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

to Buttercup. ‘See? I told you as much. She’ll have no truck … Are you going out tonight, our Poppy?’

      Poppy picked up Buttercup’s shirt and shrugged as she made her way over to the stone sink. ‘I don’t know. It depends whether Minnie wants me to. Or even Jericho.’

      ‘What if neither is about?’ Buttercup asked.

      ‘Then I’ll stop in and start to read me book. It’s wrote by a young woman, Robert says. He says I’ll like it.’

      ‘Robert says so, eh?’ Sheba flashed a knowing look at Buttercup. ‘Well, if Robert says so, you can bet you will …’

      That warm summer’s evening, Poppy went to Hawthorn Villa to call for Minnie.

      ‘You’ve just missed her, my flower,’ Ma Catchpole informed her. ‘Her went out half hour ago.’

      ‘Is she likely to be long? I mean has she gone out with Dog Meat for the night?’

      ‘That drunken bugger? No, Dog Meat went up the Grin and Bear It as usual. He must be in truck up to his arsehole, the money he spends on beer. Leastwise, I doubt if anybody’s saft enough to lend it him.’

      ‘Well, if she comes back soon, send her round for me, would you, Mrs Catchpole?’

      ‘I’ll tell her as you’ve bin after her, young Poppy.’

      Poppy ambled back towards Rose Cottage disconsolately, disappointed that her friend had not called for her. Saturday nights they always went out together while Dog Meat went drinking. Maybe Minnie had sloped off to see some young beau she’d met. Maybe even that local lad again, called Tom. Often had she sung Tom’s praises. Poppy picked up a stick from the ground and sat on the front step of the hut, scratching letters in the dust.

      Then she remembered her book. She could make a start on that. If she could read only the first page she would be mightily proud of herself. She would have achieved something. Back inside the hut she picked up her book and took it into the bedroom. She plumped up her pillow and, still dressed, lay on the bed and opened the book to the first page of the story. Slowly, carefully, she built up each word.

      ‘Chapter One. It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife …’ Goodness! Did that apply to Robert as well? He was surely in want of a wife … It was wonderful how it all made sense. Already Poppy was spellbound. She could hardly wait to complete the next sentence. She read for ages and fell asleep fully dressed, only to wake fully dressed next morning, her brother and sisters having failed to disturb her when they retired to bed.

      On Monday, after the works had shut for the night, Poppy skipped along to the house the company had occupied, which served as offices. Gingerly, she climbed the linoleum-clad stairs to Robert’s office and, to her great relief, saw him sitting at his desk, which was, as usual, covered in maps and diagrams. He turned and smiled to greet her when he heard her footsteps.

      ‘Poppy! I thought you weren’t coming.’

      ‘Am I late?’ she queried. ‘I’m not surprised. There was a lot of the men about. I waited till they’d all cleared off, then waited a bit longer.’

      ‘Sensible,’ he said. ‘We don’t want tongues wagging, do we?’

      Poppy shrugged. It would make no odds to her if they did. Indeed, too many folk already knew that Robert Crawford was teaching Poppy Silk to read for it to remain a secret for long. But she understood that he wished for greater discretion.

      ‘I brought my book,’ she said. ‘I’ve been reading it. I love it.’

      He smiled warmly. ‘Good. Read some to me. Let me hear how you are faring.’

      She sat in the chair beside him and read the first page while he listened and prompted from time to time, watching the wonderfully animated expressions on her face and in her crystal clear eyes. As she spoke the words, he was captivated again by the beautiful sensuous shapes her lips adopted, and he ached inside for her. It struck him then that love can be the most wondrous thing, but it can also be the most torturous if the object of your love is forbidden.

      After a few minutes she stopped reading and looked up at him with wide, questioning eyes.

      ‘Your reading has improved immensely, Poppy,’ he said. ‘Already you are reading faster than you were before. But perhaps we should concentrate on some spelling and punctuation. Do you have your writing book with you?’

      She fished in the pocket of her skirt, withdrew it and placed it on the desk.

      ‘Just a few of the more difficult words you’ve come across … acquaintance …’

      ‘What’s an acquaintance, Robert?’

      ‘A friend,’ he answered patiently. ‘Not necessarily a close friend, but somebody whom you know. Somebody with whom you are acquainted.’

      She nodded her understanding.

      ‘So write acquaintance down, Poppy …’ He spelled it out for her and she methodically inscribed it in her steadily improving hand. ‘Now daughter … extraordinary … considerable … neighbourhood …’

      Poppy wrote down many words, and did it with a zeal for learning that could not fail to impress Robert Crawford. He went on to explain the rudiments of punctuation: full stops, commas, inverted commas, colons, semicolons, question marks. Poppy nodded thoughtfully as each was explained, as she absorbed the knowledge like a sponge absorbs liquid.

      ‘You have done extremely well,’ he said. ‘You are learning much quicker than I ever imagined you would.’

      ‘Am I?’ she replied with a gratified smile that turned into a blush.

      ‘And I have a small gift for you, to mark my recognition of the hard work you have put into your efforts. Efforts which are quite voluntary, and thus the more laudable.’

      ‘Laudable?’

      ‘Praiseworthy, Poppy. Deserving.’

      ‘Then why didn’t you say praiseworthy or deserving, instead of lordabubble? Anyway, what sort of gift have you got for me? Another book?’

      ‘No …’ He leaned forward and stretched out to retrieve a parcel of brown paper and string that lay under his desk near his feet. ‘Here …’ He smiled, eager to see her response. ‘I want to watch your expression as you open it …’

      ‘What is it?’ She looked at him with a mixture of apprehension and delight as she took the parcel from him.

      ‘You’ll see.’

      Eagerly she undid the knots in the string and discarded it, then set about carefully unwrapping the box. It had a lid, which she lifted it a little and then let fall again to prolong the pleasure of anticipation. Robert watched her, as excited as she was, urging her to reveal the contents. She removed the lid and gasped.

      ‘Robert! Oh, Robert, it’s a pair of dainty black boots with ’lastic sides. Oh, thank you, thank you. How can I thank you enough?’

      ‘Well … a kiss would suffice.’

      ‘Oh, I’ll give you a hundred kisses – a thousand.’

      She leaned forward with her typical lack of inhibition and their lips met. Their arms went about each other in tentative desire … Tentative, because each was aware of the forbidden nature of their fervour. She withdrew her lips with profound reluctance and regret, and rested her forehead on his chest, unable to quieten the sincere love she felt for him.

      ‘Oh, Robert …’ she breathed, her voice so strained with emotion that she needed no further words.

      He hugged her tight and nuzzled his cheek against her lush, fair hair. Why did he torture himself so? Why indeed did he torture her? It was so obvious even to him that she was head over heels. It must be correspondingly obvious to her that he was equally