The Flower Seller

‘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

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

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.