Poppy by M.C. Beaton Page A

sight of the group in the hall, heard the anger in his voice and felt a qualm of unease. It was just as well Poppy Duveen
was
married.
    Lady Mary decided that retreat was the best policy, and mustering up her dignity and her tweed skirts, she marched up the stairs, head held high. Lord Archibald stumped behind her in his Norfolk knickerbockers, mumbling under his breath.
    Once in their room, Lady Mary lost no time and sent immediately for the housekeeper, Mrs. Pullar.
    “Ah, Mrs. Pullar,” she began, taking off her hat and revealing a hairstyle that was exactly the same depressing shape and color as the hat she had just removed. “This new Mrs. Plummett. Bad show. Not what you’re accustomed to.”
    “Not at all, madam,” agreed Mrs. Pullar, deliberately misunderstanding her. “Mrs. Plummett is a highly intelligent lady with a nice regard for the servants.”
    “So she should have, considering that’s her social level,” remarked Lady Mary while Mrs. Pullar looked at the floor and burned with hate. “What does she look like?”
    “Very sweet and pretty, my lady.”
    “So His Grace appears to think. Don’t you agree, Mrs. Pullar?”
    “That I do not know,” said the housekeeper, “but I shall inform His Grace of your question, and no doubt His Grace will inform my lady of his answer.”
    “Here, now, this is only between us, Mrs. Pullar,” said Lady Mary, slightly shaken.
    “On the contrary, my lady,” said Mrs. Pullar. “It is my duty to inform His Grace of everything concerning His Grace. Will that be all, my lady?”
    Lady Mary opened and shut her mouth, and then gave a jerky little nod. Hugo, she knew, would be furious with her for having dared to question one of the servants.
    Unaware of the new problem, Poppy was trying to reason with Freddie. He had lost his euphoria engendered by the night before, when he had had a splendid time. He had felt no end of a fine fellow, and had suggested they take a spin somewhere and seal their joy with a bottle of champagne. Poppy declined grimly. They must obey the rules of the house, and the rules of the house were that Freddie should not drink. At last, sullen and defeated, a sober Freddie presented himself at the luncheon table.
    Poppy’s wardrobe had been growing rapidly under the busy hands of Her Grace’s lady’s maid. She was wearing a beautiful lace blouse with a high collar. Soft folds of lace spilled in a cascade over her excellent monobosom. It was considered indecent to reveal the fact that a woman possessed
two
breasts, and if your corset could not achieve the desired effect, then you stuffed a small satin pillow down your front to obliterate the cleavage.
    A long, heavy linen skirt emphasized Poppy’s tiny waist. Her thick blond hair was impeccably dressed over her forehead in the current mode. Gilbert, the lady’s maid, had persuaded her not to frizzle it as most ladies did, since it had a natural curl. Her pink cheeks owed all to health and nothing to art.
    For all his faults and snobberies, Lord Archibald cast an eye over the new Mrs. Plummett, decided she would do after all, and promptly turned his full attention to his meal, since he was passionately fond of his food. Not so Lady Mary.
    Lady Mary was a fierce follower of the Reform Movement in dress, which advocated the end of the corset and “logical” clothes, free from the rigors of tight-waisting. Buttons must be
buttons
, not ornaments. Embroidery was a frivolous waste and did not
do
anything. Unfortunately, the members of the Reform Movement did not have a very good eye for either line or color, and they retained the high-boned collar, which was responsible for so many ills.
    Lady Mary was therefore attired in a shapeless mud-colored garment with a collar so whaleboned, so high, and so tight, it did absolute wonders when it came to aggravating her already nasty temper.
    She stared long and coldly across the table at Poppy, searching in her mind as to the best way to begin her attack