Daughters Of Eden: The Eden Series Book 1 (6 page)

‘I will have supper in my room, if you don't mind, Basil.'

Poppy turned in the hall to find Basil all at once
deep in conversation with his butler, and the rest of the servants gone.

‘Of course, my dear, supper in your room. Barley water and water biscuits will do, won't it?'

Poppy looked across at him and knew at once there was a veiled threat behind his words. She also knew that he was punishing her for something, although quite what she didn't know.

‘Yes, of course that will be perfect,' she agreed with no outward sign of emotion, adding, ‘just two water biscuits, not more, please, Liddle.'

She had carefully memorised the names of the servants even as Basil had introduced them. Liddle the butler, Craddock the under-butler, Norman the boot boy, Mary, Beattie, and Sorrel, the maids – and at long last she could see a look of surprise in Basil's eyes. She also saw that he had registered that by ordering only two water biscuits she was throwing down a gauntlet. If he was choosing to send her to bed with a supper fit only for a naughty child, she would make sure that it was truly only fit for a very naughty child.

‘Now, Liddle.' She turned at the bottom of the stairs. ‘Show me to my suite, please, and goodnight, my lord. I will hope to see you in the morning'

When Poppy awoke the next morning all signs of summer had disappeared, and there were only thunder clouds to be seen beyond her bedroom window, and the sound of heavy rain hurling itself against the thin, old-fashioned glass window panes. The grounds looked very uninviting in the inclement weather, the trees already drooping
with the weight of the waters that were pouring out of the skies, while the surface of the great lake looked as though it was being perforated from below by hundreds and thousands of tiny drills. In search of easy pickings a bevy of wild ducks waddled across the flooding lawns, while in the huge flowerbeds a couple of waterproofed gardeners were doing their best to go about their work.

As she made her way downstairs Poppy noticed that rain was pouring in at one corner of the ceiling high above the hall, to be caught in a strategically placed zinc bucket below, while the wind seemed determined to rattle ill-fitting windows everywhere, cross-draughts blowing up and down the staircase and across the fireless hall below where an elderly bald servant sat on a visitor's chair reading the newspaper. Feeling the chill of the house wrapping itself around her like a damp garment, Poppy at once hurried back to her bedroom in search of warmer clothes, changing quickly out of her light dress and into a wool twin set and a sensible tweed skirt.

Later, crossing the hallway once more, she observed the ancient retainer finally galvanising himself to light the fire, which smoked slowly as it attempted to catch, its fumes escaping the chimney to drift in a faint fog across the large, cold room. The old man took no notice of Poppy other than to nod slightly in response to her polite greeting, standing in his well-stained white jacket and shiny black trousers flapping at the recalcitrant flames with a fanned-out newspaper. Looking about her in dismay as she hurried towards the dining room
with her cardigan pulled tightly around her, Poppy found herself wondering how on earth she could ever have imagined Mellerfont would have any charm.

Basil had finished his breakfast by the time Poppy arrived at the table. He barely looked up to greet her, just nodding once at her while turning the pages of the
Daily Telegraph
.

‘We shall be moving your luggage to a new suite today,' he informed her. ‘I have had them open it up for a few days to give it an airing. Craddock will help you move your things across.'

‘Craddock will be moving me?' Poppy wondered as she helped herself to some nearly cold scrambled eggs from under one of the silver-covered dishes on the sideboard. ‘Is that quite suitable?'

‘The maids are all busy with other things. He's the man lighting the fires.'

‘I do now know who Craddock is, Basil.'

‘You don't have much, do you? So it won't take you too long. There are people coming here for luncheon today on business. You will not be required. From today you will be in the west wing. I will be in the east, where I also have my offices. There's a primitive sort of intercom, but if you really want something, better by far to send someone like Craddock. He's very handy, you'll find.'

With that Basil rose and left the breakfast table, whistling yet another of his unrecognisable tunes. Poppy promptly put her plate of unappetisingly cold scrambled eggs on the floor for George, contenting herself with a sequence of cups of black coffee from the pot on the table that was
only marginally warmer than her breakfast dish.

Mid-morning she finally finished packing up her clothes once again, preparatory to moving to the west wing. With Craddock pushing her luggage in an old wheelbarrow, Poppy sheltered herself as best she could under a broken umbrella, doing her utmost to avoid the huge puddles of rainwater that had formed everywhere. If she had thought the main house to be in a state of decrepitude, it was as nothing compared to the west wing. The general smell of mustiness that filled her nostrils the moment she entered indicated to Poppy that the wing could not have been properly lived in for an age, and as she surveyed the general state of decoration she quickly came to wonder why her husband should wish her to live in it now, before any of the obviously necessary repairs had been carried out. At least in the east wing the areas of damp were smaller and the damage more contained; even in her slender experience Poppy imagined, given the state of what she had seen of the house, Mellerfont as a whole must be at best a lost cause, at worst, with its ancient pipes and plumbing, an ideal harbour for typhoid to fester.

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.