The Flower Seller. Linda Finlay

used to city life, Dotty,’ Mary reminded her. ‘Do you have any sturdier footwear, dear?’ she asked Isabella.

      ‘Sturdier?’ Isabella echoed, frowning down at her button boots.

      ‘For outdoor wear,’ her aunt elaborated.

      ‘But these are my outdoor boots.’

      ‘Ah. Not to worry, it’ll probably be another month before we get any real rain. Gets right muddy then, it does.’

      Out in the yard, Isabella looked around for the facilities but could only see a pump and a sprawl of ramshackle buildings.

      ‘That’s the privy,’ Dotty told her, gesturing towards one of the sheds. Supressing a shudder, Isabella slipped inside and carefully jammed the door closed with the piece of knotted twine which appeared to act as a bolt. Squinting in the gloom, she froze as she saw two piercing eyes glinting up at her. Then something furry brushed against her legs and with a scream, she staggered outside, an indignant-looking tabby cat flashing past her.

      ‘Oh Izzie, you should see your face,’ Dotty giggled.

      ‘Well, how was I to know the cat was lying in wait? I shall never go back in there, ever,’ she vowed.

      ‘You’ll be crossing your legs for an awfully long time then,’ her cousin told her with a shake of her head. ‘Bet poor old Tibbles got more of a fright anyhow ’cos that’s his hiding place when he gets shooed out of the kitchen. Come on, I’ll show you our violets.’

      ‘Goodness, I had no idea you had so much land or grew so many flowers,’ Isabella exclaimed as they wandered down the stone path. She seemed to be surrounded by fields of green velvet-leafed plants, many sprouting mauve buds.

      ‘’Tis the mild, damp climate. Brings them on a treat,’ Dotty smiled. ‘And this time of evening when there’s moisture in the air you gets to smell them best.’

      As the sweet, musky scent wrapped itself around her, she was gripped by a sense of déjà vu, yet she knew she’d never been here before.

      ‘Lovely, isn’t it? And definitely an improvement on the smell of those vegetables we grew before.’

      ‘You haven’t always grown flowers then?’ Isabella asked. Dotty shook her head.

      ‘Father used to farm here but when it went into depression he turned the land over to cultivating the violets that grew wild. Uncle did the same on his land over there,’ she explained. Isabella looked to where she was gesturing and could just make out a line of green hedging in the distance. ‘It didn’t pay too well at first, then they realized there was a good demand for the flowers in London. Men buy them for their ladies to decorate their evening gowns, can you believe?’ Dotty exclaimed, raising her brows in amazement.

      ‘They are called corsages and I have worn them myself,’ Isabella replied, remembering how Maxwell had purchased some from the flower girl outside Claridge’s. Had it really been only the previous day?

      ‘Coo, father said you were used to having money but you must have been filthy rich before . . . ,’ Dotty clamped her hand over her mouth. ‘Sorry, I wasn’t meant to mention it.’ Isabella started to say they still were, then remembered her father’s disclosure.

      ‘Funny how things change, isn’t it?’ Dotty said, smiling sympathetically. ‘Once Father couldn’t even pay his bills and now we have all this,’ she cried, spreading her arms out wide. Isabella frowned, surprised her cousin should be content with so little. ‘And of course, you being family, we’re happy to share it with you,’ the girl added.

      Isabella stared at her cousin, nonplussed. Although Dotty meant well, Isabella had no desire to be some kind of charity case. Not wishing to hurt her cousin’s feelings, she forced a smile.

      ‘Thank you, that is kind.’ Seeking to regain her equilibrium, she turned back towards the flowers where her uncle and cousins were moving between the plants, wielding long sticks.

      ‘What the . . . ,’ she began.

      ‘They’re hoeing the weeds,’ Dotty explained. ‘You have to keep them down or they choke the plants.’

      ‘Supper in ten,’ Mary called.

      ‘Coo, I’d no idea we’d been out here so long,’ Dotty exclaimed. ‘Better go, Mother’ll be wanting me to take Grandmother’s meal in to her.’

      ‘Your grandmother?’ Isabella asked.

      ‘Yours too,’ Dotty pointed out. ‘She lives in the house next door. No doubt you’ll get to meet her, though be warned, she’s away with the pixies most of the time.’

      Isabella stared at Dotty in surprise. Until then, she hadn’t even thought about having a grandmother. Would she look like her mama? How wonderful it would be to meet this woman and find out about her.

      ‘Perhaps you could introduce me after supper?’ she asked eagerly. Dotty frowned.

      ‘I’ll speak to Mother. She’ll probably say it’d be best to leave it until Grandmother’s having a good day, though they’re as rare as hen’s teeth.’

      ‘I must meet her before I leave, though,’ Isabella insisted.

      ‘But . . . ,’ Dotty began. Then, hearing her mother call again, she shrugged.

      As they squashed into their seats round the table, a delicious smell wafted from the large pot on the range.

      ‘Here you are, dear,’ the woman said, passing her a dish of stew surrounded by a mound of mashed potatoes.

      ‘Goodness me, I shall be enormous if I eat all this,’ Isabella protested, then seeing her uncle frown, hastily picked up her knife and fork.

      ‘Mother is a fine cook,’ he said, causing her aunt to blush. ‘And we need sustenance for our work tomorrow.’

      ‘We don’t usually get this much meat, so I likes you coming to live with us,’ Thomas piped up.

      ‘Actually, I’m not . . . ,’ Isabella began, but her uncle interrupted.

      ‘No talking at the table.’ Isabella blinked in surprise. Surely this was the very time for genial conversation? Obediently the others turned their attention to their food and the only noise was the scraping of cutlery on dishes.

      ‘That was very nice, thank you,’ Isabella said politely, pushing aside what she couldn’t eat.

      ‘Fancy words don’t butter no parsnips, Isabella,’ her uncle grunted. ‘And talking of fancy, there’s no room for all your luggage in here, so unpack what you need and we’ll store the rest in Grandmother’s barn.’

      ‘A barn,’ Isabella exclaimed.

      ‘Perhaps her spare room would be better?’ Mary ventured.

      ‘I’ll help you go through your things, Izzie,’ Alice cried. ‘I bet you’ve got lots of lovely dresses.’

      ‘I have,’ Isabella agreed thinking of her silks and chiffons. ‘Although I’ve left many behind in London,’ she added seeing the look on her uncle’s face. ‘If you tell me what you do around here in the evenings, I’ll have a better idea of what to unpack. Are there many balls or concerts . . . ?’ her voice trailed away as she saw their astonished expressions.

      ‘This be Doulis not London,’ William grunted.

      ‘Even so, you must have some form of entertainment,’ she persisted.

      ‘We have a harvest hop next month,’ Dotty volunteered.

      ‘And the church put on a splendid concert at Christmas,’ her aunt chipped in. ‘The choir sing lovely.’

      ‘There’s the Violet Ball in May,’ Dotty added.

      ‘May? But that’s months away,’ Isabella said, her heart sinking.