Читать книгу The Sweeping Saga Collection: Poppy’s Dilemma, The Dressmaker’s Daughter, The Factory Girl - Nancy Carson - Страница 25

Poppy attended her lesson, and several more besides, over the days that followed. During that time, she and Mrs Newton did get to know each other better and their easy accord was confirmed. But it was not only Mrs Newton that appealed. Poppy was fascinated with the library where she took her lessons. Because she had seen nothing like it before, it provoked no memories, only discoveries. There were books galore. She looked at the rows neatly lined up on shelves, and craned her neck to read the titles on the spines. She ran her fingers across them with a touch that was almost sensual, occasionally pulling one out, opening it with extreme care and reading a few lines before replacing it exactly as she had found it. On a chest of drawers a globe of the world stood, curiously tilted, Poppy thought. She put her fingers to it and gently turned it, wondering what the oddly shaped blobs of colour represented. On one shelf stood the alabaster bust of a man. She liked his face, whoever he was, and traced the carved features with her fingers, enjoying the surprising smoothness of the cool stone.

Under the window that looked out onto the back garden was a highly polished desk, on top of which lay a writing pad, a blotter and an ornate glass inkwell. A robust wooden chair upholstered in dark green leather accompanied the desk. In one corner a grandfather clock chimed the hours and steadily ticked away the years, and on the chimney breast hung a watercolour painting of men and women gathering in a harvest. Poppy looked at it intently and marvelled at the way the artist could produce something as lifelike on paper, using only ink and a few splodges of watery paint.

Poppy was actually invited to lunch on the Sunday. She sat primly at the dining table opposite Mrs Newton, taking her lead from her when it came to eating. Dining in a house like this was obviously a more genteel affair than gobbling food down in the hut on the Blowers Green encampment to the accompaniment of navvies belching and farting.

‘My dear, I have come to a decision,’ the older lady said as she pushed her plate away. ‘It is unthinkable that you should continue to live in Gatehouse Fold. It is a midden of down-and-outs, unless I am mistaken. Half the strumpets of Christendom live there.’

Poppy regarded her with interest.

‘So, if you have no objection, Miss Silk, I have a proposition to put to you that should benefit both of us …’

‘Oh?’

‘Yes. I would like you to consider the prospect of taking up employment here in this house?’

‘As a maid, you mean?’

‘No, not as a maid.’ Mrs Newton smiled indulgently. ‘I mean as my paid and kept companion. It would be my intention to make a lady of you, and you cannot be a maid and a lady. You would continue your learning, of course.’

‘Oh, Mrs Newton …’ Poppy sighed, touched by Mrs Newton’s extreme charity. ‘I don’t know what to say … I’m a bit took aback to tell you the truth …’ She put her hands to her face to hide her tears, a gesture that conveyed to the older lady the depth of Poppy’s astonishment. ‘I didn’t think I deserved such kindness …’

‘I want you to think about it carefully, my dear. You don’t have to make a decision now.’

Poppy smiled self-consciously. She needed no time to think it over, no second asking. This would be infinitely preferable to working as a maid, beyond any dreams she’d ever harboured.

‘Oh, Mrs Newton,’ she replied. ‘If you’m sure, I’d like nothing better.’

‘Capital!’ The old lady laughed with joy. ‘Marvellous! Well, that’s soon settled.’

‘I just hope you can put up with me and me quaint ways, that’s all.’

‘I think quaint ways are more in my domain,’ Mrs Newton said kindly. ‘Not yours, my dear.’

‘So when would you want me to come?’

‘Just as soon as you like.’

‘Can I come today then?’

Mrs Newton beamed. ‘Of course. Why not? I have a very comfortable spare bedroom. I can get Esther to light a fire in there straight away to air it. You are quite sure that your mother wouldn’t mind?’

‘Oh, I think my mother would be relieved if she knew.’

‘Miss Silk, I am so pleased and delighted. I am, in some ways, a selfish old woman, always determined to get my own way. But you will be comfortable here, and I certainly hope you will be happy as well. Anyway, I see no reason why you should not be. I try to be fair, as my staff will attest, and you will learn that I am not ungenerous.’

‘So will you please call me Poppy, Mrs Newton? Everybody else does.’

Mrs Newton laughed contentedly and her eyes twinkled as they reflected the firelight. ‘Very well, Poppy. Then why don’t you call me Aunt Phoebe?’

‘All right, I will. Thank you … Aunt Phoebe.’

‘Will it take you long to get your things?’

‘I ain’t got much. I can be there and back in an hour.’

‘You’ve fell on your feet and no mistake,’ Minnie said, when Poppy returned to Gatehouse Fold for her things. ‘I never met anybody in my life as lucky as you. I bet I’ll never see you again, living the life of a lady.’

‘Oh, I’ll come and see you, Min. Just ’cause I’ll be living in a big house, you’ll still be me friend. You’re me only friend, remember. I shan’t forget you. Ever.’

‘Come and see me from time to time so’s I know you’m all right. Anyway, I have to pay you back what I owe you.’

Poppy’s new bedroom was large and pleasant, clean, tidy, and luxurious compared to the jumble and scatter of Rose Cottage and the damp austerity of Gatehouse Fold. The bow window, hung with cream calico curtains printed with pink flowers, looked out onto the front garden and Rowley Road. Against the wall furthest from the window stood a wardrobe and, next to that, a tallboy with a glass vase and crocheted doily sitting upon it. There was a dressing table with mirrors that were adjustable so you could see the side of your head. On it stood a trinket box, also made of cut glass, a silver-backed hand mirror and hairbrush, and more crocheted doilies. There was a washstand with a bowl and ewer in a floral pattern. But the bed … Poppy sat on it, bouncing up and down like an excited child, making the bedstead creak, it was so soft and springy and inviting.

Aunt Phoebe came in after allowing her time to get to know the room a little. She was carrying a bundle of towels.

‘I thought you might enjoy a hot bath.’

‘Yes, I don’t mind.’ Poppy had never been in a bath and the prospect was daunting, but she decided it was best to accept it gratefully.

‘Is the room to your liking, my dear?’

‘Oh, it’s lovely, Aunt Phoebe,’ she replied with a broad smile. ‘And this bed is so soft. I think I shall be very comfortable.’

‘Good. While you were fetching your things I asked Esther to change the bed linen. To my mind, clean bed linen is essential once you’ve had a hot bath. Oh, and if it’s too warm, you can open the sash, you know.’

‘Oh, no, it’s just right.’ Poppy went to the window. The front garden below seemed more formally laid out than she had noticed when she had first arrived. The roses were colourful against the monochromatic lawn and the foliage of shrubs. The idea of tending to plants on a warm summer’s day had a sudden appeal; it conjured up images of contentment, of being civilised, of serenity. Then there was the view … ‘What’s that line of hills on the horizon?’

‘They are the Clent Hills, my dear. If you see it raining on the Clent Hills, you can be sure it will rain here within a few minutes … Well, Poppy … shall we put your things away?’ Aunt Phoebe opened the wardrobe door. ‘I’ll help you, while Esther fills the bath for you.’

Esther poured another bucket of hot water into the tin bath that had been taken to Poppy’s room and set in the ample space between the foot of the bed and the dressing table. Poppy smiled at the maid apologetically for being the cause of so much extra work.

‘I ain’t got much to put away, Aunt Phoebe …’ She pulled out her old red flannel dress, one of her cotton working frocks, stockings and a chemise.

‘But my dear …’ Aunt Phoebe looked at them aghast. She picked up the stockings between her thumb and forefinger and let them drop to the floor with distaste. ‘I don’t think you’ll be wearing those again …’

‘That only leaves me with the dress I’m wearing.’

‘Then tomorrow we shall visit my dressmaker and have you measured.’

Poppy smiled appreciatively. ‘Honest? But how much will it cost? I might not have enough money.’

‘You are not expected to pay, Poppy.’

‘You’re ever so kind, Aunt Phoebe, but I’ve managed for ages with just two working frocks … and this flannel one was me best till I got me blue one.’

‘Your blue one is certainly quite presentable.’ Aunt Phoebe smiled kindly. ‘But one good dress is not enough. You need more. You cannot continue to wear the same dress all the time when you are visiting people, or when we are being visited.’

Aunt Phoebe and Esther left Poppy to enjoy the bath with some privacy. She revelled in the warm, sudsy water, the sensation of lather caressing her skin. She liked how the thin film of soapy water made her skin look so glossy and feel so smooth. She sensually soaped her shoulders, the silky mounds of her breasts, the soft dimple of her belly button and the drift of downy hair below. Even the splashing sound was a novelty. She bent her knees up and lay back in the tin bath, basking in the water’s all-enveloping embrace. It ran in her ears, strangely deadening all sounds, seeped through her mop of fair curls to her scalp, and she shook her head gently to saturate every strand. She rolled onto her stomach and dipped her face in the water, screwing up her eyes. Surfacing again, she puffed out her cheeks and blew the bubbles away, stroking away the long tresses of hair that clung to her smiling face.

Oh, yes, she was smiling. How lovely it was to take a bath, to experience the pleasantness of cleansing, to sense the stickiness and grime being magically lifted from you. It was a whole new set of sensations.

Being taken in and cared for by a kindly lady, who obviously had her well-being at heart, was a new and unanticipated development, which Poppy had not yet fully grasped. Oh, these new permanent surroundings were different and entirely novel, the spectacular cleanliness of the place was astonishing, as was the cosseting warmth and cosiness. But the extent of her good fortune, and the changes that must inevitably ensue, she had yet not had time yet to speculate on, nor understand.

Poppy began to wonder what life would be like in this comfortable house among these people. She liked Aunt Phoebe. She had liked her from the moment she saw her; her plump homeliness, and her unassailable wisdom. She possessed also a sort of benign pomposity that seemed comical to Poppy and which might be fun to provoke from time to time. Aunt Phoebe exuded a reassuring confidence that told Poppy she would be safe, even protected, from the seedy side of life that Minnie was being drawn into. Poppy ought even to make a friend of Esther. After all, she was no better than Esther. She’d even aspired to being a maid, like Esther. And if these were the sort of comfortable surroundings a maid was privy to, then maybe it was not such a bad life.

Poppy lay down again and stretched contentedly, watching the warm water make a little pool in the dimple of her belly button. This was how other people lived, those more privileged, who did not have the transitory and uncertain life of living in navvy encampments, with the breadwinner hired and fired at the whim of the contractor. However, this home, she could already appreciate, was above and beyond what the average working family might enjoy, even those with settled roots. Routines here seemed sedate. There was no rush, no fuss. Nothing, it appeared, was too much trouble. She was certain she would be able to settle down happily here. For her part, she would try her best to fit in, to belong. She was already missing her mother, her brothers and sisters, but this offer of shelter from Aunt Phoebe – and in such a place – was a godsend she could never have foretold, and neither could she have refused it.

The bath water was cooling down and she stood up, feeling the simple pleasure of it trickling down over her body and her legs, seeing how her skin glistened in the fading daylight from the window. She reached for the towel that Esther had draped over a chair back and rubbed herself dry, delighted by the firm roughness of the towel over her skin. She stepped out of the bath onto the edge of another towel Esther had thoughtfully laid there, and dried her feet. Then she rubbed up her hair and looked at herself in the mirror … tousled, naked and comical. She laughed contentedly.

There was a tap-tap at the door.

‘Come in.’ She had not the slightest thought for her nakedness.

Esther opened the door and peered around it. ‘Oh! Pardon me, miss …’

‘Come in, Esther,’ Poppy chirped.

Esther looked with embarrassment at Poppy. ‘Ma’am said I was to try and do something with your hair. I’ll get you a dressing gown first, miss. You don’t want to catch a chill.’

Poppy felt a little guilty that Esther was running round doing things for her, things that she could easily do herself. The girl never stopped. To-ing and fro-ing. Fetching and carrying. She returned with a white dressing gown and helped Poppy into it.

‘If you’d like to sit at the dressing table, miss …’

Poppy stepped towards it and sat astride the quilted stool. ‘Esther, why don’t you call me Poppy?’

‘’Cause I’m supposed to call you “miss”, miss. I’m gunna dry your hair a bit more now, miss.’

Esther had brought with her another clean dry towel, and she began vigorously rubbing, shaking Poppy’s head from side to side, then forwards and backwards. But Poppy did not protest. When the maid had finished, Poppy looked again at her tousled mane that seemed more yellow than she had ever known it.

‘Your hair’s a lovely colour, miss.’

‘D’you think so, Esther? Honest?’

‘I wish mine was that colour.’

‘It generally goes a bit lighter in the summer. Now winter’s nearly here it’s goin’ darker again. But it always looks the brighter for a good wash.’

Esther picked up the brush with the silver handle and began gently brushing. ‘Mine always looks so dull.’

‘It’s funny how we always want something we ain’t got. Don’t you think so, Esther? But your hair’s nice. And a nice colour. I wun’t mind it.’

Esther smiled, grateful for the reassurance. ‘How long you stopping here for, miss?’

The relevance of the question suddenly struck Poppy. ‘A long time, I think. I hope so, any road …’ She was looking at Esther in the mirror as she spoke. ‘For as long as Aunt Phoebe wants me to stay, I s’ppose. However long it is, I hope you and me’ll be friends, Esther.’

Esther smiled again, evidently flattered. ‘Am yer her niece, then?’

‘No. I ain’t no relation. But I know her nephew.’

Poppy’s hair was taking on a well brushed, sleek look, her curls non-existent now.

‘Which one?’

‘Oh … Mr Robert Crawford.’ Poppy caught Esther’s eye in the mirror and at once felt herself blushing. A glance at her own reflection confirmed it. ‘Robert’s me friend.’

‘I thought he was engaged.’

‘Oh, he is …’ Poppy affirmed.

‘To you?’

‘No, not to me. Worse luck!’ She uttered a little laugh that held traces of sadness and embarrassment.

‘You fancy him then, miss?’

Poppy looked up from under a fringe of hair. ‘Wouldn’t you, Esther?’

‘Me? Oh, I got no chance of ever getting off with the likes o’ Robert Crawford. I ain’t pretty enough. I got a face like a turnip and figure like a bolster, and no two ways. He’s a likely enough lad for any wench to fancy. But not me. I got no time for all that fallalery, what with helping Dolly in the kitchen, keeping the furniture and household goods looking summat like, sweeping and cleaning. I’m glad there’s no men living in this house, spitting in the grates, walking on the carpets wi’ mucky boots and crumpling up the antimacassars with their greasy hair. Men in the house make too much mess.’

‘I don’t think all men am the same, Esther.’

‘Me own father’s worse than a dog. Maybe not your Robert Crawford, though,’ Esther conceded. ‘He seems betterer’n most.’

‘Did he used to come here a lot?’

‘From time to time.’ She bent forward to Poppy’s ear and whispered, ‘They reckon as his family’s one o’ the richest for miles.’

‘Honest?’

‘That’s what they say. But I expect you knew that already.’ Esther lifted Poppy’s hair away from her neck, holding it up to ascertain the effect. ‘Shall I try and pin it up afore it dries out, miss?’

‘If you like.’ She recalled Minnie’s efforts to do likewise.

‘I reckon it suits yer pinned up …’ Esther sighed. ‘I do wish I had hair this colour, miss.’

‘You could always dye it.’

‘Dye it?’ Esther chortled at the very notion. ‘Lor! Me mother’d kill me when she sid it. I daresn’t dye it.’

‘You could always keep your bonnet on.’

‘Or borry a wig,’ Esther quipped with a chuckle.

Poppy changed the subject. ‘How old is Dolly, the other maid?’

‘Twenty-five.’

‘I ain’t had the chance to talk to her much.’

‘It’s her afternoon off. Gone a-courting, I ’spect. She’ll be back tonight. Dolly does most o’ the cookin’ and looks after the kitchen. I do the housework … and the donkey work … Oh, and then there’s Clay. You must’ve seen Clay afore. He does the gardening and anything to do with outside—’

Poppy grinned. ‘Clay? That’s a good name for a gardener.’

Esther laughed again, revealing the gap between her two front teeth. ‘I hadn’t thought about it, but you’m right. Any road, I think Clay used to work for Mr Newton afore he died, driving him about in his carriage. He still drives Mrs Newton about from time to time.’

‘But he don’t live in the house?’

‘No, thank the Lord. He lives over the stables. He cleans up his own mess.’

The hair was done, to the satisfaction of Poppy and Esther, and Poppy put on her one and only dress. She went downstairs to Aunt Phoebe who was laying the dining-room table for tea herself. Poppy had never seen a tablecloth so white.

‘My goodness, your face is glowing, Poppy my dear,’ Aunt Phoebe remarked. ‘It must be the hot bath. Do you feel refreshed?’

‘Yes, thank you. D’you like the way Esther’s done me hair, look?’ She swivelled her head from side to side, seeking Aunt Phoebe’s approval.

‘Very elegant, my dear. Very elegant. Would you like to take tea now, or would you prefer to wait?’

‘Now, if you want. I’m hungry after me bath.’

‘Good. I prefer to take tea even earlier than this on a Sunday on account of going to church. But we shall have to forego church this Sunday – it’s been quite hectic, your moving in … Esther, would you make us a pot of tea? Poppy, would you be so kind as to go with Esther and slice and butter the bread, on account of it being Dolly’s afternoon off? Then bring it to the table with the jam and the cakes, if you please. I’ll lay out the crockery and find the serviettes.’

So Aunt Phoebe and Poppy sat down to tea together. Although she was hungry, she did not want to disgrace herself, and was restrained when it came to filling her plate with sandwiches. Eclairs and custard pies also sat invitingly on the crystal glass cake stand before her. But she first took a sandwich and began munching it.

‘How old is Robert, Aunt Phoebe? He never told me.’

‘Robert is twenty-four. He will be twenty-five next May. He is now the black sheep as far as his family is concerned, you know,’ Aunt Phoebe declared conversationally. ‘However, he just happens to be my favourite nephew.’

‘Why is he the black sheep?’

‘Because he was expected to join the family firm. His going away has delayed that. He went much against his father’s wishes. However, he has always wanted to be independent of his father, and that has always been in his favour as far as I’m concerned. From a small boy, he had his heart set on becoming an engineer, though, like Mr Stephenson and Mr Brunel, whose work he has followed and studied assiduously. Of course, he has had the privilege of meeting Mr Brunel himself and working with him on the Oxford, Worcester and Wolverhampton project.’

Poppy listened with wide-eyed interest as she ate. Robert had never discussed his family.

‘So he applied himself to civil engineering and, when he was nineteen, he dashed off to Edinburgh, with his father’s blessing, to study the subject at the university there. Would you like another sandwich, Poppy?’

‘Can I have one of those as well?’ She pointed to a custard pie.

‘Of course. Help yourself.’

Poppy reached over and put one on her plate. ‘Where’s Edinburgh, Aunt Phoebe?’

‘Why, Scotland, my dear.’

‘Oh, Scotland …’ She nodded thoughtfully, at the same time eyeing up her custard pie. ‘That’s when he must’ve had the idea to build that funny two-wheeled machine he rides everywhere. He said he had the idea in Scotland …’ Poppy was pleased she’d made the connection between his education in Scotland and his machine. But there was still plenty more she wanted to know. ‘So when did he meet that girl he’s engaged to?’

‘Her family have been involved with Crawford’s for many a long year, I understand. I suspect she and Robert have known each other a long time. But their engagement was announced, oh … less than a year ago.’

‘Do you know this girl, Aunt Phoebe?’ She took a bite from the custard pie.

‘I know of her. I have been acquainted with her family. They are respectable and very affluent—’

‘Affluent? What does affluent mean? Robert was always teaching me the meaning of words.’

‘Affluent means wealthy. It stems from the Latin word affluere, to flow to. So, when money flows to you, you are considered affluent.’ Aunt Phoebe smiled indulgently, pleased that her new protégée was not inhibited about asking such questions.

Poppy returned the smile, still munching, grateful in turn for the explanation. She had so much to learn in this world and she was a late starter. Another word kept cropping up as well, and it seemed these people of quality were preoccupied with it.

‘Why does everybody make such a fuss about being respectable, Aunt Phoebe?’

‘Oh, my dear!’ Aunt Phoebe picked up her napkin and dabbed at her mouth. ‘To my mind, respectability is all. To my mind, unless you earn the respect of people you are nothing.’

‘So how do you go about earning it?’

‘Initially, by not speaking when your mouth is full, Poppy.’

‘Oh … Sorry.’

‘One earns respectability simply by conforming to the standards of behaviour and etiquette expected of decent people. If you are deemed respectable you merit esteem. You do not merit esteem if you behave in a manner likely to cause offence or nuisance, if you behave immorally, dishonestly, or deceitfully, with no regard for others. Being respectable is being aware of your obligations and duties, and upholding them conscientiously. Being respectable is not putting a foot wrong. Respectability is an important word – a beautiful word – and I am pleased that you have asked me about it.’

‘So, if Robert were to give up this girl he’s engaged to and go off with somebody else, he would not be esteemed or seen as respectable?’

Aunt Phoebe looked at Poppy askance. ‘I’m sure it would depend on the circumstances. But why would that be of interest to you, Poppy?’

Poppy shrugged, feigning indifference, and popped the last piece of egg custard into her mouth. She made sure she had finished eating it before she spoke again.

‘There’s something I don’t understand, Aunt Phoebe,’ she said with a frown of puzzlement. ‘If this girl’s family are so well known to the Crawfords, how come you don’t really know her?’

‘You must understand, Poppy, that I am no blood relation. I am only related to the Crawfords because my husband was the brother of Robert’s mother, Clarissa. Since my husband died, I have had little to do with any of them … or, rather, they have had little to do with me – save for dear Robert, bless his heart, who has not forgotten me.’

‘No, Robert wouldn’t forget you, Aunt Phoebe. He always struck me as being thoughtful.’

The next day saw Poppy being shown more of the house and gardens, now that she was a resident. The back garden seemed vast once you were in it. The ground rose up from the house so that when you reached its extremity and looked back you could actually see the Clent Hills over the slate roof. Mature trees were in abundance and provided some shade, which would be delightful on a hot summer’s day, as would the secluded summer house she saw overhung with climbing roses. Flowerbeds were everywhere, with no formal arrangement to them, but straight borders ran alongside the ancient brick walls that formed the boundary on either side. Poppy was introduced at last to Clay and the smell of his pipe tobacco reminded her poignantly of her father. He told her it was twist and she told him she liked it. It was enough to establish a regard for each other.

A great source of curiosity was the old square piano in the drawing room. The first time Poppy was close enough, she felt compelled to press down a key and was immediately delighted with its musical plink. She beamed an apologetic smile to Aunt Phoebe. Perhaps, when she was alone some day, she could return and plink some more keys, and discover the kinds and combinations of sounds it might be possible to produce.

About halfway through the morning, Poppy sat at the desk in the library with Aunt Phoebe, who was determined to get Poppy to read to her so that she could assess her progress. Poppy read a page from Pride and Prejudice, which Robert had given her.

‘Have you read that page before, Poppy?’

‘No, Aunt Phoebe. I just carried on from where I’d got to.’

‘And how long have you been reading?’

Poppy shrugged. ‘Not till after me dad died. Less than six months, I s’pose.’

‘You read remarkably well. I see you have ploughed some way into the book. Are you enjoying it?’

‘Oh, yes,’ she enthused. ‘It’s so funny. I love the bit where—’

‘What have you gleaned about manners and etiquette?’

‘Etiquette?’ Poppy looked unsure.

‘Pride and Prejudice is full of it. How people behave towards each other in a way that is polite.’

‘Oh, yes. That.’

‘I suspect it was the reason Robert gave it to you. So that you would learn from it. Well, I shall teach you etiquette along with everything else. We shall make a proper lady of you, I have every confidence.’

Somebody knocked at the door and Aunt Phoebe called for whoever it was to come in. Dolly entered looking agitated.

‘What is it, Dolly?’

‘The butcher, ma’am. You know we ordered a rabbit to make a stew, but the one he’s sent ain’t bin skinned and drawn, ma’am. And he knows very well how I can’t abide messing with ’em. Should I send Clay back with it so’s he can do it for me?’

‘Clay’s busy, Dolly,’ Aunt Phoebe declared. ‘If I interrupt him with such trivialities we’ll never get the garden tidied for the winter. Is it such an awful task to skin and draw a rabbit?’

‘It’s still got the yed on,’ Dolly added. ‘I hate doing it, ma’am. It turns me stomach.’

Poppy looked first at Dolly, then at Aunt Phoebe. ‘I can do it,’ she said, as if it were the easiest thing in the world. ‘I can skin and draw a rabbit. I’ll do it for you, Dolly, if you like. Save disturbing Clay.’

Aunt Phoebe huffed disapprovingly. ‘Really, Poppy, I don’t think that is quite the sort of thing I would expect you to do … And what about your lesson?’

‘Oh, I don’t mind, honest. I’ll gladly do it. I’m used to it.’ She got up from the desk and moved towards Dolly.

‘Just this once then. To show Dolly and help her overcome her aversion.’

‘There’s nothing to it,’ Poppy said affably, as the maid led her towards the kitchen.

‘Well, thank the Lord you can do it, miss. I’m that grateful, honest I am. I hate and detest messing with the things.’

‘It don’t bother me.’

‘So where did you learn how to do such things, miss?’

‘Oh, I used to have to help me mother,’ she said artlessly. ‘I was always having to pluck chickens and ducks. I was always pulling the innards out of something or other. Men was always bringing things for us to cook – things they’d poached or pinched.’

They entered the kitchen, warm with a fire burning in the cast-iron range. A dead rabbit lay limp and fluffy on a wooden workbench, its upturned eye open, looking vacantly at the whitewashed ceiling.

‘See what I mean?’ Dolly remarked. ‘Poor thing. It makes me cringe to have to chop its flipping head off.’

‘But it don’t matter, Dolly,’ Poppy reasoned. ‘It’s dead. You can’t hurt it now.’

‘I know, but the smell when you gut it. It’s vile.’

‘Oh, the smell’s nothing. No worse than a privy. Just hold your breath …’

‘Here, miss … put this pinafore over your clean frock.’

‘Thank you, Dolly … Have you got a cleaver?’

Poppy fastened the strings of the pinafore and pulled up her sleeves, while Dolly reached for the cleaver and handed it to Poppy. Poppy held it poised over the rabbit and, with a single deft action, decapitated the furry corpse.

‘There y’are, Dolly.’ She took a sharp knife and slit the pelt, then peeled it away. ‘At least with the skin on you know you got a rabbit, eh? When it’s skinned it could be anything. A cat, even.’

‘I know. It wouldn’t be the first cat neither that folk have ate, thinking it to be a rabbit, eh, miss?’

‘How’s your young man, Dolly?’ Poppy asked, changing tack. ‘Esther tells me you go a-courting on your afternoon and evening off.’

Dolly smiled bashfully. ‘He’s all right, miss, thank you.’

‘What does he do for work?’

‘He’s a puddler at the Dixons Green Iron Works down Bumble Hole,’ Dolly replied.

‘Have you been courting long?’

‘Not that long. Mind you, I’ve had plenty chaps in me time.’

‘But he’s the one you liked best, eh?’

‘Not really,’ Dolly said resignedly. ‘He’s the ugliest, though. You couldn’t punch clay uglier.’

‘So why did you take to him over the others?’ Poppy asked, her fingers covered in entrails.

‘’Cause he earns the most … And his mother told me he can draw fowl. I hate drawin’ fowl and things.’ Dolly watched what Poppy was doing with distaste, her mouth turned down at the corners. ‘It don’t bother you though, does it, miss?’

Poppy smiled, content that she had helped Dolly, happy that this opportunity to befriend the girl had arisen. It was in her nature to be friendly in any case, to want to please. She was anxious to let these servants see that she was no different to them, that she was not likely to look down on them just because she was unexpectedly thrust into the elevated position where she was to be waited on and looked after. She didn’t particularly relish the idea of them doing her bidding. She didn’t warrant it. No, she would rather help them than find them tasks. Because she was no better than them, how could she reasonably be expected to give them orders? If they sensed that she was no better, how indeed could she expect them to respond if they did not like or respect her? Ah … Respect … Respectability … She washed her hands in the bowl of water that was in the sink.

‘I’m that grateful, miss. Honest,’ Dolly said again, offering Poppy a towel to dry her hands.

‘Oh, I don’t mind, Dolly. Anytime I can help, just let me know …’

Poppy was taken to Aunt Phoebe’s seamstress, Mrs Gadd, and measured. Together they chose material and flipped through patterns for everyday dresses, evening dresses, walking out dresses, skirts, blouses, petticoats, chemises, and frilly drawers. Poppy’s choice was frequently tempered and guided by Aunt Phoebe. Poppy was to return a week later for her first fitting. The next day, Tuesday, Aunt Phoebe had Clay drive them to town after Poppy’s lessons to buy mittens, day gloves, evening gloves, decent stockings, a purse, several bonnets, scarves, another cloak, a crinoline, another pair of dainty boots, and two new nightgowns, and to be measured for a corset.

As Poppy’s first week progressed, she had more lessons in reading, writing, elocution and deportment. On her second Sunday, she was taken to church in the carriage, along with Esther and Dolly, who sat in a pew at the rear of St Thomas’s church. Although the relatively new St John’s was nearer, Aunt Phoebe had always attended St Thomas’s. Poppy’s second week subsequently included an introduction to the scriptures, learning the Lord’s Prayer by heart, and Aunt Phoebe presented her with a map of the British Isles to pore over. First Poppy looked for Dudley, then Edinburgh, and thought about Robert Crawford and his two-wheeler. She found Mickleton, where her father had met with his death, but the map was not sufficiently up to date to show the Oxford, Worcester and Wolverhampton Railway line, although the Great Western from London to Bristol was shown, as was the London and Birmingham.

Poppy went alone to Mrs Gadd, the seamstress, for her first fitting.

‘Hold your arms up, young Poppy,’ Mrs Gadd said, somehow magically since she was holding a row of pins between her lips. ‘I just want to see if the bodice rides up.’

The bodice did not ride up appreciably because it was tight, as was the fashion, but Mrs Gadd found some material to pinch together and inserted a pin.

‘My word, you’ve got a lovely little figure, Poppy.’

‘Thank you, Mrs Gadd.’

‘You remind me o’ me eldest daughter. She’s got a figure like you, you know. She’s had three kids an’ all, but she ain’t lost her figure. Gets it from her father’s side, I reckon. His mother was like a whippet. Whippets run in that family. She certainly don’t get it from me.’ Mrs Gadd laughed self-deprecatingly. ‘Look at the size o’ me. I’m like a Netherton bonk ’oss. But not our Ruth.’

Poppy smiled indulgently, twisting one way then the other while the seamstress made her adjustments.

‘How old am yer, Poppy?’

‘Sixteen. I’ll be seventeen next April.’

‘Seventeen? Phew! What I wouldn’t give to be seventeen again and know what I know now … Stand up straight a bit while I just look at the hem …’ Mrs Gadd got down on her knees and fiddled with the hem, sticking pins in here and there. ‘That other dress …’ She nodded in its direction as she stood up again. ‘The pale blue satin one … You’ll fetch the ducks off the water wearing that. By God you will. Take a tip from me … You’m a young madam yet, and you’ll have a fair few handsome young bucks offering theirselves. Keep ’em dangling, that’s my advice. It makes ’em all the more interested.’

Poppy smiled, uncertain how to respond.

‘But never stop single,’ Mrs Gadd went on. ‘I don’t hold wi’ women stopping single. They get funny ideas with ne’er a husband around ’em to drain all the softness out o’ their heads. I got an aunt what never wed, and she took it into her head as she was gunna be an invalid. Well, she’d got some new complaint every week, and was drinking laudanum by the bucketful. Sent her yampy, it did. There’s ne’er a husband as would’ve stood for such softness.’ Mrs Gadd stood back to admire her work and wiped a bead of sweat off her brow with the back of her hand. ‘That one should be all right. Now let’s have a look at that blue satin frock … eh? Change into it, my flower.’

Poppy released herself from the day dress and slipped on the evening dress. Mrs Gadd rearranged the fall of the skirt and the set of the bodice.

‘Course, there’ll be no chemise under this when you wear it, eh?’ The seamstress winked at Poppy. ‘Bare shoulders and arms, eh? And a tempting glimpse o’ cleavage. That’s what gets the pulses racing.’

Poppy smiled demurely.

‘Turn around, my dear.’ Mrs Gadd fastened the tiny buttons at the back of the bodice. ‘Seen anythin’ o’ them Crawford lads?’

‘No,’ Poppy replied.

‘The middle one – Robert. I heard as he’s gone off to Brazil.’

‘Brazil?’ Poppy turned round sharply and risked being stuck by a pin. ‘Where’s Brazil?’

‘Where’s Brazil? You mean you don’t know? My dear, Brazil’s on the other side o’ the world. A savage, ungodly place, I shouldn’t wonder, with neither church nor chapel.’

‘Where’s Brazil, Aunt Phoebe?’ Poppy asked when she returned to Cawneybank House. ‘Mrs Gadd’s heard that Robert’s gone to Brazil to work.’

‘I didn’t know he was going to Brazil. Goodness, it’s in South America. A long way off.’

‘Can you show me where it is?’

They trooped to the library. Aunt Phoebe went straight to the globe on top of the chest of drawers and turned it on its axis.

‘There. That’s Brazil. That lilac bit. It doesn’t look much there, but it’s a huge country.’

‘And wild?’

‘Oh, yes, Poppy. Very wild.’

‘How big is it?’

‘Well, just compare it to Great Britain … There’s Great Britain …’

‘Yes, it’s much bigger. I hope he’ll be safe there, if it’s so wild.’

‘Oh, so do I,’ Aunt Phoebe agreed.