by Linda Finlay
Easing herself out of the makeshift bed, she noticed the plain clothes laid out ready for her to wear. Pulling the shift over her head, she grimaced as the coarse material prickled her skin. Just as she was fastening the smock over the top, there was another shrill shriek. Hurrying over to the window, she saw dozens of small birds with glossy blue plumage lined up along the roof of the barn, their long tails wagging as they chattered away to each other. At least they were decently attired, she thought, frowning down at the shabby flaxen dress. Heaven forbid that Maxwell should see her like this, she shuddered, vowing to retrieve at least one of her silks from her trunk before he arrived.
A movement in the gardens beyond the yard caught her eye. Her uncle and William were picking the mauve flowers before placing them into large woven baskets. Goodness, they must have started work early, she thought. Then her hand flew to her mouth for hadn’t she been told to help prepare breakfast? Hurrying down to the kitchen, she found her aunt rolling out pastry on the kitchen table.
‘Good morning, my dear, did you sleep well?’ she asked, looking up and shaking the flour from her hands.
‘I did until I was woken by that dreadful din those birds were making. Am I too late to help with breakfast?’ Isabella asked.
‘Only by about two hours,’ her aunt chuckled. ‘Dotty said you were out for the count. I expect all that travelling tired you out. Don’t look so worried, dear, you can help tomorrow.’
‘But Uncle said . . . ,’ she began, recalling his stern look the night before.
‘Don’t worry, Isabella, he might sound fierce but underneath he’s as soft as those beloved petals of his. Firm but fair, you’ll find him,’ she added, seeing Isabella’s sceptical look.
‘I saw him out in the garden with William, but where is everyone else?’ Isabella asked, staring around the room.
‘Joseph’s away helping Uncle Bill – that’s Frederick’s brother – pick the flowers on his land. Alice and Thomas are at school, and Dotty is seeing to Grandmother.’
‘Oh yes, Dotty told me she lives next door. I have so much to ask her about Mama. May I call and see her this morning?’ she asked eagerly. Her aunt set down her rolling pin.
‘Grandmother’s not really with us, dear. Hasn’t been since the shock. Best leave it until she’s having a good day.’
‘But Maxwell, my intended, will be arriving to collect me shortly and I must meet her before I leave,’ she insisted. Seeing her aunt frown, she smiled. ‘I sent him a note explaining I was coming here instead of Italy, you see.’
‘And you think he will follow you?’
‘Oh yes, he said my happiness is paramount,’ she explained, her voice trailing off in case her aunt should think her ungrateful.
‘Well, before you go anywhere you must have something to eat, so sit yourself down,’ Mary said, scurrying over to the range and lifting a plate from on top of the pan. ‘There now, get that down you,’ she smiled, setting it in front of her.
‘Thank you,’ Isabella murmured, staring down at the scramble of bright yellow egg nestling on a bed of ruby-red tomatoes. How could anyone be expected to eat all that, she wondered.
‘Don’t worry, the hens are laying well and we grow our own fruit and vegetables,’ her aunt said, misinterpreting Isabella’s look. ‘Quite self-sufficient, we are. Uncle Bill reared the pig, so between us we have a goodly supply of everything we need. Those flitches of bacon and ham will see us right through the winter,’ she declared, pointing to the beams above the range. Isabella stared up at the ominous dark lumps dangling from iron hooks.
‘That’s ham?’ she asked in surprise for it bore little resemblance to the delicate pink slices she was used to. Her aunt nodded.
‘’Tis meat we cured from the pig. Bayliss the butcher came and did the necessary, then we all helped joint it. Took ages to clear up the mess after.’ Isabella stared down at her plate where red juice from the tomatoes was seeping into the eggs. Stomach churning, she pushed it aside and got to her feet.
‘Can I help, Aunt Mary?’ she asked.
‘Bless you, dear, I can make poverty pie with my eyes closed, we have it that many times,’ her aunt smiled as she placed a large dish on the pastry and ran a knife deftly round it.
‘What is poverty pie exactly?’ Isabella ventured.
‘Suppose you could call it leftover pie, really. Anything and everything we can get our hands on gets put into the pie crust. Them swallows had better fly off soon or they’ll be going in too,’ the woman chuckled.
‘Swallows?’ Isabella frowned.
‘Those birds you heard. They’re gathering ready to depart for warmer climes.’
‘You mean you eat them?’ she asked, staring at the woman incredulously.
‘Why, bless you, no. That was just my little joke. Cors, we do bake the odd woodcock or rook but never the swallows or martins. That would bring bad luck for sure. Ah William, picked the flowers already, have you?’ she asked, looking up as the boy appeared in the doorway.
‘Yep. They’re waiting to be bunched. Sleeping Beauty decided to join us, has she?’ he asked, scowling at Isabella. Then he noticed the remains of her breakfast. ‘And wasting more food, I see. Mother’s got enough to do without waiting on you, and Father works hard to . . . ’
‘Now William, what did I tell you about making Isabella welcome?’ her aunt interrupted. ‘Why don’t you show her round the violet gardens whilst I find something to go in this pie?’ There was a moment’s silence then he shrugged.
‘Come on then.’
‘You will call me when Maxwell arrives, won’t you?’ Isabella asked. Her aunt gave her a level look.
‘Should any visitor come calling for you, you’ll be the first to know.’
‘Hurry up then, if you’re coming,’ William grunted. ‘There’s work to be done.’
‘What else do you do, apart from growing violets?’ Isabella asked, making an effort to be pleasant as she followed him across the yard.
‘Pick, posy and pack ’em. Today’s lot are in there having their drink of water,’ he said, pointing to the big barn. She gave him a look, certain he was jesting but he continued walking down the path towards the gardens. ‘Good job you’re wearing decent clothing, ’cos it can get muxy bunching them up ready to take to the station this afternoon.’
‘Then what happens tomorrow?’ Isabella asked.
‘Same again.’
‘You mean you do that every day?’ she asked incredulously.
‘Yep, every single one,’ he nodded.
‘Surely not at the weekends, though?’
‘Yep. ’Tis our livelihood. Flowers don’t stop growing ’cos we fancies a day off,’ he added, giving her a look that reminded her of his father. ‘Cors they need to be perfect so we have to check for signs of disease or pests.’
‘Oh, but of course,’ she laughed, certain he was teasing this time. She shivered, wishing she’d brought her mantle. Although the sun was shining, there was no warmth in it for it was ridiculously early. Why, there was still dew on the grass. At home, she’d be breaking her fast in bed, although Papa would already have departed for his offices. Poor Papa, how wan he’d looked. She closed her eyes and wished for him to get his affairs sorted soon, so their lives would return to normal.
‘Not interesting enough for a vurriner like you, I suppose?’ Started from her musing, she realized William was sneering.
‘Sorry,’ she murmured.
‘It don’t matter,’ he sighed.
‘But it does,’ she insisted.
‘I was saying there’s mildew, violet rust and smut to look out for. Not to mention slugs, snails, woodlice, aphids or more likely caterpillars and millipedes this time of year.’
‘Goodness,’ she murmured, her stomach churning again.
‘Not squeamish, are you?’ he asked, a gleam sparking in his eye.
‘Good heavens, no,’ she cried airily.
‘Still, it’s the blue mice we need to watch for.’ He sighed and s
hook his head. ‘Place is covered in them but the trouble is it’s time-consuming looking out for them,’ he said, hunkering down and lifting the leaves of the nearest plant.
‘Can I help?’ Isabella asked.
‘Not from up there, you can’t. Little blighters are the same colour as the flowers so you has to get right up close to spot them. And you wouldn’t want to get your hands muxy now, would you?’ he scoffed. Muxy? That was the second time he’d used that word, so it must mean mucky, she thought. Determined to prove him wrong, she squatted down beside him and began peering beneath the plants. The leaves felt velvety against her skin as she inhaled the heady fragrance. Suddenly something scampered over her hand and, letting out a scream, she sprang to her feet.
‘What’s up?’ William asked, frowning up at her.
‘I think one of those mice was about to attack me,’ she gasped.
‘Really?’ he asked, his mouth twitching as he turned to where she’d been searching. With a loud snort, he got to his feet, hands cupped in front of him.
‘It’s only a spider, silly, and a black one at that. It’s the red ones you have to look out for. They devour the flowers, see.’ Feeling stupid, she resumed her search.
‘I never knew you could get blue mice,’ she told him.
‘They be a speciality around here, like the red soil.’ Hearing a shout, he jumped to his feet. ‘Father’s waiting. I’ll have to come back later. Just hope the blighters don’t eat too many afore then,’ he sighed.
‘I can stay and look for them,’ she offered, eager to atone for her faux pas of the previous day.
‘That’d be a right help,’ he replied, grinning at her for the first time since she’d arrived.
Feeling happier, Isabella resumed her search. She might not be staying long, but she wanted to get along with her mother’s family whilst she was here. Breathing in the sweet, musky fragrance of the violets, she felt that faint memory stir, hover then vanish. Instinctively she knew it had something to do with her mama and this place.
‘What on earth are you doing, Izzie?’ Startled out of her reverie, she saw Dotty frowning down at her.
‘Searching for blue mice,’ she replied. ‘William had to help Uncle so I offered to look for them. I haven’t seen any, though.’
‘But Izzie, these are the blue mice,’ she laughed, her sweeping gesture encompassing the plants. ‘That’s what violets are known as round here.’
‘But why?’ Isabella asked, feeling somewhat foolish.
‘When the sea breeze ripples the flower heads, some say they look like little blue mice scampering across the fields. In other parts, they’re called shoes and stockings.’
‘How strange. And what is a vurriner?’ she asked, although she suspected she knew the answer.
‘It’s what we call incomers round here. Why, William never called you that? Wait til I get my hands on him and Mother’ll be cross when she hears,’ Dotty declared stoutly.
‘Please don’t say anything,’ Isabella said, straightening up. ‘He was getting his revenge for my taking him for a servant.’
‘Well, if you’re sure,’ Dotty shrugged. ‘Better brush yourself down then, it’s time we were making up the posies and Mother won’t want muck everywhere.’ Isabella stared at the brown clods clinging to the rough fibres of her dress.
‘Oh Dotty, I am sorry,’ she cried, shaking out the folds of her skirts. ‘I’ve made your dress all dirty, or should I say muxy.’
‘Coo, listen to you,’ Dotty laughed. ‘’Tis only a bit of dung. You’re lucky that’s the only fertilizer father uses. He swears a bit of nature’s natural is all that’s necessary to produce good blooms. Along with his tailors’ clippings and woollen rags, that is.’
‘Tailors’ clippings?’ Isabella echoed.
‘Take a good look between the rows.’ Isabella duly studied the ground and saw bits of material and rags among the red soil.
‘Goodness,’ she murmured. ‘Is that to keep the plants warm?’
‘Oh, you are funny, Izzie,’ Dotty chuckled. ‘Come on, Father will go mad if we’re not helping Mother.’ As Isabella followed her cousin across the yard, she remembered her mission.
‘Do you think we could go and see Grandmother before lunch? I must introduce myself before Maxwell arrives,’ she explained, thinking she also needed to change into a decent gown. She didn’t dare imagine what he would say if he saw her dressed like a peasant from the fields, and a soiled one at that. Dotty shook her head.
‘Best leave it for now, she’s having one of her dim and daffy days, as we call them. Now come on,’ she urged, hurrying towards the big barn.
‘I just need to take a look outside,’ Isabella replied. Ignoring her cousin’s frown, she made her way down the side path and looked left and right, but the lane was deserted.
‘You all right, dear?’ her aunt asked, appearing at her side. Isabella forced a smile and nodded. ‘Bit early for visitors, I’d have thought,’ the woman added perceptively. ‘Come and see how we bunch and pack the violets. If you’re very good, we might even let you have a go.’ Realizing her aunt was trying to make her feel better, she followed the woman over to the big barn.
Inside was cool, with seemingly hundreds and hundreds of violets nestling in big pails, their sweet fragrance permeating the air. Dotty was standing by a long trestle, cutting lengths of raffia from a large roll.
‘These have all had a nice drink now, so we’d better start sorting them into bunches,’ she said. William hadn’t been joking after all, Isabella thought.
‘Father and William have gone to collect more boxes,’ her aunt told them. ‘You show your cousin how we make the posies, Dotty, while I count out the flowers.’
As her aunt reached into the first bucket, Isabella noticed how rough and reddened her hands were. The woman smiled wryly. ‘Occupational hazard, dear.’
‘What a delightful fragrance there is in here,’ she replied quickly, not wishing to be thought rude. To her surprise her aunt chuckled.
‘Wait another ten minutes or so and see if you still think the same. I hope when William showed you round, he explained everything we do.’
‘He was most, er, enlightening,’ she replied, not daring to look at Dotty. Just then they heard the rumble of wheels outside. Isabella’s heart flipped.
‘That’s Father and William,’ Dotty announced, sending Isabella’s hopes sinking to her boots. Sure enough, a few moments later the two men appeared, their faces barely visible over the boxes they were carrying.
‘This lot should keep us going for a few days,’ her uncle declared, depositing the boxes on the floor beside them. Seeing the labels on them, Isabella’s eyes widened in shock.
Chapter 5
‘You never seen a corset box before?’ William snorted.
‘Well, I . . . ,’ Isabella began. Feeling her cheeks growing hot, she quickly averted her gaze.
‘Stop goading your cousin and snap to it, boy,’ Frederick interrupted. ‘We’ve to get the rest of them boxes over to Bill’s so he can pack his flowers.’ He turned to go then frowned down at the pails. ‘’Tis high time you women were bunching these flowers an’ all.’
‘You’re right there, Father,’ Aunt Mary agreed. With another smirk in Isabella’s direction, William followed his father outside.
‘Shall I begin taking the labels off?’ Isabella asked, eager to be of use.
‘Why ever would you do that?’ her aunt exclaimed. ‘Everyone knows them corset boxes contain our violets, so it saves time addressing them. They be the perfect size for packing the flowers into an’ all. Right useful it’s been, old Mrs Pudge stocking them ready-made foundations in her shop.’ Isabella stared at her aunt incredulously. Ready-made foundations? ‘Cors they can be a bit hit and miss sometimes,’ the woman conceded, mistaking her look.
‘Do you wear them?’ Dotty asked. Isabella thought of the modish Madame Mai who would stand and scrutinize her curves through half-closed eyes before producing a template cincture f
rom her velvet-lined valise. Carefully she would fashion the garment into shape before encasing Isabella’s midriff and lacing it up tightly. Isabella would then have to turn around slowly in front of her and only when Madame was satisfied, would she nod and declare her client’s form feminine par excellence.
‘Actually, my corsetière fits me in the privacy of my bed chamber,’ she explained.
‘Coo, how the other half live,’ Dotty drooled. ‘You wait til you have to resort to Pudge’s. The changing-room curtains don’t reach so you has to keep an eye out for nosy neighbours, and all while you’re trying to wriggle into the darned thing,’ Dotty grimaced, rolling her eyes dramatically.
‘Right that’s enough, Dotty,’ her mother interrupted. ‘If we don’t get a move on, we’ll miss the train and Father’ll go mad. I’ve counted out the first few bunches so you can show Isabella how we arrange and pack them.’ Dotty pouted but duly did as she’d been told.
Isabella watched as she picked up one bunch of the flowers and deftly enclosed them in velvety green leaves.
‘They protect the flowers as well as making them smell sweeter, you see,’ she explained. ‘Then you tie the bunch neatly with raffia to keep the stems straight and place them carefully in one of those boxes Mother has lined. It’s important to make sure the first row of heads go on this little pillow like this, see?’ Isabella nodded.
‘Now you try,’ Dotty invited. Isabella began wrapping the foliage round the violets but it wasn’t as easy as it looked and her cousin shook her head.
‘You have to make sure the flower heads are facing the same way.’
‘Oh,’ Isabella replied, trying again.
‘That’s it, now pack the bunch firmly beside the others so they don’t get shaken about on the train. They have to look as neat and fresh when they arrive as they do when they leave here,’ Dotty told her.
‘That’s right, Father’s built up a good reputation in Covent Garden and it wouldn’t do to let him down,’ Mary explained. ‘We pick, pack and dispatch the same day for freshness, and it’s essential that when the men in London open the boxes all they see is the mauve heads of the posies. Good selling, that is.’
