with one of the wicked cream confections the place was renowned for. Today, however, the very sight of all that thick cream oozing out of the flaky, melt-in-the-mouth pastry started her stomach churning.
“Poppy dear,” Esther began on the way home. “Don’t think me a busybody—you know how fond George and I are of you—but I really do think you should see
a doctor. Those violet shadows under your eyes—and you’re very pale. You know you can always talk to me, Poppy.”
Poppy turned three shades paler.
“You’ve guessed. I’ve only just realized myself. Is it that noticeable?”
“Not to the lay person—remember I’m a doctor’s wife, and I’ve had children myself. Are you feeling generally fit?”
“Bursting with energy most of the time. I just suddenly slump. The same with food: some things turn me green—at other times I could eat a horse, or more likely a whole cucumber or a barrel of crisp apples.”
“Quite normal, then!” Esther laughed.
Poppy had retrieved her shopping from Esther’s car and was just setting off up her path when Esther called after her, “Don’t forget—I’m on your side, love.”
Poppy smiled, grateful for the proffered support. “Thanks.”
“Between you and me,” Esther followed up in a loud stage whisper, “I think it’s rather exciting!”
A strange thing to say, Poppy mused, but truth to tell, she was rather excited herself. She felt less pleased, as she surveyed the empty shelves, about the price Dave Hadden had paid for her sweaters, considering the time it would take to replenish her stock. Fortunately she had a few private commissions from people like Shirley and Tanya and, of course, Annabel, to keep her going. She would need a constant supply of those with two people to support.
That evening Poppy was about to sit down to a chicken casserole with lots of mushrooms when Robin steamed into her kitchen looking angrier than she had ever seen him. So angry, in fact, that she backed away across the kitchen.
“What the devil have you been telling my mother?” he demanded furiously.
“Wh-what do you mean?”
As far as she could remember it was Esther who had been doing all the telling, or guessing!
“She refuses to serve supper till I’ve come over here and sorted out ‘this mess’ with you! What the hell’s she talking about?”
Poppy blanched. Esther had got the wrong end of the stick!
Storm Damage Page 5
