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

mother, Clarissa. Since my husband died, I have had little to do with any of them … or, rather, they have had little to do with me – save for dear Robert, bless his heart, who has not forgotten me.’

      ‘No, Robert wouldn’t forget you, Aunt Phoebe. He always struck me as being thoughtful.’

      The next day saw Poppy being shown more of the house and gardens, now that she was a resident. The back garden seemed vast once you were in it. The ground rose up from the house so that when you reached its extremity and looked back you could actually see the Clent Hills over the slate roof. Mature trees were in abundance and provided some shade, which would be delightful on a hot summer’s day, as would the secluded summer house she saw overhung with climbing roses. Flowerbeds were everywhere, with no formal arrangement to them, but straight borders ran alongside the ancient brick walls that formed the boundary on either side. Poppy was introduced at last to Clay and the smell of his pipe tobacco reminded her poignantly of her father. He told her it was twist and she told him she liked it. It was enough to establish a regard for each other.

      A great source of curiosity was the old square piano in the drawing room. The first time Poppy was close enough, she felt compelled to press down a key and was immediately delighted with its musical plink. She beamed an apologetic smile to Aunt Phoebe. Perhaps, when she was alone some day, she could return and plink some more keys, and discover the kinds and combinations of sounds it might be possible to produce.

      About halfway through the morning, Poppy sat at the desk in the library with Aunt Phoebe, who was determined to get Poppy to read to her so that she could assess her progress. Poppy read a page from Pride and Prejudice, which Robert had given her.

      ‘Have you read that page before, Poppy?’

      ‘No, Aunt Phoebe. I just carried on from where I’d got to.’

      ‘And how long have you been reading?’

      Poppy shrugged. ‘Not till after me dad died. Less than six months, I s’pose.’

      ‘You read remarkably well. I see you have ploughed some way into the book. Are you enjoying it?’

      ‘Oh, yes,’ she enthused. ‘It’s so funny. I love the bit where—’

      ‘What have you gleaned about manners and etiquette?’

      ‘Etiquette?’ Poppy looked unsure.

      ‘Pride and Prejudice is full of it. How people behave towards each other in a way that is polite.’

      ‘Oh, yes. That.’

      ‘I suspect it was the reason Robert gave it to you. So that you would learn from it. Well, I shall teach you etiquette along with everything else. We shall make a proper lady of you, I have every confidence.’

      Somebody knocked at the door and Aunt Phoebe called for whoever it was to come in. Dolly entered looking agitated.

      ‘What is it, Dolly?’

      ‘The butcher, ma’am. You know we ordered a rabbit to make a stew, but the one he’s sent ain’t bin skinned and drawn, ma’am. And he knows very well how I can’t abide messing with ’em. Should I send Clay back with it so’s he can do it for me?’

      ‘Clay’s busy, Dolly,’ Aunt Phoebe declared. ‘If I interrupt him with such trivialities we’ll never get the garden tidied for the winter. Is it such an awful task to skin and draw a rabbit?’

      ‘It’s still got the yed on,’ Dolly added. ‘I hate doing it, ma’am. It turns me stomach.’

      Poppy looked first at Dolly, then at Aunt Phoebe. ‘I can do it,’ she said, as if it were the easiest thing in the world. ‘I can skin and draw a rabbit. I’ll do it for you, Dolly, if you like. Save disturbing Clay.’

      Aunt Phoebe huffed disapprovingly. ‘Really, Poppy, I don’t think that is quite the sort of thing I would expect you to do … And what about your lesson?’

      ‘Oh, I don’t mind, honest. I’ll gladly do it. I’m used to it.’ She got up from the desk and moved towards Dolly.

      ‘Just this once then. To show Dolly and help her overcome her aversion.’

      ‘There’s nothing to it,’ Poppy said affably, as the maid led her towards the kitchen.

      ‘Well, thank the Lord you can do it, miss. I’m that grateful, honest I am. I hate and detest messing with the things.’

      ‘It don’t bother me.’

      ‘So where did you learn how to do such things, miss?’

      ‘Oh, I used to have to help me mother,’ she said artlessly. ‘I was always having to pluck chickens and ducks. I was always pulling the innards out of something or other. Men was always bringing things for us to cook – things they’d poached or pinched.’

      They entered the kitchen, warm with a fire burning in the cast-iron range. A dead rabbit lay limp and fluffy on a wooden workbench, its upturned eye open, looking vacantly at the whitewashed ceiling.

      ‘See what I mean?’ Dolly remarked. ‘Poor thing. It makes me cringe to have to chop its flipping head off.’

      ‘But it don’t matter, Dolly,’ Poppy reasoned. ‘It’s dead. You can’t hurt it now.’

      ‘I know, but the smell when you gut it. It’s vile.’

      ‘Oh, the smell’s nothing. No worse than a privy. Just hold your breath …’

      ‘Here, miss … put this pinafore over your clean frock.’

      ‘Thank you, Dolly … Have you got a cleaver?’

      Poppy fastened the strings of the pinafore and pulled up her sleeves, while Dolly reached for the cleaver and handed it to Poppy. Poppy held it poised over the rabbit and, with a single deft action, decapitated the furry corpse.

      ‘There y’are, Dolly.’ She took a sharp knife and slit the pelt, then peeled it away. ‘At least with the skin on you know you got a rabbit, eh? When it’s skinned it could be anything. A cat, even.’

      ‘I know. It wouldn’t be the first cat neither that folk have ate, thinking it to be a rabbit, eh, miss?’

      ‘How’s your young man, Dolly?’ Poppy asked, changing tack. ‘Esther tells me you go a-courting on your afternoon and evening off.’

      Dolly smiled bashfully. ‘He’s all right, miss, thank you.’

      ‘What does he do for work?’

      ‘He’s a puddler at the Dixons Green Iron Works down Bumble Hole,’ Dolly replied.

      ‘Have you been courting long?’

      ‘Not that long. Mind you, I’ve had plenty chaps in me time.’

      ‘But he’s the one you liked best, eh?’

      ‘Not really,’ Dolly said resignedly. ‘He’s the ugliest, though. You couldn’t punch clay uglier.’

      ‘So why did you take to him over the others?’ Poppy asked, her fingers covered in entrails.

      ‘’Cause he earns the most … And his mother told me he can draw fowl. I hate drawin’ fowl and things.’ Dolly watched what Poppy was doing with distaste, her mouth turned down at the corners. ‘It don’t bother you though, does it, miss?’

      Poppy smiled, content that she had helped Dolly, happy that this opportunity to befriend the girl had arisen. It was in her nature to be friendly in any case, to want to please. She was anxious to let these servants see that she was no different to them, that she was not likely to look down on them just because she was unexpectedly thrust into the elevated position where she was to be waited on and looked after. She didn’t particularly relish the idea of them doing her bidding. She didn’t warrant it. No, she would rather help them than find them tasks. Because she was no better than them, how could she