Storm Damage

by Lorna McKenzie

  “Come on, Sheba. Your master’s home,” she said brightly, going down beside Guy.

  A rumbling sigh was the only response. Poppy looked at Guy, a smile on her lips. He was staring back. Her smile died and suddenly they were in each other’s arms, still half kneeling on the floor. The kiss went on and on, ceasing only when Sheba bestirred herself and tried to join in.

  “I think you’re a witch, woman, you know that? One look at you and I get all kinds of wicked ideas, whereas in…”

  He brought himself up short. What had he been about to say? In Paris? Hadn’t things been as perfect as Nerissa had made out?

  “Nerissa loves her ring,” she said inconsequentially.

  “Yes, it rather suits her, don’t you think?”

  She did, but was it for the same reasons as Guy?

  “It does.”

  “Now diamonds wouldn’t suit you at all. You should wear something like emeralds, or rubies, or maybe yellow diamonds. Yes, yellow diamonds would suit you very well, I think.”

  “Oh, do stop theorizing, Guy. Are you going to take Sheba now, or not?”

  “Come on, Sheba. I know where I’m not wanted, and now you’ve spoilt my fun, you can come along home with me.”

  Fun! Was that what she was to him? Just a little light diversion from the main game, from Nerissa, soon to be Mrs. Guy Devereau? Oh, how could she bear it?

  Guy hitched Sheba’s leash to her collar.

  “I’ll collect the rest of her things in the car,” he said, pausing in the doorway. “When’s Hadden due to call next?”

  “Any day now, I shouldn’t wonder. I haven’t actually done much work—we’ve been too busy having fun, haven’t we, Sheba?” She bent to say her farewell to the puppy. “Now, don’t you let him bully you, will you?”

  Later that day a huge bouquet arrived—beautiful yellow roses. She looked at the card. All my love, said the bold, spiky letters. No name? She turned the card over. From Sheba, with thanks, she read, a burst of hysterical laughter rising in her throat. Ah well, the next best thing to yellow diamonds from a lover of one night—yellow roses from his dog!

  Chapter Eight

  Dave Hadden called a few days later, on the first Monday of December. Why had Guy been interested in when the man called? If Poppy had had Dave’s telephone number, she would have called him and told him not to bother. Not only had she had less time to work, with Sheba to look after, but she had also had less inclination, now she suspected he was severely underpaying her.

  To cap it all, she had woken up the previous day with a fiendish headache and the beginnings of a sore throat—probably caught from poor Mrs. Lomax. Today she felt much worse and was certain she was running a temperature. The pile of fronts, backs, and sleeves remained, as yesterday, unsewn.

  “Morning, darlin’—’ow are we this morning?” Dave Hadden greeted her cheerfully later that morning. He frowned when he saw her pale face with just two spots of livid colour on her cheeks. “Oh dear! Not feeling so chirpy, eh?”

  “I feel terrible,” she replied, her voice coming out all husky, but not in the least sexy. “I’m afraid you’ve had a wasted journey.”

  “You must have something for me!”

  “Only half a dozen—hardly worth your bothering.”

  “I’ll take them—’elp you out a bit. I’ll call next week when you’re feeling better. Just you get a nice big pile ready for me—I promise to take all you’ve got. I’ll probably be able to get rid of them before Christmas.”

  When he had gone she looked at the pitifully small cheque in her hand. She couldn’t live for a week on what was left once she had replaced the wool. When she felt better she would go round her retail shops again. When she felt better she would also look for new outlets. But for now…

  She made some lemon and honey and slowly crawled back upstairs and into bed. Later on she would make a fire, but right now, she hadn’t the strength to refill the hod for the Aga.

  She heard her name through a fog of pain. Hammers seemed to be pounding her brain. Every muscle ached; her throat felt tight. She shuddered violently and started to cough. Why was the room so cold? And why did her chest hurt so much when she coughed?

  “Poppy,” said a deep voice. “Why didn’t you tell me you were ill?”

  “Guy? What are you doing here?” she managed. “How…?”

  “Don’t talk, love. If you’re wondering how I got in, I figured if the Hall had a spare key under a geranium pot, there might be a similar arrangement here. I had to search around to find the one loose stone in the crazy paving. Just stay there. I’ll go and make you a cup of tea and call Robin—or George.”

  It was George who called, George who shooed Guy out of the room and examined her, taking her raised temperature, listening to her wheezy chest, feeling her lumpy glands.

  “Is it flu?” she asked croakily.

  “Can I come in?” asked an impatient Guy from the landing.

  “You can,” George called back. “It’s a bad dose of flu,” he told them both, “and a touch of pneumonia, I’m afraid.”

  “Oh, no!”

  Poppy’s face crumpled. People like her didn’t get pneumonia, did they? How on earth was she going to cope? What would she live on while she felt like this, unable to work?

  “Don’t cry,” Guy soothed, sitting down beside her and taking her in his arms. “What’s the treatment then, George?”

  “Rest, plenty to drink. Don’t worry—this type of pneumonia’s not the disaster it used to be. I’ll drop some tablets in later today.”

  “Can’t I collect them?”

  “Certainly.” George’s pleasant face, an older version of Robin’s, betrayed his inner doubts. “Actually, I think I’d better see if they’ve got a bed in the local hospital. Poppy needs to be properly taken care of. Esther would have done it like a shot, but unfortunately she’s staying with Tess for a few days. I gather she and Simon have also gone down with this wretched flu—it’s quite a potent strain this year.”

  “She can come to the Hall—I’ll look after her.”

  “You, Guy?”

  George regarded him curiously. He knew, of course, of Poppy’s condition. He also knew that Guy had spent a night here at the crucial time. Could he be her child’s father? If so, why didn’t she say so?

  “I shan’t be alone—I interviewed a couple yesterday who will suit me eminently. They’ll be moving into one of the renovated cottages shortly, but they were free to start work immediately, so they’ll be living in at the Hall for a few days while we get their furniture installed.”

  “Well, that seems a sound arrangement. What are they like, this couple?”

  “They’re in their late forties. Ken’s been Lord Ravenwell’s assistant head gardener for a few years, and fancied a post where he could move up a rung or two, and be in charge. Dora’s been running a pastry shop-cum-café. They’re cheerful, hardworking—couldn’t be better, really.”

  “Excellent! The sooner Poppy’s out of here, the better. The place is like a morgue. I think the Aga’s gone out.”

  “I got that impression, too.”

  Soon they had both gone, the doctor to attend his other patients, and Guy to fetch the tablets and make sure a room was ready for her at the Hall, but not before he had filled a couple of hot-water bottles for her. Poppy had drifted back to sleep by the time he let himself quietly back in. He packed a few essentials and carried her, wrapped in a blanket, to his car.

  He carried her out the other end, too, taking her straight into Cranford Hall and up the stairs. When he lowered her into a deliciously warm bed, she clung to his neck, reluctant to let him go.

  “Thank you, Guy,” she said in her maddeningly husky voice and to her horror, tears pricked her eyes and rolled down her cheeks.

  “Just returning a favour,” he told her, unclasping her hands and t
ucking them under the covers.

  The days passed in a haze of doctors’ visits from both George and Robin, feverish sweats, and violent shivering attacks, all interspersed with the cool, soothing hands and warm, velvety voice of Guy. He was always there when she needed him, day or night, with drinks, medicine, and painkillers, but mainly the reassurance of his warm, vital presence.

  There was also Dora Knight to offer light but nourishing food, cheerfully changing her sweat-drenched sheets or sponging her down to keep her comfortable. Ken, her husband, looked in once to say hello and bring her a bunch of flowers from the overgrown garden.

  “You won’t know the place by next summer,” he told her. “Mr. Devereau wants it restored to what it was a few years ago, when your father had the care of it. There’s a lot of work to be done, but the results will be worth it. Just you wait and see.”

  Only she probably wouldn’t be here to see it. Once Nerissa was installed, Poppy would hardly be a welcome visitor.

  At last she passed the crisis point and her temperature returned to normal. She just felt washed out and weak as a kitten.

  “I’ve brought you a visitor,” said Guy one afternoon.

  Sheba waddled delightedly across the room, her front paws going up on the bed so that Poppy could fondle her.

  “My, you’ve grown! How long have I been here?”

  “Just over a week,” Guy informed her. “No, Sheba, you certainly can’t get on the bed.”

  Sheba went to lie obediently on the floor at the foot of the bed.

  “You’ve been very kind, Guy, but now I’d better be getting home,” said Poppy, not wanting to go at all.

  “Don’t be absurd! You’re in no fit state to look after yourself. You can stay a few more days at least, while you get back the use of your legs.”

  “Will Nerissa mind?”

  She had not seen anything of Nerissa, but she must surely have been here. People who were engaged would want to spend every possible minute together, wouldn’t they?

  “Nerissa’s enjoying a mad social whirl in London right now,” he said somewhat grimly, probably quite cross to be deprived of her company. “She’ll doubtless be down in time for Christmas.”

  Guy, on the other hand, had been here every day and every night. He must be missing Nerissa dreadfully.

  He did not have to wait for Christmas. The very next morning, while he was out discussing the kitchen garden with Ken Knight, and Poppy was contemplating getting up and taking a bath, Nerissa breezed into the room. She stopped dead when she caught sight of Poppy.

  “Well!” Her hands went to her narrow hips. “You didn’t waste any time while my back was turned, did you?”

  Poppy was shocked to silence by Nerissa’s accusation. Fortunately, at that moment, Dora Knight, after knocking timidly, entered the room.

  “And who in the name of heaven are you?” Nerissa demanded rudely.

  “I might well ask the same of you,” Dora replied calmly.

  “I’m Guy Devereau’s fiancée,” came the proud retort. “And I’d like to know what this woman’s doing in my room!”

  Nerissa’s room! That meant she didn’t share Guy’s bed when she stayed—not every night, at any rate.

  “Poppy’s been very ill, and she’s here at Mr. Devereau’s invitation. I’m his new housekeeper, so I take my orders from him,” she stated pointedly. “He wants Poppy to be kept warm and quiet, till she’s recovered.”

  Bully for you, Dora! thought Poppy, grateful for her loyalty.

  “Does he, indeed? Well, I’ll just take the things I came for and have a word with him on the matter. What happened to the Lomaxes, by the way?” she asked Poppy.

  “Guy wanted a professional gardener, who knew better than to try and grow rhododendrons and azaleas on chalk!”

  Nerissa’s eyes narrowed and, without another word, she swept out.

  “Oh dear,” said Dora, quietly closing the door. “I hope Mr. Devereau won’t be cross.”

  “Why should he be? She wasn’t very nice to you. And thank you for coming up—I don’t think I could have coped with her by myself. You’ll probably get used to each other, once they’re married,” she added forlornly.

  Dora observed her expression.

  “I’d have credited him with more sense. Never mind, there’s many a slip ’twixt cup and lip. Shall I run you a bath now, dear?”

  “Thank you, Dora. I think I’ll get dressed today.”

  “That’s more like it.”

  Guy had only packed a few things for her, among them a lilac sweater and toning skirt. When she put them on, they hung loosely on her, and she was able to see just how much weight she had lost. There was an undeniable swelling at the base of her stomach, however—evidence that the baby at least was doing nicely.

  After rubbing her hair dry, she applied some light makeup and proceeded downstairs, where she found Guy in his library, his back to the fire, his gaze somewhere in the middle distance.

  “Poppy!” he exclaimed, pleasure evident on his face.

  “Where’s Nerissa?” she asked tentatively, accepting his supporting arm gratefully as he led her to an armchair near the fire.

  “Nerissa couldn’t stay,” he informed her equably. “I hope she didn’t say anything to upset you—she can be tactless. She’s still enjoying pre-Christmas London.”

  “Shouldn’t you be enjoying it with her?”

  “Country life suits me fine,” he said a trifle grimly. “She didn’t upset you, did she?”

  Poppy was surprised at his concern. Shouldn’t he be more interested in how Nerissa felt?

  “No, of course not. She was quite surprised to see me, I suppose,” she said carefully.

  “Mm,” he murmured thoughtfully. “How about a game of chess this afternoon? Or would you just like to have a quiet read?”

  “I’d love a game of chess, but I mustn’t keep you from your work.”

  “You won’t be. I’ve been working all morning, and the phone is just through there,” he indicated a door leading off the library, “should it ring. I’ve rigged up an office in there. Come and see.”

  She accepted his helping hand as she stood up, but then her legs, weak from lack of use, gave way and she stumbled. He caught her at once, holding her firmly against him.

  “Strewth!” he exclaimed, revealing all those years in Australia. “You’re all skin and bone, girl!”

  “Thank you, kind sir.”

  She knew it was true, but she couldn’t prevent tears of helplessness from pouring down her face.

  “Sorry, Poppy, but you have lost weight. All those nice rounded curves gone—well, most of them.” With a grin, he produced a pristine white handkerchief and proceeded to wipe away her tears. “We’ll have to fatten you up.”

  “Like the Christmas turkey! I’ll be putting on weight soon enough,” she reminded him.

  “So you will,” he said bleakly, his eyes leaving hers. “Come and take a look at my office.”

  With one arm firmly round her slender waist, he led her through to a very functional office with a desk; filing cabinets; a large computer, its colour monitor flickering away; and a fax machine.

  “I can run my businesses from London to Australia from right here,” he told her.

  “You still have interests in Australia?”

  “Some investments in the finance sector, and a holding in a high technology company,” he informed her.

  “Impressive!”

  “Which is what I’ve been concerned with this morning, after sorting out a few problems in the kitchen garden, and why I think I deserve a little diversion this afternoon.”

  “All right, you’re on. Chess it shall be, but I really must go home soon.”

  “You’re in no fit state to look after yourself. Give it a few days.”

  “I could get
used to being spoilt,” she laughed.

  After less than an hour, her concentration began to wander; she stifled a yawn.

  “That’s enough for now,” Guy decided firmly, wheeling the table away, the chessmen still in place. “I’ll see how lunch is coming along.”

  She spent that afternoon and those that followed in the library. They sometimes played chess or Poppy would read while Guy did likewise, or made some calls in the adjoining office.

  “I must go home tomorrow, Guy,” she told him regretfully one afternoon. “I have work to do: sweaters to sew up and others to make.”

  “All good things come to an end,” he joked.

  Had it been good for him? She had loved being a part of his household, and would miss him dreadfully when she was back home.

  “You’ve been so good to me, Guy. I don’t know quite what I would have done without you.”

  “You’d have gone into hospital, or managed down there, with some district nurse popping in on her rounds. I was just being neighbourly. Out in Aussieland, we had to take care of each other.”

  He was standing in his favourite position in front of the fire. She looked up at him from her armchair. He was so handsome, so vibrantly healthy—yet so kind. Their eyes locked. Right now, his expression was not exactly one of kindness, more one of hungry, masculine need.

  “Guy?”

  He took her hand and jerked her up and into his arms.

  “Oh, Poppy, I don’t know what you do to me. The place won’t be at all the same without you.”

  He held her as if she were made of porcelain. Slowly his head lowered till their lips met. The force of her response shook them both. Her too-thin body, cradling his child, moulded itself to his, while his responded in kind. When he put her away from him, for she could not draw away, his breathing was ragged.

  “Back to normal,” he commented with a grin. “You’re leaving not a moment too soon.”

  A gentle tap presaged the arrival of Dora, who walked in to find them standing there, their arms still loosely about each other.

  “Lunch is ready, sir,” she announced, and Poppy caught the housekeeper’s satisfied smile as she turned to go.