The Flower Seller

by Linda Finlay

  ‘Oh Fred,’ she whispered. ‘That’s what I’m here for.’

  Not wishing to intrude on such an intimate moment, Isabella crept from the room. Dotty looked up as she entered the kitchen, her eyes burning with curiosity.

  ‘You all right?’ she asked.

  ‘I think so. Just a lot to take in,’ Isabella replied.

  ‘Mother said you could have this,’ Dotty smiled, holding out a square of tablet.

  ‘Thank you,’ she murmured, taking it and staring at it unseeingly. ‘Do you mind if I have it upstairs? I’ve so much to think about.’

  Throwing herself down on her mattress, she stared at the ceiling, trying to make sense of everything. Her uncles’ revelations went around and round in her head like a carousel. That Papa – dear, dear Papa – wasn’t her real father was hard to believe. But that horrible-sounding Roger man was. As for dear Mama, she clearly was not the gentle, sweet woman she remembered. Of course, Isabella had been very young when she’d died and her memories were muddled to say the least. Yet her dear papa must really have loved her or he would have sent her away, wouldn’t he?

  And poor Grandmama, how terrible it must have been for her to discover her unmarried daughter was with child. Clearly that was the shock that had sent her doo dally, as Dotty called it. Then there was her aunt who cared for her, and her uncle who worked all hours to make his business a success to provide for his family. The loving way they’d been looking at each other when she’d tiptoed out moved her to tears. It was evident her uncle had only just realized what a treasure he’d married.

  Exhausted, she closed her eyes, then remembered her uncle had been about to tell her something else before her aunt walked in. She would have to ask him about that in the morning. With hot tears staining her cheeks, she fell into a troubled sleep.

  Chapter 28

  The next morning, to Isabella’s surprise, apart from enquiring if she was all right, no reference was made to the events of the previous day.

  ‘You’ve had a shock, dear, and need a few days of peace and quiet to recover. Well, as much as you can get in this noisy household,’ Mary said quietly.

  ‘Where’s Uncle?’ she asked, remembering their unfinished conversation.

  ‘Out with his precious plants, where do you think?’

  ‘And how’s Grandmama today?’ Isabella asked.

  ‘In her own little world, as usual. The good news is the rain’s eased and we can get outside and start putting the barn to rights, ready to pack the flowers – as soon as Father deems them fit for Covent Garden, that is. I suggest you stay in here, dear, and finish sewing your grey dress. You can add that ribbon you bought the other day. It’ll be nice for you to have something new to wear when Felix calls.’

  But after the shock of the previous day, even the thought of seeing Felix failed to raise her spirits. As Isabella tried to settle to her stitching, her mind kept wandering back to the past, especially one question. Why had her papa, the man who’d always stressed the importance of honesty, led her to believe he was her real father? Finally, when she’d had to unpick a sleeve for the third time, she threw the dress down in frustration.

  ‘Not in the mood for it?’ She looked up to see William staring at her. For once there was a look of compassion on his face.

  ‘I am finding it hard to concentrate,’ she admitted. ‘What are you doing? It’s not like you to be indoors at this time of day.’

  ‘Done everything I can outside. Plants are beginning to dry out, so they need to be left alone. Mother and Father are discussing the best way to lay out the barn. It’ll be some time before they can afford to have the roof repaired properly so they’ve decided the tarpaulin should suffice over the winter. Means they can only use half of it, though, and Father still needs space for his propagating and cultivating.’

  ‘Yes, I can see that,’ she replied, remembering how he’d carefully protected his new plants.

  ‘Cors, all the time they’re doing that, the paperwork’s mounting up and I can’t help with that, can I, not understanding me letters properly?’ He stood staring at her and Isabella detected the hopeful glint in his eye.

  ‘Would you like me to show you whilst it’s quiet in here?’ she volunteered, knowing his pride wouldn’t permit him to ask. She really did want to get on with her cousin and this would be a good opportunity to begin building bridges between them. When he nodded, she went over to the dresser, took out some paper and a pencil then picked up the periodical Dotty had left on her chair.

  ‘Come and tell me what words you know,’ she said, sitting down at the table and opening the magazine. He stared down at the page and shook his head.

  ‘’Tain’t no good, just looks like ants scattered everywhere,’ he sighed. Isabella looked at the letters and saw a lot of them were in italic.

  ‘Yes, I see what you mean,’ she conceded. ‘Can you write your name?’

  ‘Not really,’ he grunted. ‘Can only do the letters in straight lines.’

  ‘Ah, I see,’ she said, carefully writing out his name in capitals.

  ‘Yeah, I get them, they look like sticks,’ he said jubilantly.

  ‘Then that is what we will use,’ she told him. ‘Now, you watch carefully and I’ll show you how to write your name in stick language.’ Deliberately, she wrote WILLIAM across the top of the page. ‘Now all you need to do is practise until it comes easily.’

  ‘You really think I can do it?’ he whispered. ‘Old Beaky was always vustlin about proper letterin’ and said I was less than useless.’

  ‘Mr Beaky was your teacher?’

  ‘Yeah, but he were only interested in the clever ones.’

  ‘I see. Well, you’re bright enough when it comes to all things violets. Do you think Mr Beaky could grow things?’

  ‘Wouldn’t get his ’ands dirty,’ he snorted.

  ‘Well then, if you learn your letters like you have your plants, you’ll be more knowledgeable than him, won’t you?’

  ‘Yeah,’ he cried, his eyes lighting up with pleasure. ‘Oh ’ere comes Dotty. No tellin’ her, right? Can’t be doing with her gawkin’ over me shoulder.’

  ‘It will be our secret,’ Isabella assured him. ‘Practise in your room, and when you can write your first name as well as I have, we will move on to your surname.’

  ‘Thanks,’ he cried, snatching up the pencil and paper and running up to his room. ‘You’d make a better teacher than Beaky,’ he shouted over his shoulder. Isabella stared after him. A teacher? Now there was a thought, but before she could ponder further, the door clattered open.

  ‘How are you, Izzie?’ Dotty asked, throwing her turnover down on the chair. ‘Oh ’eck,’ she cried, putting her hand over her mouth. ‘I wasn’t meant to say anything.’

  ‘That’s all right, it’s kind of you to ask. I’m still feeling shaky to be honest but . . . ,’ she shrugged. Her mind was still so muddled, there wasn’t much she could say. ‘How’s Grandmama and everything outside?’

  ‘Grandmother’s back to her silly self – silent one minute, gibbering the next. As for the violets, I’m hoping there’ll be enough to take to the big house on Thursday so I can see Alfie,’ she winked.

  ***

  By Thursday, although the violets weren’t up to Covent Garden standard, Dotty insisted they would be good enough for Mrs Tripe to use for crystallizing. When her father looked doubtful, she told him it would be a waste not to take the rest to the local market, along with the jam and tablet she and her mother had made. Isabella couldn’t help smiling at the girl’s persistence, knowing she was desperate to see Alfred.

  ‘Very well,’ Frederick agreed. ‘But I want you back here as soon as everything’s sold.’ With indecent haste, Dotty filled her basket then hurried off before he could change his mind.

  ‘Right, Isabella, Mother has things to do in the house so you can help me in the barn,’ her uncle told her, as soon as Dotty had left.

  ‘If you’re feeling better after your shock, that is?’ Mar
y asked, giving Isabella one of her searching looks.

  ‘I am, thank you,’ Isabella replied, knowing she had to come to terms with the fact that her life had been based on a lie.

  ‘Come along, we can chat while we work,’ her uncle said, snatching his hat from the hook and striding from the room.

  ‘If you find it too much, you can always come back and finish your dress,’ Mary said, smiling kindly at her.

  It was the first time Isabella had been into the barn since it had been damaged by the storm, and she was shocked at how much darker it was with the tarpaulin covering the roof. The trestles and empty pails were lined up ready, but without the violets, everywhere looked drab and smelled of damp.

  ‘Right, this is now my potting place,’ her uncle said, leading the way into a partitioned area to one side. ‘Bit smaller but adequate.’ Isabella stared at the table on which sat boxes covered with sheets of broken glass that had obviously been pieced together. ‘Don’t touch anything, it’s all a bit precarious but it will suffice for me little cultivars.’

  ‘They’re all right?’ she asked. He nodded.

  ‘Managed to save quite a few, which is a blessing being as how they cost me an arm and a leg. Be worth it when I see them Furneaux’s faces in the spring,’ he chuckled.

  ‘Felix was telling me about the plants of France,’ she ventured.

  ‘Pah,’ he spat. ‘Italy be where the best plants come from,’ he said, carefully lifting a sheet of glass and running his finger gently over the leaves.

  ‘So what exactly is a cultivar?’ she asked, thinking it prudent to divert attention away from his rivals.

  ‘You really want to know?’ he asked, staring at her in surprise.

  ‘I do,’ she replied, surprised herself to find she really was interested.

  ‘’Tis a variety of plant produced from a natural species, see, and maintained by cultivation. These little babies could have come from as far away as Asia Minor or the Levant and are thought to have been brought to Europe by Genoese or Venetian merchants.’

  ‘And you went all the way there to get them?’ she asked incredulously.

  ‘Gawd love us, no,’ he laughed, replacing the glass and turning to stare at her. ‘Couldn’t afford that, nor Italy either. Bought them from a man who’d been cultivating them from . . . well, never you mind. Like I said, cost me a fortune but ’tis an investment. When these bloom, they’ll have double petals and be so colourful Furneaux’ll have to wear dark glasses,’ he chuckled, then looked stern. ‘Can’t say I’m happy you associating with them, to be honest, but Mother says ’tis your business. Just promise you’ll say nothing about any of this.’

  ‘Of course not, Uncle,’ she assured him, staring down at the plants. ‘Those leaves are different to the ones outside, aren’t they?’

  ‘Well spotted. We’ll make a flower girl of you yet,’ he chortled. ‘If things pan out as I hope, this family will have a more comfortable way of life, and in due course it will be William’s inheritance. Which reminds me, I’m pleased to see you two getting on better. Mother tells me you are helping him to write.’

  ‘That was meant to be a secret,’ she murmured.

  ‘Not when Mother makes his bed and finds his things under his pillow,’ he chuckled. ‘It’ll be a right help if he can learn. Apart from getting rid of that chip on his shoulder, it’ll give him a better understanding of how this place runs. ’Tis not just about picking and selling a few flowers,’ he grinned, repeating the words she’d uttered when she first arrived.

  ‘I’m sorry, Uncle,’ she replied. ‘I had no idea how much work was involved.’

  ‘’Tis like anything, you only get out of life what you put in. A lesson I’m afraid your mother never learned.’

  ‘I’ve been thinking about everything you and Uncle Bill told me,’ she admitted. ‘You both seemed to have differing ideas.’

  ‘Bill adored his older sister and has a rosier recollection of her. I, on the other hand, remember only too well the lengths she’d go to in order to get her own way. More importantly, when I think back to what a lively and spirited woman Mother was before Ellie got into trouble . . . well, I’m sad for a life wasted. She’s never really known Mary or our children, and that hurts.’

  ‘That is very sad,’ Isabella agreed.

  ‘Yes,’ he sighed. ‘As I’ve said before, your grandmother never recovered from the shock, so her life’s been blighted by my sister’s selfishness. I realize she was your mother and I’m sorry to be speaking about her like this, but it might go some way to explaining my bitterness towards her.’

  ‘I can tell Aunt Mary is the love of your life, though,’ Isabella smiled.

  ‘She is, but I’m ashamed to say I’ve only just realized it.’ Isabella stared at him in astonishment.

  ‘But . . . ,’ she began then remembered their conversation on the train journey back from London. ‘You loved someone else before?’ she guessed. He nodded and stared down at his beloved plants.

  ‘I was infatuated with . . . well, it doesn’t matter who. Her father threw up every reason why we couldn’t wed and she listened to him. Months later I met Mary and her adoration was balm to my wounded pride. I could give her a home and the family she yearned for and . . . ,’ he shrugged. ‘Talking about Ellie with her self-centred, hard-hearted attitude made me appreciate what a wonderful woman Mary is. I shall spend the rest of my days making it up to her,’ he sighed. ‘And that’s another reason these plants have to succeed. I want her to live out her days in comfort, not struggling like she does now. I know this has all been difficult but your aunt and I are both here for you,’ he told her.

  ‘Thank you, Uncle.’ She stared at him, thinking this was the time to bring up the idea she’d be toying with. ‘About the bond, Uncle. I’d really like you to use that money for repairs to the roof,’ she told him, staring up at the dark tarpaulin. ‘And to purchase new glass.’

  ‘No, Izzie,’ he replied sharply. ‘It’s kind of you, but that is for your future. Whilst it’s true your father sent money for your keep, he wanted the rest of it to be invested in your name. It was his way of ensuring you’d have a good start when you marry.’

  ‘But I’m not even betrothed,’ she protested. ‘Besides, you haven’t taken anything for my board and lodging, have you?’

  ‘Don’t worry, girl, you be earning that,’ he grinned. ‘Now, do you have anything else you want to ask me before we begin working?’

  ‘One thing that’s really been puzzling me is why Papa led me to believe he was my real father.’

  ‘Because that’s how he thought of himself. He might not have been your biologicial father but he loved you dearly, and after your mother died he did everything he could to give you the advantages of a privileged upbringing.’

  ‘I hadn’t thought of it like that, and I did love him so very much,’ Isabella whispered, the tears which never seemed far away welling again.

  ‘Look, Izzie, the past few days have been traumatic for you but you need to build on what you’ve learned,’ he said, lifting up the glass and taking out a little plant in its pot. ‘Like this little chap here, the offspring of other parents who started off life in sunnier climes. He’s already set down roots, but needs nurturing and encouragement in order to fulfil his potential in his new life. You began life in London and moved here. Your aunt and I have offered you a new home and encouragement, but only you can fulfil your potential,’ he said, brushing a tiny speck of soil from the leaves before placing it back in the box.

  As he began tending his other cultivars, Isabella thought about what he’d said. For someone normally brusque, he had shown astonishing sensitivity, and knowing she was still wanted here was an enormous relief.

  ‘Thank you, Uncle. Now what can I do to help?’ she asked as the door opened and William came in, bringing with him that sweet musty smell of damp earth. He was carrying an armful of spindly little plants which he carefully deposited on the remaining space on the trestle.

 
‘Mother wants a word, Father,’ he said.

  ‘Right. Perhaps you’d like to start showing Izzie how we propagate,’ Frederick replied.

  ‘Are these more of those cultivars you were telling me about?’ Izzie asked, frowning down at the trestle. ‘Only they look really spindly, if you don’t mind me saying.’

  ‘That’s ’cos they’re cuttings,’ William said, shaking his head.

  ‘Our native violets grow wild but seldom set down seeds, or if they do them bloomin’ mice get to them first,’ Frederick told her. ‘In order to increase our stock for next season we need to plant these cuttings. You’ll see William has chosen those with tiny rootlets attached. We’ll prick them off, pot them up then place them under glass. Hopefully they’ll grow into sturdy plants ready to be transferred back to the garden come late spring. It’s a bit late in the year to be doing this now, of course, but the first lot got crushed to smithereens by that damned tree so we’ve got to try again. Can’t have blessed Furneaux taking over our share of the market,’ he snorted.

  Despite his scathing expression, the mention of the Furneaux name made Isabella’s heart flip. Her uncle’s chat today had helped her get things in perspective. He was right – she did need to move on with her life, and in two days’ time she’d be seeing Felix. Of course, her excitement was because she wanted to see around his garden and hear more about ionine, she told herself, vowing to have her grey dress completed in time.

  Chapter 29

  ‘You’re looking lovely, if I might be so bold,’ Felix remarked, proffering his hand to help her up beside him. As waves of pleasure rippled up her arm, Isabella smiled demurely. In truth, she was feeling pleased with her appearance. Having stitched the mauve ribbon to her dress, there’d been enough left to trim her bonnet and, whilst not as grand as the outfits she’d brought with her, it was a distinct improvement on Mary and Dotty’s cast-offs. She felt she’d managed to retain her identity whilst being more suitably attired for her life here.

  ‘How are you?’ Felix asked after calling to his pony to walk on. ‘Heard you’d had a chat about your mother. I wanted to come and make sure you were all right, but Father reckoned it would be unseemly under the circumstances. Said you would need time to adjust.’ Isabella turned to him in surprise.