Vacillations of Poppy Carew Read Online Free

…’
    ‘It costs the earth to …’
    ‘I expect I can pay by instalments.’
    ‘You won’t need to do that.’
    ‘What?’
    ‘There’s rather a lot you have to know, Poppy.’ Anthony sighed. ‘Shall you pour or shall I?’
    ‘Sorry.’ Poppy poured, remembering that Anthony liked one lump and a drip of milk.
    ‘I’ve given up sugar.’
    ‘Oh.’ Poppy fished hastily with a spoon. ‘Sorry.’ She passed the cup. ‘Dad didn’t even own this house.’
    ‘That’s right.’ Anthony took a swallow of tea, testing it for sugar. ‘You do; he put it in your name soon after your mother died.’
    ‘Why? What an extraordinary … he never told me.’
    ‘He wanted to save death duties. As a matter of …’ Anthony paused, the girl wasn’t listening. What was she thinking? He watched her: she had a curious expression. He opened his briefcase, took out the will.
    Laurel wreath, she thought. Why should Dad not have a laurel wreath? He would like it far better than a lot of rotting flowers, it had been a good suggestion from Furnival’s Funerals: it would amuse him. He would have laughed, too, if she had told him Edmund’s new girl was called Venetia Colyer, an upmarket name, far more sophisticated than Poppy. Poppy’s mind wandered to Edmund holding Venetia against him under the bridge over the Serpentine, his face against hers, her naturally yellow hair blown across his eyes. Perhaps she should have pushed them into the water. It was an opportunity missed. His hand had been on what the French call the saddle, pressing her against his genitals.
    ‘You are not listening, Poppy. I didn’t come here to watch you daydream; pay attention.’
    ‘I am, I will.’ She sat up straight, fixed her eyes on Anthony. ‘You had got to death duties.’
    ‘I had got a lot further. I’ll start again.’ Anthony blew out his cheeks. He had finished his tea; he poured himself another cup.
    ‘Sorry, Anthony. I am all attention.’
    ‘Right then. It’s all here in legal language.’ He tapped the will.
    ‘Oh.’
    ‘I will put it into plain English.’
    ‘Thank you.’ Poppy assumed a trusting, expectant expression. Anthony wondered if she was as great a ninny as she looked.
    ‘Your father put this house in your name to save death duties. You got that?’
    ‘Yes, Anthony. How wonderful of him.’
    One had doubted the wonder of it at the time, thought Anthony. However, ‘So, should you want to sell it, you can; straightaway.’ He watched her.
    ‘Sell Dad’s house?’ The house where she had first made love with Edmund? Not very successfully, they’d been expecting Dad back from a trip to Brighton. Edmund had enjoyed it; he was, she found herself admitting, pretty selfish in bed.
    ‘That’s something for you to decide later. I only wish to make the point that you may, if you want to sell, sell.’ Anthony suppressed a niggle of irritation.
    ‘Thank you, Anthony. Point taken.’
    ‘You will find—I shall explain to you—that you have not only the house and all its contents, but quite a substantial income and considerable capital sums banked in your name.’
    ‘Gosh. Why?’
    ‘Presumably your father did not wish to leave you destitute.’ Anthony could be acerbic.
    ‘I knew nothing about his money …’ Poppy was puzzled. ‘I mean, he never talked, he never …’
    ‘Your father had a phobia that some man might want to marry you for your money. I used to tell him you had more sense.’
    ‘Thanks, Anthony.’ Poppy’s mind strayed back to Edmund and Venetia. Venetia had money, Edmund made no bones about it, grant him that, ‘I fancy being kept, Venetia has a safe income.’ Would he be selfish in bed with Venetia, not bother whether she came or not, or would he feel he owed—
    ‘Poppy!’
    ‘Sorry, Anthony. I am paying attention, it’s just that I don’t understand. Dad was always rather economical, not mean, just …’
    ‘Careful,’ said Anthony. ‘Wise in his way.’
    ‘Yes, yes, I see,’ but