by Linda Finlay
Your loving Papa
Cameron Carrington
Oh Papa, as if I don’t know what your name is, she smiled, feeling her insides go all warm at the thought of him. It did sound as though he expected her to be staying a bit longer, though. And if he had found time to write, why hadn’t Maxwell? Despite him saying her happiness was paramount, she was beginning to think he didn’t care about her at all.
She was just reflecting on everything when Dotty hobbled through the door. Her face lit up when she saw Isabella and, throwing down her stick on the floor, she plonked herself down on the chair beside her without noticing her cousin’s dishevelled state.
‘You’ve got a letter, I see.’
‘From Papa,’ Isabella smiled, replacing it in the envelope and popping it in her pocket to read again later.
‘And what did Alfred say when you gave him my letter? Did he reply?’ she asked eagerly.
‘I’m sorry, Dotty, but I didn’t get a chance to give it to him,’ she admitted.
‘Why not?’ she asked, the light going out of her eyes. ‘You did go to the big house?’ she queried, eyeing Isabella suspiciously.
‘Certainly. However, that snooty Somber opened the door and . . . ’
‘Coo, Isabella, you never went to the front entrance?’ Dotty gasped.
‘Well, I never thought to do otherwise, of course.’
‘Blimmer, girl, I bet old Pride went spare. Did she buy any violets?’
‘No,’ Isabella admitted. ‘She said they were substandard and even had the nerve to turn her nose up at me when she handed back my basket.’ Dotty stared at her cousin incredulously, but it wasn’t the slur against the flowers that concerned her.
‘You mean you actually dealt with the housekeeper? Coo, you’ll be speaking to his Lordship next.’ Isabella opened her mouth to tell her she had, then remembered Uncle Bill’s advice.
‘It was only when I reached the end of the driveway that I remembered your letter, Dotty. I was going to post it from the town centre but . . . well, I didn’t sell any flowers so couldn’t purchase a postage stamp. I really am sorry,’ she said, seeing Dotty’s dejected look.
‘I was relying on you, Izzie, so I won’t pretend I’m not disappointed. Still, I guess it can’t be helped,’ her cousin shrugged. ‘Give us it here and I’ll think of another way of getting it to him,’ she added. Isabella fished in her other pocket and pulled out the creased note.
‘I really am sorry,’ she repeated, placing it on the table. Dotty shrugged then reached for the teapot and poured tea into her mother’s empty mug. Taking a large gulp, she sighed.
‘That’s better. Dry as dust, I was. Perhaps Joseph will help – if Uncle Bill brings him over for Sunday lunch this weekend, that is. They’re that busy. Uncle and Father were grinning like gleeful boys when I came out of the barn.’
‘Auntie was telling me he’s had success with his new plants,’ Isabella said, relieved her cousin had taken the news about her letter so well.
‘Yes, if these new cultivars blossom, Father reckons we’ll be rich,’ Dotty gushed. ‘Well, comfortable at least,’ she amended.
‘That’s really good news,’ Isabella smiled, happy for the family.
‘Cors, Father’s happy to have got one up on Furneaux. But I’m just pleased I’ll be able to buy new material next time we go to a dance. Oh, I mean, it was kind of you to let me adapt that beautiful scarf but . . . ’ Her voice trailed off as she looked at Isabella properly for the first time.
‘Coo blimmer girl, you’re all bissled and battered, what ’ave you been doing?’
‘Let’s just say I ended up on the wrong side of town,’ Isabella said. Seeing Dotty’s shocked face and not wishing to embark on yet another explanation, she got to her feet. ‘If you’ll excuse me, I’ll go and change before supper.’
Upstairs, she grimaced down at her scuffed boots. A visit to her cordwainer would be a priority as soon as she returned to London, she thought, quickly removing them along with her bonnet. Her ruined mantle was fit for nothing other than the rag bag, but knowing her thrifty aunt would find a use for it she set it aside. Stepping out of the torn and soiled clothes, she changed into the spare homespun Dotty had found for her. Although the coarse material prickled her skin, at least it was clean. Combing out her hair in front of the mirror, she frowned to see it had grown and was losing its style. Oh Papa, thank heavens you can’t see me now. An appointment with her coiffeur was a necessity, as was a manicure, she decided frowning at her reddened hands and chipped nails. As the flash of silver at her throat caught the light, a shiver of excitement bubbled up inside her. Uncle Bill seemed a sweetie and hopefully he would answer all her questions about dear Mama.
Feeling better than she had all day, she tripped lightly down the stairs in her stockinged feet, only to be met by a sombre-looking Uncle Frederick. His usually ruddy cheeks were as white as Aunt Mary’s tablecloth, his lips pressed into a tight line. He’s found out about the lost basket and envelope from the big house, she thought, her heart sinking.
‘I can explain, Uncle,’ she began, remembering Papa telling her it was better to confront situations head-on. ‘I will ask Papa to recompense you and . . . ’ Her uncle held up his hand to stop her and it was then she saw he was holding a telegram.
‘Sit down, Isabella,’ he urged. Her heart flipped over at the gravity in his voice.
‘What’s wrong?’ she asked, sinking into the chair he indicated. Her aunt came and sat beside her, and she too was looking upset.
‘It’s your father. He’s passed on, Izzie,’ she murmured, taking Isabella’s hand.
‘Passed on where?’ Isabella frowned. Her uncle cleared his throat and looked uneasy.
‘He’s dead, Isabella,’ he told her.
‘Dead? But he can’t be, I’ve just received a letter from him,’ she cried.
‘I know, but from the postmark it would seem it was delayed.’
‘But he’s at home sorting out his business.’ Silence hung heavy in the air as Isabella glanced from one to the other.
‘He’s been ill for some time, my dear,’ Aunt Mary told her gently. ‘That’s why he asked us to take you in.’ Isabella shook her head.
‘He told me he was sending me here while he sorted out his affairs. He didn’t say anything about being ill.’
‘He knew he hadn’t long left and wanted to spare you seeing him suffer,’ Mary said, squeezing her hand.
‘We think losing his investments hastened the end,’ her uncle added.
‘When you arrived, we did try to explain you were here to stay, but you would insist it was a holiday.’ Stunned by the news, Isabella barely heard her aunt. Poor Papa. Why hadn’t he let her remain at home? She could have nursed him, cared for him.
The room began to swim around her and she was sure she was going to faint. A bottle of something strong smelling was held under her nose, causing her to inhale sharply. As the giddiness slowly subsided, she heard her aunt’s voice as if from a distance.
‘Drink this, Izzie, it’ll make you feel better.’ A cup was held to her lips and she took a sip. It tasted syrupy sweet, yet scorched the back of her throat and set her insides on fire as it made its way down to her stomach. Moments later she felt the blood in her body start to flow again.
‘Thank you,’ she whispered.
‘Elixir of violets. Never fails,’ her aunt assured her.
‘Perhaps it would have saved Papa,’ Isabella sighed.
‘Them plants might be powerful but they ain’t no cure-alls. More’s the pity,’ her uncle replied.
‘Oh Izzie, we’re so very sorry.’ The compassion in Mary’s voice was too much and the tears began to well.
‘Time enough for that after tomorrow.’ Isabella stared at her uncle.
‘Tomorrow?’
‘Yes, girl. If we catch the first train to London in the morning, we should just make the funeral.’
‘The funeral? But you’re busy with your flowers,’ she replied,
staring at him in surprise. He shook his head.
‘Family comes first, Isabella. William can take care of things for one day. I’ll get him to take us to the station. ’Tis right and proper we pay our respects.’
‘I don’t suppose a young girl like you has a suitable black dress?’ Isabella frowned, her head spinning as she tried to remember what Gaskell had packed for her.
‘No, I don’t think I do,’ she replied. ‘I have one at home, of course. Perhaps we could stop off there on the way?’ Her aunt and uncle exchanged meaningful looks.
‘Won’t have time, I’m afraid,’ her uncle said quietly.
‘Well, let’s see what we can find,’ her aunt said, leading the way to a door at the end of the kitchen.
Feeling numb, Isabella followed her into the cramped bedroom with its rickety double bed under the window and a closet and chest lining one wall. Then to her consternation, she saw it was her trunks and portmanteau that were taking up the rest of the space.
‘Oh Aunt Mary, I had no idea you had all my luggage in your room,’ she cried.
‘Don’t fret, child, ’tis only a place to sleep,’ she replied, sifting through the things in her closet and pulling out a long black garment. ‘Now this is a bit worn but at least it’s appropriate. I’ve not got a matching hat but a black ribbon tied round your bonnet should suffice. Besides, ’tis unlucky to wear something new to a funeral.’
While her aunt bustled round, practical as ever, Isabella felt choked and couldn’t answer. For once in her life, what she wore seemed of little consequence. All she could think of was her dear papa alone in his hour of suffering. Hot tears welled up and spilled down her cheeks.
‘Oh Auntie,’ she sobbed, sinking down onto the bed and burying her head in her hands. ‘I can’t believe I’ll never see poor Papa again.’
Chapter 13
On the train to London, Isabella alternated between numb disbelief and feeling sick to the stomach. Poor Papa. Why hadn’t she’d stayed at home with him? The question went around and round until her head ached. Her uncle, smart in his black coat that smelled of mothballs and with a bowler replacing his trademark straw hat, watched her sadly but was sensitive enough not to attempt conversation. As soon as they reached Paddington station, he steered her through the crowds and out to a hansom cab. Isabella frowned at the horsedrawn conveyance then stared at the motorized one in front.
‘Can’t afford that,’ he told her. After a brief discussion with the driver, still clutching the box he’d been guarding since they’d left home, her uncle clambered into the seat. Reluctantly, she climbed in after him, staring miserably out at the grey mist that swirled up from the Thames to merge with the leaden sky. Everywhere looked melancholy and depressing, reflecting her mood exactly. In silence, they travelled along busy Park Lane, Hyde Park spreading out to the right where, even on a day as gloomy as this, people were out in their carriages.
‘I expect the church will be packed,’ she said, turning to her uncle. At the thought of seeing Maxwell and their friends again, the vice-like feeling that had gripped her stomach since the previous day, eased just a little. Before he could reply, the familiar Kentish ragstone building where she’d worshipped with Papa loomed ahead. However, instead of pulling up outside the elaborately decorated Gothic church, the cab veered around the corner and stopped outside a small chapel she’d never seen before.
‘But this is the wrong place,’ she protested. ‘All Papa’s friends will be waiting at St Michael’s.’
‘It’s all we can afford, Isabella,’ he told her sadly.
‘That can’t be right, surely . . . ,’ she began, but he had turned and was communicating with the driver through the small trapdoor behind them.
‘Come along, Isabella,’ he said, climbing from the cab. She had little option but to follow him inside.
Isabella stared around the dank and dingy chapel in dismay. It was empty save for a vicar she had never seen before, and four pallbearers wearing black gloves and a crepe band on one arm. It felt eerie and very wrong. A shiver pricked her spine.
‘Where is everybody? Why isn’t Papa being sent off in style?’ she whispered.
‘I fear we might be the only mourners,’ her uncle told her, sinking into one of the narrow pews at the front. Carefully he opened his box and pulled out a small wreath fashioned from violets and moss. ‘Your aunt worked all through the night to have this finished in time. Go and place it on top before the vicar begins,’ he murmured, handing it to her then pointing towards the altar. It was then she saw the simple, unadorned coffin set on a bier and had to bite her lip to stop herself crying out.
The sound of her boots echoed around the nearly empty building as Isabella moved forward and, with trembling hands, laid the fragrant tribute on top. Tears welling, she stood there, uncertain what to do next, but the vicar, clearly impatient to begin, signalled for her to return to the seat beside her uncle. The service was short and impersonal and, to Isabella’s dismay, other than stating his name, made no reference to her papa. Why, it could have been for anyone, she thought sadly as they followed the men carrying the coffin out to the graveyard.
‘Oh no,’ she cried, pulling her bonnet lower as the drizzle quickly turned into a downpour. ‘That’s the last thing we need.’
‘Have faith, Isabella, ’tis a sure sign your father will go to heaven,’ her uncle assured her. Before she could ask him why, he delved into his rapidly disintegrating cardboard box, this time drawing out a posy of flowers tied with white ribbon, which he handed to Isabella.
‘May God receive your soul into his safekeeping, Papa,’ she sobbed, throwing it onto the coffin where it landed right beside the wreath. Then with the smell of freshly dug earth mingling with the musky scent of wet violets, she made the sign of the cross as her father was laid to rest.
‘Oh Uncle, that was terrible,’ Isabella wailed, as they returned to the waiting cab. ‘I don’t understand why Papa’s funeral wasn’t held in our own church. At least the vicar would have known who he was. And where were all our friends?’
‘I’m sorry, Isabella. It was the best we could afford and at least he was spared a pauper’s grave.’ She stared at him sharply.
‘Papa was no pauper,’ she cried. Her uncle let out a long sigh.
‘I believe your father did tell you he had money problems.’
‘Yes, but he was sorting them out, which was why I was sent to stay with . . . oh,’ she cried, realization dawning.
‘We did try to explain it was to be a long-term arrangement,’ her uncle said gently. ‘You must remember your father loved you very much and had your best interests at heart. He might have made a mess of his business but at least he ensured his personal affairs were in order. Now, we need to call round to Chester Square and collect some of his effects, then hopefully we’ll be in time to catch the evening train back to Devonshire,’ he said, taking out his pocket watch and frowning. ‘As quick as you can, please,’ he said, opening the little door and shouting to the driver.
Before Isabella realized it, they were drawing up outside the only home she’d ever known. Staring up at the three-storey building, she felt as if someone had wrenched her heart from her body. To think she would never hear Papa calling to her from his study, sit opposite him at supper regaling him with details of her day, or retire at night to her pretty bed chamber. Unable to bear it any longer, she threw open the door and jumped out.
‘Where are you going?’ her uncle shouted.
‘Back to my home.’ However, before she could ascend the first step, the heavy front door opened and Maxwell appeared, a pretty dark-haired girl dressed in the latest vogue, clinging to his arm.
‘Maxwell?’ she cried, rushing towards him. To her dismay, he stared right through her, almost pushing her out of the way in his haste to pass.
‘Maxwell, wait,’ she implored.
‘Gracious, don’t tell me you are acquainted with that shabby-looking woman, darling?’ the girl asked, staring at Isabella cu
riously.
‘Never seen her before in my life,’ he replied airily.
‘But she knew your name,’ the girl persisted.
‘I am well known in these parts, Cassandra, darling. Now do come along.’
‘Did you see what she was wearing? It looked like something from the servants’ rag bag.’ Hearing Maxwell’s harsh laugh in response, Isabella clutched her hand to her heart, feeling as though she’d been stabbed. Rooted to the ground, she stared wretchedly after them until they disappeared out of the square. What was going on? Why had Maxwell ignored her? And who was that fashionable girl on his arm? She glanced down at the outmoded black dress her aunt had loaned her and grimaced.
‘Get back into the cab and wait,’ her uncle ordered, appearing at her side.
‘But I am home now,’ she replied.
‘I’m afraid this is no longer your home, Isabella. Now do as I say and I’ll explain everything when I return,’ he insisted. The steely look in his eye forbade further argument and reluctantly she climbed up inside. Bewildered, she watched as he marched purposefully up the steps and tugged on the bell pull. Immediately Jenson appeared and stared him up and down in the discerning way butlers have. Even in her agitated state Isabella couldn’t help comparing the smart cut of his jacket to the ill-fitting coat her uncle was wearing.
Remembering Maxwell’s remark, she stared down at her dress again. Perhaps he hadn’t recognized her. He was used to seeing her in colourful couture, after all. Yes, that had to be it, she thought, returning her attention to the house where her uncle, after discussion with Jenson, was disappearing inside. What was going on now, she wondered. Just as she was about to climb down, her uncle reappeared carrying a parcel tied with string. Without glancing in Isabella’s direction, Jenson firmly closed the door.
‘Will you please explain what that was all about?’ she asked as soon as her uncle climbed up beside her.
‘As soon as we’re on the train,’ he replied. ‘Paddington, quick as you can, driver,’ he called.
As the cab made its way back to the station, dodging the clutter of horsedrawn traffic and scuttling pedestrians, Isabella’s thoughts were in turmoil. Yet she kept coming back to the same two questions. Why had Maxwell ignored her? And who was that girl on his arm?
