‘Charlie!’ she whispered. Tears gathered in her eyes and she fought to control them. She mustn’t become too emotional. She must save that for her singing. But she felt joy rushing through her, making her heart beat faster. ‘He came,’ she murmured breathlessly. ‘He cares after all. He’ll be out there in the audience listening to me!’
The musicians were grouped on the stage as Poppy made her entrance. She felt exhilarated and it showed as she swept towards the front of the stage and sank into a deep curtsy. There was a murmuring from the well-dressed audience in the stalls, the gentlemen in formal suits and the ladies in glittering gowns. Most of them were hearing Poppy for the first time. From the gallery came the sound of loud clapping and cheering and she guessed that this was from people who had heard and seen her at lesser theatres before she went abroad.
She turned towards the piano and stood beside it. The harpist began to play with evocative gentle notes. Marian Bennett caressed the keys as she developed the melodic phrasing, the violinist put his bow to the wood and Poppy began to sing.
She barely knew where she was. She only felt sheer joy coursing through her as she sang. Her voice, sweet and touching, ardent with passion, captivating and dulcet, ranged over all the emotions in its intensity. She took sips of water during the interval but spoke to no-one and came back on the stage to tremendous acclaim. At last she sang her final song and the audience rose to its feet in acknowledgement.
Mrs Bennett clapped softly, her eyes on Poppy. The harpist smiled and nodded, the violinist tapped his bow, whilst the audience went wild. Poppy seemed to wake up. She bowed low, her hand on her breast, then came to the front of the stage and gave another deep curtsy. She backed away, caught Marian Bennett’s eye and in answer to her raised eyebrows and unasked question gave a slight shake of her head. She did not have the energy or the voice to sing an encore as the audience were requesting.
‘Thank you,’ she mouthed. ‘Thank you.’
Someone threw a white rose, and smiling she bent to collect it and threaded it into her hair. She smiled again, mouthed ‘thank you’ once more, and left the stage with the chants of the audience ringing in her ears.
Someone opened the door into the dressing room for her and she swept in and sank into her chair, absolutely spent, yet full of excitement as if she could soar like a bird above the treetops. She took several more sips of water and then Marian Bennett tapped on the open door and asked if she could come in.
‘That was wonderful, Poppy,’ she said. She too was exultant. ‘Truly wonderful! I have never heard you sing so well. Dan is in the audience; he’s going to want to make more bookings for you.’ She held up a warning finger. ‘But you can be choosy. Don’t let him rush you into anything. He is my brother, but I have your best interests at heart and we must look after your voice.’ She caught sight of the flowers. ‘My goodness! What a huge bouquet! That must be from a very special admirer?’
‘From Charlie.’ Poppy gave a delighted smile. ‘He must be out there in the audience.’
There was another tap on the door. This time it was Dan, and behind him the harpist and the violinist, waiting to add their congratulations.
Where was Charlie, she wondered. I want to see him so much.
‘There’s a queue of admirers waiting outside the stage door, Poppy,’ Dan told her. ‘Will you see them? Or shall I tell them no?’
‘I shall be a little while,’ Poppy hedged. ‘I must change, and – well, I don’t want to rush.’
‘I’ll tell them you’ll be at least an hour; that’ll put off all but the most determined.’ He gave her a grin as he turned to go. ‘You were just perfect tonight,’ he said. ‘You’ve been drinking champagne, I can tell! You just sparkled.’
She laughed and denied it, but it was true; she had felt vitalized and elated, and it had shown in her voice.
The stage door keeper tapped. ‘Gentleman for you, Miss Mazzini.’ He handed her a card. ‘He said as you would see him.’
She took the card, which was of good quality with embossed lettering, and read, ‘Charles Chandler. Prestigious Shoemaker.’ The address was in an arcade off Piccadilly.
She raised her eyes to Marian Bennett. ‘It’s Charlie,’ she whispered.
‘Then I’ll leave you,’ she said. ‘But we’ll wait, Dan and I, and see you home.’
‘No,’ she replied urgently. ‘I shall be all right.’ She smiled happily, joyfully. ‘We might go out for supper!’
‘Ah!’ Mrs Bennett murmured. ‘Yes, of course, but – you’re well known, Poppy. You must take care. Think of France.’
Poppy laughed. ‘But this isn’t France, this is London!’
Marian Bennett left, leaving the door open. Poppy quickly looked in the mirror and touched her cheek and hair. The white flower she left in place. She rose from her chair as someone tapped on the door. ‘Come in,’ she called. ‘Charlie! Do come in.’
She would hardly have recognized him as he entered, so debonair had he become. His sideburns were long, down to his jawbone, and his hair cut to just below the ear, but it was his dress that astounded her. He wore a formal black overcoat with a silk collar. The buttons were unfastened and beneath she saw a black evening suit, and white collar and tie. He carried a silk top hat, white gloves and a silver-topped cane.
‘Charlie,’ she breathed and held out both hands. ‘I’m so glad to see you. My word! What a swell you are!’
He put down his hat, gloves and cane on a chair and bending very formally he took one hand and kissed it. ‘Indeed!’ He gave a suave smile and murmured, ‘We must move on, Poppy. We must show the world that we are successful. You know that.’
She kept hold of his hand and drew closer. ‘And are you, Charlie? Is business so good? I’ve tried to get in touch with you,’ she added quickly, in case he thought that she had been too bound up with her own affairs to think of him. ‘My letters were never answered.’
‘I’m sorry. I’ve been very busy,’ he said. ‘I’ve moved premises. Lots of orders.’
‘I’m so glad you came tonight,’ she said softly. ‘I’ve been longing to see you. I was going to search you out if you hadn’t come. I was anxious about you.’
His manner was reserved, yet touched with tension as he answered. ‘Well, of course I would come, Poppy. I’ve read so much about you – how successful your French tour was – how could I not come to see you?’
She gazed at him. There was something amiss, some hesitation, and a slight awkwardness that unnerved her. Was he pleased to see her or not? ‘Are you free, Charlie?’ she asked. ‘I was wondering about supper. My agent and companion . . .’
‘Ah!’ he murmured and they both turned as they heard a rustling against the door. ‘A little difficult.’
A young woman stood there. She was very lovely, was Poppy’s first impression. She was also beautifully and expensively dressed in a sealskin coat and a large hat trimmed with plumes and feathers. As Poppy gazed at her, she realized that she had seen her before.
‘P-Poppy,’ Charlie stammered. ‘May I introduce . . .’ He indicated the young woman, who, smiling gracefully, came into the room, holding out her gloved hand. ‘My fiancée, Miss Amanda Burchfield. Amanda, this is my very good friend, Miss Poppy Mazzini.’
Poppy felt that she staggered as he spoke. Yet she didn’t. She was rooted to the spot as Miss Burchfield inclined her head at the introduction. Poppy was in a dream, or a nightmare. Her head buzzed as if a thousand bees had invaded her, and her mind drained of thought. She was as shocked as if she had taken a physical blow. From far off she heard Miss Burchfield say how much they had enjoyed the concert, and that they had met previously when she had visited Charles’s workshop for the first time.
‘Who would have thought,’ Miss Burchfield trilled, ‘that that meeting would prove so fateful?’
‘Charlie!’ Poppy whispered, turning to him. ‘Is it true?’ Tell me it is not, she silently pleaded. Tell me it is not!
Charlie looked at neither of them, but kept his gaze lowered. ‘Miss Burchfield and I announced our engagement two months ago.’
Two months. Poppy counted. November. Whilst I was away!
‘We haven’t known each other so very long,’ Miss Burchfield interjected. ‘My parents wish us to wait a little before announcing our wedding plans.’ She lowered her eyelashes. ‘We would rather not wait, isn’t that so, Charles? Charles is impatient to be married straight away, but I must submit to my parents’ desires.’ She smiled indulgently. ‘So whilst Charles is building up his empire, I can plan where we shall live and what kind of house we shall have.’ She came and tucked her arm into Charlie’s and gazed up at him. ‘We can wait,’ she said softly.
Charlie said nothing, but he turned a pale face towards Poppy.
Poppy felt sick and faint. Her whole body was trembling. ‘Ch-Charles – isn’t any good – at waiting.’ Her words, mumbled and inarticulate, were muffled, low and tremulous. ‘Isn’t that so, Charles?’ She realized she was repeating Miss Burchfield’s earlier question.
‘Poppy – I . . .’ He turned to his fiancée. ‘Dearest! Would you wait outside for me for a moment? I’d like to speak to Miss Mazzini about a private matter.’
Miss Burchfield raised her eyebrows, but gave Poppy a graceful adieu, and left the room.
Poppy sank down into her chair and closed her eyes for a second. When I open them I shall know that I’m dreaming, she thought. This isn’t really happening. But when she opened them, Charlie was still standing there with a concerned look upon his face.
‘Poppy! I couldn’t think of any other way to tell you. It’s all happened so suddenly – Amanda and I – even my parents don’t know yet!’
‘You were going to wait for me!’ she whispered. ‘You said – that you loved me. You wanted me to prove that I loved you,’ she breathed, her words melting in the air. ‘Did I mean – nothing – after all, for you to change your mind so quickly?’
‘No. No!’ He grasped her hand. ‘I’ve always cared for you, Poppy. Since you were just a child. But . . .’ he hesitated. ‘You were a child – still are so young.’
‘I’m not!’ she said, on a faint husky breath. ‘I am not a child and I have always loved you!’
‘I’m sorry, Poppy,’ he said, straightening up and fingering his collar. ‘So very sorry.’
There came a soft tap on the door. Mrs Bennett stood there. ‘Miss Mazzini has to change now, Mr Chandler,’ she said coldly. ‘If you will excuse us?’
‘Of course. Of course.’ Charles backed away, and picking up his possessions he gave a brief bow. ‘I hope I shall see you again, Poppy. We – I really enjoyed tonight – you were wonderful. I wish you’ – he swallowed, barely looking at her – ‘further success.’ He glanced at Mrs Bennett’s stony expression and turned for the door. ‘Good night!’
Poppy stared after him. She felt empty, from the top of her head to her toes. I can’t believe this is happening! How could he? How could he come tonight of all nights and bring her with him? Did he think I would be pleased for him? Did he think that my love for him was only a childish infatuation?
Mrs Bennett busied herself by the dressing table and then handed her a small silver container. ‘I always keep a phial of brandy and water in my purse,’ she said softly. ‘For any occasion when I might feel unwell.’
Poppy sipped the liquid. Her mouth was dry and the spirit, though weakened with water, burned her throat.
‘I don’t know what has happened, Poppy, and I don’t need to know,’ Mrs Bennett murmured. ‘But when I saw the young lady waiting outside as Mr Chandler came in to see you, I – I felt I should come back, that perhaps – things were not as you had hoped.’
Poppy licked her lips; she was trembling as she croaked, ‘His fiancée! They – they’re going to be married.’ Tears appeared in her eyes and ran unchecked down her face, down her nose and onto her lips. She could taste the salt blending with the brandy. ‘He said – he told me . . .’ Did he ever say those words, she anguished, or did I only think that he did? ‘He told me that he would wait for me!’ Her grief was threatening to overwhelm her. He did say those words! But he wasn’t true. He has found someone else that he loves more.
‘But he hasn’t. He didn’t.’ She lifted her eyes, appealing, and the tears began to flow again. She wiped them away with a towel, and took a deep breath. ‘What am I going to do?’ she pleaded. ‘What am I going to do?’