Softly Grow the Poppies Page 2

  The house had bay windows to the front and overlooking the gardens at the side and a terrace on which dozens of pots bloomed with geraniums. A vegetable garden, a tennis court, again never used since she had no one to play with, and the whole surrounded by woodland, parkland and at the edge of the property pastures where the horses browsed. She could do exactly what she wanted, go exactly where she pleased and though she was aware that Dolly, who had helped to deliver her into the world twenty-four years ago would fret until she returned home, she was very tempted to take this sweet-faced child into Liverpool.

  Alice saw the indecision on Rose’s face. ‘Please say yes,’ Alice begged. ‘I’ll be no trouble, really. It’s miles into town and if I don’t get there soon Charlie will have gone.’

  ‘I suppose you . . . well, I suppose you like this Charlie?’

  ‘We love each other.’

  Rose smiled and pulled a face. ‘Dear God in heaven, little did I know when I set out this morning I’d be . . .’ She was about to say ‘playing cupid’ but Rose had never been in love so the shining light in Alice Weatherly’s face was a mystery to her. Nevertheless it was there, as pure and innocent as that of a child and who was she to scoff at it? The girl’s eyes were like sapphires, now so vivid a blue they were startling. Sapphires with a diamond in their depths, or was it a star? Dear God, she was getting all romantic, sentimental, which was not like her.

  Alice’s voice interrupted her thoughts. ‘I’m so sorry. I can see I’m a nuisance. I can probably get a lift somewhere on the route. I’ve no money for a cab, and I’ve actually never been out on my own, you see.’ She made a face of self-deprecation. ‘Isn’t that an awful admission at eighteen and in this day and age where young women are doing all sorts of things, college and . . . and then there are the suffragettes and what they are fighting for. I’ve often thought I would like to be one of them,’ she said wistfully, ‘but my father is very protective.’ She sighed then brightened. ‘So if you could tell me in which direction I should go I would be most obliged.’

  Rose grinned. ‘Oh, for God’s sake, hop up. I could do with an adventure myself and there will be lots of things going on in town, especially if your Charlie is there to tell us what’s happening and where he’s off to.’

  Alice’s face lit up and her smile threatened to blind Rose. She was utterly amazed by her own behaviour but for some reason this artlessly naïve, childlike young woman who was six years younger than herself appealed to some part of her she did not recognise. She knew herself to be resistant to frivolity, to light-mindedness, to much of the heedless search for fun with which girls of her class were imbued, but this child, for she seemed no more than that, intrigued her and she really would like to see the soldiers set off for France. Of course she had read about it in the newspapers but had not really understood why it was happening. It was all a bit confusing and to be honest a lot of fuss about nothing. Who cared whether Russia expanded in the Baltic or the eastern Mediterranean? The British were determined to keep the port of Constantinople from falling into Russian hands. Russia wanted to carve up the Turkish Empire, and the Germans had marched on Belgium at which the British were appalled but she supposed there must be a lot more to it than that. But did the ordinary working man care about it? They had never heard of many of these places and were hardly aware of the bitter conflict that had been going on for a year or more. Now, for some reason, France and Great Britain had declared war on Germany!

  And here was this enchanting young woman, alight with love and patriotism, off to Lime Street railway station to see the man she loved take a train for this mad muddle.

  Alice scrambled up into the gig, thanking Rose again and again, chattering vivaciously as they moved along country lanes and then the broader thoroughfares of the outskirts of Liverpool, on each side of which were the smart villas of the middle classes. Then they went through the warren of cramped terraced houses on the edge of the city, passing shops, factories, warehouses and the Royal Infirmary, until they reached the top of Brownlow Hill.

  And there it all was: the great city of Liverpool and at the bottom of the hill the railway station. The trams seriously offended Sparky who had never in his life been further than a couple of miles from home, driven by Rose along quiet lanes and through country villages. Whenever Rose, with her maid, came into Liverpool on her infrequent visits to her dressmaker or boot-maker, or milliner, they were brought in the carriage driven by Thomas, the coachman. So to Sparky and the woman who held the reins, doing her best to control his panic, this seemed absolute chaos. Not only trams but also horse-drawn vehicles, drays and wagons, men on bicycles impatiently ringing their bells, carriages and, worst of all, the new phenomenon, the motor car.

  Alice looked quite relaxed in all the confusion but Rose realised that her little gig with a panic-stricken Sparky beginning to rear and lunge was a danger not only to the vehicles in the road but to the pedestrians who had come to the city to see their boys off. What’s more, the khaki-clad soldiers who marched towards Lime Street blocked most of the way. Packing the pavements were huge, cheering crowds, little boys who ‘hallooed’ and threw their caps in the air, old men with tears in their eyes, perhaps remembering their own enthusiastic youth fighting in the Boer War. Women and girls blew kisses and waved their handkerchiefs and a band played ‘It’s a Long Way to Tipperary’, stirring music to keep the soldiers in step on this great expedition.

  Sparky did not care for it at all, causing even more chaos until Rose, handing the reins to Alice who was, fortunately, used to driving a gig about the grounds of Weatherly House, got down and put her arms around his neck in an effort to soothe him.

  ‘We’ll have to find somewhere to put him,’ Rose shouted above the din to Alice who held on bravely. They were by this time turning into Lime Street and before them was the magnificence of the Adelphi Hotel. A sign pointed to the back of the hotel to stables where guests’ horses were cared for. Threading her way through the dangerous crush Rose managed at last to get Sparky and the gig to the stable yard where a groom, delighted to be of service to two such attractive ladies, declared he would keep an eye on the slowly calming pony.

  Alice was the daughter, in fact the only child, of Arthur Weatherly, a prominent gentleman in the world of shipping and it was whispered that when the company began in 1709 it had dealt in slaves. The first of the Weatherly Line vessels had sailed from Liverpool to the West Indies and brought back slaves, the trade growing so that by the 1750s over 25,000 had been transported. One street in town where the sale of black men, women and children had been held was even called Negro Street but the lucrative trade came to an end at the beginning of the nineteenth century when Arthur Weatherly’s predecessors had turned to other cargoes and the company continued to thrive.

  Alice had been gently reared, protected, mixing with families of her own social standing, kept to the schoolroom and accompanied wherever she went at all times by her governess, her mother before she died, or a groom.

  The two young women walked close together, aware that they were the object of many inquisitive glances. Alice was dressed in the style worn by all young girls of her class, while Rose prompted utter amazement in her eccentric outfit of short skirt, boots and no hat and this in a day when no decent women ventured outside her home without a hat!

  ‘Hold my arm,’ Rose whispered to Alice since she had noticed, even if Alice hadn’t, the way the men were eyeing the beautiful girl by her side. She was unaware that her own handsome looks were, in a different way, as attractive as Alice’s. She had a mass of curly Titian hair – she called it ginger! – which was vibrant with copper, a tawny red, streaks of golden brown, quite glorious and quite untameable so she kept it cut short and it rioted over her skull unchecked. As she and Alice struggled through the crowds the curls bounced and fell over her forehead, curly tendrils touching her long brown eyelashes which were tipped with gold. Her eyes were a golden brown, uncompromising, watchful, intelligent, and her mouth was a rich, ripe re
d with a tiny dimple in one corner which lifted at the side when she smiled. She was as tall as most men, slender but shapely with a fine breast. Her manner at this moment was guarded, protective of the dainty little creature who clung to her arm.

  The station forecourt was a heaving mass of men who would be trained to be soldiers and who were all cheerfully being herded on to the waiting train. The Earl of Derby had appealed to the men of Lancashire to volunteer and it must be said they did not need much persuasion. They formed the 19th Battalion, the King’s Liverpool Regiment and among them was a cavalry unit in which Charlie Summers was a captain. He and other officers were busy with loading their horses into wagons at the rear of the train, for there would be a great need of horses in the battles to come, or so they believed. Mounted troops would be the main components of offensive warfare. In battle they would carry a sword, a rifle for use when dismounted and a lance. Cavalry units were also equipped with one or two machine guns carried by a team and cart.

  At first it was almost impossible to recognise one soldier from another. Most of them were working-class men and the sound of their orders from fierce regimental sergeants thundered over the shrieks of train whistles. Porters shouted, horses whinnied their distress, the men whistled and sang, thrilled by this new adventure they were off to, that of defending their country. The regiments were made up of men who knew each other, who, when they were settled, would be known as the ‘Liverpool Pals’ and who would in a short time learn to present arms, fight with a bayonet and throw bombs. They did not know in that first month of the war that soldiers were already dying in their thousands.

  And in the midst of all this seething mass of apparent turmoil the British Army was doing its best to load all the necessary provisions for battle on several trains that would be off within the hour.

  On a narrow ramp that led up into the horse wagons, six sweating soldiers, one of them an officer, were doing their superhuman best to get a grey mare aboard, exercising great patience while the grey’s owner stood at her head gently pulling her bridle.

  Alice gave an excited squeak. ‘It’s Charlie, look, Rose, it’s Charlie, and that’s Lady.’

  But Rose was not looking at Charlie, or even Lady, but at the tall aristocratic gentleman who was watching the drama from the platform to the side of the wagon.

  2

  Harry watched as the young woman approached along the station platform, the most astonishing young woman he had ever seen. She was tall, at least half a foot taller than Alice. Not pretty like Alice who was holding her arm; her face was too strong for that, but with eyes a startling gleaming golden shade, a flawless skin with a hint of honey and hair that was so vivid it seemed to light up the platform. There was a look of humour about her, in the way her full mouth curved upwards at the corners as though she would smile readily. Her figure was fine, graceful with a straight back and high, full breasts but the outfit she had on was highly improper. Or so the women gathered on the platform evidently thought. Nevertheless she was very striking and he could not drag his gaze from her and get back to the job in hand. He had been involved with helping his brother, Charlie, load his mare on to the train, pushing her smooth grey rump with his shoulder in an effort to coax her up the ramp, but at the sound of Alice’s excited voice they all stopped and stared, even the troopers, and the grey took the opportunity to back down. Her eyes were rolling, her ears flattened and her big teeth were ready to take a nip out of anybody who put a hand on her, but though Charlie turned towards Alice he kept a firm hold on the reins.

  Harry hurriedly smoothed his jacket down and straightened his tie. Alice was darting through the crowds to get to Charlie and the young woman with her was left standing on the platform, pushed this way and that by the seething mass of people, soldiers and those who had come to see them off, but her eyes were fixed on him as his were on hers. Something was communicated from deep chocolate-brown eyes to those of gold and the chaos about them seemed to recede in the strangeness of that first moment of meeting.

  The message conveyed from one to the other had a warmth, a recognition and Rose was conscious of a dizziness – no, not a dizziness, but a feeling of disorientation which surely was not usual in the circumstances. She had got up this morning with nothing on her mind other than a determination to take the gig to Old Swan and here she was in the midst of the confusion and muddle, which she could see all around her, of men off to battle. She could hear Alice’s voice chattering her dismay as she helped Charlie – she supposed it was Charlie – quiet the terrified mare – ‘Let me hold the reins . . . you take . . . oh dear, what are you to do? She is so frightened . . . what will you do if . . .’ while across the dreaful mix-up Rose Beechworth and Harry Summers looked at one another without a word. Now that he had righted himself after his efforts in helping his brother, he was seen to be immaculately dressed and bore a striking resemblance to Charlie. She had often watched them riding hell for leather across the land at the back of Beechworth House, shouting encouragement as they chased the fox, laughing, young gentlemen at play, but now that they were both concerned about the mare and her refusal to be shepherded aboard the train the likeness between the brothers was even more apparent. They were both tall, with long, loose, powerful limbs but whereas the younger, even now in the midst of this turmoil, seemed to have a merry look about him, the elder had an almost austere beauty that was completely masculine and very striking. There were deep furrows between his eyebrows as though a frown was more his usual expression than a smile. For all that he was not yet thirty it was as though he bore a great weight on his broad shoulders and for some reason it touched Rose.

  With a supreme effort he tore his gaze from the fascinating young woman and turned back to his brother. ‘It’s no good, Charlie. She’ll hurt herself. I’ll ride like the devil and fetch your horse. You know how she loves her or do you think she’d follow another gig pony?’

  ‘I don’t know, Harry. She’ll go anywhere with her, you know that, but as for another . . . But you’ll have to be quick, old chap. The train is to set off in an hour and if she’s not aboard I’ll have to leave her. Though how can a cavalry man manage without his horse?’

  Charlie had brightened at the sight of Alice, but now he was the picture of dejection. He led the frightened animal into a quiet, or at least less crowded, corner of the station yard while the soldiers who had done their best to get her aboard thankfully left to get on with their duties. Charlie spoke quietly into the grey’s swivelling ears and slowly she calmed down.

  Charlie Summers was a career soldier and he looked every inch a cavalry man in his well-fitting uniform: a khaki jacket, the buttons on the pockets polished to a golden gleam, beige breeches like those he wore for riding, a leather belt and shoulder strap and a peaked cap with the regiment’s badge at the front. His knee-high boots glowed a lustrous chestnut brown with the spit and polish his batman had put into them. He wore his cap at a rakish angle and his dark brown hair curled over his collar. He was twenty-four but looked far younger. He had a ferocious appetite for life and always had, climbing to almost terrifying heights in trees, sliding head first down banisters, leaping fast-running streams. He possessed that indefinable characteristic, a mystical charm that everyone he met, at school, on his father’s estate and now in the army responded to. He was popular with his men, displaying a warmth that was irresistible to all those about him, men of his own rank and those he would lead into battle. He was, sadly, not his usual cheerful self now. Alice had spoken to him softly and he touched her cheek then buried his face in her neck to the consternation of those nearby.

  ‘Alice, my love . . . you came.’ He lifted his head and took her hand, bringing it to his lips. ‘How? I thought your father—’

  ‘I escaped, Charlie. I couldn’t let you go without—’

  ‘But how did you get here?’

  It was as though the two of them were in an enclosed bubble in which no one else existed. They could be seen and heard but neither seemed to be aware of
what went on around them. The grey mare stood quietly as though she too were part of this mysterious and unreal moment.

  Rose, who was watching them, stepped back. Her heel came down sharply on the foot of Harry Summers’s boot and he grunted but nevertheless put out a gallant hand to steady her. For a moment it touched her elbow and she distinctly felt the electricity pass from him to her. Startled, she turned back to him and looked up into his warm brown eyes, gazing into them, mesmerised. They did not smile but were deep in the magic she knew to be important. Fine lines were drawn about his eyes, tracing from the corners. Her heart missed a beat and for an astonishing moment she felt it rise in her throat. His face was strong and his lips were firm but as she watched they lifted into a small smile meant only for her and it told her he was as transfixed as she was.

  ‘I beg your pardon,’ she managed to say, ‘that was extremely clumsy of me.’

  ‘No harm done,’ he answered automatically.

  ‘I was—’ She was about to say something else but he interrupted her.

  ‘Really, please don’t concern yourself.’

  ‘The grey . . .?’

  He had recovered his self-control now, and so had she, the astonishing moment over.

  ‘Yes, I’m afraid Charlie – he’s my brother by the way—’

  ‘Yes, I know. And you are Harry Summers.’

  ‘And you must be the mysterious Miss Rose Beechworth?’