But with the arrival of the new tenants next door, and the loss of the dockside berth, his scheme to make money was now in serious jeopardy.
What did I miss? I was polite in the letter I sent the owner. He knows who I am. So why didn’t he offer me the lease?
None of it made sense. The only thing that did was that these new neighbors had to go.
If he couldn’t get hold of the warehouse through the owner, then surely there had to be a way to make the tenants want to leave.
“Ah, now that’s a thought. There has to be some legal technicality to the lease. I did make an offer to take over the premises at least two months ago. I should have had first right of refusal.”
The bones of a cunning plan began to form in his mind. Tomorrow morning, he would speak to the superintendent of London Docks and demand to see the lease agreement. Seek to challenge its validity. There had to be a loophole. An i missing a dot; a t not crossed. He would put the contract in the hands of his lawyers and demand that they find a fault. Something that would allow him to challenge the lease.
As far as Francis was concerned, strange lion-headed ships had no place in the London Docks, nor did their owners warrant a place at the North Quay warehouses. No matter what it took, he was going to make certain that warehouse number fourteen was his for the taking.
Without the warehouse, he couldn’t fulfil the spice contract. And without the contract, he…no, he wouldn’t even consider that option.
“Tenants of number fourteen, I suggest you stop unpacking this very minute. Tomorrow, you leave.”
Chapter Eight
Some of the crew had made it back on board in the wee hours of the morning. Poppy had stuffed her pillow over her head in order to drown out the loud drunken singing that had taken place on deck. There were going to be plenty of sore heads and queasy stomachs in the morning.
After coming up from her cabin, Poppy had stopped and tossed a blanket over one of the men. She’d noted that Jonathan was not among the snoring bodies scattered around the deck. There was too much work to do today for her to waste time in wandering the streets in search of him. Jonathan being Jonathan, he would return to the ship when it suited him.
Outside her own door, she glanced over at warehouse number twelve. It was early; the neighbors likely hadn’t arrived yet and seen her handiwork. The battle over the fate of the barrels may yet have to be fought.
If that was the case, then there was every chance that an unpleasant altercation was brewing. The memory of the foul looks the white-haired gentleman had given her as he departed late last night fanned the flames of determination burning in Poppy’s belly.
He was rude, and she knew only too well that people like him only responded properly when treated in the same haughty manner. If he wanted to take issue with her, he could come and knock on her door.
Poppy took the key from out of her pocket and slipped it into the lock. The click of the latch bolt sliding back had her smiling. My own front door. I can come and go as I please.
Once inside the warehouse, Poppy set to work sweeping the rest of the ground floor. She cleared away the dirty holland covers which had been thrown over the odd pieces of furniture the previous owner had left behind.
There was a broken chair. “That can be repaired with a nail and glue.” And a small step, which she decided might come in handy for reaching high places.
“Oh, this is wonderful,” she exclaimed, as she pulled the next cover away. Underneath lay a proper table. A good half-dozen people could be seated around it quite comfortably.
The sight of a real table, one which didn’t hang from the wall, set tears brimming in her eyes.
Poppy rested her hand on the smooth oak. She could just imagine sunny mornings sitting here while enjoying a hot coffee and a plate of eggs. The Times would be spread out before her, along with the Port Gazette. And every morning she would take the time to read them both from cover to cover.
Her mind happily filled in the rest of the blanks. Small cakes on a plate. Freshly baked bread. And seated across the table from her would be her husband.
A scowling Jonathan.
That image yanked her violently out of her sweet dream. All pleasant thoughts disappeared; in their place sat a cold, sense of dread.
Poppy found herself resenting Jonathan. He hadn’t spared a thought for her, nor the heavy workload she had been burdened with last night. Within a day of them arriving in port, he had already been unsupportive of her efforts.
He wouldn’t have dared to do that while they had been on board her ship. The power dynamic between them was now changing. Poppy didn’t like the way the wind was shifting the sails. A storm was brewing. And at sea or on land that was never a good thing.
Her hands slapped against the table as she slumped over it. Was the price of finally having a home going to be that she was doomed to spend the rest of her life bound to such a sour man? A man who clearly didn’t give a damn about her.
Because if Jonathan Measy did care, he would be here right this very minute helping her to get things set up. Instead, he was more than likely lying in a drunken stupor. Heavens knew where.
Her father had chosen Jonathan. Made his decision clear. If she wanted to base herself in London, she had to have a husband. At the time, her agreement to his terms had been heavy with desperation. But eight months after departing Ceylon, the more she thought about it the less appealing it became.
This is a city of over a million people. There must be plenty of men in need of a wife. I might not be the prettiest girl in town, but I still have much to offer the right man.
