LINDA FINLAY lives on the Devonshire coast and is the author of seven novels. From lace-making to growing Devon violets, each one is based on a local craft which, in order to write authentically, she has learnt to do herself. However, it is people and their problems that make for good story writing and, with so much interesting material to work with, it is easy for Linda to let her imagination run as wild as the West Country landscape which has inspired her writing.

Also by Linda Finlay

The Royal Lacemaker

The Girl with the Red Ribbon

A Family For Christmas

The Sea Shell Girl

Monday’s Child

Orphans and Angels

Copyright

An imprint of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd.

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2018

Copyright © Linda Finlay 2018

Linda Finlay asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Ebook Edition © March 2018 ISBN: 9780008262938

This edition: 21-06-2020

To Pern, for your continued encouragement and support

Contents

Cover

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Acknowledgements

About the Publisher

Chapter 1

London, September 1892

Forgetting all she’d been taught about dignified deportment, Isabella swept through the doors of Claridge’s as if blown in on the autumn breeze. Her golden curls and bright blue eyes drew many an admiring glance to which she was oblivious, as she hastily smoothed down the silk of her lilac skirts and straightened the strands of pearls around her neck. With her visit to Italy only days away, she’d been shopping for accessories to complement the new outfits her dressmaker had delivered that morning, and browsing the delightful displays, she’d completely lost track of time. Not wishing to keep Maxwell waiting, she hurried between the ornate marble columns and into the garden room decorated with potted palms. He’d been so preoccupied with business recently that time with him was precious.

A waiter showed her to a table secreted behind one of the oriental silk screens that divided the room into private alcoves.

‘Isabella, darling,’ he greeted her, rising to his feet. He was looking especially handsome in his dark jacket with a high-necked waistcoat, and the appreciative gleam in his slate-grey eyes sent shivers tingling down her spine, although she endeavoured not to show it.

‘I hope I haven’t kept you waiting?’ she asked demurely. Instead of answering, he glanced beyond her and frowned.

‘No bodyguard this afternoon?’

‘Oh Maxwell, you are terrible,’ she giggled. ‘You know Papa feels happier if Gaskell chaperones me. Though where she is this afternoon, I have no idea. I expressly told her I would be leaving the house at 2 p.m., yet when the clock struck the hour she was nowhere to be seen.’

‘You mean you took the opportunity to slip out unaccompanied? Whatever would dear Papa say?’ he exclaimed, throwing up his hands in mock horror.

‘I know it was bold of me, but I had shopping that couldn’t wait and, of course, I’ve been looking forward to our meeting. Although I have to confess Papa doesn’t know,’ she told him, staring at him from under her lashes. In truth, much as she hated deceiving her father, wild horses wouldn’t have prevented her coming.

‘Well, I can’t pretend I’m sorry to have you all to myself. Those beady eyes of hers watching my every move make me nervous, I don’t mind admitting. Still, here you are, and all on your own. How I shall restrain myself, I don’t know.’ He waggled his eyebrows so outrageously she had to laugh.

‘Oh Maxwell, you are a terrible tease.’

‘It’s the truth, I assure you. Now before you slap my face with your lily-white hand, I have taken the liberty of ordering sandwiches, fancies and a pot of Earl Grey,’ he told her becoming serious as another waiter approached, bearing a silver tray.

‘My favourites,’ she smiled, thinking how considerate he was.

‘How is your father?’ Maxwell asked, as soon as the waiter had poured their drinks and departed.

‘Busy as ever,’ she sighed, eyeing the food longingly. Shopping always made her hungry and the delectable fragrance of smoked salmon and cucumber was making her mouth water. However, Maxwell was staring at her intently.

‘I heard there was a takeover in the offing. Your father had a successful outcome, I trust?’ he asked solicitously.

‘If the long hours he’s been spending at his office are anything to go by, then yes he surely must have.’

‘That’s gratifying to hear,’ he replied before adding: ‘There have been rumours circulating recently.’

‘Oh?’ she asked.

‘Nothing for you to worry your pretty head about,’ he assured her, reaching across the snowy tablecloth and running one finger lightly down the back of her hand. She glanced around guiltily. Although they were screened from view, she daren’t risk word getting back to Papa. Her father had been polite whenever Maxwell called for her, but they were so close she knew by the set of his face he didn’t approve of their liaison. Discovering she was here unchaperoned wouldn’t help matters at all, even if Maxwell wasn’t to blame. As if reading her thoughts, Maxwell’s hand tightened on hers.

‘Isabella darling, you must know how I feel about you,’ he murmured, leaning closer and staring into her eyes. ‘Don’t you think it’s time we set a date for our betrothal?’ Her heart leapt yet she endeavoured to stay composed.

‘I leave for Florence next week, Maxwell,’ she reminded him.

‘The city that shimmers gold,’ he smiled.

‘You’ve been there?’ she asked.

‘Indeed, I have. Father insisted I see something of the world before taking up my position with his firm. I shall think of you on the Ponte Vecchio, the glorious green waters of the Arno gliding beneath your feet.’

‘You paint a delightful picture, and of course I’m thrilled I shall be visiting Rome as well. I really can’t believe my good fortune.’ Her eyes clouded. ‘You do realize I shall be away for over three months?’

‘I know, dearest, and I shall miss you terribly,’ he sighed. ‘However, with your appreciation of the arts, it will be a wonderful experience for you.’

‘I have to confess to looking forward to going, although I do worry . . . ’ her voice trailed away.

‘Worry? What about?’ he asked.

‘You’ll think me silly, but it’s the first time I’ve travelled abroad and, although Gaskell will be with me, I can’t help worrying something will go wrong. Suppose I don’t like it?’

‘Oh Isabella, you will love it, I’m sure,’ he assured her. ‘However, should there be any problem then I shall come and bring you home again.’

‘You’d do that for me?’

‘Of course, your happiness is paramount, sweetest.’

‘Thank you, Maxwell,’ she whispered, her heart swelling. ‘I am going to miss you.’

‘Then with your permission, I shall speak to your father the moment you return.’ He waited for her to reply, his eyes never leaving hers. Butterflies skittered in her chest and she looked down at her plate, pretending to consider. ‘We could hold a ball for your coming of age in the new year and make the formal announcement then.’

‘Goodness, that soon?’ she gasped, staring at him in surprise. His smile widened as he held her gaze.

‘It can’t be soon enough for me, Isabella, and besides as an old man of nearly thirty, I need a wife by my side,’ he told her. ‘I believe amethyst is the appropriate stone for those born in early February. One would be a perfect match for those beautiful cornflower eyes of yours that tinge violet when roused.’

‘Stop it, Maxwell, you’re making me blush,’ she cried, feeling the heat creeping up her cheeks. ‘Fancy you knowing my birthstone,’ she added, for he wasn’t usually given to sentiment.

‘My grandmother told me,’ he admitted with a wry grin. ‘Her birthday is the day before yours and she wears such a ring.’

‘Really? We shall have something to talk about when we meet.’

‘You agree then?’ he urged, tightening his grip.

‘I suppose if we were betrothed, then we would travel together. That alone makes your proposal worth considering,’ she replied, smiling so he knew she was teasing, for there was nothing she desired more. Although he returned her smile, it didn’t reach his eyes and thinking he’d had enough of discussing personal matters, she changed the subject. ‘On my way here, I passed a gallery displaying charming pictures by a Scottish artist. His exhibition debuts this very evening.’ She looked at him hopefully.

‘I’m sorry, Isabella, but I already have an appointment tonight,’ he replied, releasing her hand and sitting back in his seat.

‘Oh?’ she frowned, disappointment flooding through her.

‘A business meeting so important I cannot postpone it, even for you,’ he explained. ‘Now let’s not waste our time together. Tell me what wicked things you’ve been up to whilst your keeper’s been absent without leave.’ Isabella took a sip of her drink, then unable to resist the appeal in his eyes, regaled him with details of her afternoon. Yet, although he smiled and nodded, she couldn’t help feeling he was only half listening.

‘It sounds as though you need to replace that energy you’ve expended,’ he joked, proffering the laden silver stand the moment she paused for breath.

The bread was freshly baked, the salmon succulent and she savoured each mouthful as soft music from the pianist mingled with the murmur of voices around them. The chink of crystal glasses and clink of silver spoons against fine china added to the genial atmosphere. Cocooned in their cosy nook, Isabella sighed contentedly then darted a surreptitious glance at Maxwell. His grey silk tie brought out the colour of his eyes while his slicked-back fair hair emphasized razor-sharp cheeks. He was handsome beyond measure and she couldn’t wait to become his wife. As if sensing her thoughts, he looked up and smiled.

‘Next time we come here, we shall celebrate in style, Isabella,’ he promised. ‘Now why don’t you sample these delicious-looking cakes before we leave?’ She took one, toying with the purple crystallized flower on top whilst she waited for him to continue discussing plans for their future. He seemed distracted, though, even frowning at the clock on the wall. Surely he wasn’t in that much of a hurry, Isabella mused, nibbling daintily at the icing. Yet, no sooner had she finished eating than he folded his napkin and smiled apologetically.

‘Regrettably 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 the tears, she sank onto her bed and glanced down at the silver locket in her hands. It was modest in its simplicity and quite unlike the bright jewels her mama had worn. Or even the amethyst Maxwell had promised her. Maxwell! She would send him a note explaining her change of plans. The moment he received it, he would come and rescue her, she thought, her spirits rising as she remembered his earlier promise.

Chapter 2

Clutching her reticule to her chest, Isabella stared around Paddington Station in dismay. The noise was horrendous as people swarmed like ants towards the waiting trains, and porters threw luggage from their trollies into the baggage vans. Noxious smells and smuts of soot emanating from painted engines caught in her throat. Holding her handkerchief to her nose, she glanced hopefully over her shoulder. However, there was no sign of Maxwell, and her heart sank to her button boots.

‘This way, Miss,’ the stationmaster urged, guiding her towards the carriage where a woman of middle years stood waiting. She was wearing a brown hat, brown coat and stout brown boots, leaving Isabella in no doubt as to her identity. Even her birdlike eyes were brown as they surveyed Isabella. ‘This train will take you straight through to Dawlish,’ the man advised her.

‘Don’t worry, I’ll see her safely off at the other end,’ the woman told him. ‘Mrs Brown at your service, dearie,’ she added, turning back to Isabella and smiling. ‘Sit down and make yourself comfortable, we’ve a fair few hours’ travelling ahead of us.’ Not minding the woman’s lack of formality, and strangely comforted by her motherly way, Isabella settled herself onto the seat.

The banging of doors a few moments later made her jump, and glancing out of the window, she saw the stationmaster checking his pocket watch against the station clock. Surely they weren’t leaving already, she thought, anxiously scanning the platform for Maxwell. He must have received her letter by now. There was a loud hiss of steam followed by creaks and groans, then with a shudder and screech from the iron wheels, the carriage lurched forward causing her to reach anxiously for the armrest. As clouds of smoke billowed past the window, the train began to pick up pace. He isn’t coming, he isn’t coming, it seemed to be saying.

‘You can relax and put your bag down, dearie,’ the woman said, breaking into her thoughts. ‘Your father reserved us our own compartment, so it’ll be quite safe.’ Isabella’s fingers tightened on the purse that held her travelling jewellery roll containing her mother’s locket and the envelope she was to give to her uncle.

‘Your first time on a train, Miss?’ Mrs Brown asked. Isabella nodded.

‘I’m to stay with Mama’s family, although I’ve never met them before,’ she admitted.

‘It’ll be an opportunity for you to get to know them then,’ the woman replied philosophically.

‘It’s only until Papa gets his affairs sorted,’ she added.

‘Of course it is, dearie,’ Mrs Brown smiled knowingly. Too late Isabella realized that Gaskell must have been gossiping. Eager to avoid further questioning, she turned and stared out of the window.

Tall buildings had given way to terraces of houses, smoke curling lazily from their chimneys. Washing flapped like flags in narrow gardens that led down to the railway, while allotments, chequered green and brown with vegetables, stretched beyond. The train gave another lurch then settled into its rhythm. Going away, going away, it seemed to be saying. Realizing it was taking her away from everyone she loved, the tears welled. Unwilling to let Mrs Brown see how miserable she felt, she closed her eyes.

Perhaps Maxwell had gone out before her note was delivered. As soon as he received it he’d be sure to follow her to Devonshire. Dear Papa was a clever man and she had no doubt he would soon get his affairs sorted and everything would return to normal. While her thoughts whirled like sycamore leaves in the autumn breeze, her lids grew heavy. Finally, as events of the previous day caught up with her, she slept.

The train juddering to a halt, jolted her awake and she stared around disorientated.

‘There, dearie, you have had a good sleep,’ Mrs Brown chuckled. ‘Here we are at Exeter St Davids station and only a few stops from Dawlish.’

‘Goodness,’ Isabella gasped. ‘I do apologize.’ The woman laughed.

‘No need to, I’m sure. ’Tis lucky mind, ’cos up to May this year you’d have had to change trains here.’

‘Oh? Why?’ she asked politely.

‘’Twas only then they changed the gauge from here onward so as to standardize all the railways. Means we can now go all the way through to Penzance in Cornwall, see?’ the woman said, lowering her voice as if imparting inside information. ‘Anyways, dearie, you must be hungry after all that sleep, so have a piece of cake,’ she invited, proffering a brown bag with its brown contents. As the smell of treacle wafted her way, Isabella felt her stomach heave.

‘Thank you but I have little appetite.’

‘Oh shame,’ Mrs Brown sighed, making to close the bag again.

‘Please have some yourself, though,’ Isabella said quickly.

‘Don’t mind if I do,’ she replied, breaking off a sizable chunk and popping it into her mouth. A whistle sounded, then with another hiss of brakes the train lurched and they were on their way again.

Whilst the woman munched contentedly, Isabella stared out of the window. Before long the buildings gave way to open country and she widened her eyes in surprise.

‘Goodness, those fields are red,’ she gasped.

‘That be the Demshur dirt. You’ll have to mind not to get any on those fine threads of yours,’ Mrs Brown sighed, eyeing Isabella’s travelling clothes covetously. Then, seemingly pulling herself together, she added: ‘And over there be the Exe.’ Isabella turned to where the woman was gesturing and, sure enough, the train was rattling alongside a river teeming with sailing and rowing boats. Further along, a ferry belching black smoke was disgorging its cargo of people and animals onto the foreshore. They were so close that when the train listed as it rounded a bend, Isabella feared they might tip over and land on top of them.

‘You should see the sunsets round here. Best in all the world,’ Mrs Brown told her, oblivious to her concern. ‘And there be the sea,’ she added as Isabella gasped at the vast expanse of white-tipped water shimmering in the afternoon sun. ‘You never seen the sea before?’ the woman guessed. Isabella shook her head.

‘No, I haven’t. I was meant to be travelling to Italy later this week, though,’ she replied with a pang. If she’d thought Italy far away then, surely it was nothing compared to the miles she’d travelled today. Away from everyone and everything she knew and loved.

‘Ah well, I guess you’ll find Demshur just as good,’ the woman replied, interrupting her thoughts. Isabella was about to ask where Demshur was when the woman gestured to the other side of the carriage. ‘There’s the Earl’s deer park. Leads right up to his castle, it does.’ Isabella peered out, hoping to catch a glimpse of the building, but Mrs Brown was still chatting. ‘And them dark forests yonder house wild black cats the size of panthers. One snatched up a baby and ran off with it,’ she shuddered.

‘Really, Mrs Brown,’ Isabella tutted. Not wishing to hear any more of the woman’s outrageous tales, she turned her attention back to the brightness of the sea only to find they were now passing through dark tunnels which appeared to hang over the water. Then the train slowed before shuddering to a halt.

‘Doulis, Doulis, ever’one for Doulis,’ a voice called.

‘Here you are, dearie,’ Mrs Brown announced as the door opened and the guard stood smiling up at them. Isabella frowned.

‘But I’m to alight at Dawlish,’ she began. The woman pointed to a sign on the platform.

‘That’s right, Doulis. That’s how they says it here.’

‘How very strange,’ Isabella frowned, getting to her feet.

‘Good luck, dearie,’ Mrs Brown said. ‘You’ll have a fine time, I’m sure.’

‘Goodbye, Mrs Brown, I’m obliged for your company.’

‘Porter’s unloading your luggage now, Miss Carrington,’ the stationmaster said, hurrying towards her as she alighted.

‘How do you know who I am?’ she asked, surprise overtaking her trepidation.

‘You be expected,’ he chuckled. ‘’Appen your uncle’ll be here drekly.’ The rest of his words were lost in another deafening hiss as the brakes were released and the train chugged its way out of the station, enveloping them in a cloud of steam. As Isabella swatted away smuts of soot in annoyance, the man gave another chuckle. ‘You soon gets used to that. Ah, here be Mr Northcott coming now.’

Isabella’s eyes widened in disbelief. Hurrying towards them was a man of middle years wearing an ill-fitted coat with violets sprouting incongruously from his buttonhole. A large straw hat was pulled down over his head, almost obscuring his dark bushy brows. Surely this peculiar man couldn’t be her mother’s brother?

‘Had to get the day’s flowers onto the upbound train, Bert, else they’d never reach Covent Garden in time,’ he explained. Then he turned to Isabella and smiled. ‘You must be my sister’s girl. Welcome to Doulis,’ he said, proffering a huge and somewhat grubby hand.

‘You are Uncle Frederick?’ she asked, unable to equate this bear of a man with her ladylike mama. And yet those chocolate-brown eyes seemed strangely familiar.

‘The same,’ he confirmed, frowning down at the pile of luggage by her side. ‘Looks like you’ve fetched half of London with you. Good job I didn’t bring the boy or we’d have no room for it all.’

‘Where is your conveyance?’ she asked, peering around for sight of a carriage.

‘My, er, conveyance is over there,’ he grinned, pointing to a battered old trap. ‘And that be Silver,’ he added.

‘Silver? ’she replied, frowning at the donkey with its shaggy grey coat.

‘I’d better ’elp ye with this lot,’ the stationmaster said, bending down to pick up her travelling trunk. ‘Blimey, what you got in ’ere, Miss, the crown jewels?’ he asked, staggering under the weight.

‘I really don’t know, my chaperone packed whilst I was out shopping,’ Isabella explained. The two men exchanged a look before heaving her luggage up onto the trap. Then her uncle swung himself into the seat, patting the tiny space beside him.

‘Up yer come,’ he called. Isabella stared at the grime-encrusted wooden plank and shuddered. Her uncle laughed. ‘You’ll have to get used to a bit of soil if you’re to live with us. ’Tis flower growers we be.’ Gingerly she clambered up beside him, but as the donkey plodded down the lane, her uncertainty turned to surprise. Ahead of them tall, elegant houses seemed to rise into the sky, and colourful shops fronted a wide green with a sparkling stream cascading down one side. Ducks swam merrily before disappearing under a bridge but before she had time to wonder where, the trap was heading away from the town and travelling alongside the sea. She could hear the shooshing sound of waves being sucked in and out of the pebbles.

‘It’s really pretty and the air has the clarity of crystal,’ she exclaimed, breathing in deeply. ‘Why, it smells of salt.’

‘That be the ozone,’ her uncle chuckled. ‘Come spring, those pale cheeks of yours will be as rosy as the cherry blossom.’

‘Oh, I’ll not be staying that long,’ she replied, staring at him in horror. He shot her a look but said nothing and they plodded on in silence. In the distance, she could see the rolling green of the hills Mrs Brown had spoken about. Suddenly the cart lurched as they turned into another much narrower lane.

‘Nearly there,’ he told her. She stared at the crooked huddle of tiny cottages, their thatched roofs almost touching. Surely he didn’t live here? To her relief, they kept going until the lane opened out again and she saw mauve buds peeping from velvety leaves in the sloping hedge banks.

‘They be the Devon violets,’ her uncle explained, seeing her surprise.

‘What a strange time of year for delicate flowers like that to be coming out,’ she replied.

‘Them blooms best between September and April, though we can make ’em grow longer in the shelter of our market garden,’ he told her proudly. ‘Here we be, and there’s plenty more of them violets round the back,’ her uncle chuckled, pulling up in front of a two-storey stone building with a moss-covered slate roof. To the left of this was a long brick shed half-clad with wooden boards. Although the property looked a bit ramshackle, it was bigger than her papa had led her to believe.

‘Welcome to your new home, me dear,’ he said, jumping down. ‘Now, I believe you have something for me from your father?’

‘I do?’ she frowned and then remembered. Opening her reticule, she withdrew the envelope and handed it to her uncle. ‘Family’s dying to meet you,’ he grinned. ‘I mean they’re looking forward to meeting you,’ he hastily amended. ‘Mother’s been cleaning and baking since she heard you was coming.’

‘I do hope your mother hasn’t gone to too much trouble,’ Isabella replied, carefully stepping down from the cart. Her uncle shot her a funny look, then gestured for her to go ahead, but as she made to walk down the nearest path, he held up his hand.

‘Not that side, me dear. That’s Grandmother’s. Our door’s round back.’

‘You mean your property is semi-detached?’ she asked. He frowned, pushed the straw hat to the back of his head and stood staring at the cottage as if seeing it for the first time.

‘Reckon it is that,’ he muttered, before turning back to the donkey, who was grazing the clumps of grass that appeared to serve as the front lawn. ‘Right, I’ll take the trap round to the yard, it’ll be easier to offload all your trunks and things there.’

‘Perhaps the boy could do that whilst you introduce me to your family,’ she suggested, carefully picking her way along the dirt-strewn path. He started to say something but the door opened and a motherly-looking woman wearing a yellow gingham overall stood smiling at her.

‘Welcome, my dear,’ she said, enfolding Isabella in a warm embrace before drawing her into the kitchen. ‘I’m Mary but you can call me Auntie if you wish. Now let me take your turnover afore you meet the rest of the family,’ she beamed, holding out her hand.

‘My turnover?’ Isabella asked. Her aunt pointed to her mantle and Isabella slipped it from her shoulders then glanced around the room. It was tiny and hung with beams so low that if she reached up she’d surely be able to touch them. Deep sills were crammed with jugs and pots while yellow curtains brightened the small windows. The flags on the floor were spread with a rag rug woven in a hotchpotch of bright colours. Finally, her gaze came to rest on the scrubbed table where five children waited, their chocolate-brown eyes gleaming with curiosity.

‘Hello there,’ she smiled. ‘I’m Isabella Carrington.’ The younger ones giggled but the older girl smiled back.

‘I’m Dorothy, the eldest, but you can call me Dotty. Best to be friends if we’re to share a room, don’t you think?’ Share a room? Isabella’s heart sank.

‘Me an’ all,’ the youngest girl piped up, her dark pigtails swinging from side to side.

‘That’s Alice, who’s six,’ Dorothy supplied. ‘It’ll be a bit of a squeeze but I’m sure we’ll manage.’ Isabella swallowed hard. Three people in one bed chamber? But she had no time to dwell on the matter, for her aunt was signalling for the boys to get to their feet.

‘This is William, he’s fifteen. Joseph here is twelve, and Thomas nine,’ she said, pointing to each in turn. They nodded solemnly but didn’t reply, and Isabella saw the eldest frowning at her clothes. Then the door swung open and her uncle staggered into the room, reeling under the weight of her portmanteau.

‘Oh, I thought you were going to get the boy to do that,’ she exclaimed. They all turned to her in shocked silence.

‘You must mean me then,’ William muttered, shooting her a glare as he stalked from the room.

‘I meant your servant boy,’ Isabella explained, giving her aunt a bewildered look.

‘Cor, bless you dear, we don’t have no servants here,’ she replied.

‘What, none at all?’ Isabella gasped. ‘Then who does all the work?’

‘We do, of course. All mucks in together,’ her uncle replied, looking her up and down. ‘I hope you’ve brought some sensible clothes with you. Them fancy threads’ll be no good for working the land.’

‘Working the land?’ she gasped.

‘Ah,’ he nodded. ‘Come the morrow you’ll be pitching in too. Got to earn your keep, girl.’

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