With the filthy state of the other man’s clothes, coupled with the stale stench which hung about him, Francis decided that he wasn’t about to offer to shake hands.
Poppy huffed. “Jonathan, I gave you coins when we arrived and more yesterday. And plenty of them. You can’t just come into port and get drunk every day. I am not made of money.”
Jonathan stepped past Francis, brushing firmly against him as he did. Francis decided this was a man he would be more than satisfied to make his enemy. They could never be friends. If polite introductions were going to be ignored, then the rules of good manners didn’t apply.
He had a sudden compulsion to punch this man.
“If I want to drink every day, I will.” Jonathan held out his grubby hand.
Francis knew there were times when a man had to hold his tongue and mind his own business. This was one of them.
Poppy threw up her hands. “Alright. But I am not the Bank of England. Everything I pay you from now on comes out of your share of the contract.”
While Poppy made her way to a nearby table and unlocked a small cashbox, Francis quietly ground, his back teeth. He and Jonathan exchanged cold, hard glares.
“Here. This is all I have to spare.” Poppy slapped some coins into Jonathan’s hand.
He glanced down at them, then snorted in disgust. “You had better go to the bank and get more, because this pittance won’t last me for long.”
Jonathan drew closer to Poppy, and he towered over her. It was a move of pure intimidation. A ball of dark shame welled within Francis. This was exactly how he had been behaving lately. He might be better dressed and have actually washed, but in truth, he was no better than Jonathan.
To her credit, Poppy didn’t flinch.
“We aren’t at sea anymore, Captain Basden, and I think it’s about time you started to learn who is going to be in charge from now on. When you are my wife, you will do as you are told,” growled Jonathan.
Francis’s hand instinctively tightened into a fist. The air was thick with tension. If this man was Poppy Basden’s betrothed, it was little wonder she was handy with a pistol.
A snarling Jonathan turned toward the door, then stopped just as he reached the cupboard. He pointed a finger at Poppy “Make sure you go to the bank today. If I come back and there is no money, you will regret it. Your father isn’t here to protect you.”
The windows rattled as Jonathan slammed the door behind him.
What on earth would make Poppy even think of marrying such a man?
Francis knew little to nothing about Poppy Basden; they were barely even friends. But there was one thing of which he was certain. Hell would freeze over before he let her marry that drunken scoundrel.
Chapter Twenty-One
When the echo from Jonathan’s slamming of the door finally dissipated, there followed a moment of awkward silence.
“Would you care for a cup of coffee to go with your cinnamon toast?” Poppy offered.
She couldn’t think of anything else to say. Nothing could take the sharp edge off the humiliation that currently filled her. She was used to Jonathan speaking to other people in his rough-and-tumble manner, but this was the first time he had ever used that sort of intimidatory language with her.
I hope he is only speaking to me that way because he is hungover, not because he feels he can.
Jonathan was no longer under her command. His whole manner of behavior spoke of him looking to claim what he rightly saw as his entitlement, Poppy’s obedience.
Francis nodded. “That would be nice. Thank you, Poppy.”
She let out a small sigh of relief, grateful that Francis hadn’t immediately fled the warehouse. The heat of embarrassment burned her cheeks, and she did her best not to raise her hand to her face. Her father had taught her that blushing was simply a physical response to an uncomfortable situation. Nothing more.
She poured them both a hot cup of the black, bitter brew, and handed Francis a mug.
“Thank you,” he said.
“Do you take sugar or milk with your coffee? If you do, I’m afraid I don’t have any, I used the last of the sugar to make the apple pie. The milk went into the toast mix. I can, however, give you a drop of honey.”
She was clutching at social niceties. Small talk to help her navigate her way out of the swirl of shock and embarrassment. The threat of violence in Jonathan’s voice had left her rattled. He was right; her father wasn’t here to protect her. Then again, George Basden had rarely ever been present when his daughter needed him.
