Page 78 of All is Fair in Love
She checked her hair in the mirror. An hour of brushing had seen the last tangle successfully defeated. It shone in the light from the lamp which hung on the wall of her sleeping quarters.
Her deft fingers and ribbons had her hair swept up into a simple bun, with whispers of blonde left free to kiss either side of her face. It was the best style—the only style—she had ever been able to successfully manage on dry land. On board the ship, she usually stuffed her hat down over a messy bun and got on with her work.
A glance at her simple charcoal wool gown revealed no specks of dust. Poppy had gone with plain and simple for her look this evening. Anything else might well stamp her as a fashion failure.
At her throat sat the black pearl necklace her father had given her on the occasion of her twentieth birthday. Poppy touched a finger to the long strand.
The pearls were meant to represent mystery, independence, and strength. She loved the necklace but had thought it odd that it had taken George Basden all those years to give her such a gift.
Papa, I was already possessed with both independence and strength long before you gave me this necklace. I had to be in order to survive.
As for the mystery? She hadn’t quite figured out that part. Perhaps it was just the mystery of life, something of which few people were ever truly gained an understanding. Or it might have been simply a case of her never knowing who her father really was. George was the greatest mystery in her life.
Picking up her green cashmere shawl, she took one last deep breath and addressed her reflection. “You can do this. Get through this evening. Don’t offend anyone.”
As the days drew closer to the official tender announcement, so did her anxiety.
“I forgot to ask the clerk if the announcement was going to just be in the gazette or if it would be a public one, where all the bidders are expected to stand around and hear the result.”
A wave of nervous nausea settled uncomfortably in her stomach. She couldn’t imagine being part of such a gathering and having to deal with a shocked Francis if she was the successful bid. Not in front of all those people.
It almost made her wish she didn’t win.
Don’t be foolish. You want that contract just as much as he does.
“Why did I agree to this supper it was . . .”
A knock at the door interrupted her moment of self-doubt. It could only be one person at this hour. Francis.
“Come on, Poppy; you have stared down a raging Atlantic storm. You can survive an hour or so at his brother’s house”
She was still sucking in deep gulps of air when she finally made it to the door.
Newport Street was a twenty-minute carriage ride from the London Docks. For Poppy, it felt more like twenty hours. She had agreed to this occasion, leaving herself with no other option than to go through with it. To endure the evening.
I want to be with Francis, but it’s so hard when I know I am not being honest with him.
Whenever he was near, Poppy found it increasingly difficult to deny him anything.
From the moment she’d opened the door to him, Francis had been in full gentleman mode. Polite. Attentive. He’d even made small talk about the area of London where Will and Hattie lived.
Poppy’s nerves could barely stand it. She was going to someone’s home. A place where she would no doubt be judged on her social skills, or lack thereof.
I was a fool to think I could mix in polite society.
“My brother and his wife live close to Drury Lane. The theatre district has many wonderful establishments for entertainment. Opera. Drama. And of course, all the popular plays. Do you like the theatre, Poppy?”
The conversation only served to heighten her discomfort. She was a sailor. What did she know about the theatre and plays? Absolutely nothing.
Francis reached across the carriage and placed his gloved hand over hers. “Poppy?”
He is wearing gloves. The only gloves I own are thick leather ones for handling the ropes. Why did I agree to come tonight?
“I don’t know. I haven’t ever been to the theatre,” she replied.
Poppy had been to plenty of religious festivals in Ceylon and India—colorful and noisy celebrations for various deities, which often went on for days. In her younger years, travelling through various foreign cities, she had also taken part in the days of religious observance of the Catholic church. She doubted any of those they were the same as sitting through a play.
“I’ve lived a different life from someone like you, Francis. London is your home, but to me it is a strange city. I have come to accept that it will take some time for me to feel comfortable here.”
