As she climbed the creaking uneven stairs to her suite behind the stooped figure of the wordless Craddock, Poppy’s heart sank deeper than it had ever sunk before. She wondered yet again what she could possibly have been thinking to accept the marriage proposal of a man who was all but a perfect stranger. On top of which it seemed even more ludicrous that neither of her parents had thought to enquire about the state of Mellerfont from anyone in the know – relying instead on the belief that any large aristocratic house must be an enviable place to live.
‘One or other of us should have known better,’ Poppy thought, as she was shown into a vast, dusty and dismal suite of rooms. ‘One of us – my father, my mother, or myself – should have realised that, however plain, as an only child, and heiress to my parents’ money, I was bound to be a catch for the wrong kind of man.’
Even George began to look dismal as the two of them inspected and then surveyed what was to be their living quarters for a future that seemed all of a sudden unforeseeable. The furniture, although obviously once fine, was in bad repair, as were the frayed curtains and carpets, while the bed all but toppled and gave way under her as she sat on it gingerly to try it out. The glass in the windows was cracked and filthy, the huge frames hardly fitting their casements anywhere, while the plumbing in the adjacent bathroom appeared not to have been updated since the last century, and only a few threadbare towels hanging on a radiator, and a pair of rusty scissors on the porcelain, gave any indication that it was actually meant for human use.
Depression overwhelmed Poppy as she sank into a large, vaguely damp armchair in the corner of the bedroom. She couldn’t stay long, and she knew it. On one of the damp days that were undoubtedly to come, she must make good her escape.
With that thought firmly in her mind, it seemed to her that it might be as well to unpack only as many clothes as she would need over a period of a week at most, for the truth was that she had little intention of staying any longer than was necessary at Mellerfont, particularly now that winter was only just around the corner. For if this was what the great house was like at the end of summer, Poppy could not begin to imagine the conditions in the dark days of winter.
As she began to put away a few carefully chosen articles of clothing in the vast Victorian wardrobes and chests of drawers she began to wonder why Basil had married her in the first place. There could be only one answer – her money. The one thing everyone knew about Poppy was that her family, being American, was presumed to be wealthy. There had always been money on her father’s side, the first family fortune being made in slaving, and then enhanced by astute investment in shipping, so that by the time her father had moved into diplomatic circles he was able to use every contact he had to gather information about possible further ventures and subsequently put it to shrewd use.
Oralia Beaumont too had money, although unlike Poppy’s father, she liked to spend it.
‘Ours not to reason why. Ours just to up and spend it,’ she would say happily, while ordering yet another set of gowns from Paris.
It was difficult not to see the reason for Poppy’s whirlwind courtship. She had only to glance around the once great house of Mellerfont, take in its appalling state, the vague smell of drains, and Poppy thought she could well understand Basil’s need for marriage. The feeling was only underlined when on returning downstairs she found him in conference with a tall, gaunt man in morning clothes carrying a large architectural notepad and attended by two minions.
‘I wonder who all these people are?’ she said to Basil, sounding lightly sarcastic even to herself, when she managed to prise Basil away from his party. ‘They appear to be builders. Surely not? Most people are boarding up the windows of their country houses and preparing for war, aren’t they?’
‘There are certain things that need to be done straight away,’ Basil replied, with the semblance of a smile, before taking her by the arm and steering her into a room that, judging from the old desk propped up with pieces of cardboard, and the few shelves, had once been some sort of study. ‘We’d better not beat about the bush, don’t you think?’ he enquired, closing the door tightly shut behind them. ‘Even if the house is requisitioned, which it might well be, by the army or some such, it would be better if the walls were not crumbling. And since this is to be our home – and most importantly your home – a place where you will, I trust, make a reputation for yourself as a notable hostess – then it is imperative now we are married that we put this great house of ours in order. Would you not agree?’
‘I’m not entirely certain,’ Poppy began. ‘I mean – what I mean to say, Basil, is that I think just from looking at it – I would say it might be impossible for anyone, even a builder, to know where to begin. It does seem to smell dreadfully at points – just like old turnips. I wonder that anyone would want to come and shoot here, except perhaps themselves,’ she added, attempting a joke.
‘They come for the sport, not for satin eiderdowns, my dear.’
‘It would seem, from the little I have seen, that this house – the main house—’
‘Yes, yes?’
‘It would seem it needs a great deal more than just a bit of redecoration, Basil.’
‘You know about these things, do you?’
‘Well – anyone can see how bad a state a place is in when there’s water pouring in through the roof, when the windows don’t fit anywhere, when there’s mould on all the walls, and—’
‘A large part of Mellerfont hasn’t been lived in recently,’ Basil interrupted, failing to keep the obvious irritation out of his voice. ‘It simply needs living in, warming up, a few repairs. I have, as a bachelor, I do admit, tended to stay in my wing, which is perfectly comfortable for my needs.’
‘I see,’ Poppy replied calmly. ‘And where do I come in? Do you want me to choose the paint colours and some suitable wall hangings, perhaps? Or do you want my father to write you yet another cheque?’
Basil was for once silenced, and Poppy could see that she had at long last managed to disconcert someone who obviously prided himself on being imperturbable.
‘Perhaps this is something we should discuss over dinner this evening,’ Basil suggested easily, his tone changing. ‘Seeing as we shall be alone – the guests will be gone by then.’
‘Why don’t we talk about it now, Basil?’
Again her husband looked at her in surprise.
‘Well?’ Poppy looked up at him, all fear of him disappearing as she saw how easily she had managed to disconcert him. ‘It’s obviously something that is preoccupying you.’
‘It can wait until this evening, my dear,’ he replied, and left the room to return to his visitors.
In spite of her feelings of misery and resentment, Poppy still made an effort to look chic for dinner, dressing herself in a white crêpe jacket embroidered with clusters of gold beads and a contrasting black crêpe skirt. Basil was as ever correctly attired for the occasion of dining alone with his wife, wearing evening jacket and velvet slippers. Unfortunately his servants were not entirely in keeping with his and Poppy’s immaculate image. The maids slopped the soup over the sides of china that was visibly chipped, the main dish of lamb arrived cold and in a parcel of grease, the potatoes were lukewarm and undercooked in contrast with the rest of the vegetables, which were so overdone they fell to pieces while being served. Poppy found it hard to believe that only two evenings before they had eaten a perfectly tolerable meal on the first night of their marriage (after all, since they had slept in separate rooms, no one could call it a honeymoon) and not only that but one that was decently cooked and properly served, yet here they were both eating food that would have been more in keeping with a gaol regime, served by as sullen a bunch of servants as it was possible to imagine.
Halfway through the all but inedible main course Poppy felt a lump rising in her throat. Suddenly she longed with all her might for London and for her home, her overbearing mother notwithstanding. She longed for the kindness of the servants at their comfortable
Eaton Square house, now closed up. She even missed Mary Jane Ogilvy and the other girls with whom she had done the Season, such was the depth of her despair. In desperation she sat with her eyes closed for fully a minute, hoping that when she opened them again she would find she had been dreaming.
She enjoyed no such good fortune. When she opened her eyes, she saw Basil staring down the table at her as if she were mad, before slowly turning his gaze up to the decrepit ceiling high above them while placing both his elbows on the table and then carefully connecting the tips of both sets of fingers.
‘It’s a question of expenditure really,’ he announced out of the blue. ‘Now we are married, what is mine is yours and what is yours is mine, so when it comes down to restoring this wonderful home of ours, this place you have in a way inherited …’ he paused to look back down at Poppy and engage her eyes, ‘then it is only proper you should – since you will obviously care to do so – share in the costs.’
‘I thought that might be coming,’ Poppy said, wiping her mouth carefully on her napkin and putting her knife and fork to one side of her plate.
‘Good. Then it is no surprise.’
‘I didn’t say that, Basil. I simply said I thought that was coming.’
‘I do not want to do this, Poppy, but I must remind you of your place.’
‘Yes?’
‘You are my wife now. You are Lady Tetherington. You are the new mistress of Mellerfont. It is your duty to help restore what is regarded locally as somewhat of a treasure to its former glory. You are extremely well placed to do so, because you can well afford it.’
‘Yes, Basil. I know. But affording it is not actually the same thing as wanting to do something, is it?’
‘Are you defying me?’
‘I don’t know, really.’ Poppy shook her head and stared back at him. ‘What would happen to me if I did defy you? Would you take a horsewhip to me, as your Victorian forebears did to their disobedient wives? Or wall me up in a tower?’
‘I will not have you defy me, Poppy,’ Basil said. ‘I wish to make that perfectly clear.’
‘And I will not have you bully me, Basil,’ Poppy replied. ‘I hope I have made that perfectly clear. Now if you will excuse me …’ She rose from her place.
‘Where do you think you are going exactly?’
‘To my room. That dreadful meal has made me feel unwell.’
‘You will do no such thing.’
‘I’m afraid I must, Basil. I feel really sick – actually. Not very British I know, but true.’
Basil stared at her, then throwing his napkin on the table pushed his chair to one side, lighting up a cigarette and ignoring his wife’s premature departure from dinner.
Upstairs in the dreaded west wing the maid had tried to light the fire in Poppy’s bedroom but had not met with much success. Poppy huddled herself in front of it, with George sitting on her knee, and prodded the miserably smoking logs with a poker but could not get it to go any better. Outside the storm had worsened into what now sounded like a hurricane, the rain lashing the rattling windows and what seemed like great tongues of draught licking round the dark, shabby curtains and making the bedroom almost unbearably cold. Her so-called marriage, her husband, the awfulness of the house, everything was a sham. Her marriage unconsummated, her husband a dictator, it was all such a laugh, really. She clung to George, imagining telling Mary Jane the whole terrible tale, imagining her friend trying not to look gleeful, imagining her hurrying back to her mother to tell her. At least they would be able to laugh about it, most particularly about Poppy still not knowing about It. Giving in finally to her misery, Poppy wrapped herself in a blanket over her dressing gown and huddled herself into bed, where she did her best to finish the note she had been writing to await her mother’s arrival in America.
Mellerfont is huge, horrid and freezing, the servants bad-tempered and impolite, and the food revolting. I keep thinking I am in a nightmare, and wonder what on earth I am doing here and if it were at all possible I would go home this instant – except I know Eaton Square is locked up for the duration, and you in America hoping that I have made a splendid match, which of course I have. A splendid miserable match. Please write to me. I can’t tell you how lonely I am. George sends lots of licks and I send all my love, your Poppy. PS Basil hated the poppy dress … thinks it’s vulgar, you know? PPS He and I sleep in separate rooms.
The next morning she asked a small ginger-haired boy dressed in a much patched country tweed livery to take her letter to the post, but he refused, saying that he was only allowed into the village on Sundays for church and ‘nowt else’ as he put it. He explained there was a post box in the main house where her ladyship could leave her letter to be taken to the village later. Since the post box was dust-ridden and looked remarkably unused, Poppy decided instead to walk to the village herself. She was about to set off when her husband appeared to manifest himself in the hall, staring first from her hand to her face, and then to the post box.
‘You do not walk to the village to post a letter,’ he said, eyeing her walking shoes. ‘It would not be proper.’
‘Now the rain has stopped, I rather wanted to explore my new surroundings,’ Poppy returned, taking her letter back, Basil having confiscated it. ‘Would that be terribly improper, do you think?’
‘You can explore them to your heart’s content,’ Basil replied. ‘But from the back of a motor car. Leon will drive you.’
‘Who’s Leon?’
‘My chauffeur. Come with me – he’ll be round in the mews.’
Poppy followed Basil as he strode round the house, finally to disappear under a stone arch into a yard where Poppy discovered a row of garages, mostly closed but some with open doors revealing various types of cars within. There was no one about other than a small, bald-headed thickset man polishing the vast chrome headlamps of a dark red motor car, one of which, as Poppy could already see, was broken. Basil had arrived well ahead of her and was already engaged in conversation with the man, who Poppy immediately assumed must be Basil’s chauffeur. He now glanced briefly round at her approaching figure, before jumping hurriedly into the driver’s seat to back the car into the depths of the garage immediately behind.
‘Leon will drive you down to the village,’ Basil announced to Poppy. ‘He’ll take the Austin – since you’re to be the only passenger. Anywhere you want to go in future, Leon will take you. I wouldn’t bother trying to engage him in any of your small talk, he prefers silence.’
‘Gracious, Basil, you certainly do have expensive tastes in motor cars.’
Poppy peered in and out of the garage doors at the assembled immaculate machinery.
Basil looked at her coolly.
‘Yes,’ he stated, almost proudly. ‘I do, don’t I? Yes, I like good motor cars.’
‘More than warm rooms, obviously.’
‘My dear, shoring up an old house takes years. Besides, my business interests take care of my passion for motor cars.’
He patted one of the shining bonnets as if it might be the nose of a horse as Leon reappeared, squeezing his bullet-shaped head into an ill-fitting chauffeur’s cap, nodded at Poppy and opened up a garage further down the row. Poppy waited for the car to be backed into the mews, then lifted George up in her arms and climbed into the back seat as Leon held the door open for her. He quickly closed it again and joined Basil once more. They engaged in yet more dialogue, the chauffeur turning every now and then to look at Poppy in the stationary car, and then he jumped into the front seat and drove at high speed down the winding drive towards the road that led to the village.
‘Excuse me!’ Poppy called from the back, leaning forward to tap the driver on the shoulder. ‘I’d rather you didn’t drive so fast, please!’
A pair of dark close-set eyes regarded her in the driving mirror, the expression in them one of dull hostility, until, after Poppy once more called for him to slow down, he did so. After that nothing was said.
The village of Mellerfont pro
ved to be as pretty as Mellerfont the house was not, but perhaps because it was a tied village the prevailing atmosphere was in direct contrast to the neat, cloistered appeal of the place, its inhabitants apparently disheartened and downtrodden, as if ruled by some sort of unenviable feudal system. The car that Poppy was being driven in was an altogether more modest model than most in Basil’s garages, but it still bore the Tetherington coat of arms on the driver’s door. This meant that even if Poppy had wished to disown any association with the big house, she could not. It also meant that her arrival elicited sullen stares.
Stopping the car by the post office as requested, Leon remained firmly at the wheel, ever silent, dumb insolence obviously being his stock in trade, which meant that Poppy was forced to let herself out of the back. Biting back any comment that might have sprung to mind, she walked into the post office with George at her heels.
‘No dogs in ’ere, if you please,’ a sharp voice called from the gloom behind the high counter. ‘Particularly Kraut dogs.’
The two women gossiping in the main body of the shop looked startled when they saw Poppy and heard the remark of the unseen postmistress. There was an immediate exchange of whispers, prompting the appearance of a large, heavily whiskered woman behind the post office grille. She stared furiously at Poppy and finally, raising herself by her hands on the edge of the counter, peered down at the floor.
‘I said no dogs,’ she repeated. ‘P’rhaps your ladyship din’t hear me?’
‘There’s no notice on the door.’
There was a silence while all three women in the shop exchanged looks.
‘With respect,’ the postmistress said, without showing the least sign of it, ‘we are all but at war wi’ ’em.’ She nodded at the dachshund.
‘George is a dog, not a German.’
‘’E’s a German make a’right,’ the postmistress asserted. ‘Dachshund’s certainly no British dog. If it were it were called dachshound.’
Daughters Of Eden: The Eden Series Book 1 Page 5
