The Flower Seller

by Linda Finlay

  ‘Couldn’t get a word in edgeways with you chattering on about Alfred,’ Isabella teased, as she carefully unlocked the door and led the way into the front room.

  ‘Happy Christmas, Grandmother,’ Dotty cried, placing the tray on the little table beside the woman.

  ‘Happy Christmas, Grandmama,’ Isabella added. The woman nodded but didn’t look up from staring into the fire.

  ‘I made a new dress and wore it at the big house last night. Alfred said I looked beautiful,’ Dotty gushed, two pinks spots flushing her cheeks.

  ‘Big house,’ the woman repeated, but when she turned to face them her rheumy eyes were blank.

  With a last look at her locket, Isabella took the music box from the shelf and carefully placed it inside.

  ‘I think this has come home,’ she whispered, holding it out for her grandmama to see.

  ‘Home,’ the woman nodded. Isabella waited, hoping for some sign of recognition, but the woman picked up the cup and sipped her tea. Oh Grandmama, she thought, how I wish I’d known you before you retreated inside your own world. But then, if it wasn’t for the shock of Isabella being born illegitimately, the woman would probably be living a normal life. For the second time that day, she felt the tears welling and had to blink them away.

  They spent the rest of the day posying and packing in the barn before trooping back to the kitchen to be greeted by the delicious aroma of roasting meat.

  ‘I was going to bring Mother in,’ Mary told them, ‘but she was sleeping so peacefully, I didn’t have the heart to wake her.’ Then Bill and Joseph arrived armed with candies and cider and the family celebrations began.

  Although Isabella tried her best to join in, her heart was heavy as she remembered the last time there’d been a gathering round the table. Felix sitting opposite, their gazes meeting, holding hands whilst strolling around the moonlit garden and wishing upon the shooting star. Running her fingers over the little silver brooch in her pocket, she let out a long sigh. If she’d thought her life complicated then, it was nothing compared to how she was feeling now. She just hoped the next time she saw him that he’d listen and respect the decision she’d made.

  Chapter 32

  To her surprise and dismay, the end of December came and still Felix still hadn’t called to see her. Although she dreaded what she had to tell him, perversely she was disappointed he hadn’t taken the time to visit as he’d promised.

  ‘Are you sure you want to stand in the Strand by yourself?’ Aunt Mary asked. Isabella looked at her in dismay for today was the day of the seance. Luckily, though, her uncle intervened.

  ‘Don’t question the girl, Mother,’ Frederick said. ‘We’ve enough violets blooming to fill the whole of the Strand, never mind one basket. It were you who gave Dotty permission to go walking out with Alfie on a Friday, after all. Though it does seem strange you offering, girl?’ he said staring suspiciously at Isabella.

  ‘Just want to help,’ she replied, picking up the laden basket.

  ‘At least you look more the part of a flower girl in that grey dress and woollen turnover,’ her aunt smiled.

  It was a cold and bright morning as she made her way to her customary place in the Strand. It seemed an age since she’d last been here and, determined to do her bit, she smiled and held out her basket invitingly. To her surprise, people began returning her greeting, some even stopping to purchase a bunch of violets.

  She was on tenterhooks waiting for the sisters to appear, for she was sure her mama’s spirit would come through this time. After all, Agnes had had ages to pick up her aura and essence from the necklace. The first thing she’d do when she returned home was give the pearls to her uncle for safe keeping. Whilst he’d been true to his word and not mentioned them again, she knew he was waiting for her to hand them over.

  The church clock chimed noon and she stared around in surprise. Usually the sisters had appeared by now. By the time it got to half past one, knowing the seances always started promptly at two o’clock, she began making her own way to the house they were renting.

  ‘Oh, there you are,’ Agnes said, frowning as she opened the door. ‘We began to think you weren’t coming,’ she added, taking the basket of flowers from her.

  ‘You’ve always collected me before and . . . ,’ Isabella began.

  ‘Silly girl, we told you we couldn’t today,’ Miriam clucked, handing her a nosegay. ‘Now, breathe deeply of the flowers, dear.’ She waited whilst Isabella inhaled and then, after exchanging looks with Agnes, ushered her into the front room where the curtains were already drawn and the candles lit.

  This time the smell of flowers seemed overpowering and Isabella just had time to register that the violets in the glass bowls couldn’t be the ones she’d just brought, when Agnes instructed them all to join hands. Breathing heavily, she asked if there were any spirits waiting to come through. As Agnes went through the same sequence as before, Isabella felt her pulse racing. Please come through, Mama and Papa, she willed. She waited impatiently whilst a couple of spirits, through Agnes, spoke to their relatives, then all went quiet. Just when Isabella feared the meeting was at an end, the woman’s head jerked back again and her mouth opened.

  ‘Isabella, darling, it’s your mother.’ Her eyes widened in astonishment. Mother? Mama never called herself that. ‘I want you to know I’m happy now your dear father is with me.’ Isabella stiffened in her seat. Now she knew this wasn’t right.

  ‘Do you wish to respond, Isabella?’ Agnes asked.

  ‘What was my biological father’s real name?’ she asked, staring at Agnes intently.

  ‘Fancy you needing to ask that. You know he is called Cameron,’ the voice stated.

  ‘But . . . ,’ she began.

  ‘She’s fading . . . oh, she’s gone,’ Agnes murmured, her eyes snapping open. Smiling sweetly, she announced that the seance was over.

  As the others filed out, handing over their nosegays along with their money, Agnes turned to Isabella.

  ‘There, didn’t I tell you I would be able to reach your mother through her pearls? I hope it brought a measure of comfort to you at this sad time.’

  ‘I suppose you’ll be telling me that if I leave my father Cameron’s solid-gold pocket watch with you, I can expect to hear from him next time?’ she retorted.

  ‘You have it on you?’ Agnes asked, a gleam sparkling in her eye.

  ‘No,’ Isabella replied. ‘However, I would be pleased to have Mama’s pearls back.’

  ‘You’re sounding very sceptical. Surely you didn’t think we’d be holding onto them?’ Miriam said, holding out her basket. ‘You’ll find them in there along with the money for your flowers as usual,’ she said stiffly.

  ‘Now, if you’ll excuse us, we are very busy today,’ Agnes said, almost pushing her out of the door.

  As the fresh air hit her, Isabella began to sway. Not again, she thought, clutching at the railings as she began making her way unsteadily down the street.

  ‘Isabella, are you all right?’ Felix? He’d come to her rescue, she thought. Then, as if staring through a haze, she saw it was her uncle Bill who was staring down at her from his cart.

  ‘I’m fine,’ she assured him as her head slowly began to clear.

  ‘Something you ate?’ he asked.

  ‘Actually, I haven’t eaten anything since breakfast.’

  ‘That might explain it then,’ he said, sounding doubtful. ‘Come on, I’ll take you home.’ He took her basket then helped her up beside him. The swaying of the cart brought on another bout of dizziness and she closed her eyes.

  She must have fallen asleep for the cart shuddering to a halt woke her. To her surprise they were back at the cottage and, although it was almost dark, she could still see the concern on her uncle’s face.

  ‘Sorry about that, but I’m feeling better now.’

  ‘Really? You look just like I do the day after the night before,’ he chuckled. ‘If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’ve been on the sauce. Come on,
I’ll see you safely indoors. I need to speak to Fred anyway.’

  ‘Oh Isabella, what have you been doing?’ Mary cried taking the basket from her.

  ‘Found her wandering down Carlisle Gardens. All of a daze, she was. Hope she’s not coming down with something,’ Bill said, looking worried.

  ‘It’s not the first time she’s come home like this,’ Mary said. ‘For the life of me, I don’t know what she gets up to.’

  ‘Me neither,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘Fred in his shed?’

  ‘Where else?’ Mary sighed. ‘I’ll just see to Izzie then I’ll dish supper, if you’d care to stop.’

  ‘I would, thanks,’ he replied, going back outside.

  While her aunt and uncle were talking, Isabella retrieved the jewellery case from the basket and put it in her pocket. Then, before her aunt could say anything, she tiptoed up the stairs. She had too much to think about to answer the questions she knew were coming.

  Something about the sisters was niggling her, but her head was still woozy and she couldn’t think straight. Slipping the jewellery box under her pillow, she undressed and was asleep in seconds.

  ***

  ‘Father wants to see you in the barn,’ her aunt greeted Isabella when she went downstairs the following morning. She was looking grim-faced, which was not surprising since Isabella was late up, and for once she didn’t offer any food to break her fast. Not that Isabella was hungry, but she was desperately thirsty and her head ached.

  ‘I’m sorry about yesterday,’ Isabella said, pouring herself a mug of tea.

  ‘We’ll talk later about that later,’ Mary replied. ‘Now, please don’t keep Father waiting any longer,’ she added, staring pointedly at her drink.

  To Isabella’s surprise, when she entered the earthy-smelling interior, she saw a uniformed man standing beside him. Both men looked grave and Isabella’s heart sank.

  ‘Ah, Isabella, Constable Good here would like to speak to you about your movements yesterday. I told him you were selling flowers in the Strand, but he seems to think otherwise.’ Isabella’s stomach did a double flip and she swallowed hard.

  ‘Miss Isabella . . . er?’

  ‘Carrington,’ she supplied, trying to keep her voice steady.

  ‘Right,’ he said, snapping open his notebook and frowning.

  ‘We have reason to believe you attended number thirteen Carlisle Gardens, temporary residence of two ladies calling themselves the Misses Honesty and, under the guise of a seance, participated in black magic.’

  ‘Oh no . . . ,’ Isabella began.

  ‘You mean you weren’t at the said premises between the hours of two o’clock and three thirty?’ he asked narrowing his eyes.

  ‘Well, yes, I was but . . . ’

  ‘Then please answer my questions. Did you meet with the aforementioned?’

  ‘Yes,’ she whispered, aware of the anger sparking in her uncle’s eyes. ‘But it was in order to make contact with my mama and papa.’

  ‘And did you?’

  ‘Well, Agnes, one of the sisters said she had a message from Mama but she got the name wrong and I knew she was pretending and it was terrible,’ she groaned.

  ‘Perhaps you could start at the beginning,’ Constable Good suggested. ‘When and where did you meet these women, and what exactly happened?’

  Knowing she had no choice, Isabella began relating the events from the time she’d first met Agnes and Miriam in the Strand, to the seances and nosegays.

  ‘Nostrums,’ Constable Good corrected. ‘An elixir or substance designed to cure or alter the state of one’s mind. Did those clients attending the seances inhale from them at all?’

  ‘Oh yes, they were encouraged to frequently.’

  ‘And yourself?’

  ‘Only yesterday. On my two previous visits I was given tisanes and dainties for luncheon.’

  ‘Did you notice any after-effects?’ he asked, watching her closely.

  ‘I did feel lightheaded and suffered the most terrible headaches.’

  ‘Came home looking like she’d had a night on the town. Flushed in the face, muttering gibberish,’ Frederick snorted.

  ‘That would fit in with our findings, sir,’ the constable nodded. ‘One of the women is, er, how shall we say, conversant with opiates. Was there any mention of flowers, poppies in particular?’ he asked, staring directly at Isabella.

  ‘Funnily enough, they did say they dealt with all things flowers,’ she nodded. ‘Oh yes, and they also mentioned poppy tears,’ she said remembering back to their conversation before Christmas.

  ‘That would account for the altered perception and illusionary effects,’ the constable muttered, writing furiously in his notebook.

  ‘My God, what the ’ell have you been involved in?’ her uncle cried. ‘Only sent you into town to sell a few violets and . . . ,’ he spluttered.

  ‘And did these women use violets?’ the constable interrupted.

  ‘Yes, they put big bowls of them on the table,’ Isabella admitted.

  ‘Blimmer, girl, you mean that’s who you sold our flowers to?’ her uncle roared. Isabella nodded and, feeling ashamed, stared down at her feet.

  ‘Am I right in thinking these violets would have a soporific effect, sir?’

  ‘They would, but more soothing than sedating,’ Frederick explained.

  ‘Would this smell mask other aromas?’

  ‘Might well do,’ Frederick replied, still staring at Isabella in dismay. ‘I can’t believe you’d get involved in something like this.’ Anxious to explain, Isabella hurried on.

  ‘It was just after Papa died. I was so unhappy, Uncle. Agnes said Papa was trying to come through but that it was too soon after he’d passed.’

  ‘Utter tosh,’ Frederick muttered.

  ‘I know that now,’ Isabella cried. ‘She said if she had something personal of Mama’s to absorb her essence, she could get her to come through.’

  ‘So, you gave her your pearls?’ her uncle sighed. Isabella nodded.

  ‘I offered her my silver locket first, but she said it was too cold,’ she explained.

  ‘Too cheap more like,’ Constable Good muttered.

  ‘I suppose that was the last time you saw the necklace,’ her uncle growled.

  ‘Oh no, I got it back yesterday,’ she cried, anxious to prove she hadn’t been taken for a complete fool.

  ‘Continue explaining about the seance, if you would,’ the constable requested, pencil poised.

  ‘It was strange because Agnes said Mama was coming through. It really seemed as though a different voice was coming out of her mouth, but it didn’t sound anything like Mama at all. So I asked her a question and she got the answer wrong.’

  ‘And what happened then?’ the constable asked.

  ‘Agnes said her spirit had gone and the seance was over. They seemed anxious for everyone to leave.’

  ‘And you all went?’ the constable prompted.

  ‘The others did but I asked for Mama’s pearls.’

  ‘And they gave them to you, just like that?’ he asked, staring at her intently.

  ‘Yes, they put the box in my basket and almost pushed me out of the door.’

  ‘And did you check your pearls when this, er, Agnes gave them back to you?’

  ‘No,’ Isabella frowned. ‘I was feeling woozy and then Uncle Bill brought me home and . . . why?’ she asked, feeling she had missed something important.

  ‘These women have a reputation for replacing items of jewellery with counterfeit,’ the constable replied.

  ‘What?’ she gasped. ‘I’d best go and check right away,’ she said, rushing out of the barn before they could stop her.

  As Isabella barged through the kitchen door, her aunt looked up from the pan she was stirring.

  ‘Izzie, whatever’s the . . . ,’ she began but Isabella ran past her and up the stairs. Scrabbling under her pillow, she pulled out the box and opened it.

  ‘Oh,’ she gasped, letting out a sigh of relie
f. There, nestling on the velvet pillow, was the pearl necklace she knew so well.

  ‘It’s all right,’ she shouted, running back past an open-mouthed Mary and down to the barn. ‘They’re here, see,’ she cried handing over the box.

  ‘You’re sure they’re the same ones, miss?’ the constable asked.

  ‘Well, yes, I think so,’ Isabella stuttered, staring down at them again.

  ‘Check carefully now. How about the clasp?’ Isabella took up the necklace and studied it closer.

  ‘Well, it looks the same, oh . . . ’

  ‘What is it?’ her uncle asked.

  ‘There was one pearl by the clasp which had a sort of mark on it. A lucky mark, I used to call it, but it’s gone. Perhaps they cleaned it off?’

  ‘I doubt it, miss,’ the constable said. ‘I’ll need to have these checked out, sir,’ he said, turning to Frederick.

  ‘Of course, and thank you for coming here today, Constable.’

  ‘There’s one more thing before I go,’ he said, turning back to Isabella. ‘Now Miss, you say your name is Carrington?’

  ‘That’s correct,’ she replied.

  ‘I’m afraid it isn’t,’ Frederick sighed. ‘Sit down, Isabella,’ he added, extracting a paper from the parcel on the trestle in front of him.

  ‘Oh, those are . . . ,’ she began, recognizing the package.

  ‘The papers I collected when we visited your old home in Chester Square. You’d better have a look at this,’ he said, passing over an official-looking piece of paper.

  ‘It’s my birth certificate. Oh!’ she gasped, sinking onto the stool beside her. ‘There’s no . . . the surname says Northcott.’

  ‘Your natural father disappeared before you were born and your mother used her name. She never married Cameron Carrington, the man who raised you, so . . . ,’ he shrugged.

  ‘Well, you have been most helpful, Miss, er, Northcott,’ the constable said, looking uncomfortable. ‘I shall be making further enquiries and must insist you don’t leave the district.’

  ‘Isabella will be staying here, Constable,’ Frederick assured him, showing the man out of the barn.