“Oh, no, miss. The town of Treversey is not more than three miles beyond—my last stop, in fact. St. Mark’s Head over there hides it from view,” he said, gesturing to a hill to the south. “But the town has everything you’d need, and you’ll no doubt see it for yourself soon enough.”
“You’re from there,” Poppy guessed.
The coachman smiled, and she realized anew that he was really quite young, perhaps not older than seventeen, making him three years or so younger than she was. “That I am, miss. My mother runs the tearoom on Greene Street.” He ducked his head then. “Excuse me, I’ll get your bags.”
Soon the bags and the trunk were piled up by the front door, which was just opening up. Before Poppy could offer a gratuity to Kellow, one of the footmen preempted her by doing just that, “with thanks from Mr. Towers for seeing his guest safely here.”
Poppy looked at the house more carefully now. Pencliff Towers faced east and had no towers. Strange! She was surprised by both its age and its size. For some reason, she’d thought it would be more rustic.
Kellow tipped his hat to her as she was hustled inside by a maid. She looked with a bit of awe at the grand foyer of the home. In keeping with the outside, it was much fancier than she’d originally anticipated.
“We weren’t sure when to expect you, Miss St George,” the maid said. “I’ve just sent word to Mrs. Towers, who will be—”
She didn’t even get the words out before Mrs. Towers blew in. She was about sixty years old, with a stout frame. Her hair was completely white, and indeed, had been since Poppy could remember. However, her hair did not predict her attitude, and she moved through life like a ship at full sail. It was not wise to attempt to slow her down.
“My goodness!” she cried. “Little Miss St George is here at last! Though you’re not little any longer, are you?” With those observations, any lingering coolness of the house was pushed away.
“Mama sends her greetings,” Poppy said dutifully. “It was most kind of you to allow me to stay with you for the summer. And Miss Mist here as well.”
Poppy indicated the basket holding the cat, and Mrs. Towers immediately bent over to coo at the creature, who mewed in her most pitiful and adorable way.
“Oh, you darling!” Mrs. Towers said. “We must find a bit of fish from the kitchens for you after such a journey!”
Poppy smiled. Evidently time hadn’t changed Mrs. Towers’s doting, motherly attitude.
“It really is wonderful you came,” Mrs. Towers said, once she straightened up. “We need more young people about. This place is beauty for the soul…but it can get too quiet. And I thought, Poppy St George was always a clever child. She’ll liven up a dull house.”
“I’m not the only guest, am I?” she asked.
“Oh, no. We always like to have a number of friends and family to stay. Right now we have Miss Metcalfe and her sister, young Miss Elisa…I knew their mother from school, rest her soul! And there’s Mr. and Mrs. Hobbson, and the Ainsworths. Miss Ainsworth is so charming…”
She rattled off more names as they continued through the house to the seaward side (Miss Mist remained in the carrier, to be looked after by a housemaid who would take her upstairs).
Poppy had a vague impression of lushly furnished rooms and vases of flowers in nearly all corners, but keeping up with Mrs. Towers was a task in itself, so she could not linger.
On the way, a young woman in a rather plain gown stepped out of a room.
“Miss Elowen!” the hostess proclaimed. “I was just talking about you!”
“Oh, indeed?” the other asked nervously.
“Yes. Elowen Metcalfe, meet Poppy St George. I insist you two become great friends.”
Elowen smiled shyly at Poppy, saying “How can we not, after such a decree?” She possessed very pretty eyes of china blue, striking in contrast to her dark hair. Her eyes held a little twinkle that heartened Poppy considerably.
“I think it shall not be too onerous,” Poppy agreed.
Mrs. Towers looked around. “Is your sister about?”
“No,” Elowen responded. “Elisa is lying down. The visits to the doctor always fatigue her.”
“Poor dear. Well, Poppy can meet her at dinner. There is not any sweeter child than Elisa Metcalfe, dear. You’ll see. Now come along, I want you to meet the other guests! I’m sure I’ve forgotten some names! There’s the Hobbsons, who I think you met once in London when you were young. And the Ainsworths are rather newer acquaintances. Oh, talk about a coincidence. Mr. Ainsworth actually wanted to buy this property, when it came up for sale several years ago. Fortunately, Mr. Towers’s man of business acted quicker, and we were able to secure the sale before he could. Good thing too, because apparently he was prepared to offer even more for it! Poor man, he lost out. But in all honesty, it was for the best. He’s a bit of a parvenu, really,”
Mrs. Towers confided, in a lower tone. “Desperate to make a name for himself and gain the admiration of those he’d like to call peers. Naturally, owning a great house and joining the landed gentry would help. But he’d have regretted it, I’m sure. For all it costs to keep up Pencliff, I might as well have painted all the walls in silver and gold!”
Mrs. Towers herded Poppy onward through the house. Then they stepped out onto a wide, white gravel terrace overlooking the ocean. About six feet below the terrace, a green lawn extended thirty yards to a low stone wall, and beyond that the cliff face fell away to the shore far below. Several people were sitting there, taking advantage of the view. Mrs. Towers hailed them cheerfully.
Poppy’s breath suddenly caught in her throat when she saw a certain gentleman with the other guests. He was handsome in an athletic sort of way, and while she should not by rights have recognized him, something in the slope of his shoulders, the way he held his head, took away all doubts.
