‘But if the demand is so great in London, why don’t they grow them there?’ Isabella asked. Her aunt finished counting her flowers then laid them on the table.
‘Violets need good soil and a mild, moist climate, so conditions round here are perfect. The air in London is laden with smoke from the manufactories. And of course, the land there’s being taken up with the building of houses and yet more factories. Don’t know how people can live crowded together like that,’ she sniffed.
‘Not all London is like that,’ Isabella protested loyally.
‘Begging your pardon,’ Aunt Mary murmured.
‘Coo, you ain’t done many, Izzie,’ Dotty tutted, setting her full box down on the floor and lifting another onto the table beside her.
‘Sorry,’ she replied, turning her attention back to the flowers. It didn’t matter how hard she tried, though, even when she managed to get the heads facing the same way, her bunches were nothing like as neat as her cousin’s. How she wished Maxwell would arrive and take her back to civilization. Remembering the fragrant posy that he’d purchased from the flower seller, she lifted the blooms to her nose.
‘Oh, these ones are no good, they have no smell,’ she cried. A chuckle behind her made her jump.
‘’Tis you that’s lost your smell girl, not the flowers,’ her uncle said. ‘Dainty they might be, but they produce ionine which dulls the senses. I have a theory that . . . ’
‘Oh, you and your theories, Father,’ her aunt interrupted, shaking her head. ‘I told you that would happen, didn’t I, dear?’ her aunt laughed. ‘Don’t worry, it’ll soon come back when you go outside and breathe in the fresh air.’
‘Talking of fresh air, Mother, I’ve been out in it all morning and I’m starving hungry and dying for a brew,’ said Uncle Frederick.
‘Just let me finish these then I’ll go get us something to eat,’ her aunt told him, resuming her counting. As her uncle grumped and stomped out of the barn, Isabella turned to her aunt.
‘Would you like me to prepare luncheon?’ she offered, knowing she’d been slowing their progress.
‘That’d be a right help. There’s bread, butter and cheese in the back’ouze behind the kitchen. Tomatoes and cucumbers as well.’
Not knowing what the back’ouze was but determined to do something to assist, Isabella hurried indoors. She set the kettle to boil then noticed a little door beside the dresser. Opening it gingerly, she smiled when she saw a scullery similar to one behind their kitchen at home. She’d found it quite by chance when, as a young girl, she’d dared to explore downstairs. This one was much smaller though it also housed a pantry. The upper shelves were neatly lined with jars of pickled vegetables and bottles of preserved fruits, while on the marble slab below, dishes of butter and cheese glistened gold. On the lower shelf, a basket similar to the ones used for gathering flowers held tomatoes and cucumbers along with potatoes still caked with the red soil she now knew was typical of the area. Her aunt was obviously a good housekeeper, she thought, quickly gathering up the items she needed and going back to the kitchen.
As she carefully cut and buttered the bread, the tabby cat snaked itself around her legs.
‘Out of my way, puss,’ she chided. She couldn’t understand why a pet was allowed in the kitchen. It wasn’t hygienic, with all those long hairs. Cook wouldn’t stand for it, she knew. Yet, as it stared hopefully up at her with bright amber eyes, she felt her heart soften and couldn’t resist letting a sliver of cheese drop to the floor. The animal snapped it up then purred contentedly at her feet while she finished preparing their meal. Scooping up the crumbs in her smock, she went to the doorstep and threw them out for the birds. How she wished Maxwell would arrive now, for if they were to be married it would be good for him to see how proficient she was at running a household. The thought sent her hurrying to the front gate.
There was no sign of his carriage, though, and she wondered what could be delaying him. Perhaps he’d stopped off at her home and would have news of her papa. Dear Papa, she hoped he was getting his business sorted. Retracing her steps, she spotted a cluster of little mauve heads peering out of the grass. Impulsively, she bent and picked a few of the violets to decorate the table. As their musky scent engulfed her, she couldn’t help smiling. Her aunt was right, their desensitizing effect hadn’t lasted long. Hurrying back indoors, she arranged them in a jug and placed it in the centre of the table. She’d just made the tea when her uncle came in followed by the others.
‘It’s not Sunday, you know,’ he exclaimed, frowning at the cloth on the table. Her aunt gave him a nudge, then smiled.
‘You’ve made everything look lovely, Izzie.’
‘Thank you,’ she replied, proffering the plate of sandwiches.
‘What’s these fancy bites?’ William snorted. ‘And since when do we have bread without crusts?’
‘Don’t worry William, they weren’t wasted,’ she assured him. ‘I scattered them outside for the birds. And I made finger sandwiches because the bread was too crumbly to cut into quarters.’
‘What on earth . . . ,’ her uncle spluttered, lifting the top layer of bread. ‘’Tis only measly bits of cucumber. Where’s me cheese?’
‘Here, Uncle,’ Isabella replied, pointing to another plate where golden cubes decorated with slivers of red tomato nestled on crackers. ‘And here’s your tea,’ she added, passing him a china cup.
‘Pah, this thing holds no more than a thimble. Where’s me mug? And what’s this doing in me drink?’ he spluttered, fishing out a slice of fruit with his fingers.
‘You said you were parched, Uncle, so I made lemon tea. It’s more refreshing than milk, I find.’
‘Oh, you do, do you?’ he muttered as William gave another snort.
‘I’ll take Grandmother’s in to her,’ Dotty said, hastily setting plates and cups onto a tray. ‘And I’ll have mine in there with her.’
‘Like as not she’ll throw it back at you when she sees what’s on offer,’ William scoffed.
‘I don’t understand what’s wrong, Uncle,’ Isabella said, frowning down at the table. ‘This is how they serve it at Claridge’s.’ As William rocked with mirth, her aunt shot him a reproving look.
‘You’ll have to forgive these filling-stines, Isabella,’ she said, patting her hand. ‘You’ve made it all look very nice, dear. It’s a fine treat for me to have my meal prepared, and I for one am grateful.’ She took a sip of her tea and sighed. ‘And you’re right, this lemon is reviving. ’Tis a long time since I sat down to such a pretty table. Those flowers set my best cloth off a treat.’
‘Flowers is for selling not prettying up the meal table,’ her uncle grunted, helping himself to a handful of sandwiches.
As silence descended, so did Isabella’s spirits. Not wishing to enrage her uncle further, she nibbled on a cracker. The sooner she went home the better, for it appeared she could do nothing right, she thought, blinking back the tears that threatened. There was no way she was letting them see how much they’d upset her.
‘Grandmother said that was the best food she’s eaten in ages,’ Dotty announced, breezing back into the room. ‘And she would appreciate more elegant morsels like that in future, please,’ she added, giving Isabella a conspiratorial smile.
‘Pah,’ her uncle snorted, getting to his feet. ‘Come on, boy. Some of us have work to do, money to earn.’
‘Yeah, some of us understand the value of money,’ William snorted, following after him.
‘What did I do wrong?’ Isabella asked, turning to her aunt. The woman smiled.
‘Nothing, dear. Absolutely nothing.’
‘But