of wheels outside. Isabella’s heart flipped.
‘That’s Father and William,’ Dotty announced, sending Isabella’s hopes sinking to her boots. Sure enough, a few moments later the two men appeared, their faces barely visible over the boxes they were carrying.
‘This lot should keep us going for a few days,’ her uncle declared, depositing the boxes on the floor beside them. Seeing the labels on them, Isabella’s eyes widened in shock.
‘You never seen a corset box before?’ William snorted.
‘Well, I . . . ,’ Isabella began. Feeling her cheeks growing hot, she quickly averted her gaze.
‘Stop goading your cousin and snap to it, boy,’ Frederick interrupted. ‘We’ve to get the rest of them boxes over to Bill’s so he can pack his flowers.’ He turned to go then frowned down at the pails. ‘’Tis high time you women were bunching these flowers an’ all.’
‘You’re right there, Father,’ Aunt Mary agreed. With another smirk in Isabella’s direction, William followed his father outside.
‘Shall I begin taking the labels off?’ Isabella asked, eager to be of use.
‘Why ever would you do that?’ her aunt exclaimed. ‘Everyone knows them corset boxes contain our violets, so it saves time addressing them. They be the perfect size for packing the flowers into an’ all. Right useful it’s been, old Mrs Pudge stocking them ready-made foundations in her shop.’ Isabella stared at her aunt incredulously. Ready-made foundations? ‘Cors they can be a bit hit and miss sometimes,’ the woman conceded, mistaking her look.
‘Do you wear them?’ Dotty asked. Isabella thought of the modish Madame Mai who would stand and scrutinize her curves through half-closed eyes before producing a template cincture from her velvet-lined valise. Carefully she would fashion the garment into shape before encasing Isabella’s midriff and lacing it up tightly. Isabella would then have to turn around slowly in front of her and only when Madame was satisfied, would she nod and declare her client’s form feminine par excellence.
‘Actually, my corsetière fits me in the privacy of my bed chamber,’ she explained.
‘Coo, how the other half live,’ Dotty drooled. ‘You wait til you have to resort to Pudge’s. The changing-room curtains don’t reach so you has to keep an eye out for nosy neighbours, and all while you’re trying to wriggle into the darned thing,’ Dotty grimaced, rolling her eyes dramatically.
‘Right that’s enough, Dotty,’ her mother interrupted. ‘If we don’t get a move on, we’ll miss the train and Father’ll go mad. I’ve counted out the first few bunches so you can show Isabella how we arrange and pack them.’ Dotty pouted but duly did as she’d been told.
Isabella watched as she picked up one bunch of the flowers and deftly enclosed them in velvety green leaves.
‘They protect the flowers as well as making them smell sweeter, you see,’ she explained. ‘Then you tie the bunch neatly with raffia to keep the stems straight and place them carefully in one of those boxes Mother has lined. It’s important to make sure the first row of heads go on this little pillow like this, see?’ Isabella nodded.
‘Now you try,’ Dotty invited. Isabella began wrapping the foliage round the violets but it wasn’t as easy as it looked and her cousin shook her head.
‘You have to make sure the flower heads are facing the same way.’
‘Oh,’ Isabella replied, trying again.
‘That’s it, now pack the bunch firmly beside the others so they don’t get shaken about on the train. They have to look as neat and fresh when they arrive as they do when they leave here,’ Dotty told her.
‘That’s right, Father’s built up a good reputation in Covent Garden and it wouldn’t do to let him down,’ Mary explained. ‘We pick, pack and dispatch the same day for freshness, and it’s essential that when the men in London open the boxes all they see is the mauve heads of the posies. Good selling, that is.’
‘But why do you transport them all the way to London?’ Isabella asked the question that had been niggling her.
‘’Cos of the demand, dear. High demand means better prices. Your uncle can sell them for six pence a bunch up there,’ she exclaimed.
‘Is that good?’ Isabella frowned.
‘Good?’ her aunt exclaimed. ‘’Tis a princely sum compared to the penny ha’penny he was getting around here.’
‘But if the demand is so great in London, why don’t they grow them there?’ Isabella asked. Her aunt finished counting her flowers then laid them on the table.
‘Violets need good soil and a mild, moist climate, so conditions round here are perfect. The air in London is laden with smoke from the manufactories. And of course, the land there’s being taken up with the building of houses and yet more factories. Don’t know how people can live crowded together like that,’ she sniffed.
‘Not all London is like that,’ Isabella protested loyally.
‘Begging your pardon,’ Aunt Mary murmured.
‘Coo, you ain’t done many, Izzie,’ Dotty tutted, setting her full box down on the floor and lifting another onto the table beside her.
‘Sorry,’ she replied, turning her attention back to the flowers. It didn’t matter how hard she tried, though, even when she managed to get the heads facing the same way, her bunches were nothing like as neat as her cousin’s. How she wished Maxwell would arrive and take her back to civilization. Remembering the fragrant posy that he’d purchased from the flower seller, she lifted the blooms to her nose.
‘Oh, these ones are no good, they have no smell,’ she cried. A chuckle behind her made her jump.
‘’Tis you that’s lost your smell girl, not the flowers,’ her uncle said. ‘Dainty they might be, but they produce ionine which dulls the senses. I have a theory that . . . ’
‘Oh, you and your theories, Father,’ her aunt interrupted, shaking her head. ‘I told you that would happen, didn’t I, dear?’ her aunt laughed. ‘Don’t worry, it’ll soon come back when you go outside and breathe in the fresh air.’
‘Talking of fresh air, Mother, I’ve been out in it all morning and I’m starving hungry and dying for a brew,’ said Uncle Frederick.
‘Just let me finish these then I’ll go get us something to eat,’ her aunt told him, resuming her counting. As her uncle grumped and stomped out of the barn, Isabella turned to her aunt.
‘Would you like me to prepare luncheon?’ she offered, knowing she’d been slowing their progress.
‘That’d be a right help. There’s bread, butter and cheese in the back’ouze behind the kitchen. Tomatoes and cucumbers as well.’
Not knowing what the back’ouze was but determined to do something to assist, Isabella hurried indoors. She set the kettle to boil then noticed
