The Flower Seller

by Linda Finlay

  ‘Phew,’ Dotty exclaimed, as soon as the door had closed behind her mother. ‘That was close.’

  ‘At least no harm came to your grandmother,’ Isabella said. ‘Did you manage to post my letters?’

  ‘I did. Good job you had stamps, though, ’cos Mother would have known if I used some of the money I got from the big house.’

  ‘Luckily I just had two in my reticule. I’d love to see the manor. Can I come with you next time?’

  ‘No, Izzie, you can’t,’ she shouted, shaking her head emphatically. ‘And you must promise not to ask Mother or Father either,’ she added, jumping to her feet.

  ‘But why?’ Isabella frowned. ‘I can help, carry extra flowers and . . . ’

  ‘No, I can’t risk it, you’re far too pretty,’ her cousin cried as she flounced up the stairs, leaving Isabella staring after her.

  Chapter 9

  ‘Whatever do you mean?’ Isabella asked following after her. ‘What has my appearance to do with delivering flowers to the manor?’ Dotty turned away from the mirror where she’d been arranging her hair on top of her head.

  ‘Everything. And we call it the big house. Look, you must promise not to tell a soul but I’ve got an admirer,’ she burst out, a smile hovering on her lips.

  ‘Goodness, how exciting,’ Isabella cried, clapping her hands enthusiastically. ‘However, I still don’t see why that should stop me coming with you.’

  ‘But Izzie, look at me!’ she wailed. ‘My hair hangs all straight and I’m dumpy with freckles to boot. You’re lean as a racehorse while I look like old Silver.’

  ‘What utter rubbish, Dotty. You’re naturally pretty with your dark colouring and you have womanly curves. Obviously this admirer recognizes that fact.’

  ‘But if he sees you, with your golden hair and big blue eyes, he’ll have second thoughts about accompanying me to the harvest hop.’

  ‘I still think that’s nonsense, but if he did then he wouldn’t be worth worrying about, would he?’

  ‘Suppose not,’ Dotty sighed, sinking down onto her mattress. ‘I wish I was elegant like you, though. I mean you glide into a room like a lady, whereas I sort of bound like a bunny.’ Isabella laughed at the girl’s description.

  ‘Only because I was made to practise deportment. You should try walking around a room with a pile of books balanced on your head,’ she chuckled. ‘Each time one fell to the floor, I received a rap on my knuckles from the governess’s ruler,’ she said, grimacing at the memory. ‘What is your admirer like then?’ Immediately Dotty’s face lit up and she wrapped her arms around her body as if embracing it.

  ‘Handsome as a prince. He’s got red hair and hazel eyes that glisten with gold flecks when we . . . well, we’ve only kissed a couple of times, but it was like an explosion. Like sparkles on bonfire night. Coo, me insides go all wobbly thinking about it,’ she gushed. ‘I expect you feel the same when your fella kisses you?’ Isabella thought of Maxwell’s chaste kisses upon her cheek or hand but couldn’t relate them to Dotty’s description.

  ‘So, when is this harvest hop then? And who will be there?’ she asked.

  ‘Two Saturdays’ time. And that’s the trouble, Izzie, everyone will be going. Including Mother and Father.’ She let out a long sigh.

  ‘They don’t know about . . . what’s his name, by the way?’

  ‘Alfie, or Alfred when he’s being posh. He’s the underfootman and in line for a foot up when his boss retires, if you’ll pardon me pun,’ she joked. Then her eyes clouded. ‘And no, they don’t know. Father’s bound to say I’m too young and . . . ’

  ‘Girls? Why are you upstairs when luncheon is on the table?’ As if on cue, her father’s voice drifted up the stairs. Dotty turned to Isabella.

  ‘You won’t say anything?’ she pleaded.

  ‘Of course not. But you’ll have to tell them soon if this function is imminent.’

  ‘Function? Oh, the hop. Yes, I know,’ she replied, letting out another sigh. ‘I was hoping Uncle Bill would have dropped by but he’s been too busy turning more of his land over to violets.’

  ‘I haven’t met him yet,’ Isabella replied.

  ‘You’ll like him, he’s a sweetie. Really listens to what you has to say and . . . ’

  ‘Girls, get yourselves down here this instant.’

  ‘Best scat, Father sounds ratty.’ Privately Isabella thought he was always like that, but she held her tongue and followed Dotty back down the stairs.

  ***

  When September gave way to October and Maxwell still hadn’t appeared – or much less answered her letter – Isabella’s spirits plummeted like late-autumn leaves. She couldn’t help thinking that William had been right and he wasn’t coming after all. Although the idea of taking herself home surfaced from time to time, she didn’t want to be a burden to Papa who was obviously still busy as he hadn’t responded to her note either. There was also the problem of having no money. Although she’d worked hard every day since her arrival, she had yet to see evidence of any pay.

  However, the topic of conversation for everyone was the harvest hop, which sounded to Isabella as if it was the highlight of the year.

  ‘If only I could buy material to make a new dress,’ Dotty wailed, her hands automatically tying her posy with raffia. ‘I saw some beautiful sprigged cotton in Pudge’s last week.’

  They were in the barn, bunching up the violets, which to Isabella seemed a never-ending job for as soon as they emptied the buckets William or her uncle would arrive with yet more.

  ‘Sorry, Dotty, we don’t have any spare money for luxuries,’ her mother told her.

  ‘Surprise, surprise,’ Dotty sighed, looking so forlorn Isabella’s heart went out to her.

  ‘We could look in my portmanteau and see if anything would suit?’ she offered, thinking of her beautiful gowns. Dotty’s eyes lit up.

  ‘That’s kind of you, dear, but I don’t really think chiffons and silks will be appropriate. Those delicate fabrics would soon get snagged on the hay bales,’ her aunt replied.

  ‘Hay bales?’ Isabella frowned.

  ‘Farmer Furkin lets us use his largest byre. He sets out bales of hay around the walls so the old fogeys can sit and watch us youngsters dance,’ Dotty told her.

  ‘Less of your cheek, young lady,’ her mother rebuked mildly. ‘I’ll have you know that as soon as the caller shouts for a do-si-do, Father and I are up like a shot.’

  ‘Don’t remind me,’ Dotty groaned. ‘It’s so embarrassing.’

  ‘Never worried you before. Something different this year?’ her mother asked, eyeing her shrewdly.

  ‘Well, er, someone might want to dance with me,’ Dotty muttered. Then, cheeks flushing like two rosy apples, she bent down to retrieve another corset box.

  ‘Of course, they will,’ her mother laughed, turning to Isabella. ‘Everyone joins in the circles, squares and lines. It’s a very sociable evening. As long as we can keep Father to no more than two jugs of cider. He’s not used to the drink, see.’

  ‘Oh glory,’ Dotty groaned. ‘I’d forgotten about last year.’

  ‘Father works hard and is entitled to let his hair down.’

  ‘Yes, but . . . ’

  ‘That’s enough, Dotty,’ her mother warned. ‘I’ve a bit of yellow gingham left if you girls can make use of it, for you’ll need something suitable as well, Isabella.’

  ‘But I want to look grown up and pretty,’ Dotty insisted.

  ‘Pretty is as pretty does, Dotty, whoever you’re trying to impress,’ her mother said, fixing her daughter with a stare that would curdle even the best pedigree cow’s milk.

  ‘Perhaps we could turn a couple of my silk scarves into a top to go with the gingham,’ Isabella offered. Immediately, Dotty brightened and the genial atmosphere was restored.

  ***

  With a bright moon lighting their way, the family walked together down the dark lane towards the village. Spirits were high at the thought of the evening ahead, although Dotty�
�s mood swung from eager anticipation at seeing her Alfred, to blind panic.

  ‘I feel sick, Izzie,’ she whispered.

  ‘Well, please don’t be over my best silks,’ Isabella replied, holding up her hands in mock horror in an effort to cheer up her cousin. They’d spent the past few evenings sewing the gingham into two new skirts and fashioning her silk scarves into blouses to complement them.

  ‘Do you think he’ll like my outfit?’ Dotty asked.

  ‘If he doesn’t, you’ll know he doesn’t have good taste,’ Isabella whispered, trying not to think of the lavish sum she’d spent on the Eastern-inspired printed stoles from Liberty. Hopefully it wouldn’t be too long until she could replace them.

  As soon as they reached the farmer’s field, Alice and Thomas ran on ahead, shouting excitedly to their friends.

  ‘Remember, girls, best behaviour,’ her uncle said, leading the way into a large rustic building. Dotty grimaced at Isabella.

  ‘I hope he doesn’t interfere,’ she whispered. Isabella smiled sympathetically, then stared around her. The byre was lit by myriad lamps, with candles wedged into an assortment of bottles and jars. As the mix of wax, hay and ale assaulted her nostrils, she wrinkled her nose. The others didn’t seem to notice anything, though, as they were either sitting on the bales drinking or gathered in groups chatting. A feeling of anticipation and jollity filled the air. To her surprise, whereas in London it was a matter of pride to be individually attired, here everyone appeared to be dressed the same. The men were sporting jerkins with red spotted kerchiefs knotted around their necks, while the women wore brightly coloured long skirts and cotton tops. Isabella glanced at Dotty who, having discarded her turnover and puffed up her hair, was anxiously looking around. Suddenly her face lit up as a red-haired young man hurried towards her.

  ‘Oh ah,’ Frederick murmured. ‘And what do we have ’ere.’

  ‘Let the girls alone, Father,’ her aunt reproved mildly. Then as a fiddler began to play, she turned to Isabella. ‘Come along, time to dance,’ she urged, taking both Isabella and her husband by the arm and leading them towards the empty space in the middle of the floor where everyone was gathering.

  A large man with a bright red face was grinning down at them from a platform in front.

  ‘That’s the caller,’ her aunt told her, raising her voice to be heard over the din. ‘Just do as he says and you’ll be fine.’ Before Isabella could ask what she meant, the fiddler struck up the tune and the caller began issuing instructions in a voice as large as himself.

  ‘In and out, allemande, do-si do and move on.’

  As everyone followed his changing commands, Isabella was swung from one partner to another, sometimes male, sometimes female, it didn’t seem to matter. Although everybody was having a good time, all Isabella noticed was the feel of coarse hands that prickled her skin and the less than pleasant odour wafting from some of their bodies.

  ‘Thank goodness,’ Isabella muttered, when the music slowed. But instead of stopping, the fiddler was joined by another. As the tempo picked up again, she was pulled into a circle and another frenzy of dancing began. In and out they went, going faster and faster, until they surged so enthusiastically into the middle, she almost touched noses with the gentleman opposite. It was only when he grinned that she realized it was the young man she’d met at the pumping station. However, before she had time to acknowledge him, she was jerked back again.

  Just as she thought she would faint from exertion, the music slowed. Thank heavens, she thought, making to leave the floor. Feeling a tap on her shoulder, she spun round to find the young man with emerald eyes smiling at her.

  ‘Felix Furneaux,’ he announced, perfecting a bow.

  ‘Isabella Carrington,’ she replied, surprising herself by dipping a bob.

  ‘Would you join me for the next dance?’ he asked.

  ‘Well, I . . . ,’ but as she started to refuse, a resounding chord sounded.

  ‘Come on, Country bumpkin,’ he grinned, taking her arm and leading her back to the middle of the floor.

  ‘Well, of all the . . . ,’ she began but her words were lost in the press of people forming groups and she realized it was the name of a set dance. Then the caller began shouting instructions, and once again she was caught up in the frenzy. As Felix smiled encouragement, she found herself relaxing and following his lead. His touch when he linked his arm through hers was warm, and the look in his eyes admiring so that she found herself losing her reserve and throwing herself into the dance. To her surprise she began to enjoy herself, losing all sense of time as sets followed reels until finally the fiddlers stopped playing.

  ‘Goodness, that was fun,’ she gasped, wiping her hand over her brow.

  ‘May I get you a cooling drink? Some lemonade or cider, perhaps?’ Felix asked.

  ‘Thank you, a glass of lemonade would be most acceptable.’

  ‘Can’t promise cut crystal, but I’ll see what I can do,’ he winked, leading her over to a vacant bale. ‘Make yourself comfortable and I’ll be back before you know it.’ She frowned down at the makeshift seat but her legs were so shaky, she sank onto it and gazed around.

  There was a long line snaking its way beside a trestle groaning with hams, pies, pasties, cheese and pickles, the centrepiece being a huge loaf shaped like a wheatsheaf. She was just admiring it when she noticed her uncle talking to a man who looked so similar that it had to be his brother. At last she’d get to meet her other uncle, she thought. Further along, she saw Dotty standing close to the redheaded man who had to be Alfred, and from the way he was gazing into her eyes, Isabella didn’t think for one moment he’d even noticed what she was wearing. How lovely to be adored like that, she mused, realizing that she hadn’t given Maxwell a single thought all evening. She could just imagine his disparaging look if he could see her now. Before she could dwell on the matter, Felix reappeared, grinning triumphantly.

  ‘I don’t suppose you’ve been to anywhere like this before?’ he laughed, handing her what looked suspiciously like a jam jar then settling himself beside her on the bale. She was too thirsty to worry, though, and took a long sip.

  ‘Oh, this is delicious,’ she murmured, taking another.

  ‘Made by our local brewer, that is. Finest in the land,’ Felix declared, downing his drink in one. ‘Didn’t realize your uncle was Northcott,’ he added, waving his empty jar towards the trestle where Frederick was now talking to a group of men. From the animated way he was gesticulating, Isabella guessed he’d probably already supped a cider or two.

  ‘And I didn’t realize our families are at loggerheads,’ she replied.

  ‘Well, that’s a bit strong, surely? Our market gardens might be competitors in trade, but there’s no reason we can’t go about things amicably,’ he pointed out. Isabella raised her brows.

  ‘You try telling that to my uncle,’ she sighed, raising her brows. As she did, she noticed a straw spiral shape dangling from the rafters above. ‘What is that?’ she asked.

  ‘That be the spirit of fertility,’ he replied, exaggerating his West Country accent. ‘It’s fashioned from the last standing stalks in the field where he takes refuge. The farmer twists them together to give him a home for the winter and bring good luck for next year’s harvest.’

  ‘Honestly, you do have some funny ways in this part of the world,’ she told him.

  ‘I’m guessing from your comment that you are not from around these parts?’

  ‘I’m from London – Chester Square, actually – and I’m biding with my uncle until Maxwell comes for me.’ Taking another sip of her drink, she didn’t see the frown replace his grin.

  ‘Maxwell?’

  ‘My intended,’ she explained.

  Just then the music started up again and the caller announced: ‘Ladies and Gentleman, Strip the Willow, if you please.’

  ‘Well, it’s nice to have met you again,’ Felix said, getting quickly to his feet.

  ‘Oh, are you leaving?’ she asked, dis
appointment flooding through her. In truth, she felt comfortable sitting chatting to this pleasant man, who was not only fun but appeared more cultured than the others round here with their strange dialect and weird words.

  ‘Regrettably, propriety decrees I must,’ he murmured, giving a tight smile. Before she could ask what he meant, he perfected another of his little bows and walked quickly away. She stared after him but the fiddler struck another chord and, as people surged forward, he was swallowed up in the crowd.

  Isabella spotted a flushed Dotty being led onto the dance floor by Alfred, and William laughing with his friends. Realizing the fun had gone out of the evening now Felix had left, she looked for her aunt to tell her she was leaving, but the woman was already forming a set with another couple, ordering her reluctant husband to stand opposite. Isabella couldn’t help smiling at her uncle being bossed about for once. As the caller began shouting instructions, Isabella collected up her mantle before she could be coerced into joining in. She’d just reached the entrance when she heard an ear-splitting scream.

  ‘Get the doctor, this girl’s hurt,’ someone cried. As the crowd parted, Isabella saw Dotty lying on the floor, an anxious Alfred by her side.

  ‘Oh goodness, what’s happened?’ she cried, hurrying over to her cousin. Her aunt pushed her gently away.

  ‘Give her some air,’ she ordered. Isabella stared helplessly down at Dotty who was white as cotton and writhing in agony. Then her uncle appeared.

  ‘You ruddy useless article,’ he boomed, glaring at Alfred.

  ‘I didn’t mean to drop her, sir. She swung too high,’ he muttered.

  Chapter 10

  With Dotty’s ankle declared badly sprained and strapped up, she was unable to help with the flowers. Consequently, the atmosphere around the cottage was subdued.

  ‘One man down will make a difference to my carefully planned operation, so the rest of you will all have to work harder,’ Frederick told them, glaring at his daughter. ‘With Furneaux in competition we can’t afford to slacken our pace.’