The Flower Seller

by Linda Finlay

  ‘Coo, you never told him you had no corsages?’ Dotty exclaimed, her eyes widening in disbelief.

  ‘Well, I only had the bunches of violets, didn’t I?’ Isabella shrugged.

  ‘Blimmer, Isabella Carrington, don’t you know nothing?’ Dotty cried. ‘Corsages command double the price for half the flowers. You takes a small handful in yer fist, wrap leaves around the stems, twist and add a pin. Easy-peasy, lemonsqueezy. Cor luv us, I thought you said you’d worn them on your posh frocks.’

  ‘I have. It’s just that I never studied how they were composed.’ Dotty gave an unladylike snort then fixed Isabella with her beady look.

  ‘You still haven’t said where you moved to.’

  ‘Goodness, I remember now. Oh, it was quite awful, Dotty. I ventured into the linen draper’s to peruse their merchandise and this horrid, plain-spoken woman demanded I leave the premises.’ She closed her eyes, shuddering at the memory.

  ‘Well blow me, I never known that to happen in Pudge’s before,’ Dotty whistled. ‘’Ang on, it was Pudge’s you went in, wasn’t it?’

  ‘The establishment down from the circulating library and stationer’s?’

  ‘That’s not Pudge’s, silly. They’re further back. Friendly in there, they are, help you find the material and corsets you need. That shop you went in is the one the toffs use. It’s known for charging fancy prices, and rumour has it there’s a room at the back where they lace portly matrons into stays to make them look maidenly. Sometimes even pulling them to fainting point and thinking it funny, can you believe?’ Dotty came to a halt, then groaned. ‘Oh ’eck, don’t tell me you went into the smartest shop in town looking like that?’ she asked, pointing to the coarse skirt Isabella had borrowed.

  ‘Well, yes, I did actually.’

  ‘That explains it then, girl. Didn’t you notice the fine dresses the other ladies had on?’

  ‘Of course, that is why I thought the establishment would have the appropriate attire I was seeking.’

  ‘Look, Izzie, I don’t wish to be mean – especially after all you’ve been through – but someone’s got to point out you’re down on your luck.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Isabella asked, wishing the girl wouldn’t speak in riddles.

  You’re working-class like us now.’ Isabella stared at her cousin in dismay. Working-class? How absolutely frightful.

  ‘Blimmer, girl, you gone all pale. Still, thank the shining stars you’re not stuck indoors like me,’ she sighed, staring down at her bound ankle.

  ‘Are you still in much pain?’ Isabella asked, remorseful she hadn’t thought to enquire before.

  ‘Me ankle’s not so bad but me poor heart’s sick as a dog. Tomorrow was always me favourite day of the week, see, but you’ll be the lucky one going to the big house.’

  ‘Hardly lucky,’ Isabella retorted, the mere thought giving her palpitations. ‘I mean, how do I approach it after last time?’

  ‘By the back door, I should think,’ Dotty chortled then, seeing her cousin’s distraught look, became serious. ‘Seems to me you should take a large slice of humble pie with you.’

  ‘Has Auntie made some?’ Isabella asked, staring around the kitchen hopefully. This time Dotty dissolved into hysterics, tears of mirth running down her cheeks.

  ‘You’re a card, Izzie, and no mistake,’ she chuckled. ‘It means you have to appear all meek, say you’re sorry. Look, go around the back and tap on the door. I expect Molly, the scully, will answer. Ask to speak to Mrs Tripe. She’s all right, she is. It’s always good to enquire about her bunions. Suffers terribly, she does. Then say you’ve brought the best violets for her cooking and how many would she like?’

  ‘You make it sound so easy,’ Isabella murmured.

  ‘That’s ’cos it is. And, er . . . ’ she fumbled in her pocket and drew out a note. ‘Do you think you can see Alfred gets me message this time?’ She fixed Isabella with her dark gaze.

  ‘I’ll do my best,’ Isabella assured her.

  ‘Quick, put it in your pocket, someone’s coming,’ Dotty hissed, passing it over just as Mary came back into the room.

  ‘I’m sure Mother’s getting worse,’ she muttered, putting her tray down on the side. ‘Oh Dotty, there’s no tea,’ she cried picking up the empty pot. ‘Never mind, I’ll make some later when Izzie’s fetched what she wants from her trunk.’

  ‘Sorry, Mother, we were busy blathering. I’ll brew a pot for when you’re done.’

  ‘Thanks, pet. It’s time Alice and Thomas were away to their bed, they’ve school in the morning. Fetch them in, will you, and make sure they have a good wash before they go up? Come on then, Izzie,’ she smiled, leading the way to her bedroom and setting a match to the lamp.

  The room was cold and appeared even more crowded than Isabella remembered. If she’d thought the three of them were jam-packed into the room upstairs, it was nothing to the confines her aunt and uncle were enduring.

  ‘Look, Auntie, once I’ve sorted everything out, my luggage can be stored in the barn like Uncle originally suggested. Then you would have more space in here,’ she said, conscience pricking. Her aunt smiled.

  ‘Don’t you worry about that. Like I said, all we do is sleep in here. Not that we have much time for even that these days,’ she sighed. ‘Now, is this the trunk you want opening?’ she asked, pointing to the largest that was almost hidden under the portmanteau.

  ‘It is, but I don’t want to put you to any trouble,’ Isabella said, wishing the kindly woman would leave her to her own devices. Although she’d had a cursory look through her things when she’d first arrived, she had yet to discover exactly what Gaskell had packed. ‘You look fatigued, Auntie. Why don’t you go and have a cup of tea with Dotty whilst I sort out what I need?’ she suggested.

  ‘I’m sure you must be tired too, Isabella,’ the woman replied, lifting the portmanteau onto the floor. ‘Besides, you need company after all you’ve been through. I know Father and I would wish for someone to look out for our Dotty and Alice if they – heaven forbid – should find themselves in a similar situation. Now, what exactly are you looking for?’

  ‘A lilac dress. I thought it would be more appropriate to wear than . . . ’ She came to a halt, remembering it was her aunt’s dress she was wearing. ‘Sorry, I don’t wish to appear rude,’ she added, quickly lifting the lid of her trunk.

  ‘No offence taken, dear,’ her aunt replied. ‘I’m sure it must be difficult adapting to your new life here,’ she added quietly. ‘How are you really feeling? I thought you were looking a little flushed when you returned earlier.’

  ‘That’s probably because I’m only used to strolling around the park, not walking miles to reach the town. Plus, I’m still getting used to washing in cold water,’ Isabella replied, burying her head in her luggage. Her aunt watched in silence for a few moments.

  ‘I’m sure you have a lot of things to come to terms with,’ she eventually replied. ‘Just remember I’m here if you ever want to chat about anything.’

  ‘Thank you, Auntie,’ Isabella murmured, swallowing down the lump that once again knotted her throat. ‘And I really do want to know more about Mama.’

  ‘What I meant was . . . ,’ her aunt began, then shook her head. ‘Oh, never mind.’

  Isabella continued searching until she found the elusive garment. Jumping to her feet, she shook out the folds of her silk dress. As the soft cloth shimmered in the flickering candlelight, her aunt gasped. Hesitantly, she reached out and gently stroked the delicate material.

  ‘Why, ’tis the finest thing I ever did see, Izzie, but not for the life we live here. Those delicate threads would soon get snagged out in the flower gardens.’

  ‘Yes,’ Isabella sighed, throwing it down on the bed and delving back into her trunk. After searching through yet more layers of fine paper – for Gaskell had been a meticulous packer – she came across a lavender dress. It was made of satin and cotton and had a matching tailored jacket with covered buttons down the fron
t.

  ‘What about this outfit?’ she asked, holding it up for her aunt to see.

  ‘That’s a bit better, I suppose,’ she said. Hearing the doubt in her aunt’s voice, Isabella frowned.

  ‘What’s wrong with it? The colour is appropriate for lighter mourning attire, surely?’

  ‘Yes, it is and these pastel colours suit you a treat. But . . . ’

  ‘But what?’ Isabella asked.

  ‘It’s still very grand for round here,’ Mary said, shaking her head.

  ‘Well, I think it will do perfectly,’ Isabella replied, recalling the sneers of the ladies in the shop earlier. She’d show them. This might have been made back in the summer, but it was more in vogue than anything they’d been wearing. Ignoring her aunt’s misgivings, she tossed the garments on top of the silk dress.

  ‘Now, somewhere round here there should be a hat trimmed in a similar material,’ she added, scrutinizing the rest of her luggage. ‘Ah, here it is,’ she cried, holding up a satin-covered creation from a box covered in pink damask. Popping it on her head, she twirled around in front of her bemused aunt.

  ‘That’s a fine hat, to be sure, but again very grand for these parts. And you’ll still need a turnover, for the wind can be bitter blowing in from the sea this time of year.’ But Isabella hardly heard her for she was busy searching for the box containing her pearls. ‘Oh Izzie, I thought we’d agreed those should be stored safely away,’ Mary groaned. ‘In fact, Father said he was going to take them to the bank for safe keeping.’

  ‘Oh, he did, did he?’ Isabella cried. ‘Well, sorry to disappoint you but I shall be keeping Mama’s pearls with me,’ she said, slipping them quickly into the pocket of the lavender jacket. No way was he getting his hands on those to fund more of his flower investment, she vowed.

  ‘Well, if you’re sure,’ her aunt sighed. ‘Now, let’s get cleared away then you can take your posh outfit through to show the others.’

  ‘I’d actually like to tidy my things by myself, Auntie, if you don’t mind. Then I shall retire for the night, for I really am very fatigued.’

  ‘Of course, my dear,’ Mary replied. ‘Though if you’re that tired I can see to all this,’ she offered gesturing to the clothes strewn over the bed.

  ‘Thank you, but I’d like to see what else I have in here,’ she said firmly. ‘You go and have your tea,’ she urged, as her aunt hovered uncertainly.

  ‘Well, mind Alice when you go up, for she’ll be asleep by now. Oh, and before I go, I just want to ask you how you managed to shift all those flowers today? It occurred to me when I was seeing to Mother that it were strange you selling more than our Dotty. And she never gets that much money for them either,’ she added, giving Isabella a quizzical look.

  ‘Must be beginner’s luck,’ Isabella shrugged, wishing the woman wouldn’t keep on about it. ‘Thank you for your help, Auntie. Now, if you don’t mind, I really am exhausted.’ Mary stared at her for a moment then nodded.

  As soon as her aunt had gone, Isabella returned her things to the trunk. Then she checked her pearls were safely secreted in her pocket for she daren’t risk her uncle getting his hands on them to further finance his business. It seemed he had already used the money Papa sent for his own ends. Which reminded her, he had yet to show her what was in the parcel Jenson had given him when they’d visited her old home in Chester Square. He’d said it contained her papa’s effects, which surely meant money. She just hoped he hadn’t already spent that as well. It was difficult to equate all this with the man who’d shown such compassion at her papa’s funeral yet, as her experience with Maxwell had taught her, men were not to be trusted.

  Chapter 18

  Despite her aunt’s misgivings and the damp, dismal weather, Isabella left the house the next morning wearing her lavender outfit, complete with matching hat. Working-class she might now be, but after the episode in the draper’s she absolutely refused to look or act like it. Standards would be maintained at all times, she vowed. Not only that, she would work hard so that one day she’d be in a position to return to the social standing she was used to.

  Still unused to being out at such an hour, the early-morning chill caught her unawares and gratefully she pulled her aunt’s turnover tighter around her shoulders. It was the one concession to which she’d agreed in order to appease the woman, and one for which she was now thankful. She hefted the heavy basket over her arm and strode purposefully down the road, giving the appearance of one who had not a care in the world. Her insides, though, were wobbling like one of the jellies her nanny used to make for her birthday.

  ‘Morning, my dear.’ Lost in thought, she hadn’t seen the cart approach, and looking up she saw Uncle Bill waving at her.

  ‘Good morning, Uncle,’ she called.

  ‘Yer looking prettier than ever, though a bit smart for working, I’d have thought. Care for a lift?’ he asked, drawing up alongside.

  ‘But you’re travelling in the opposite direction,’ Isabella said. He grinned then stepped down from the cart and guided the pony backwards into the field he had just passed. Pulling the animal forward again, he turned to Isabella.

  ‘I be going the right way now,’ he chuckled. ‘Come on.’ Climbing back up, he patted the seat beside him, then while he waited for Isabella to settle herself, eased a clay pipe from under his cap and a box from his capacious pocket. Tamping tobacco from pouch to bowl, he expertly lit it. Taking a puff, he sighed contentedly. ‘First smoke of the day’s always the best. Best not tell Fred, though. He’s forever moaning it’s a waste of money,’ he said, tapping the side of his nose with his finger. ‘Now then, how yer feeling this morning?’

  ‘Sick to my stomach, Uncle,’ she replied.

  ‘Best to face your fears head-on. Once you done that there’s nothing left to dread,’ he told her.

  ‘You sound like you’re speaking from experience,’ she said.

  ‘It’s what I do every day, dear,’ he sighed and lapsed into silence. His bereft look was such a contrast to his normal demeanour that after a while she felt compelled to ask him what was wrong. He looked at her bleakly.

  ‘Sometimes, things happen in life you just have to overcome,’ he murmured. ‘Now, here we are,’ he added, before Isabella could ask what he meant.

  ‘Oh,’ she cried, staring at the boxed hedge he’d stopped beside. ‘I should have told you I was on my way to the big house.’

  ‘I know that, dear, and here we are. See that gap there?’ Isabella looked to where he was pointing and saw a double green gate discreetly placed in the dark shrubbery where the lane widened.

  ‘That be the back entrance. Only servants and trade use it, so if you go in that way there’s no chance of his Lordship seeing you arrive. ’Tis what you’re worried about, isn’t it?’ he asked. Isabella nodded.

  ‘Oh Uncle Bill, you’re wonderful. Thank you so much,’ she said, jumping down onto the track. ‘I can’t tell you how much better I feel now.’

  ‘Chin up,’ he smiled. She watched in surprise as he turned his cart right around and went back the way they’d come. Clearly he had been on his way to see Uncle Frederick and had altered his route just to give her a lift. Dear Uncle Bill, he’d known she was nervous and set out to help. She couldn’t wait to visit him and hear what he had to say about her mama.

  Remembering her earlier resolve to maintain standards, she shrugged off the worn turnover and put it over her arm. She lifted the heavy iron latch, walked briskly up the path and tapped on the back door. It was opened by a young girl wearing a white apron and mob cap. She blinked at Isabella in surprise.

  ‘Good morning,’ Isabella smiled.

  ‘You needs the front entrance, Miss,’ she squeaked, shutting the door in Isabella’s face.

  Isabella frowned. Last week, she’d not only been chastised for using the front door but commanded to use the trade entrance. Yet now, when she did, it appeared that was also wrong. Well, she couldn’t stand here dithering all day, she thought, lifting the knock
er and trying again. This time the door was opened by a plump woman of middle years wearing a white apron and cap, a smudge of flour smeared across one cheek. The little maid was peering out from behind her skirts like an inquisitive child.

  ‘Good morning. I have brought violets for Mrs Tripe,’ Isabella said.

  ‘I see the flowers but who is bringing them, I ask myself,’ the woman replied.

  ‘Forgive me. My name is Isabella Carrington and I am here on behalf of my cousin Dorothy who has hurt her ankle and is indisposed.’

  ‘Well, I be begger’d. You’re Dotty’s cousin?’ she asked, looking Isabella up and down. ‘Why didn’t you say so? I’m Mrs Tripe, the cook. Come wayin, we’re due a skatt,’ she said peering up at the leaden sky. ‘Molly you chump, didn’t you see her flower basket?’

  ‘But she talks lah-di-dah like the toffs,’ the maid squeaked. ‘And look at ’er posh frock.’

  ‘Stop gawpin’ and get back to your work. Them pots won’t wash themselves.’ She watched as the maid scurried into a room leading off the kitchen then shook her head.

  ‘Bout as much sense as a sausage, that one. Still, it keeps her out of the workhouse,’ she said, wiping her hands on her apron. ‘Now sit yerself down and tell me how Dotty is,’ she added, pulling out a chair.

  ‘Thank you,’ Isabella replied, sinking gratefully into it.

  ‘Dotty always has a drink and a nubbie, so I dare say you’d like the same? Or perhaps a glass of elderflower cordial would be more to your taste?’ she said uncertainly.

  ‘A cup of coffee and one of your delicious nubbies would be most welcome,’ she replied, remembering the heavenly cup she’d been served the previous week.

  Whilst the woman bustled about, Isabella stared around the room, taking in the signs of frantic activity. The row of gleaming copper pans above the range, steam rising from a bowl of something delicious-smelling cooling on a work surface, the half-rolled-out pastry on the table beside the floury rolling pin, and a luscious Victoria sandwich awaiting decoration on a shelf above.