by Linda Finlay
‘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
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. T
hey 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 de
ar,’ 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.
