that she’d seen in Poppy’s face. She didn’t know how to sustain their situation if she couldn’t even explain that the child’s mother was gone and would not be back.
After the christening, things went from bad to worse. All the little battles that Margaret had considered won – the bathing, the name, the new clothes – slid backwards again. Poppy stubbornly refused even the simple morning face washing that was requested of her. She no longer allowed anyone to dress her in the new clothes, and whenever someone tried to call her Penelope she would stand with her fists balled at her sides and scream, “Poppy!” at the top of her lungs.
Margaret had been broken-hearted to see her marble-like face during those first few hours following Molly’s death and to see almost no real reaction from the child. But now she had more reaction than she could handle. Poppy seemed to have switched completely in her approach to the tragedy. What had once looked like quiet acceptance was now unbridled indignation.
A week after the christening, Margaret woke to the sound of screaming and breaking glass in the hallway. She stumbled out of her own room in her nightgown, hair still loose and wild around her shoulders, and found Poppy at the top of the stairs, her little face set in furious industry, sending one teacup after another down the bannister to shatter at the bottom.
She had an impressive collection, clearly hoarded over the last week of meals and teas, and now they were all caught up in the skirt of her nightgown – the only thing that she could be consistently made to wear. She turned and looked at Margaret, fury shining in her little eyes, and stubbornly pulled out another cup and set it upon the bannister before her.
“Penelope, no.” Margaret stepped forward to intercept her.
The little girl screwed up her face and gave the cup a sharp poke. It skittered halfway down along the bannister and then wheeled off into thin air, falling for one sickening moment of silence and then shattering against the floor. “Poppy!” the girl screamed in protest.
This sort of behaviour became more and more normal around the house. Margaret wondered wearily how it was that a child so young could be so devious and creative in the tortures she inflicted on the staff. It seemed as though Poppy wished to make every step, no matter how small, a battle for the people around her.
Margaret saw her own self-doubt reflected in the face of her father whenever he looked at her. He said nothing, but she could see that he was condemning her for the foolish promise she had made to Molly, that he was waiting for her to regret everything enough to give up and send the girl away. He offered no solutions, but she did overhear him talking on occasion to the butler and to visitors about girls’ schools and boarding institutions, and she knew what he would suggest if she ever asked.
She desperately needed advice, but she didn’t know where to turn. If she went to her father and asked him about alternatives, she knew that he would suggest Poppy live with another family, a tenant in her own class, or go to one of the schools he was always talking about. He would probably even offer to pay Poppy’s expenses to ensure that the girl ended up cared for but not above her station – just as he had paid for Nigel to go away.
Nigel. The old yearning for his friendship and advice came back to Margaret in these moments, but she kept pushing it away. She didn’t have Nigel. She didn’t have her father, she didn’t have anybody but herself now – herself and Poppy.
Chapter 4
It was a month after Molly’s death that Margaret went back to her friend’s little cottage to finalise the closing up and renting out of the place. It had been difficult at first to find a tenant to replace Molly – the fisherman’s family had gained a dreadful notoriety over the previous few years, and the more superstitious people in town insisted that the house was cursed. It was a family two villages over who finally agreed to rent it – a man and woman who wished to start a local bakery and needed a place that was small and affordable.
Mrs Tarrow had sent word of the arrangement and asked Margaret to come to look through Molly’s meagre belongings one last time, “In case there’s