‘Cooee, only me, Mother,’ she called, but there was no answer. ‘Might be asleep,’ she added, leading the way through the kitchen and into the room behind. Curious, Isabella peered around. As in her aunt’s home, although the furniture had definitely seen better days, everywhere was spotlessly clean. Orange flames flickered in the grate, brightening the gloom, but curiously the hearth was enclosed by an iron guard fixed to the wall on either side. As her eyes adjusted to the dim light, she spotted the old woman curled up in a comfy chair. She had a rug over her knees and was staring fixedly into the fire, her halo of white curls bobbing up and down as if she was talking to someone.
‘Hello, Mother. I’ve brought Isabella to see you,’ her aunt said cheerily.
‘How do you do, Grandmama. I’m so pleased to meet you.’ Excitement bubbled up inside Isabella’s chest as she waited. Slowly, the woman turned her head and stared at her through dark, rheumy eyes.
‘So, you’ve come back then?’ she murmured.
‘Pardon?’ Isabella frowned. ‘I’ve never been here before, Grandmama.’
‘Knew no good would come of all that gallivanting,’ the woman continued regardless. ‘And what you done to your hair? Looks like you’ve rinsed it in clotted cream.’
‘But I . . . ,’ she began.
‘Lovely dark curls you was blessed with. Never happy with what you had, though, was you?’ she muttered. Then her eyes closed and she began to snore.
‘Come on, dear, no good us staying any longer. She’s lost in her own world again, bless her,’ her aunt explained. With a last despairing look at the old lady, Isabella allowed herself to be led from the room. ‘’Tis sad, but there we are,’ the woman added, carefully closing the door behind them.
‘How long has she been that way?’ Isabella asked, blinking back tears of disappointment and frustration as they made their way back to the adjoining cottage.
‘Since before I came here. Never known her much different, though she does have the odd good day. There, you’s all shook up,’ she murmured, her eyes darkening with concern. ‘Sit yourself down and I’ll set the kettle to boil. A strong cup of tea, that’s what you need. I did warn you Mother drifted in and out of life.’
‘But she said that I’d come back, yet I’ve never been here before,’ Isabella whispered, sinking into the chair closest to the range.
‘I’m thinking she mistook you for her daughter. Father said you has the daps.’
‘Pardon?’ Isabella frowned.
‘It means you has the look of yer mother at that age.’
‘But Mama had dark hair.’
‘It sounded as if Mother thought she’d lightened it? Oh, I don’t know, I’m only guessing.’
‘What was my mama like? I was only tiny when she died and I don’t remember much about her.’
‘That’s sad,’ her aunt sighed. ‘I’m afraid I can’t help you, though, for it was backalong and she’d already moved away by the time I met your uncle.’
‘But he must have told you something about her?’ Isabella persisted, wiping away the tears of frustration that were now coursing down her cheeks. Her aunt patted her hand then looked relieved as the kettle began to whistle.
‘You’ll have to ask your uncle, ’twer his sister,’ she added, jumping to her feet and pouring water into the pot. ‘Besides, ’tis not my place to be scandalmongering.’
‘Scandalmongering?’ Isabella repeated, staring at her in surprise. ‘You make it sound as though Mama had skeletons in the cupboard.’
‘Skeletons? That’s a funny thing to be talking about over afternoon tea,’ her uncle said, appearing in the doorway. ‘Just came in for my hat before taking the flowers to Starcross station. Running late today,’ he added staring pointedly at Isabella. ‘You all right, girl?’ he asked, his voice softening when he saw her damp cheeks.
‘We’ve been in to see Mother but she was away with the fairies,’ her aunt explained. ‘Isabella was asking me about your sister.’
‘Ah, I see. Well girl, how’s about coming with me to the station and we can have a chat?’ he asked Isabella, snatching his hat from the hook and placing it firmly on his head.
‘Oh, yes please,’ Isabella replied, brightening at the thought of getting answers about her mama.
‘Best get your shawl and bonnet, it gets nippy when the sea breeze blows in.’
‘Yes, of course,’ she said, jumping to her feet and going up to the room she was sharing with Dotty and Alice.
Taking out her things from the closet, she grimaced down at the smock and shapeless dress she was wearing. Hoping the mantle would cover most of it, she threw it around her shoulders before squinting into the fly-spotted mirror to tie the ribbons on her bonnet. The murmur of voices rose from downstairs, but she couldn’t make out what was being said.
It was evident she’d been the topic of conversation for as soon as she came back into the kitchen, they fell silent.
‘Ready then?’ he asked, seizing the violets from the jug on the table and thrusting them through the hole in his lapel.
‘Why do you do that?’ she asked.
‘What, wear these flowers?’ he asked.
‘And that funny hat?’ she added, then clamped her hand over her mouth.
‘I should think you would look embarrassed, girl,’ he rebuked, the twinkle in his eyes belying his stern manner.
‘’Tis the mark of Father’s trade,’ her aunt told her. ‘Diehard the undertaker wears a black topper, Bunty the baker his tall white one, and your uncle wears his straw hat. Everyone recognizes them then, see?’
‘And the violets let them know what you sell?’ Isabella smiled, gesturing towards his buttonhole.
‘That’s it, girl. And if we don’t hurry we’ll miss the train then no flowers will get sold. Come on.’
She followed her uncle outside where William was loading the last of the boxes onto the trap.
‘Why you all dolled up like a dog’s dinner?’ he scowled.
‘Isabella’s coming to the station with me today so you can get on with the hoeing while we’re gone,’ her uncle told him in a voice that brooked no argument. Clearly put out, William shot Isabella another glare.
‘See you later, William,’ she said, smiling sweetly at him. ‘Don’t forget to watch out for those blue mice.’
‘Come along, girl,’ her uncle called. Mindful of the stacked boxes, she gingerly climbed up onto the cart. ‘Right, Silver, get a move on, we’re running behind time,’ he called. As the old donkey plodded placidly out into the lane, Isabella turned towards him.
‘Why do you call him that? I mean he’s grey and moth-eaten . . . ,’ her voice trailed away as she realized that once again, she was in danger of appearing rude.
‘Full of questions, aren’t ye, girl? ’Tis like this. When farming went into decline, I had to sell me horses to pay the bills. Now, you can’t bring up a family on fresh air, so I decided to have a go at growing and selling them violets. Did it locally at first but then heard I could get a better price in London.’
‘Auntie was telling me about that earlier,’ Isabella nodded.
‘Right,’ he nodded. ‘So, I needed a means of