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The Flower Seller
Linda Finlay


A charming and evocative tale of family and fortune from the queen of West Country saga, Linda Finlay.Isabella Carrington has been brought up in a life of privilege in London. Her life seems perfect, until her father suddenly announces bankruptcy. To save Isabella from destitution he sends her to stay with family she has never met, far away on a violet farm deep in Devon.Isabella is horrified to find her uncle expects her to work for her keep, packing up the flowers and selling them in the nearby market. However she soon discovers that life on a violet farm may not be so bad, especially when she meets handsome local farmer Felix Furneaux…Perfect for fans of Dilly Court and Katie Flynn.







LINDA FINLAY lives on the Devonshire coast and is the author of seven novels. From lace-making to growing Devon violets, each one is based on a local craft which, in order to write authentically, she has learnt to do herself. However, it is people and their problems that make for good story writing and, with so much interesting material to work with, it is easy for Linda to let her imagination run as wild as the West Country landscape which has inspired her writing.


Also by Linda Finlay (#ulink_a99405c2-4c1e-5400-b479-111f30a035de)

The Royal Lacemaker

The Girl with the Red Ribbon

A Family For Christmas

The Sea Shell Girl

Monday’s Child

Orphans and Angels








Copyright (#ulink_0b1af48a-893f-57c5-9378-49b69ced647a)






An imprint of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd.

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2018

Copyright © Linda Finlay 2018

Linda Finlay asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Ebook Edition © March 2018 ISBN: 9780008262938


To Pern, for your continued encouragement and support


Contents

Cover (#uffdd5248-042d-5d1c-9392-976f3c0b22d5)

About the Author (#uec7922b4-f91b-5e30-982d-d18edc9240ee)

Booklist (#ulink_2bd3b8a9-9bbe-5975-acd7-861c50326a75)

Title Page (#u1c69d4ea-75e5-5962-9bac-bdb6f061ee3d)

Copyright (#ulink_eabcbf45-0f9b-599e-8093-faba26d1b3e6)

Dedication (#u742f3962-4298-5e85-979d-0834e508f6e7)

Chapter 1 (#ulink_126691d0-33e7-5cae-9279-b40f1c28ffe9)

Chapter 2 (#ulink_76226526-4e56-526e-b61d-013f60323413)

Chapter 3 (#ulink_f7e91afe-d4d2-528a-a794-3d64e4867ffc)

Chapter 4 (#ulink_4f1b128d-a2db-5b46-864c-d919a34ef059)

Chapter 5 (#ulink_2ceb190a-bb2a-597b-904d-c858a6fec3e1)

Chapter 6 (#ulink_91938fda-45bc-51ef-a69b-d50a3e043eca)

Chapter 7 (#ulink_06c59f17-3843-56b3-bedf-6b7ce5996b92)

Chapter 8 (#ulink_1dcc4fbb-4d31-5e3c-9829-1cd0c3704f94)

Chapter 9 (#ulink_3e3444f0-f195-57a1-a58f-a4e21996a481)

Chapter 10 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 11 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 12 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 13 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 14 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 15 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 16 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 17 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 18 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 19 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 20 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 21 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 22 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 23 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 24 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 25 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 26 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 27 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 28 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 29 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 30 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 31 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 32 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 33 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 34 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 35 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 36 (#litres_trial_promo)

Acknowledgements (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)


Chapter 1 (#ulink_97229446-597f-522e-ac17-aa0a1ff71b8e)

London, September 1892

Forgetting all she’d been taught about dignified deportment, Isabella swept through the doors of Claridge’s as if blown in on the autumn breeze. Her golden curls and bright blue eyes drew many an admiring glance to which she was oblivious, as she hastily smoothed down the silk of her lilac skirts and straightened the strands of pearls around her neck. With her visit to Italy only days away, she’d been shopping for accessories to complement the new outfits her dressmaker had delivered that morning, and browsing the delightful displays, she’d completely lost track of time. Not wishing to keep Maxwell waiting, she hurried between the ornate marble columns and into the garden room decorated with potted palms. He’d been so preoccupied with business recently that time with him was precious.

A waiter showed her to a table secreted behind one of the oriental silk screens that divided the room into private alcoves.

‘Isabella, darling,’ he greeted her, rising to his feet. He was looking especially handsome in his dark jacket with a high-necked waistcoat, and the appreciative gleam in his slate-grey eyes sent shivers tingling down her spine, although she endeavoured not to show it.

‘I hope I haven’t kept you waiting?’ she asked demurely. Instead of answering, he glanced beyond her and frowned.

‘No bodyguard this afternoon?’

‘Oh Maxwell, you are terrible,’ she giggled. ‘You know Papa feels happier if Gaskell chaperones me. Though where she is this afternoon, I have no idea. I expressly told her I would be leaving the house at 2 p.m., yet when the clock struck the hour she was nowhere to be seen.’

‘You mean you took the opportunity to slip out unaccompanied? Whatever would dear Papa say?’ he exclaimed, throwing up his hands in mock horror.

‘I know it was bold of me, but I had shopping that couldn’t wait and, of course, I’ve been looking forward to our meeting. Although I have to confess Papa doesn’t know,’ she told him, staring at him from under her lashes. In truth, much as she hated deceiving her father, wild horses wouldn’t have prevented her coming.

‘Well, I can’t pretend I’m sorry to have you all to myself. Those beady eyes of hers watching my every move make me nervous, I don’t mind admitting. Still, here you are, and all on your own. How I shall restrain myself, I don’t know.’ He waggled his eyebrows so outrageously she had to laugh.

‘Oh Maxwell, you are a terrible tease.’

‘It’s the truth, I assure you. Now before you slap my face with your lily-white hand, I have taken the liberty of ordering sandwiches, fancies and a pot of Earl Grey,’ he told her becoming serious as another waiter approached, bearing a silver tray.

‘My favourites,’ she smiled, thinking how considerate he was.

‘How is your father?’ Maxwell asked, as soon as the waiter had poured their drinks and departed.

‘Busy as ever,’ she sighed, eyeing the food longingly. Shopping always made her hungry and the delectable fragrance of smoked salmon and cucumber was making her mouth water. However, Maxwell was staring at her intently.

‘I heard there was a takeover in the offing. Your father had a successful outcome, I trust?’ he asked solicitously.

‘If the long hours he’s been spending at his office are anything to go by, then yes he surely must have.’

‘That’s gratifying to hear,’ he replied before adding: ‘There have been rumours circulating recently.’

‘Oh?’ she asked.

‘Nothing for you to worry your pretty head about,’ he assured her, reaching across the snowy tablecloth and running one finger lightly down the back of her hand. She glanced around guiltily. Although they were screened from view, she daren’t risk word getting back to Papa. Her father had been polite whenever Maxwell called for her, but they were so close she knew by the set of his face he didn’t approve of their liaison. Discovering she was here unchaperoned wouldn’t help matters at all, even if Maxwell wasn’t to blame. As if reading her thoughts, Maxwell’s hand tightened on hers.

‘Isabella darling, you must know how I feel about you,’ he murmured, leaning closer and staring into her eyes. ‘Don’t you think it’s time we set a date for our betrothal?’ Her heart leapt yet she endeavoured to stay composed.

‘I leave for Florence next week, Maxwell,’ she reminded him.

‘The city that shimmers gold,’ he smiled.

‘You’ve been there?’ she asked.

‘Indeed, I have. Father insisted I see something of the world before taking up my position with his firm. I shall think of you on the Ponte Vecchio, the glorious green waters of the Arno gliding beneath your feet.’

‘You paint a delightful picture, and of course I’m thrilled I shall be visiting Rome as well. I really can’t believe my good fortune.’ Her eyes clouded. ‘You do realize I shall be away for over three months?’

‘I know, dearest, and I shall miss you terribly,’ he sighed. ‘However, with your appreciation of the arts, it will be a wonderful experience for you.’

‘I have to confess to looking forward to going, although I do worry . . . ’ her voice trailed away.

‘Worry? What about?’ he asked.

‘You’ll think me silly, but it’s the first time I’ve travelled abroad and, although Gaskell will be with me, I can’t help worrying something will go wrong. Suppose I don’t like it?’

‘Oh Isabella, you will love it, I’m sure,’ he assured her. ‘However, should there be any problem then I shall come and bring you home again.’

‘You’d do that for me?’

‘Of course, your happiness is paramount, sweetest.’

‘Thank you, Maxwell,’ she whispered, her heart swelling. ‘I am going to miss you.’

‘Then with your permission, I shall speak to your father the moment you return.’ He waited for her to reply, his eyes never leaving hers. Butterflies skittered in her chest and she looked down at her plate, pretending to consider. ‘We could hold a ball for your coming of age in the new year and make the formal announcement then.’

‘Goodness, that soon?’ she gasped, staring at him in surprise. His smile widened as he held her gaze.

‘It can’t be soon enough for me, Isabella, and besides as an old man of nearly thirty, I need a wife by my side,’ he told her. ‘I believe amethyst is the appropriate stone for those born in early February. One would be a perfect match for those beautiful cornflower eyes of yours that tinge violet when roused.’

‘Stop it, Maxwell, you’re making me blush,’ she cried, feeling the heat creeping up her cheeks. ‘Fancy you knowing my birthstone,’ she added, for he wasn’t usually given to sentiment.

‘My grandmother told me,’ he admitted with a wry grin. ‘Her birthday is the day before yours and she wears such a ring.’

‘Really? We shall have something to talk about when we meet.’

‘You agree then?’ he urged, tightening his grip.

‘I suppose if we were betrothed, then we would travel together. That alone makes your proposal worth considering,’ she replied, smiling so he knew she was teasing, for there was nothing she desired more. Although he returned her smile, it didn’t reach his eyes and thinking he’d had enough of discussing personal matters, she changed the subject. ‘On my way here, I passed a gallery displaying charming pictures by a Scottish artist. His exhibition debuts this very evening.’ She looked at him hopefully.

‘I’m sorry, Isabella, but I already have an appointment tonight,’ he replied, releasing her hand and sitting back in his seat.

‘Oh?’ she frowned, disappointment flooding through her.

‘A business meeting so important I cannot postpone it, even for you,’ he explained. ‘Now let’s not waste our time together. Tell me what wicked things you’ve been up to whilst your keeper’s been absent without leave.’ Isabella took a sip of her drink, then unable to resist the appeal in his eyes, regaled him with details of her afternoon. Yet, although he smiled and nodded, she couldn’t help feeling he was only half listening.

‘It sounds as though you need to replace that energy you’ve expended,’ he joked, proffering the laden silver stand the moment she paused for breath.

The bread was freshly baked, the salmon succulent and she savoured each mouthful as soft music from the pianist mingled with the murmur of voices around them. The chink of crystal glasses and clink of silver spoons against fine china added to the genial atmosphere. Cocooned in their cosy nook, Isabella sighed contentedly then darted a surreptitious glance at Maxwell. His grey silk tie brought out the colour of his eyes while his slicked-back fair hair emphasized razor-sharp cheeks. He was handsome beyond measure and she couldn’t wait to become his wife. As if sensing her thoughts, he looked up and smiled.

‘Next time we come here, we shall celebrate in style, Isabella,’ he promised. ‘Now why don’t you sample these delicious-looking cakes before we leave?’ She took one, toying with the purple crystallized flower on top whilst she waited for him to continue discussing plans for their future. He seemed distracted, though, even frowning at the clock on the wall. Surely he wasn’t in that much of a hurry, Isabella mused, nibbling daintily at the icing. Yet, no sooner had she finished eating than he folded his napkin and smiled apologetically.

‘Regrettably dearest, it’s time we were leaving.’ Seeing her crestfallen look, he added: ‘Perhaps I may call upon you tomorrow afternoon? We could visit that gallery you mentioned.’

‘That would be lovely, Maxwell, though I doubt they’ll be offering the champagne and canapés advertised for this evening,’ she sighed, hoping his fondness for the good things in life might change his mind.

‘Then I promise to make reparation,’ he assured her. ‘I’m sorry I have to rush off but it really is imperative I keep this appointment tonight. However, I’m sure you’ll spend a happy evening perusing all those delightful accoutrements you’ve bought,’ he chuckled.

Outside, dusk was falling and the lamplighter was busy about his work. Seeing Isabella shiver, the doorman signalled for her carriage and Maxwell handed her inside. Then he turned to the young flower seller standing beside the hotel steps and plucked a posy of violets from her basket.

‘Beautiful flowers for a beautiful lady,’ he said, presenting them to Isabella with a flourish. ‘Until tomorrow, Isabella dearest,’ he whispered, placing a featherlight kiss on her cheek.

As the carriage began to move, she buried her head in the flowers’ satiny petals. Breathing in their sweet perfume, a faint memory stirred, hovered elusively then vanished like mist in the rays of a summer sun. It wasn’t the first time that had happened and she sighed in frustration.

Oblivious to the buildings flashing by the window, she thought back over her afternoon. Maxwell was handsome, generous and charming but also something of an enigma. One minute proposing they set a date for their betrothal, the next almost hurrying her from the hotel. Before she had time to ponder the matter, they were pulling up outside her family home, a three-storey house in Chester Square. To her surprise, the front door was immediately thrown open, spilling golden light onto the walkway and park beyond.

‘Your father is waiting in his study, Miss Isabella,’ the butler informed her.

‘Thank you, Jenson. I’ll see him as soon as I have attended to my purchases,’ she told him, turning to give instruction to the driver.

‘He was most insistent you go through immediately you arrived home, Miss.’ Fighting her irritation, Isabella hurried inside, her heels sinking into the pile of the Persian carpet as she made her way down the hallway.

‘Good evening, Papa,’ she smiled, breezing into his inner sanctum where the familiar smell of beeswax and cigar smoke overpowered the gentle fragrance of her violets. ‘It’s ages since you were home at this hour. Does this mean we shall be dining together?’ To her surprise, her usually affable father didn’t answer. In fact, he looked gaunt, seeming to have shrunk in stature since she’d seen him that morning. As he stared at her from behind his highly polished desk, his hazel eyes gleaming olive in their seriousness, Isabella felt her chest tighten. ‘Is something wrong? Are you not well?’ she asked, taking in his pallor.

‘Come and sit down, Isabella, I have something to tell you,’ he said quietly.

‘What is it, Papa? Has something happened?’ she asked, sinking into the leather chair opposite.

‘A fire has destroyed St John’s in Newfoundland.’

‘But that’s on the other side of the world, Papa. It’s a terrible shame, of course, but not of any great importance to you, surely?’

‘On the contrary, my dear. I have invested heavily there and now it’s all gone. My business is in ruins, Isabella. All this has to go,’ he groaned, making a sweeping gesture around the room. ‘Since your mother died I have done my best to keep you in the manner she wanted, but now I have failed . . . ’ his voice broke and he stuttered to a halt.

‘You’ve been the best papa ever,’ Isabella cried, hurrying to his side and throwing her arms around him. ‘Don’t worry, we can economize,’ she said, seeking to reassure him. ‘Why, Maxwell told me only this afternoon that as soon as I return from Italy, he intends asking for my hand in marriage.’

‘My dearest child, you simply do not understand. There will be no Italy or friends either,’ he faltered and looked away.

‘But Papa, you have so many, they will all want to help . . . ’ she began.

‘Alas, they are of the fair-weather kind,’ he replied, grinning wryly. ‘When word gets out they’ll disappear faster than rats up a drainpipe, as you would find out if you were to remain here. I simply cannot put you through that, Isabella, which is why I have made arrangements for you to go and stay with your Uncle Frederick and his family in Devonshire.’

‘What?’ she gasped. ‘But I’ve never met these people before,’ she cried, shivering despite the fire burning brightly in the grate. ‘You will be coming too?’ Her father shook his head.

‘That is out of the question. I have to see if I have anything at all left to salvage.’

‘Then I shall stay here with you,’ Isabella declared stoutly, staring at the man she so loved and revered.

‘You will repair to Devonshire tomorrow morning, and that, I’m afraid, is an order.’ Isabella’s eyes widened. Never before had he insisted she do anything, let alone something to which she wasn’t agreeable. ‘If I had more time then things might be different.’

‘Time, Papa? If that’s what you need, then I will go,’ she told him, eager to make him happy again.

‘Thank you, my dear,’ he said, giving her a wan smile. ‘I asked Gaskell to pack your bags before she left.’

‘Left, Papa? I didn’t know Gaskell was going anywhere,’ she frowned. ‘She was supposed to be escorting me this afternoon but . . . ,’ Isabella faltered, realization dawning. ‘You told her not to, didn’t you?’

‘I’m afraid I did. She knew which of your things would be best suited to your new life. Your uncle runs a small market garden and his homestead does not have the space you are used to here.’

‘You are not painting a very agreeable picture, Papa,’ Isabella frowned, wrinkling her nose.

‘They are kindly people and will make you welcome,’ he assured her.

‘Surely you can’t mean for me to travel alone?’ she cried. Her father shook his head.

‘Certainly not, my dear. The housekeeper’s friend, Mrs Brown, is visiting family in Plymouth and will accompany you as far as Dawlish, where your Uncle Frederick will be waiting.’

‘But . . . ,’ she began, still trying to grasp what he was telling her.

‘Do this for me,’ he beseeched, grasping her hands so tightly she had to bite her lip to stop herself from crying out. The desperation in his eyes cut her to the core, and loving him as she did, she wanted to help.

‘Very well, Papa. I will go and stay with this Uncle Frederick, but only until you have sorted your affairs. You promise to send word as soon as I can return?’ He reached into his inside pocket and drew out a silver locket.

‘This was your dear mama’s,’ he murmured, pressing it into her hands. ‘It is only right you have it now.’

‘But you have carried it with you since she died,’ she began.

‘It is what she would have wanted,’ he insisted. ‘And give this to your uncle when you arrive,’ he added, handing her an envelope sealed with his crest. ‘Now go and get some rest, for you will need to be up early in the morning.’ He stared down at the papers on his desk and she knew further argument would be futile.

Stunned by her papa’s revelations and unable to believe he was sending her away, Isabella made her way up to her room. It felt cold and her heart sank when she saw the dressing table had been cleared of her things. The closet was empty apart from her velvet-trimmed mantle and favourite day dress. Her matching bonnet and calfskin gloves were laid out on the chaise longue, her button boots neatly positioned on the rug beneath. Fighting back the tears, she sank onto her bed and glanced down at the silver locket in her hands. It was modest in its simplicity and quite unlike the bright jewels her mama had worn. Or even the amethyst Maxwell had promised her. Maxwell! She would send him a note explaining her change of plans. The moment he received it, he would come and rescue her, she thought, her spirits rising as she remembered his earlier promise.


Chapter 2 (#ulink_9845e35c-b5af-5da1-b273-8cc4b6ca2fc4)

Clutching her reticule to her chest, Isabella stared around Paddington Station in dismay. The noise was horrendous as people swarmed like ants towards the waiting trains, and porters threw luggage from their trollies into the baggage vans. Noxious smells and smuts of soot emanating from painted engines caught in her throat. Holding her handkerchief to her nose, she glanced hopefully over her shoulder. However, there was no sign of Maxwell, and her heart sank to her button boots.

‘This way, Miss,’ the stationmaster urged, guiding her towards the carriage where a woman of middle years stood waiting. She was wearing a brown hat, brown coat and stout brown boots, leaving Isabella in no doubt as to her identity. Even her birdlike eyes were brown as they surveyed Isabella. ‘This train will take you straight through to Dawlish,’ the man advised her.

‘Don’t worry, I’ll see her safely off at the other end,’ the woman told him. ‘Mrs Brown at your service, dearie,’ she added, turning back to Isabella and smiling. ‘Sit down and make yourself comfortable, we’ve a fair few hours’ travelling ahead of us.’ Not minding the woman’s lack of formality, and strangely comforted by her motherly way, Isabella settled herself onto the seat.

The banging of doors a few moments later made her jump, and glancing out of the window, she saw the stationmaster checking his pocket watch against the station clock. Surely they weren’t leaving already, she thought, anxiously scanning the platform for Maxwell. He must have received her letter by now. There was a loud hiss of steam followed by creaks and groans, then with a shudder and screech from the iron wheels, the carriage lurched forward causing her to reach anxiously for the armrest. As clouds of smoke billowed past the window, the train began to pick up pace. He isn’t coming, he isn’t coming, it seemed to be saying.

‘You can relax and put your bag down, dearie,’ the woman said, breaking into her thoughts. ‘Your father reserved us our own compartment, so it’ll be quite safe.’ Isabella’s fingers tightened on the purse that held her travelling jewellery roll containing her mother’s locket and the envelope she was to give to her uncle.

‘Your first time on a train, Miss?’ Mrs Brown asked. Isabella nodded.

‘I’m to stay with Mama’s family, although I’ve never met them before,’ she admitted.

‘It’ll be an opportunity for you to get to know them then,’ the woman replied philosophically.

‘It’s only until Papa gets his affairs sorted,’ she added.

‘Of course it is, dearie,’ Mrs Brown smiled knowingly. Too late Isabella realized that Gaskell must have been gossiping. Eager to avoid further questioning, she turned and stared out of the window.

Tall buildings had given way to terraces of houses, smoke curling lazily from their chimneys. Washing flapped like flags in narrow gardens that led down to the railway, while allotments, chequered green and brown with vegetables, stretched beyond. The train gave another lurch then settled into its rhythm. Going away, going away, it seemed to be saying. Realizing it was taking her away from everyone she loved, the tears welled. Unwilling to let Mrs Brown see how miserable she felt, she closed her eyes.

Perhaps Maxwell had gone out before her note was delivered. As soon as he received it he’d be sure to follow her to Devonshire. Dear Papa was a clever man and she had no doubt he would soon get his affairs sorted and everything would return to normal. While her thoughts whirled like sycamore leaves in the autumn breeze, her lids grew heavy. Finally, as events of the previous day caught up with her, she slept.

The train juddering to a halt, jolted her awake and she stared around disorientated.

‘There, dearie, you have had a good sleep,’ Mrs Brown chuckled. ‘Here we are at Exeter St Davids station and only a few stops from Dawlish.’

‘Goodness,’ Isabella gasped. ‘I do apologize.’ The woman laughed.

‘No need to, I’m sure. ’Tis lucky mind, ’cos up to May this year you’d have had to change trains here.’

‘Oh? Why?’ she asked politely.

‘’Twas only then they changed the gauge from here onward so as to standardize all the railways. Means we can now go all the way through to Penzance in Cornwall, see?’ the woman said, lowering her voice as if imparting inside information. ‘Anyways, dearie, you must be hungry after all that sleep, so have a piece of cake,’ she invited, proffering a brown bag with its brown contents. As the smell of treacle wafted her way, Isabella felt her stomach heave.

‘Thank you but I have little appetite.’

‘Oh shame,’ Mrs Brown sighed, making to close the bag again.

‘Please have some yourself, though,’ Isabella said quickly.

‘Don’t mind if I do,’ she replied, breaking off a sizable chunk and popping it into her mouth. A whistle sounded, then with another hiss of brakes the train lurched and they were on their way again.

Whilst the woman munched contentedly, Isabella stared out of the window. Before long the buildings gave way to open country and she widened her eyes in surprise.

‘Goodness, those fields are red,’ she gasped.

‘That be the Demshur dirt. You’ll have to mind not to get any on those fine threads of yours,’ Mrs Brown sighed, eyeing Isabella’s travelling clothes covetously. Then, seemingly pulling herself together, she added: ‘And over there be the Exe.’ Isabella turned to where the woman was gesturing and, sure enough, the train was rattling alongside a river teeming with sailing and rowing boats. Further along, a ferry belching black smoke was disgorging its cargo of people and animals onto the foreshore. They were so close that when the train listed as it rounded a bend, Isabella feared they might tip over and land on top of them.

‘You should see the sunsets round here. Best in all the world,’ Mrs Brown told her, oblivious to her concern. ‘And there be the sea,’ she added as Isabella gasped at the vast expanse of white-tipped water shimmering in the afternoon sun. ‘You never seen the sea before?’ the woman guessed. Isabella shook her head.

‘No, I haven’t. I was meant to be travelling to Italy later this week, though,’ she replied with a pang. If she’d thought Italy far away then, surely it was nothing compared to the miles she’d travelled today. Away from everyone and everything she knew and loved.

‘Ah well, I guess you’ll find Demshur just as good,’ the woman replied, interrupting her thoughts. Isabella was about to ask where Demshur was when the woman gestured to the other side of the carriage. ‘There’s the Earl’s deer park. Leads right up to his castle, it does.’ Isabella peered out, hoping to catch a glimpse of the building, but Mrs Brown was still chatting. ‘And them dark forests yonder house wild black cats the size of panthers. One snatched up a baby and ran off with it,’ she shuddered.

‘Really, Mrs Brown,’ Isabella tutted. Not wishing to hear any more of the woman’s outrageous tales, she turned her attention back to the brightness of the sea only to find they were now passing through dark tunnels which appeared to hang over the water. Then the train slowed before shuddering to a halt.

‘Doulis, Doulis, ever’one for Doulis,’ a voice called.

‘Here you are, dearie,’ Mrs Brown announced as the door opened and the guard stood smiling up at them. Isabella frowned.

‘But I’m to alight at Dawlish,’ she began. The woman pointed to a sign on the platform.

‘That’s right, Doulis. That’s how they says it here.’

‘How very strange,’ Isabella frowned, getting to her feet.

‘Good luck, dearie,’ Mrs Brown said. ‘You’ll have a fine time, I’m sure.’

‘Goodbye, Mrs Brown, I’m obliged for your company.’

‘Porter’s unloading your luggage now, Miss Carrington,’ the stationmaster said, hurrying towards her as she alighted.

‘How do you know who I am?’ she asked, surprise overtaking her trepidation.

‘You be expected,’ he chuckled. ‘’Appen your uncle’ll be here drekly.’ The rest of his words were lost in another deafening hiss as the brakes were released and the train chugged its way out of the station, enveloping them in a cloud of steam. As Isabella swatted away smuts of soot in annoyance, the man gave another chuckle. ‘You soon gets used to that. Ah, here be Mr Northcott coming now.’

Isabella’s eyes widened in disbelief. Hurrying towards them was a man of middle years wearing an ill-fitted coat with violets sprouting incongruously from his buttonhole. A large straw hat was pulled down over his head, almost obscuring his dark bushy brows. Surely this peculiar man couldn’t be her mother’s brother?

‘Had to get the day’s flowers onto the upbound train, Bert, else they’d never reach Covent Garden in time,’ he explained. Then he turned to Isabella and smiled. ‘You must be my sister’s girl. Welcome to Doulis,’ he said, proffering a huge and somewhat grubby hand.

‘You are Uncle Frederick?’ she asked, unable to equate this bear of a man with her ladylike mama. And yet those chocolate-brown eyes seemed strangely familiar.

‘The same,’ he confirmed, frowning down at the pile of luggage by her side. ‘Looks like you’ve fetched half of London with you. Good job I didn’t bring the boy or we’d have no room for it all.’

‘Where is your conveyance?’ she asked, peering around for sight of a carriage.

‘My, er, conveyance is over there,’ he grinned, pointing to a battered old trap. ‘And that be Silver,’ he added.

‘Silver? ’she replied, frowning at the donkey with its shaggy grey coat.

‘I’d better ’elp ye with this lot,’ the stationmaster said, bending down to pick up her travelling trunk. ‘Blimey, what you got in ’ere, Miss, the crown jewels?’ he asked, staggering under the weight.

‘I really don’t know, my chaperone packed whilst I was out shopping,’ Isabella explained. The two men exchanged a look before heaving her luggage up onto the trap. Then her uncle swung himself into the seat, patting the tiny space beside him.

‘Up yer come,’ he called. Isabella stared at the grime-encrusted wooden plank and shuddered. Her uncle laughed. ‘You’ll have to get used to a bit of soil if you’re to live with us. ’Tis flower growers we be.’ Gingerly she clambered up beside him, but as the donkey plodded down the lane, her uncertainty turned to surprise. Ahead of them tall, elegant houses seemed to rise into the sky, and colourful shops fronted a wide green with a sparkling stream cascading down one side. Ducks swam merrily before disappearing under a bridge but before she had time to wonder where, the trap was heading away from the town and travelling alongside the sea. She could hear the shooshing sound of waves being sucked in and out of the pebbles.

‘It’s really pretty and the air has the clarity of crystal,’ she exclaimed, breathing in deeply. ‘Why, it smells of salt.’

‘That be the ozone,’ her uncle chuckled. ‘Come spring, those pale cheeks of yours will be as rosy as the cherry blossom.’

‘Oh, I’ll not be staying that long,’ she replied, staring at him in horror. He shot her a look but said nothing and they plodded on in silence. In the distance, she could see the rolling green of the hills Mrs Brown had spoken about. Suddenly the cart lurched as they turned into another much narrower lane.

‘Nearly there,’ he told her. She stared at the crooked huddle of tiny cottages, their thatched roofs almost touching. Surely he didn’t live here? To her relief, they kept going until the lane opened out again and she saw mauve buds peeping from velvety leaves in the sloping hedge banks.

‘They be the Devon violets,’ her uncle explained, seeing her surprise.

‘What a strange time of year for delicate flowers like that to be coming out,’ she replied.

‘Them blooms best between September and April, though we can make ’em grow longer in the shelter of our market garden,’ he told her proudly. ‘Here we be, and there’s plenty more of them violets round the back,’ her uncle chuckled, pulling up in front of a two-storey stone building with a moss-covered slate roof. To the left of this was a long brick shed half-clad with wooden boards. Although the property looked a bit ramshackle, it was bigger than her papa had led her to believe.

‘Welcome to your new home, me dear,’ he said, jumping down. ‘Now, I believe you have something for me from your father?’

‘I do?’ she frowned and then remembered. Opening her reticule, she withdrew the envelope and handed it to her uncle. ‘Family’s dying to meet you,’ he grinned. ‘I mean they’re looking forward to meeting you,’ he hastily amended. ‘Mother’s been cleaning and baking since she heard you was coming.’

‘I do hope your mother hasn’t gone to too much trouble,’ Isabella replied, carefully stepping down from the cart. Her uncle shot her a funny look, then gestured for her to go ahead, but as she made to walk down the nearest path, he held up his hand.

‘Not that side, me dear. That’s Grandmother’s. Our door’s round back.’

‘You mean your property is semi-detached?’ she asked. He frowned, pushed the straw hat to the back of his head and stood staring at the cottage as if seeing it for the first time.

‘Reckon it is that,’ he muttered, before turning back to the donkey, who was grazing the clumps of grass that appeared to serve as the front lawn. ‘Right, I’ll take the trap round to the yard, it’ll be easier to offload all your trunks and things there.’

‘Perhaps the boy could do that whilst you introduce me to your family,’ she suggested, carefully picking her way along the dirt-strewn path. He started to say something but the door opened and a motherly-looking woman wearing a yellow gingham overall stood smiling at her.

‘Welcome, my dear,’ she said, enfolding Isabella in a warm embrace before drawing her into the kitchen. ‘I’m Mary but you can call me Auntie if you wish. Now let me take your turnover afore you meet the rest of the family,’ she beamed, holding out her hand.

‘My turnover?’ Isabella asked. Her aunt pointed to her mantle and Isabella slipped it from her shoulders then glanced around the room. It was tiny and hung with beams so low that if she reached up she’d surely be able to touch them. Deep sills were crammed with jugs and pots while yellow curtains brightened the small windows. The flags on the floor were spread with a rag rug woven in a hotchpotch of bright colours. Finally, her gaze came to rest on the scrubbed table where five children waited, their chocolate-brown eyes gleaming with curiosity.

‘Hello there,’ she smiled. ‘I’m Isabella Carrington.’ The younger ones giggled but the older girl smiled back.

‘I’m Dorothy, the eldest, but you can call me Dotty. Best to be friends if we’re to share a room, don’t you think?’ Share a room? Isabella’s heart sank.

‘Me an’ all,’ the youngest girl piped up, her dark pigtails swinging from side to side.

‘That’s Alice, who’s six,’ Dorothy supplied. ‘It’ll be a bit of a squeeze but I’m sure we’ll manage.’ Isabella swallowed hard. Three people in one bed chamber? But she had no time to dwell on the matter, for her aunt was signalling for the boys to get to their feet.

‘This is William, he’s fifteen. Joseph here is twelve, and Thomas nine,’ she said, pointing to each in turn. They nodded solemnly but didn’t reply, and Isabella saw the eldest frowning at her clothes. Then the door swung open and her uncle staggered into the room, reeling under the weight of her portmanteau.

‘Oh, I thought you were going to get the boy to do that,’ she exclaimed. They all turned to her in shocked silence.

‘You must mean me then,’ William muttered, shooting her a glare as he stalked from the room.

‘I meant your servant boy,’ Isabella explained, giving her aunt a bewildered look.

‘Cor, bless you dear, we don’t have no servants here,’ she replied.

‘What, none at all?’ Isabella gasped. ‘Then who does all the work?’

‘We do, of course. All mucks in together,’ her uncle replied, looking her up and down. ‘I hope you’ve brought some sensible clothes with you. Them fancy threads’ll be no good for working the land.’

‘Working the land?’ she gasped.

‘Ah,’ he nodded. ‘Come the morrow you’ll be pitching in too. Got to earn your keep, girl.’


Chapter 3 (#ulink_dc90e02d-e8f1-5258-b94c-f5badf45120b)

As Isabella stared at her uncle in dismay, a hush fell over the room.

‘I’m not sure what my chaperone has packed for me.’

‘Well, don’t worry about that now, my dear,’ her aunt said quickly. ‘You must be fair parched after all your travels. I’ll set the kettle to boil and Dotty can show you where you’ll be sleeping.’

‘Me too,’ Alice cried, springing to her feet and scurrying over to a flight of steep steps that led straight off the kitchen. Gingerly Isabella followed them up the narrow staircase and into a small room where three mattresses topped with yellow coverlets lay side by side on the floor. There was a cast iron fireplace on one wall and a small closet squeezed into the corner with a fly-spotted mirror hanging up beside it.

‘Mother got Father to put that up ’specially. We’ve never had our own looking-glass before,’ Alice proudly declared.

‘He said you’d be used to tiddyvating,’ Dotty said knowingly. ‘And it means I can see to frizz my hair,’ she added, patting her sleek braid.

‘Why would you do that?’ Isabella asked, staring at her in astonishment.

‘To puff it up, of course. Father says he’s seen thicker rats’ tails,’ Dotty laughed.

Charming, Isabella thought, turning towards the window. Like the rest of the cottage, it was tiny and hung with yellow curtains that, although clean, had definitely seen better days. A single candlestick stood alone and forlorn on the windowsill. She knew just how it felt, she thought, remembering her comfortable chamber at home.

‘Not what you’re used to?’ Dotty guessed, seeing her expression.

‘Don’t you like it?’ Alice asked. ‘We’ve squeezed up so you can get your mattress in and Mother’s made you a new cover just like ours.’

‘It’s a lovely room and I appreciate you making space for me,’ Isabella assured her. ‘Where are the facilities?’

‘The facil—you mean the privy?’ Dotty frowned. Isabella nodded. ‘Out the back in the yard and there’s a tin bath in the shed which Mother brings in each Saturday night. It’s quite cosy with the range lit.’

‘You mean you bathe in the kitchen?’ Isabella shuddered. Before Dotty could reply, William staggered into the room, set her trunk down with a thud then turned to face her.

‘There’s no room left in here so where would you like the boy to put the rest of your things, your ladyship?’ he asked, venom sparking in his dark eyes.

‘Look, I . . . ’ she began, but he was already thundering down the stairs. The two girls stared after him in dismay.

‘William isn’t usually rude like that,’ Dotty frowned.

‘It’s my fault. When your father said he hadn’t brought the boy with him I assumed he was referring to your servant,’ Isabella explained. ‘I had no idea you didn’t have staff until your mother explained just now.’

‘Be good if we did, though,’ Dotty laughed. ‘We wouldn’t have to wash the dishes or sweep the floor. Don’t worry about William, he’ll get over it. Boy is what Father calls him, by the way.’

‘Doesn’t it get confusing when you have two other brothers?’ Isabella asked. Dotty shook her head.

‘He always called me the girl and when William came along he was the boy. Then Joe was born and Father realized he couldn’t call him boy as well so had to use his name, though he always says Joseph, of course.’

‘And he calls me Alice Band, ’cos he says I’m like Alice in Wonderland,’ the girl added proudly. ‘But I can’t say Isa—, Isba—your fancy name so I’ll call you Izzie.’ Isabella opened her mouth to protest then saw the girl’s eager expression and smiled.

‘Why not,’ she conceded. After all, it was only going to be for a short time. Maxwell was bound to arrive soon.

‘Tay’s up.’ As Mary’s voice sounded up the stairs, Alice turned to Isabella.

‘Come on, Mother’s baked Devon splits ’specially for your arrival.’

‘That’s the boys’ room opposite,’ Dotty told her, as they made their way back down the stairs. Isabella was about to ask where her parents slept when she heard her uncle’s voice bemoaning the extent of her luggage.

‘I tell you, Mother, I don’t know where we’ll put it all. The boy says there’s no space left in the girls’ room. She’ll have to hang her work clothes in the closet and leave the finery in that fancy trunk.’

‘Hush,’ Mary warned when she saw Isabella. ‘There you are, dear. Come and sit down,’ she added, shooing a large tabby off the chair beside her. As the cat yowled in protest, her aunt laughed and returned her attention to pouring tea from the large brown earthenware pot. ‘Don’t mind Tibbles, he thinks it’s his right to sit nearest the range. Now you maak a tay,’ she added.

‘Sorry?’ Isabella frowned.

‘Mother means tuck in, eat as much as you can,’ Dotty told her.

‘Hurry up, I’m starving,’ William grunted. Isabella stared at everyone squashed together around the table, quickly brushed the hair-covered seat with her hand, and took her place beside them. A steaming mug was placed in front of her but the thick dark liquid made her stomach heave, and it didn’t help when Dotty proffered a plate of sponge cakes spread lavishly with cream and strawberry jam. Forcing a smile, she took the smallest then looked in vain for a knife to cut it with. There didn’t appear to be any napkins either. Unaware of her predicament, the others tucked in as if they hadn’t seen food for weeks.

‘Well, Mother, you’ve done us proud,’ her uncle declared, licking cream from his fingers. ‘That’ll keep us going til supper. Come on, boys, there’s still work to be done.’ He got to his feet then noticed Isabella had hardly eaten anything. ‘Didn’t you like Mother’s baking?’ he frowned.

‘Doesn’t do to let good food go to waste,’ William said, snatching it from her plate before she could reply.

‘Will . . . ,’ her aunt began, but she was talking to his departing back. ‘Sorry about that. There’s more in the pantry if you’d like.’ Isabella shook her head.

‘Thank you but I’m not really hungry. Perhaps I could freshen up?’ she asked, getting to her feet.

‘Of course. Dotty, you show Isabella where everything is. Alice, the teddies need boiling and bashing for supper.’

‘You boil and bash teddies?’ Isabella exclaimed, her eyes widening in surprise.

‘How else do you get mashed spuds?’ her aunt asked.

‘Spuds? Oh, you mean potatoes,’ she smiled.

‘Of course. Goodness me, maid, I can see you need an eddy-f’cation,’ her aunt tutted.

‘But I want to go outside too,’ Alice protested, interrupting them.

‘Sorry, pet, I need your help. You know Father insists we eat on time,’ Mary replied.

‘See you later then, Izzie,’ Alice sighed.

‘Her name’s Isabella,’ her mother remonstrated.

‘But I can’t say that so she said I could call her Izzie.’ Her aunt looked askance at Isabella who nodded.

‘Perhaps I could have my mantle if we’re going outside.’

‘But it’s only a few steps to the yard,’ Dotty replied looking surprised.

‘Isabella’s used to city life, Dotty,’ Mary reminded her. ‘Do you have any sturdier footwear, dear?’ she asked Isabella.

‘Sturdier?’ Isabella echoed, frowning down at her button boots.

‘For outdoor wear,’ her aunt elaborated.

‘But these are my outdoor boots.’

‘Ah. Not to worry, it’ll probably be another month before we get any real rain. Gets right muddy then, it does.’

Out in the yard, Isabella looked around for the facilities but could only see a pump and a sprawl of ramshackle buildings.

‘That’s the privy,’ Dotty told her, gesturing towards one of the sheds. Supressing a shudder, Isabella slipped inside and carefully jammed the door closed with the piece of knotted twine which appeared to act as a bolt. Squinting in the gloom, she froze as she saw two piercing eyes glinting up at her. Then something furry brushed against her legs and with a scream, she staggered outside, an indignant-looking tabby cat flashing past her.

‘Oh Izzie, you should see your face,’ Dotty giggled.

‘Well, how was I to know the cat was lying in wait? I shall never go back in there, ever,’ she vowed.

‘You’ll be crossing your legs for an awfully long time then,’ her cousin told her with a shake of her head. ‘Bet poor old Tibbles got more of a fright anyhow ’cos that’s his hiding place when he gets shooed out of the kitchen. Come on, I’ll show you our violets.’

‘Goodness, I had no idea you had so much land or grew so many flowers,’ Isabella exclaimed as they wandered down the stone path. She seemed to be surrounded by fields of green velvet-leafed plants, many sprouting mauve buds.

‘’Tis the mild, damp climate. Brings them on a treat,’ Dotty smiled. ‘And this time of evening when there’s moisture in the air you gets to smell them best.’

As the sweet, musky scent wrapped itself around her, she was gripped by a sense of déjà vu, yet she knew she’d never been here before.

‘Lovely, isn’t it? And definitely an improvement on the smell of those vegetables we grew before.’

‘You haven’t always grown flowers then?’ Isabella asked. Dotty shook her head.

‘Father used to farm here but when it went into depression he turned the land over to cultivating the violets that grew wild. Uncle did the same on his land over there,’ she explained. Isabella looked to where she was gesturing and could just make out a line of green hedging in the distance. ‘It didn’t pay too well at first, then they realized there was a good demand for the flowers in London. Men buy them for their ladies to decorate their evening gowns, can you believe?’ Dotty exclaimed, raising her brows in amazement.

‘They are called corsages and I have worn them myself,’ Isabella replied, remembering how Maxwell had purchased some from the flower girl outside Claridge’s. Had it really been only the previous day?

‘Coo, father said you were used to having money but you must have been filthy rich before . . . ,’ Dotty clamped her hand over her mouth. ‘Sorry, I wasn’t meant to mention it.’ Isabella started to say they still were, then remembered her father’s disclosure.

‘Funny how things change, isn’t it?’ Dotty said, smiling sympathetically. ‘Once Father couldn’t even pay his bills and now we have all this,’ she cried, spreading her arms out wide. Isabella frowned, surprised her cousin should be content with so little. ‘And of course, you being family, we’re happy to share it with you,’ the girl added.

Isabella stared at her cousin, nonplussed. Although Dotty meant well, Isabella had no desire to be some kind of charity case. Not wishing to hurt her cousin’s feelings, she forced a smile.

‘Thank you, that is kind.’ Seeking to regain her equilibrium, she turned back towards the flowers where her uncle and cousins were moving between the plants, wielding long sticks.

‘What the . . . ,’ she began.

‘They’re hoeing the weeds,’ Dotty explained. ‘You have to keep them down or they choke the plants.’

‘Supper in ten,’ Mary called.

‘Coo, I’d no idea we’d been out here so long,’ Dotty exclaimed. ‘Better go, Mother’ll be wanting me to take Grandmother’s meal in to her.’

‘Your grandmother?’ Isabella asked.

‘Yours too,’ Dotty pointed out. ‘She lives in the house next door. No doubt you’ll get to meet her, though be warned, she’s away with the pixies most of the time.’

Isabella stared at Dotty in surprise. Until then, she hadn’t even thought about having a grandmother. Would she look like her mama? How wonderful it would be to meet this woman and find out about her.

‘Perhaps you could introduce me after supper?’ she asked eagerly. Dotty frowned.

‘I’ll speak to Mother. She’ll probably say it’d be best to leave it until Grandmother’s having a good day, though they’re as rare as hen’s teeth.’

‘I must meet her before I leave, though,’ Isabella insisted.

‘But . . . ,’ Dotty began. Then, hearing her mother call again, she shrugged.

As they squashed into their seats round the table, a delicious smell wafted from the large pot on the range.

‘Here you are, dear,’ the woman said, passing her a dish of stew surrounded by a mound of mashed potatoes.

‘Goodness me, I shall be enormous if I eat all this,’ Isabella protested, then seeing her uncle frown, hastily picked up her knife and fork.

‘Mother is a fine cook,’ he said, causing her aunt to blush. ‘And we need sustenance for our work tomorrow.’

‘We don’t usually get this much meat, so I likes you coming to live with us,’ Thomas piped up.

‘Actually, I’m not . . . ,’ Isabella began, but her uncle interrupted.

‘No talking at the table.’ Isabella blinked in surprise. Surely this was the very time for genial conversation? Obediently the others turned their attention to their food and the only noise was the scraping of cutlery on dishes.

‘That was very nice, thank you,’ Isabella said politely, pushing aside what she couldn’t eat.

‘Fancy words don’t butter no parsnips, Isabella,’ her uncle grunted. ‘And talking of fancy, there’s no room for all your luggage in here, so unpack what you need and we’ll store the rest in Grandmother’s barn.’

‘A barn,’ Isabella exclaimed.

‘Perhaps her spare room would be better?’ Mary ventured.

‘I’ll help you go through your things, Izzie,’ Alice cried. ‘I bet you’ve got lots of lovely dresses.’

‘I have,’ Isabella agreed thinking of her silks and chiffons. ‘Although I’ve left many behind in London,’ she added seeing the look on her uncle’s face. ‘If you tell me what you do around here in the evenings, I’ll have a better idea of what to unpack. Are there many balls or concerts . . . ?’ her voice trailed away as she saw their astonished expressions.

‘This be Doulis not London,’ William grunted.

‘Even so, you must have some form of entertainment,’ she persisted.

‘We have a harvest hop next month,’ Dotty volunteered.

‘And the church put on a splendid concert at Christmas,’ her aunt chipped in. ‘The choir sing lovely.’

‘There’s the Violet Ball in May,’ Dotty added.

‘May? But that’s months away,’ Isabella said, her heart sinking.

‘We don’t have much time for socializing, what with the long hours we work,’ her uncle told her.

‘Surely picking a few flowers doesn’t take all day,’ Isabella replied. Her uncle gave a snort.

‘You’ll see, Isabella. Market gardening is more than just picking a few flowers, as you put it. It’s a way of life. As well as sorting the violets into bunches and packing them up ready for market, there’s the cleaning to be done, meals to be cooked.’

‘Oh but . . . ,’ Isabella began. However, her uncle carried on as if she hadn’t spoken.

‘And you’ll pitch in and help, starting with breakfast in the morning.’

‘But I’ve never cooked anything in my life before,’ she frowned.

‘Then it’s time you learned. When your father sent that communication asking us to take you in, we didn’t hesitate.’

‘But I’m only staying a short while,’ Isabella pointed out. Her uncle gave a long sigh.

‘For as long as you are here, you’ll help Mother with the chores.’ Seeing the challenge in his eyes, something stirred in Isabella.

‘Of course, Uncle,’ she replied. She’d show him, she thought.

‘Now, go and sort some suitable clothes for the morning,’ he grunted. ‘Come along, boys,’ he ordered, going outside.

‘Don’t worry, my dear, we’ll show you what to do,’ her aunt told her as the door closed behind them. ‘Best stow those fine jewels in your trunk. You don’t want them getting dirty or damaged,’ she said, pointing to the pearls around Isabella’s neck.

That night, sleep eluded Isabella. Although enthralled by her fine gowns and jewellery, her cousins had decided none were suited for life on the flower farm. Reluctantly, she’d packed everything away again and 17-year-old Dotty, who was of a similar height although a little broader, had loaned her a cotton frock and smock. Now they were asleep, their snorts and snuffles disrupting her peace.

She sighed and ran her fingers over the silver locket, the only piece of jewellery not packed away. Oh Mama, she wept, I can hardly believe this tiny cottage is where you were raised, or that Uncle with his fastidious ways was your brother. He is so stern and forbidding while you were always so charming and gentle. Auntie has her own funny way of speaking but has been kind and welcoming. You should see my cousins, though. William is so hostile and the younger boys, Joseph and Thomas, follow his lead. At least Dotty and Alice are friendly. One good thing to come out of this enforced holiday is that I’ll hopefully get to meet your mama in the morning. Before Maxwell comes. Maxwell! Her heart flipped at the thought of seeing him again. Imagine having to live here permanently like Dotty and Alice. It didn’t bear thinking about, she thought, closing her eyes.


Chapter 4 (#ulink_b41cd7d6-3673-58bb-be5c-ac2df35534da)

What a frightful noise, Isabella groaned, pulling the cover up over her head. Only it wouldn’t reach and the bed was rock-hard beneath her. Frowning, she opened her eyes then blinked in the brightness. Why hadn’t the maid drawn her drapes? Then she remembered that she wasn’t in her comfortable chamber with its feather bed and sateen eiderdown, but crammed into a poky room, with a lumpy mattress on the floor alongside her cousins. Then she heard the dreadful squawking again but, turning her head, saw she was alone in the room.

Easing herself out of the makeshift bed, she noticed the plain clothes laid out ready for her to wear. Pulling the shift over her head, she grimaced as the coarse material prickled her skin. Just as she was fastening the smock over the top, there was another shrill shriek. Hurrying over to the window, she saw dozens of small birds with glossy blue plumage lined up along the roof of the barn, their long tails wagging as they chattered away to each other. At least they were decently attired, she thought, frowning down at the shabby flaxen dress. Heaven forbid that Maxwell should see her like this, she shuddered, vowing to retrieve at least one of her silks from her trunk before he arrived.

A movement in the gardens beyond the yard caught her eye. Her uncle and William were picking the mauve flowers before placing them into large woven baskets. Goodness, they must have started work early, she thought. Then her hand flew to her mouth for hadn’t she been told to help prepare breakfast? Hurrying down to the kitchen, she found her aunt rolling out pastry on the kitchen table.

‘Good morning, my dear, did you sleep well?’ she asked, looking up and shaking the flour from her hands.

‘I did until I was woken by that dreadful din those birds were making. Am I too late to help with breakfast?’ Isabella asked.

‘Only by about two hours,’ her aunt chuckled. ‘Dotty said you were out for the count. I expect all that travelling tired you out. Don’t look so worried, dear, you can help tomorrow.’

‘But Uncle said . . . ,’ she began, recalling his stern look the night before.

‘Don’t worry, Isabella, he might sound fierce but underneath he’s as soft as those beloved petals of his. Firm but fair, you’ll find him,’ she added, seeing Isabella’s sceptical look.

‘I saw him out in the garden with William, but where is everyone else?’ Isabella asked, staring around the room.

‘Joseph’s away helping Uncle Bill – that’s Frederick’s brother – pick the flowers on his land. Alice and Thomas are at school, and Dotty is seeing to Grandmother.’

‘Oh yes, Dotty told me she lives next door. I have so much to ask her about Mama. May I call and see her this morning?’ she asked eagerly. Her aunt set down her rolling pin.

‘Grandmother’s not really with us, dear. Hasn’t been since the shock. Best leave it until she’s having a good day.’

‘But Maxwell, my intended, will be arriving to collect me shortly and I must meet her before I leave,’ she insisted. Seeing her aunt frown, she smiled. ‘I sent him a note explaining I was coming here instead of Italy, you see.’

‘And you think he will follow you?’

‘Oh yes, he said my happiness is paramount,’ she explained, her voice trailing off in case her aunt should think her ungrateful.

‘Well, before you go anywhere you must have something to eat, so sit yourself down,’ Mary said, scurrying over to the range and lifting a plate from on top of the pan. ‘There now, get that down you,’ she smiled, setting it in front of her.

‘Thank you,’ Isabella murmured, staring down at the scramble of bright yellow egg nestling on a bed of ruby-red tomatoes. How could anyone be expected to eat all that, she wondered.

‘Don’t worry, the hens are laying well and we grow our own fruit and vegetables,’ her aunt said, misinterpreting Isabella’s look. ‘Quite self-sufficient, we are. Uncle Bill reared the pig, so between us we have a goodly supply of everything we need. Those flitches of bacon and ham will see us right through the winter,’ she declared, pointing to the beams above the range. Isabella stared up at the ominous dark lumps dangling from iron hooks.

‘That’s ham?’ she asked in surprise for it bore little resemblance to the delicate pink slices she was used to. Her aunt nodded.

‘’Tis meat we cured from the pig. Bayliss the butcher came and did the necessary, then we all helped joint it. Took ages to clear up the mess after.’ Isabella stared down at her plate where red juice from the tomatoes was seeping into the eggs. Stomach churning, she pushed it aside and got to her feet.

‘Can I help, Aunt Mary?’ she asked.

‘Bless you, dear, I can make poverty pie with my eyes closed, we have it that many times,’ her aunt smiled as she placed a large dish on the pastry and ran a knife deftly round it.

‘What is poverty pie exactly?’ Isabella ventured.

‘Suppose you could call it leftover pie, really. Anything and everything we can get our hands on gets put into the pie crust. Them swallows had better fly off soon or they’ll be going in too,’ the woman chuckled.

‘Swallows?’ Isabella frowned.

‘Those birds you heard. They’re gathering ready to depart for warmer climes.’

‘You mean you eat them?’ she asked, staring at the woman incredulously.

‘Why, bless you, no. That was just my little joke. Cors, we do bake the odd woodcock or rook but never the swallows or martins. That would bring bad luck for sure. Ah William, picked the flowers already, have you?’ she asked, looking up as the boy appeared in the doorway.

‘Yep. They’re waiting to be bunched. Sleeping Beauty decided to join us, has she?’ he asked, scowling at Isabella. Then he noticed the remains of her breakfast. ‘And wasting more food, I see. Mother’s got enough to do without waiting on you, and Father works hard to . . . ’

‘Now William, what did I tell you about making Isabella welcome?’ her aunt interrupted. ‘Why don’t you show her round the violet gardens whilst I find something to go in this pie?’ There was a moment’s silence then he shrugged.

‘Come on then.’

‘You will call me when Maxwell arrives, won’t you?’ Isabella asked. Her aunt gave her a level look.

‘Should any visitor come calling for you, you’ll be the first to know.’

‘Hurry up then, if you’re coming,’ William grunted. ‘There’s work to be done.’

‘What else do you do, apart from growing violets?’ Isabella asked, making an effort to be pleasant as she followed him across the yard.

‘Pick, posy and pack ’em. Today’s lot are in there having their drink of water,’ he said, pointing to the big barn. She gave him a look, certain he was jesting but he continued walking down the path towards the gardens. ‘Good job you’re wearing decent clothing, ’cos it can get muxy bunching them up ready to take to the station this afternoon.’

‘Then what happens tomorrow?’ Isabella asked.

‘Same again.’

‘You mean you do that every day?’ she asked incredulously.

‘Yep, every single one,’ he nodded.

‘Surely not at the weekends, though?’

‘Yep. ’Tis our livelihood. Flowers don’t stop growing ’cos we fancies a day off,’ he added, giving her a look that reminded her of his father. ‘Cors they need to be perfect so we have to check for signs of disease or pests.’

‘Oh, but of course,’ she laughed, certain he was teasing this time. She shivered, wishing she’d brought her mantle. Although the sun was shining, there was no warmth in it for it was ridiculously early. Why, there was still dew on the grass. At home, she’d be breaking her fast in bed, although Papa would already have departed for his offices. Poor Papa, how wan he’d looked. She closed her eyes and wished for him to get his affairs sorted soon, so their lives would return to normal.

‘Not interesting enough for a vurriner like you, I suppose?’ Started from her musing, she realized William was sneering.

‘Sorry,’ she murmured.

‘It don’t matter,’ he sighed.

‘But it does,’ she insisted.

‘I was saying there’s mildew, violet rust and smut to look out for. Not to mention slugs, snails, woodlice, aphids or more likely caterpillars and millipedes this time of year.’

‘Goodness,’ she murmured, her stomach churning again.

‘Not squeamish, are you?’ he asked, a gleam sparking in his eye.

‘Good heavens, no,’ she cried airily.

‘Still, it’s the blue mice we need to watch for.’ He sighed and shook his head. ‘Place is covered in them but the trouble is it’s time-consuming looking out for them,’ he said, hunkering down and lifting the leaves of the nearest plant.

‘Can I help?’ Isabella asked.

‘Not from up there, you can’t. Little blighters are the same colour as the flowers so you has to get right up close to spot them. And you wouldn’t want to get your hands muxy now, would you?’ he scoffed. Muxy? That was the second time he’d used that word, so it must mean mucky, she thought. Determined to prove him wrong, she squatted down beside him and began peering beneath the plants. The leaves felt velvety against her skin as she inhaled the heady fragrance. Suddenly something scampered over her hand and, letting out a scream, she sprang to her feet.

‘What’s up?’ William asked, frowning up at her.

‘I think one of those mice was about to attack me,’ she gasped.

‘Really?’ he asked, his mouth twitching as he turned to where she’d been searching. With a loud snort, he got to his feet, hands cupped in front of him.

‘It’s only a spider, silly, and a black one at that. It’s the red ones you have to look out for. They devour the flowers, see.’ Feeling stupid, she resumed her search.

‘I never knew you could get blue mice,’ she told him.

‘They be a speciality around here, like the red soil.’ Hearing a shout, he jumped to his feet. ‘Father’s waiting. I’ll have to come back later. Just hope the blighters don’t eat too many afore then,’ he sighed.

‘I can stay and look for them,’ she offered, eager to atone for her faux pas of the previous day.

‘That’d be a right help,’ he replied, grinning at her for the first time since she’d arrived.

Feeling happier, Isabella resumed her search. She might not be staying long, but she wanted to get along with her mother’s family whilst she was here. Breathing in the sweet, musky fragrance of the violets, she felt that faint memory stir, hover then vanish. Instinctively she knew it had something to do with her mama and this place.

‘What on earth are you doing, Izzie?’ Startled out of her reverie, she saw Dotty frowning down at her.

‘Searching for blue mice,’ she replied. ‘William had to help Uncle so I offered to look for them. I haven’t seen any, though.’

‘But Izzie, these are the blue mice,’ she laughed, her sweeping gesture encompassing the plants. ‘That’s what violets are known as round here.’

‘But why?’ Isabella asked, feeling somewhat foolish.

‘When the sea breeze ripples the flower heads, some say they look like little blue mice scampering across the fields. In other parts, they’re called shoes and stockings.’

‘How strange. And what is a vurriner?’ she asked, although she suspected she knew the answer.

‘It’s what we call incomers round here. Why, William never called you that? Wait til I get my hands on him and Mother’ll be cross when she hears,’ Dotty declared stoutly.

‘Please don’t say anything,’ Isabella said, straightening up. ‘He was getting his revenge for my taking him for a servant.’

‘Well, if you’re sure,’ Dotty shrugged. ‘Better brush yourself down then, it’s time we were making up the posies and Mother won’t want muck everywhere.’ Isabella stared at the brown clods clinging to the rough fibres of her dress.

‘Oh Dotty, I am sorry,’ she cried, shaking out the folds of her skirts. ‘I’ve made your dress all dirty, or should I say muxy.’

‘Coo, listen to you,’ Dotty laughed. ‘’Tis only a bit of dung. You’re lucky that’s the only fertilizer father uses. He swears a bit of nature’s natural is all that’s necessary to produce good blooms. Along with his tailors’ clippings and woollen rags, that is.’

‘Tailors’ clippings?’ Isabella echoed.

‘Take a good look between the rows.’ Isabella duly studied the ground and saw bits of material and rags among the red soil.

‘Goodness,’ she murmured. ‘Is that to keep the plants warm?’

‘Oh, you are funny, Izzie,’ Dotty chuckled. ‘Come on, Father will go mad if we’re not helping Mother.’ As Isabella followed her cousin across the yard, she remembered her mission.

‘Do you think we could go and see Grandmother before lunch? I must introduce myself before Maxwell arrives,’ she explained, thinking she also needed to change into a decent gown. She didn’t dare imagine what he would say if he saw her dressed like a peasant from the fields, and a soiled one at that. Dotty shook her head.

‘Best leave it for now, she’s having one of her dim and daffy days, as we call them. Now come on,’ she urged, hurrying towards the big barn.

‘I just need to take a look outside,’ Isabella replied. Ignoring her cousin’s frown, she made her way down the side path and looked left and right, but the lane was deserted.

‘You all right, dear?’ her aunt asked, appearing at her side. Isabella forced a smile and nodded. ‘Bit early for visitors, I’d have thought,’ the woman added perceptively. ‘Come and see how we bunch and pack the violets. If you’re very good, we might even let you have a go.’ Realizing her aunt was trying to make her feel better, she followed the woman over to the big barn.

Inside was cool, with seemingly hundreds and hundreds of violets nestling in big pails, their sweet fragrance permeating the air. Dotty was standing by a long trestle, cutting lengths of raffia from a large roll.

‘These have all had a nice drink now, so we’d better start sorting them into bunches,’ she said. William hadn’t been joking after all, Isabella thought.

‘Father and William have gone to collect more boxes,’ her aunt told them. ‘You show your cousin how we make the posies, Dotty, while I count out the flowers.’

As her aunt reached into the first bucket, Isabella noticed how rough and reddened her hands were. The woman smiled wryly. ‘Occupational hazard, dear.’

‘What a delightful fragrance there is in here,’ she replied quickly, not wishing to be thought rude. To her surprise her aunt chuckled.

‘Wait another ten minutes or so and see if you still think the same. I hope when William showed you round, he explained everything we do.’

‘He was most, er, enlightening,’ she replied, not daring to look at Dotty. Just then they heard the rumble of wheels outside. Isabella’s heart flipped.

‘That’s Father and William,’ Dotty announced, sending Isabella’s hopes sinking to her boots. Sure enough, a few moments later the two men appeared, their faces barely visible over the boxes they were carrying.

‘This lot should keep us going for a few days,’ her uncle declared, depositing the boxes on the floor beside them. Seeing the labels on them, Isabella’s eyes widened in shock.


Chapter 5 (#ulink_fa2c82df-7dad-539f-a7a7-89fbb39cfdee)

‘You never seen a corset box before?’ William snorted.

‘Well, I . . . ,’ Isabella began. Feeling her cheeks growing hot, she quickly averted her gaze.

‘Stop goading your cousin and snap to it, boy,’ Frederick interrupted. ‘We’ve to get the rest of them boxes over to Bill’s so he can pack his flowers.’ He turned to go then frowned down at the pails. ‘’Tis high time you women were bunching these flowers an’ all.’

‘You’re right there, Father,’ Aunt Mary agreed. With another smirk in Isabella’s direction, William followed his father outside.

‘Shall I begin taking the labels off?’ Isabella asked, eager to be of use.

‘Why ever would you do that?’ her aunt exclaimed. ‘Everyone knows them corset boxes contain our violets, so it saves time addressing them. They be the perfect size for packing the flowers into an’ all. Right useful it’s been, old Mrs Pudge stocking them ready-made foundations in her shop.’ Isabella stared at her aunt incredulously. Ready-made foundations? ‘Cors they can be a bit hit and miss sometimes,’ the woman conceded, mistaking her look.

‘Do you wear them?’ Dotty asked. Isabella thought of the modish Madame Mai who would stand and scrutinize her curves through half-closed eyes before producing a template cincture from her velvet-lined valise. Carefully she would fashion the garment into shape before encasing Isabella’s midriff and lacing it up tightly. Isabella would then have to turn around slowly in front of her and only when Madame was satisfied, would she nod and declare her client’s form feminine par excellence.

‘Actually, my corsetière fits me in the privacy of my bed chamber,’ she explained.

‘Coo, how the other half live,’ Dotty drooled. ‘You wait til you have to resort to Pudge’s. The changing-room curtains don’t reach so you has to keep an eye out for nosy neighbours, and all while you’re trying to wriggle into the darned thing,’ Dotty grimaced, rolling her eyes dramatically.

‘Right that’s enough, Dotty,’ her mother interrupted. ‘If we don’t get a move on, we’ll miss the train and Father’ll go mad. I’ve counted out the first few bunches so you can show Isabella how we arrange and pack them.’ Dotty pouted but duly did as she’d been told.

Isabella watched as she picked up one bunch of the flowers and deftly enclosed them in velvety green leaves.

‘They protect the flowers as well as making them smell sweeter, you see,’ she explained. ‘Then you tie the bunch neatly with raffia to keep the stems straight and place them carefully in one of those boxes Mother has lined. It’s important to make sure the first row of heads go on this little pillow like this, see?’ Isabella nodded.

‘Now you try,’ Dotty invited. Isabella began wrapping the foliage round the violets but it wasn’t as easy as it looked and her cousin shook her head.

‘You have to make sure the flower heads are facing the same way.’

‘Oh,’ Isabella replied, trying again.

‘That’s it, now pack the bunch firmly beside the others so they don’t get shaken about on the train. They have to look as neat and fresh when they arrive as they do when they leave here,’ Dotty told her.

‘That’s right, Father’s built up a good reputation in Covent Garden and it wouldn’t do to let him down,’ Mary explained. ‘We pick, pack and dispatch the same day for freshness, and it’s essential that when the men in London open the boxes all they see is the mauve heads of the posies. Good selling, that is.’

‘But why do you transport them all the way to London?’ Isabella asked the question that had been niggling her.

‘’Cos of the demand, dear. High demand means better prices. Your uncle can sell them for six pence a bunch up there,’ she exclaimed.

‘Is that good?’ Isabella frowned.

‘Good?’ her aunt exclaimed. ‘’Tis a princely sum compared to the penny ha’penny he was getting around here.’

‘But if the demand is so great in London, why don’t they grow them there?’ Isabella asked. Her aunt finished counting her flowers then laid them on the table.

‘Violets need good soil and a mild, moist climate, so conditions round here are perfect. The air in London is laden with smoke from the manufactories. And of course, the land there’s being taken up with the building of houses and yet more factories. Don’t know how people can live crowded together like that,’ she sniffed.

‘Not all London is like that,’ Isabella protested loyally.

‘Begging your pardon,’ Aunt Mary murmured.

‘Coo, you ain’t done many, Izzie,’ Dotty tutted, setting her full box down on the floor and lifting another onto the table beside her.

‘Sorry,’ she replied, turning her attention back to the flowers. It didn’t matter how hard she tried, though, even when she managed to get the heads facing the same way, her bunches were nothing like as neat as her cousin’s. How she wished Maxwell would arrive and take her back to civilization. Remembering the fragrant posy that he’d purchased from the flower seller, she lifted the blooms to her nose.

‘Oh, these ones are no good, they have no smell,’ she cried. A chuckle behind her made her jump.

‘’Tis you that’s lost your smell girl, not the flowers,’ her uncle said. ‘Dainty they might be, but they produce ionine which dulls the senses. I have a theory that . . . ’

‘Oh, you and your theories, Father,’ her aunt interrupted, shaking her head. ‘I told you that would happen, didn’t I, dear?’ her aunt laughed. ‘Don’t worry, it’ll soon come back when you go outside and breathe in the fresh air.’

‘Talking of fresh air, Mother, I’ve been out in it all morning and I’m starving hungry and dying for a brew,’ said Uncle Frederick.

‘Just let me finish these then I’ll go get us something to eat,’ her aunt told him, resuming her counting. As her uncle grumped and stomped out of the barn, Isabella turned to her aunt.

‘Would you like me to prepare luncheon?’ she offered, knowing she’d been slowing their progress.

‘That’d be a right help. There’s bread, butter and cheese in the back’ouze behind the kitchen. Tomatoes and cucumbers as well.’

Not knowing what the back’ouze was but determined to do something to assist, Isabella hurried indoors. She set the kettle to boil then noticed a little door beside the dresser. Opening it gingerly, she smiled when she saw a scullery similar to one behind their kitchen at home. She’d found it quite by chance when, as a young girl, she’d dared to explore downstairs. This one was much smaller though it also housed a pantry. The upper shelves were neatly lined with jars of pickled vegetables and bottles of preserved fruits, while on the marble slab below, dishes of butter and cheese glistened gold. On the lower shelf, a basket similar to the ones used for gathering flowers held tomatoes and cucumbers along with potatoes still caked with the red soil she now knew was typical of the area. Her aunt was obviously a good housekeeper, she thought, quickly gathering up the items she needed and going back to the kitchen.

As she carefully cut and buttered the bread, the tabby cat snaked itself around her legs.

‘Out of my way, puss,’ she chided. She couldn’t understand why a pet was allowed in the kitchen. It wasn’t hygienic, with all those long hairs. Cook wouldn’t stand for it, she knew. Yet, as it stared hopefully up at her with bright amber eyes, she felt her heart soften and couldn’t resist letting a sliver of cheese drop to the floor. The animal snapped it up then purred contentedly at her feet while she finished preparing their meal. Scooping up the crumbs in her smock, she went to the doorstep and threw them out for the birds. How she wished Maxwell would arrive now, for if they were to be married it would be good for him to see how proficient she was at running a household. The thought sent her hurrying to the front gate.

There was no sign of his carriage, though, and she wondered what could be delaying him. Perhaps he’d stopped off at her home and would have news of her papa. Dear Papa, she hoped he was getting his business sorted. Retracing her steps, she spotted a cluster of little mauve heads peering out of the grass. Impulsively, she bent and picked a few of the violets to decorate the table. As their musky scent engulfed her, she couldn’t help smiling. Her aunt was right, their desensitizing effect hadn’t lasted long. Hurrying back indoors, she arranged them in a jug and placed it in the centre of the table. She’d just made the tea when her uncle came in followed by the others.

‘It’s not Sunday, you know,’ he exclaimed, frowning at the cloth on the table. Her aunt gave him a nudge, then smiled.

‘You’ve made everything look lovely, Izzie.’

‘Thank you,’ she replied, proffering the plate of sandwiches.

‘What’s these fancy bites?’ William snorted. ‘And since when do we have bread without crusts?’

‘Don’t worry William, they weren’t wasted,’ she assured him. ‘I scattered them outside for the birds. And I made finger sandwiches because the bread was too crumbly to cut into quarters.’

‘What on earth . . . ,’ her uncle spluttered, lifting the top layer of bread. ‘’Tis only measly bits of cucumber. Where’s me cheese?’

‘Here, Uncle,’ Isabella replied, pointing to another plate where golden cubes decorated with slivers of red tomato nestled on crackers. ‘And here’s your tea,’ she added, passing him a china cup.

‘Pah, this thing holds no more than a thimble. Where’s me mug? And what’s this doing in me drink?’ he spluttered, fishing out a slice of fruit with his fingers.

‘You said you were parched, Uncle, so I made lemon tea. It’s more refreshing than milk, I find.’

‘Oh, you do, do you?’ he muttered as William gave another snort.

‘I’ll take Grandmother’s in to her,’ Dotty said, hastily setting plates and cups onto a tray. ‘And I’ll have mine in there with her.’

‘Like as not she’ll throw it back at you when she sees what’s on offer,’ William scoffed.

‘I don’t understand what’s wrong, Uncle,’ Isabella said, frowning down at the table. ‘This is how they serve it at Claridge’s.’ As William rocked with mirth, her aunt shot him a reproving look.

‘You’ll have to forgive these filling-stines, Isabella,’ she said, patting her hand. ‘You’ve made it all look very nice, dear. It’s a fine treat for me to have my meal prepared, and I for one am grateful.’ She took a sip of her tea and sighed. ‘And you’re right, this lemon is reviving. ’Tis a long time since I sat down to such a pretty table. Those flowers set my best cloth off a treat.’

‘Flowers is for selling not prettying up the meal table,’ her uncle grunted, helping himself to a handful of sandwiches.

As silence descended, so did Isabella’s spirits. Not wishing to enrage her uncle further, she nibbled on a cracker. The sooner she went home the better, for it appeared she could do nothing right, she thought, blinking back the tears that threatened. There was no way she was letting them see how much they’d upset her.

‘Grandmother said that was the best food she’s eaten in ages,’ Dotty announced, breezing back into the room. ‘And she would appreciate more elegant morsels like that in future, please,’ she added, giving Isabella a conspiratorial smile.

‘Pah,’ her uncle snorted, getting to his feet. ‘Come on, boy. Some of us have work to do, money to earn.’

‘Yeah, some of us understand the value of money,’ William snorted, following after him.

‘What did I do wrong?’ Isabella asked, turning to her aunt. The woman smiled.

‘Nothing, dear. Absolutely nothing.’

‘But Uncle was really worked up,’ she frowned.

‘I don’t think it was just because you gave him sandwiches without crusts or lemon tea in a dainty cup. Something else is bothering him. Don’t know what, but like as not he’ll spill the seeds in his own time.’

‘But what about William?’

‘Coo, take no notice of him,’ Dotty told her. ‘He’s so anxious for Father’s approval he copies everything he says and does. Grandmother really tucked into her food, you know. She ate more than usual, too. Quite perky she was when I left her.’

‘Then perhaps now would be a good time for me to be introduced? I really do want to meet her before I leave,’ Isabella asked, brightening at the thought of seeing her mama’s own mama. Her aunt gave her a level look.

‘Very well, but be warned, she drifts in and out of the present world very quickly. Dotty, you’ve just got time to clear the dishes before collecting Thomas and Alice from school.’

‘Dotty dishes, that’s me,’ the girl sighed good-naturedly as she began gathering up their plates.

Butterflies of excitement fluttered in Isabella’s stomach as, smoothing down her smock, she followed her aunt outside. A wooden gate led from one back yard into the other, beyond which a sea of violets rippled in the breeze.

‘Goodness, more flowers,’ she exclaimed. ‘Who looks after all these?’

‘We do, dear. Father and William will be picking those first thing tomorrow ready for market. It’s a never-ending job but it keeps a roof over our heads and pays the bills.’

Recalling how she’d told her uncle that picking a few flowers couldn’t possibly take all day, Isabella groaned. Only now was she beginning to understand the extent of their business.

Unaware of Isabella’s thoughts, her aunt opened the back door and beckoned her inside.

‘Cooee, only me, Mother,’ she called, but there was no answer. ‘Might be asleep,’ she added, leading the way through the kitchen and into the room behind. Curious, Isabella peered around. As in her aunt’s home, although the furniture had definitely seen better days, everywhere was spotlessly clean. Orange flames flickered in the grate, brightening the gloom, but curiously the hearth was enclosed by an iron guard fixed to the wall on either side. As her eyes adjusted to the dim light, she spotted the old woman curled up in a comfy chair. She had a rug over her knees and was staring fixedly into the fire, her halo of white curls bobbing up and down as if she was talking to someone.

‘Hello, Mother. I’ve brought Isabella to see you,’ her aunt said cheerily.

‘How do you do, Grandmama. I’m so pleased to meet you.’ Excitement bubbled up inside Isabella’s chest as she waited. Slowly, the woman turned her head and stared at her through dark, rheumy eyes.

‘So, you’ve come back then?’ she murmured.

‘Pardon?’ Isabella frowned. ‘I’ve never been here before, Grandmama.’

‘Knew no good would come of all that gallivanting,’ the woman continued regardless. ‘And what you done to your hair? Looks like you’ve rinsed it in clotted cream.’

‘But I . . . ,’ she began.

‘Lovely dark curls you was blessed with. Never happy with what you had, though, was you?’ she muttered. Then her eyes closed and she began to snore.


Chapter 6 (#ulink_8bd1a1dd-4c99-57f4-9f98-3a289f11896a)

‘Come on, dear, no good us staying any longer. She’s lost in her own world again, bless her,’ her aunt explained. With a last despairing look at the old lady, Isabella allowed herself to be led from the room. ‘’Tis sad, but there we are,’ the woman added, carefully closing the door behind them.

‘How long has she been that way?’ Isabella asked, blinking back tears of disappointment and frustration as they made their way back to the adjoining cottage.

‘Since before I came here. Never known her much different, though she does have the odd good day. There, you’s all shook up,’ she murmured, her eyes darkening with concern. ‘Sit yourself down and I’ll set the kettle to boil. A strong cup of tea, that’s what you need. I did warn you Mother drifted in and out of life.’

‘But she said that I’d come back, yet I’ve never been here before,’ Isabella whispered, sinking into the chair closest to the range.

‘I’m thinking she mistook you for her daughter. Father said you has the daps.’

‘Pardon?’ Isabella frowned.

‘It means you has the look of yer mother at that age.’

‘But Mama had dark hair.’

‘It sounded as if Mother thought she’d lightened it? Oh, I don’t know, I’m only guessing.’

‘What was my mama like? I was only tiny when she died and I don’t remember much about her.’

‘That’s sad,’ her aunt sighed. ‘I’m afraid I can’t help you, though, for it was backalong and she’d already moved away by the time I met your uncle.’

‘But he must have told you something about her?’ Isabella persisted, wiping away the tears of frustration that were now coursing down her cheeks. Her aunt patted her hand then looked relieved as the kettle began to whistle.

‘You’ll have to ask your uncle, ’twer his sister,’ she added, jumping to her feet and pouring water into the pot. ‘Besides, ’tis not my place to be scandalmongering.’

‘Scandalmongering?’ Isabella repeated, staring at her in surprise. ‘You make it sound as though Mama had skeletons in the cupboard.’

‘Skeletons? That’s a funny thing to be talking about over afternoon tea,’ her uncle said, appearing in the doorway. ‘Just came in for my hat before taking the flowers to Starcross station. Running late today,’ he added staring pointedly at Isabella. ‘You all right, girl?’ he asked, his voice softening when he saw her damp cheeks.

‘We’ve been in to see Mother but she was away with the fairies,’ her aunt explained. ‘Isabella was asking me about your sister.’

‘Ah, I see. Well girl, how’s about coming with me to the station and we can have a chat?’ he asked Isabella, snatching his hat from the hook and placing it firmly on his head.

‘Oh, yes please,’ Isabella replied, brightening at the thought of getting answers about her mama.

‘Best get your shawl and bonnet, it gets nippy when the sea breeze blows in.’

‘Yes, of course,’ she said, jumping to her feet and going up to the room she was sharing with Dotty and Alice.

Taking out her things from the closet, she grimaced down at the smock and shapeless dress she was wearing. Hoping the mantle would cover most of it, she threw it around her shoulders before squinting into the fly-spotted mirror to tie the ribbons on her bonnet. The murmur of voices rose from downstairs, but she couldn’t make out what was being said.

It was evident she’d been the topic of conversation for as soon as she came back into the kitchen, they fell silent.

‘Ready then?’ he asked, seizing the violets from the jug on the table and thrusting them through the hole in his lapel.

‘Why do you do that?’ she asked.

‘What, wear these flowers?’ he asked.

‘And that funny hat?’ she added, then clamped her hand over her mouth.

‘I should think you would look embarrassed, girl,’ he rebuked, the twinkle in his eyes belying his stern manner.

‘’Tis the mark of Father’s trade,’ her aunt told her. ‘Diehard the undertaker wears a black topper, Bunty the baker his tall white one, and your uncle wears his straw hat. Everyone recognizes them then, see?’

‘And the violets let them know what you sell?’ Isabella smiled, gesturing towards his buttonhole.

‘That’s it, girl. And if we don’t hurry we’ll miss the train then no flowers will get sold. Come on.’

She followed her uncle outside where William was loading the last of the boxes onto the trap.

‘Why you all dolled up like a dog’s dinner?’ he scowled.

‘Isabella’s coming to the station with me today so you can get on with the hoeing while we’re gone,’ her uncle told him in a voice that brooked no argument. Clearly put out, William shot Isabella another glare.

‘See you later, William,’ she said, smiling sweetly at him. ‘Don’t forget to watch out for those blue mice.’

‘Come along, girl,’ her uncle called. Mindful of the stacked boxes, she gingerly climbed up onto the cart. ‘Right, Silver, get a move on, we’re running behind time,’ he called. As the old donkey plodded placidly out into the lane, Isabella turned towards him.

‘Why do you call him that? I mean he’s grey and moth-eaten . . . ,’ her voice trailed away as she realized that once again, she was in danger of appearing rude.

‘Full of questions, aren’t ye, girl? ’Tis like this. When farming went into decline, I had to sell me horses to pay the bills. Now, you can’t bring up a family on fresh air, so I decided to have a go at growing and selling them violets. Did it locally at first but then heard I could get a better price in London.’

‘Auntie was telling me about that earlier,’ Isabella nodded.

‘Right,’ he nodded. ‘So, I needed a means of getting them to the station. By chance, I bumped into a man taking this poor creature to the knacker’s yard. Did a deal, and for a few coppers I got myself a donkey and he got himself a new life. Reckoned it was our silver-lining day, didn’t we, old boy?’ he chuckled, leaning forward and patting the donkey’s flanks, prompting a loud bray.

‘He sounds like he’s responding to you,’ she laughed.

‘That’s ’cos he is. Understand each other perfectly, Silver and me, which is more than can be said for some humans round these parts,’ he muttered, lapsing into silence.

As they rumbled along, Isabella glanced at her uncle from under the brim of her bonnet. Clearly appearances were deceptive, for beneath his bluff exterior beat a soft heart. Could that be why her father had asked him to look after her whilst he was sorting out his business affairs? She wondered how he was getting on, for already she missed him dreadfully, Maxwell too.

The trap lurched, breaking into her thoughts and she grabbed at the wooden strut as the donkey turned left and began descending a steep hill. To one side was an orchard underplanted with the little mauve flowers that were so abundant around these parts. The branches were devoid of fruit, the leaves the golden hue of autumn.

‘Best plums in Devon come from they trees,’ her uncle declared, tapping into her thoughts. ‘Mother makes a fair few tarts with them, not to mention jars of jam.’ Thinking he was referring to her grandmother, Isabella stared at him in surprise then she remembered that was what he called his wife. They certainly had strange ways in this part of the world, she thought, blinking in surprise as a church rose majestically before them. Then she glimpsed a row of headstones to one side and, although she knew her mama wasn’t buried there, she shivered.

‘Someone treading on yer grave?’ her uncle chuckled, as she pulled her mantle tighter round her. ‘Be back in the sunshine again soon,’ he added. Sure enough, moments later they were out of the shade, passing pretty pink cottages that were spaced further apart than those she’d seen the previous day.

‘How do they get the walls that hue?’ she asked, thinking how lovely it would be to paint them.

‘Gives it a wash of lime mixed with pig’s blood,’ her uncle told her, laughing as she wrinkled her nose. Then she noticed ornamental birds staring down at her from their thatch.

‘Goodness,’ she gasped.

‘Clever, eh?’ her uncle said, seeing her fascination. ‘Started when a thatcher decided to put his mark, a biddle – that’s beetle to you – on a roof he’d finished. Before long, others were asking him to fashion birds to denote their dwellings. Some think it pretentious but each to their own,’ he shrugged.

‘Perhaps you should have some blue mice on yours,’ she joked.

‘Ah, the boy been teasing you, has he? Don’t you let him niddle you, girl, it’ll do him good to have someone stand up to him. The Sod.’

‘Pardon?’ Isabella gasped, staring at him in surprise. Certainly, William had been a pain but he hadn’t really been that bad. Then she realized her uncle was gesturing ahead.

‘That’s what they call this harbour. ’Tis the only one in the whole of the country to be on the inside of a railway line,’ her uncle told her, grinning knowingly at her expression. Clearly, he’d sensed the atmosphere between William and herself, but before she could pass comment, he was speaking again. ‘Now breathe in some more of that ozone, girl, you’ve got a fair pallor about you this afternoon.’

Isabella gazed out over the expanse of shimmering bluegreen water which was flowing out through a tunnel under the railway. Nearby, weatherbeaten fishermen were unloading the day’s catch from their boats and stacking the boxes onto the sea wall while gulls swooped and squawked hopefully overhead. It was a world away from the hustle and bustle of the city and for the first time since she’d arrived, she felt herself relax. She watched as a group of small children, string dangling from sticks, wading in the shallow waters, and wondered if her mama had played here. Just as she turned to ask her uncle, she heard voices calling to him.

‘Artnoon, Fred.’ Two older men who were sitting on the wall outside an inn raised their jugs of ale in greeting.

‘Jim, Ern,’ her uncle called, drawing to a halt. ‘This is my niece, Isabella.’

‘Oh ah,’ they chorused, giving her an appreciative look.

‘Fancy name for a fancy lady. Heard you’d come to live in the village,’ Ern replied, his grey beard bobbing up and down as he spoke.

‘Actually, I’m just visiting,’ she replied. As the two men raised their brows sceptically, her uncle cleared his throat.

‘And it’s a pleasure to have my niece here, for however long she decides to stay.’

‘She be the spit of your Ells apart from her blonde hair and blue eyes, of course. Suppose that came from ’im,’ Jim said, giving a toothless grin. Isabella blinked, trying to associate the appellation with her glamorous mother, Eleanora. Apart from anything else, her father had hazel eyes. Maybe the man’s memory was failing. He was old, after all.

‘Ah, now Ellie were some looker. No wonder she had all the lads . . . ,’ Ern began, keen to continue the tale.

‘Time we were on our way or we’ll miss the train,’ her uncle cut in quickly.

‘Heard Furneaux’s turned his land over to the flower growing now,’ Jim grinned.

‘Be competition for you, eh Fred?’ Ern added, his eyes bright with mischief. Isabella saw her uncle’s lips tighten but he wasn’t about to be drawn.

‘Enjoy your drink, gentlemen,’ he said, raising his hat.

‘Oh ah,’ they chorused and promptly returned their attention to their ale.

Her uncle was silent as they resumed their journey, but Isabella was bursting with curiosity.

‘How come everyone round here knows who I am?’ she asked. He shrugged.

‘That’s country living for you. News flies quicker than the pigeons.’

‘But they thought I was staying,’ she persisted.

‘Thinks they knows everything that goes on around here. And what they don’t, they make up. Gives them something to chat about. Look, there’s the open sea over there,’ he said, gesturing to their right. ‘Be on t’other side of the railway line now.’ Realizing he was trying to divert her attention but determined to get some answers to her questions, she turned to face him.

‘What was Mama like?’

‘Well now,’ he murmured. ‘She were lively and inquisitive, like yourself.’

‘But do I look like her? Grandmother said the strangest thing earlier,’ she began.

‘Ah, she often do,’ he agreed.

‘She said I must have rinsed my hair in clotted cream. Auntie thought she’d mistaken me for Mama and it got me wondering. Don’t you think it’s strange she had dark colouring when I’m fair and have blue eyes?’ she asked. He gave her a considering look then shrugged.

‘Offspring can take on the colouring of either parent.’

‘Yes but . . . ,’ she began, about to pursue the subject when she saw a carriage heading their way. Maxwell’s was similar, she thought, her heart flipping happily. But even as she leaned forward in her seat, it veered off to the right.

‘Oh,’ she gasped. Her uncle drew his brows together.

‘Something wrong, girl?’

‘That carriage, if it’s Maxwell, he’s gone the wrong way,’ she cried.

‘Driver’s bound to know where he’d be going. Anyhow, that’s the visitant route to Powderham Castle,’ he replied.

‘Oh, I see,’ she said despondently.

‘If the Earl of Devon is entertaining, it might be an idea to see if his guests want posies for their ladies’ fancy frocks,’ he muttered, oblivious to her frazzled emotions. ‘Got to up the stakes if Furneaux’s muscling in on my business.’

Isabella hardly heard him for she was peering along the lane where the carriage had turned off. Already it was just a speck in the distance and her heart sank. Obviously it wasn’t Maxwell. Why was he taking so long? Perhaps she should pen him another letter. She could write to dear Papa too. He’d be pleased to know she’d arrived safely.

‘Nearly there,’ her uncle said, breaking into her thoughts. As the trap slowed, she noticed a peculiar-looking red building towering above them. She was about to ask what it was, when the blast of a whistle sounded. ‘Come on, Silver,’ he urged, tugging on the rein. As they juddered to a halt in front of the station, two men, smart in their railway uniforms, ran over and began unloading the trap.

‘You’re late today, Fred. Train’s almost here.’

‘Been one of them days, Den,’ he replied, jumping down to help.

‘Bill’s flowers are already on the platform. Said you should drop by later. Got something important to tell you, apparently. Probably be about Furneaux and his new venture.’

‘Carry on like this and we’ll have to put on a train specially for the violets,’ the other man chuckled as he lifted the last of the boxes onto his trolley.

The rumble of the approaching engine galvanized them into action and they pushed their loads towards the platform. There was a hiss of brakes and once more Isabella found herself enveloped in a cloud of steam. When it had cleared, she saw all three men had disappeared, leaving her alone in the trap.


Chapter 7 (#ulink_93909f81-4b7e-5a6d-8dca-5b6cb2bddd7b)

How ill-mannered, Isabella thought, staring around the empty yard. She looked up at the strange-looking building they’d passed earlier and decided that rather than sit waiting, she’d take a closer look. It was quite unlike anything she’d seen before. The walls were built from large blocks of dark red stone with light grey surrounds picking out the window and door openings. Her hands itched to get it all down on paper and, not for the first time that afternoon, she wished she had her watercolours with her. Then she noticed the tall, ornate square tower on the far side of the building and stepped back to see the top of it.

‘Ouch,’ cried a voice. Spinning round, she saw a young man hopping up and down on one foot. He was wearing a brown high-button sack coat over a waistcoat and sporting a soft cap on his dark hair.

‘Oh goodness, I am so sorry,’ she cried.

‘Don’t worry, I expect the infirmary can mend it,’ he sighed, gingerly touching his foot to the ground.

‘Is it that bad?’ she gasped. He looked at her wryly then gave a cheeky grin.

‘Not really,’ he admitted, mischief glittering in his green eyes. ‘It’s not often I capture the sympathy of a pretty young lady so I thought I’d capitalize on it. Only you looked so anxious, I couldn’t keep up the pretence.’

‘I’m sorry for stepping back on you but I was curious about this strange building.’

‘Then please let me make amends for my teasing by telling you something about it,’ he offered.

‘Oh, would you?’ she cried. ‘I’m only visiting the area and would love to know what it’s for.’

‘It is a remarkable structure. You will have heard of the great engineer, Isambard Kingdom Brunel, of course?’ he asked, looking at her for confirmation.

‘Indeed,’ she agreed, not wishing to appear ignorant.

‘Well, he designed the Atmospheric Railway that originally ran along these parts, and this building with the Italianate tower you were admiring was one of the pumping stations. The pumps in there pushed air through pipes to move the carriages along.’

‘Goodness. You said originally, though. Do they not use it anymore?’ she asked, eager to appear intelligent.

‘Alas, the local rats developed a taste for the leather and grease which formed the seals in the pipes.’

‘Rats?’ she shuddered, pulling her mantle tighter round her.

‘Yep, gobbled them up faster than they could be replaced, so that was the end of that, as it were. This building is all that remains.’

‘And splendid it is, too. Thank you so much for enlightening me,’ she told him.

‘My pleasure,’ he said, his eyes twinkling as he perfected a bow. ‘You said you were visiting. Might I enquire how long you’ll be staying here in Starcross, Miss, er?’

Before she could respond, she heard her uncle shout. Turning quickly, she saw he was sitting in the trap gesturing impatiently for her to join him. Following her gaze, her companion opened his mouth to say something, but she cut in quickly.

‘Sorry, I must go,’ she said. ‘Thank you again for the fascinating lesson,’ she murmured before hurrying over to her uncle.

‘What the ’ell was you doing talking to young Furneaux?’ he growled, as she climbed up beside him.

‘Oh, is that who he was? He was kind enough to explain about the pumping station, Uncle. Do you know . . . ,’ she began.

‘Stay away from him, you hear?’ her uncle interrupted. ‘Bad as his father, he is,’ he spat.

‘Excuse me . . . ,’ she began.

‘That’s an order, Isabella,’ he added, tugging on the reins. As the donkey began to move, she stared at her uncle in astonishment.

‘Papa would never speak to me like that.’

‘Well, maybe he should have, then you’d be more worldly-wise,’ he growled.

‘How dare you,’ she spluttered. ‘You can be sure that when Maxwell arrives, he will take issue with you.’

‘Oh, he will, will he? Well, I’ll look forward to hearing what this Maxwell has to say, if by any miracle he turns up, that is.’

‘Stop this minute,’ she ordered, but he ignored her. ‘I said stop,’ she repeated, wanting to be away from this odious man. When he still disregarded her wishes, she peered over her shoulder, hoping to catch the attention of the agreeable young man, but he had disappeared. She stared down at the road passing beneath, wondering if she dared jump.

‘Settle yourself down, maid, we’re in for a skatt,’ her uncle said, pulling his hat further down over his head.

‘A what?’ Barely had she asked the question when the first drops of rain began to fall. As it became heavier, she stared around for some kind of hood, but although the boxes were protected by a canvas cover, the rest of the cart was open to the elements. She turned to her uncle but he stared resolutely ahead. Simmering with rage, she gazed out over the water where steely clouds now merged with the grey sea. A gust of wind tugged at her bonnet and she put a hand to her head. Her uncle oblivious, or more likely not bothered, continued staring fixedly ahead and the journey back to the cottage was both a cold and silent one. She crossed her fingers and hoped that Maxwell would be waiting for her. However, when they turned into the lane, there was no carriage in sight and her heart sank to her saturated boots. She would write to him tonight.

‘Oh my, you’re drenched to the bone,’ her aunt tutted, pulling Isabella into the warmth of the kitchen. ‘Get out of those wet things and warm yourself by the fire before you catch a chill.’

‘Stop fussing, Mother,’ her uncle said, throwing his hat onto the hook by the door. ‘’Tis her own fault she took a soaking. If she hadn’t spent time blethering with young Furneaux we’d have been back before the weather broke.’

‘But I wasn’t . . . ,’ Isabella began, then seeing his grim expression sighed. ‘If you’ll excuse me, I’ve had a busy day and wish to retire for the night.’

‘’Tain’t six o’clock yet,’ William scoffed. Ignoring him, Isabella made for the stairs, but halfway up she heard him say: ‘Don’t know why she’s tired, it’s not as if she packed many flowers from what I can see. And as for that sparrow food she prepared, no wonder me stomach thinks me throat’s been cut.’

By the time she reached her room, Isabella was shivering so violently she could hardly take off her wet clothes. Throwing herself onto the mattress, she huddled under the thin bed cover and let the tears fall. How she wished she was safely back at home where Maisie would be filling her bathtub with hot water and setting out rose-scented soap petals from the cut-glass jar on the shelf. Then she would sink into her soft feather bed and wait for a bowl of Cook’s consommé to be brought to her on a tray. Instead she’d spent a horrible day in this godforsaken place where, even though she’d tried to help, nothing she did was right. She hated it here and she hated Uncle and William as well. Oh Maxwell, where are you?

Then a thought struck her so forcefully, she sat bolt upright. Instead of writing, why didn’t she make her own way home now? If she slipped out whilst the family were having supper, they wouldn’t even notice she’d gone. Excitement flooding through her, she made to climb out of bed but a flash of lightning lit up the sky. It was closely followed by a deafening clap of thunder that seemed to shake the whole cottage. She’d hated storms since the violent one they’d experienced the night her dear mama had died. All thought of going outside disappeared as, stifling a scream, she pulled the cover over her head and closed her eyes.

She must have slept, for the next thing she knew Dotty was shaking her awake.

‘Come on, Izzie, Father’s called a meeting.’

‘What time is it?’ she muttered.

‘Almost five o’clock.’ Isabella groaned and closed her eyes again.

‘Please get up, Izzie, or Father’ll get mad,’ Alice pleaded.

‘Yes, do hurry and dress,’ Dotty urged. ‘I’ve got your clothes here. They’re dry now as I put them on the pulley above the range overnight.’ Reluctantly Isabella opened her eyes again and saw the two girls were already dressed, their hair neatly braided. How could they look so awake at this unearthly hour, she wondered?

‘All right, I’m coming,’ she muttered, taking the proffered garments. Clambering from the mattress, Isabella winced and put her hand to her back. She felt stiffer than the housekeeper’s starched petticoats. She couldn’t bear to sleep on the floor any longer.

‘Girls.’ At the sound of their father’s roar, Dotty and Alice fled down the stairs. Not wishing to fuel his anger, Isabella quickly donned the coarse clothes, tidied her hair and followed them.

‘Are you feeling better, my dear? Come and sit by me, Father’s holding a family meeting.’ Although her aunt was smiling, Isabella noticed she looked strained.

‘Well, if it’s a family matter, I’ll leave you to it,’ she replied.

‘Like it or not, you are part of this family now, so sit yourself down. That’s an order not an option,’ her uncle barked, seeing her hesitate.

‘But I’ve told you, Uncle, I’m only staying until Maxwell comes for me.’

‘Not exactly hurrying himself, is he?’ William sneered.

‘That’s enough, William,’ her aunt said, shooting him a stern look. ‘Right Isabella, I’ve poured you a mug of tea and we’re having brewis to break our fast. We can eat whilst Father tells us his plan.’ Reluctantly, Isabella took her place, but as she stared at the soggy mess in the bowl, her stomach turned over.

‘Maybe not what you’re used to, girl, but it’ll save Mother cooking whilst we’re extra busy, so eat up,’ her uncle instructed, giving her a stern look. ‘Right, pay attention, everyone.’ Isabella felt a rush of relief as he turned to address the others. Picking up her spoon, she moved the mush around the dish to give the impression of eating. Not that her uncle was watching, for he was in full flood.

‘As you know, Furneaux’s going into competition with us. I were right cross when I heard but, as your Uncle Bill pointed out, the man has as much of a right to turn his land over to flower growing as us. We all have a living to earn, after all. But I’ve worked darn hard to get this business up and running and don’t intend to lose my market share.’

‘Market share, that’s good, Father,’ William chortled. ‘Market garden, market share, get it?’

‘Very funny, boy, but it won’t be no laughing matter if the price drops, which it will if the market’s saturated with violets. ’Tis all about supply and demand, and from today we are going to double our efforts to provide Covent Garden with the finest blooms at the best price. By the time Furneaux’s violets are ready for sale, we will have proved to the buyers that Northcott’s can fulfil their needs.’

‘But we work hard enough as it is, Father,’ Joseph said, waving his spoon in the air.

‘I know, boy, and that’s why your uncle and I have come up with a plan. But in order for it to succeed, each of you must play your part.’ He took a sip of his tea then stared at each of them in turn. ‘From now on, we will be working towards doubling our output.’

‘But Father . . . ,’ Mary began but her husband held up his hand to silence her.

‘No buts. As I said, Bill and I have worked out a way. First of all, Joseph, you will team up with your uncle and as it’s too far for you to travel there and back each day, you’ll move into his cot. Afore you complain, Mother, Bill will bring Joseph for Sunday lunch each week, so you will see him then.’ From the grin that met this statement, Isabella guessed that Joseph was happy with the news.

‘William, you’ll turn the rest of your grandmother’s garden over to growing violets. There’s a large patch down the bottom going wild and we might even dig up her yard, seeing as how she never uses it now.’ He leaned forward and patted William’s hand. ‘I’m putting you in charge of this part of the business, so it’s a good chance for you to prove yourself.’

‘Dotty, as well as taking violets to the big house on Thursdays then selling the rest in town, you will attend the Saturday market as well.’

‘Yes, Father,’ Dotty smiled, and again Isabella could see his idea had gone down well.

‘Perhaps I could come with you,’ Isabella offered, her spirits lifting at the thought of escaping for a few hours.

‘Don’t take two of you,’ her uncle growled. ‘You’ll stay here and help Mother.’

‘But . . .’ She looked at Dotty, hoping she would concur, but the girl stared quickly down at her dish.

‘If we’ve all got to do extra work, does this mean Alice and me don’t have to go to school no more?’ Thomas asked hopefully.

‘No, it does not. Eddy-f’cation’s everything,’ his mother said.

‘Didn’t do William any good, did it?’ Alice grinned. ‘He can’t read nor write proper, Izzie,’ she told her gleefully. Isabella stared at William in surprise.

‘Least I can add up, and the word is properly anyway,’ William retorted, but Isabella could tell by the way his face flushed that he was embarrassed.

‘That’s enough,’ his father said, banging his fist down on the table. ‘We’ve got enough to do without bickering. Alice and Thomas, you will get up an hour earlier every day to help Mother with the chores then pick the extra flowers we’ll be growing.’ This was met with groans but their father ignored them.

‘Mother, Dotty, and you girl – for the time you are here,’ he added as Isabella opened her mouth to protest, ‘will have extra flowers to pack. And as Dotty will be out more, you can watch how Mother prepares our meals then take over in the kitchen. I’m sure even you can manage to make brewis,’ he added.

‘What?’ Isabella gasped.

‘Of course she can, Father,’ her aunt said quickly, smiling encouragingly at Isabella.

‘As long as you remember to use the crusts and not just the bread,’ William smirked. Knowing it would be foolish to retaliate, Isabella bit her tongue. When he realized she wasn’t rising to the bait, William turned to his father. ‘So, what will you be doing then?’

‘Managing the extra orders and invoices. Then after supper I’ll spend the evenings propagating and bringing on fresh plants. Give Furneaux something to really compete with. Now, to work,’ he said, getting to his feet and pulling on his hat.

Isabella watched him go then glanced at the clock. It wasn’t yet 5.30 a.m. and yet she felt as if she’d been up for ever. She’d go upstairs and write to Maxwell and Papa. There was no way she could stay here with this strident man and his strict routine. As for the food, she thought, glaring down at her bowl . . . why, she’d seen Cook put better offerings in the pig swill.


Chapter 8 (#ulink_cac72149-81ad-5e21-9e8b-a4a6b9534dff)

As the family carried out their father’s wishes, knowing her presence on the small holding was temporary, Isabella tried her best to fit in. While she applauded her uncle’s determination and tenacity, she was still smarting from the way he’d spoken to her on their journey back from Starcross. If he noticed her coolness he ignored it, treating her the same as the others during the day, then disappearing through the door at the end of the barn after supper each evening.

‘What’s through there?’ Isabella asked her aunt as they stood side by side bunching up the violets a few days later. Dotty, wearing her best bonnet, had departed earlier for the big house, a large willow basket filled with flowers over her arm, and the letters she’d promised Isabella she’d post in her pocket.

‘That’s Father’s domain,’ she replied. ‘He’s bringing on a new strain of plant. Between you and me, it’s a bit risky financially but very exciting. He’s keeping it under his hat so nobody’s allowed inside.’

‘You don’t mind him taking a chance with your money?’ Isabella asked, thinking of all the shabby things in the house that needed replacing. The woman chuckled.

‘Once Father gets something in his mind, there’s no stopping him. He’s no fool, though. Put everything into this market garden, he has, and if he wants to expand the range of flowers he can offer, who am I to stand in his way?’ Isabella nodded and concentrated on tying up the posies, but as she worked her mind was busy processing what her aunt had told her. Finally, she had to ask the question that was uppermost in her mind.

‘Auntie, when I arrived here, I handed Uncle an envelope from Papa that I’m guessing contained money for my keep?’ Her aunt stared at her in surprise.

‘He never mentioned it, but then he’s had a lot on his mind,’ she frowned. ‘Not that we expected anything for having you here. You’re family, after all.’

‘Thank you, Auntie,’ she replied, touched by the woman’s kindness. The more she thought it about it, though, the more she was convinced that the envelope would have contained money. Quite a lot too, judging by the thickness of it. Could her uncle have kept it for himself? Perhaps to purchase these new flowers?

‘Oh, well done, dear. You’re really getting the hang of this now, aren’t you?’

Isabella stared down at the posy she’d been fashioning and, with a jolt, realized it was true. All the flower heads were facing the same way and she’d even managed to tie their stems neatly with raffia. Feeling ridiculously pleased by her aunt’s praise, she beamed and started on another one. It was peaceful in the barn and, as the boxes filled up, she was proud to see the progress she was making. All thought of money forgotten, she let out a sigh of contentment.

‘Enjoying yourself?’ her aunt asked.

‘I am actually,’ Isabella replied, surprised to find it was true. ‘It’s so calm in here, although I still find it funny that you can’t smell any of the flowers after a while.’

‘Father might have a scientific reason for that, but I like to think it’s nature playing one of her jokes on us. I must admit, it’s a good time for thinking. Flowers don’t criticize or judge, do they?’ her aunt said, giving Isabella a wink. ‘And it’s rewarding to see the results of your labours, isn’t it?’

‘It is, but you must get tired with everything else you have to do. What with looking after your house and Grandmother’s, taking care of the family and teaching me to cook, you never have a moment to yourself, Aunt Mary.’

‘And why would I want one? My family and home mean everything to me, Isabella,’ she said.

‘But you don’t have any hired help,’ Isabella protested. Her aunt smiled.

‘It might surprise you to know that I take a pride in running both homes and bringing up the children. I was raised in an orphanage, you see.’ Isabella stared at her aunt in surprise. ‘Oh, we were well looked after, but with thirty of us sharing a dormitory and all our clothes cast-offs and hand-me-downs, I soon learned what mattered in life. Having my own home and family is like a dream come true.’

‘Goodness, I never realized,’ Isabella murmured, her eyes widening in shock. ‘Didn’t you know your parents at all?’ Her aunt shook her head.

‘I was left in a chapel porch on Dartmoor. Still, I thank my lucky stars whoever abandoned me knew I’d soon be found by folk that cared. They made enquiries but . . . ,’ she shrugged. ‘Anyhow, at least I was placed in a home . . . of sorts, anyhow,’ she added.

‘That’s terrible,’ Isabella frowned.

‘Your uncle’s the best thing that ever happened to me.’

‘How did you meet?’ Isabella asked.

‘I was in service at a big house on the edge of Moretonhampstead and met him at the town market on my half day. We got talking and just sparked. Couldn’t believe it when he called the next day and asked my employer if he would agree to my having a follower. Always been a man who knows his own mind, has Frederick,’ she smiled. ‘After we wed, he brought me back here with him.’

‘How romantic,’ Isabella gushed, feeling a sharp pang that her own plans for the future had been deferred.

‘Don’t mind me and my ruminations, dear,’ her aunt said quickly. The rosy flush staining her cheeks made her look softer somehow, and Isabella realized she wasn’t as old as she’d thought.

‘But I’d like to know more,’ she protested, seeing this as an ideal time to discover something about her own family. ‘Did you know you’d have to look after Grandmother as well?’ Isabella asked, pausing mid-posy.

‘Of course. Father told me about the shock . . . ,’ her voice trailed off and she quickly resumed her counting. Isabella wasn’t going to let the opportunity pass, though.

‘Am I right in guessing it had something to do with my mother?’

‘Well . . . ,’ her aunt began, looking flustered. Then William appeared, two laden baskets over his arms and, looking relieved, she said: ‘Oh my, you’ve picked yet more, I see. Father will be pleased. Good job Mrs Pudge let you have all those boxes.’

Grinning, he carefully placed them in the buckets they’d spent the past few hours emptying and it was all Isabella could do not to groan.

‘This little lot are from Grandmother’s garden. I’m off to dig over the wild patch at the back so we can plant more. We’ll be swimming in blue mice soon,’ William said, grinning at Isabella’s look of dismay. ‘Finding it hard to keep up, are you?’ he crowed. ‘No sign of your knight in shining armour coming to your rescue then?’

‘Now then, William. Your cousin’s doing a fine job and I for one am pleased to have her here. It’s nice to have a bit of intelligent conversation for once,’ she added.

As William snorted and loped from the barn, taking Isabella’s good humour with him, her aunt patted her shoulder.

‘Don’t mind him, dear. He might be my son but he’s all the sensitivity of a pumpkin.’

‘I’ve written to Maxwell again, as he might not have received my original note.’ Isabella could see the scepticism in her aunt’s eyes.

‘Well, suppose we’d better get on it like a bonnet,’ she joked. Knowing the woman was trying to make her feel better, Isabella forced down her frustration and reached for another box.

‘I hope this is the last lot, my back’s killing me,’ she winced. Having been in here since downing a hasty breakfast at the crack of dawn, she was hot and sticky. What she wouldn’t give for a lovely soak in the tub. Even a bowl of lovely warm water would suffice. However, a quick rinse under the pump each evening seemed to suffice for everyone here.

They worked on in silence, but whilst Isabella’s hands calmly tied yet more flowers into bunches, her thoughts ran amok. William’s remark about Maxwell rankled. However, the more she thought about it, the more she was convinced it was business that was keeping her intended in the City, for hadn’t he mentioned there’d been a big takeover in the offing? Maybe he was involved in it and unable to leave his office. Well, she’d soon know when he replied to her note. She hoped dear Papa would respond quickly too, for she longed to find out how he was, and surely by now he would know how much time he needed to sort everything out.

‘Come along, Daisy Daydream, as soon as we finish this lot we can break for luncheon.’

‘Shall I make a start on it?’ Isabella offered.

‘Please. There’s some of my brawn left so perhaps you could cut some bread to go with it and lay out pickles.’

‘Brawn?’ Isabella frowned.

‘Yes, from the pig’s head. I’ll show you how to make it if you like.’ Isabella gulped, her appetite vanishing completely. Oblivious, her aunt continued. ‘You’ll find it in a dish on the cold slab in the pantry. And I’m that parched, a nice strong brew would go down well,’ she said. Realizing it was her aunt’s tactful way of reminding her of her uncle’s preference, she forced a smile.

‘Don’t worry, Auntie, I’ll make strong tea in mugs with milk this time. And I’ll remember not to cut the crusts off the bread.’

‘You’re learning, dear,’ her aunt chuckled. ‘Keep your man’s stomach filled and he’ll be happy. Dotty won’t be back until later so there’ll just be the four of us. Perhaps you could make one of those dainty sandwiches for Mother. She so enjoyed hers the other day.’

‘I’ll take it in to her, shall I?’ she asked eagerly.

‘Best we go in together, dear, she’s that unpredictable,’ her aunt replied before returning to her counting.

To Isabella’s surprise, when she entered the kitchen, her grandmother was standing by the range. She was waving a spill in the air above the hob, her white curls bobbing wildly as she chatted away.

‘Got to get this lit.’

‘Hello, Grandmama,’ Isabella said cheerily, looking around to see who she’d been talking to. To her surprise there was nobody else in the room.

‘Who are you?’ the woman asked, staring at Isabella blankly.

‘I’m Isabella, your granddaughter,’ she explained. ‘We met a few days ago, don’t you remember?’ The woman narrowed her eyes.

‘Never see you afore in me life,’ she muttered. Then to Isabella’s horror, tears began rolling down her cheek. ‘Can’t abide strangers in my kitchen,’ she sobbed. Isabella moved to put a reassuring arm around her, but the woman backed away and cowered in the corner. At a loss to know what to do, she was relieved when William hurried into the room.

‘It’s all right, Grandmother,’ he soothed. ‘You’ve wandered into Mother’s kitchen by mistake. I’ll take you home, eh?’ Gently he put his arm around the woman and led her towards the door. ‘Don’t look so worried, she often gets like this,’ he whispered as he passed Isabella. ‘Put the kettle to boil, eh?’

She stared at William, hardly able to believe this was the terse person who’d delighted in taunting her ever since she’d arrived. Hands trembling, she did as he said then began setting out the luncheon. As she worked she began to feel calmer and couldn’t help puzzling over the old lady’s outburst. How could her grandmother not remember they’d met? And why was she crying? By the time her aunt came in, Isabella was pouring hot water into the big brown teapot.

‘I’ve just seen William. He’s sitting with Mother until I take her luncheon through.’

‘I’ll come with you,’ Isabella replied. Her aunt shook her head.

‘Best not at the moment. She’s in a bit of a state and needs to settle. What did she say to you exactly?’ she asked, scrutinizing Isabella closely.

‘That she’d never seen me before, which is strange when you introduced us only the other day.’

‘I know, dear, but she’ll have forgotten that,’ her aunt replied, looking strangely relieved. ‘Some days she remembers things, mostly she doesn’t. It’s the unpredictability that catches us unawares. That’s why we keep her door locked,’ she sighed.

Just then Dotty breezed in looking happy and carefree. Seeing the table spread with food, her face lit up.

‘Oh goody, I’m in time for luncheon. I’ve had a really good morning, Mother. Lord Lester is entertaining at the weekend so Mrs Pride bought lots more violets than usual,’ she announced proudly, sitting down and spreading brawn thickly on a slice of bread.

‘Does she arrange them around the house, then?’ Isabella asked.

‘Some are to be made into posies for place settings, but mostly Cook crystallizes the flower heads for decorating her cakes. You should see them, they’re a work of art.’

‘Oh yes, I’ve eaten similar at Claridge’s,’ Isabella replied, remembering her last meeting with Maxwell.

‘Coo, lucky you,’ Dotty sighed, staring around the room. ‘Where’s Father and William? It’s not like them to be late for luncheon.’

‘Father’s checking on his new plants and William’s sitting with your Grandmother. You forgot to lock her door before you left and she found her way in here. William said she was trying to light a spill from the range,’ her mother informed her, giving her a reproachful look.

‘Oh glory,’ Dotty said, slapping her hand to her head. ‘I was in that much of a hurry to leave, I forgot to check her door was secure. Sorry, Mother,’ she murmured.

‘Luckily no harm was done this time, but you must be more careful in future, Dotty. We don’t want her burning the house down. It’s not like you, though,’ her aunt said, giving her daughter a searching look. Dotty quickly stared down at her plate. ‘I’ll take Mother’s tray in to her then William can come and get a bite to eat,’ Mary sighed, getting to her feet.

‘Phew,’ Dotty exclaimed, as soon as the door had closed behind her mother. ‘That was close.’

‘At least no harm came to your grandmother,’ Isabella said. ‘Did you manage to post my letters?’

‘I did. Good job you had stamps, though, ’cos Mother would have known if I used some of the money I got from the big house.’

‘Luckily I just had two in my reticule. I’d love to see the manor. Can I come with you next time?’

‘No, Izzie, you can’t,’ she shouted, shaking her head emphatically. ‘And you must promise not to ask Mother or Father either,’ she added, jumping to her feet.

‘But why?’ Isabella frowned. ‘I can help, carry extra flowers and . . . ’

‘No, I can’t risk it, you’re far too pretty,’ her cousin cried as she flounced up the stairs, leaving Isabella staring after her.


Chapter 9 (#ulink_25822775-bafe-531c-bc27-5ffa6bb0d422)

‘Whatever do you mean?’ Isabella asked following after her. ‘What has my appearance to do with delivering flowers to the manor?’ Dotty turned away from the mirror where she’d been arranging her hair on top of her head.

‘Everything. And we call it the big house. Look, you must promise not to tell a soul but I’ve got an admirer,’ she burst out, a smile hovering on her lips.

‘Goodness, how exciting,’ Isabella cried, clapping her hands enthusiastically. ‘However, I still don’t see why that should stop me coming with you.’

‘But Izzie, look at me!’ she wailed. ‘My hair hangs all straight and I’m dumpy with freckles to boot. You’re lean as a racehorse while I look like old Silver.’

‘What utter rubbish, Dotty. You’re naturally pretty with your dark colouring and you have womanly curves. Obviously this admirer recognizes that fact.’

‘But if he sees you, with your golden hair and big blue eyes, he’ll have second thoughts about accompanying me to the harvest hop.’

‘I still think that’s nonsense, but if he did then he wouldn’t be worth worrying about, would he?’




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