Softly Grow the Poppies

by Audrey Howard

Genres: Historical Fiction; Romance; Historical Romance

Synopsis

Audrey Howard's long-awaited new novel is an epic saga of love and war. Rose Beechworth is mistress of a charming country house - her own, left to her by her wealthy father. In the summer of 1914, she is not even looking for love. Alice Weatherly turns Rose's world upside down. The loveable young heiress longs to kiss Captain Charlie Summers goodbye - she takes Rose to Liverpool's Lime Street station and into the heart of Charlie's brother Harry. Even though they are neighbours, they have never met, for Rose ignores the social round, while Harry's time is taken up desperately attempting to keep his father's ramshackle estate together. He becomes the master of Summer Place, a magnificent mansion with a proud history. He is only too glad when it becomes a hospital for wounded soldiers. As the war takes its terrible toll and Charlie disappears into the fog of battle, Alice - the spoilt runaway heiress - becomes a heroine, while Rose finds herself running two great houses. It seems impossible that any of them can ever find happiness again . . .

Release date: August 16, 2012

Publisher: Hodder & Stoughton

Print pages: 400

Sample

It was warm, so warm that Rose was tempted to remove her gloves. Her hands, despite the fact that the gloves were made of the finest kid, were sticky with perspiration but they held the reins firmly, so she clicked her tongue to Sparky and told him ‘Get up there, lad,’ which he did for he was fresh so early in the morning.

‘I don’t know,’ Dolly had said, ‘why the dickens you have to go to Old Swan at all in this heat. Can’t she use plain white to hem that petticoat? Do she have to have that specific shade of cream? After all, no one’s going to see it.’

‘Dolly,’ Rose had said patiently, ‘you know how particular the girls are. They wouldn’t dream of using the wrong colour, besides which one of them has begged me to buy her some khaki wool so that she can knit socks for the soldiers. She’s walking out with the under-gardener and he’s bound to enlist like all the young men, so I suppose she’s thinking of him; and anyway, I feel like having a ride. I want to find out what’s happening. The Times is full of war news and yet nobody seems to know exactly what is to happen next.’

‘Well, you won’t find out in Old Swan, chuck, that’s for sure. Why don’t you take your book down to the summerhouse and have a read and a rest? This blithering heat’s enough to knock the stuffing out of anyone. The gardeners were saying those dahlias need splitting and you know how fussy you are about which plants go where so you could tell him what—’

‘Yes, yes, he told me yesterday but I feel I must just get this silk so that they can get on with their sewing. I bet every woman in the country wants to knit something for the troops and khaki wool will be hard to find . . .’ Besides which she was restless, anxious to discover what was going on in the vicinity of Liverpool with regard to the war that had been declared, war with Germany. It seemed Germany had violated a treaty, setting aside the neutrality of Belgium by demanding a passage through the country. Great Britain warned Germany that it should withdraw its troops from Belgium at once and if Germany did not do so by midnight on 4 August a state of war would exist between them. Germany did not do so. The Great War had begun and Rose wished to know how it would affect those who would be involved in it. Not just the men who would be bound to fight but those at home.

There were crowds everywhere, so it was reported, cheering and shouting and singing patriotic songs, especially in London outside the Palace, filled with enthusiasm for this great and glorious war in which they were to fight. Lord Derby was very keen to get a company of local lads to form their own Liverpool regiment and the streets were filled with hundreds of young men eager to be in on it. They were all terrified it would end – it would last a month they had heard – before they got their chance to share in it. War, war, war: the single syllable throbbed through the land and she wanted to get to Old Swan to find out for herself what was happening instead of just reading about it in the newspapers.

She and Dolly were sitting in the enormous kitchen that her grandfather had considered just the right size needed for the life he would lead as a country gentleman, with, of course, the sort of entertaining he meant to do. There were two large tables, solid, scrubbed pine on one of which the kitchen-maid was chopping parsley in readiness for the fish that was to be served at luncheon. A door led off to pantries and sculleries and another was open to reveal the stable yard. A dresser at least twelve feet long stood against one wall, its five shelves lined with pottery utensils of every kind from humble egg cups to large serving platters big enough to carry a roast fore-quarter of lamb, a leg of pork, a sirloin of beef and the game he shot on his own land. The coal-fired stoves, two of them, were the very latest design with a fire between and a hot plate on which, and from which, Cook could produce gargantuan meals. There was a clothes rack that could be hauled up to the ceiling and on which the freshly ironed laundry aired; there were copper pans, terracotta pots, weighing scales, dozens of implements, baskets in which fresh fruit and vegetables from the garden were delivered, and before the fire two rocking-chairs where Dolly Davenport, who was housekeeper and ran the house like clockwork, and Cook rested during their busy days. Nessie, the cook, was married to Tom Gibson who was head gardener at Beechworth House and they had a comfortable cottage on the other side of the kitchen garden, as befitted their station. The rest of the servants lived in, except the laundry-maid who went home to her cottage in Hatton Lane each night: four housemaids and four menservants, grooms and gardeners. The men lived above the stable, the maids shared bedrooms at the top of the house.

It was one of the under-grooms, who hitched Sparky to the gig, holding the reins until Miss Beechworth emerged from the back kitchen. Miss Rose was known for her unconventional attitude towards fashion. Today she wore a full, well-cut, lightweight camel-coloured skirt that reached to mid-calf and was split to her knee, plain white shirt open at the neck, the cuffs turned back almost to the elbow. Her highly polished riding boots were revealed when she swung up into the gig. She wore no hat, the sun picking out copper and golden glints in her short, curly auburn hair. She was an extremely handsome woman of twenty-four years, independent, enormously wealthy and had refused every offer of marriage she had received.

She slapped the reins on Sparky’s rump to set him off down the long drive, then she turned out of the wrought-iron gates of Beechworth House and into Hatton Lane. Bertha was in the garden of her cottage hanging out her own family’s laundry and Rose waved to her.

‘Soon ’ave this lot dry, Miss Rose,’ Bertha shouted as the gig passed her.

‘You certainly will, Bertha,’ Rose shouted back as she picked up speed. The hedgerows flashed past, overgrown with brambles, the fruit almost ready for picking. The fields beyond were busy with men and boys, for, war or no war, the harvesting must go on. Men and boys, most of whom would enlist for their great adventure, were advancing against the golden ranks of wheat in slow rhythm, blades sweeping, flashing in the sunlight. The banks on either side of the lane were covered with toadflax and hawkweed and among the brambles were long streamers of honeysuckle and sweet-scented bedstraw. Some of the fields were golden with ragweed and others bright with a tapestry of scarlet poppies. There was a rowan tree standing sentinel at the corner of the field that was part of Oak Hill Farm and a thrush was gorging on its plentiful berries.

She was just about to turn from Hatton Lane into Dunbabin Road, which led through Wavertree and on to Old Swan, when she caught sight of what appeared to be a child hurrying from the opposite direction. She had time to notice that the child was extremely pretty, finely clad in a white muslin dress with a skirt that reached her ankle bone, a straw hat with a wide brim, its crown covered with pink flowers, and she carried a small pink reticule. She was holding the brim of the hat as she broke into a run, then with a sudden movement she discarded it, throwing it with what sounded like an oath into the hedge. Her hair was revealed, so pale it was almost silver, curls falling softly from the crown of her head to her shoulders. A pink ribbon dangled from one of the curls as though she had rammed the hat on in a hurry. When she saw Rose her face broke into a beaming smile, revealing perfect teeth. Her eyes were clear, surrounded by long silky lashes and such an incredible shade of blue Rose could not help but stare. Not pale blue, not grey, not green, nor the purple of a pansy but a mix of all these shades as the light caught them. She could imagine any man falling into their soft beauty. Her cheeks were flushed a delicate rose pink and Rose could see, now that she had pulled Sparky to a halt, that she was not in fact a child but a young woman, a young woman so slight, so delicate, so dainty her tiny breasts barely lifted the bodice of her fetching dress.

‘Oh, thank God,’ the young woman began. ‘Am I glad to see you. Are you by any chance going into Liverpool? I’m trying desperately to get to the station before the troop train leaves but Papa said I was not to go. He disapproves of Charlie, you see, and it is not a proper place for a lady and he told Matthew he’d lose his job if he took me. I’ve no money for a cab and when I said I’d take Blossom and ride there – she’s my mare – Taylor was threatened with dismissal if he saddled her. Oh, I do beg your pardon. My governess has always said my manners are atrocious and so they are. My name is Alice Weatherly. How do you do.’

By this time she had reached the gig which was headed in the opposite direction from the city and Rose was astonished and speechless, for surely the girl knew that? She was holding out her hand to Rose and Rose took it. It was shaken heartily.

The girl, Alice Weatherly, stood and waited, smiling.

‘Well?’ she said.

‘Well what?’

‘Are you going into Liverpool?’

‘I had not intended to. I was about to . . .’

The girl’s face fell and reluctantly she let go of Rose’s hand, which she still held. ‘Oh dear, then I’ll just have to walk it.’ Her face brightened and Rose was quite fascinated by her change of expression. ‘Where are you going, may I ask? It might take me part of the way.’

‘I’m going into Old Swan. My maid needs some thread and the kitchen-maid wants to knit socks for the soldiers so I am going to buy khaki wool and at the same time I thought I might see what was happening now that war has been declared. Anyway, what’s so important about the station that you must get there so precipitously?’ Rose went on.

The expression on the girl’s face turned to one of astonishment. ‘It’s the troops . . .’

‘Troops?’

‘The soldiers who are going to fight the Germans. Five infantry divisions and one of cavalry. Charlie Summers is going since he’s a cavalry officer, a captain, and he’s taking Lady and Duke—’

‘May I ask what all this has to do with me, Miss Weatherly?’ Rose interrupted.

The upper-class society of Liverpool was close-knit, the Earl and Countess of Derby being at the very top of the pile and an invitation to Knowsley, the seat of Lord Derby, was much sought after but not by herself. She knew of the Weatherlys of course, for they were a wealthy family living close to Beechworth House.

Arthur Weatherly inherited from his father a thriving business importing and exporting goods to many parts of the world. He was known as somewhat of a bully, keeping his wife, before she died, under his thumb and it was said that he was attempting to do the same with his pretty daughter. A baronet, at least, was what he wanted for her and this Charlie Summers she spoke of and of whom he disapproved came from an old family, land rich but money poor. True, his father was a baronet but since Charlie was the younger son, a soldier and with no hope of succeeding to the title, it was not surprising he frowned on his only child’s apparent attachment to him.

‘Oh, do please call me Alice.’ She smiled her endearing, innocent smile and Rose could not help but smile back.

‘Perhaps we could go to Liverpool in your gig, Miss . . . Miss . . .?’

‘Rose Beechworth.’

‘Oh, please, Rose,’ for it seemed Miss Alice Weatherly scorned the niceties of the day which said that people in their station should use surnames on such a short acquaintance. ‘Can we not go into Liverpool for whatever your maids need and while we are there you could drop me off at Lime Street. The train leaves at noon and Charlie will be so disappointed if I’m not there to see him off. I promised him. Of course he won’t be away for long. A little skirmish, he calls it, all over by Christmas.’

Rose sighed, looking about her as though for inspiration. The growing heat of the day and the bright morning sunshine lit the hedges that ran along the field belonging to Lark Hill Dairy with what was called Jack-by-the-Hedge, with white campion, with red campion, with ragged robin and all the lovely summer plants that thrived there. Beyond the hedge the meadow was peaceful, half a dozen cows grazing, the cowman who had just put them out after milking trudging back towards the dairy. A flickering movement caught her eye, which was drawn to a shrew-mouse darting its long flexible nose in search of insects or worms, a pretty, harmless creature that seemed at odds with the violence that threatened to tear apart the calm existence she had known all her life.

Her grandfather had started building the family fortune in the middle of the last century. In 1852 gold had been found in a far-off place on the other side of the world. A foreign place with the foreign name of Yackandandah in Victoria, Australia. Her father had told her that her grandfather William had been one of the first diggers on the scene. He had been a young man with a wanderlust not satisfied with what he had in Liverpool, which was nothing. Yackandandah’s nearest town was called Beechworth, and that was enough to convince William Beechworth he should seek his fortune there. He found gold hanging in the roots of shrubs that he pulled up from the creek, which had proved incredibly rich in gold. Grandfather William had returned to England a man of means and from those riches his son, Rose’s father, had increased the family fortunes a hundredfold, leaving Rose Beechworth one of the wealthiest heiresses in Lancashire. She had often thought of taking ship to Australia and visiting the area of Yackandandah from which had come her fortune and had vowed that one day she would but life was remarkably pleasant, now that she was totally independent, the owner of shares in a shipping company, the railway, mining in Yorkshire which day by day made her even richer and, more importantly, dependent on no man. She pictured in her mind the beautiful home that her grandfather had bequeathed to his descendants, for despite his low beginnings he had been a man of great taste. The house was set on a slight rise of land, the grounds falling away from it in smooth, well-cared-for lawns, flowerbeds aflame with colour at this time of the year. The beds were surrounded by clipped box hedges, their luscious green setting off the white gleam of garden statues. A covered trellised walk led to a summerhouse set by a small lake, the walk festooned with hanging baskets trailing ferns and pink roses while the lake itself was starred with lilies disturbed only by the smooth glide of the swans drifting effortlessly from bank to bank.

The house was furnished in the fashion of the nineteenth century but with none of the clutter so beloved of the times. The rooms were large and airy which the wives of her father and grandfather Beechworth, women of refinement and taste, had furnished with elegance and flair. A richly carpeted hallway was furnished with a long-case clock that ticked importantly at the foot of the wide staircase, a marble nymph set in a fluted recess, and deep velvet chairs before an enormous fireplace over which hung a gilt-framed mirror. There was a drawing room filled with costly ornaments, a French clock in ormolu and enamel, vases of rococo Sèvres, and ornaments of Coalport and Meissen. Chandeliers created shimmering, dancing light in every room including the dining room, which though high and wide was barely filled by the highly polished oval table and matching velvet chairs, twenty of them. A sideboard ran along one side with niches and shelves to accommodate silver dishes, a crystal lamp and porcelain. Also on the ground floor were a breakfast room, a library, a study and to the side a conservatory, known as a ‘winter garden’ when it was built. There were a dozen bedrooms, most of them never used, and even the very latest of bathrooms which she herself had designed and had installed.

The house had bay windows to the front and overlooking the gardens at the side and a terrace on which dozens of pots bloomed with geraniums. A vegetable garden, a tennis court, again never used since she had no one to play with, and the whole surrounded by woodland, parkland and at the edge of the property pastures where the horses browsed. She could do exactly what she wanted, go exactly where she pleased and though she was aware that Dolly, who had helped to deliver her into the world twenty-four years ago would fret until she returned home, she was very tempted to take this sweet-faced child into Liverpool.

Alice saw the indecision on Rose’s face. ‘Please say yes,’ Alice begged. ‘I’ll be no trouble, really. It’s miles into town and if I don’t get there soon Charlie will have gone.’

‘I suppose you . . . well, I suppose you like this Charlie?’

‘We love each other.’

Rose smiled and pulled a face. ‘Dear God in heaven, little did I know when I set out this morning I’d be . . .’ She was about to say ‘playing cupid’ but Rose had never been in love so the shining light in Alice Weatherly’s face was a mystery to her. Nevertheless it was there, as pure and innocent as that of a child and who was she to scoff at it? The girl’s eyes were like sapphires, now so vivid a blue they were startling. Sapphires with a diamond in their depths, or was it a star? Dear God, she was getting all romantic, sentimental, which was not like her.

Alice’s voice interrupted her thoughts. ‘I’m so sorry. I can see I’m a nuisance. I can probably get a lift somewhere on the route. I’ve no money for a cab, and I’ve actually never been out on my own, you see.’ She made a face of self-deprecation. ‘Isn’t that an awful admission at eighteen and in this day and age where young women are doing all sorts of things, college and . . . and then there are the suffragettes and what they are fighting for. I’ve often thought I would like to be one of them,’ she said wistfully, ‘but my father is very protective.’ She sighed then brightened. ‘So if you could tell me in which direction I should go I would be most obliged.’

Rose grinned. ‘Oh, for God’s sake, hop up. I could do with an adventure myself and there will be lots of things going on in town, especially if your Charlie is there to tell us what’s happening and where he’s off to.’

Alice’s face lit up and her smile threatened to blind Rose. She was utterly amazed by her own behaviour but for some reason this artlessly naïve, childlike young woman who was six years younger than herself appealed to some part of her she did not recognise. She knew herself to be resistant to frivolity, to light-mindedness, to much of the heedless search for fun with which girls of her class were imbued, but this child, for she seemed no more than that, intrigued her and she really would like to see the soldiers set off for France. Of course she had read about it in the newspapers but had not really understood why it was happening. It was all a bit confusing and to be honest a lot of fuss about nothing. Who cared whether Russia expanded in the Baltic or the eastern Mediterranean? The British were determined to keep the port of Constantinople from falling into Russian hands. Russia wanted to carve up the Turkish Empire, and the Germans had marched on Belgium at which the British were appalled but she supposed there must be a lot more to it than that. But did the ordinary working man care about it? They had never heard of many of these places and were hardly aware of the bitter conflict that had been going on for a year or more. Now, for some reason, France and Great Britain had declared war on Germany!

And here was this enchanting young woman, alight with love and patriotism, off to Lime Street railway station to see the man she loved take a train for this mad muddle.

Alice scrambled up into the gig, thanking Rose again and again, chattering vivaciously as they moved along country lanes and then the broader thoroughfares of the outskirts of Liverpool, on each side of which were the smart villas of the middle classes. Then they went through the warren of cramped terraced houses on the edge of the city, passing shops, factories, warehouses and the Royal Infirmary, until they reached the top of Brownlow Hill.

And there it all was: the great city of Liverpool and at the bottom of the hill the railway station. The trams seriously offended Sparky who had never in his life been further than a couple of miles from home, driven by Rose along quiet lanes and through country villages. Whenever Rose, with her maid, came into Liverpool on her infrequent visits to her dressmaker or boot-maker, or milliner, they were brought in the carriage driven by Thomas, the coachman. So to Sparky and the woman who held the reins, doing her best to control his panic, this seemed absolute chaos. Not only trams but also horse-drawn vehicles, drays and wagons, men on bicycles impatiently ringing their bells, carriages and, worst of all, the new phenomenon, the motor car.

Alice looked quite relaxed in all the confusion but Rose realised that her little gig with a panic-stricken Sparky beginning to rear and lunge was a danger not only to the vehicles in the road but to the pedestrians who had come to the city to see their boys off. What’s more, the khaki-clad soldiers who marched towards Lime Street blocked most of the way. Packing the pavements were huge, cheering crowds, little boys who ‘hallooed’ and threw their caps in the air, old men with tears in their eyes, perhaps remembering their own enthusiastic youth fighting in the Boer War. Women and girls blew kisses and waved their handkerchiefs and a band played ‘It’s a Long Way to Tipperary’, stirring music to keep the soldiers in step on this great expedition.

Sparky did not care for it at all, causing even more chaos until Rose, handing the reins to Alice who was, fortunately, used to driving a gig about the grounds of Weatherly House, got down and put her arms around his neck in an effort to soothe him.

‘We’ll have to find somewhere to put him,’ Rose shouted above the din to Alice who held on bravely. They were by this time turning into Lime Street and before them was the magnificence of the Adelphi Hotel. A sign pointed to the back of the hotel to stables where guests’ horses were cared for. Threading her way through the dangerous crush Rose managed at last to get Sparky and the gig to the stable yard where a groom, delighted to be of service to two such attractive ladies, declared he would keep an eye on the slowly calming pony.

Alice was the daughter, in fact the only child, of Arthur Weatherly, a prominent gentleman in the world of shipping and it was whispered that when the company began in 1709 it had dealt in slaves. The first of the Weatherly Line vessels had sailed from Liverpool to the West Indies and brought back slaves, the trade growing so that by the 1750s over 25,000 had been transported. One street in town where the sale of black men, women and children had been held was even called Negro Street but the lucrative trade came to an end at the beginning of the nineteenth century when Arthur Weatherly’s predecessors had turned to other cargoes and the company continued to thrive.

Alice had been gently reared, protected, mixing with families of her own social standing, kept to the schoolroom and accompanied wherever she went at all times by her governess, her mother before she died, or a groom.

The two young women walked close together, aware that they were the object of many inquisitive glances. Alice was dressed in the style worn by all young girls of her class, while Rose prompted utter amazement in her eccentric outfit of short skirt, boots and no hat and this in a day when no decent women ventured outside her home without a hat!

‘Hold my arm,’ Rose whispered to Alice since she had noticed, even if Alice hadn’t, the way the men were eyeing the beautiful girl by her side. She was unaware that her own handsome looks were, in a different way, as attractive as Alice’s. She had a mass of curly Titian hair – she called it ginger! – which was vibrant with copper, a tawny red, streaks of golden brown, quite glorious and quite untameable so she kept it cut short and it rioted over her skull unchecked. As she and Alice struggled through the crowds the curls bounced and fell over her forehead, curly tendrils touching her long brown eyelashes which were tipped with gold. Her eyes were a golden brown, uncompromising, watchful, intelligent, and her mouth was a rich, ripe red with a tiny dimple in one corner which lifted at the side when she smiled. She was as tall as most men, slender but shapely with a fine breast. Her manner at this moment was guarded, protective of the dainty little creature who clung to her arm.

The station forecourt was a heaving mass of men who would be trained to be soldiers and who were all cheerfully being herded on to the waiting train. The Earl of Derby had appealed to the men of Lancashire to volunteer and it must be said they did not need much persuasion. They formed the 19th Battalion, the King’s Liverpool Regiment and among them was a cavalry unit in which Charlie Summers was a captain. He and other officers were busy with loading their horses into wagons at the rear of the train, for there would be a great need of horses in the battles to come, or so they believed. Mounted troops would be the main components of offensive warfare. In battle they would carry a sword, a rifle for use when dismounted and a lance. Cavalry units were also equipped with one or two machine guns carried by a team and cart.

At first it was almost impossible to recognise one soldier from another. Most of them were working-class men and the sound of their orders from fierce regimental sergeants thundered over the shrieks of train whistles. Porters shouted, horses whinnied their distress, the men whistled and sang, thrilled by this new adventure they were off to, that of defending their country. The regiments were made up of men who knew each other, who, when they were settled, would be known as the ‘Liverpool Pals’ and who would in a short time learn to present arms, fight with a bayonet and throw bombs. They did not know in that first month of the war that soldiers were already dying in their thousands.

And in the midst of all this seething mass of apparent turmoil the British Army was doing its best to load all the necessary provisions for battle on several trains that would be off within the hour.

On a narrow ramp that led up into the horse wagons, six sweating soldiers, one of them an officer, were doing their superhuman best to get a grey mare aboard, exercising great patience while the grey’s owner stood at her head gently pulling her bridle.

Alice gave an excited squeak. ‘It’s Charlie, look, Rose, it’s Charlie, and that’s Lady.’

But Rose was not looking at Charlie, or even Lady, but at the tall aristocratic gentleman who was watching the drama from the platform to the side of the wagon.

Harry watched as the young woman approached along the station platform, the most astonishing young woman he had ever seen. She was tall, at least half a foot taller than Alice. Not pretty like Alice who was holding her arm; her face was too strong for that, but wit. . .