Page 68 of All is Fair in Love
If only her clothing situation could be so easily rectified. With Christmas fast approaching, no dressmaker of any worthwhile reputation was taking on new customers. They and their staff were far too busy completing existing orders.
The ready-made garments in the local drapery store were functional but plain. For her new life in London, Poppy wanted to wear the sort of gowns a lady of quality would consider acceptable. She would of course keep her old dresses for days when she had to check the lower decks of ships or do some spring cleaning.
In the new year, she would treat herself to a trip into the city. To finally purchase the bath oils, she hadn’t had time to get. Buy some new books. And hopefully find a lady’s seamstress who would welcome her as an ongoing client. But before then, she still had to win the spice contract.
Poppy smoothed the folds of her best skirt. To cover her light stays, she had chosen a short red silk jacket which finished at her hip. Her attire was not the latest of London fashion, but it was all she had.
I want to look like I belong here. Like London has always been my home.
After all those years of being denied the little things, like a pair of fine gloves or a lace shawl, she was eager to step into the world of fashion. Or at least have a taste of it.
I shall have some nice gowns, and a hat for Sunday best and trips into the city.
And a collection of fancy reticules. Poppy had promised herself that indulgence. She couldn’t wait to be able to slip her gloved hand into her beaded purse to pay for her purchases when she was playing the grand lady on Jermyn Street.
None of it could make up for her lonely childhood. Nor for the no-nonsense and at times hard demeanor she had been forced to adopt in order to maintain control of her crew and ship. But this was her new life, one where she could finally discover the truth of herself. Where happiness might find her.
A gentle knock at the door roused her from her musings.
“He’s here.”
After one final check of her hair, Poppy took a deep breath, and opened the door. As Francis stepped into the light, he snatched her breath away.
“Good evening, Captain Basden,” he said.
Francis was dressed in a fresh shirt and an elegant black jacket. Poppy’s eyes took it all in, but her brain had turned to porridge at hearing his voice. It seemed lower than usual, and it sent heat to her most private of places.
It was a moment or two before her mind managed to scoop itself back into some semblance of rational thought. “Good evening, Mister Saunders. Please, do come in.”
He crossed the threshold, and as he did, Francis produced a small box and handed it to Poppy. “This is for you.”
The scent of lavender and lily of the valley filled her senses. A flustered Poppy stared at the package. “What is this?” she asked.
He leaned forward and whispered in her ear, “Something to go with your copper bath.”
With trembling fingers, she opened the box. Inside were two jars of bath oil. The labels on the front read Floris London.
“Oh, my. How lovely. Francis. Thank you. This is such a wonderful gift.”
Francis took the jars out of her hands while a stunned Poppy did her best to comprehend that he had once again brought her the perfect present. She followed him past the dividing wall and into the private space of the warehouse. He set the oils down on the occasional table next to the copper bath; his manner was so comfortable and easy; it was as if he did such a thing every day.
“And my offer to have the lads bring you water still stands. You only have to ask,” he said.
Poppy’s gaze lingered on the bath for a moment longer than it should. She had managed to use the tub for small strip washes so far but hadn’t ventured to the point of trying it out as a full bath.
Her heart whispered, “It’s big enough for two.”
Indeed, it is.
From the folds of his coat, Francis magically produced a bottle of wine and Poppy laughed.
“You are the most excellent man I have ever met. When it comes to gifts, none can compare.”
Francis held up the bottle. “You can thank my father for this one. I purloined it from his cellar. It is an excellent drop. He is a true Frenchman; he would never allow bad wine in his home.”
“I don’t have any nice glasses, but if you are happy to drink out of cups, I expect we shall manage. The food is ready. I can serve while you ease the cork out of the bottle.” she replied.
“If that stew tastes as good as it smells, then I don’t think we shall have any problems with drinking out of mugs. Besides, warehouse living demands concessions. It’s all part of the experience.”
