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

bust of a man. She liked his face, whoever he was, and traced the carved features with her fingers, enjoying the surprising smoothness of the cool stone.

      Under the window that looked out onto the back garden was a highly polished desk, on top of which lay a writing pad, a blotter and an ornate glass inkwell. A robust wooden chair upholstered in dark green leather accompanied the desk. In one corner a grandfather clock chimed the hours and steadily ticked away the years, and on the chimney breast hung a watercolour painting of men and women gathering in a harvest. Poppy looked at it intently and marvelled at the way the artist could produce something as lifelike on paper, using only ink and a few splodges of watery paint.

      Poppy was actually invited to lunch on the Sunday. She sat primly at the dining table opposite Mrs Newton, taking her lead from her when it came to eating. Dining in a house like this was obviously a more genteel affair than gobbling food down in the hut on the Blowers Green encampment to the accompaniment of navvies belching and farting.

      ‘My dear, I have come to a decision,’ the older lady said as she pushed her plate away. ‘It is unthinkable that you should continue to live in Gatehouse Fold. It is a midden of down-and-outs, unless I am mistaken. Half the strumpets of Christendom live there.’

      Poppy regarded her with interest.

      ‘So, if you have no objection, Miss Silk, I have a proposition to put to you that should benefit both of us …’

      ‘Oh?’

      ‘Yes. I would like you to consider the prospect of taking up employment here in this house?’

      ‘As a maid, you mean?’

      ‘No, not as a maid.’ Mrs Newton smiled indulgently. ‘I mean as my paid and kept companion. It would be my intention to make a lady of you, and you cannot be a maid and a lady. You would continue your learning, of course.’

      ‘Oh, Mrs Newton …’ Poppy sighed, touched by Mrs Newton’s extreme charity. ‘I don’t know what to say … I’m a bit took aback to tell you the truth …’ She put her hands to her face to hide her tears, a gesture that conveyed to the older lady the depth of Poppy’s astonishment. ‘I didn’t think I deserved such kindness …’

      ‘I want you to think about it carefully, my dear. You don’t have to make a decision now.’

      Poppy smiled self-consciously. She needed no time to think it over, no second asking. This would be infinitely preferable to working as a maid, beyond any dreams she’d ever harboured.

      ‘Oh, Mrs Newton,’ she replied. ‘If you’m sure, I’d like nothing better.’

      ‘Capital!’ The old lady laughed with joy. ‘Marvellous! Well, that’s soon settled.’

      ‘I just hope you can put up with me and me quaint ways, that’s all.’

      ‘I think quaint ways are more in my domain,’ Mrs Newton said kindly. ‘Not yours, my dear.’

      ‘So when would you want me to come?’

      ‘Just as soon as you like.’

      ‘Can I come today then?’

      Mrs Newton beamed. ‘Of course. Why not? I have a very comfortable spare bedroom. I can get Esther to light a fire in there straight away to air it. You are quite sure that your mother wouldn’t mind?’

      ‘Oh, I think my mother would be relieved if she knew.’

      ‘Miss Silk, I am so pleased and delighted. I am, in some ways, a selfish old woman, always determined to get my own way. But you will be comfortable here, and I certainly hope you will be happy as well. Anyway, I see no reason why you should not be. I try to be fair, as my staff will attest, and you will learn that I am not ungenerous.’

      ‘So will you please call me Poppy, Mrs Newton? Everybody else does.’

      Mrs Newton laughed contentedly and her eyes twinkled as they reflected the firelight. ‘Very well, Poppy. Then why don’t you call me Aunt Phoebe?’

      ‘All right, I will. Thank you … Aunt Phoebe.’

      ‘Will it take you long to get your things?’

      ‘I ain’t got much. I can be there and back in an hour.’

      ‘You’ve fell on your feet and no mistake,’ Minnie said, when Poppy returned to Gatehouse Fold for her things. ‘I never met anybody in my life as lucky as you. I bet I’ll never see you again, living the life of a lady.’

      ‘Oh, I’ll come and see you, Min. Just ’cause I’ll be living in a big house, you’ll still be me friend. You’re me only friend, remember. I shan’t forget you. Ever.’

      ‘Come and see me from time to time so’s I know you’m all right. Anyway, I have to pay you back what I owe you.’

      Poppy’s new bedroom was large and pleasant, clean, tidy, and luxurious compared to the jumble and scatter of Rose Cottage and the damp austerity of Gatehouse Fold. The bow window, hung with cream calico curtains printed with pink flowers, looked out onto the front garden and Rowley Road. Against the wall furthest from the window stood a wardrobe and, next to that, a tallboy with a glass vase and crocheted doily sitting upon it. There was a dressing table with mirrors that were adjustable so you could see the side of your head. On it stood a trinket box, also made of cut glass, a silver-backed hand mirror and hairbrush, and more crocheted doilies. There was a washstand with a bowl and ewer in a floral pattern. But the bed … Poppy sat on it, bouncing up and down like an excited child, making the bedstead creak, it was so soft and springy and inviting.

      Aunt Phoebe came in after allowing her time to get to know the room a little. She was carrying a bundle of towels.

      ‘I thought you might enjoy a hot bath.’

      ‘Yes, I don’t mind.’ Poppy had never been in a bath and the prospect was daunting, but she decided it was best to accept it gratefully.

      ‘Is the room to your liking, my dear?’

      ‘Oh, it’s lovely, Aunt Phoebe,’ she replied with a broad smile. ‘And this bed is so soft. I think I shall be very comfortable.’

      ‘Good. While you were fetching your things I asked Esther to change the bed linen. To my mind, clean bed linen is essential once you’ve had a hot bath. Oh, and if it’s too warm, you can open the sash, you know.’

      ‘Oh, no, it’s just right.’ Poppy went to the window. The front garden below seemed more formally laid out than she had noticed when she had first arrived. The roses were colourful against the monochromatic lawn and the foliage of shrubs. The idea of tending to plants on a warm summer’s day had a sudden appeal; it conjured up images of contentment, of being civilised, of serenity. Then there was the view … ‘What’s that line of hills on the horizon?’

      ‘They are the Clent Hills, my dear. If you see it raining on the Clent Hills, you can be sure it will rain here within a few minutes … Well, Poppy … shall we put your things away?’ Aunt Phoebe opened the wardrobe door. ‘I’ll help you, while Esther fills the bath for you.’

      Esther poured another bucket of hot water into the tin bath that had been taken to Poppy’s room and set in the ample space between the foot of the bed and the dressing table. Poppy smiled at the maid apologetically for being the cause of so much extra work.

      ‘I ain’t got much to put away, Aunt Phoebe …’ She pulled out her old red flannel dress, one of her cotton working frocks, stockings and a chemise.

      ‘But my dear …’ Aunt Phoebe looked at them aghast. She picked up the stockings between her thumb and forefinger and let them drop to the floor with distaste. ‘I don’t think you’ll be wearing those again …’

      ‘That only leaves me with the dress I’m wearing.’

      ‘Then tomorrow we shall visit my dressmaker and have you measured.’

      Poppy smiled appreciatively.