by Linda Finlay
***
While the trained steamed its way back through the suburbs towards Devonshire, Isabella listened with increasing dismay as her uncle detailed the events of the preceding months.
‘And so, you see, when your father realized the extent of his uninsured losses, he had to sell everything he possessed to escape bankruptcy. He tried every option he knew to avoid it but, as often happens in these cases, his so-called friends didn’t want to know, let alone help.’
‘Hence none of them attending his funeral,’ Isabella murmured. He nodded.
‘Of course, if he’d had more time . . . ,’ her uncle shrugged. ‘But by then he knew he was dying and couldn’t continue investing for long enough to rebuild his business.’ So that was what her papa had meant about needing more time, Isabella thought, recalling their conversation in his study on that fateful night.
‘I should have stayed with Papa and helped him,’ she murmured.
‘As I’ve already said, he wished to spare you the disgrace. He wanted you to remember him as he was, and the happy times you’d spent together. If it’s any consolation, he wrote saying how relieved he felt knowing you would be looked after and have a roof over your head. He also stated that Jenson had been instructed to advise me when he had, er, passed on.’
‘Jenson,’ she spat. ‘He deliberately ignored me today.’
‘He has his position to think of, Isabella. You mustn’t think too harshly of him for he did agree to pass on your father’s effects. He also apprised me of the current situation regarding the house.’
‘So I could have stayed there today,’ she insisted. He shook his head.
‘No, you couldn’t. It’s been released to the, er, person who benefitted most from your father’s downfall.’ Isabella’s eyes widened in horror.
‘You can’t mean . . . Oh no, please tell me it’s not Maxwell,’ she begged.
‘His father, certainly. And, of course, his son has profited too.’
‘But how?’
‘They bought out the residue and goodwill of his business for a nominal investment.’
‘You mean to tell me that all the time I was waiting for Maxwell to come for me or at least reply to my letter, he was appropriating Papa’s business as well as courting my replacement?’ she cried, feeling foolish and furious in equal amounts.
‘I believe the betrothment between Maxwell Neavesham and Cassandra Blye-Smythe, daughter of Lord and Lady Blye-Smythe, has already been announced in The Times newspaper. I also understand the, er, gentleman has moved into the property in Chester Square and is busy preparing it for after their nuptials. His future in-laws are to buy them a house in the country for when they start a . . . produce offspring.’ He gave a cough then, looking embarrassed, fell silent.
The train swayed as it rounded a bend, and Isabella clutched the armrest for support. ‘Someone better, someone better,’ the clatter of the wheels seemed to mock.
‘I shall never trust another man again in the whole of my life,’ she declared. Her uncle smiled sadly.
‘You might feel like that now, girl, but one day you’ll see it was for the best. That young man’s driven by greed and will do anything to acquire the material things of life. You, on the other hand, have been given another chance to meet someone who values you for yourself.’
‘Never,’ she declared hotly.
‘Never is a long time, my dear,’ he told her, patting her arm.
‘No, Uncle. My life is over. Everything I have known is at an end.’
‘That’s as may be, but it could be a chance to turn that end into a beginning,’ he quirked his brow. ‘Think about it, eh?’
Suddenly, it was all too much for Isabella and she stared out of the window. Instead of the passing scenery, all she could see was the image of the pretty dark-haired girl smiling up at her Maxwell. Except he wasn’t her Maxwell any more.
‘Not wanted, not wanted,’ the train seemed to shout louder this time. As for her uncle’s notion of turning an end into a beginning, she would have to think if there could be something in that.
‘Sometimes, Isabella . . . ’ She jumped as his voice broke into her thoughts. ‘Sometimes, you need to revisit your past before you can move on to your future.’
‘You sound as though you know about that,’ she frowned.
‘As a matter of fact, I do,’ he agreed softly, a faraway look in his eye. ‘And one day I shall tell you about it,’ he added. ‘Now, it’s been a traumatic time, so why not close your eyes and try and get some rest.’
Although she sat back in her seat, she couldn’t relax, the events of the day playing over and over in her mind. Poor Papa, why didn’t you tell me you were ill? I could have stayed and helped. If I hadn’t gone away, Maxwell might still be mine. But then, had he just been using her all along?
Staring back out of the window, she saw the light was fading, the passing scenery a shadowy blur as it flashed by. As the train rattled onwards, her thoughts turned to the future. Never would she let herself be used again. The question was, what was she going to do now? The train slowed then jerked to a halt, wakening her uncle. He peered out at the platform.
‘Ah, Exeter already,’ he said, reading the sign illuminated by a gas lamp. Then as the engine gave a hiss and the train began moving, he turned to Isabella and smiled. ‘We shall be home soon and William will be waiting with the cart. I want you to know that Mother and I will be happy for you to stay with us as long as you like. I’m afraid we can’t offer the fine things of life you are used to, but you are welcome to share what little we have.’
‘Thank you, Uncle, that is kind of you,’ Isabella murmured, tears welling at the kindness of these generous family members she’d only recently met.
‘As long as you can abide living in a semi-detached property, that is,’ he grinned, throwing her own words back at her. Isabella hesitated, uncertain whether to voice something that had been puzzling her.
‘Although yours is a semi-detached property, it is joined to the one Grandmama lives in and . . . ’ She broke off, not wishing to appear rude.
‘And what? Spit it out, girl,’ he said. ‘If there’s one thing we have in our family, it’s plain speaking.’ Reassured, she continued.
‘Why are you all cramped into one half of the building when she has the other all to herself? I mean, it would make sense for you to share all the rooms, wouldn’t it?’ He nodded thoughtfully.
‘It would. Trouble is, Grandmother has her peculiar ways, and at this time of life needs to have her things around her, same as she always has. Gets fretful and argumentative else, and that’s no good for anyone. So it’s easier for us to stay over our side.’
‘But you and Auntie have to sleep in the parlour,’ she protested.
‘The parlour, eh,’ he chuckled. ‘Have to tell Mother that one.’
‘Talking of Auntie, are you sure she really wants me to stay? I mean, she’s been very kind but she already has so much to do.’
‘Mother insists on it. Cors, you could muck in more,’ he pointed out, returning to his former brusque self.
‘But I’m already learning to cook and posy and pack the violets each day.’
‘’Tis selling the flowers we’re falling down on.’
‘But you send your violets to Covent Garden each day,’ Isabella said, staring at him in surprise.
‘True, but with Furneaux setting up in competition, we also need to find regular local custom before he does. That’s where you could really help us.’
‘What do you mean?’ she asked.
‘Your pretty looks and genteel voice would go down a treat with the local gents. So, if you really want to help your aunt, you can sell our violets in the town each day. What do you say?’
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 t
hat, 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.
