“Please tell Mister Saunders that I had to leave.” Her hand reached for the bannister rail as she began her descent. “And could you please offer my sincere apologies to Sir William and Lady Harriet? I wish I could stay.”
Poppy was down the stairs and out the front door at a fast clip. She was running by the time she made it to the end of Newport Street and into the main thoroughfare of Saint Martin’s Lane. There, she flagged down a hack.
“London Docks. The main entrance please,” she said.
She hadn’t any money on her person, but fortunately there were enough coins at the warehouse to cover the cost of the ride. All that mattered was making her escape.
The heavens opened as the carriage pulled back into the street. Heavy rain began to lash against the window. “Thank god I managed to hail a ride. A minute or two later and I would have been drenched.”
Her head rested against the leather uprights of the seat and Poppy momentarily closed her eyes. Tonight, had been a disaster. She hated herself for making sweet Hattie Saunders cry. Now the poor girl likely thought her beloved parents were living in hell on earth.
“You just had to go and embellish your old, jaded opinion of Freetown, didn’t you?” she muttered.
If she ever got to speak to Hattie again, Poppy would set her right on Sierra Leone. On the progress the settlement had made over the past seventeen years since it had burned down, and how people were flocking to the colony.
Would Hattie believe me? Not after what I said.
Francis’s sister-in-law would think her a liar. And so would Francis once he discovered her deception.
They will all hate me.
The carriage made slow progress across London. The rain was now a full-blown storm. The wind was accompanied with the odd bright flash of lightning. The driver up on top, who was bearing the brunt of the weather, sang a steady chorus of foul oaths.
Poppy couldn’t blame the man. She had said more than her own fair share of curses while up on deck during a tempest.
When they reached the London Docks and the hack pulled up out the front of number fourteen, Poppy braced herself. “One. Two.” On the count of three, she flung open the door, and dashed into the warehouse. She returned a few minutes later with a handful of coins and a handsome tip.
As she turned to head back inside, desperate to escape the maelstrom, her gaze landed on the flower pots. The pretty petunias were taking a heavy beating. One of the other pots which had only been delivered late yesterday was laying on its side, with its herbs and soil spilled out onto the roadway.
My flowers and herbs. Oh no.
The rain was coming in sideways, and the freezing-cold water soaked her woolen gown. Much as she wished to save her plants, Poppy knew better than to risk getting a chill.
She closed the door behind her. First thing tomorrow morning, she would come out to survey the damage, pick up the pieces, and decide which plants she would have to replace.
Her hand was halfway to the door, about to turn the key, when it suddenly swung open. The door crashed against the wall as the towering form of Francis stormed inside. He paused for a moment, then with one almighty blow, he slammed the door shut.
It shouldn’t be possible for an iron door to rattle on its hinges, but it did. A loud boom reverberated off the brick walls. Poppy flinched.
“You just walked out on supper! On my family. On me! Now explain yourself, Poppy,” he demanded.
She was wet. Humiliated. And his accusatory demands made her blood boil. “I left because according to you, Mister High and Mighty, I am a liar and untrustworthy,” Poppy bit back.
“What?”
His brows were knitted tightly together in obvious confusion. He likely thought she had gone mad. “You are not making sense. Is your sudden disappearance to do with what you said about Sierra Leone? If it is, I can assure you that Hattie is fine. She has no illusions that it is a challenging place. There was no need for you to flee like a bandit into the night. You didn’t even have the good grace to say goodbye.”
A tinge of red framed Poppy’s gaze. Her rage now matched his. “Well, of course I didn’t have the good grace to say goodnight. According to your dictates, I am a lying, deceitful person. So why would I bother with the niceties of manners?”
She turned and marched purposefully over to a nearby low bench. On it sat the beautifully boxed tea set which Francis had given to her. Poppy picked it up, hesitated for just a moment, then swiftly returned to where Francis stood.
She pressed it into his stomach, forcing him to take a hold. “Take it and leave. I shall clean the Dutch oven and have it delivered to you in the morning, along with the bath oils.”
Francis attempted to hand the box back, but Poppy stepped away.
“Get out. And take your gentlemanly rules of conduct with you.”
He set the box down and sighed. “I’m sorry I lost my temper. But you just disappeared, without a word. I was so embarrassed. Please, Poppy, what is going on?”
