The Flower Seller. Linda Finlay

dearest, it’s time we were leaving.’ Seeing her crestfallen look, he added: ‘Perhaps I may call upon you tomorrow afternoon? We could visit that gallery you mentioned.’

      ‘That would be lovely, Maxwell, though I doubt they’ll be offering the champagne and canapés advertised for this evening,’ she sighed, hoping his fondness for the good things in life might change his mind.

      ‘Then I promise to make reparation,’ he assured her. ‘I’m sorry I have to rush off but it really is imperative I keep this appointment tonight. However, I’m sure you’ll spend a happy evening perusing all those delightful accoutrements you’ve bought,’ he chuckled.

      Outside, dusk was falling and the lamplighter was busy about his work. Seeing Isabella shiver, the doorman signalled for her carriage and Maxwell handed her inside. Then he turned to the young flower seller standing beside the hotel steps and plucked a posy of violets from her basket.

      ‘Beautiful flowers for a beautiful lady,’ he said, presenting them to Isabella with a flourish. ‘Until tomorrow, Isabella dearest,’ he whispered, placing a featherlight kiss on her cheek.

      As the carriage began to move, she buried her head in the flowers’ satiny petals. Breathing in their sweet perfume, a faint memory stirred, hovered elusively then vanished like mist in the rays of a summer sun. It wasn’t the first time that had happened and she sighed in frustration.

      Oblivious to the buildings flashing by the window, she thought back over her afternoon. Maxwell was handsome, generous and charming but also something of an enigma. One minute proposing they set a date for their betrothal, the next almost hurrying her from the hotel. Before she had time to ponder the matter, they were pulling up outside her family home, a three-storey house in Chester Square. To her surprise, the front door was immediately thrown open, spilling golden light onto the walkway and park beyond.

      ‘Your father is waiting in his study, Miss Isabella,’ the butler informed her.

      ‘Thank you, Jenson. I’ll see him as soon as I have attended to my purchases,’ she told him, turning to give instruction to the driver.

      ‘He was most insistent you go through immediately you arrived home, Miss.’ Fighting her irritation, Isabella hurried inside, her heels sinking into the pile of the Persian carpet as she made her way down the hallway.

      ‘Good evening, Papa,’ she smiled, breezing into his inner sanctum where the familiar smell of beeswax and cigar smoke overpowered the gentle fragrance of her violets. ‘It’s ages since you were home at this hour. Does this mean we shall be dining together?’ To her surprise, her usually affable father didn’t answer. In fact, he looked gaunt, seeming to have shrunk in stature since she’d seen him that morning. As he stared at her from behind his highly polished desk, his hazel eyes gleaming olive in their seriousness, Isabella felt her chest tighten. ‘Is something wrong? Are you not well?’ she asked, taking in his pallor.

      ‘Come and sit down, Isabella, I have something to tell you,’ he said quietly.

      ‘What is it, Papa? Has something happened?’ she asked, sinking into the leather chair opposite.

      ‘A fire has destroyed St John’s in Newfoundland.’

      ‘But that’s on the other side of the world, Papa. It’s a terrible shame, of course, but not of any great importance to you, surely?’

      ‘On the contrary, my dear. I have invested heavily there and now it’s all gone. My business is in ruins, Isabella. All this has to go,’ he groaned, making a sweeping gesture around the room. ‘Since your mother died I have done my best to keep you in the manner she wanted, but now I have failed . . . ’ his voice broke and he stuttered to a halt.

      ‘You’ve been the best papa ever,’ Isabella cried, hurrying to his side and throwing her arms around him. ‘Don’t worry, we can economize,’ she said, seeking to reassure him. ‘Why, Maxwell told me only this afternoon that as soon as I return from Italy, he intends asking for my hand in marriage.’

      ‘My dearest child, you simply do not understand. There will be no Italy or friends either,’ he faltered and looked away.

      ‘But Papa, you have so many, they will all want to help . . . ’ she began.

      ‘Alas, they are of the fair-weather kind,’ he replied, grinning wryly. ‘When word gets out they’ll disappear faster than rats up a drainpipe, as you would find out if you were to remain here. I simply cannot put you through that, Isabella, which is why I have made arrangements for you to go and stay with your Uncle Frederick and his family in Devonshire.’

      ‘What?’ she gasped. ‘But I’ve never met these people before,’ she cried, shivering despite the fire burning brightly in the grate. ‘You will be coming too?’ Her father shook his head.

      ‘That is out of the question. I have to see if I have anything at all left to salvage.’

      ‘Then I shall stay here with you,’ Isabella declared stoutly, staring at the man she so loved and revered.

      ‘You will repair to Devonshire tomorrow morning, and that, I’m afraid, is an order.’ Isabella’s eyes widened. Never before had he insisted she do anything, let alone something to which she wasn’t agreeable. ‘If I had more time then things might be different.’

      ‘Time, Papa? If that’s what you need, then I will go,’ she told him, eager to make him happy again.

      ‘Thank you, my dear,’ he said, giving her a wan smile. ‘I asked Gaskell to pack your bags before she left.’

      ‘Left, Papa? I didn’t know Gaskell was going anywhere,’ she frowned. ‘She was supposed to be escorting me this afternoon but . . . ,’ Isabella faltered, realization dawning. ‘You told her not to, didn’t you?’

      ‘I’m afraid I did. She knew which of your things would be best suited to your new life. Your uncle runs a small market garden and his homestead does not have the space you are used to here.’

      ‘You are not painting a very agreeable picture, Papa,’ Isabella frowned, wrinkling her nose.

      ‘They are kindly people and will make you welcome,’ he assured her.

      ‘Surely you can’t mean for me to travel alone?’ she cried. Her father shook his head.

      ‘Certainly not, my dear. The housekeeper’s friend, Mrs Brown, is visiting family in Plymouth and will accompany you as far as Dawlish, where your Uncle Frederick will be waiting.’

      ‘But . . . ,’ she began, still trying to grasp what he was telling her.

      ‘Do this for me,’ he beseeched, grasping her hands so tightly she had to bite her lip to stop herself from crying out. The desperation in his eyes cut her to the core, and loving him as she did, she wanted to help.

      ‘Very well, Papa. I will go and stay with this Uncle Frederick, but only until you have sorted your affairs. You promise to send word as soon as I can return?’ He reached into his inside pocket and drew out a silver locket.

      ‘This was your dear mama’s,’ he murmured, pressing it into her hands. ‘It is only right you have it now.’

      ‘But you have carried it with you since she died,’ she began.

      ‘It is what she would have wanted,’ he insisted. ‘And give this to your uncle when you arrive,’ he added, handing her an envelope sealed with his crest. ‘Now go and get some rest, for you will need to be up early in the morning.’ He stared down at the papers on his desk and she knew further argument would be futile.

      Stunned by her papa’s revelations and unable to believe he was sending her away, Isabella made her way up to her room. It felt cold and her heart sank when she saw the dressing table had been cleared of her things. The closet was empty apart from her velvet-trimmed mantle and favourite day dress. Her matching bonnet and calfskin gloves were laid out on the chaise longue, her button boots neatly positioned on the rug beneath. Fighting back