Chapter Four #2
“Broad shoulders. Blue eyes. Excellent coat. The general demeanor of a man who catalogues his handkerchiefs.”
Georgie’s mouth curved into a smile. “That does sound vexing.”
“It is not relevant,” Poppy retorted.
“No,” Bea agreed gravely. “Handsome men rarely are.”
Poppy ignored them both. “Mr. Ashby says he can write to Algernon. Perhaps negotiate a little more time. But the town house belongs to the estate, as does Brambleberry Court. Algernon is of age now, and apparently young gentlemen with titles enjoy taking possession of things.”
Bea made a snort of disgust.
“Perhaps it gives them purpose,” Poppy added.
“Purpose,” Bea replied, “is wasted on most men.”
“Not all, though,” Georgie said softly.
A faint color touched her cheeks, and Poppy’s heart twisted with affection.
No, not all. Lord Pembroke had put his nose where it did not belong and given Georgie a life she had chosen.
Lord Vanover had begun as Bea’s enemy and become the man who would set the world on fire if it meant keeping her safe.
Poppy had been there for both revolts. She had planned, conspired, encouraged, watched. She had clapped her hands and believed in their impossible happy endings because believing for someone else was always easier than believing for oneself.
Now both of her friends looked at her with the same fierce attention she had once given them.
It was unbearable.
“What else did Mr. Ashby say?” Bea prodded.
Poppy shrugged. “That if Algernon insists, Mama and I may have a few months in a small cottage in the country, provided we spend almost nothing.”
Georgie’s face fell.
Bea’s expression turned dark. “No,” she said simply.
Poppy blinked. “No?”
“No.” Bea stood. “You and Lady Viva shall come here.”
The words were so swift, so certain, that Poppy’s chest tightened. “Bea—”
“I am perfectly serious. We have room. We have more room than any two people require. You and your mother may stay here for as long as you wish.”
Georgie began to answer, reconsidered, then tried again, clearly attempting to prevent kindness from becoming a logistical catastrophe.
“That is quite generous,” Georgie said carefully.
Bea turned. “You say that as if I have offered to house a regiment.”
“No, not that.” Georgie’s gaze flicked to Poppy, tender and apologetic. “Only…you should know…Lady Viva does not always travel alone.”
Poppy nearly laughed. She nearly cried. Both seemed equally possible and equally unhelpful. “That,” she said, “is the gentlest description of my mother I have ever heard.”
Georgie winced. “I did not mean—”
“You meant that if Mama came here, within three days there would be a starving artist in Lord Vanover’s library, a widowed baron in the breakfast room, Freddie in the linen press, and some woman no one had invited asleep in one of the bedchambers.”
Bea pressed her lips together. She did not look eager for any of that to happen. Georgie looked relieved and guilty at once. She had been to Poppy’s house. She knew the extent of the chaos.
“And that,” Poppy continued, because she loved them too much to allow either of them to pretend, “would only be if Mama were making an effort to be restrained.”
Bea’s expression softened. “Poppy, I do not care about the inconvenience. Truly.”
“I know you do not.” That was precisely what made the offer difficult to refuse. “But I care. I could never ask that of you. Either of you. Not when I know exactly what my mother’s version of temporary would become.”
“Then we shall make it permanent until it need not be,” Bea insisted.
Poppy reached out and squeezed her friend’s hand. “You cannot adopt me, Bea.”
“I could,” Bea insisted. “I have done many alarming things since marriage.”
Georgie smiled faintly. “She has.”
Poppy shook her head. “It is terribly kind of you, but I need a real solution. A borrowed room will only postpone the difficulty, and kindness, however generous, cannot give Mama and me a home. We cannot drift from one friend’s hospitality to another while Algernon sits in our house sniffing snuff and complaining about curtains.
” She drew a breath. “Which is why Mr. Ashby’s other suggestion—or rather, Algernon’s assumption—may not be the worst idea. ”
Bea went still.
Georgie’s hand tightened around the letter.
Poppy lifted her chin. “Marriage.”
The word seemed to rearrange the room.
Georgie set the letter on the table very carefully.
Bea sat back. “Marriage.”
“Yes.” Poppy nodded.
“To whom?” Georgie asked.
Poppy gave a small laugh. “At the moment? Anyone titled, solvent, and willing to take both me and Mama.”
Georgie blinked. “Well. That narrows matters considerably.”
“Does it? I feared it might eliminate all of England.” Poppy gave her friends a tremulous smile.
Georgie came to her and took her hand. “Poppy.”
The gentleness nearly undid her. Poppy withdrew her hand under the pretense of smoothing her skirt. “Do not look at me like that. I am not saying I want to be traded like a parcel. I have little recourse left.”
“There must be something we can do,” Bea said.
“There is.” Poppy nodded again, forcing herself to keep going. “I need a husband. A titled husband, if possible. Quickly. Before Mama and I are obliged to remove to some damp cottage where she will either wither from boredom or become the terror of the parish.”
Her friends were quiet, obviously considering the matter.
“I know it is not much of a revolt,” Poppy continued. “Georgie escaped an unwanted marriage. You refused to be handed over like a political prize. And I am here begging you to help me find a husband before I am evicted.”
“Poppy,” Bea said firmly, “we do not disapprove. Our revolts were never against marriage. They were against being told we had no say in the matter.”
Georgie nodded. “We wanted to choose.”
“Yes, well, I choose not to starve in a cottage,” Poppy said, then winced. “Oh, that sounded dreadful, didn’t it?”
“It sounded honest,” Georgie said, giving her a tentative smile.
Bea squeezed her hand. “If a husband is what you choose, a husband is what we shall find you.”
Poppy stared at her.
For one foolish moment, hope tried to rise in her chest. But she crushed it immediately. Hope was lovely in poetry and harmful in practice.
“It is not that simple,” she said. “Bea, you spent five Seasons avoiding marriage. You cannot possibly understand how difficult it is to attract a man who is not already half in love with your dowry.”
Bea lifted her brows. “On the contrary, I should think it cannot be difficult to attract a suitor. Avoiding them required constant vigilance.”
Poppy gaped at her.
Georgie pressed her lips together, though not quickly enough to hide her smile.
“Not if the lady in question is you,” Poppy said. “You are a duke’s daughter. You are beautiful enough to make men forget their own names. You had a dowry large enough to tempt saints into wickedness. If you stood near a potted palm, the palm would propose before supper.”
Bea frowned. “That is silly.”
Georgie wrinkled her nose. “Perhaps the potted palm part, but she is not wrong about the rest, Bea. You do not know what it is like to have no dowry.”
Poppy turned to Georgie then. “And you are a countess now, married to a handsome earl who swept you up onto a horse in front of half the ton. You were practically carried into legend.”
“It did not feel legendary at the time,” Georgie insisted, frowning.
“No, I daresay it felt inconvenient and romantic and terrifying, but the point remains.” Poppy drew a breath.
“I have no dowry, no fortune, no home in ten days, no father to settle anything, and no brother to ask his handsome friend to watch over me. All I have is a mother Society invites only when it wants something delicious to laugh about the next morning.”
The room went still.
There. She had said it.
The shameful thing. The true thing.
Poppy looked down at her gloves. “Gentlemen do not ask me to dance. They do not call. They do not send flowers. They certainly do not think, ah yes, there is the woman I should like to marry. What a sensible addition to my household, a penniless spinster with a scandalous mother and a puppy who eats deviled eggs.”
“Freddie has charm,” Georgie insisted.
“Freddie has a digestive complaint more often than charm.”
Bea’s expression softened in a way Poppy was still not entirely used to seeing. “You are not shameful.”
“No,” Georgie agreed, her voice vehement. “Nor is wanting help.”
Poppy’s throat tightened. “I am not certain there is a difference any longer.”
Bea took both her hands now and held them firmly.
“Listen to me. You are Poppy Montfort. You are kind, clever, loyal, and entirely too good at making other people comfortable while you are drowning. You have spent years keeping your household from collapsing, and if Society has been too stupid to notice you except when Lady Viva does something outrageous, that is Society’s failure. Not yours.”
Poppy blinked hard.
Georgie moved to her other side. “And if titled gentlemen have not been asking you to dance, then we shall put you in rooms where they will have to.”
“That sounds mildly threatening,” Poppy said, forcing a smile.
“It was meant to,” Georgie replied, giving her a wink.
Bea nodded briskly, all tenderness vanishing beneath action. “We shall host.”
“Host what?” Poppy asked, brightening.
“Everything,” Bea said.
Georgie nodded. “A dinner first, perhaps. Something small enough for conversation.”
“Then a ball,” Bea added.
Poppy nearly choked. “A ball?”
“A ball is efficient,” Bea said. “One may inspect a great many candidates at once.”
“I am not livestock,” Poppy pointed out.
“No, but men often are,” Bea replied. “It is best to see how they move in a herd.”
Despite everything, Poppy laughed.
The sound surprised her. It surprised all three of them, perhaps, because for a moment they simply smiled happily at one another like the young women they had been in that retiring room months ago, when everything had seemed terrible and impossible and yet, somehow, not quite as terrible because they were together.
Then the door opened.