Flora did not . . . could not speak.
‘It is not ideal, I grant you and . . .’ Flora watched her mother swallow hard to keep her composure. ‘I certainly will find the move difficult, but there it is. As for you, Flora, your father and I feel it would be wrong to take you with us to such an isolated spot, when you are still young and need the company of others. So, I have secured you a position in a household in London, which I think may suit you very well.’
For one moment, Flora had a vision of herself blacking the range or peeling the potatoes in a cellar kitchen. ‘And what is that, Mama?’ she finally managed to say, her mouth dry.
‘A dear friend of mine is in need of extra schooling for her two daughters. I told her of your proficiency at sketching and painting and also of your knowledge of botany. She has asked me if you would care to join her household and educate her girls in your skills.’
‘I’m to be a governess?’
‘Not in the literal sense, no. The household you are joining is wealthy, and there is a large staff to care for and educate the children. I would see your role as that of a tutor.’
‘May I ask the name of this friend of yours?’
‘Her name is Mrs Alice Keppel. She is well respected in London society.’
Flora nodded, although, living in the wilds of the Lakes as she did, she was not acquainted with the names of anybody in London, well respected or not.
‘She is a woman who moves in the very highest of circles and it is an honour that she would consider you for such a position.’ An odd expression passed fleetingly across her mother’s face. ‘Well, there we are. You will be joining the household at the beginning of October.’
‘And what of Aurelia? Will she move up with you to the Highlands?’
‘Aurelia is to live with her Aunt Charlotte in London when she returns from Kent. Temporarily, at least. We hope it will not be long before Aurelia is running a household of her own.’
Flora’s heart missed a beat. ‘She is to be wed? Who is the man?’
‘I am sure your sister will tell you as soon as the engagement is confirmed. Now, Flora, have you any questions?’
‘No.’ What was the point? Her fate was already sealed.
‘My dear.’ Rose reached out a tentative hand to Flora. ‘I am so very sorry. I only wish things were different for you and me. But they are not and we must simply make the best of it.’
‘Yes.’ Flora felt a sudden empathy with her mother, who looked just as downcast as she. ‘I will . . . adjust to my new circumstances, I’m sure. Do tell Mrs Keppel . . . tell her I am most grateful.’
And before she could disgrace herself by bursting into noisy, desolate sobs, Flora swiftly left the morning room. Upstairs, she locked the door to her bedroom, fell into her bed, pulled the blankets over her head and wept as quietly as she could.
Everything has gone . . . my home, my sister, my life . . .
Panther had crept under the blankets too and the feel of his soft, warm fur brought on further tears. ‘And what will happen to you? And Posy, and the rest of my menagerie? I can hardly imagine Mrs Keppel’ – she spat the name out as though it was poison – ‘wanting an old toad and a rat spoiling her pristine home. I’m to teach children! Good Lord, Panther, I hardly know any, let alone how to educate them. I’m not even sure I like them that much either.’
Panther listened patiently, purring in Flora’s ear in response.
‘How could Mama and Papa do this to me?’ Flora threw the covers off and sat upright, gazing at the glorious view of Esthwaite Water beyond the window. Anger had replaced sorrow now and she stood up and paced the room, desperately trying to think up how she could single-handedly save her beloved home. When all lines of possibility were exhausted – there simply were none – Flora opened the doors to all her cages. Her menagerie scampered and hopped out of captivity, and crowded round their mistress protectively.
‘Oh God.’ Flora gave a long, deep sigh, gathering them to her. ‘What on earth am I to do?’
As a mist began to hang over the lake at dawn and dusk fell earlier each evening, Flora spent as much time away from the house as possible. Her father was yet to mention directly to her the planned sale of the Hall, or Flora’s imminent move to London. Mealtimes continued just as they always had, and Flora wondered whether her father would actually say goodbye to her when she left in two weeks’ time.
The only sign that anything was to change occurred when a number of vans arrived at the front of the house and departed with furniture – whether destined for an auction house, or her parents’ new abode in Scotland, Flora couldn’t say. When she saw the men lifting empty crates into the library, she darted in there and, like a thief, hastily gathered as many of her favourite books as her arms could hold, then scurried upstairs with her haul.
It was haytiming in Esthwaite and its surrounds, and the unusually good weather had the whole village out together, working the fields to bring the hay in before it rained. Flora walked the lanes with her basket, greeting familiar faces she would soon say goodbye to and cutting samples of as many different species of plant as she could find. In London, she imagined there would be a dearth of interesting flora and fauna for her new charges to sketch and draw.
The most pressing problem of all was what to do with her menagerie. If she set them free, none of them would survive in the wild after their years of Esthwaite Hall bed and board. But what else could she do?
And then, awake early one morning, the answer came to her. After breakfast, Flora tied on her best bonnet and walked to the stable to hitch up the pony and trap. ‘Well,’ she told Myla as she clicked the reins and they moved off, ‘she can only say no.’
Flora brought the trap to a halt in front of Hill Top Farm and tethered the pony to a post. Then she straightened her dress and bonnet and opened the wooden gate. Walking up the path, she noted the well-tended beds, full of purple autumn crocuses and dahlias. To her left, beyond a green wrought-iron gate, lay a vegetable patch and she spied large cabbages and the leafy tufts of carrot tops. A wisteria vine climbed the front of the house, and ripening Japanese quinces also cheered its grey walls.
Pausing outside, she knew that the only thing that stood between her and her heroine was the panelled oak door. Her courage almost failing her, she thought about the certain fate of her menagerie if she did not at least try, and she struck the brass knocker. Within seconds, she heard footsteps approaching. The door opened and a pair of bright, enquiring eyes appraised her visitor.
‘Hello. How can I help you?’