Daughters Of Eden: The Eden Series Book 1 (4 page)

It was only since accepting his proposal that Poppy had come to realise that for her to find someone like Basil was actually, as her mother kept saying, ‘akin to a miracle.' All of which thoughts led her to suppose that perhaps the strange emotions that ran through her every time she thought of Basil, let alone saw him, constituted this mysterious thing called love. The feelings were very sure and very deep, varying between extreme thrill and an odd though not altogether unpleasant
fear, emotions so strong that sometimes when she was lying in bed dreaming of their future together she would suddenly sit up, her heart beating too fast.

So convinced had she become that this must most surely be love, she had come to accept that recognising this mysterious emotion must be as difficult as recognising happiness before it was too late; and since as a child she had never been shown any affection, never been hugged or kissed – not even by her nanny – it was surely only to be expected, she told her dog in the darkness of the night, that she should feel a little muddled. Up until now she had considered herself as being nothing more than a dreary appendage to her parents' peripatetic European lives, someone to stem her mother's boredom when no one else was around, or about whom her father loved to joke –
Here comes poor old Popsicle! Here comes the future parrot keeper!
being one of his favourite greetings. Now he would have to change his tune.

She turned away from this thought to another. Love. In reality Poppy had little or no knowledge about the physical side of marriage. She knew there was a physical side to it, because she had heard the servants making jokes in the kitchens. She had also learned enough from books to know that marriage was not just holding hands, although so far her physical relationship with Basil had actually only consisted of briefly holding hands the evening after he had been interviewed by her father, and since then exchanging a few light kisses on the cheek on parting. Basil had never tried to kiss her properly, which, while disappointing, left
Poppy to reason that like all good things It – whatever It might indeed actually be – was obviously worth waiting for, although she remembered hearing some disparaging remarks made by her mother on the hideous nature of physical love, and some vague advice that when It happened it was best just to close your eyes and think of shopping in Bond Street, or the Rue de Rivoli.

‘Are you actually going to live at Mellerfont?' Mary Jane was now asking, breaking into Poppy's private reverie. ‘It's utterly miles from anywhere, they say, and absolutely vast. Huge, in fact.'

‘Some of the time, I suppose, yes,' Poppy agreed. ‘Basil has a town house as well, but I imagine we shall spend a certain amount of time in Yorkshire.'

‘You know there's no summer at all in Yorkshire, do you? At least not according to Mummy. She says summer starts on June the first and ends on the thirtieth. Most of the time it's dark. And wet.'

‘I think that's an exaggeration.' Poppy laughed, cleaning her glasses on her table napkin. ‘I've seen photographs and it looks rather sort of splendid. As for Mellerfont – Basil says he has quite a lot of people working for him – in the house, and on the estate.'

‘Where are you going for your gown?' Mary Jane took one last draw on her slim Turkish cigarette before stubbing it out, her eyes now back on Poppy, because she didn't like to think of Poppy's being surrounded by servants. ‘The sort of wedding you're going to have, I should imagine a trip to Worth is on the cards, wouldn't you?'

Poppy put her spectacles on again, wondering as always why she did so since they seemed to make
little difference to her sight, but grateful as always to hide behind them.

‘I don't know where I'm going for my gown as it happens,' she replied with perfect truth. ‘Basil and my mother have rather sort of taken over. I'm rather glad actually. They've both got much better taste than I have.'

Mary Jane snapped her handbag shut and prepared to leave. It was really getting far too much altogether. She could not see why Poppy Beaumont, of all people, should ever deserve such good fortune. The strange thing was, nor could Poppy.

Chapter Two

In the event Poppy's wedding dress was not made at Worth. After a brief battle of wills between Basil and Poppy's mother, and despite the fact that the older generation kept murmuring about war, Poppy went to Paris with her mother but not, as was duly reported in both
Vogue
and the
Tatler
, to visit the House of Worth.

Following the splendour of the Coronation, most brides must feel that they cannot possibly compete, but Miss Poppy Beaumont
'
s late summer wedding to Lord Tetherington was a more than adequate reply to that most impressive of ceremonies. The bride wore a gown designed and made for her in Paris by Madame Gres, and a more chic dress could not be imagined. The dictates of the heart might be infinitely various, but those of fashion could not surely have produced a more feminine gown. Wide-skirted and flowing, made of Lyons silk, with embroidered silk veiling, it had all the style and tailoring so often lacking in more romantic designs, yet fulfilled every demand for this most special of days. The new Lady Tetherington looked everything that the bridegroom might have desired, but of which most could surely only possibly have dreamed
.

Because of the now very real threat of war, Basil had recommended they spend the first night of their honeymoon at a friend's house on the way to Mellerfont. The drive took well over two hours, but as soon as Basil turned his dark green convertible Bentley through the huge ornamental gates, past the lodge that guarded the entrance to his friend's house, and up the long winding carriage drive through heavily wooded grounds before reaching the park proper, Poppy's spirits rose in spite of her fatigue. She began to feel altogether better about the prospect of sharing her life with the stranger sitting beside her in the driving seat, particularly when his car swept round a long bend in the drive to give Poppy her first proper view of his friend's house sitting in the late sunshine of a very late summer evening.

Thanks to her family's travels around Europe, Poppy had stayed in fine châteaux that had belonged to rich French diplomats and large ornate villas that were the family homes of Italian politicians, not to mention the beautiful Bavarian castles used for hunting and shooting by the German aristocracy, so she knew at a glance when she saw a jewel, and the estate into which they had driven was indeed a jewel. Early eighteenth century, and built of a pale stone, it had the welcoming feeling of a house that has no real pretensions, and so sits as comfortably as any charming personality within its gardens and grounds.

A large fire had been laid in the chintz-festooned drawing room, a luxury Poppy found most welcoming after the fatigue of a wedding and a
long reception. Furthermore drinks and canapés had been laid out in advance on a butler's tray placed in front of the log fire, and Basil served them both a fine French champagne that had been left cooling in an old silver ice bucket.

‘Well, Lady Tetherington, I confess I was a little nervous today, and I dare say you were too?'

‘I suppose so,' Poppy admitted. ‘But then it's sort of natural, wouldn't you say? I mean – you know … neither of us has exactly been married before.'

‘Not exactly?' Basil queried as he handed her a glass of wine. ‘Not
exactly
? I wonder what you can mean by that.'

‘Just that people are sort of bound to get a little nervous when they're doing something they haven't done before, I suppose.'

‘By exactly,' Basil continued to wonder, ‘does this suppose that one might have done this sort of thing
roughly
before?'

Poppy frowned and looked up at the fine paintings on the wall. She supposed this was some kind of patrician tease, and so she let her gaze wander round the room before replying.

‘I know that was a stupid thing to say, Basil, but I wasn't actually thinking. And no, and I'm not really nervous now, as it happens, just a bit tired, which you must be too, do admit.'

‘I admit nothing.' Basil smiled now, much more like the Basil whom Poppy hoped she knew. ‘And you are a little – a little shy perhaps?'

‘Perhaps.'

‘Then that is all to the good. Women should never be too confident, it's most unappealing.'
Basil raised his wine glass. ‘To the future. To
our
future.'

‘Absolutely,' Poppy agreed, raising her own glass gratefully. ‘To the future.'

‘Although God alone knows quite what sort of future that's going to be,' Basil added. ‘The way this country is heading, we can only shudder to think of the future. Even so, we don't want to talk of politics now, do we? I say, I was wondering, do you think you're going to be able to manage all right, without a maid? I can find someone to help you dress, if you want.'

Poppy shook her head, and once again looked down. She knew this was a mark against her. All Society brides were expected to honeymoon with a personal maid in attendance.

‘We were a bit short of people at home,' she explained. ‘I did say I might need a maid, but my mother wouldn't lend me hers. As I say we're a bit short of servants, as everyone is. What with so many girls going off to work in factories now that war seems to be so terribly unavoidable.'

‘That so?' Basil replied, without a great deal of interest. ‘Never realised.' He looked momentarily bored at the mention of domestic arrangements, and fingered his signet ring. ‘Don't usually talk about servants, you know.'

‘No, well, no. You wouldn't. I dare say you don't have that sort of problem at Mellerfont.'

Basil's eyebrows went up as he examined the question. He shrugged.

‘Hasn't occurred so far – far as I know,' he said, turning round to consult the clock above the fireplace. ‘Nearly time to change, so if you're quite
sure you can cope, I think we should go up in a few minutes.'

Poppy nodded in return, and sipped her champagne. Silence fell, relieved only by the crackling and popping noises from the logs in the fireplace.

‘Is it all right, Basil, if George sleeps in the bedroom?' Poppy suddenly wondered, as her beloved dachshund shifted his position and sat fair and square on her foot.

‘Of course. Dogs in the bedroom are de rigueur at Mellerfont. My parents, when they were alive, made the rule. Dogs in bedrooms, cats in the garden or the stables, never indoors. Might as well start as we mean to go on, wouldn't you say? I'm sure Douglas feels the same here.'

Basil lit a cigarette, glanced once more at the clock then stood smoking with his back to the fire.

‘So no news then,' Poppy said in an effort to break the new silence. ‘That is, no talk about the news then.'

‘I always think it's bad form to talk about the news, unless it directly concerns oneself.'

‘Yes, of course.'

There was another silence, as Poppy tried desperately to think of another suitable topic, but due to Basil's apparent indifference to small talk her mind remained horribly blank. In hope of inspiration she turned to examine the books on the table beside her chair.

‘Douglas McKinlock obviously likes poetry?' she remarked, referring to Basil's friend, the owner of the house. She tried not to register surprise as she examined the anthology she was holding.

‘You seem to find that surprising.'

‘No,' Poppy replied hurriedly. ‘No, not a bit. I didn't mean it that way. I meant it like – as in – I've only met him once but he doesn't seem the type.'

Basil's eyebrows were raised once again as he looked down at her, his lips pursing.

‘I see,' he said, after a moment. ‘Yes, I believe Douglas does like poetry. And so do I, as a matter of fact. Does that surprise you?'

‘I too have always liked poetry.'

‘
All
poetry? You like all poetry?'

‘I haven't read
all
the poetry that there is, no, Basil,' Poppy replied carefully. ‘No, I don't like all poetry. You're quite right. I like a lot of the poetry that I have read. What sort of poetry do
you
like?'

‘Epic mostly, if you're interested. I like poems that tell a story. That have a narrative.'

‘I see. At the moment I'm reading the French poets, Verlaine in particular. My French is just about good enough to read him in the original.'

Basil looked round at her, his expression deliberately blank.

‘I don't really think I want you reading Verlaine,' he said, after a small pause during which he obviously considered the point most carefully.

‘Oh, but I do so love him. He's so deliberately and horribly cynical, don't you find?'

‘Cynicism is not a suitable viewpoint for you, Lady Tetherington—' Basil stopped himself from sounding irritated just in time. ‘Let me put it this way,' he continued, on a different tack. ‘I do not consider Verlaine to be suitable reading for my
wife
. Along with various other poets – whom I would also rather you did not read – he does not
have what I would call a proper morality. Do I make myself clear?'

‘I don't understand.' Poppy stopped, frowned, and began again. ‘Are you – you know – are you being serious?'

‘What else would I be being?'

‘You don't want me reading – Verlaine?'

‘That's what I said. One must know what one's wife is reading.'

‘I see. Gracious. I never – I never thought of reading like that, Basil, as being something that came under a husband's jurisdiction.'

‘You should have done. I really don't want you filling your head with a lot of seditious nonsense. Do you understand?'

‘Yes. Yes of course, Basil.' Poppy's gaze once more took in the paintings round the room, to distract from the cold expression in Basil's blue eyes, and his immutable expression.