Softly Grow the Poppies Read online

  ‘I am not bored, Mr Summers. And if there is anything I can do to help you I hope you will ask. Just ask. I’m not concerned with the meaningless trifles that seem so important to females who exist in what is called “polite society”. I long to do something real. I am becoming increasingly interested in the women’s rights movement and have been to one or two of their meetings. But so far I have done nothing and I’m ashamed of myself. Tell me, do you think that it might be—’

  ‘Miss Beechworth, dear Miss Beechworth.’ He began to laugh and for a moment she was offended then she joined him. ‘Here we are talking of such serious subjects when there are other matters . . .’

  ‘What matters, may I ask? Your father is dying, you seem to be telling me, and I suppose you will then be Sir Harry Summers and we will all have to curtsey to you but please . . .’

  ‘Please what, Miss Beechworth?’ he murmured tenderly.

  ‘Can you not call me Rose and may I call you Harry?’

  She watched as he climbed into the little trap, looking somewhat awkward, since it was a ladies’ vehicle and he had trouble fitting his long legs in. He turned at the gate and looked at her, his face quite expressionless but nevertheless she knew that something important to them both had happened this day.

  Dolly was behind her, her wise eyes searching her face for an answer to an unasked question.

  ‘Well, what the devil was that all about and don’t give me no flannel for I’ve eyes in me head and brains too.’

  ‘I can’t imagine what you’re talking about, Dolly Davenport.’ Rose tossed her head, her froth of curls flaming round her head like a living flame. There was a deep light in her golden eyes as though a candle had been lit in her head and her cheeks, which were usually a rich creamy colour, had a flush in them.

  ‘Oh yes, you do, my lass. But if you want to keep it to yourself that’s up to you. Harry Summers is a fine-looking man and—’

  ‘Oh, go to the devil,’ Rose exclaimed and flounced up the stairs, taking refuge in her bedroom. It was simply furnished but every piece of furniture was of the best quality. The colour scheme was mostly white with a touch of apple green and rose pink in the curtains and carpet. The large double bed was covered with a white embroidered quilt, the work of her own mother and very precious to her. The big bowed window had seats round it scattered with cushions, and with the door securely fastened in order to keep Dolly out she sank down on to them, her back against the side of the bay, her feet tucked under her. She looked down the long gravel drive to where Tom, Nessie’s husband, was dead-heading the roses in the border. She thought she might pick some later and take them to her mother and father who lay in the same grave in Holy Trinity Churchyard, then, her eyes unfocused, her head on her knees, she wondered how far Harry – she was determined to call him Harry now – had got.

  A knock on the door brought her from her reverie.

  ‘What?’ she snapped irritably, reluctant to let go of her thoughts.

  ‘Miss Davenport ses dinner’s on’t table, Miss Rose.’

  With a sigh she stood up and moved back into the world she had got up to that morning.

  4

  Just before Christmas Sir George Summers breathed his last and his elder son, now Sir Harry Summers, though he had been fond of his father, was relieved. He had done his duty but now he was free to join his brother on the battlefields of France. The doctor had gone an hour since and Harry lay back in the deep leather armchair in his study, his long legs stretched out to the fire that blazed in the hearth. There was one thing they had in abundance on the Summer Place estate and that was firewood. A golden retriever in a basket lay beside him suckling two puppies, four having not survived. Of the two, one was a pure gold, the other a mixture of brown, gold and grey and Harry was of the opinion that one of Dan Herbert’s collie dogs had climbed the wall when Bess was on heat. Still, they were, as most puppies are, very appealing as they now left their mother and did their best to climb out of the basket. They should by rights be free to roam a little now, for they were seven weeks old but Bess was his dog and fretted if she was not near him so, to the disapproval of Mrs Philips, his cook, and Mary the housemaid, the only servants he had left, he kept her basket beside him.

  ‘Them dogs should be in the stable, Mr Harry,’ Mrs Philips had said with a sniff. ‘It’s not right for them to be in the house. It only makes more work for Mary and I don’t care for the smell in here, really I don’t. Your mother, God rest her, would not have allowed it, I can tell you.’

  ‘Yes, I believe you have, Mrs Philips, several times, but since Charlie went I have been—’

  ‘Ah, yes, I’m speaking out of turn. You must miss Mr – or should I say Captain Summers and . . .’ Her voice changed instantly to one of sympathy. ‘And then with Sir George so poorly . . .’

  She had left quietly and the next day, today, in fact, his father had gone.

  He did not hear the front doorbell ringing but Bess did, lifting her head to look at him. A discreet knock at the study door brought him from his reverie and Mary appeared, her face still showing signs of recent weeping for, despite his wild ways, Sir George had been liked by all his servants.

  ‘There’s a lady to see you, sir. Shall I show her in?’

  ‘Sweet Jesus, can I not get a bit of peace even on the day my father dies? Who the hell is it?’

  ‘Miss Rose Beechworth, sir. Come to pay her respects.’ Mary’s eyes welled with tears but before he could remove the mask of astonishment from his face there she was, dressed almost as she had been when last he saw her except over her shirt she wore a belted woollen cardigan in a rich mix of emerald and navy with a scarf of the same colours tied about her neck. Her hair stood up around her head, reminding him of a bright, tawny chrysanthemum bloom and her cheeks were flushed to peach since it was a frosty day.

  He stood up, alarmed at the way his heart jumped in his chest. ‘Thank you, Mary,’ he said to the maid who withdrew discreetly.

  ‘Miss Beechworth . . .’ he stammered.

  ‘Rose, please. I thought we had settled that. I came to say how sorry I was to hear about your father.’ She walked slowly towards him while the dog growled softly in defence of her puppies, for she did not know this stranger.

  ‘But how did you know? He only died an hour ago.’ Their eyes were locked in something that had nothing to do with what they were saying.

  ‘I met the doctor, who is also my doctor, while I was exercising Foxy, and he told me. I presumed you would be alone so I came to . . . to . . .’

  Her voice petered out and she simply stood there. The silence thundered on, then was broken by the puppies both yapping at once and another growl from Bess.

  ‘Be quiet, Bess. This lady will not harm you or your offspring.’ He put his hand down and clicked his fingers and at once the bitch heaved herself out of her basket and stood up to lick his hand. ‘This is Rose who is a friend. A good friend,’ he added softly.

  ‘I hope you are not . . . that you don’t mind . . . I have not seen you since August when your brother . . . and Alice hasn’t called. I’m sorry about that. I think she and I might have been friends.’

  ‘She would have been glad of your friendship but I have heard she is kept close to home since that day.’

  ‘He is a brute.’

  ‘Yes.’ He shrugged his shoulders then turned abruptly to ring the bell. ‘Here am I, the perfect host who should be offering you some refreshment.’

  ‘You must still be in shock after the death of your father. I know I was when mine died. But the old cliché about time is true, you know.’

  His hand stroked the dog’s silky head while the pups whimpered for attention, then with a sudden movement Rose moved to kneel at the basket. She picked up the squirming puppies who licked and nipped at every bit of her face and neck they could reach in an enchantment of delight.

  ‘I’ve never had a dog,’ she murmured indistinctly.

  ‘Then have one of these. Have both if you would care to
. They are weaned. Mrs Philips and Mary would be your friends for life if you took them away.’

  ‘What about their mother? Will she not fret?’

  ‘Strangely enough dogs lose interest when their pups leave them. They are not like human mothers, you know.’

  Rose began to smile and so did he though he had no idea what had amused her. ‘Dolly will have a fit.’

  ‘I suppose she would but if you’d rather not . . .’

  ‘Oh no, I would love them. I wonder if Alice would . . .’

  His face was a mixture of amusement and dismay. ‘You have never met Arthur Weatherly except for . . . No, he would show you the door if you turned up alone, never mind with a puppy for his daughter. I’m sorry, Rose, but the possibility of a friendship between you and Alice is very remote. Now then, will you drink a cup of hot chocolate with me? You can get to know Bess and the puppies. What will you call them?’

  ‘Ginger and Spice.’ Her voice was firm.

  ‘But what made you . . .? Ah, their colouring. Very apt. The multicoloured one is Spice, of course.’

  ‘Of course.’

  They sat for an hour while the pups wandered about the room, making little puddles wherever they fancied but Harry did not seem to care. The subject of the progress of the war came up, the war that was already killing thousands of their young men. Already Harry had lost his groom who had joined up and had been overheard doing his best to persuade Enoch who was a hedger and ditcher and at least forty, to come with him to France just as though it were a holiday that Enoch would enjoy. These were country boys and Harry wondered how long they would last in what he called ‘the grown-up world’ of being a fighting man. Most of them had worked the land since they were thirteen. They had known nothing else so how would they cope in that frightening world across the Channel? He said so to Rose.

  ‘The First Battle of Ypres and at Mons cost us almost the whole of the British Expeditionary Force and the government is asking for hundreds of thousands of volunteers to replace them. You’ve seen the posters. The Germans are trying to get to the sea to cut us off but so far, thank God, they have not succeeded. It’s quite clear it will not all be over by Christmas, in fact it seems to be stalemate.’

  ‘What does that mean, Harry?’ She sat in a chair opposite him, sipping her chocolate, her hands cupped round the mug, one of the puppies determinedly chewing the toe of her boot while the other cried under the table lost in the folds of the cloth and unable to see his mother. Harry casually rescued him then sat down again.

  ‘It means the trench lines dug by our troops and theirs are so heavily defended on both sides they cannot be breached. Miles of barbed wire and machine guns are deployed. Charlie says—’

  ‘You’ve heard from your brother?’

  ‘Yes, being an officer his letters aren’t censored so he can tell me these things. Anyway, I shall find out for myself soon. I shall report . . .’

  She scarcely heard the rest of his sentence, for the banging of her heart was in her ears. She could not bear to think of him in danger and her face was white now, the lovely peach tint drained from it.

  ‘. . . so I shall have to get the . . . the funeral over and then . . . I’m hoping Charlie will get compassionate leave. Forty-eight hours perhaps.’

  He was filled with consternation when she stood up abruptly, picked up the puppies and made for the door.

  ‘I must let you get on. I’m sorry to have held you up.’

  He stood just as quickly. ‘Don’t be daft, lass,’ smiling as he fell into the tongue of the Lancashire man he was. ‘You have been most welcome. And what about the puppies? You can’t carry them on a horse. I assume you rode over?’

  ‘I can walk.’

  ‘Let me send them over with Enoch then.’

  ‘I would be glad if your man could bring them. It will give me time to warn Dolly.’

  She was terrified he would see the expression on her face which would have told him that she found his going to war was unbearable. At last she understood what Alice had gone through. Stumbling to the front door, not bothering to be shown out as was the correct way of doing things in their society, she ran down the steps, mounted her chestnut mare which was almost the same colour as her own hair and galloped off down the neglected drive as if the devil were after her.

  When she reached home she dismounted and almost threw the mare’s reins at Davy, who scuttled from the stable where he and Fred had been having a crafty smoke, and dashed across the yard to the kitchen door.

  ‘We’ve got a visitor,’ were the first words Dolly spoke, moving to one side as Rose flung open the door, revealing, to Rose’s astonishment, the huddled figure of Alice Weatherly. She was slumped at the table doing her best to drink the cup of tea that Dolly had thrust into her shaking hands.

  ‘Alice!’ At once Rose could feel the hopelessness that had run through her body when Harry told her he was to go to war begin to drain away from her. Here at last was someone she could talk to, someone who would understand what she herself was feeling, but when Alice stood up, the tea ignored, the change in her was obvious. Dolly was to tell every one of them over and over in the next few days that she had never been so shocked in all her born days. Her lovely bright hair, which had once been so fair and bonny, hung in a lank curtain about her face and down her back. Her eyes were lifeless and her hands wavered like two snowflakes towards Rose as though she might fall. Tom was in the kitchen having a brew and as Alice stood, his newly lit pipe fell from between his teeth and shattered on the stone floor, the noise seeming to bring them all back to life. Dolly took her hand from her face and turned on Carrie and Polly, shooing them into the scullery.

  ‘Why don’t tha’ come to’t fire, my lamb, an’ get thi’ warm,’ Dolly invited and Rose moved at last.

  ‘Come, Alice, you must be frozen. Bring your tea and do as Dolly says.’

  Alice did as she was told, moving in a way that told them she was used to being obedient and if they had said, ‘Go and peel those potatoes,’ she would have done so though she had never peeled a potato in her life. She wore an old shawl that had seen better days and which had probably belonged to one of her father’s servants. She could not seem able to stop shivering and when she was seated Rose went to her and knelt at her feet.

  ‘I had nowhere else to go,’ Alice said simply, ‘but if you are unable to . . . I’ll understand.’

  ‘The workhouse, you mean.’

  Alice recoiled but Rose put her strong young arms about her and hugged her close. ‘You are a daft little thing,’ she told her lovingly. ‘Dolly and I will take care of you, won’t we, Dolly?’

  ‘Course we will, chuck. Now drink your tea and get thi’ warm. You’ve come to the right place, my lamb. Now let’s get you settled,’ calling to the three maids who were lurking in the doorway to the scullery, not wanting to miss what was happening. ‘Carrie, run up to the linen cupboard and bring down some blankets. They’re on the top shelf,’ as if Carrie, who had been making beds at Beechworth House for years, would not know that. ‘Now, Miss Alice, strip off by the fire and let’s get you warm. Nay, no one will come in,’ she said, as Tom retreated towards the door. ‘There’s only us women here’ she added. ‘Nay, my lass, don’t cry,’ putting a motherly arm about Alice.

  Between them they took Alice’s garments from her one by one, doing their best not to look at her jutting belly, which in contrast to her thinness seemed all the more swollen. She wore a pretty woollen dress in a soft rose pink which strained over the bulge of her pregnancy, and a corset which, presumably, had hidden her condition until now.

  The maids’ eyes were wide, not just with dismay, for the worst thing that could happen to a girl was to be with child without a husband, but with pity since Miss Alice was only a child herself. They had seen her now and again going by in her carriage and marvelled at her sweet face. And who on earth could have got her in this condition and then gone off, perhaps to war, and abandoned her? Alice was in such a stunned state she
didn’t seem to mind her nakedness, forgetting the modesty with which she had been brought up, allowing them to wrap her in the warmed blankets then sitting obediently in the rocking-chair. She stared into the fire while the rest of them tiptoed round her, giving her time to recover a little, when she suddenly began to talk.

  ‘Charlie and I – before he went to France – we loved one another . . .’ She did not know how to word the rapturous lovemaking she and Charlie had shared. ‘We were going to be married – run away and be married since my father would not countenance it, then the war came and there was no time. He has written to me, through Harry.’

  The maids’ faces were a picture! Charlie and Harry! The Summers brothers! And here was poor little Miss Weatherly in the family way!

  ‘My maid wept; she had come into my bedroom unexpectedly and saw me. She screamed in her shock and my father came racing up, and some of the servants . . . I hadn’t had time to put my corsets on, you see. He shouted at me, called me names, awful names. My maid – she loves me – tried to stand up to him but he hit her, knocked her down as though it were her fault. He pushed me away when I tried to help her. “Get dressed,” he said, “and get out of my house.” Then he swore. I had no coat. He pushed me away again and I almost fell down the stairs – I might have lost the baby, Charlie’s child. He followed me, my father . . . The servants were horrified and tried to help me. Dear God, it was like a nightmare . . . my father, he’s . . . Gilly – she’s my maid – ran after me and put this shawl round me . . . she was crying . . . She’ll be dismissed.’

  ‘She can come here, Alice.’

  ‘You are all so kind. I must let Harry know so that he can tell Charlie where I am; just until I can find somewhere . . .’

  ‘Stop it, Alice, stop it, I say. You will stay here with us and have your baby and then we will see what is to be done.’