The Flower Seller

Chapter 2

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

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.