a trump, Poppy,” he murmured, taking her in his arms and laying his head against her breasts. “You’re too good for me. The thing is, Poppy, it’s not just us. It’s—it’s something else terrible that’s worrying me.”
“Tell us, there’s a love,” murmured Poppy, cradling his head in her breasts and rocking him gently as she was accustomed to rock away the fears of Josie and Emily.
“I’ve—I’ve lost all the money,” said Freddie in a low voice. “I’m stuck, old girl. I can’t pay the hotel bill.”
Poppy continued to rock him, although her heart seemed to stand still. She had thought of Freddie as a tower of strength—he who could treat headwaiters so casually.
She did not have Freddie’s rigid code of manners, but she did have the indomitable spirit of a certain type of East End Londoner, and also a boundless compassion for the frailties of fellow human beings. A picture of a tall, imposing man with white hair flashed for a moment across her inner vision: a man to take care of a woman, a man who would not lose all his money on his wedding night.…” She thrust the image ruthlessly away.
“Now, then, Freddie dear,” she said gently. “Wot did you do before? It’s ’appened—happened—before, ’asn’t—hasn’t it?”
“Yes,” mumbled Freddie. “But dash it all, I wasn’t married.”
“Go on,” said Poppy gently.
“Well,” said Freddie. “I just sort of walked out without my luggage… sort of.”
“And didn’t they take you to court?”
“No… er… my uncle sort of sorted things—doesn’t like stains on the family escutcheon, and all that.”
Poppy mentally bade farewell to her meager trousseau.
“We’ll do that, duckie,” she said, cuddling him. “Now go to sleep.”
And Freddie did, as easily and consciencelessly as a small child, while Poppy lay staring into the darkness and fighting off the wave of sadness and loneliness that threatened to engulf her.
No longer did Emily and Josie run along the golden sands of her mind. As a pale dawn light filtered into the overly ornate bedroom, Poppy began to wonder if she had made a serious mistake in leaving the stage.
A vision of the squalor of Cutler’s Fields flashed across her mind, and she found to her surprise that she was heartily wishing herself back there.
Freddie was blithe and refreshed by morning. No qualm of conscience seemed to smite him as he walked calmly out, whistling, with Poppy on his arm.
“Fine day for a stroll, sir,” said the desk clerk, smiling, and Freddie waved his cane by way of salute and said he hoped there were shrimps on the menu for luncheon. Then as if suddenly thinking of it, he turned to Poppy. “You know what, darling,” he said. “I think we might take a spin along the cliffs. Here, fellow, see that my car is brought round.”
To Poppy, their wait on the marble steps of the Brighton Palace seemed to go on for hours and hours, although it was, in fact, a matter of minutes.
She kept expecting to hear a harsh voice crying out, “Pay your bill now, sir!” But soon enough the car was there, and Freddie took the wheel. After a few dreadful coughs and jerks the motorcar started, and soon the hotel faded behind them.
The weather was raw and cold, and Poppy shivered in the open car, praying it would not rain.
“Where are we going?” she shouted at last above the noise of the rushing wind.
“To my uncle’s,” yelled Freddie.
“The duke,” whispered Poppy through pale lips, but Freddie did not hear and had already begun to sing as if he hadn’t a care in the world.
One large tear rolled down Poppy’s cheek. To Freddie, abandoning one’s clothes was of little moment. He might have been a snake sloughing off its old skin. But for Poppy, it was giving away all the love and stitching of Cutler’s Fields. What sacrifices had old Ma Barker had to undergo to supply those pink satin ribbons for the underwear?
“Won’t be long,” shouted Freddie, oblivious of