Poppy by M.C. Beaton

dressed in a serviceable wool skirt and jacket—black—and put on her old cracked boots and the hat with the pheasant’s feather, then donned her old cloak. After leaving the room Poppy turned down the corridor in the opposite direction from the night before and found to her delight that she soon reached the top of the main staircase without getting lost at all.
    She ran down the steps, sternly avoiding the temptation to slide down the long and shining banister, unlocked the main door with its massive key, swung it open as quietly as she could, although it seemed to take all her strength to do it, and then tried to close it quietly, but it crashed-to with a reverberating bang.
    Poppy took a deep breath of clean morning air and turned around—and gulped.
    The duke, dressed in jodhpurs and hacking jacket, riding crop in hand, was standing at the foot of the front steps, looking at her, his immobile face registering neither surprise nor welcome.
    Poppy opened her mouth to explain what she was doing, but then closed it firmly again. She had an instinctive awareness that it was vulgar and unnecessary to justify all one’s actions. She was not doing anything wrong.
    On the other hand, she
was
going for a walk, and since the duke was handy, he would know the best place to go. And so she asked him.
    For a long time he stood looking at her as if turning over some problem in his mind. Then he said quite abruptly, “I am going riding, Mrs. Plummett. Do you ride? Then come with me. It is time you started. What you are wearing will do well enough.”
    Now, Poppy considered this very high-handed treatment indeed, and was tempted to tell him so, but on the other hand, she was flattered by his interest, and Freddie would be so pleased if she kept his wicked uncle happy.
    The horse the duke selected for her was very placid and old, more like an animated sofa.
    A sidesaddle was put on its wide back, and Poppy received her first instruction on how to mount from the mounting block. The duke himself selected a more sedate mount than he would normally have chosen, put Poppy’s horse on leading reins, and together they ambled sedately out of the stables into the blazing and golden light of a truly beautiful morning.
    Poppy from Cutler’s Fields lost her fear of the animal, although she felt very high above the ground, and became engrossed in the sheer beauty of the morning. They ambled slowly down the drive under the high arch of the trees, a delicate green tracery against the pale blue of the newly washed sky.
    “Branches are down everywhere,” said the duke. “It was quite a storm.” But Poppy only heard the peace of the morning.
    It did not last long. “Now we shall canter,” said the duke, “and you must learn to post. Just do what I do.” But to poor Poppy, it all seemed very strange as she lurched wildly from side to side like a sack of potatoes until, laughing and breathless, she begged him to stop.
    “I shall have my head groom instruct you,” he said impatiently as they once again proceeded along at a snail’s pace. “In fact, I suggest you begin your lessons this afternoon. I shall ask Freda to lend you a riding habit.”
    “Oh,” said Poppy, glancing at him from under her lashes. “And do you think madam will do that?”
    He frowned quickly but did not reply. After some time he said, “I enjoyed what I heard of your concert last night, Mrs. Plummett. It was generous of you to give of your talent so freely.”
    Poppy looked at him in surprise.
    “Most professional singers,” he elaborated, “guard their voices very carefully.”
    “Oh, I aren’t professional,” said Poppy blithely. “I sing for anyone. Oh, are we going back?” She felt disappointed as he turned the horses around to lead them back to the house. All of a sudden she wanted to make a crack in his amazing self-possession.
    “D’you think I’m common?” she asked lightly.
    “Yes.”
    “Oh!” Poppy gulped. “That was very rude of