Читать книгу The Flower Seller - Linda Finlay - Страница 8

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.