And until he had met Poppy, Francis had never questioned any of it. His sole aim had been to become a captain of business. To rise up and be celebrated by his family and peers.
So much of what he had always taken for granted, the path which had been clearly set for him, now chafed. The things that he considered bright opportunities, were nothing compared to the interesting life Poppy Basden had led.
Even his decision to temporarily move his things from home into the Saunders Shipping offices was something that a mere week or two ago he would never have considered as anything other than preposterous.
And yet he had done it. Packed up his travel trunk and left his perfectly good home in Dover Street in order to go and sleep in a warehouse. His major concession to comfort, the purchase of a bed and mattress. He knew that testing the chains that bound would take time, and a good night’s sleep should never be treated with anything less than sacred regard.
I surely must be going mad. I am on the verge of getting everything I have ever wanted, and yet here I am . . .
Poppy folded up the curtain fabric and placed it in her lap. Francis avoided her gaze for a short time, sensing that she was going to ask him about the trunk. She must have seen it being taken down from the carriage. Her vantage spot on the deck of the Empress Catherine gave her a commanding view of the dockside.
“Who is moving into the warehouse?” she asked.
I knew it. She doesn’t miss anything.
Francis sat up tall in his seat, his answer at the ready. “I am. My parents have gone to Scotland for Christmas and most of January, which means I am the only member of my family in residence at Dover Street. Considering the long days, I am working and the unsociable hour at which I return home, it makes sense for me to decamp here for a time.”
He wasn’t going to make mention of the mountain of work he would need to undertake on the new spice contract, or that he had several particular and delicate issues which would require immediate resolution as soon as the tender was announced—securing another ship being paramount among them.
Where I am going to find the money is another question.
“I thought it might be nice to let some more of the servants take time off over the festive season. Cooking meals and lighting the house fires for just one person does not make sense.”
A footman would come every few days and collect Francis’s dirty clothes, and they would be returned to him the following morning, freshly laundered and pressed. There were limits as to how far he was prepared to take this new warehouse living experience. Dirty garments were one step beyond his comfort.
Poppy rose from her seat and collected the curtains. She glanced up at the sky.
“It’s getting late, and the wind will soon have its evening teeth. I am going to head back to my warehouse.”
Francis got to his feet. He held out his arms. “Please let me carry those for you.” When she shook her head, he stepped forward and took them from her. “I insist.”
“Alright, but only if you agree to come and share supper with me later this evening. I’ve been cooking a stew in the Dutch oven since midday, so it should be ready soon.”
“Are you pleased with the oven?” he asked.
“Oh yes, it is wonderful.” Poppy beamed.
She was actually using his gift. A spark of joy lit Francis’s heart.
I am falling for this woman.
He had never thought it would happen to him. Yet every moment he spent with Poppy; his feelings grew deeper. She was becoming his everything.
As he followed her down the gangplank, Francis prayed no one of his acquaintance could see him. The white-haired Viking, a hard man of business, carrying a set of pretty floral curtains. On his face was a happy grin.
How the mighty have fallen.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Poppy lit some lamps and candles as dusk settled and the warehouse grew dark. She set the table for two. Excitement danced in her belly. The precious cotton cloth she had purchased on a voyage to India the previous year was going to get its first public viewing. A hot iron carefully applied to the creases had resulted in a flawless surface.
I am finally going to have a guest for supper in my home.
Her attempts to convince herself that it was only the next-door neighbor coming to share a meal failed dismally. After Francis had carried the curtains back to the warehouse and given his promise that he would come to dine at eight, Poppy had spent the rest of the late afternoon dusting, sweeping, and cleaning every surface she could find.
It’s a pity the curtains are not finished. They would have looked lovely.
She made a mental note to hurry up with her work tomorrow and have the window coverings hung before the end of the week.
