Stevie breathed in the heady scents of the florist shop with her usual delight, as she gazed around her at the variety of blooms on display. It was like being inside a jewellery box, surrounded by velvet gems on stalks.
Leanne, its owner, had a flair for colour and instead of arranging the flowers by type, she displayed them by colour; starting to the left of the door with pristine white carnations, roses, lilies and other assorted blooms, the flowers merged into pinks, reds and purples, then into blues, yellow and orange. And everywhere amongst them were swathes of green.
Stevie watched Leanne as she served a middle-aged woman who was rather overdressed for a Wednesday morning, in a pale lemon suit and matching handbag and shoes. She must be going to a wedding, Stevie guessed.
‘No, no, no, not those, dear, they remind me of death,’ the woman warbled, in a cut-glass voice. She jabbed a manicured finger at some inoffensive tulips. Stevie caught Leanne’s eye and made a face. Death? They were tulips, for goodness’ sake! What was so funereal about them?
‘I’ll have some of those lovely irises, a large bunch, mind, nothing measly. And do me an arrangement of yellow roses for the drawing room.’ She leaned in close and whispered loudly, ‘We’ve got guests – relations of the Queen, arriving on Friday for the weekend.’ She straightened up, glancing around to make sure all the other customers had heard. Her disappointment when she saw only a solitary Stevie was written clearly on her carefully made-up face.
Leanne jotted down the order. ‘Certainly, Mrs Ferris. I mean, Lady Tonbridge.’
Her ladyship sniffed her disapproval but rallied gamely. ‘You may deliver them on Friday morning,’ she instructed graciously. ‘Ten o’clock. Sharp.’ She glided to the door. ‘Please put them on Lord Tonbridge’s account.’
With a tilt of the head and a regal smile, she swept out.
Stevie stared after her with her mouth open. She had never seen anyone actually sweep before. ‘Please tell me she’s going to a wedding,’ she pleaded.
‘No, she always dresses like that when she meets her public.’
Stevie gazed at Leanne in amazement and demanded, ‘Who is she?’
Leanne affected the woman’s stance and put on a fake posh accent. ‘Lady Tonbridge, aka Julia Ferris, of “The Manor”.’
Stevie shook her head, none the wiser.
Leanne started plucking flowers out of their pots and placing them into a vase. Stevie stared at her, waiting for an explanation.
The florist stopped what she was doing for a minute and scrutinised her customer. ‘How long have you lived here?’ she asked.
Stevie quickly counted in her head. ‘Coming up for two months now.’
‘You obviously don’t get out much then,’ Leanne observed astutely.
‘You’ve got that right. I hardly get out at all. OK, never, actually,’ she admitted.
‘I can tell. Everyone knows Lord and Lady Tonbridge. The Manor has been in the Ferris family for generations. Lord Tonbridge, Edgar Ferris, spends most of his time in London. Lady Tonbridge stays here and plays at being a member of the aristocracy.’ Leanne picked up some gypsophila and slid the stems expertly into the vase. She stood back to check her work, nodding in satisfaction.
‘I take it you don’t like her much,’ Stevie guessed.
Leanne shrugged. ‘It’s not that I don’t like her, it’s that I know her background. She’s no more “lady” material than you or me. No offence.’
‘None taken.’ Stevie grinned. ‘I freely admit I’m as common as a cowpat.’
Leanne smiled back. ‘Do you want your usual?’
‘Yes, please, and add some of those tulips.’ Stevie pointed to the very flowers that Lady Tonbridge had rejected. ‘I quite like them.’
Leanne gathered an armful of flowers and wrapped them in paper.
‘So why the snooty attitude?’ Stevie asked curiously. ‘She can’t be serious?’
‘Oh, she’s deadly serious. She tries really hard to be what she thinks someone in her position ought to be. But the sad thing is, everyone knows she comes from a council estate in Talgarth, and that she worked in a department store before she met Lord Tonbridge. The people in the village despise her because she puts on airs and graces, and from what I can gather, she doesn’t fit in with the lah-di-dahs either, who really have got the breeding.’
‘So why did Lord Tonbridge marry her, knowing what she was like?’ Stevie asked.
‘The story has it, he married her for love. He even defied his father and nearly got himself written out of the will. I bet he never thought she would turn out to be like that!’
Leanne placed the flowers on the counter and Stevie paid for them, then she continued, ‘She doesn’t half throw some great parties though, and there’s an open invitation to a couple of them for all the villagers. You should try to go.’ Leanne gave Stevie her change. ‘In fact,’ she added, ‘Why don’t you come out with me on Friday? Get to know the locals a bit better? Have a drink?’
‘Not The Hen and Duck,’ Stevie said, warily.
‘Good lord, no! It’s full of old women, and that’s just in the men’s bar!’
‘Yeah, so I found out.’ Stevie grimaced at the memory. ‘Mads refused to serve me, and made me go into the Ladies’ Lounge. I’m not sure which was worse.’
They agreed to meet at The Duke’s Arms at eight-thirty the following Friday. Stevie was absurdly pleased with the prospect, and she realised to her chagrin just how much her world had shrunk since she had bought Peggy’s Tea Shoppe.