The Sweeping Saga Collection: Poppy’s Dilemma, The Dressmaker’s Daughter, The Factory Girl. Nancy Carson

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СКАЧАТЬ it might present too many insurmountable difficulties, as well as a broken heart.

      She scanned Castle Street again and saw him. Today he was without his two-wheeled contraption. He walked towards her with a smile on his face, as usual, and her heart flipped over in a somersault.

      ‘Have you been waiting long?’ he asked, looking her up and down.

      ‘No, I only just got here. I got my paper and blacklead, look.’

      ‘Excellent.’

      He tried to hide his disenchantment with her red flannel frock. Not only was it a mighty step down from the pinnacle of fashion and inelegant, but it did not fit her particularly well. It was too big at the waist and the bodice rendered her chest shapeless and ambiguous. It was also too short and revealed the ungainly clogs and rough stockings that clearly signalled her background for all to see. She looked infinitely better in those plain working frocks; at least they fitted her, gave some form to her young figure, which he knew to be alluring enough. Why had he now put himself in a position where he would be seen accompanying this uncultured wench, who to any bystander would appear as nothing more than a whore he’d just picked up? Yet her face was as angelic as ever. Her beautiful eyes were clear and blue and exuded such a look of gentleness and honesty. Her hair beneath her bonnet framed her rounded cheekbones with untamed yellow curls, and her lips looked so gloriously tempting. In different circumstances he might fall head over heels in love with this girl; she had the makings. In their present circumstances – and her in that awful dress – that was impossible. Still, he could not help being drawn. She was truly something of an enigma.

      ‘Where shall we go?’ Poppy asked.

      He wanted to save himself any embarrassment and get as far from the eyes of passers-by as possible. The castle grounds, the entrance to which lay just across the road, would be heaving with strollers in their Sunday best and well-to-do families out in their carriages on a fine afternoon such as this was.

      ‘I mentioned the Old Priory. I think it would be pleasant in any case to sit among the ruins and begin your lesson there.’

      ‘Is it far?’

      ‘No. A six and a half minute walk from here.’

      She laughed at his preciseness as they began the short trek. ‘Six and a half minutes? Not five, or ten?’

      ‘What do you mean?’ he asked, surprised that she should have the temerity to mock him.

      ‘I suppose it comes of being an engineer,’ she suggested compassionately, at once taking the sting out of his umbrage. ‘You being so exact about the time it takes to walk there.’

      ‘Ah. I see.’ He laughed at himself when he understood. ‘You have remarkable perception, Poppy. Yes, I suppose it must be comical, put in that context – my engineering background.’

      As ever, the town was littered with inebriates tumbling out of the public houses, staggering homewards. Here and there arguments flared over nothing, and Robert took Poppy’s arm as they hurried past The Hen and Chickens on the corner of Castle Street and New Street’s narrow confines, into which they turned. Several rough-looking men eyed them suspiciously as they went by, commenting lewdly on the obvious incongruity that existed between the couple. Soon, however, Poppy and Robert were away from the rabble and the bustle of the area. In less than half a minute they were surrounded by gardens and fields. Over to their right, the keep of the old Norman castle loomed high on its wooded hill.

      ‘What did you do last night?’ Poppy asked Robert.

      ‘Last night? Oh … I was invited to dinner. In fact, there was a fair at Porter’s Field I had intended visiting, but in the end I was invited to dinner, as I say.’

      ‘Did you enjoy it?’

      ‘Yes, very much. It was a very convivial evening.’

      Convivial. What on earth did that mean? ‘I went to the fair,’ Poppy admitted. ‘Pity you didn’t go, Robert. I bet I would’ve seen you there.’

      ‘Who did you go with?’ Robert asked.

      ‘With my friend, Minnie Catchpole. You don’t know her, do you?’

      ‘Is her father on the OWWR workings?’

      ‘Yes, Tipton Ted,’ Poppy told him. ‘I bet you know Tipton Ted.’

      ‘Yes, I know Tipton Ted.’

      ‘Minnie is Dog Meat’s girl. Do you know him as well?’

      ‘Dog Meat? Yes, I know Dog Meat. Drunken lout. And your friend is his … his bed partner, I suppose?’

      ‘Yes, course.’

      ‘How old is she?’

      ‘Same as me. Sixteen. She’s been sleeping with him since she was fifteen.’

      ‘And Tipton Ted allows that?’ Robert asked, hardly hiding his disapproval.

      Poppy shrugged. It was not her concern.

      ‘Good Lord! I wonder she’s not become pregnant before now. And she so young.’

      ‘Oh, Minnie says she knows how to stop getting pregnant. She goes off with other men as well.’

      ‘Good Lord!’ Robert said again. ‘Goodness, Poppy, I do hope you have more sense than to do things like that yourself. You do strike me as having a lot more sense.’ He looked at her questioningly, for reassurance.

      ‘Me? Oh, you got me to rights there. I wouldn’t do nothing like that. Mind you, I ain’t been short of offers lately.’

      Over to their right they could see the grey ruins of the Old Priory, some ivy-clad walls were still standing but dilapidated, and arched windows still remained, if devoid of glass for a few centuries.

      ‘How old is this place?’ queried Poppy as they walked across a field of long grass towards it.

      ‘It was founded around 1160 by Gervase Paganel,’ Robert said, ‘though it never amounted to much ecclesiastically.’

      Poppy looked at him sideways because of that big mysterious word, but did not ask its meaning. She imagined it might have something to do with religion, so it held little interest. In any case, Robert did not bother to enlighten her.

      ‘So it’s nearly seven hundred years old?’

      Robert looked at her in astonishment. ‘You worked that out rather swiftly for somebody who can’t read and write.’

      ‘I can work out sums in my head. You have to when you’re handing money over in the tommy shop, or one of the shops in the town. If they think you can’t count they fleece you rotten.’

      He laughed at that. ‘I never thought about it, but yes, I see that. All the men do count their money knowingly, even though they can’t all read.’

      ‘I know my numbers, Robert. My mother taught me. I can count shillings and pence, and I can tell the time as well.’

      ‘Good. I wondered about teaching СКАЧАТЬ