The Sweethearts Collection. Pam JenoffЧитать онлайн книгу.
picking a few flowers doesn’t take all day,’ Isabella replied. Her uncle gave a snort.
‘You’ll see, Isabella. Market gardening is more than just picking a few flowers, as you put it. It’s a way of life. As well as sorting the violets into bunches and packing them up ready for market, there’s the cleaning to be done, meals to be cooked.’
‘Oh but . . . ,’ Isabella began. However, her uncle carried on as if she hadn’t spoken.
‘And you’ll pitch in and help, starting with breakfast in the morning.’
‘But I’ve never cooked anything in my life before,’ she frowned.
‘Then it’s time you learned. When your father sent that communication asking us to take you in, we didn’t hesitate.’
‘But I’m only staying a short while,’ Isabella pointed out. Her uncle gave a long sigh.
‘For as long as you are here, you’ll help Mother with the chores.’ Seeing the challenge in his eyes, something stirred in Isabella.
‘Of course, Uncle,’ she replied. She’d show him, she thought.
‘Now, go and sort some suitable clothes for the morning,’ he grunted. ‘Come along, boys,’ he ordered, going outside.
‘Don’t worry, my dear, we’ll show you what to do,’ her aunt told her as the door closed behind them. ‘Best stow those fine jewels in your trunk. You don’t want them getting dirty or damaged,’ she said, pointing to the pearls around Isabella’s neck.
That night, sleep eluded Isabella. Although enthralled by her fine gowns and jewellery, her cousins had decided none were suited for life on the flower farm. Reluctantly, she’d packed everything away again and 17-year-old Dotty, who was of a similar height although a little broader, had loaned her a cotton frock and smock. Now they were asleep, their snorts and snuffles disrupting her peace.
She sighed and ran her fingers over the silver locket, the only piece of jewellery not packed away. Oh Mama, she wept, I can hardly believe this tiny cottage is where you were raised, or that Uncle with his fastidious ways was your brother. He is so stern and forbidding while you were always so charming and gentle. Auntie has her own funny way of speaking but has been kind and welcoming. You should see my cousins, though. William is so hostile and the younger boys, Joseph and Thomas, follow his lead. At least Dotty and Alice are friendly. One good thing to come out of this enforced holiday is that I’ll hopefully get to meet your mama in the morning. Before Maxwell comes. Maxwell! Her heart flipped at the thought of seeing him again. Imagine having to live here permanently like Dotty and Alice. It didn’t bear thinking about, she thought, closing her eyes.
What a frightful noise, Isabella groaned, pulling the cover up over her head. Only it wouldn’t reach and the bed was rock-hard beneath her. Frowning, she opened her eyes then blinked in the brightness. Why hadn’t the maid drawn her drapes? Then she remembered that she wasn’t in her comfortable chamber with its feather bed and sateen eiderdown, but crammed into a poky room, with a lumpy mattress on the floor alongside her cousins. Then she heard the dreadful squawking again but, turning her head, saw she was alone in the room.
Easing herself out of the makeshift bed, she noticed the plain clothes laid out ready for her to wear. Pulling the shift over her head, she grimaced as the coarse material prickled her skin. Just as she was fastening the smock over the top, there was another shrill shriek. Hurrying over to the window, she saw dozens of small birds with glossy blue plumage lined up along the roof of the barn, their long tails wagging as they chattered away to each other. At least they were decently attired, she thought, frowning down at the shabby flaxen dress. Heaven forbid that Maxwell should see her like this, she shuddered, vowing to retrieve at least one of her silks from her trunk before he arrived.
A movement in the gardens beyond the yard caught her eye. Her uncle and William were picking the mauve flowers before placing them into large woven baskets. Goodness, they must have started work early, she thought. Then her hand flew to her mouth for hadn’t she been told to help prepare breakfast? Hurrying down to the kitchen, she found her aunt rolling out pastry on the kitchen table.
‘Good morning, my dear, did you sleep well?’ she asked, looking up and shaking the flour from her hands.
‘I did until I was woken by that dreadful din those birds were making. Am I too late to help with breakfast?’ Isabella asked.
‘Only by about two hours,’ her aunt chuckled. ‘Dotty said you were out for the count. I expect all that travelling tired you out. Don’t look so worried, dear, you can help tomorrow.’
‘But Uncle said . . . ,’ she began, recalling his stern look the night before.
‘Don’t worry, Isabella, he might sound fierce but underneath he’s as soft as those beloved petals of his. Firm but fair, you’ll find him,’ she added, seeing Isabella’s sceptical look.
‘I saw him out in the garden with William, but where is everyone else?’ Isabella asked, staring around the room.
‘Joseph’s away helping Uncle Bill – that’s Frederick’s brother – pick the flowers on his land. Alice and Thomas are at school, and Dotty is seeing to Grandmother.’
‘Oh yes, Dotty told me she lives next door. I have so much to ask her about Mama. May I call and see her this morning?’ she asked eagerly. Her aunt set down her rolling pin.
‘Grandmother’s not really with us, dear. Hasn’t been since the shock. Best leave it until she’s having a good day.’
‘But Maxwell, my intended, will be arriving to collect me shortly and I must meet her before I leave,’ she insisted. Seeing her aunt frown, she smiled. ‘I sent him a note explaining I was coming here instead of Italy, you see.’
‘And you think he will follow you?’
‘Oh yes, he said my happiness is paramount,’ she explained, her voice trailing off in case her aunt should think her ungrateful.
‘Well, before you go anywhere you must have something to eat, so sit yourself down,’ Mary said, scurrying over to the range and lifting a plate from on top of the pan. ‘There now, get that down you,’ she smiled, setting it in front of her.
‘Thank you,’ Isabella murmured, staring down at the scramble of bright yellow egg nestling on a bed of ruby-red tomatoes. How could anyone be expected to eat all that, she wondered.
‘Don’t worry, the hens are laying well and we grow our own fruit and vegetables,’ her aunt said, misinterpreting Isabella’s look. ‘Quite self-sufficient, we are. Uncle Bill reared the pig, so between us we have a goodly supply of everything we need. Those flitches of bacon and ham will see us right through the winter,’ she declared, pointing to the beams above the range. Isabella stared up at the ominous dark lumps dangling from iron hooks.
‘That’s ham?’ she asked in surprise for it bore little resemblance to the delicate pink slices she was used to. Her aunt nodded.
‘’Tis meat we cured from the pig. Bayliss the butcher came and did the necessary, then we all helped joint it. Took ages to clear up the mess after.’ Isabella stared down at her plate where red juice from the tomatoes was seeping into the eggs. Stomach churning, she pushed it aside and got to her feet.
‘Can I help, Aunt Mary?’ she asked.
‘Bless you, dear, I can make poverty pie with my eyes closed, we have it that many times,’ her aunt smiled as she placed a large dish on the pastry and ran a knife deftly round it.
‘What is poverty pie exactly?’ Isabella ventured.
‘Suppose you could call it leftover pie, really. Anything and everything we can get our hands on gets put into the pie crust. Them swallows had better fly off soon or they’ll