Summers, True

by Poppy

  When Delphine produced the blue dress and undergarments that also had been discreetly altered, she apologized. "These should be possible, just possible, for tonight and tomorrow. Only that."

  The chemise was trimmed with fine lace, and the top-most petticoat was sheer, rustling taffeta. "At least the color is lovely," Poppy yawned as she put on the blue dress.

  Clothed, hair smoothed into ringlets from a center part, she went into the small drawing room and walked around, touching the silk panels set into the walls. pausing before the small, delightful paintings of ladies and gentlemen rollicking in a rural playground, and trying the soft satin chairs. She could stay in this place indefinitely and feel no cause for complaint. It made Pallminster Lane look like a peasant's cottage.

  She touched the fruit in a silver bowl, so perfect she had assumed it was wax, and discovered it was real. She looked more closely at the great silver bowls of red roses set around the room, and a petal fell on the polished wood. Incredibly in winter, they, too, were real, the product of some great greenhouse, and they gave off the scent filling the air that she had thought was fine perfume.

  She went to a window, drew the dark-rose silk curtains aside, and saw the first little flakes of snow beginning to sift down outside. Involuntarily she shivered. If winter had come a short time earlier, she would have been walking across those wind-swept, bare fields in the Vendee, protected only by a shawl, wet and chilled and even more miserable than she had been.

  All her contentment vanished. Somewhere Andy and Jack were making their way to Paris. If they were working on a barge, toiling up the Loire and then the canals, they would be in for weeks of the hardest kind of work in numbing cold. For the first time she glanced impatiently at the door, anxious to see this evening's gentleman. If he did not bring her news of Andy and Jack, the all-powerful bank must get it for her.

  Delphine, in answer to some signal Poppy did not hear, hurried across the room, her starched skirts rustling. Her voice murmured for a moment, and then she crossed the room again, carrying a gentleman's topcoat, hat, and cane, shaking her head at the damp spots on the fine materials.

  Poppy fingered her ringlets and made sure the ruffled cuff fell away gracefully from her delicate wrist. Then her mouth rounded, and she said in a small shriek, "Dexter Roack! Not you!"

  He laughed back at her from the doorway, elegant in evening dress of a distinctly Parisian cut. "But I have been waiting for you." He strolled into the room and stood in front of the fire.

  Poppy lowered her long lashes and told herself she must be tactful. She must be both tactful and diplomatic. He was the all-powerful bank. She wanted news of Andy and Jack. She did not want to be shipped off again. She must pretend to be pleased; she must conceal the rage that filled her at the memory of her last exile.

  "You startled me," she said sweetly. She went to sit in a chair beside the fire and gestured toward another. "I, too, have been waiting. For news." He said nothing, and she continued with an effort that made her hands grip together tensely in her lap. "And to thank you. For my most timely and fortunate rescue." She swallowed hard. She was grateful to the bank, but it had cost her something to say it to Dexter Roack.

  "The French have guillotined the daughters of kings," he said calmly. "We do not feel it is a practice to be encouraged. Especially of English kings. Even if illegitimate."

  "The priest is dead then?" Poppy whispered. Somehow she had hoped Jack had taken alarm too easily and that his terrible assumption had been wrong.

  "Yes." He did not sit down but stood with one elbow resting lightly on the fireplace mantel. "Quite dead. Possibly that is not a circumstance to be completely regretted. In our view."

  "Your view? Of a priest in a small village? What's that to do with the bank?"

  "Nothing. Except the bank believes peace brings prosperity, and he was something of a political agitator. With much local influence. In Les Sables d'Olonne they are screaming for your blood, and they refuse to believe the truth. He was not a priest."

  "Oh," Poppy breathed with relief and then stammered, "It is still terrible. But a priest, somehow I could never have forgiven myself for that."

  "He was not," Dex assured her in his deep, vital voice. "He studied for the priesthood certainly. But his political interests made the Church decide he did not have a true vocation, and he was never ordained. However, he arrived in Les Sables d'Olonne some two or three years ago, as a priest, and attached himself to the convent. That was a time of turmoil, and nobody will attempt to explain how it could have happened."

  "A small place, an obscure priest, perhaps nobody questioned him," Poppy murmured.

  "Poor communications," Dex agreed. "Quite possibly. Anyhow, he developed tremendous influence in the community. An odd kind of influence. The people are superstitious, and he specialized in some of the more esoteric rites."

  "He was holding up his cross and chanting something," Poppy remembered numbly.

  "Driving the devil out of you, no doubt," Dex said factually. "People have been known to die after such ceremonies in such towns. Don't wear a hair shirt over this. He was not a good man."

  "I was terrified," Poppy confessed. "Those women, a mob," she said, shuddering.

  "You shoved, trying to get away, and he fell?" Dex asked, then nodded. "An accident. Unfortunate. Especially considering the political situation. Everything is politics here today. But that is not for you to worry."

  That reminded Poppy. "Andy and Jack?"

  "On their way," he assured her, beginning to smile. "When we can do so inconspicuously, without arousing any questions, we'll get them off that barge and bring them to Paris. At the moment, I believe they're rather enjoying the experience."

  Poppy felt stupid with relief. ''Then we'll be all right and together again. Or?" She stiffened and sat tensely upright. "Where are you sending me next?"

  "Aren't you comfortable here?"

  "It's beautiful."

  "Then let tomorrow take care of itself. I have arranged for the Countess de Bourgemont to call for you in the afternoon and take you shopping. Nobody in Paris knows the shops better."

  "That terrible black skirt and blouse," Poppy grimaced. .

  "Nothing black then," he laughed and touched the bell pull by the fireplace. "I asked Delphine to cool some wine. I hope you'll like it. It's from our own vineyards."

  "The all-powerful bank," Poppy said and giggled a little hysterically from relief.

  The wine was delicious-light, not too sweet, and exactly cool enough. Poppy drank two glasses. When she sipped a third, she knew she had had too much. She felt relaxed, warm, giddy, and giggly all at once. She felt wonderful. For the first time since that terrible morning in the open market, she was clean, warm, safe, and more, lapped in luxury. She simply wanted this lovely comfortable feeling to go on and on. She drained the glass, looking a little defiantly at Dex lolling in the chair beside hers and twirling his barely touched glass between his fingers, then held hers out to be filled again.

  Instead of taking it, he closed his iron fingers around her, hand and the glass. "You know you're getting drunk, don't you?" he asked softly.

  The inward giggle bubbled out. "Of course I am. And I'm going to get drunker. And I'll feel better and better, and warmer and warmer. Then I'll sleep and sleep."

  "But not alone," he warned. "Pretty Poppy, lovely Poppy, I can leave you now and tell Delphine to put you to bed. Shall I?"

  Poppy blinked at him. He was oddly blurred, so oddly he appeared quite the most handsome, attractive man she had ever seen. A small, sharp sweetness jolted through her, and her hand snuggled into his. "Shall you what?" she murmured.

  "Leave you? Or stay? That's all I've wanted from the first moment I saw you and have gone on wanting every moment of every time I've seen you since."

  That seemed rather complicated when his hand was so warm around hers and his voice so caressing. When she looked at him. she remembered exactly how his lips had felt pressing down on hers, and the sweet p
ang inside her deepened. That pang was so demanding she could not think why he had to keep on talking about moments and time. There was only this one moment stirring her whole being into a longing turmoil. If she leaned forward just a little, her lips would be quite close to his, and he could claim them again, kissing her deeply, fulfillingly, and then take her into his arms. Surely those strong arms around her would ease this strange, sweet ache that was throbbing all through her.

  He muttered something and put the glasses down on the tray. Poppy smiled up at him mistily. He was quite right. They did not want more wine.

  He picked her up out of the chair and carried her into the bedroom. Then he put her on the bed, and she smiled up at him, one hand on his arm, lingering, luxuriating in touching him. He smiled and picked up one small foot. His eyebrows lifted as he saw the brown walking boot, cleaned and burnished but worn down at the heel, thin in the sole, and lamentably scuffed.

  "Lovely boots," Poppy purred, snuggling into the silken coverlet and soft pillows.

  "I can see they've served you well," he said and deftly removed it. "We must write across the Channel and order you some others."

  "Pretty others," Poppy said dreamily.

  "Many pretty others." The second shoe came off. "Including satin ones such as they make only here in Paris." His fingers were quick and gentle on the buttons of her bodice. "And gowns that fit, too."

  Delphine had said something like that, as if this had been planned and discussed between them. Poppy puzzled over that for an instant, but she had already realized the bank knew and arranged all things, so she shrugged the thought aside as he removed her bodice. Really, it was absurd to wear so many clothes when his hands on her flesh left tingles like the most delicate etchings of mingled fire and ice.

  When they were naked on the bed together, Penny wondered why she had not realized how perfectly her body was formed to fit against the length and strength of his. Or that his muscles could be so long and rippling where hers were covered softness. Or that his skin could be a darker, firmer texture. Or that the firelight playing over them would paint such lovely tints of rose fading into dusky shadows where their bodies met and blended. Or that, entwined together, the two of them formed one perfect whole.

  Once or twice, she half pulled away from him, startled and shy. She had not expected his lips would be so all-encroaching, touching her neck, her breasts, the little hollow in the delicate swell of her belly. She had not known his strong knee would press her legs apart or that his hands would explore and pry and tease.

  His lips, his hands, and the weight of his body against hers sent waves of such tumultuous sweetness through her that she could only moan and pull him back again, closer and closer, as if they could never be close enough. Then when he took her, the shock was lost in such a volcano of emotion, such waves of ecstasy, that she could only moan and cling to him, kissing him madly, begging him to continue, until a final convulsive tidal wave left her limp in his arms. This was a sweeter madness than she ever had dreamed existed, and the only thing in life worth having, she thought.

  That night was a long dream in which they slept entwined, woke to make love again, and again slept in each other's arms. When at last he stirred and sat up, starting to throw back the covers, Poppy caught his arm and held up her face for more kisses.

  He bent and kissed her, murmuring, even as he slipped out of bed and stood over her, "Until tonight, sweetling. Rest now. The Countess will call this afternoon. Follow her advice. This evening we'll dine here."

  Poppy blinked as he picked up his clothes and went through a door she had not noticed. Then she snuggled deeper into the pillows, smiling to herself. Now she knew. Now she knew the only important thing in the world. She knew and understood everything. She understood why Daisy had been so happy in her life even if her gentlemen were sometimes dull. She even understood why the Queen was so content with Albert the Good. Smiling, she slept.

  Chapter Thirteen

  POPPY slept late and woke slowly. She stretched if luxuriously, testing each arm and leg. A little stiffness, a little soreness, but some of it was still the muscle ache from the constant traveling. She ate a delicious breakfast and demanded another bath. Delphine looked horrified, but she was firm. She was not going to admit that never before in her life had she had so many baths so close together. She knew the hot water would ease her aching muscles and remove any last suspicion of gray on arms and legs. She lingered in the steaming water until Delphine held out her clothes and insisted sharply she must dress before Madame la Comtesse arrived.

  The Countess was a vigorous fifty, dark and hard-faced, so elegantly groomed Poppy eyed her with greedy envy. Then she noticed that the Countess's gloves obviously had been cleaned and the velvet ribbons on her bonnet were fresher than the hat, a second or third or fourth refurbishing. She was of the new poor, then, maintaining her position by rendering services to influential people. The waiting carriage was fashionable, but the driver's livery was frayed.

  Leading Poppy firmly by the arm, the Countess attacked a series of shops like a one-woman army. Poppy felt like a doll being measured and dressed, a mere object for the profusion of embellishments the Countess looted with a lavish hand. Fine kid gloves in a dozen pastel shades were chosen and sent to the carriage. The thinnest stockings in tones for day and evening were approved. A soft stole, of fur so soft and thick it made Poppy want to purr like a kitten, required a little more time and thought. A few bonnets, not important but possible, came next.

  Then the Countess marched her into a lingerie shop. The English miss, she said, dark eyes daring anyone to challenge the story, was the victim of a most unfortunate yacht accident in which all her clothes had been lost. She had been forced to travel, la pauvre petite, in what she was wearing when rescued. She required everything. Materials were produced, fabrics so fine they could be drawn through a ring, and samples of delicate laces and ribbons. Madame la Comtesse sniffed and approved but said the garments were required immediately, tomorrow at the latest. Protests and a flurry of conferences blew up around them, but she remained an island of calm implacability. Tomorrow at the latest. A few things, a robe, some nightgowns, some petticoats and undergarments were promised finally. Poppy had a suspicion that some customer of near her size was going to be told an unforeseen emergency had delayed delivery of a promised order. The Countess marched triumphantly out of the shop, barely placated.

  A few pairs of slippers were picked up in passing, and street shoes in a variety of materials were ordered. In the next shop, creams, perfumes, oils, and soaps necessitated a serious conference. A single fresh and delicate scent finally was decided on for the moment.

  Poppy felt dizzy, and her feet were dragging when they returned once more to the carriage. She could think longingly only of the softness and warmth of her suite. The Countess drew herself even more upright, advanced her chin, and announced that now they would consider the robes.

  "Another day," Poppy ventured to protest.

  "There will be fittings," the Countess said, unmoved.

  Again in a shop so elegant Poppy did not dare open her mouth, the Countess told the story of the yacht. Everyone commiserated politely. Sketches, bolts of materials, and models were shown. A charming walking costume in deepest, most brilliant blue was produced and considered. It had been ordered but not accepted, Poppy gathered through a haze of exhaustion, and possibly it could be altered quickly. At a reduced price, the Countess assented sharply.

  Preliminary fittings of at least three other dresses, in materials they had selected, should be possible tomorrow. Objections wilted before the Countess's dark look and set jaw. Poppy tried to murmur she would be content to rest tomorrow and the fittings could be postponed, but the Countess's icy stare froze the words before anyone else heard them.

  Poppy could barely stumble into her rooms. She wanted only to crawl into bed and drop into unconsciousness until morning. Delphine removed Poppy's shoes and dress, put her in a chair in front of the fire in t
he bedroom, tucked a silk cover around her, and brought hot chocolate and rolls. Then she began to unpack the parcels the coachman had brought up, exclaiming, approving, or frowning as she put each thing away in the drawers and cupboards of a small adjoining dressing room. That was the door by which Dex had left this morning.

  Poppy woke with a start, wondering how long she had dozed there in the chair. The curtains were drawn so it must be evening. Then she saw that Delphine had laid out a delicate but severely styled nightgown and satin robe of ice blue. The Countess must have bullied those out of the lingerie shop sometime during that flurry of conferences. A pair of yellow slippers was set out beside the robe.