by Linda Finlay
The trap lurched, breaking into her thoughts and she grabbed at the wooden strut as the donkey turned left and began descending a steep hill. To one side was an orchard underplanted with the little mauve flowers that were so abundant around these parts. The branches were devoid of fruit, the leaves the golden hue of autumn.
‘Best plums in Devon come from they trees,’ her uncle declared, tapping into her thoughts. ‘Mother makes a fair few tarts with them, not to mention jars of jam.’ Thinking he was referring to her grandmother, Isabella stared at him in surprise then she remembered that was what he called his wife. They certainly had strange ways in this part of the world, she thought, blinking in surprise as a church rose majestically before them. Then she glimpsed a row of headstones to one side and, although she knew her mama wasn’t buried there, she shivered.
‘Someone treading on yer grave?’ her uncle chuckled, as she pulled her mantle tighter round her. ‘Be back in the sunshine again soon,’ he added. Sure enough, moments later they were out of the shade, passing pretty pink cottages that were spaced further apart than those she’d seen the previous day.
‘How do they get the walls that hue?’ she asked, thinking how lovely it would be to paint them.
‘Gives it a wash of lime mixed with pig’s blood,’ her uncle told her, laughing as she wrinkled her nose. Then she noticed ornamental birds staring down at her from their thatch.
‘Goodness,’ she gasped.
‘Clever, eh?’ her uncle said, seeing her fascination. ‘Started when a thatcher decided to put his mark, a biddle – that’s beetle to you – on a roof he’d finished. Before long, others were asking him to fashion birds to denote their dwellings. Some think it pretentious but each to their own,’ he shrugged.
‘Perhaps you should have some blue mice on yours,’ she joked.
‘Ah, the boy been teasing you, has he? Don’t you let him niddle you, girl, it’ll do him good to have someone stand up to him. The Sod.’
‘Pardon?’ Isabella gasped, staring at him in surprise. Certainly, William had been a pain but he hadn’t really been that bad. Then she realized her uncle was gesturing ahead.
‘That’s what they call this harbour. ’Tis the only one in the whole of the country to be on the inside of a railway line,’ her uncle told her, grinning knowingly at her expression. Clearly, he’d sensed the atmosphere between William and herself, but before she could pass comment, he was speaking again. ‘Now breathe in some more of that ozone, girl, you’ve got a fair pallor about you this afternoon.’
Isabella gazed out over the expanse of shimmering bluegreen water which was flowing out through a tunnel under the railway. Nearby, weatherbeaten fishermen were unloading the day’s catch from their boats and stacking the boxes onto the sea wall while gulls swooped and squawked hopefully overhead. It was a world away from the hustle and bustle of the city and for the first time since she’d arrived, she felt herself relax. She watched as a group of small children, string dangling from sticks, wading in the shallow waters, and wondered if her mama had played here. Just as she turned to ask her uncle, she heard voices calling to him.
‘Artnoon, Fred.’ Two older men who were sitting on the wall outside an inn raised their jugs of ale in greeting.
‘Jim, Ern,’ her uncle called, drawing to a halt. ‘This is my niece, Isabella.’
‘Oh ah,’ they chorused, giving her an appreciative look.
‘Fancy name for a fancy lady. Heard you’d come to live in the village,’ Ern replied, his grey beard bobbing up and down as he spoke.
‘Actually, I’m just visiting,’ she replied. As the two men raised their brows sceptically, her uncle cleared his throat.
‘And it’s a pleasure to have my niece here, for however long she decides to stay.’
‘She be the spit of your Ells apart from her blonde hair and blue eyes, of course. Suppose that came from ’im,’ Jim said, giving a toothless grin. Isabella blinked, trying to associate the appellation with her glamorous mother, Eleanora. Apart from anything else, her father had hazel eyes. Maybe the man’s memory was failing. He was old, after all.
‘Ah, now Ellie were some looker. No wonder she had all the lads . . . ,’ Ern began, keen to continue the tale.
‘Time we were on our way or we’ll miss the train,’ her uncle cut in quickly.
‘Heard Furneaux’s turned his land over to the flower growing now,’ Jim grinned.
‘Be competition for you, eh Fred?’ Ern added, his eyes bright with mischief. Isabella saw her uncle’s lips tighten but he wasn’t about to be drawn.
‘Enjoy your drink, gentlemen,’ he said, raising his hat.
‘Oh ah,’ they chorused and promptly returned their attention to their ale.
Her uncle was silent as they resumed their journey, but Isabella was bursting with curiosity.
‘How come everyone round here knows who I am?’ she asked. He shrugged.
‘That’s country living for you. News flies quicker than the pigeons.’
‘But they thought I was staying,’ she persisted.
‘Thinks they knows everything that goes on around here. And what they don’t, they make up. Gives them something to chat about. Look, there’s the open sea over there,’ he said, gesturing to their right. ‘Be on t’other side of the railway line now.’ Realizing he was trying to divert her attention but determined to get some answers to her questions, she turned to face him.
‘What was Mama like?’
‘Well now,’ he murmured. ‘She were lively and inquisitive, like yourself.’
‘But do I look like her? Grandmother said the strangest thing earlier,’ she began.
‘Ah, she often do,’ he agreed.
‘She said I must have rinsed my hair in clotted cream. Auntie thought she’d mistaken me for Mama and it got me wondering. Don’t you think it’s strange she had dark colouring when I’m fair and have blue eyes?’ she asked. He gave her a considering look then shrugged.
‘Offspring can take on the colouring of either parent.’
‘Yes but . . . ,’ she began, about to pursue the subject when she saw a carriage heading their way. Maxwell’s was similar, she thought, her heart flipping happily. But even as she leaned forward in her seat, it veered off to the right.
‘Oh,’ she gasped. Her uncle drew his brows together.
‘Something wrong, girl?’
‘That carriage, if it’s Maxwell, he’s gone the wrong way,’ she cried.
‘Driver’s bound to know where he’d be going. Anyhow, that’s the visitant route to Powderham Castle,’ he replied.
‘Oh, I see,’ she said despondently.
‘If the Earl of Devon is entertaining, it might be an idea to see if his guests want posies for their ladies’ fancy frocks,’ he muttered, oblivious to her frazzled emotions. ‘Got to up the stakes if Furneaux’s muscling in on my business.’
Isabella hardly heard him for she was peering along the lane where the carriage had turned off. Already it was just a speck in the distance and her heart sank. Obviously it wasn’t Maxwell. Why was he taking so long? Perhaps she should pen him another letter. She could write to dear Papa too. He’d be pleased to know she’d arrived safely.
‘Nearly there,’ her uncle said, breaking into her thoughts. As the trap slowed, she noticed a peculiar-looking red building towering above them. She was about to ask what it was, when the blast of a whistle sounded. ‘Come on, Silver,’ he urged, tugging on the rein. As they juddered to a halt in front of the station, two men, smart in their railway uniforms, ran over and began unloading the trap.
‘You’re late today, Fred. Train’s almost here.’
‘Been one of them days, Den,’ he replied, jumping down to help.
‘Bill’s flowers are already on the platform. Said you should drop by later. Got something important to tell you, apparently. Probably be about Furneaux and his new venture.’
‘Carry on like this and we’ll have to put on a train specially for the violets,’ the other m
an chuckled as he lifted the last of the boxes onto his trolley.
The rumble of the approaching engine galvanized them into action and they pushed their loads towards the platform. There was a hiss of brakes and once more Isabella found herself enveloped in a cloud of steam. When it had cleared, she saw all three men had disappeared, leaving her alone in the trap.
Chapter 7
How ill-mannered, Isabella thought, staring around the empty yard. She looked up at the strange-looking building they’d passed earlier and decided that rather than sit waiting, she’d take a closer look. It was quite unlike anything she’d seen before. The walls were built from large blocks of dark red stone with light grey surrounds picking out the window and door openings. Her hands itched to get it all down on paper and, not for the first time that afternoon, she wished she had her watercolours with her. Then she noticed the tall, ornate square tower on the far side of the building and stepped back to see the top of it.
‘Ouch,’ cried a voice. Spinning round, she saw a young man hopping up and down on one foot. He was wearing a brown high-button sack coat over a waistcoat and sporting a soft cap on his dark hair.
‘Oh goodness, I am so sorry,’ she cried.
‘Don’t worry, I expect the infirmary can mend it,’ he sighed, gingerly touching his foot to the ground.
‘Is it that bad?’ she gasped. He looked at her wryly then gave a cheeky grin.
‘Not really,’ he admitted, mischief glittering in his green eyes. ‘It’s not often I capture the sympathy of a pretty young lady so I thought I’d capitalize on it. Only you looked so anxious, I couldn’t keep up the pretence.’
‘I’m sorry for stepping back on you but I was curious about this strange building.’
‘Then please let me make amends for my teasing by telling you something about it,’ he offered.
‘Oh, would you?’ she cried. ‘I’m only visiting the area and would love to know what it’s for.’
‘It is a remarkable structure. You will have heard of the great engineer, Isambard Kingdom Brunel, of course?’ he asked, looking at her for confirmation.
‘Indeed,’ she agreed, not wishing to appear ignorant.
‘Well, he designed the Atmospheric Railway that originally ran along these parts, and this building with the Italianate tower you were admiring was one of the pumping stations. The pumps in there pushed air through pipes to move the carriages along.’
‘Goodness. You said originally, though. Do they not use it anymore?’ she asked, eager to appear intelligent.
‘Alas, the local rats developed a taste for the leather and grease which formed the seals in the pipes.’
‘Rats?’ she shuddered, pulling her mantle tighter round her.
‘Yep, gobbled them up faster than they could be replaced, so that was the end of that, as it were. This building is all that remains.’
‘And splendid it is, too. Thank you so much for enlightening me,’ she told him.
‘My pleasure,’ he said, his eyes twinkling as he perfected a bow. ‘You said you were visiting. Might I enquire how long you’ll be staying here in Starcross, Miss, er?’
Before she could respond, she heard her uncle shout. Turning quickly, she saw he was sitting in the trap gesturing impatiently for her to join him. Following her gaze, her companion opened his mouth to say something, but she cut in quickly.
‘Sorry, I must go,’ she said. ‘Thank you again for the fascinating lesson,’ she murmured before hurrying over to her uncle.
‘What the ’ell was you doing talking to young Furneaux?’ he growled, as she climbed up beside him.
‘Oh, is that who he was? He was kind enough to explain about the pumping station, Uncle. Do you know . . . ,’ she began.
‘Stay away from him, you hear?’ her uncle interrupted. ‘Bad as his father, he is,’ he spat.
‘Excuse me . . . ,’ she began.
‘That’s an order, Isabella,’ he added, tugging on the reins. As the donkey began to move, she stared at her uncle in astonishment.
‘Papa would never speak to me like that.’
‘Well, maybe he should have, then you’d be more worldly-wise,’ he growled.
‘How dare you,’ she spluttered. ‘You can be sure that when Maxwell arrives, he will take issue with you.’
‘Oh, he will, will he? Well, I’ll look forward to hearing what this Maxwell has to say, if by any miracle he turns up, that is.’
‘Stop this minute,’ she ordered, but he ignored her. ‘I said stop,’ she repeated, wanting to be away from this odious man. When he still disregarded her wishes, she peered over her shoulder, hoping to catch the attention of the agreeable young man, but he had disappeared. She stared down at the road passing beneath, wondering if she dared jump.
‘Settle yourself down, maid, we’re in for a skatt,’ her uncle said, pulling his hat further down over his head.
‘A what?’ Barely had she asked the question when the first drops of rain began to fall. As it became heavier, she stared around for some kind of hood, but although the boxes were protected by a canvas cover, the rest of the cart was open to the elements. She turned to her uncle but he stared resolutely ahead. Simmering with rage, she gazed out over the water where steely clouds now merged with the grey sea. A gust of wind tugged at her bonnet and she put a hand to her head. Her uncle oblivious, or more likely not bothered, continued staring fixedly ahead and the journey back to the cottage was both a cold and silent one. She crossed her fingers and hoped that Maxwell would be waiting for her. However, when they turned into the lane, there was no carriage in sight and her heart sank to her saturated boots. She would write to him tonight.
‘Oh my, you’re drenched to the bone,’ her aunt tutted, pulling Isabella into the warmth of the kitchen. ‘Get out of those wet things and warm yourself by the fire before you catch a chill.’
‘Stop fussing, Mother,’ her uncle said, throwing his hat onto the hook by the door. ‘’Tis her own fault she took a soaking. If she hadn’t spent time blethering with young Furneaux we’d have been back before the weather broke.’
‘But I wasn’t . . . ,’ Isabella began, then seeing his grim expression sighed. ‘If you’ll excuse me, I’ve had a busy day and wish to retire for the night.’
‘’Tain’t six o’clock yet,’ William scoffed. Ignoring him, Isabella made for the stairs, but halfway up she heard him say: ‘Don’t know why she’s tired, it’s not as if she packed many flowers from what I can see. And as for that sparrow food she prepared, no wonder me stomach thinks me throat’s been cut.’
By the time she reached her room, Isabella was shivering so violently she could hardly take off her wet clothes. Throwing herself onto the mattress, she huddled under the thin bed cover and let the tears fall. How she wished she was safely back at home where Maisie would be filling her bathtub with hot water and setting out rose-scented soap petals from the cut-glass jar on the shelf. Then she would sink into her soft feather bed and wait for a bowl of Cook’s consommé to be brought to her on a tray. Instead she’d spent a horrible day in this godforsaken place where, even though she’d tried to help, nothing she did was right. She hated it here and she hated Uncle and William as well. Oh Maxwell, where are you?
Then a thought struck her so forcefully, she sat bolt upright. Instead of writing, why didn’t she make her own way home now? If she slipped out whilst the family were having supper, they wouldn’t even notice she’d gone. Excitement flooding through her, she made to climb out of bed but a flash of lightning lit up the sky. It was closely followed by a deafening clap of thunder that seemed to shake the whole cottage. She’d hated storms since the violent one they’d experienced the night her dear mama had died. All thought of going outside disappeared as, stifling a scream, she pulled the cover over her head and closed her eyes.
She must have slept, for the next thing she knew Dotty was shaking her awake.
‘Come on, Izzie, Father’s called a meeting.’
‘What time is it?’ she mu
ttered.
‘Almost five o’clock.’ Isabella groaned and closed her eyes again.
‘Please get up, Izzie, or Father’ll get mad,’ Alice pleaded.
‘Yes, do hurry and dress,’ Dotty urged. ‘I’ve got your clothes here. They’re dry now as I put them on the pulley above the range overnight.’ Reluctantly Isabella opened her eyes again and saw the two girls were already dressed, their hair neatly braided. How could they look so awake at this unearthly hour, she wondered?
‘All right, I’m coming,’ she muttered, taking the proffered garments. Clambering from the mattress, Isabella winced and put her hand to her back. She felt stiffer than the housekeeper’s starched petticoats. She couldn’t bear to sleep on the floor any longer.
‘Girls.’ At the sound of their father’s roar, Dotty and Alice fled down the stairs. Not wishing to fuel his anger, Isabella quickly donned the coarse clothes, tidied her hair and followed them.
‘Are you feeling better, my dear? Come and sit by me, Father’s holding a family meeting.’ Although her aunt was smiling, Isabella noticed she looked strained.
‘Well, if it’s a family matter, I’ll leave you to it,’ she replied.
‘Like it or not, you are part of this family now, so sit yourself down. That’s an order not an option,’ her uncle barked, seeing her hesitate.
‘But I’ve told you, Uncle, I’m only staying until Maxwell comes for me.’
‘Not exactly hurrying himself, is he?’ William sneered.
‘That’s enough, William,’ her aunt said, shooting him a stern look. ‘Right Isabella, I’ve poured you a mug of tea and we’re having brewis to break our fast. We can eat whilst Father tells us his plan.’ Reluctantly, Isabella took her place, but as she stared at the soggy mess in the bowl, her stomach turned over.
‘Maybe not what you’re used to, girl, but it’ll save Mother cooking whilst we’re extra busy, so eat up,’ her uncle instructed, giving her a stern look. ‘Right, pay attention, everyone.’ Isabella felt a rush of relief as he turned to address the others. Picking up her spoon, she moved the mush around the dish to give the impression of eating. Not that her uncle was watching, for he was in full flood.