The Christmas Card: The perfect heartwarming novel for Christmas from the Sunday Times bestseller. Dilly Court
tugging too hard. You’re doing it to hurt me like Smithson used to.’
‘Who is Smithson?’
‘She was my nanny. She used to pull my hair and pinch me if I was naughty. She told me that Spring-heeled Jack would get me if I was bad. He’d jump up to my window and come in while I was asleep.’
‘That’s nonsense, Flora. Spring-heeled Jack is merely a tale told to frighten little girls. Now let’s try and get the comb through the worst of the tangles so that your mama will be proud of you.’
‘She’s not my mama,’ Flora said sulkily. ‘I have to call her mama but she just wanted a little girl to show off to her friends.’
Alice paused with the comb poised over Flora’s curly head. ‘Is this a tale you’re making up?’
‘No.’ Flora twisted round to look her in the face. ‘That’s why they lock me up at night. I keep trying to go home to my real mama, but they won’t let me.’
Shocked and upset, Alice could hardly believe her ears. ‘Where is your home then, Flora?’
‘It’s far away from here where the sun always shines. There are flowers all year round and tall trees with birds nesting in the branches. They took me from my real mama, but no one loves me here. I’m too horrible, like you said.’
‘If what you say is true then it’s quite appalling.’
‘I’m not a liar.’ Flora snatched the comb out of Alice’s hand and started dragging it through her hair, tugging at the stubborn tangles with tears spurting from her eyes. Alice covered the small hand with hers, gently prising Flora’s fingers apart and taking the comb from her.
‘I believe you.’
‘You do? No one else does. Mrs Upton says it’s a wicked lie and the others laugh at me. I know they do.’
‘How long have you been here, Flora?’
‘I don’t know. A long time.’
‘Who told you that Mrs Dearborn is not your real mama?’
‘Smithson did. She told me when she’d been drinking from the bottle she hid at the back of the cupboard. She said she’d been the midwife attending my real mama, and Mrs Dearborn gave her ten pounds to buy a baby girl.’
Alice stared at her, frowning. It was almost impossible to believe that a woman could sell her newborn baby, but Flora seemed certain that it was true. ‘Perhaps she was lying. Sometimes people say stupid things when they’ve been drinking.’
‘Rory says it’s true.’
‘Who is Rory?’
Flora smiled and her eyes lit up for a brief moment, but then the sullen look returned like a tragic mask. ‘Rory is my uncle, or that’s what I have to call him. He’s Papa’s younger brother.’
‘I don’t understand,’ Alice said, frowning. ‘Why would he say such a thing?’
‘He came to visit and found me crying.’ Flora’s eyes filled with tears, making her look vulnerable and completely different from the wild child who had greeted Alice earlier that morning. ‘It was after Smithson told me about my real mama. Rory said he’d find out if it was true, and if it was he promised that one day he’d take me to see my real mother.’
Alice ran the comb through Flora’s tangle-free hair. ‘There you are. Now you’re presentable.’ She glanced at the clock on the mantelshelf. ‘We should go downstairs to see your mama.’
‘Do you believe me?’ Flora turned to face her. ‘You think I’m lying, don’t you? They all think I’m a liar.’
‘No, I don’t think you’re making it up,’ Alice said slowly. ‘But I’d like to speak to your uncle. Does he come here often?’
‘Not often enough. I love Uncle Rory. He makes me laugh.’ She jumped to her feet. ‘You won’t tell Mama what I said, will you? She won’t like it.’
‘Of course not. It will be our secret.’ Alice held out her hand. ‘You’ll have to show me where we will find Mrs Dearborn. I don’t know where to go.’
The drawing room was a complete contrast to the nursery. It was furnished in the latest style and it did not take an expert to see that no expense had been spared. Alice would not have been surprised to see price tickets hanging from the opulent velvet upholstery of the chairs and sofa. The smell of the showroom still lingered, despite the bowls of potpourri placed on highly polished mahogany side tables, and the vases of hothouse chrysanthemums affordable only by the wealthiest in society. Alice felt her feet sinking into the thick pile of the Aubusson carpet, and each movement she made was reflected in one or more of the gilt-framed mirrors that adorned the walls.
Mrs Dearborn was handsome in an austere way, and elegantly dressed in the height of fashion. Pearl drops dangled from her ears and strands of pearls were hung around her slender neck. She was seated in a wingback chair by the fire with an embroidery hoop in her hand, although she did not seem to have progressed very far with the complicated pattern. She shot a wary glance at Flora. ‘Sit down, child. Don’t just stand there.’ She turned her attention to Alice, looking her up and down with a critical gaze. ‘So you are Mrs Radcliffe’s niece?’
Alice inclined her head. ‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘They might have found you a better garment to wear.’ Mrs Dearborn raised a lorgnette, peering at the ripped shoulder seam. ‘You cannot go round looking like a ragbag, Radcliffe.’
‘I’ll see to it, Mrs Dearborn.’ Inwardly seething, Alice made an effort to sound submissive.
‘Stop fidgeting, Flora.’ Mrs Dearborn put her embroidery aside, glaring at her daughter. ‘Have you been behaving properly this morning? Radcliffe will tell me if you’ve been a naughty girl.’
‘Miss Flora has been a model child,’ Alice said quickly. ‘I think we will do very well together.’ The words tumbled from her lips before she had time to think, but she had taken an instant dislike to Mrs Dearborn, who might have been a beauty had it not been for her dissatisfied expression. Her thin lips hinted at a discontented nature, and this was borne out by the twin furrows on her forehead, which created a permanent frown.
Flora shot Alice a puzzled glance, as if amazed to think that an adult would stand up for her, and for once she seemed to have nothing to say.
‘You surprise me,’ Mrs Dearborn said, raising an eyebrow. ‘Flora needs a firm hand. My husband spoils her and she thinks that she can do as she pleases, but the sooner she learns to behave properly the better.’
‘May I ask you a question, Mrs Dearborn?’ Alice moved closer, lowering her voice. ‘Why was it thought necessary to lock Miss Flora in her room? Surely it’s frightening for a young child to be treated so harshly?’
Mrs Dearborn leaned back in her chair, eyes narrowed. ‘If you are to work for me you will not question my authority. Is that clear?’
The temptation to tell Mrs Dearborn that she would not be accepting the position in her household was almost too great, but one glance in Flora’s direction was enough to convince her otherwise. Whether or not she was the daughter of the house was immaterial. Whether it was true or just a story made up by a lonely little girl, Alice could not simply walk away. She nodded. ‘Perfectly clear, ma’am.’ Even as she spoke she felt small fingers curling around her hand. She gave them an encouraging squeeze.
‘You said we could have a Christmas tree, Mama,’ Flora said slyly. ‘I promise to be very good.’
‘I’m not sure that you deserve anything at all for Christmas,’ Mrs Dearborn said stiffly. ‘Mrs Upton tells me that you attempted to leave the house again yesterday. Hoskins had to chase you round the square twice before he caught you.’
‘I was going home.’ Flora squared