by Linda Finlay
Isabella shook her head at his hard-headed attitude. Surely Dotty’s well-being was more important than his timetable? They were already working flat out and it wasn’t as if poor Dotty had fallen on purpose.
When a penitent Alfred had turned up to see how she was, he was sent away with a flea in his ear and banned from ever calling again. Distraught, Dotty hobbled around with a stick that William had found for her, alternately pleading with her father to reconsider or calling him every bad name she could think of, but he wouldn’t be swayed.
Now it was Thursday and they were sitting around the table in the cold light of dawn, eating the brewis that seemed to have become their staple breakfast. What she wouldn’t give for a lightly boiled egg with toasted dipping soldiers, Isabella thought, pushing the soggy crusts around her dish.
‘Right, Isabella.’ She jumped as her uncle’s voice penetrated her thoughts. ‘We can’t afford to let our customers down, so with Dotty out of action, you will take the violets to the big house today then sell whatever they don’t buy in the town,’ he announced. Isabella gulped. Whilst she’d been longing to accompany Dotty on her visits, she didn’t relish going alone. Seeing her hesitate, his steely eyes darkened. ‘I take it you can manage?’
‘Of course, Uncle,’ she replied, determined to rise to the challenge. He gave a loud harrumph then turned to Dotty.
‘’Tis time you were working again, girl. I’ve set up a stool by the trestle so you can help Mother pack.’ Dotty opened her mouth to protest, but seeing the tic twitching in his cheek, snapped it shut again. ‘Come along, William, let’s get these violets picked.’ Snatching his hat from its peg and the basket from the deep sill of the window, he stalked outside. With a smirk at Isabella, William grabbed his basket and followed.
‘Right, now that’s settled, it’s time I was seeing to Mother,’ her aunt said, getting to her feet. ‘Alice, you wash the dishes. Thomas, you can dry them – and carefully, mind. We don’t want them cracked. Dotty, tell Isabella the quickest way to get to the big house and who she’s to speak to. Oh, and you’d best explain where’s the best place to stand in town as well. Sure you’re up to this?’ she asked, turning to Isabella, a worried expression on her face.
‘Of course I am, Aunt Mary,’ she replied, crossing her fingers behind her back.
‘Don’t mind Uncle, we’re grateful for your help,’ she smiled.
As soon as the door closed behind her mother, Dotty called for Alice to fetch her paper and a pencil.
‘If I write Alfred a note, will you see that he gets it, Izzie?’ she asked, keeping her voice low.
‘Yes, if I can,’ she agreed, thinking it would be easy to spot the redheaded young man.
‘It was my fault I fell and it’s not fair he’s been blamed,’ Dotty sighed. ‘While I do this, you’d better get yourself ready. Father will be back with the flowers any moment now.’
Hurrying up to the bedroom, Isabella donned her best mantle and bonnet. Then, thinking it might bring her luck, she snatched up the little silver locket from under her pillow and fastened it around her neck.
When she reappeared, Dotty handed her the folded note addressed to Alfred, along with directions to the big house.
‘You need to speak to the cook, Mrs Tripe. She’ll tell you how many bunches she requires, then get the housekeeper to pay you. Mrs Tripe is a love and usually gives me one of her nubbies.’
‘Her what?’ Isabella asked.
‘They’re her special buns. She makes them with yeast and saffron and they’re delicious,’ Dotty explained, kissing her fingers with her lips. ‘Then you’ll need to sell whatever flowers are left. Father’ll go spare if you come back with any. Being market day, it’s best to go to the Strand for that. Stand outside the stationer’s and circulating library, then move on to the linen and woollen draper’s later in the morning when the ladies start appearing. But keep your peepers peeled ’cos if you sees a toff coming out of the confectioner’s holding a beribboned package, nip over smartish. Like as not he’ll be calling upon his lady love and you can tempt him to buy her a posy by holding out your basket and smiling sweetly.’
‘Oh, I couldn’t,’ Isabella gasped, horrified at the thought of approaching a gentleman. But then her uncle reappeared holding a laden basket.
‘Right, girl, here’s yer flowers. Off you go or they’ll wilt,’ he urged.
‘You mean I’m to walk to the big house?’ Isabella asked, staring at him in dismay. Her uncle frowned then pushed his hat to the back of his head.
‘Expecting to be conveyed, was yer? Well, sorry to disappoint but Silver has more important work to do. ’Tis only a few measly miles anyhow,’ he snorted. Biting down a retort, Isabella took the basket from him.
She’d show him, she vowed as she set off down the lane, the chill of the early-morning air cooling her flushed cheeks. All around, the landscape spread out like an autumnal tapestry of glorious golds, purples and russet, and soon she felt her heart lifting. An on-shore breeze blew up, bringing with it the tang of salt, and she marvelled how even though she was in the countryside, the sea was close by. As the orange-tipped leaves crackled under her feet, memories of playing in the park opposite her home surfaced, and on impulse she kicked up the piles that had gathered, laughing as they fluttered back to the ground. Then spotting the chestnut gleam of conkers on the grass, she gathered up a handful to give to Alice and Thomas later. It was good to be away from the cottage and barn with its endless flowers to be posied and packed.
She could hardly believe she’d been in Devonshire over a month. With a pang, she wondered how dear Papa was. Never having been away from him before, she missed him so much it hurt. As for Maxwell, when would he be free to leave his office? Not having received any communication from him, she thought it must surely be work keeping him from making the journey west.
Although she walked briskly and followed Dotty’s instructions, the journey along the winding country lanes took much longer than she’d anticipated and, by the time she’d skirted the woods and turned into the driveway leading to the big house, the sun was already rising above the treetops. Settling the heavy basket onto her other arm, she stared in fascination as a hare leapt down the grassy bank in front of her, closely followed by another. A few moments later, a magnificent white building with a castellated roof loomed ahead, and she quickened her pace. At last, she thought, marching up to the front entrance and tugging on the wrought-iron bell pull.
Immediately, the heavy wooden door was opened by a man dressed in a dark jacket and trousers. He stared from Isabella to her basket, his frown deepening.
‘Trade round the back,’ he intoned, dark eyes heavy with reproach.
‘But I . . . ,’ she began.
‘I repeat, the trade entrance is to the rear of the house,’ he sniffed, making to shut the door.
‘Don’t you dare,’ she cried, anxious to divest herself of her basket, which was growing heavier by the moment. Footsteps crunched on the gravel.
‘Is something wrong, Somber?’ a voice enquired.
‘No, my Lord, I was merely directing this, er, person to the correct entrance for her kitchen paraphernalia.’ Isabella narrowed her eyes. She had never been spoken to like that before and, being hot and tired, was not in the mood to be insulted.
‘Presumably one can walk through this door to reach the kitchen,’ she persisted.
‘One can indeed,’ an amused voice replied at her side. ‘Now, turn around. I want to see who dares argue with my butler.’ Isabella spun around and found herself gazing into the face of a man of middle years who was holding a shotgun. Her eyes widened in shock. Surely he didn’t shoot trespassers? As she stepped back in alarm, he lowered it to his side.
‘Don’t worry, it’s pheasants I shoot, not peasants,’ he chuckled. Of all the cheek, Isabella thought, then remembered why she was here and smiled graciously.
‘Good morning, sir. My name is Miss Carrington and I bring violets for Mrs Tripe,’ she said, proffering
her basket.
‘I’m sorry, my Lord. I did try and tell this person the correct procedure,’ the butler said.
‘I’m sure you did, Somber. Well, Miss Carrington . . . you have a first name, I presume?’
‘It’s Isabella,’ she replied.
‘Well, Miss Isabella Carrington, I like a woman with spirit and can see you don’t take no for an answer. Perhaps you’d be good enough to take the lady’s basket to Mrs Pride, Somber.’
‘Mrs Pride? But I was told your cook is Mrs Tripe,’ Isabella frowned.
‘That she is, my dear. However, I wouldn’t risk incurring the wrath of my housekeeper by circumventing her. Now, why don’t you come inside and tell me more about yourself,’ he invited, his gaze taking in her mantle and dress.
‘Thank you,’ she replied, stepping into the hallway that smelled delightfully of beeswax and potpourri. He led the way into an elegant room with sunlight flooding through large bay windows and sparkling off the crystal chandelier hanging from the high ceiling.
As she stood admiring the magnificent oil paintings in their gold frames, he asked: ‘May I offer you some refreshment?’
‘Thank you. I would love to sample one of Mrs Tripe’s nubbies,’ she smiled.
‘Her nubbies?’ he echoed, looking bemused. There was a discreet cough behind them.
‘I believe they are saffron buns, my Lord,’ Somber murmured, from the hallway.
‘That’s right, they’re made with yeast,’ Isabella added.
‘Are they indeed? Well, perhaps you could ask Mrs Tripe to arrange for some, er, nubbies to accompany our coffee then, Somber. And our guest might like to remove her mantle,’ he suggested, giving her a look that sent shudders down her spine.
‘I’m fine, thank you,’ she said quickly.
‘Then that will be all, Somber.’
‘My Lord,’ he bowed and, with a withering look in Isabella’s direction, withdrew. Feeling the need to escape Lord Lester’s penetrating gaze, she moved over to the French doors and stared out at the sea shimmering in the distance.
‘Oh, what a delightful vista,’ she cried. ‘It makes one itch to get out one’s pastels.’ He frowned but before he could respond, a young girl appeared carrying a tray. She looked nervous and skirted the edge of the room, carefully avoiding Lord Lester, before setting the salver down on the table beside him.
‘Shall I serve, my Lord?’ she squeaked without looking directly at him.
He nodded, and with shaking hands she poured the strong dark liquid into delicate Royal Worcester cups, then proffered cream and sugar. As the glorious aroma of freshly ground coffee beans wafted Isabella’s way, she sighed appreciatively. Real coffee at last, she thought, grimacing as she recalled the concoction her aunt had brewed the previous day. It had been made from dandelion roots and tasted as vile as it sounded.
‘Do help yourself to a nubbie,’ Lord Lester invited. Smiling her thanks, she took one and eagerly bit into it. The man was watching her closely, a smile twitching his lips.
‘I trust it is to your liking?’ he asked.
‘It is indeed,’ she replied, unable to resist taking another bite.
‘You intrigue me, Miss Carrington.’
‘How so?’ she asked politely.
‘Your clothes are a mix of couture and, er, how shall I put this . . . well, never mind. Your accent is cultured yet you arrived here like a peasant with flowers to sell to my domestic staff.’
‘Oh, that’s easily explained,’ she laughed to cover her embarrassment. ‘I am staying with my Uncle Frederick. Until my intended comes for me, that is. Dotty – Dorothy my cousin – has hurt her ankle and I was asked to make the delivery on her behalf. My uncle didn’t wish to let you down,’ she added graciously.
‘Your uncle being Frederick Northcott?’ he asked, enlightenment dawning.
‘Yes, he was my mother’s brother.’
‘Ellie was your mother?’ he asked with a quirk of his brow.
‘Eleanora, you mean? Yes, she was,’ she replied, excitedly. ‘You knew her?’ She looked at him expectantly, realizing for the first time that he was about the same age as her mama would have been had she still been alive.
‘Everyone knew your mother,’ he said, giving a little cough. ‘I can see the likeness now. Your colouring might be different but you have the same disposition. She was spirited and determined to get her own way, too,’ he added, giving her a knowing smile.
‘What was she like?’ Isabella asked, sitting forward in her seat. He thought for a moment, a mixture of emotions flitting across his face.
‘She was fun and liked a good time. Do you like a good time?’ he asked, setting down his cup and leaning towards her.
‘Well, of course, although since I came here I seem to have done nothing but work,’ she frowned and placed her empty plate on the table.
‘What a waste of a pretty young thing,’ he said, reaching out and stroking one of his long, manicured fingers along her hand. ‘Already I see your delicate young skin is reddened and chaffed,’ he sighed as if it was the saddest sight he’d ever witnessed. Feeling uncomfortable, though not sure if it was from his touch or the truth of his words, she snatched her hand away.
‘You mentioned an intended? I presume he is of comfortable stature?’ he asked, carrying on as if he hadn’t noticed.
‘Of course. Maxwell works in the City. The financial market, you know. He’s been very busy lately,’ she replied, trying to sound knowledgeable. Lord Lester nodded.
‘And could be tied up for some time. The market’s in turmoil with messy mergers and dodgy dealings taking place.’
‘You know of these things, living down here in Devonshire?’ she asked, staring at him in surprise.
‘Even down here in deepest Devonshire we take delivery of the newspapers,’ he said, giving a throaty chuckle. ‘You, however, are far too pretty to concern yourself with matters of business. I can tell you are used to the finer things of life, so living at the Northcott’s hov—house must be somewhat different,’ he murmured, leaning closer again.
‘Goodness, yes,’ she cried, then checked herself. ‘I mean, they have done their best to make me welcome, but conditions are cramped to say the least. Why, I even have to share a bed cham—,’ she stopped, fearful of revealing too much. A gleam sparked in his eye.
‘Well, I have plenty of chambers here. One of your own would be easy to arrange, with the finest scented linen and adjacent facilities, if you get my meaning.’ He paused to let this sink in. ‘Why don’t you spend the day here? We could really get to know each other,’ he suggested, leaning forward and patting her knee. Isabella suppressed a shudder. ‘Who knows, it might even become a regular occurrence,’ he grinned, seemingly oblivious to her reaction.
‘A regular occurrence?’ she repeated, instinctively leaning further back in her seat as his candid gaze bore into her.
‘This house is built for a fine lady like you. I can offer you all the luxuries you are clearly used to, in return for the delight of your company and perhaps a little kindness.’ His voice trailed away as he stared at her expectantly. She swallowed hard, aware of the slow, deep ticking of the grandfather clock on the far side of the room.
‘I don’t really think . . . ,’ she began, but he leaned even closer so that she caught the spicy tang of his cologne. Feeling repulsed, she twisted her hands in her lap. ‘Of course, I could then tell you more about your delightful mother,’ he coaxed. Isabella’s thoughts whirled. Her uncle and aunt were always too busy to talk about her mama, and she so wanted to discover more about her. Yet every instinct told her this man, whose gaze seemed to penetrate the very core of her being, was not to be trusted.
‘I see you need time to consider,’ he sighed, moving away. ‘I shall get Mrs Pride to return your basket,’ he added, tugging on the embroidered bell pull beside him. Before Isabella could respond, the rustle of starched petticoats heralded the arrival of the housekeeper. She held out the still full basket.
&n
bsp; ‘Cook says these flowers are substandard so she won’t be purchasing any today,’ she announced, triumph lighting up her dark eyes.
‘Substandard?’ Isabella echoed, but the woman was already marching straight-backed from the room.
‘Oh dear,’ Lord Lester murmured as Isabella stared after her in dismay. ‘You really should consider my proposal, you know. With Furneaux starting up in competition, it would be a shame if I felt the need to switch allegiance, as it were.’ Picking up his newspaper, he motioned for her to leave.
‘I’ll see you out,’ Somber said, appearing by her side. ‘And next time, Miss, perhaps you’d remember to . . .’
‘Use the trade entrance, yes, I know,’ she replied, vowing there wouldn’t be a next time.
Chapter 11
What a repulsive man. How dare he make execrable suggestions like that, Isabella fumed as the door closed behind her. As for that stuck-up housekeeper. Substandard flowers indeed. There was nothing wrong with them, she thought, staring down at the perfectly formed violets. She’d been hoping the cook would purchase them all so that she wouldn’t have to stand in the town centre like a common flower girl. Stomping back down the long driveway, her thoughts were in turmoil. Even if Lord Lester could tell her every single detail about her mama, she had no intention of returning. However, like others she’d met since her arrival, he’d hinted her mama had led some kind of secret life, and she intended to find out exactly what it was. As soon as she arrived back at the cottage she would tackle her aunt and uncle again, and if they were still not forthcoming, she’d discuss it with Papa the minute she returned home.
By the time she reached the lane, her face was hot and sticky. Reaching into her pocket for a handkerchief, she felt something crackle. It was the letter Dotty had asked her to give to Alfred. She stared at it in dismay. Although her cousin was relying on Isabella to pass on the message, nothing would make her venture back to the big house. Of course, if she had money she could purchase a stamp and post the letter, but despite working all day every day since she’d arrived in Devonshire, her uncle hadn’t paid her a penny and she’d used up her own supply writing to Papa and Maxwell. She let out a sigh. It seemed she had no alternative other than to try and sell the wretched flowers after all. Transferring her heavy basket to the other arm, she trudged on.