Page 51 of All is Fair in Love
“It’s bigger than I imagined.” She bit back a giggle. “And roomy.”
If she and another sat close enough together, the tub could comfortably fit two people. “Now I just have to find the right person with whom to share my bathwater.”
But they had to be someone who appreciated the fine art of bathing. Of soaking their cares away in front of a warm fire. Bathing wasn’t just for the mundane task of getting one’s skin clean. She had learned from her time in the far east that it was a way to soothe the soul.
All she had to do was to fill it with warm water and bath oil, strip off, and let her worries disappear.
“Bath oil. I need bath oil.”
She was in London, and the best bath oil in all the world was sold at Floris, the perfumery in Jermyn Street. But what sort of perfume would she want for her bath oil?
Gardenia? Lavender? Or something less floral, spicier perhaps?
A scent that might entice the right man to make Poppy an offer to share her bath.
Things had been so busy since her arrival; Poppy hadn’t had the time to venture much outside the docks. Two short walks to the local shops, and one longer sojourn to Spitalfields market in order to purchase meat and vegetables was the most she had managed thus far.
And while the ready-made garments at the drapers would do for her everyday wear, Poppy’s heart’s desire was for a gown tailored to her own personal tastes. Something elegant and feminine that she could wear on special occasions.
She glanced down at her gown and frowned at the numerous grubby marks and stains which covered her skirt, trousers, and bodice.
I look like I have been scrubbing the decks on my hands and knees. I can’t possibly go into a respectable shop dressed like this; no one will wish to serve me.
Being the captain of a working ship meant she had had little use for fine clothes. Silk didn’t respond well to being soaked in seawater. And fine lace had a horrible habit of catching on things.
She was now a resident of London, and while the warehouse wasn’t an elegant abode, it was still her home. The money from the cinnamon contract would allow Poppy to indulge herself and purchase some brand-new clothes. “Perhaps I shall buy myself a fine feathered hat and take walks in Hyde Park like I hear the ladies of quality do each day.”
Poppy shook her head. The mere thought of mixing with London’s elite was preposterous. She was a stranger, an outsider, and the haute ton never permitted those sorts of people into its ranks. The closest she would likely ever get to rubbing shoulders with the upper class would be to have business dealings with people like Charles and Francis Saunders. And even then, the connection would be purely about contracts and money.
More’s the pity. Though Francis strikes me as the sort who might attempt to break free of those social shackles. He is in an awful hurry to make his mark.
There was every chance that he would go to great lengths if there was a penny to be made. Anything to show the world that he was a successful man of business.
Her father had taught her that for a man to really stake his claim, he had to forge new paths. To be the first, and not just one of the others who came after.
Alone in the warehouse, Poppy took in the scene. There was a table. Her mattress was tucked away in the corner. And now she had a copper tub. Slowly but surely, she was transforming the once dirty space into somewhere she could live. Into a home.
She had even managed to make peace with the neighbors. That was a particularly worrying problem which had been solved. “If I can just win that spice contract, everything will be set.”
The only other major problems left to overcome were that of her finding a suitable husband, and by way of that also solving the sticky situation with Jonathan. She also had to negotiate changes to the existing deal for the cinnamon bales, that they had brought with them from Ceylon, making sure, it was not placed in jeopardy.
It wasn’t going to easy. Men like Jonathan Measy didn’t tend to go quietly.
When Poppy woke the following morning, it was to the sight of Jonathan slumped fast asleep at the table. Sometime during the night, he had arrived back at the warehouse, picked the lock, and let himself in.
The two loaves of bread she had baked late yesterday on board the Empress Catherine were gone. All that remained were the crumbs scattered across the table. Jonathan lay face down in them, snoring loudly.
That was my breakfast and midday meal for the next few days. He’s eaten it all.
She shook him firmly by the shoulder, but Jonathan didn’t stir. He remained deep in what she surmised was an alcohol-induced slumber.
“What am I going to do with you?” she muttered.
With the food gone, a resigned Poppy got dressed and headed out in search of a pie man. She was too hungry to wait the time it would take to bake another loaf of bread.
When she got back to the warehouse, Jonathan, along with the small pile of coins Poppy had carefully hidden under her mattress, was gone.
She sighed. “You have gone too far, Jonathan.” She was going to have to have a deadbolt installed. “I can’t have you breaking in and stealing from me whenever the mood suits.”
