Page 85 of All is Fair in Love
As his eyes closed once again, Francis made a vow. Whatever it took tomorrow to make Poppy happy, he would do it.
I need to see her smile again.
When the dawn came, Francis dressed and made his way out the front door of number twelve. He stopped by the planter boxes and checked on the flowers and herbs. They appeared to have survived the night and were mostly intact. The pansies looked a little worse for wear, but he knew from his mother’s gardening efforts that they were a particularly hardy flower. A little sunshine and some calm wind would see them return to full bloom.
He knocked on the door of number fourteen, then took a considered step back. He wouldn’t be making the same mistake of barging in the door as he had done last night. Today was a day for laying down arms and offering to conduct peace talks.
The door of the warehouse remained shut fast. He knocked again, then crossed to the window and peered inside. There was no light to be seen, and from what he could make out, the fire had been extinguished.
A horrid sense of foreboding crept over him. Surely Poppy hadn’t gone back out into the storm last night. It had been raining cats and dogs until the early hours of the morning.
He knocked one last time. “I will come back later. We need to talk,” he called through the keyhole.
Francis turned, making ready to head next door. He would write a short note, then come back and slip it under the door. She must have gone to the early market at Spitalfields.
His gaze flitted over the water, and the first rays of sunlight as they danced across its surface. The light ran all the way from the edge of the wharf out into the middle of the docks.
“Oh, no,” he muttered, as the chill of understanding sunk into his bones.
The Empress Catherine was gone.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
It hadn’t taken much effort for Poppy to hastily put together a crew to sail the Empress Catherine back down the Thames and into the North Sea. Within half an hour of her setting foot inside the nearest dockside tavern, she had all the sailors she needed. There were always plenty of crew members looking for a couple of days’ cash work while in port.
With no cargo to haul and an empty berth at the dockside ready and waiting for their return, it was an easy choice for men looking for drinking money.
The wind bit through Poppy’s coat with wicked ease. It added just another layer to her already miserable mood. In her muddled state, she had only put on her land coat when she’d left the warehouse the previous morning. As the Empress Catherine made its way north, hugging the Suffolk coastline, she silently chastised herself.
How long have you been a sailor? And what sort of captain takes her heavy weather coat off the boat? And you forgot your sailing skirt and trousers. This full-length gown is a bloody nightmare.
A matter of weeks and she was already becoming a landlubber. Set in her ways of living on land. Just as she had always wanted.
But that particular dream had always been a fancy one, one she had imagined when she was well rugged up against the elements. It was not so endearing now as the mocking wind dug its icy fingers into her chilled skin.
And to top it off, there had been that horrid confrontation with Francis. She had said things she bitterly regretted. The hurt on his face haunted her. In the days since then, Poppy had barely slept.
Her lies had carved a deep ugly chasm between them—one she feared she may never be able to find a way across.
Yes, he was a stubborn, pig-headed male. Weren’t they all? But she had been the one who had allowed matters to develop between them to a point where Francis had obviously concluded that she held no secrets.
He had made assumptions about her, dangerous ones, while she had kept to the safe course of not telling him anything which might eventually cause her pain.
It had always been this way when it came to men.
Her father had kept her at a distance, and it was only as she grew that Poppy came to realize why. He blamed her for his wife having died in childbirth. His daughter only served as a constant reminder of what he had lost.
And Jonathan. He was simply a means for George Basden to finally wash his hands of her. If she was someone’s wife, she was no longer his problem.
Standing at the helm, Poppy adjusted her stance and gave the wheel of the Empress Catherine a small turn starboard.
Concentrate. Captain Basden. Stop allowing yourself to stay lost in your thoughts.
The deck of the ship was wet and slippery. And while the North Sea didn’t have large waves this close in, they could still be quite choppy. The boat did a never-ending dance up and down, which forced Poppy to constantly check her steps.
Much as she tried to maintain her concentration, her mind kept flitting back to Francis.
He was a different story. Much as he frustrated her, Francis seemed to genuinely care. If she had treated Jonathan or her father as she had done the other night, neither of them would have given a damn.
