The Flower Seller - Linda Finlay

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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.

      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

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