This explanation fired Elowen’s sympathy. “How terrible for you! Walking outside at night could be so dangerous, Miss St George.”
“Call me Poppy, please.”
“Poppy,” Elowen said shyly. “Do you want me to summon a maid for you? Surely you’ll want to wash and have your things sent down for cleaning.”
“No!” Poppy said quickly, remembering Carlos’s plan for her to not see anyone for the rest of the evening. “That is, I’d just hate to be thought of as so clumsy, and you know how servants talk. Really, I just want to go up to my room and sort myself out. You won’t tell anyone you saw me, will you?”
“Of course not!” Elowen replied. “In fact, let’s just pretend we never met here.”
“Capital. Good night, Elowen.”
“See you tomorrow,” the other woman said, watching as Poppy made her soggy way to the upper landing.
When she got to her room and lit a candle, Poppy stared at the mirror in chagrin. Her hair was a windblown tangle, the blue ribbon gone, the curls destroyed. Further, her slippers were absolutely mud-soaked and the hem of her dress was stained with saltwater. She doubted that any item could be restored to its former state.
“I look like flotsam,” she said to herself in despair. “Carlos must have thought I was a fright.”
The small figure of Miss Mist sauntered to Poppy, and then stretched up, her front paws against the glass of the mirror. She opened her mouth in a silent yawn, looking very fierce.
“Well, my tiny tigress,” Poppy said, picking the cat up and moving to the bed. “What did you do this evening? I encountered criminals on the seashore. I’ll wager that you only caught a mouse.”
Miss Mist looked quite pleased with herself, so she probably had caught a mouse or two. She purred as Poppy stroked her back and scratched her ears.
Caught. Poppy recalled the startled face of Elowen on the stairs a few moments ago. That young lady definitely looked caught out. What had she been doing on the servants’ stairs? Poppy would bet her last shilling that it had nothing to do with Ainsworth. The man was rude and snobbish, but it was easy enough to pass by him. Elowen had another reason to be sneaking about the house. A forbidden romance, possibly? Perhaps she’d fallen for one of the footmen, or another man in service here. And they could only meet for a few stolen moments while others were occupied.
But Elowen didn’t seem the type of young woman to do that. She was too devoted to her sister, and very shy and retiring to boot.
Of course, she could also be the head of a smuggling gang, signaling to her men from the top of the house in the dark of night. Poppy suppressed a giggle at the image of the sweet, shy Elowen dressed up like a pirate.
But the thought, silly as it was, brought her mind back to the cave she just explored with Carlos. Was it possible that the Towers knew of the illegal activity happening just below their home? Mr. Towers had been a barrister before he retired, so it seemed quite implausible that he’d get mixed up in such activity. Then again, she’d already heard how commonplace smuggling was in Cornwall. And Mr. Towers was very fond of his French brandy.
No. She couldn’t believe the Towers were involved in smuggling along their own beach, fine brandy or no. And the oddity of finding opium in the cave made it all the more curious.
As far as she knew, the sort of items smuggled into Cornwall tended to be destined for ordinary people: brandy and wine, fine fabric, lace…items from the Continent that became exorbitantly expensive thanks to the Customs stamp, largely a result of the ongoing war with France that mucked up all shipping trade.
Opium was different. Who could possibly want—and afford—so much of the expensive product? Was Carlos correct that it might have been diverted from a war front? She hated to think that someone was profiting off goods meant for soldiers who needed it.
Oh, it was all too much to think about right now. Whenever Poppy’s mind was overwhelmed, she had an urge to write things down. It was one of the lessons Mrs. Bloomfield taught them as students: putting your ideas on paper helped you to organize them, examine them, and decide what to do next. Thus, it wasn’t surprising that the Wildwood alumnae all tended to be prolific letter-writers.
Leaving the cat lolling on the bed, Poppy moved to her writing desk, instinctively pulling out a few sheets of paper, then opened the little jar of ink (which she was alarmed to discover was almost empty).
Dear Heather,
I write to you from Cornwall, where I am spending the summer (along with Miss Mist). I had hoped it would be a peaceful and restorative visit, but it seems that Fate has other plans. I am deeply annoyed to report that Carlos de la Guerra is a guest here as well. He’s got some business to attend to in Cornwall, though why he needs to literally live under the same roof as I do is a mystery I cannot fathom. I do not think I can avoid him all summer—indeed, to judge by this first day and evening, we will be constantly stumbling over one another. I’d pack up and return to London immediately, but it would feel like admitting defeat (not to mention that London is truly appalling in July and August). However, if you have a spare room in that drafty castle of yours, do tell me and I will hop aboard the next coach northward. I am running out of ink so I will merely promise to keep you apprised of any developments.
Poppy
She wrote the address on the outside (Lady Heather MacNair, Countess of Carregness, Carregness, Scotland), sealed the letter and placed it to the side of the desk, sighing as she did so. Her school friends seemed to be acquiring husbands and titles, while all Poppy could point to over the past year was a cat and a sense that she had missed something important. Not that Poppy believed a woman needed to be married to have a fulfilling life (indeed, she’d seen several examples where marriage brought misery instead). Girls educated at Wildwood Hall learned self-reliance along with French, mathematics, rhetoric, and geography. But Poppy knew that her friends were all deeply in love, and very happy. Daisy had met and married a duke, who had happened to be her neighbor and then her most ardent admirer. Her own cousin Rose tamed one of the worst rakes in London, turning him into a faithful husband who had already showed that he’d literally fight duels for her honor. And then Heather (wild, unpredictable Heather) ran off to Scotland and somehow landed in the arms of one of the sweetest men Poppy had ever met—although you’d not know it to look at the lumbering giant in his ancient Highland castle. Camellia once made a joke about all the weddings she had to attend…but Poppy didn’t seem to be in danger of making Lia dress up for yet another.
In fact, Poppy only managed to lose her head over a too-charming gentleman with his own ship and his own plans to free his homeland from colonial overlords. How could Poppy compete with such a goal? She wasn’t rich, she wasn’t titled, and she didn’t know anything about conducting revolutions.
“I don’t want to compete,” she reminded her reflection. “He’d make a terrible husband, sailing all over the world all the time. And I don’t even like him.”
Yes, keep telling yourself that, her reflection seemed to retort. If Poppy didn’t like him, why couldn’t she get him out of her mind? And why did she still smell the wool-and-musk scent of his jacket that he’d draped around her? And why did she still feel the touch of his hands on her arms? And hear his voice murmuring in Spanish in the darkness of the beach, where no woman ought to be alone with such a sinfully attractive man?
Poppy muttered about her own swooniness—it was humiliating to sit and wonder if he was thinking of her at the same time she was dreaming of him. Standing up, she walked to the nightstand and poured out some water. She’d need every drop to clean herself of the beach sand and dirt from the cave. The gown and shoes were probably doomed.
“To the rag bin with you!” she told her gown sadly. “And I’ll need to go to town tomorrow to get more slippers. I doubt my walking shoes will be welcome in the drawing room.”
