The Flower Seller. Linda Finlay

patting the donkey’s flanks, prompting a loud bray.

      ‘He sounds like he’s responding to you,’ she laughed.

      ‘That’s ’cos he is. Understand each other perfectly, Silver and me, which is more than can be said for some humans round these parts,’ he muttered, lapsing into silence.

      As they rumbled along, Isabella glanced at her uncle from under the brim of her bonnet. Clearly appearances were deceptive, for beneath his bluff exterior beat a soft heart. Could that be why her father had asked him to look after her whilst he was sorting out his business affairs? She wondered how he was getting on, for already she missed him dreadfully, Maxwell too.

      The trap lurched, breaking into her thoughts and she grabbed at the wooden strut as the donkey turned left and began descending a steep hill. To one side was an orchard underplanted with the little mauve flowers that were so abundant around these parts. The branches were devoid of fruit, the leaves the golden hue of autumn.

      ‘Best plums in Devon come from they trees,’ her uncle declared, tapping into her thoughts. ‘Mother makes a fair few tarts with them, not to mention jars of jam.’ Thinking he was referring to her grandmother, Isabella stared at him in surprise then she remembered that was what he called his wife. They certainly had strange ways in this part of the world, she thought, blinking in surprise as a church rose majestically before them. Then she glimpsed a row of headstones to one side and, although she knew her mama wasn’t buried there, she shivered.

      ‘Someone treading on yer grave?’ her uncle chuckled, as she pulled her mantle tighter round her. ‘Be back in the sunshine again soon,’ he added. Sure enough, moments later they were out of the shade, passing pretty pink cottages that were spaced further apart than those she’d seen the previous day.

      ‘How do they get the walls that hue?’ she asked, thinking how lovely it would be to paint them.

      ‘Gives it a wash of lime mixed with pig’s blood,’ her uncle told her, laughing as she wrinkled her nose. Then she noticed ornamental birds staring down at her from their thatch.

      ‘Goodness,’ she gasped.

      ‘Clever, eh?’ her uncle said, seeing her fascination. ‘Started when a thatcher decided to put his mark, a biddle – that’s beetle to you – on a roof he’d finished. Before long, others were asking him to fashion birds to denote their dwellings. Some think it pretentious but each to their own,’ he shrugged.

      ‘Perhaps you should have some blue mice on yours,’ she joked.

      ‘Ah, the boy been teasing you, has he? Don’t you let him niddle you, girl, it’ll do him good to have someone stand up to him. The Sod.’

      ‘Pardon?’ Isabella gasped, staring at him in surprise. Certainly, William had been a pain but he hadn’t really been that bad. Then she realized her uncle was gesturing ahead.

      ‘That’s what they call this harbour. ’Tis the only one in the whole of the country to be on the inside of a railway line,’ her uncle told her, grinning knowingly at her expression. Clearly, he’d sensed the atmosphere between William and herself, but before she could pass comment, he was speaking again. ‘Now breathe in some more of that ozone, girl, you’ve got a fair pallor about you this afternoon.’

      Isabella gazed out over the expanse of shimmering bluegreen water which was flowing out through a tunnel under the railway. Nearby, weatherbeaten fishermen were unloading the day’s catch from their boats and stacking the boxes onto the sea wall while gulls swooped and squawked hopefully overhead. It was a world away from the hustle and bustle of the city and for the first time since she’d arrived, she felt herself relax. She watched as a group of small children, string dangling from sticks, wading in the shallow waters, and wondered if her mama had played here. Just as she turned to ask her uncle, she heard voices calling to him.

      ‘Artnoon, Fred.’ Two older men who were sitting on the wall outside an inn raised their jugs of ale in greeting.

      ‘Jim, Ern,’ her uncle called, drawing to a halt. ‘This is my niece, Isabella.’

      ‘Oh ah,’ they chorused, giving her an appreciative look.

      ‘Fancy name for a fancy lady. Heard you’d come to live in the village,’ Ern replied, his grey beard bobbing up and down as he spoke.

      ‘Actually, I’m just visiting,’ she replied. As the two men raised their brows sceptically, her uncle cleared his throat.

      ‘And it’s a pleasure to have my niece here, for however long she decides to stay.’

      ‘She be the spit of your Ells apart from her blonde hair and blue eyes, of course. Suppose that came from ’im,’ Jim said, giving a toothless grin. Isabella blinked, trying to associate the appellation with her glamorous mother, Eleanora. Apart from anything else, her father had hazel eyes. Maybe the man’s memory was failing. He was old, after all.

      ‘Ah, now Ellie were some looker. No wonder she had all the lads . . . ,’ Ern began, keen to continue the tale.

      ‘Time we were on our way or we’ll miss the train,’ her uncle cut in quickly.

      ‘Heard Furneaux’s turned his land over to the flower growing now,’ Jim grinned.

      ‘Be competition for you, eh Fred?’ Ern added, his eyes bright with mischief. Isabella saw her uncle’s lips tighten but he wasn’t about to be drawn.

      ‘Enjoy your drink, gentlemen,’ he said, raising his hat.

      ‘Oh ah,’ they chorused and promptly returned their attention to their ale.

      Her uncle was silent as they resumed their journey, but Isabella was bursting with curiosity.

      ‘How come everyone round here knows who I am?’ she asked. He shrugged.

      ‘That’s country living for you. News flies quicker than the pigeons.’

      ‘But they thought I was staying,’ she persisted.

      ‘Thinks they knows everything that goes on around here. And what they don’t, they make up. Gives them something to chat about. Look, there’s the open sea over there,’ he said, gesturing to their right. ‘Be on t’other side of the railway line now.’ Realizing he was trying to divert her attention but determined to get some answers to her questions, she turned to face him.

      ‘What was Mama like?’

      ‘Well now,’ he murmured. ‘She were lively and inquisitive, like yourself.’

      ‘But do I look like her? Grandmother said the strangest thing earlier,’ she began.

      ‘Ah, she often do,’ he agreed.

      ‘She said I must have rinsed my hair in clotted cream. Auntie thought she’d mistaken me for Mama and it got me wondering. Don’t you think it’s strange she had dark colouring when I’m fair and have blue eyes?’ she asked. He gave her a considering look then shrugged.

      ‘Offspring can take on the colouring of either parent.’

      ‘Yes but . . . ,’ she began, about to pursue the subject when she saw a carriage heading their way. Maxwell’s was similar, she thought, her heart flipping happily. But even as she leaned forward in her seat, it veered off to the right.

      ‘Oh,’ she gasped. Her uncle drew his brows together.

      ‘Something wrong, girl?’

      ‘That carriage, if it’s Maxwell, he’s gone the wrong way,’ she cried.

      ‘Driver’s bound to know where he’d be going. Anyhow, that’s the visitant route to Powderham Castle,’ he replied.

      ‘Oh, I see,’ she said despondently.

      ‘If the Earl of Devon is entertaining, it might be an idea to see if his guests want posies for their ladies’ fancy frocks,’ he muttered, oblivious to her frazzled emotions. ‘Got to up the stakes if Furneaux’s