The Flower Seller. Linda Finlay
he taking so long? Perhaps she should pen him another letter. She could write to dear Papa too. He’d be pleased to know she’d arrived safely.
‘Nearly there,’ her uncle said, breaking into her thoughts. As the trap slowed, she noticed a peculiar-looking red building towering above them. She was about to ask what it was, when the blast of a whistle sounded. ‘Come on, Silver,’ he urged, tugging on the rein. As they juddered to a halt in front of the station, two men, smart in their railway uniforms, ran over and began unloading the trap.
‘You’re late today, Fred. Train’s almost here.’
‘Been one of them days, Den,’ he replied, jumping down to help.
‘Bill’s flowers are already on the platform. Said you should drop by later. Got something important to tell you, apparently. Probably be about Furneaux and his new venture.’
‘Carry on like this and we’ll have to put on a train specially for the violets,’ the other man chuckled as he lifted the last of the boxes onto his trolley.
The rumble of the approaching engine galvanized them into action and they pushed their loads towards the platform. There was a hiss of brakes and once more Isabella found herself enveloped in a cloud of steam. When it had cleared, she saw all three men had disappeared, leaving her alone in the trap.
How ill-mannered, Isabella thought, staring around the empty yard. She looked up at the strange-looking building they’d passed earlier and decided that rather than sit waiting, she’d take a closer look. It was quite unlike anything she’d seen before. The walls were built from large blocks of dark red stone with light grey surrounds picking out the window and door openings. Her hands itched to get it all down on paper and, not for the first time that afternoon, she wished she had her watercolours with her. Then she noticed the tall, ornate square tower on the far side of the building and stepped back to see the top of it.
‘Ouch,’ cried a voice. Spinning round, she saw a young man hopping up and down on one foot. He was wearing a brown high-button sack coat over a waistcoat and sporting a soft cap on his dark hair.
‘Oh goodness, I am so sorry,’ she cried.
‘Don’t worry, I expect the infirmary can mend it,’ he sighed, gingerly touching his foot to the ground.
‘Is it that bad?’ she gasped. He looked at her wryly then gave a cheeky grin.
‘Not really,’ he admitted, mischief glittering in his green eyes. ‘It’s not often I capture the sympathy of a pretty young lady so I thought I’d capitalize on it. Only you looked so anxious, I couldn’t keep up the pretence.’
‘I’m sorry for stepping back on you but I was curious about this strange building.’
‘Then please let me make amends for my teasing by telling you something about it,’ he offered.
‘Oh, would you?’ she cried. ‘I’m only visiting the area and would love to know what it’s for.’
‘It is a remarkable structure. You will have heard of the great engineer, Isambard Kingdom Brunel, of course?’ he asked, looking at her for confirmation.
‘Indeed,’ she agreed, not wishing to appear ignorant.
‘Well, he designed the Atmospheric Railway that originally ran along these parts, and this building with the Italianate tower you were admiring was one of the pumping stations. The pumps in there pushed air through pipes to move the carriages along.’
‘Goodness. You said originally, though. Do they not use it anymore?’ she asked, eager to appear intelligent.
‘Alas, the local rats developed a taste for the leather and grease which formed the seals in the pipes.’
‘Rats?’ she shuddered, pulling her mantle tighter round her.
‘Yep, gobbled them up faster than they could be replaced, so that was the end of that, as it were. This building is all that remains.’
‘And splendid it is, too. Thank you so much for enlightening me,’ she told him.
‘My pleasure,’ he said, his eyes twinkling as he perfected a bow. ‘You said you were visiting. Might I enquire how long you’ll be staying here in Starcross, Miss, er?’
Before she could respond, she heard her uncle shout. Turning quickly, she saw he was sitting in the trap gesturing impatiently for her to join him. Following her gaze, her companion opened his mouth to say something, but she cut in quickly.
‘Sorry, I must go,’ she said. ‘Thank you again for the fascinating lesson,’ she murmured before hurrying over to her uncle.
‘What the ’ell was you doing talking to young Furneaux?’ he growled, as she climbed up beside him.
‘Oh, is that who he was? He was kind enough to explain about the pumping station, Uncle. Do you know . . . ,’ she began.
‘Stay away from him, you hear?’ her uncle interrupted. ‘Bad as his father, he is,’ he spat.
‘Excuse me . . . ,’ she began.
‘That’s an order, Isabella,’ he added, tugging on the reins. As the donkey began to move, she stared at her uncle in astonishment.
‘Papa would never speak to me like that.’
‘Well, maybe he should have, then you’d be more worldly-wise,’ he growled.
‘How dare you,’ she spluttered. ‘You can be sure that when Maxwell arrives, he will take issue with you.’
‘Oh, he will, will he? Well, I’ll look forward to hearing what this Maxwell has to say, if by any miracle he turns up, that is.’
‘Stop this minute,’ she ordered, but he ignored her. ‘I said stop,’ she repeated, wanting to be away from this odious man. When he still disregarded her wishes, she peered over her shoulder, hoping to catch the attention of the agreeable young man, but he had disappeared. She stared down at the road passing beneath, wondering if she dared jump.
‘Settle yourself down, maid, we’re in for a skatt,’ her uncle said, pulling his hat further down over his head.
‘A what?’ Barely had she asked the question when the first drops of rain began to fall. As it became heavier, she stared around for some kind of hood, but although the boxes were protected by a canvas cover, the rest of the cart was open to the elements. She turned to her uncle but he stared resolutely ahead. Simmering with rage, she gazed out over the water where steely clouds now merged with the grey sea. A gust of wind tugged at her bonnet and she put a hand to her head. Her uncle oblivious, or more likely not bothered, continued staring fixedly ahead and the journey back to the cottage was both a cold and silent one. She crossed her fingers and hoped that Maxwell would be waiting for her. However, when they turned into the lane, there was no carriage in sight and her heart sank to her saturated boots. She would write to him tonight.
‘Oh my, you’re drenched to the bone,’ her aunt tutted, pulling Isabella into the warmth of the kitchen. ‘Get out of those wet things and warm yourself by the fire before you catch a chill.’
‘Stop fussing, Mother,’ her uncle said, throwing his hat onto the hook by the door. ‘’Tis her own fault she took a soaking. If she hadn’t spent time blethering with young Furneaux we’d have been back before the weather broke.’
‘But I wasn’t . . . ,’ Isabella began, then seeing his grim expression sighed. ‘If you’ll excuse me, I’ve had a busy day and wish to retire for the night.’
‘’Tain’t six o’clock yet,’ William scoffed. Ignoring him, Isabella made for the stairs, but halfway up she heard him say: ‘Don’t know why she’s tired, it’s not as if she packed many flowers from what I can see. And as for that sparrow food she prepared, no wonder