“I saw you knocking on my door, and for a moment I couldn’t understand why I didn’t answer it,” confessed a blushing Poppy. She giggled nervously at her own words.
He muddles my mind at times.
Francis laughed. “I have confidence that you are blessed with many skills but being in two places at the one time is beyond even you. Good morning, Captain Basden. May I come aboard?”
“Of course, you may, Mister Saunders.”
Their banter was light, but it held an uncomfortable edge. Had he also been thinking of her and that almost kiss?
Shifting the swath of fabric, she had been sewing out of the way, Poppy pointed to the space on the wooden bench. “Have a seat.”
Francis glanced at it, then shook his head. “I don’t know if I should. Not after yesterday.”
Poppy forced a smile to her lips. The lightness in her heart dimmed.
He regrets the almost kiss. I knew it.
There was nothing she could do about it. You couldn’t make a person feel something that they didn’t. Her non-existent romance with Jonathan had driven that message home. But unlike Jonathan, Poppy wanted Francis to be a part of her life. Even if they were just friends.
Friends wasn’t a bad thing. It was good to have them. She didn’t have anyone in London. Friendships weren’t something she had managed to maintain. With moving countries and continents every few years, she was well versed in starting all over again.
“About yesterday. I don’t know what it was, but nothing happened. Could we just leave it at that? Pretend we ate cake and drank coffee, and then said our goodbyes?” she said.
Francis pinched his lips together, and for a second, Poppy feared he was going to leave. His shoulders rose and fell as he sucked in a deep breath. “Let’s do that. Well, at least for now. At some juncture, you are going to have to accept another one of my apologies.”
Were they ever going to be able to move on from his constant sense of guilt over her? The seeds of worry were already planted in her brain. Francis wanted to be friends, but he didn’t know how to be friends—or at least not with her.
Poppy nodded toward the gaily patterned fabric she had been hemming. “Do you like my new curtains?” Anything to change the subject.
“They are lovely. Are you going to put them up in the warehouse?” replied Francis.
“Yes. I want some more color inside. They will afford me a bit of privacy, especially around my sleeping quarters.”
Perhaps mentioning that I sleep in the warehouse wasn’t such a good idea.
While Francis didn’t say anything about the slip-up, he did settle into a spot at the other end of the long, narrow bench. He was perched on the edge of the seat, his posture stiff.
“My sisters are both skilled with a needle and thread. For all her hot-headed temper and her tendency to be flighty, Eve has an eye for detail. The embroidery work she has done on the edge of my shirt cuffs is outstanding,” he said.
He pulled the sleeve of his coat and jacket up, giving Poppy a glimpse of his white linen shirt. Her mouth opened as she took in the sight of a pale blue sailing ship sewn into the cuff next to the sleeve button. On the button itself was a clever representation of a whale.
I wish I could sew that beautifully.
“Your sister is very clever. I’m afraid my skills begin and end with large pieces of fabric. Usually sails. I can’t embroider or make nice clothes, but my sails do last,” she said.
“You don’t make your own clothes?”
“No. Wherever Papa and I have travelled over the years, he has always found a local tailor or seamstress to make our clothes. I didn’t learn to sew as a child.”
Without a mother to teach her such domestic skills, Poppy had instead learned how to tie knots, trim sails, and navigate.
Poppy had grown up without a mother—that much was obvious—but with things between them still unsettled after yesterday, Francis didn’t wish to impose by asking personal questions. He wanted to know more of her past, of where she had been before she stepped ashore and into his life.
She had seen places and people he would never know. If he trod carefully, behaved less like a heavy-footed clod, then she might come to trust him with the stories of her life. The ones that really mattered. The events and people which had come to shape and define the woman.
“I would love to hear some of your tales of the great wide world. I expect you have experienced things beyond those which have been written in the traditional travel guides,” he said.
He could also admit to a peculiar degree of envy over the things she had done. His privileged upbringing afforded him comfort and security that few others had. Yet it also brought with it a life of expectation. Of adhering to social norms.
