Chapter Eighteen
Lady Lemonwood’s ball began at nine o’clock.
The musicians would begin at ten. Supper would be served at midnight. Half the unmarried gentlemen in London were expected to attend, along with several widowed peers, two newly arrived heirs, and one marquess whom Bea considered “promising in nearly every respect.”
Poppy would not meet any of them.
Lady Lemonwood had refused to invite her.
Not merely Mama, whose presence might reasonably alarm a hostess with fragile furniture and a dislike of scenes. Poppy herself was unwelcome, even under Lady Vanover’s protection. Apparently, the Montfort name now carried the threat of disturbance whether Mama was present or not.
Poppy had read Bea’s note three times and smiled through each reading. Then she had folded it, placed it beneath a paperweight, and found something useful to do.
The useful thing, at present, was a list.
She sat at the small escritoire in the drawing room with a sheet of paper before her, a quill in one hand, and Freddie asleep beneath her chair with his nose pressed to her slipper.
She wore an old ivory muslin gown, neatly mended at one sleeve, with a pink ribbon at the waist because she refused to surrender entirely to melancholy.
The house had gone strangely quiet. Mama was dining with Lady Stone, Lord Crampton, and a gentleman who claimed to communicate with departed relations by observing candle flames.
Jenkins had objected to the outing with little success. Poppy had chosen not to object. Mama was unlikely to sign anything at Lady Stone’s table.
Probably.
And Poppy could hardly ask Gabriel to accompany her mother to dinner now. Not after he had made it clear that he intended to remove himself from their affairs as soon as another solicitor could be found.
For once, the prospect of an empty house had seemed less alarming than welcome.
So Poppy had stayed behind while Society danced beneath Lady Lemonwood’s chandeliers and had begun making plans for exile.
She dipped her quill into the ink and considered the heading.
Requirements for a country cottage.
Beneath it, she had already written:
Two bedchambers.
A roof unlikely to admit rain in quantity.
A kitchen.
A salon large enough for Mama to declare inadequate.
A garden in which Freddie might pursue insects instead of ducks.
A village near enough for provisions and far enough away that Mama could not readily acquire a poet.
Poppy added one more line.
A landlord willing to accept modest payment without investigating too closely.
She looked at the words.
Then crossed out modest and wrote reliable.
She might have very little to offer, but she would not promise money she could not pay, permit Mama to order silk hangings for a temporary salon, or allow creditors to knock at another door while Poppy smiled and asked for one more sennight.
A cottage was not the future she had imagined. It was not a particularly appealing present.
But it was possible.
And, at the moment, possible was as high as hope dared reach.
Poppy drew another sheet toward her and began calculating what remained of Mama’s jointure after a reduced household, one servant (Jenkins, of course), coal, food, and a small allowance for emergencies.
The sum was discouraging but not impossible.
They might manage several months if Mama could be persuaded that champagne, plum cakes, and elaborate suppers belonged to a former life.
That would be the greater difficulty.
Freddie snored softly beneath the chair.
Poppy leaned back and pressed her fingers to the ache between her brows.
Somewhere across London, Lady Lemonwood’s ballroom would be blazing with candles.
Young ladies would be fastening gloves, accepting partners, laughing behind fans.
Gentlemen would be crossing polished floors to ask for dances, and perhaps one of them might have crossed toward Poppy if Lady Lemonwood had permitted her through the door.
Another evening gone.
Another opportunity slipping away while Algernon moved steadily nearer with his snuff cabinet, his beetle-colored upholstery, and his legal right to claim the house.
Four days.
Poppy pressed her fingers flat against the paper until the thought steadied.
She had survived ten years of uncertainty. She could survive four more days. She could find a cottage, reduce the household, pack Mama’s gowns, rescue the more valuable books, help Jenkins to accept a post elsewhere if he wished it, and arrange her life into something smaller but manageable.
A person could live in a cottage. People did it every day. Some even wrote poems about the experience, although Poppy suspected the poets had never attempted it with Lady Viva.
Choosing the cottage was not defeat. In fact, it was the only way to stop waiting for a gentleman to decide whether she and Mama were tolerable enough to rescue. Poppy had already had quite enough of that.
The front knocker sounded.
Freddie lifted his head, barked once, and scrambled from beneath the chair with so much haste that he struck his shoulder against the leg of the escritoire.
“Freddie,” Poppy called. “Poise.”
The puppy ignored her and galloped toward the hall.
Poppy set aside the quill and rose. She expected Jenkins to turn away a caller or accept another parcel of flowers from Lord Crampton, who remained convinced Mama possessed a hidden fortune and regarded enormous arrangements of roses as a sound investment strategy.
Instead, Jenkins appeared in the drawing room doorway.
“Mr. Ashby, miss.”
Poppy’s heart flipped.
She had not seen Gabriel since Hyde Park, though little more than a day had passed. It had been long enough for her to replay every touch with mortifying clarity and short enough that she could still remember the precise pressure of his hand at her waist.
But he had told her he intended to turn over her and Mama’s affairs to his father. Had he merely come to tell her he’d done so?
“Which Mr. Ashby?” she asked cautiously.
“Mr. Gabriel Ashby, miss,” Jenkins intoned.
She released a little pent-up breath. “Show him in.”
Jenkins stepped aside.
A few moments later, Gabriel entered carrying a folded paper beneath one arm. He wore his usual dark coat and immaculate cravat, every line of him composed so carefully that Poppy might have imagined the man in Hyde Park had been someone else entirely.
Except she knew better now. She had felt his restraint break. She could not forget it.
“Miss Montfort,” he said.
“Mr. Ashby.”
The formality struck between them, strange after the intimacy of his mouth on hers.
Jenkins disappeared while Freddie bounded toward Gabriel and stopped at his boots with evident delight, plainly convinced Gabriel had returned to congratulate him upon the ducks.
Gabriel looked down at the dog. “You are dry.”
Freddie wagged his entire body.
“Astonishing,” Gabriel added.
“He is offended by the speed with which heroism fades from memory,” Poppy said.
Gabriel smiled. “I had not forgotten.”
“No,” she said softly. “Nor had I.”
Gabriel’s gaze lifted to hers. For one suspended moment, the quiet house felt less empty than waiting.
“I did not expect you,” Poppy said quietly.
Gabriel nodded once. His gaze fell to the ledgers spread before her, then to the quill resting between her fingers.
“I gave you reason not to.”
The admission seemed to cost him something. He drew a breath and looked back at her.
“My father reminded me that duty is not dependent upon comfort.”
“Oh,” Poppy breathed. So that is why he was here. His father hadn’t accepted his proposal.
She ought to have been relieved. Duty had brought him back, and duty was no small thing from Gabriel Ashby. Still, a small, reckless hope inside her faltered, having wanted an answer that belonged to his feelings rather than to his obligation.
“I have news,” he said.
Poppy shook her head to clear it of unhelpful thoughts. “Of Algernon?”
“Yes.”
She gestured toward the sofa because she did not trust herself to stand through more disappointment. “Then you had better tell me while I am sitting.”
Gabriel did not smile, which told her enough before he spoke.
“I spoke again with Lord Montague’s man of business earlier. There is no legal course that will compel him to delay taking possession.”
Poppy nodded. “I expected as much.”
“He has agreed that Lady Montague may remove any furnishings that can be proved to belong to her personally, along with your clothes, jewels, and other personal effects.”
Poppy’s jaw clenched. “How generous of Algernon to permit Mama to keep her own gowns.”
Gabriel’s expression tightened. “I did not say the concession was impressive.” He set the paper upon the table in front of her and glanced toward the escritoire.
Poppy followed his gaze. The cottage list lay visible beside her calculations.
His eyes returned to her face. “What is that?”
“Practicality.”
Gabriel crossed to the escritoire and looked down at the page without touching it. “A cottage,” he said.
“For Mama and me.”
He narrowed his eyes. “You mean to leave London?”
“I mean to prepare for the likely outcome.”
His gaze moved across the list. “Lady Vanover offered you rooms, did she not?”
“She did.”
“And you refused?”
“I cannot impose upon Bea indefinitely. Nor upon Georgie. Mama is not a temporary complication. She is a permanent one.”
That drew a reluctant breath of amusement from him.
Poppy smiled faintly. “Imagine her as a member of Lady Vanover’s household. She would take over Bea’s drawing room by the second day, fill the guest rooms by the third, and invite an orchestra before the week was out because she found the silence oppressive.”
“Yes. Lady Vanover might object,” he allowed.
“Bea would declare war.” Poppy looked down at her calculations. “I do not wish to lose one of my only friends—or my mother—because I failed to secure a match.”
“You did not fail,” Gabriel said quietly.
“Perhaps not yet.” Poppy smoothed the top page. “At any rate, a cottage is possible. Not ideal, perhaps, but possible. You said yourself Mama’s jointure may maintain us for some months if we live quietly.”