an inn raised their jugs of ale in greeting.
‘Jim, Ern,’ her uncle called, drawing to a halt. ‘This is my niece, Isabella.’
‘Oh ah,’ they chorused, giving her an appreciative look.
‘Fancy name for a fancy lady. Heard you’d come to live in the village,’ Ern replied, his grey beard bobbing up and down as he spoke.
‘Actually, I’m just visiting,’ she replied. As the two men raised their brows sceptically, her uncle cleared his throat.
‘And it’s a pleasure to have my niece here, for however long she decides to stay.’
‘She be the spit of your Ells apart from her blonde hair and blue eyes, of course. Suppose that came from ’im,’ Jim said, giving a toothless grin. Isabella blinked, trying to associate the appellation with her glamorous mother, Eleanora. Apart from anything else, her father had hazel eyes. Maybe the man’s memory was failing. He was old, after all.
‘Ah, now Ellie were some looker. No wonder she had all the lads . . . ,’ Ern began, keen to continue the tale.
‘Time we were on our way or we’ll miss the train,’ her uncle cut in quickly.
‘Heard Furneaux’s turned his land over to the flower growing now,’ Jim grinned.
‘Be competition for you, eh Fred?’ Ern added, his eyes bright with mischief. Isabella saw her uncle’s lips tighten but he wasn’t about to be drawn.
‘Enjoy your drink, gentlemen,’ he said, raising his hat.
‘Oh ah,’ they chorused and promptly returned their attention to their ale.
Her uncle was silent as they resumed their journey, but Isabella was bursting with curiosity.
‘How come everyone round here knows who I am?’ she asked. He shrugged.
‘That’s country living for you. News flies quicker than the pigeons.’
‘But they thought I was staying,’ she persisted.
‘Thinks they knows everything that goes on around here. And what they don’t, they make up. Gives them something to chat about. Look, there’s the open sea over there,’ he said, gesturing to their right. ‘Be on t’other side of the railway line now.’ Realizing he was trying to divert her attention but determined to get some answers to her questions, she turned to face him.
‘What was Mama like?’
‘Well now,’ he murmured. ‘She were lively and inquisitive, like yourself.’
‘But do I look like her? Grandmother said the strangest thing earlier,’ she began.
‘Ah, she often do,’ he agreed.
‘She said I must have rinsed my hair in clotted cream. Auntie thought she’d mistaken me for Mama and it got me wondering. Don’t you think it’s strange she had dark colouring when I’m fair and have blue eyes?’ she asked. He gave her a considering look then shrugged.
‘Offspring can take on the colouring of either parent.’
‘Yes but . . . ,’ she began, about to pursue the subject when she saw a carriage heading their way. Maxwell’s was similar, she thought, her heart flipping happily. But even as she leaned forward in her seat, it veered off to the right.
‘Oh,’ she gasped. Her uncle drew his brows together.
‘Something wrong, girl?’
‘That carriage, if it’s Maxwell, he’s gone the wrong way,’ she cried.
‘Driver’s bound to know where he’d be going. Anyhow, that’s the visitant route to Powderham Castle,’ he replied.
‘Oh, I see,’ she said despondently.
‘If the Earl of Devon is entertaining, it might be an idea to see if his guests want posies for their ladies’ fancy frocks,’ he muttered, oblivious to her frazzled emotions. ‘Got to up the stakes if Furneaux’s muscling in on my business.’
Isabella hardly heard him for she was peering along the lane where the carriage had turned off. Already it was just a speck in the distance and her heart sank. Obviously it wasn’t Maxwell. Why was 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
