really pretty and the air has the clarity of crystal,’ she exclaimed, breathing in deeply. ‘Why, it smells of salt.’
‘That be the ozone,’ her uncle chuckled. ‘Come spring, those pale cheeks of yours will be as rosy as the cherry blossom.’
‘Oh, I’ll not be staying that long,’ she replied, staring at him in horror. He shot her a look but said nothing and they plodded on in silence. In the distance, she could see the rolling green of the hills Mrs Brown had spoken about. Suddenly the cart lurched as they turned into another much narrower lane.
‘Nearly there,’ he told her. She stared at the crooked huddle of tiny cottages, their thatched roofs almost touching. Surely he didn’t live here? To her relief, they kept going until the lane opened out again and she saw mauve buds peeping from velvety leaves in the sloping hedge banks.
‘They be the Devon violets,’ her uncle explained, seeing her surprise.
‘What a strange time of year for delicate flowers like that to be coming out,’ she replied.
‘Them blooms best between September and April, though we can make ’em grow longer in the shelter of our market garden,’ he told her proudly. ‘Here we be, and there’s plenty more of them violets round the back,’ her uncle chuckled, pulling up in front of a two-storey stone building with a moss-covered slate roof. To the left of this was a long brick shed half-clad with wooden boards. Although the property looked a bit ramshackle, it was bigger than her papa had led her to believe.
‘Welcome to your new home, me dear,’ he said, jumping down. ‘Now, I believe you have something for me from your father?’
‘I do?’ she frowned and then remembered. Opening her reticule, she withdrew the envelope and handed it to her uncle. ‘Family’s dying to meet you,’ he grinned. ‘I mean they’re looking forward to meeting you,’ he hastily amended. ‘Mother’s been cleaning and baking since she heard you was coming.’
‘I do hope your mother hasn’t gone to too much trouble,’ Isabella replied, carefully stepping down from the cart. Her uncle shot her a funny look, then gestured for her to go ahead, but as she made to walk down the nearest path, he held up his hand.
‘Not that side, me dear. That’s Grandmother’s. Our door’s round back.’
‘You mean your property is semi-detached?’ she asked. He frowned, pushed the straw hat to the back of his head and stood staring at the cottage as if seeing it for the first time.
‘Reckon it is that,’ he muttered, before turning back to the donkey, who was grazing the clumps of grass that appeared to serve as the front lawn. ‘Right, I’ll take the trap round to the yard, it’ll be easier to offload all your trunks and things there.’
‘Perhaps the boy could do that whilst you introduce me to your family,’ she suggested, carefully picking her way along the dirt-strewn path. He started to say something but the door opened and a motherly-looking woman wearing a yellow gingham overall stood smiling at her.
‘Welcome, my dear,’ she said, enfolding Isabella in a warm embrace before drawing her into the kitchen. ‘I’m Mary but you can call me Auntie if you wish. Now let me take your turnover afore you meet the rest of the family,’ she beamed, holding out her hand.
‘My turnover?’ Isabella asked. Her aunt pointed to her mantle and Isabella slipped it from her shoulders then glanced around the room. It was tiny and hung with beams so low that if she reached up she’d surely be able to touch them. Deep sills were crammed with jugs and pots while yellow curtains brightened the small windows. The flags on the floor were spread with a rag rug woven in a hotchpotch of bright colours. Finally, her gaze came to rest on the scrubbed table where five children waited, their chocolate-brown eyes gleaming with curiosity.
‘Hello there,’ she smiled. ‘I’m Isabella Carrington.’ The younger ones giggled but the older girl smiled back.
‘I’m Dorothy, the eldest, but you can call me Dotty. Best to be friends if we’re to share a room, don’t you think?’ Share a room? Isabella’s heart sank.
‘Me an’ all,’ the youngest girl piped up, her dark pigtails swinging from side to side.
‘That’s Alice, who’s six,’ Dorothy supplied. ‘It’ll be a bit of a squeeze but I’m sure we’ll manage.’ Isabella swallowed hard. Three people in one bed chamber? But she had no time to dwell on the matter, for her aunt was signalling for the boys to get to their feet.
‘This is William, he’s fifteen. Joseph here is twelve, and Thomas nine,’ she said, pointing to each in turn. They nodded solemnly but didn’t reply, and Isabella saw the eldest frowning at her clothes. Then the door swung open and her uncle staggered into the room, reeling under the weight of her portmanteau.
‘Oh, I thought you were going to get the boy to do that,’ she exclaimed. They all turned to her in shocked silence.
‘You must mean me then,’ William muttered, shooting her a glare as he stalked from the room.
‘I meant your servant boy,’ Isabella explained, giving her aunt a bewildered look.
‘Cor, bless you dear, we don’t have no servants here,’ she replied.
‘What, none at all?’ Isabella gasped. ‘Then who does all the work?’
‘We do, of course. All mucks in together,’ her uncle replied, looking her up and down. ‘I hope you’ve brought some sensible clothes with you. Them fancy threads’ll be no good for working the land.’
‘Working the land?’ she gasped.
‘Ah,’ he nodded. ‘Come the morrow you’ll be pitching in too. Got to earn your keep, girl.’
As Isabella stared at her uncle in dismay, a hush fell over the room.
‘I’m not sure what my chaperone has packed for me.’
‘Well, don’t worry about that now, my dear,’ her aunt said quickly. ‘You must be fair parched after all your travels. I’ll set the kettle to boil and Dotty can show you where you’ll be sleeping.’
‘Me too,’ Alice cried, springing to her feet and scurrying over to a flight of steep steps that led straight off the kitchen. Gingerly Isabella followed them up the narrow staircase and into a small room where three mattresses topped with yellow coverlets lay side by side on the floor. There was a cast iron fireplace on one wall and a small closet squeezed into the corner with a fly-spotted mirror hanging up beside it.
‘Mother got Father to put that up ’specially. We’ve never had our own looking-glass before,’ Alice proudly declared.
‘He said you’d be used to tiddyvating,’ Dotty said knowingly. ‘And it means I can see to frizz my hair,’ she added, patting her sleek braid.
‘Why would you do that?’ Isabella asked, staring at her in astonishment.
‘To puff it up, of course. Father says he’s seen thicker rats’ tails,’ Dotty laughed.
Charming,
