Storm Damage

by Lorna McKenzie

  “It’s nothing. Your mother jumped to some unfortunate conclusions, that’s all.”

  “All! Anyone would think…” He stopped short, noticing for the first time her pale face, the deep shadows beneath her eyes. She might feel worse first thing in the morning, but it was in the evenings she actually looked her worst. “My God! She’s right! Poppy, you can’t be pregnant! I mean, who the devil…?”

  “Could possibly have found me that desirable?” She said it with a grin, even though it hurt.

  “No, of course not, silly.”

  Suddenly all Poppy’s bravado collapsed, and her face crumpled. Robin pulled her into his arms, tucked her head under his chin, and stroked her back soothingly as one would a child. At last Poppy indulged in the luxury of a good cry.

  “Want to tell me about it?” Robin asked when she was calmer.

  “I can’t, Robin.”

  “You realize Mother thinks it’s mine?”

  “Now I do, yes. Don’t worry; I’ll soon put her right.”

  “I half wish…”

  “No, you don’t, and who wants a halfhearted man? I hope you’ll always be my friend, though, Robin.”

  “You bet.”

  “Now you trot off home while I ring Esther and reassure her.”

  “You do that—I’m ravenous! That casserole really smells good.”

  “Stay and have some, if you like.”

  “No, thanks all the same. I’d better go and make my peace with Mother.”

  The following Saturday morning, Annabel dropped in. She had become a staunch friend since the accident and had taken to sounding Poppy out on matters of clothes and makeup. At this delicate stage in their friendship, Poppy was careful not to criticize directly, but by subtle suggestion she was able to help Annabel to create a subtler, more attractive image.

  Today, with smart new jeans, Annabel was wearing a sapphire-blue jacket that made the most of her eyes over a white sweater that matched her woolly hat. On her feet she wore flat leather ankle boots, a far cry from the spiky heels she usually sported.

  “What do you think?” she demanded, pulling off her hat and shaking her dark hair about her shoulders. Gone was the heavy mass of wiry, back-combed frizz. Instead, her hair had been layered and conditioned and blown into a mass of shiny, casual curls.

  “Fantastic! It looks wonderful, Annabel! All I can say is, who’s the lucky man?”

  “You guessed! Well, that’s partly why I came to see you. I mean I wouldn’t want to tread on your toes, if you and he…”

  Oh no! Poppy turned away. Please, not Guy! Poppy couldn’t imagine Annabel and Guy together, and anyway, what about Nerissa?

  “I’ve no claim on anyone, Annabel,” Poppy said quietly.

  “Oh, thank goodness.” Annabel let out an audible sigh. “I couldn’t believe it when Robin asked me to partner him to Lord Delmere’s do next weekend. You’re sure…”

  Poppy laughed her relief. “Sure I’m sure. I’m really pleased for you, Annabel. Have a cup of coffee—it’s freshly made. And tell me what you intend to wear to this do.”

  “I was rather hoping you’d advise me.”

  “Any thoughts on the matter yourself?” she asked, handing Annabel a steaming cup of coffee.

  “I tried on a few things in Dorchester. Gauguin’s boutique have got a wonderful selection of slinky numbers in fabulous jewel colours.” Yes, Poppy steered well clear of Gauguin’s party collection with her red hair! “And Madam Isabel’s got some pretty nice things too—if a little pricey. There’s a stunning black-and-silver outfit—a strapless dress with a matching jacket; and then there’s a midnight-blue velvet one I rather liked…” Poppy could just see Annabel in the latter with her lovely blue eyes.

  “You could wear your sapphire drop earrings with it,” she thought aloud.

  Besides, black and silver sounded a bit ultra-sophisticated for Annabel.

  “So I could. And to tell you the truth—I think Robin would prefer me in something dark and discreet. He came to see me that day I fell off my moped. I’d just cried all my makeup off—I felt positively naked, but Robin said that’s when he saw what I was really like, and I guess he liked what he saw.”

  “I’ll bet he did. You’re a very pretty girl—no need to hide behind layers of paint.”

  “I’m beginning to realize I don’t need quite so much, anyway. I’d better go. I promised to pick up some shopping for Mother. I’d better not let her down. They’ve been very long suffering, my poor adoptive parents…”

  “I didn’t know.”

  “I hardly think the Desmond-Madge genes would have thrown up something like me.”

  “You could be right,” Poppy laughed.

  Annabel grimaced. “No need to agree so readily! Anyway, I’ve decided to turn over a new leaf and act a little more mature. This,” she patted her new hairstyle, “is all part of my new image.”

  She left Poppy in reflective mood. Last year Robin had escorted her to Lord Delmere’s annual do. His parents had been there, so had Tess, Robin’s sister, then engaged to Simon, Viscount Delmere. Against his father’s wishes he had trained to be a doctor. He had finished his training now, and was married to Tess. It had been such fun, she would be sorry to miss it. Ah well, back to the knitting machine.

  By the end of the afternoon, Poppy had added several sweater pieces to the pile waiting to be stitched up, among them her friends’ orders. The others would have to be sold on Dave Hadden’s market stall. Daylight was fading. There was just time for a short walk before planning her lone supper and seeing what television had to offer.

  Other young people, single and heart-free, would be getting ready for a night out at the cinema, or a restaurant, or maybe something more active like tenpin bowling, disco dancing, or ice skating. Sometimes she felt positively middle-aged. Sad too, because now she would never do any of those things. Poppy was not heart-free; she was carrying the child of the man she loved, which must remain her secret forever.

  Donning warm jacket and Wellington boots, she strode off across the field opposite, with no particular destination in mind, but her footsteps carried her over the hill and up the lane to the three cottages that Guy was having renovated.

  They were sturdy dwellings of traditional flint and brick, with big gables over the extended front elevations and small dormer windows set in the sheltered sections of the roofs. They must be quite spacious inside. Was there any point in sticking out against Guy’s wishes? After all, how could she bear to live close to the Hall, once Guy and Nerissa were married? She could always take cuttings of the plants she used for her dyes and grow them in the garden here.

  From this angle, the Hall loomed large on the next rise, looking most imposing against the western horizon, where the sun was sinking fast. A chill breeze started up. She had better start for home while she could still see her way in the increasing gloom.

  Suddenly something pale and floppy appeared around the side of the cottages. She stared in surprise as a cream Labrador puppy, barely three months old, lolloped towards her, leaping up to lick her hand as it reached her.

  “Hello,” she laughed. “Whose guard dog are you?”

  “Sheba! Down!” roared a familiar voice, its owner too emerging from the other side of the cottages.

  “She’s yours?” Poppy asked as Guy strolled towards her.

  “She is. Creeping up in the dark to inspect your new abode?” he asked with a smile, which was not altogether unpleasant.

  “No, I just felt like stretching my legs now I’ve finished work for the day.” She looked away from the eyebrow raised in disbelief, and squatted to play with the puppy, which had grown tired of sitting to command and had started to play with some drifting leaves.

  “What a gorgeous creature you are,” she said, scratching the puppy about her floppy ears.

  The puppy promp
tly rolled over and waved four sturdy but muddy paws in the air.

  “You’ve made a hit there,” declared Guy. “Get up, you incorrigible, faithless hound,” he ordered, gently nudging the dog with his booted foot.

  The puppy did so and stood looking from one person to the other.

  “Now that you’re here, albeit accidentally,” said Guy drily, “you might as well look inside.”

  Taking a key from his pocket, he opened the door, flicked on a light and ordered the dog to sit while they looked round. To give him his due, Guy had had an excellent job done on the cottage. Both kitchen and bathroom were newly fitted, and all the rooms had been cleanly if impersonally decorated. There was even a small extension on this one that would make an excellent workroom. Even so, she was not going to let him think he had won.

  “Very nice,” she agreed as they emerged into the chilly evening air. She snuggled into the warm collar of her jacket. “I must get back now—it’s almost dark.”

  The sun had left a bright pink afterglow in the west, while a moon almost at its fullest peered over the eastern horizon.

  “I’ll see you home,” said Guy.

  “There’s no need—I know the way like the back of my hand.”

  “Even so, it would be unchivalrous of me to allow you to walk home alone, after detaining you—and Sheba could do with the exercise. Besides, there’s something I want to ask you.”

  She looked at him expectantly but he merely cupped her elbow in one large hand and steered her homewards.

  “How’s the rag trade?” he asked as they walked along companionably, side by side.

  Was that all he wanted to ask?

  “Fine! I’ve found a local outlet, as a matter of fact.” And she found herself telling him about her deal with Dave Hadden.

  “What about your plans to take the West End by storm? Was all that spiel at the Wilsons’ for effect?”

  “No, it wasn’t!” she denied crossly. “I’ve changed my mind, that’s all—a woman’s prerogative, I believe.”

  “But why?”

  Because I’m expecting your child, and I can’t see motherhood combining with big business! she could have stormed.

  “I have my reasons,” she replied obscurely.

  “Which are?”

  “I don’t owe you an explanation,” she flared.

  “No more you do.” He turned her to face him. “What’s this Dave Hadden like?”

  “Wh-what do you mean?”

  “I mean is the interest purely professional?”

  She thought of Hadden’s smart-alec approach to life, his casually rendered endearments, and could have laughed at Guy’s insinuation. As it was, a tiny curl of amusement lifted her lips.

  “I’m right, aren’t I?”

  Even if he were, which he wasn’t, there was no call for him to be scowling like that! He jerked her against him when she failed to reply. Her head fell back, her eyes feasting on his shapely lips. She could not have said a word if she’d tried. His head lowered swiftly, his lips hard on hers, and she responded hungrily. When he finally lifted his head and ended the kiss she would have liked to prolong indefinitely, there was a gleam of triumph in his eyes.

  “Perhaps I was wrong, eh, Poppy? Unless you dispense kisses like that to all and sundry.”

  “Of course I damn well don’t! You took me by surprise, that’s all.”

  “I must remember that.”

  A whimpering sound came from the region of their feet. Guy laughed and bent to fondle the puppy.

  “All right, Sheba, I can take a hint.”

  Straightening up, he recaptured Poppy’s elbow and they resumed their walk, the puppy scampering about their feet.

  “How much is he paying?” Guy asked suddenly.

  “How…who…what are you talking about?”

  “Your market trader, of course! What’s he paying for your sweaters?”

  She’d quite forgotten Dave Hadden and the sweaters, aware only of the lingering imprint of Guy’s mouth on her own.

  “What is this? The Spanish Inquisition?”

  It was none of Guy’s concern, but she told him anyway.

  “You have to be joking! Designer sweaters fetch ten times that amount in London. He’s taking you for a ride. What did you say his name was?”

  When they reached the stile, Guy produced a lead, which he attached to Sheba’s collar. He hooked it over a post and leapt over, then turned to help Poppy.

  “I can manage,” she told him impatiently.

  “Sure you can,” he replied, holding her by the waist and lifting her down to slide the length of his body and remain tucked against him. “You wouldn’t deny a poor amnesiac his pleasure, would you?”

  She glanced at him swiftly, paling, wondering if there could be a double meaning to his words. Had he remembered the pleasure she had given him? No, there was no hidden meaning—she was just being ultra-sensitive. He released the puppy’s lead, whereupon Sheba slithered under the lowest bar of the stile into the lane.

  “Oh yes, would you like to come to Lord Delmere’s do on Saturday?”

  Poppy felt a swift dart of pleasure, which she just as swiftly suppressed. “I don’t go out with other people’s fiancés,” she told him primly.

  “For heaven’s sake! Nerissa’s away, and I’m not suggesting a dirty weekend in Paris. All the neighbours will be there, and I gather Robin’s taking Annabel. We’ll just go as friends—we could go as a group.”

  They were halfway up the path to her door, she realized. What should she do?

  “Do you want a cup of tea?” she asked, not wanting to decide quickly.

  “Can’t, I’m afraid. I’ve got to get Sheba home for her next feed. Puppies are like babies—they thrive on routine.”

  “Much you’d know about that,” she flashed back, ignoring the stabbing misery in her heart. His child would never enjoy the same loving care from him as this puppy. “Still, I expect you’re right.”

  “Say you’ll come, Poppy.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Can’t or won’t? Look, this poor dog’s starving, but I’m not leaving here till you agree to come with me on Saturday.”

  “Guy, please!”

  He leaned against her door, a smug smile lighting his handsome features. Sheba began to whine, demonstrating her hunger.

  “You leave me little choice, do you?” She knelt to play with the puppy. “Do you realize what a monster you’ve come to live with?” she asked.

  “Sheba finds me a quite lovable monster,” he retorted equably.

  “A dog of very little brain,” she quipped, restraining a smile.

  Chapter Six

  Lord Delmere’s party was usually the smartest of the festive season, getting things off to a good start. Poppy sorted through her wardrobe after leaving Guy, and decided that the only suitable dress for the occasion was the one she had worn last year—and that would never do! There was nothing for it but to splurge on something new.

  It was what she wanted to do, anyway. She had an unaccountable desire to appear at her very best—perhaps while she still possessed a waistline? She set off early the next day and scoured the shops in Dorchester. By mid-morning, she had almost given up hope when she found the very thing. In an exclusive boutique tucked in one of the town’s oldest buildings, she found a dress of velvet and shot-silk taffeta in peacock shades of blue and green with a low, heart-shaped neckline and a full skirt that rustled as she walked. It had a period look about it that would be perfect in the party setting. She would have to wear her black-and-silver shoes—there was no way she could spend any more right now.

  Guy arrived exactly on time just as she was spraying Je Reviens on every pulse spot she could reach. Her chestnut hair was dressed high with silver combs, leaving her slender neck bare but for a few tendrils of hair. With a s
urge of excitement, she lifted her chin and went down to greet her escort. She could not afterwards say who was the more stunned. From the expression on Guy’s face she knew all the trouble had been worth it, while he had never looked more handsome. He was in formal evening attire, looking big and broad and virile in a black jacket, his Australian tan startling against the pristine white of his shirt. Even his dark, curly hair had been tamed to neatness.

  “All this for me?” he joked, his voice uncommonly husky.

  “Do I look all right?” she asked—absurdly. Hadn’t a glance in the mirror just told her so, and why did her voice sound so ridiculously soft?

  “You look fabulous,” he declared, solemnly lifting her hand and pressing his lips to her soft white fingers with their pink-varnished nails. “Your carriage awaits, madame.”

  Lord Delmere’s vast Georgian pile was surrounded by parkland, landscaped originally by Capability Brown. At the end of a drive slicing through acres of carefully tended gardens, the house glowed a welcome from dozens of lighted windows. Guy parked his Jaguar alongside Mercedeses and Porsches, an occasional Rolls-Royce and one ferocious-looking red Ferrari, together with more mundane and modest saloons.

  “Oh good, the Wilsons are here,” she commented as Guy helped her out of his car. “They’ve hired a locum specially so that both Robin and his father could come.”

  “That’s nice for you,” said Guy, his scowl belying his words.

  “Why are you looking so cross? Don’t you like the Wilsons?”

  She knew from Esther that Guy often played golf with Robin.

  “Just remember who your escort is,” he growled, his hand pressed firmly to the small of her back as they crossed the circular drive to the main entrance.

  “And that I’m merely standing in for Nerissa,” she reminded him.

  “Shall we forget about Nerissa for this evening?” he suggested calmly.

  “Well, I’ll certainly try to,” she assured him. He swung her round to face him and, right there in the middle of the drive with cars pulling up and disgorging occupants all about them, he hauled her against him, his fingers digging hard into her shoulders, and pressed his lips to hers.