The Christmas Card: The perfect heartwarming novel for Christmas from the Sunday Times bestseller

Chapter Two

Alice was too shocked to argue. If Aunt Jane had told her that she was going into service it might have given her time to prepare, but this sudden turn of events had caught her unawares. She hurried after Mrs Upton, who took the stairs with the ease of a mountaineer. Clearly she was used to such exercise, but by the time they reached the third floor Alice was out of breath and her legs were aching. The somewhat gaudy décor had ended on the second floor, and the third floor seemed to have been reserved for the nursery suite. Mrs Upton selected a key from the bunch hanging at her waist and unlocked the door.

‘Stand back and don’t let her slip past you. Miss Flora is as slippery as an eel.’ She opened it and ushered Alice inside, quickly closing the door behind them as a small child hurtled towards her and tried to grab the handle. ‘Now, Miss Flora, that’s not the way to behave, is it?’

Flora Dearborn skidded to a halt, glaring at her through a mop of tousled blonde hair. She was barefoot and wearing a cambric nightgown. ‘I want to see Mama. You shouldn’t lock me in, you horrible person.’

‘That’s no way to speak to anyone, Miss Flora,’ Mrs Upton said, bristling but obviously making a huge effort to control her temper. ‘What will Miss Radcliffe think?’

Flora tossed her hair back from her face, staring at Alice with a hostile look in her china-blue eyes. ‘Who the devil are you?’

‘Language, Miss Flora.’

‘Shut up, Upton. You’re just a servant.’ Flora stood, feet wide apart, arms akimbo. ‘Cat got your tongue, Miss Radcliffe?’

Alice met Flora’s unfriendly gaze with a steady look. She saw a disturbed and angry child and felt a sudden burst of fellow-feeling for the little girl, who could not have been more than nine or ten. The mere fact that Flora had been locked in her room all night, and possibly longer, was enough to make Alice feel outraged and arouse her sympathy. It brought back unhappy memories of her childhood when, during one of the long bouts of illness suffered by her mother, the woman who had been hired to look after Alice had proved to be a drunk and a bully. If it had not been for the sharp eyes of their maidservant the situation might have escalated, but she had discovered the tell-tale empty gin bottles and had reported the woman to Clement, who had sacked her on the spot. Alice had been six at the time, but she had never forgotten the feeling of isolation, and the frustration of being unable to communicate her fears with the adults who should have been there to protect her.

She held her hand out to Flora. ‘How do you do, Miss Flora? My name is Alice.’

Flora clasped her hands behind her back, ignoring the friendly overture. ‘What’s she doing here, Upton? You know what I do to governesses, and I’m too old for a nanny.’

Mrs Upton slid her fingers around the door handle, her knuckles whitening. ‘Miss Radcliffe is going to look after you. She is an artist,’ she added, wrenching the door open. ‘I leave her in your capable hands, Miss Radcliffe.’ She shot out of the room, slamming the door behind her.

Alice waited for the rasp of the key in the lock and was relieved when nothing happened. The sound of Mrs Upton’s retreating footsteps faded into the distance, and Alice stood facing Flora, whose sullen expression was not encouraging.

‘Well,’ she said slowly, ‘you obviously don’t want me here, Flora. Would you like to tell me why?’

A fleeting look of astonishment was replaced by a frown. ‘What do you care? Who are you, anyway?’ Flora threw herself down on her bed and pulled the counterpane over her head, peering at Alice from beneath its folds. ‘You’re just like the rest of them.’

Alice was quick to hear the note of desperation in Flora’s childish voice. She stood perfectly still, as if facing a wild animal, clasping her hands in front of her. ‘I don’t even know why I’m here, Flora. Tell me about yourself.’

There was a moment of uncomfortable silence while Flora seemed to weigh this up in her mind. Then to Alice’s surprise she leaped off the bed, flinging the counterpane onto the floor. ‘I’m a bad child. They’re always telling me so.’ She glared up at Alice, teeth bared. ‘I bite and I scratch.’

Alice stood her ground. ‘If you bite or scratch me I’ll do the same to you, Flora.’

‘Lay a finger on me and I’ll tell Papa. And it’s Miss Flora to you, Radcliffe.’

‘Miss Flora is a young lady. You are a spoiled brat.’

‘I am not spoiled.’ Flora lunged at Alice, grabbing her by the sleeve and tugging with all her might.

Alice felt the stitching give way at the shoulder seam and a searing pain where Flora’s sharp fingernails dug into the soft flesh of her forearm. Flora opened her mouth as if to bite but Alice was too quick for her. She raised her free hand and caught Alice a mighty clout round the side of her head, but at that moment the door opened and a maid entered carrying a breakfast tray. Flora uttered a loud wail, clutching her hand to her ear. ‘You hit me. I’ll tell Mama what you did.’ She turned to the maid, who was standing in the doorway open-mouthed. ‘You saw what she did, Nettie. She struck me.’

The maid recovered quickly. ‘I’m sorry, Miss Flora. I never saw nothing.’

Alice rubbed her sore wrist where crescent-shaped nail marks had begun to bleed. She had always disapproved of corporal punishment, but Flora had been out of control. ‘You will sit at the table and eat your breakfast, young lady,’ she said firmly.

Nettie bustled over to the table and put the tray down, keeping a wary eye on Flora, who advanced on her with clenched fists. ‘You’re a liar,’ she hissed. ‘You saw what she did.’

‘I’m sorry, Miss Flora. I dunno what you’re talking about.’ Nettie backed away. ‘The porridge is just how you like it, miss. Nice and sweet with a dollop of honey.’

Moving swiftly, Flora snatched up the plate and hurled it, but Nettie was too quick for her and was out of the room in a flash of starched white petticoats. The bowl hit the door as it closed, spreading the thick, sticky oatmeal in a starburst on the floor. Alice watched it drip down the wall and her stomach rumbled. The waste of good food was appalling and she was hungry. She faced Flora, folding her arms across her chest. ‘You will clear that up before you start your meal.’

Flora poked her tongue out as she took her seat at the table. ‘It’s your job, Radcliffe. You’re the servant.’

Moving swiftly, Alice crossed the floor and lifted Flora bodily from the chair. ‘You will do as I say, or we will not get on at all well. I’ve never seen such disgraceful behaviour and it’s quite unacceptable.’

‘I knew you were like the others,’ Flora said sulkily. ‘They all hate me.’

Alice stood her ground. ‘If this is how you behave it’s hardly surprising no one likes you.’

A look of uncertainly crossed Flora’s small features and she tossed back her unruly curls. ‘They’re paid to like me. I’m Flora Dearborn. My pa is a rich man.’

‘I don’t care if your pa is an Indian nabob, you’ll clear up the mess you made.’

‘What’s a nabob?’

‘Someone who is much wealthier than your pa, and I don’t suppose they boast about their riches. It’s not considered good manners.’

Flora’s curious expression was replaced by a pout. ‘I don’t care about manners.’

Alice knew she was losing the battle of wills, but was saved by the timely appearance of Nettie, who entered the room with a bucket slung over her arm and a scrubbing brush in her hand. ‘I’ve come to clear up the mess, Miss Radcliffe.’

‘Thank you, Nettie, but Miss Flora has something to say to you.’ Alice sent a meaningful look in Flora’s direction. ‘She wishes to apologise for her behaviour.’

Flora stared down at her bare feet. ‘No, I don’t.’

‘I’ll just do my work,’ Nettie said hastily.

‘No.’ Alice moved to her side and took the bucket from her grasp. ‘Miss Flora created this mess and she is going to clear it up.’

Nettie’s lips worked silently as she stared wide-eyed at Flora.

Alice nodded her head. ‘You may go, Nettie. This will be done, I assure you.’ She waited until they were alone again. ‘You and I have been thrust together, Flora. I didn’t choose to work here and you didn’t ask to have me, so we’ll have to make the best of it.’

‘I’ll get rid of you like I got rid of all the others,’ Flora muttered half to herself, but just loud enough for Alice to hear.

‘We may have more in common than you think,’ Alice said casually. ‘I’ll tell you my story and I’ll be happy to listen to what you have to say. Maybe we can come to a truce, but first you will clear up the mess you made.’

‘My boiled egg and soldiers are getting cold. I’m hungry.’

‘Then you’d better hurry up or they’ll be stone cold and I’ll ring for Nettie to take the tray away.’ Alice could smell the hot buttered toast and she was so hungry she could have gone down on her knees and lapped up the porridge like a cat, but she had her own feelings under control. She met Flora’s rebellious gaze with a steady look. This was a battle she had to win.

‘All right, but I’ll make you suffer for this, Radcliffe.’ Flora went down on her hands and knees and picked up the scrubbing brush.

Alice smothered a sigh of relief. Life was difficult enough without a child dictating the odds. She stood in silence while Flora dabbed ineffectively at the glutinous mass, which was seeping into the cracks between the floorboards. In the end Alice went down on her knees beside her, taking the cloth from the bucket of rapidly cooling water and wringing it out. ‘We’ll do it quicker together.’

Flora said nothing and turned her head away, but not before Alice had seen tears glistening on the ends of her long eyelashes. She’s just a child, Alice thought wearily; a lonely child in desperate need of companionship as well as a firm hand. She sat back on her haunches. ‘I think we’ve done all we can, Flora. Eat your breakfast before it gets too cold.’

Flora scrambled to her feet, flinging the scrubbing brush into the bucket. ‘I’ll tell Mama of you, Radcliffe.’

‘Do as you please, but I can play that game too. I don’t suppose she would be too pleased to learn that you threw a plate at Nettie.’

Flora resumed her seat and ate in silence, while Alice tidied the room. It was simply furnished with a child’s desk and chair at the far end and a larger desk, which presumably must have been used by Flora’s governess, but was now littered with books and drawing materials. Sorting through them, Alice was encouraged to find that Flora had a talent for drawing, although most of the sketches had a dark, nightmarish quality that was disturbing. Another factor that seemed unnatural was the lack of playthings. There was not a doll in sight nor anything that might keep a nine-year-old amused during the long hours that Flora seemed to spend on her own. There was a bookcase but most of the shelves were empty, and there was not much reading material to occupy the mind of a lively child. There were a few framed prints on the walls, but these were mostly sombre lithographs of winter scenes, which were hardly cheering on a cold and snowy day. Alice sighed. This was not how she had foreseen her future, if she had ever thought about it at all, but at least she was attempting to put her time to good use. She put a shovelful of coal on the fire and sat down to wait for Flora to finish her meal.

Alice soon discovered that everything was a battle with young Flora Dearborn, from the frock she was to wear that day to the boots that went with it, and when Alice tried to run a comb through her young charge’s tangled mop there were shrieks and tears.

‘You’re hurting me.’ Flora cried petulantly. ‘Leave me alone, you bitch.’

Alice held the tress of hair firmly in her hand so that Flora could not pull away. ‘Mrs Upton said that we were to go down to the drawing room at half-past eleven to see your mama. I’m sure she wouldn’t want to see you looking as though you’ve been dragged through a hedge backwards.’

Flora stopped struggling. ‘Have you ever seen any- one who’s been dragged through a hedge backwards?’

‘It’s just a manner of speaking, but you know very well what I mean.’

‘You’re tugging too hard. You’re doing it to hurt me like Smithson used to.’

‘Who is Smithson?’

‘She was my nanny. She used to pull my hair and pinch me if I was naughty. She told me that Spring-heeled Jack would get me if I was bad. He’d jump up to my window and come in while I was asleep.’

‘That’s nonsense, Flora. Spring-heeled Jack is merely a tale told to frighten little girls. Now let’s try and get the comb through the worst of the tangles so that your mama will be proud of you.’

‘She’s not my mama,’ Flora said sulkily. ‘I have to call her mama but she just wanted a little girl to show off to her friends.’

Alice paused with the comb poised over Flora’s curly head. ‘Is this a tale you’re making up?’

‘No.’ Flora twisted round to look her in the face. ‘That’s why they lock me up at night. I keep trying to go home to my real mama, but they won’t let me.’

Shocked and upset, Alice could hardly believe her ears. ‘Where is your home then, Flora?’

‘It’s far away from here where the sun always shines. There are flowers all year round and tall trees with birds nesting in the branches. They took me from my real mama, but no one loves me here. I’m too horrible, like you said.’

‘If what you say is true then it’s quite appalling.’

‘I’m not a liar.’ Flora snatched the comb out of Alice’s hand and started dragging it through her hair, tugging at the stubborn tangles with tears spurting from her eyes. Alice covered the small hand with hers, gently prising Flora’s fingers apart and taking the comb from her.

‘I believe you.’

‘You do? No one else does. Mrs Upton says it’s a wicked lie and the others laugh at me. I know they do.’

‘How long have you been here, Flora?’

‘I don’t know. A long time.’

‘Who told you that Mrs Dearborn is not your real mama?’

‘Smithson did. She told me when she’d been drinking from the bottle she hid at the back of the cupboard. She said she’d been the midwife attending my real mama, and Mrs Dearborn gave her ten pounds to buy a baby girl.’

Alice stared at her, frowning. It was almost impossible to believe that a woman could sell her newborn baby, but Flora seemed certain that it was true. ‘Perhaps she was lying. Sometimes people say stupid things when they’ve been drinking.’

‘Rory says it’s true.’

‘Who is Rory?’

Flora smiled and her eyes lit up for a brief moment, but then the sullen look returned like a tragic mask. ‘Rory is my uncle, or that’s what I have to call him. He’s Papa’s younger brother.’

‘I don’t understand,’ Alice said, frowning. ‘Why would he say such a thing?’

‘He came to visit and found me crying.’ Flora’s eyes filled with tears, making her look vulnerable and completely different from the wild child who had greeted Alice earlier that morning. ‘It was after Smithson told me about my real mama. Rory said he’d find out if it was true, and if it was he promised that one day he’d take me to see my real mother.’