Chapter 14

Hefting the heavy basket of flowers over her arm, Isabella walked through the town and stopped on the wide street between the stationer’s and circulating library. Whilst her uncle hadn’t insisted she come here today, he’d made it clear that, with Dotty still unable to put any weight on her ankle, it would assist the household budget if Isabella took her place selling their flowers in town. Although no further mention had been made of the family taking her in, she owed them a huge debt and this was the least she could do.

The early-morning air being chill, her aunt had insisted Isabella wear her woollen turnover and a heavier long skirt she’d found in her closet, which was so voluminous, she’d had to tie it with string to hold it up. In truth, though, she hardly noticed the weather for the tribulations of the past few days had left her feeling quite numb. The death of her dear papa had hit her hard, and she was still trying to come to terms with the fact she’d never see his beloved face again. Catching sight of her reflection in the shop window, she grimaced. She looked like a sack, although the mauve ribbon lightened the beige look somewhat. It seemed wrong to be wearing a bright colour, yet her aunt had pointed out that a sombre figure in black mourning attire would put customers off.

‘You can grieve in private and it will mean just as much. Whatever you wear can’t change anything, can it? Besides, mauve is worn by those in half-mourning so it’s quite acceptable,’ she’d said in her practical way as she sat trimming Isabella’s bonnet that morning. Reluctantly, she’d had to agree.

Yet now, as she stood waiting for shoppers to emerge from their homes, she couldn’t help her thoughts going back over the events of the past week. If only she’d listened to her aunt and uncle, her papa’s death might not have come as such a shock, for on many occasions they’d intimated her stay in Devonshire wasn’t a temporary measure. They’d also pointed out that, if Maxwell was coming for her, he didn’t appear to be hurrying himself. Maxwell! His deception cut to the core of her very being. To think that all the time she’d been waiting patiently for him, he’d been planning his future with another. Never would she put herself in such a vulnerable position again.

‘Ow much, me lover?’ She jumped as a man of advanced years stopped in front of her. Leaning heavily on his stick, he peered critically at her flowers. Remembering her uncle’s reputation was at stake, she forced her lips into a smile.

‘Merely a penny ha’penny for a generous bunch, sir,’ she told him.

‘Tell yer what, I’ll give ye a penny a’perd for two bunches,’ he said, giving her a canny grin.

‘A penny a’perd? Oh, you mean a penny ha’penny.’

‘That’s what yer said yer was charging, weren’t it?’ he frowned. Not wishing to appear dim, Isabella nodded quickly. ‘’Tis our wedding anniversary, see. Wife would love some pretty flowers but one of these would only half-fill her jug,’ he said, picking out a bunch and shaking his head sadly. ‘Ah well, not to worry,’ he sighed, making to return them to her basket.

‘Oh please, do take them both,’ Isabella urged, handing him another.

‘Well, that be mighty kind, maid,’ he said, giving her a broad grin as he handed over his penny ha’penny. ‘Wife’ll be chuffed,’ he said.

What a lovely man, she thought, watching as he carefully tapped his way down the street then crossed over to the green opposite. He was obviously a devoted husband and she hoped his wife appreciated him.

A woman wearing a dark blue dress covered by a starched white apron emerged from the stationer’s shop carrying a sign. She placed it prominently on the pavement then turned towards Isabella.

‘Don’t you be taken in by old Mickey,’ she called.

‘It’s his wedding anniversary and he wanted to treat his wife,’ Isabella explained. To her surprise the woman chuckled.

‘Aye, and tomorrow it’ll be her birthday. Haven’t seen you around these parts before. Just arrived, have you?’ she asked, eyeing Isabella curiously.

‘I am holidaying, er, I mean residing with my uncle,’ she replied, swallowing the lump that had risen in her throat, for it still hadn’t sunk in that she was here permanently.

‘You’re Fred Northcott’s niece? That explains it,’ she nodded, looking Isabella up and down. ‘Well, sorry for your loss, I’m sure.’ Isabella stared at her in surprise. ‘Bill mentioned it when he was in yesterday. All I can say is you’d best be more prudent with those flowers, my girl. Your uncle’s not known as Frugal Fred for nothing, you know,’ she laughed. ‘Well, best get on.’

Mindful of the woman’s words, Isabella resolved not to be taken in again. She needed to toughen up and not look gullible, then people like old Mickey and Maxwell could no longer consider her an easy target. Whereas before the mere thought of Maxwell would have made her heart skip, now it felt as heavy as stone. A sudden gust of wind blowing in from the sea whipped at her skirts and she edged back against the shelter of the building.

Determined to show her uncle she could sell, she smiled and held out her basket but, although a few people smiled back, nobody stopped as they went about their business. The early-morning shoppers out to buy provisions gave way to smartly dressed ladies who stared down their noses and made disparaging remarks when they saw her. Isabella could only watch enviously as they scrutinized hats in the milliner’s, fabric and ribbons in the draper’s and the winter display of footwear in the boot and shoe shop.

‘Excuse me, Miss.’ She turned to see a smartly dressed gentleman, magnificent white whiskers quivering as he beckoned her from his carriage. ‘You are selling flowers?’ he added when she hesitated.

‘Oh, gracious me, yes. I’d quite forgotten,’ she said, hurrying over.

‘Do you have any tussie-mussies?’

‘No, I’m afraid not,’ she replied.

‘Well, make me up a corsage while I wait then,’ he ordered.

‘I’m afraid I only have bunches of violets,’ she explained apologetically. The man clicked his teeth in annoyance and snapped shut the window. Immediately, the carriage moved away, a cloud of dust rising in its wake.

How rude, Isabella fumed. Well, she wasn’t going to stand around to be treated like some common down-and-out. Aware the apparel she’d brought with her was totally unsuitable for her new life, and loath to continue wearing her aunt and cousin’s cast-offs, she went to take a look at the merchandise in the draper’s. Perhaps she could find some dark mauve material more suitable for her period of mourning.

The shop with its bow window was a far cry from the grand stores of London, the garments at least two seasons behind the current mode, though even that was a distinct improvement on her aunt’s outfit. Fond as she’d become of her, Isabella had to admit the woman had dress sense.

Purposefully, she opened the door, setting the little bell tinkling. To her surprise, inside was like a treasure trove, and with her anger forgotten she stared delightedly at the silks and satins shimmering like jewels in the soft glow of the fluted-crystal oil lamps. Highly polished shelves reaching from floor to ceiling held bolts of damasks, velvets, brocades, cotton, linen, muslins and flannel. Another cabinet revealed a marvellous array of ribbons, lace, hat pins, needles and beads, in front of which stood glass dishes filled with buttons of every description. Cut-glass ones, twinkling like tiny rainbows, caught her eye and, thinking they would make the perfect adornment for a silk blouse, she reached out to inspect them closer.

‘Take your thieving hands off.’ As the shrill voice pierced the air, Isabella turned to see who was the unfortunate recipient of the tirade, only to find herself being confronted by an officious-looking woman, hair piled high on top of her head.

‘Gracious, I was merely perusing your wonderful merchandise,’ Isabella explained.

‘Well, you can do it from outside. The likes of you are not welcome in this establishment. I cannot have my clients bothered by a common flower girl,’ she sniffed, opening the door. Above the tinkling of the bell, Isabella heard a titter coming from the group of smartly attired ladies she’d seen enter earlier.

‘I say, did you see what she was wearing?’

‘Fancy, a common-or-garden flower girl daring to show her face in here!’

‘Whatever are things coming to?’ Swallowing down a retort, Isabella squared her shoulders.

‘Believe you me, it will be a pleasure to take my custom elsewhere,’ she replied, walking smartly outside. As the door slammed shut behind her, she blinked back hot tears. How demeaning. Never had she been treated so atrociously. Why, only a month or two ago she’d been a carefree young woman, happily shopping for her travels at the best stores in London with her trousseau to plan upon her return.

Now she was an orphan, jilted by her betrothed and ostracized by the very people who used to serve her. Angrily, she dashed away a tear.

‘Oh my dear, how dreadful for you.’ Isabella looked up to see two ladies of indeterminate years staring anxiously at her. They were wearing identical black jackets showing ruffles of lace at the neck and long black skirts. Each sported a black velvet hat trimmed with different coloured berries at the front.

‘It is distressing to see such a pretty young girl in trouble. Do let us help. I’m Agnes,’ announced the woman sporting the hat with cherry-red berries. ‘And this is my sister Miriam,’ she added, gesturing to her companion who nodded enthusiastically, setting her blue cluster shaking.

‘Isabella,’ she replied. ‘Thank you, but I am not actually in trouble.’ They stood surveying her doubtfully through clear grey eyes.

‘That’s not what it looked like from where we were standing,’ Agnes sighed.

‘We saw and heard everything, my dear,’ Miriam added, placing her hand sympathetically on Isabella’s arm.

‘We have only recently removed to the area ourselves and will certainly not be patronizing that establishment. I take it from your accent that you are not from around here either?’ Agnes asked.

‘No, I am residing with my aunt and uncle. My papa has just died and I have no one else, you see. I am meant to be selling these flowers, but I’m not having much luck,’ Isabella replied, holding up her nearly full basket. The two women exchanged looks then peered at the violets.

‘Oh, what a shame, they seem to be wilting even as we speak. Look, my dear, maybe we can help you. We have rented a nice little house only minutes from here. Why don’t you come back with us and partake of some refreshment while we discuss things?’ It was a long time since breakfast and Isabella could think of nothing nicer than a hot drink.

‘That would be lovely, thank you,’ she replied, her spirits rising.

She followed the two women down an alleyway between the boot maker and a grocer’s she hadn’t noticed before, then on through winding back lanes, away from the town centre. They came to a stop in front of a smart redbrick house set slightly apart from the rest.

Inside, she was met with the familiar scent of beeswax and rose petals. It was mixed with something else she couldn’t quite make out, but was familiar enough to remind her of her home in Chester Square. As Agnes turned and gave her a bright smile, Isabella swallowed the lump that had risen in her throat.

‘Make yourself at home, my dear,’ Agnes invited, throwing open the door to a large, airy room leading off the hallway. ‘Sit yourself down while Miriam makes us one of her restorative tisanes. We haven’t had time to hire staff yet so are catering for ourselves. We are quite enjoying it though, aren’t we, Miriam?’ The woman nodded and disappeared.

‘Where have you removed from?’ Isabella asked, setting her basket down on the floor.

‘Oh, that reminds me,’ Agnes said quickly, stooping to pick it up again. ‘We will be happy to purchase these from you.’

‘What, all of them?’ Isabella asked, hardly daring to believe her luck.

‘Oh yes, they will be most useful. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll just put them in water,’ she smiled.

Relieved to be sitting down after being on her feet for so long, Isabella sank back in the armchair then stared around the room. It was comfortably if not lavishly furnished, the plain walls relieved by velvet drapes at the lattice window and a scattering of colourful rugs. The little carriage clock on the mantelpiece was the only ornamentation, its gentle ticking soothing her frazzled nerves.

‘Well, here we are.’ Isabella came to with a start as the sisters bustled back into the room, one bearing a tray with three glasses on it, the other a salver of delightful-smelling pastries. ‘Oh goodness, child, did we wake you?’ Agnes crooned.

‘No,’ Isabella lied, a smile quivering her lips, for nobody had called her that since her nanny had left.

‘This will soon revive you,’ Miriam said, handing her a glass in a silver holder. It smelled unusual and she took a chary sip of the warm liquid. ‘It’s made to my own receipt,’ the woman added.

‘It is very nice,’ Isabella said, taking another sip so as not to offend her. The liquid warmed her insides and she felt herself relaxing.

‘Do have a croustade,’ Agnes said, proffering a plate along with the salver. ‘You’ll have heard of Gentleman’s Relish, of course. Well, we call these our sisters’ savouries,’ she giggled.

‘They look wonderful,’ she said, her mouth watering at the tempting sight. ‘Do you have a pastry fork?’ she asked.

‘Oh, silly me. Yes, of course,’ Miriam said, jumping up and going to the sideboard. After much searching, she triumphantly produced the required cutlery, and Isabella eagerly cut into the pastry. It was filled with fluffy egg and herbs, and so delicious she needed no persuading to take another. As Isabella ate, she became aware of the curious looks the two sisters darted her way as they nibbled on their food. No sooner had they finished than Miriam jumped to her feet.

‘Goodness, that must be the lunchtime post,’ she cried, hurrying from the room.

‘Is everything all right, Miriam, dear?’ Agnes enquired when she returned frowning at the sheet of notepaper in her hand.

‘It would appear Mrs Davey is too unwell to attend our gathering this afternoon. That means we are one short, which – as you know, sister dear – is totally unacceptable. She looked at the clock. ‘And it is too late to let everyone know, so we shall have to turn them away at the door.’

‘Is there nothing we can do?’ Agnes asked, clutching her hands to her chest. ‘If word should spread that we are unreliable . . . ’ She closed her eyes as if finishing her sentence was too much for her.

‘What are you one too short for?’ Isabella enquired. ‘Is it your biritch afternoon because, if it is, perhaps I can assist. I play quite a good game.’ Immediately Agnes sat up straight, fixing Isabella with her sharp gaze.

‘Would you really be willing to help?’ she murmured.

‘Of course,’ she replied, eager to repay these two dear ladies for their hospitality. ‘Thanks to your kindness I have no more flowers to sell, so tell me what I have to do.’