But apparently, he was more interested in other types of ships, because he sailed away on one and she never heard from him again. Until now.
And all she could do was run away! When Poppy made her escape earlier, she didn’t look back to see if Carlos was watching her. Either he was, which would be disconcerting…or he wasn’t, which would quite destroy her already fragile ego.
The housekeeper walked Poppy to her room, which was located at the far end of the main wing on the upper floor. A peaceful space, it overlooked the sea through one window, and the road toward St. Mark’s Head through another. Poppy began to unpack her belongings, hoping that by establishing herself in this room, she could restore her equilibrium.
The one person she had never expected to see here was Carlos de la Guerra…which was particularly infuriating because he was the person who was in some way responsible for her being here at all.
Poppy first met Carlos during the scandalous events that brought Rosalind and Adrian together. Poppy found Carlos vexing at first, then attractive, and then vexing again. She wouldn’t have given him another thought except for the fact that he’d seemed so interested, so attentive the few times they’d spoken. She felt like a fool for thinking of him so much, and looking at him now, she felt like even more of a fool for not being able to despise him. It made her rather cross.
Miss Mist had also been exploring her new surroundings, and she leapt to the windowsill to look over her domain (all cats perceive the world around them as their rightful domain). The sight of the cat triggered another memory involving Carlos, because he’d climbed up a tree to retrieve the tiny grey kitten that had managed to get herself stuck up there.
After Adrian proposed to Rose, Carlos came to the house once more. Ostensibly, it was a courtesy call, but it was truly a practical provision to ensure that everyone had the same story about what had occurred so that they could stave off the gossips. Poppy nevertheless sensed an interest on his part. Carlos had been incredibly charming and she liked talking with him. He braved her sharp tongue with grace, and told her he was looking forward to seeing her at Rosalind and Adrian’s wedding. Poppy knew he was different. She couldn’t wait to see him again.
Again never came. She waited. Weeks became months. At Rosalind’s wedding, she heard only that Carlos was traveling, but she didn’t want to make a spectacle of herself by asking more pointed questions.
Later on, one of Rosalind’s dictated letters said, in passing, “Adrian mentioned that he corresponded with Mr. de la Guerra, whom you may remember. He inquired after you, and hopes that you are well.”
Poppy had crumpled the letter up. “If he wants to know if I’m well, he can ask me directly!”
And yet…he had mentioned her. After some thought, Poppy had un-crumpled the letter and stored it carefully in her little portable writing desk, which was now placed on a table in the guest room, where she’d scrawled her short note to Rose.
Poppy addressed the note and sealed it, then stared out at the sea. Poppy didn’t believe in destiny, but what were the odds of meeting Carlos again here, nearly at the ends of the earth?
She decided that she would give him a chance to explain himself, if he cared to. Perhaps it would be terribly awkward. After all, she had no indication he wanted to see her again. But maybe…
“Oh, Lord,” Poppy muttered aloud. “All this speculation is maddening. No wonder people hurl themselves into the sea!”
Not wanting to brood about Mr. de la Guerra, she decided to get her bearings. She would explore the house and the land, especially the water’s edge. She had little experience of the ocean, and none of a coast so wild.
So she changed into a plain blue wool gown, topped it with a cropped jacket in a deeper blue, and put on sturdy walking shoes. On the main floor of the house, she saw a footman in the foyer.
“Is there a way down to the water from the house?” she asked him.
“Of course, miss, but the steps are rough.”
Poppy merely lifted a foot to show her shoes. “I am not faint of heart, and I am prepared,” she said.
He nodded in cautious approval. “Very well, miss. I’ll show you where the steps begin.”
The footman, who told her his name was Daveth, led Poppy out a side door and onto the wide lawn separating the house from the sea. Poppy could see guests still sitting on the terrace, but she would need to shout at them to be heard.
The footman headed to the low stone wall that ran the length of the lawn. “The steps begin here, miss,” he said, pointing to where a wide step was cut into the earth—the top of the long stairs to the beach. “Be wary. There are loose rocks all the way down, not to mention the grade.”
Poppy looked down at the steep descent. Over a hundred yards below, the breakers crashed onto a sand beach, their crashing much muted at this height.
“Thank you,” she said as she walked to the steps. She glanced at the house and saw the figure of Mrs. Towers waving at her. Poppy waved back, not knowing if she responded to a friendly send-off or a warning. But she didn’t think it looked so dangerous.
A few moments later, she revised her opinion. The steps, cut into the rock itself, were generally wide enough, but their height was uneven, and little stones made the way more perilous. The stairs moved down the slope in a zig-zag fashion, forcing her to turn sharply every fifteen steps or so.
When she finally got down to the beach, she breathed a sigh of relief. Poppy walked to the water’s edge, keeping back far enough so the waves wouldn’t get her shoes wet. Up close, the beach wasn’t as pristine as it seemed from the top. Fishbones, rocks, and broken shells gathered along the tide line. The mineral smell of the sea mingled with less pleasant odors, including rotting seaweed and a few dead fish.
Still, Poppy didn’t mind. The horizon stretched out in front of her, seemingly endless. The bulk of St. Mark’s Head cut off the vista to her right, but there was still plenty of sea and sky, enough to make Poppy forget herself altogether for a few moments.
As she listened to the sound of the waves, she smiled, truly calm for the first time since leaving London. In the distance, a fishing boat sailed by, reminding her she wasn’t alone. Of course there were the people in the house—what an assortment of personalities. And there was Carlos de la Guerra in the middle of it all. If only she understood his personality.
Poppy refused to dwell on him. She walked from one end of the beach to the other, a journey that would have taken only minutes, except she stopped every few steps to pick up an interesting stone, or a shell, or bit of flotsam. At the far end of the beach, she came upon the cliff again, which turned abruptly to jut out into the sea, cutting the beach short. A dark, jagged hole at the bottom of the cliff seemed to be a grotto or cavern. Part of her wanted to explore it, but she had no idea if it was safe enough to do so. She knelt down and peered inside. All was darkness, but she felt a faint but steady breeze on her face, suggesting that there was considerable space within.
“Too bad I didn’t bring a lantern,” she muttered.
