Page 65 of All is Fair in Love
She had moved into the warehouse he had wanted. Her odd but rather cleverly designed boat was berthed at the wharf, right where he had planned to offload the new shipments of spices.
And now, every time he saw her, his thoughts turned to muddled mush.
If his mother could see him right this very minute, she would be grinning from ear to ear. Adelaide would know exactly what ailed her youngest son.
The toe of his boot tapped a quick but steady rhythm on the floor. It matched that of his heart. The tune which they beat out in time with one another was one which many a man had danced to down the ages.
It was sure, and it was sweet. The addictive music of love held Francis in its sway.
Chapter Thirty-One
The late afternoon breeze blowing in from over the River Thames brought a chill with it. Poppy, who was seated up on the weather deck of the Empress Catherine, sewing curtains for the warehouse, didn’t pay the wind much mind. Others might think London cold in December, but those that did likely hadn’t ever sailed around the bottom of South America in the middle of a storm sent straight up from the Southern Ocean.
“Now that is a freezing wind,” she said.
She paused her stitching and took in the sight of the docks. Her gaze shifted from the river across to the rows of warehouses which ran along the North Quay. There were five main blocks of buildings, each comprising eight sets of warehouses. From where she sat, opposite building number two, Poppy could just make out the last building. Farther past that was the Tobacco Warehouse, at Tobacco Dock, which was one of the busiest places in all of London Docks.
She had pictured this place in her mind, imagined she was seated right where she was this very minute. But her visions hadn’t ever been able to convey the emotion that finally being in London and living her lifelong dream would bring.
Her heart swelled at the knowledge she wouldn’t ever have to leave this place. That she was home.
A carriage drew up outside the Saunders Shipping Company offices, and Poppy’s attention immediately focused on the passenger door. She hadn’t seen Francis this morning.
Not that I was looking for him.
But after yesterday, when she had been convinced that he was going to kiss her, Poppy was keen to speak to Francis. To clear the air. He shouldn’t feel a sense of awkwardness over a moment of temptation. They had both been on the verge of changing their relationship. She had hoped it had been a mutual decision to do so, but she had her doubts.
He had dashed out of the warehouse before the delivery boy had even got his gratuity from Poppy. Francis’s farewell had been yet another hurried goodbye.
After that, she had made several trips across the wharf road back and forth to the Empress Catherine, hoping to catch a glimpse of him. To have a quick word and make sure things were alright. But, typical of Francis, he had disappeared from sight.
The tall sailing ship, which was berthed astern of her boat, had arrived early in the morning and from the small army of dock workers marching up and down the gangplanks, lugging barrels, it soon became clear that the captain had no plans to linger in port.
This morning, as she sat sipping her coffee, the ship had weighed anchor and headed back out into the Thames. The only evidence that the ship had been at the dockside was the cargo, a hundred or so barrels stacked under the Saunders Shipping side of the wharf pavilion.
Poppy narrowed her eyes and peered at the carriage, which had come to a complete stop. One footman climbed down from the back and moved around to the side. Meanwhile, another footman, in matching livery, climbed to the top of the coach. He unstrapped a large trunk, then lowered it to the waiting footman.
Between them, they carried the trunk to the front door of number twelve, and after a short interval, the door was opened, and the luggage taken inside.
“I wonder who that is. It looks like someone is moving into the warehouse.”
The door of the carriage now opened, and a familiar figure stepped out. It was Francis. There couldn’t be too many other men in London who matched his description. Tall, broad-shouldered, and with a shock of white hair.
Intriguing. I wonder what he is up to.
She set her sewing aside and continued to watch the goings on at the dockside. Francis was far more interesting than stitching curtain hems. He went inside the warehouse but was back out in the roadway in less than a minute.
Poppy’s heart gave a little skip as Francis made his way next door to her warehouse and knocked. No one answered the door.
“Oh. I am here,” she muttered.
How foolish was she, sitting there waiting for someone to open her own door?
She rose to her feet, sighing with relief when Francis, who had turned away from the front of number fourteen, trained his gaze toward the Empress Catherine.
He waved. She waved.
His long legs ate up the distance from the road, across the pavilion space, and up the gangplank of Poppy’s ship in no time.
