Softly Grow the Poppies (5 page)

She had begun to eye the pretty young thing who sat besides Rose, her voice tapering off in astonishment. ‘And who might this be, if I may be so bold as to ask?’ Her young mistress was well known for her quixotic nature and for bringing home waifs and strays to be fed at the kitchen door or given a night’s bed in one of the rooms above the stable.

Rose jumped down from the gig, moved round the back of it to Alice who she handed down as if she were royalty. The groom and stable lad were at the door of the stable and their mouths dropped, for this was no waif. Though she might be a bit untidy – no hat nor gloves! – she was certainly a lady and their masculinity observed that she was one of the loveliest females they had ever clapped eyes on. Hardly bigger than a child but with a sweetly curved figure, eyes the colour of a pansy or a bluebell or was it a cornflower with a brilliance in them that was fascinating, silver-gilt hair falling freely down her back and a complexion like a rose.

She smiled at them shyly and they both whipped off their caps and smiled back, which incensed Dolly even though she herself felt quite captivated by the girl.

‘Well?’ she demanded to know.

‘This is Miss Alice Weatherly, Dolly. I met her on the road and decided to go with her to Liverpool where she was eager to see her . . . her fiancé.’ She turned to Alice. ‘Is that right, Alice? He is your fiancé, is he not?’

‘Oh yes. We are to be married as soon as possible,’ Alice explained to the dumbstruck trio. ‘He is a soldier, you see, a cavalry officer, and was ordered to take his horse to . . . well, even he was not sure where but he is to fight the Germans, but as soon as he has leave we will be married.’

They all melted and began to make moves as though to comfort her. She had been to see her sweetheart off – with Miss Rose’s help – to fight in this dreadful war that had come upon them so abruptly, for none of them knew anything about world affairs and often pondered together on why they should be involved. How could they resist her?

‘Well, come inside, Miss Weatherly,’ Dolly exclaimed. ‘Nay, Miss Rose, what on earth were you thinking of, letting us stand about when a cup of tea and perhaps one of Nessie’s biscuits – just come out of th’oven – would be very welcome. See, Fred, take the gig and put Sparky to bed. I dunno, poor lass . . .’ Anyone who had a sweetheart going off to fight for his country awoke all Dolly’s compassion. You always knew when some emotion was roused in Dolly’s breast as she lapsed into her broad Lancashire tongue which had been almost erased since she came to Beechworth House.

Dolly Davenport was just twelve years old when she was plucked out of the Female Orphan Asylum in Myrtle Street by the wife of a wealthy and prominent Liverpool businessman who had his finger in so many pies he employed a secretary to keep his records. She came to Beechworth House as a parlour maid and Jane Beechworth had been married to William for only six months and he adored her and could refuse her nothing. She was eighteen when he married her and he was twenty-eight and before she died with her son in childbirth she had suffered two miscarriages close together, leaving only one child: Rose Beechworth. Rose took the place in his heart of his beloved wife and though he was – in society’s mind – recklessly indulgent of his daughter she remained unspoiled, in fact downright peculiar in their opinion, preferring the company of her father, her servants and those who worked on her estate. Her father had died when she was eighteen, leaving her the owner of the estate and shares in the railway, mines and other profitable businesses.

When her mistress died, Dolly had become head parlour-maid. With her mistress gone and Miss Rose barely ten years old, Dolly had taken over the running of the house. The master had been prostrate with grief and was no use to anyone so it had been up to Dolly to put things to rights. She had done so and for fourteen years had kept order. It was she who had employed a governess for the young Rose, a young woman she herself had thought suitable, and with the master spending much of his time in the city it was not until Rose was eleven that he had noticed her and having done so he found a new outlet for the love he had borne his wife.

Between a loving, indulgent father, a governess who taught her that the only way to learn was by reading, taking her to museums and concerts and any place where learning might be found, Rose was not a conventional product of her era. Her governess, who had unusual ideas about education, was just as lenient as Rose’s father and while Dolly loved the child and could deny her nothing she also taught her the difference between right and wrong. Nobody, however, set out to teach her the correct ways of polite society. Her father because he had no time for parties, balls, dinner dances and all the nonsense the upper classes went in for, Dolly and Miss Holdsworth because they knew nothing about them. Even their mistress, the late Mrs Beechworth, who was shy, retiring and content to adore and be adored by her husband and who spent her time on domestic matters, had made no effort to integrate her daughter into society. She had been a compassionate woman who did her best to better the lives of her servants, indoor and out, and local people in the villages about Beechworth House, so was it any wonder that Miss Rose had turned out as she had.
Everybody loved her!

Now Dolly turned and solicitously took Alice’s arm with the intention of leading her towards the kitchen door where a group of women stood smiling. Nessie, the cook, Fanny, Carrie, Polly, kitchen-parlour-and scullery-maid, and even Miss Holdsworth – called by everybody ‘Holdy’ – waited to welcome this lovely young woman. War fever gripped them all and anyone who was vaguely connected with it was a hero or heroine to them.

Alice looked about her, troubled, it seemed, by all this attention. ‘Oh dear, I’m afraid I must get home. My father . . . he did not want me to go; he will be cross.’

How could anyone be cross with this dainty little thing? their expressions said.

‘Don’t be silly, Alice,’ Rose reproved her. ‘You cannot just dash off home without—’

‘You don’t know Papa, Rose. He forbade me to go and I defied him. I love Charlie so much and I knew it would distress him if I wasn’t there to see him off. So I had to choose who I would hurt the most and Charlie is so dear to me . . . But I’m afraid my father . . .’

Tears ran down her face and almost as one those who saw them wanted to take this strict father and wring his bloody neck – or so Davy told Fred later – but Rose put her arm round Alice and over her shoulder told Fred to leave Sparky and the gig and she would drive her home and explain what had happened. She was confident she could make this child’s father see that it was not patriotic to send a man to war with no one to give him a loving send-off but even as she led Alice back to the gig Dolly was giving her opinion, which she seldom held back, on the nature of a man who could be so hard-hearted.

‘Surely if you were to tell him you were perfectly safe and in good hands with our Miss Rose who everyone hereabouts knows as perfectly respectable he would—’

‘No, no, it is kind of you and Rose has been wonderful and Harry Summers is—’

‘Harry Summers! What’s he gotter do with anythink?’

‘He’s Charlie’s brother and Papa disapproves of the family so you see he must not be mentioned. If Rose were to take me home and just dropped me at the gate then no one can be blamed.’

‘Dear God, I never heard anything so callous and I would not dream of dropping you at the gate to face this alone. I will drive you to your front door and speak to your father and tell him . . .’

They were all nodding in agreement since this was the right thing to do and their Miss Rose, who was afraid of nothing, would set this bugger – Davy’s words – to rights.

‘No, oh no. Please, Rose, do as I ask. If I seem to have gone with . . . with someone who gave me a lift – a casual lift – then I will do my best to convince him. You see, I don’t want him to know about you. That way I will probably be able to visit you later; well, when this has all blown over. Please, Rose.’ She gripped Rose’s arm with frantic fingers but there was nothing Rose liked more than a good fight with someone of whom she disapproved, Rose agreed.

She and Alice climbed into the gig helped by many eager hands and with a click of her tongue, turned the reluctant Sparky, who thought he had done enough and had had enough frights for one day, and headed for the gate and the road to Weatherly House. All of them, even the scullery-maid, came to the gate to see them off, begging her to come and visit them as soon as she could. She’d be more than welcome!

She resisted all Alice’s pleading to be dropped at the gates and had almost to forcibly restrain her from jumping out while the gig was still moving.

‘Really, Alice, your father will be relieved to know that a perfectly respectable person drove you into the city and that you put yourself in no danger with me. I will tell him that I found you on—’

‘No, no, Rose, please don’t. He never lets me go anywhere unless Miss Price is with me or, if I go riding, one of the grooms. You don’t know—’

‘Rubbish! I can’t imagine—’

‘No, of course you can’t,’ Alice said forcefully. ‘You have not met him. As long as I act in what he considers a correct and ladylike manner he is perfectly pleasant but if I cross him he can—’

‘Poppycock,’ Rose spluttered. She had been surrounded by affection and given perhaps more freedom than most girls of her class and believed that Arthur Weatherly, when he heard the story, would be as her own father had been, prepared to listen to reason.

She was wrong. The man who stood glowering on the sweeping steps of Weatherly House was a man who had been disobeyed and at the sight of his livid countenance Alice began to tremble and even to huddle up to Rose as if for protection.

‘Good afternoon, Mr Weatherly,’ Rose said pleasantly, thinking to turn his anger away from Alice to herself.

‘Never mind that, Miss . . . Miss . . .’

‘Beechworth. Rose Beechworth of Beechworth House. I have returned your daughter safe and sound.’ Her own voice sounded strained even to her and the man, who was visibly restraining himself from hitting someone, preferably her, she thought, took no notice of her.

‘Get in the house, Alice. I will deal with you later. Go straight to your room and wait there for me. And I would be glad if this . . . this person would remove herself and her . . . her
équipage
from my drive.’ He made it sound as though Sparky were pulling the local rubbish cart!

‘Really, sir, Alice and I have done nothing to deserve your disapproval. She needed a lift and I—’

‘I have no interest in this . . . this person, Alice, so if you would climb down and get upstairs I shall—’

‘Well, I must say, this is not the way a gentleman treats a lady . . .’ Rose declared, though she started to understand that to tell him that she and Alice had merely been to the station to see the troops away to war would only make matters worse. He was already turning his back on her, following his daughter as she scurried up the steps. He closed the door firmly and Rose sighed, for she realised that Alice had been right and she herself had been wrong. In her arrogance, or perhaps it was really innocence, she had believed she could reason with him and make him see that they had done nothing improper. She remembered, too late, of course, that Alice had told her that her father did not like the Summers family so why in her swollen pride had she not listened to her? Now what had she done? Thrown poor Alice into the centre of her father’s anger. What would he do to her? Alice had intimated that he had never hit her but he had looked as though he might do so today.

Slowly she turned Sparky on the smoothly raked drive and headed for the splendid wrought-iron gates half a mile away. She had been glad on her way towards the house that she had persuaded Alice to let her take her to the front door, believing that her father would be pacified by Rose’s explanation of their action, but on the return journey, despite the long trudge Alice would have had, she knew now that she had only made things worse. Her own self-confidence had betrayed her. No, not her, but poor Alice.

The grooms both ran out of the stable, smiling, dying to ask her about Miss Alice since they had taken a great fancy to the lovely young girl, but she merely climbed down, shaking her head at them. They had the sense not to say anything but Dolly was a different matter. She was there on the back step, a stout, red-faced woman in a snowy apron, the keys that were in her keeping as housekeeper jingling at her waist. She felt she was entitled to let her feelings be known and to question who she liked about what she considered to be her domain. And guests at Beechworth House were her business and had been since her mistress had died when Rose was only ten years old.

‘Well?’ she questioned.

‘Well what?’ Rose answered, too dispirited to give a full account of what had happened.

‘Don’t you cheek me, young lady. You might be the mistress of this house but you’re not too old for a box on the ears. Was everything all right? Did her pa—’

‘He’s the most awful man I have ever met. Anybody who crosses him had better watch out and what will happen to poor little Alice God only knows. She was brave to defy him and go to see Charlie off but she’ll be made to pay for it. Oh, for the love of God, let me get in, Dolly.’ And as she spoke she suddenly became aware of a smart trap pulled by a little pony tethered to a ring in the stable wall.

‘Who—’

‘Nay, what a day this ’as bin. I put him in the drawing room but he didn’t want no tea or coffee. I even offered him a glass of your pa’s best whisky but he didn’t want—’

‘Who the devil . . .?’

‘Mr Harry Summers, that’s who.’

‘Oh, damn and blast . . .’

‘That’s no way for a lady to talk, Miss Rose, an’ your poor mam’d turn in her grave if she—’

But Rose was striding towards the door that led from the kitchen to the wide hallway beyond. As she entered the drawing room he stood up and she was seriously alarmed by something that rose up inside her. What the devil was the matter with her? What was it about this man that he should have this effect on her, she who had held in scorn all the gentlemen who had done their best to ingratiate themselves into her good graces? But her face was impassive and Harry Summers, unknown to her, wondered exactly the same thing. He had brought the trap to take Alice home, or so he told himself, when he had known full well that Rose Beechworth would have already done so. Nevertheless he blundered into what he hoped was a reasonable explanation, stammering slightly. She was having none of it!