“Are you talking about the smugglers or the marriage proposal?” She couldn’t help but tease.
“Both are causing me a little concern,” he admitted. “But I’m also confident that both will end up exactly how I want them to.”
Chapter 21
Dear Poppy,
First, you needn’t worry that Adrian has any role in this letter. I asked Camellia to write my thoughts for me while I was visiting while she was visiting (Sorry, I’ve never been a secretary! — C). Second, since hearing your news, I have been desperate to know all. How could such a thing occur, placing you both in the same house at the same time? It is both marvelous and wonderful and I am beside myself wondering what you did on seeing him. Did you make a scene, darling Poppy? Please tell me you did not, though I should not blame you in the least if you did. And how did he react when he saw you? If he did anything less than beg your forgiveness in the most abject manner, he is a fool. I suspect he is a fool — he must be, to have left you in the first place. Adrian has told me to tell you that Mr. de la Guerra deserves another chance. Of course he would say that about his friend, but in this case I agree. The few times I met him, he seemed intelligent, kind, and sincere, which is a trio of qualities rare in a gentleman. Oh, I pray that this encounter heralds another opportunity for you, and I pray equally that you do not have such a battle with him that you send all of Cornwall sliding into the sea like a second Atlantis. In short, my most precious cousin, take a deep breath before you unleash your wit at him. Your wit can be cutting.
I hope for the best, and insist on steady daily reports. I know you had feelings for him before. Do not toss aside a chance for happiness simply because you’re clinging to your stubbornness.
With love and nerves,
Rose
P.S. All that which Rose has said is true, and all I can say is that I WISH I were there with you, dearest Poppy. A great house with a handsome rogue and secrets galore? It’s a dream come true. You must write us both and tell us every last detail of the developments, or else we shall come to Cornwall ourselves and tell that man just what we think of him!
Camellia
One afternoon a couple of days later, Poppy was reading a letter that arrived from Rose, and musing about how odd it was that so many things had happened to her within the span of mere days, but until her friends read about it, they lived in the past. She wrote a reply, assuring Rose that the peninsula still remained above sea level, and that she and Carlos were still talking with each other. (She didn’t say what else they had been doing with each other, not trusting such intimacies to paper.)
That afternoon, the Metcalfes returned from Eloisa’s appointment with Dr. Drake. Elowen found Poppy where she was reading a book in the shade of the house.
Elowen said in a voice so quiet she could scarcely be heard, “The doctor told me that the next shipment is expected. I’m to signal the ship tonight.”
“At what time?” Poppy asked anxiously.
“Ten. What should I do?”
“Stay right there. Let me talk to Mr. de la Guerra.” Poppy got up and walked back into the house.
She found Carlos in the parlor, but he wasn’t alone. Blanche was there as well, sitting on the other side of the divan, chattering away with him while Mrs. Ainsworth looked on with a benign smile. (She had some embroidery on her lap, but it was clear that the only thing she cared about stitching was Blanche to Carlos.)
“Excuse me,” Poppy said from the doorway. Three sets of eyes looked at her, two sets with outright malice. Thankfully, Carlos smiled.
“There you are, Miss St George,” he said. “Haven’t seen you most of the day.”
“I’ve been reading outside,” Poppy explained a bit breathlessly. “Mr. de la Guerra, we need to talk.”
“Then talk here, by all means,” Mrs. Ainsworth said, with false friendliness. “We shall not interrupt.”
“It’s a private matter.”
Blanche raised an eyebrow, and Poppy blushed. It sounded absurd put like that—a young lady like Poppy shouldn’t have any private matters with a gentleman she wasn’t married to.
“My word, that does sound dire,” Mrs. Ainsworth said. “What can possibly require Mr. de la Guerra’s attention that could not be solved as readily by the Towers, or even the Hobbsons?”
“None of them speak Spanish,” Carlos improvised smoothly as he stood up. “That’s what Miss St George requires. The book she is reading has some Spanish in it.”
“There are books written in Spanish?” Blanche asked, in what had to be the most English way possible.
“I’m reading Don Quixote,” Poppy snapped, grabbing at the first title that came to mind.
Carlos walked to the door, and rather forcefully guided Poppy away. Then he murmured, “One might think that you and Miss Ainsworth don’t like each other.”
“You seem to like her. She was practically sitting in your lap.”
He bit his lip. “If only I were married.”
