Softly Grow the Poppies

  Table of Contents

  Also by Audrey Howard

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Also by Audrey Howard

  The Mallow Years

  Shining Threads

  A Day Will Come

  All the Dear Faces

  There Is No Parting

  The Woman from Browhead

  Echo of Another Time

  The Silence of Strangers

  A World of Difference

  Promises Lost

  The Shadowed Hills

  Strand of Dreams

  Tomorrow’s Memories

  Not a Bird Will Sing

  When Morning Comes

  Beyond the Shining Water

  Angel Meadow

  Rivers of the Heart

  The Seasons Will Pass

  A Place Called Hope

  Annie’s Girl

  Whispers on the Water

  A Flower in Season

  Painted Highway

  Reflections from the Past

  Distant Images

  As the Night Ends

  Rose Alley

  A Time Like No Other

  The Long Way Home

  The Flight of Swallows

  SOFTLY GROW THE POPPIES

  Audrey Howard

  www.hodder.co.uk

  First published in Great Britain in 2012 by Hodder & Stoughton

  An Hachette UK company

  Copyright © 2012 by Audrey Howard

  The right of Audrey Howard to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library

  Ebook ISBN 978 1 444 75596 1

  Hardback ISBN 978 1 444 75595 4

  Hodder & Stoughton Ltd

  338 Euston Road

  London NW1 3BH

  www.hodder.co.uk

  For two special people who have made

  my life brighter, Gwen and Norman

  1

  It was warm, so warm that Rose was tempted to remove her gloves. Her hands, despite the fact that the gloves were made of the finest kid, were sticky with perspiration but they held the reins firmly, so she clicked her tongue to Sparky and told him ‘Get up there, lad,’ which he did for he was fresh so early in the morning.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Dolly had said, ‘why the dickens you have to go to Old Swan at all in this heat. Can’t she use plain white to hem that petticoat? Do she have to have that specific shade of cream? After all, no one’s going to see it.’

  ‘Dolly,’ Rose had said patiently, ‘you know how particular the girls are. They wouldn’t dream of using the wrong colour, besides which one of them has begged me to buy her some khaki wool so that she can knit socks for the soldiers. She’s walking out with the under-gardener and he’s bound to enlist like all the young men, so I suppose she’s thinking of him; and anyway, I feel like having a ride. I want to find out what’s happening. The Times is full of war news and yet nobody seems to know exactly what is to happen next.’

  ‘Well, you won’t find out in Old Swan, chuck, that’s for sure. Why don’t you take your book down to the summerhouse and have a read and a rest? This blithering heat’s enough to knock the stuffing out of anyone. The gardeners were saying those dahlias need splitting and you know how fussy you are about which plants go where so you could tell him what—’

  ‘Yes, yes, he told me yesterday but I feel I must just get this silk so that they can get on with their sewing. I bet every woman in the country wants to knit something for the troops and khaki wool will be hard to find . . .’ Besides which she was restless, anxious to discover what was going on in the vicinity of Liverpool with regard to the war that had been declared, war with Germany. It seemed Germany had violated a treaty, setting aside the neutrality of Belgium by demanding a passage through the country. Great Britain warned Germany that it should withdraw its troops from Belgium at once and if Germany did not do so by midnight on 4 August a state of war would exist between them. Germany did not do so. The Great War had begun and Rose wished to know how it would affect those who would be involved in it. Not just the men who would be bound to fight but those at home.

  There were crowds everywhere, so it was reported, cheering and shouting and singing patriotic songs, especially in London outside the Palace, filled with enthusiasm for this great and glorious war in which they were to fight. Lord Derby was very keen to get a company of local lads to form their own Liverpool regiment and the streets were filled with hundreds of young men eager to be in on it. They were all terrified it would end – it would last a month they had heard – before they got their chance to share in it. War, war, war: the single syllable throbbed through the land and she wanted to get to Old Swan to find out for herself what was happening instead of just reading about it in the newspapers.

  She and Dolly were sitting in the enormous kitchen that her grandfather had considered just the right size needed for the life he would lead as a country gentleman, with, of course, the sort of entertaining he meant to do. There were two large tables, solid, scrubbed pine on one of which the kitchen-maid was chopping parsley in readiness for the fish that was to be served at luncheon. A door led off to pantries and sculleries and another was open to reveal the stable yard. A dresser at least twelve feet long stood against one wall, its five shelves lined with pottery utensils of every kind from humble egg cups to large serving platters big enough to carry a roast fore-quarter of lamb, a leg of pork, a sirloin of beef and the game he shot on his own land. The coal-fired stoves, two of them, were the very latest design with a fire between and a hot plate on which, and from which, Cook could produce gargantuan meals. There was a clothes rack that could be hauled up to the ceiling and on which the freshly ironed laundry aired; there were copper pans, terracotta pots, weighing scales, dozens of implements, baskets in which fresh fruit and vegetables from the garden were delivered, and before the fire two rocking-chairs where Dolly Davenport, who was housekeeper and ran the house like clockwork, and Cook rested during their busy days. Nessie, the cook, was married to Tom Gibson who was head gardener at Beechworth House and they had a comfortable cottage on the other side of the kitchen garden, as befitted their station. The rest of the servants lived in, except the laundry-maid who went home to her cottage in Hatton Lane each night: four housemaids and four menservants, grooms and gardeners. The men lived above the stable, the maids shared bedrooms at the top of the house.

  It was one of the under-grooms, who hitched Sparky to the gig
, holding the reins until Miss Beechworth emerged from the back kitchen. Miss Rose was known for her unconventional attitude towards fashion. Today she wore a full, well-cut, lightweight camel-coloured skirt that reached to mid-calf and was split to her knee, plain white shirt open at the neck, the cuffs turned back almost to the elbow. Her highly polished riding boots were revealed when she swung up into the gig. She wore no hat, the sun picking out copper and golden glints in her short, curly auburn hair. She was an extremely handsome woman of twenty-four years, independent, enormously wealthy and had refused every offer of marriage she had received.

  She slapped the reins on Sparky’s rump to set him off down the long drive, then she turned out of the wrought-iron gates of Beechworth House and into Hatton Lane. Bertha was in the garden of her cottage hanging out her own family’s laundry and Rose waved to her.

  ‘Soon ’ave this lot dry, Miss Rose,’ Bertha shouted as the gig passed her.

  ‘You certainly will, Bertha,’ Rose shouted back as she picked up speed. The hedgerows flashed past, overgrown with brambles, the fruit almost ready for picking. The fields beyond were busy with men and boys, for, war or no war, the harvesting must go on. Men and boys, most of whom would enlist for their great adventure, were advancing against the golden ranks of wheat in slow rhythm, blades sweeping, flashing in the sunlight. The banks on either side of the lane were covered with toadflax and hawkweed and among the brambles were long streamers of honeysuckle and sweet-scented bedstraw. Some of the fields were golden with ragweed and others bright with a tapestry of scarlet poppies. There was a rowan tree standing sentinel at the corner of the field that was part of Oak Hill Farm and a thrush was gorging on its plentiful berries.

  She was just about to turn from Hatton Lane into Dunbabin Road, which led through Wavertree and on to Old Swan, when she caught sight of what appeared to be a child hurrying from the opposite direction. She had time to notice that the child was extremely pretty, finely clad in a white muslin dress with a skirt that reached her ankle bone, a straw hat with a wide brim, its crown covered with pink flowers, and she carried a small pink reticule. She was holding the brim of the hat as she broke into a run, then with a sudden movement she discarded it, throwing it with what sounded like an oath into the hedge. Her hair was revealed, so pale it was almost silver, curls falling softly from the crown of her head to her shoulders. A pink ribbon dangled from one of the curls as though she had rammed the hat on in a hurry. When she saw Rose her face broke into a beaming smile, revealing perfect teeth. Her eyes were clear, surrounded by long silky lashes and such an incredible shade of blue Rose could not help but stare. Not pale blue, not grey, not green, nor the purple of a pansy but a mix of all these shades as the light caught them. She could imagine any man falling into their soft beauty. Her cheeks were flushed a delicate rose pink and Rose could see, now that she had pulled Sparky to a halt, that she was not in fact a child but a young woman, a young woman so slight, so delicate, so dainty her tiny breasts barely lifted the bodice of her fetching dress.

  ‘Oh, thank God,’ the young woman began. ‘Am I glad to see you. Are you by any chance going into Liverpool? I’m trying desperately to get to the station before the troop train leaves but Papa said I was not to go. He disapproves of Charlie, you see, and it is not a proper place for a lady and he told Matthew he’d lose his job if he took me. I’ve no money for a cab and when I said I’d take Blossom and ride there – she’s my mare – Taylor was threatened with dismissal if he saddled her. Oh, I do beg your pardon. My governess has always said my manners are atrocious and so they are. My name is Alice Weatherly. How do you do.’

  By this time she had reached the gig which was headed in the opposite direction from the city and Rose was astonished and speechless, for surely the girl knew that? She was holding out her hand to Rose and Rose took it. It was shaken heartily.

  The girl, Alice Weatherly, stood and waited, smiling.

  ‘Well?’ she said.

  ‘Well what?’

  ‘Are you going into Liverpool?’

  ‘I had not intended to. I was about to . . .’

  The girl’s face fell and reluctantly she let go of Rose’s hand, which she still held. ‘Oh dear, then I’ll just have to walk it.’ Her face brightened and Rose was quite fascinated by her change of expression. ‘Where are you going, may I ask? It might take me part of the way.’

  ‘I’m going into Old Swan. My maid needs some thread and the kitchen-maid wants to knit socks for the soldiers so I am going to buy khaki wool and at the same time I thought I might see what was happening now that war has been declared. Anyway, what’s so important about the station that you must get there so precipitously?’ Rose went on.

  The expression on the girl’s face turned to one of astonishment. ‘It’s the troops . . .’

  ‘Troops?’

  ‘The soldiers who are going to fight the Germans. Five infantry divisions and one of cavalry. Charlie Summers is going since he’s a cavalry officer, a captain, and he’s taking Lady and Duke—’

  ‘May I ask what all this has to do with me, Miss Weatherly?’ Rose interrupted.

  The upper-class society of Liverpool was close-knit, the Earl and Countess of Derby being at the very top of the pile and an invitation to Knowsley, the seat of Lord Derby, was much sought after but not by herself. She knew of the Weatherlys of course, for they were a wealthy family living close to Beechworth House.

  Arthur Weatherly inherited from his father a thriving business importing and exporting goods to many parts of the world. He was known as somewhat of a bully, keeping his wife, before she died, under his thumb and it was said that he was attempting to do the same with his pretty daughter. A baronet, at least, was what he wanted for her and this Charlie Summers she spoke of and of whom he disapproved came from an old family, land rich but money poor. True, his father was a baronet but since Charlie was the younger son, a soldier and with no hope of succeeding to the title, it was not surprising he frowned on his only child’s apparent attachment to him.

  ‘Oh, do please call me Alice.’ She smiled her endearing, innocent smile and Rose could not help but smile back.

  ‘Perhaps we could go to Liverpool in your gig, Miss . . . Miss . . .?’

  ‘Rose Beechworth.’

  ‘Oh, please, Rose,’ for it seemed Miss Alice Weatherly scorned the niceties of the day which said that people in their station should use surnames on such a short acquaintance. ‘Can we not go into Liverpool for whatever your maids need and while we are there you could drop me off at Lime Street. The train leaves at noon and Charlie will be so disappointed if I’m not there to see him off. I promised him. Of course he won’t be away for long. A little skirmish, he calls it, all over by Christmas.’

  Rose sighed, looking about her as though for inspiration. The growing heat of the day and the bright morning sunshine lit the hedges that ran along the field belonging to Lark Hill Dairy with what was called Jack-by-the-Hedge, with white campion, with red campion, with ragged robin and all the lovely summer plants that thrived there. Beyond the hedge the meadow was peaceful, half a dozen cows grazing, the cowman who had just put them out after milking trudging back towards the dairy. A flickering movement caught her eye, which was drawn to a shrew-mouse darting its long flexible nose in search of insects or worms, a pretty, harmless creature that seemed at odds with the violence that threatened to tear apart the calm existence she had known all her life.

  Her grandfather had started building the family fortune in the middle of the last century. In 1852 gold had been found in a far-off place on the other side of the world. A foreign place with the foreign name of Yackandandah in Victoria, Australia. Her father had told her that her grandfather William had been one of the first diggers on the scene. He had been a young man with a wanderlust not satisfied with what he had in Liverpool, which was nothing. Yackandandah’s nearest town was called Beechworth, and that was enough to convince William Beechworth he should seek his fortune there. He found gold hanging in the
roots of shrubs that he pulled up from the creek, which had proved incredibly rich in gold. Grandfather William had returned to England a man of means and from those riches his son, Rose’s father, had increased the family fortunes a hundredfold, leaving Rose Beechworth one of the wealthiest heiresses in Lancashire. She had often thought of taking ship to Australia and visiting the area of Yackandandah from which had come her fortune and had vowed that one day she would but life was remarkably pleasant, now that she was totally independent, the owner of shares in a shipping company, the railway, mining in Yorkshire which day by day made her even richer and, more importantly, dependent on no man. She pictured in her mind the beautiful home that her grandfather had bequeathed to his descendants, for despite his low beginnings he had been a man of great taste. The house was set on a slight rise of land, the grounds falling away from it in smooth, well-cared-for lawns, flowerbeds aflame with colour at this time of the year. The beds were surrounded by clipped box hedges, their luscious green setting off the white gleam of garden statues. A covered trellised walk led to a summerhouse set by a small lake, the walk festooned with hanging baskets trailing ferns and pink roses while the lake itself was starred with lilies disturbed only by the smooth glide of the swans drifting effortlessly from bank to bank.

  The house was furnished in the fashion of the nineteenth century but with none of the clutter so beloved of the times. The rooms were large and airy which the wives of her father and grandfather Beechworth, women of refinement and taste, had furnished with elegance and flair. A richly carpeted hallway was furnished with a long-case clock that ticked importantly at the foot of the wide staircase, a marble nymph set in a fluted recess, and deep velvet chairs before an enormous fireplace over which hung a gilt-framed mirror. There was a drawing room filled with costly ornaments, a French clock in ormolu and enamel, vases of rococo Sèvres, and ornaments of Coalport and Meissen. Chandeliers created shimmering, dancing light in every room including the dining room, which though high and wide was barely filled by the highly polished oval table and matching velvet chairs, twenty of them. A sideboard ran along one side with niches and shelves to accommodate silver dishes, a crystal lamp and porcelain. Also on the ground floor were a breakfast room, a library, a study and to the side a conservatory, known as a ‘winter garden’ when it was built. There were a dozen bedrooms, most of them never used, and even the very latest of bathrooms which she herself had designed and had installed.