‘Flora finding out who her father really was. And running away from London to go home.’
‘Then I suggest I pick up the story from there. Forgive me if I do not read every word – we have over thirty years to cover.’ He indicated the pile of slim volumes. ‘Some of it is exceedingly dull, but rest assured, it builds up to a quite magnificent climax. So, let us begin. You are quite right that Flora ran “home” to the Lakes that day. She managed to find her way to Near Sawrey and threw herself on the mercy of Beatrix Potter, who took her in and gave her shelter. Then, a few months later, she used the bequest from her father to buy a small farm nearby. And for the following nine years, lived as a virtual recluse, tending her animals and her land.’
‘She was still so young – only in her twenties,’ I whispered.
‘Now, now, patience, Miss Star. I’ve just told you that things perk up for her.’ Orlando picked up the first journal and flicked through its pages, then put it down and rifled through the pile to find another. ‘Now, we are in the Lakes, in the February of 1919, on a bitingly cold, snowy morning . . .’
Flora
Near Sawrey, The Lake District
February 1919
34
Flora cleared a narrow path through the snow from her front door; a thankless task, as she could tell from the heavy skies that another load would drop on her handiwork at any moment. Nevertheless, she needed to get out of the cottage and walk down the lane to see Beatrix, who had recently suffered from an attack of bronchitis. It was pointless taking Giselle, her Northumbrian-bred pony, who should have been used to the conditions, but whinnied if the snow passed above her shins and then stubbornly refused to budge.
Dressed in the thick tweed breeches she had fashioned for herself – so much more practical than skirts – and heavy boots, she picked up her basket of supplies and set off down the icy slope to a lane hidden underneath the heaps of snow.
She paused, as she always did, at the sight of the windows of Esthwaite Hall glinting at her from across the lake. A lake so heavily frozen that she reckoned she could don a pair of skates and be across it in a few minutes. The weather this year had been the worst she could remember in her nine years here. To her sadness, she had lost a number of sheep, as had every farmer in the district.
She could see Castle Cottage in the distance, the house that Beatrix had moved to since her marriage to dear William Heelis, her gentle solicitor husband. It was Beatrix who had told her Wynbrigg Farm was up for sale and suggested she buy it. Flora had painstakingly renovated the cottage and restocked the farm.
Beatrix was not as young as she used to be, even though she continued to deny it and could still be found on top of the fells in search of either sheep or a new species of wild flower that did not yet grow in her garden. Many of the plants ended up in Flora’s own borders if Beatrix gave her a cutting.
On that fateful evening in 1910 when she had fled from London, only knowing that she must return to her beloved Lakes, Beatrix had saved her. Many in the village thought the author a strange and bad-tempered old stick, but Flora had seen and felt the kindness her heart contained.
She was Flora’s closest – in fact only – friend. She adored her.
And loneliness was a small price to pay for independence, Flora thought as she stomped through the knee-deep snow. And at least she had been hit far less hard than most by the Great War – the armistice only declared last November – for she’d had no one close to lose. Although it would be a lie to suggest she had not thought constantly about those she still loved. Archie Vaughan haunted her dreams and nightmares, despite her determination not to think of him in her waking hours.
But at least her farm kept her busy, and the war had made it imperative she learn the art of self-sufficiency. The dairy had run short on milk, pumping what her few cows could produce for the boys in France, so Flora had bought a goat to provide her own. The local carthorses had been requisitioned for the war, and she had only been able to keep Giselle, the pony. Vegetables became scarce too, so Flora had started her own vegetable patch and raised chickens for their eggs. Despite her hunger, she had never been tempted to wring any of their necks. She had not eaten a single slice of meat since returning to the Lakes.
Sometimes, Flora thought back to those grand dinners at Portman Square – the gross abundance of food and animal flesh – and thanked God she now had the means to run her own household, however meagre the menu.
‘Are you alive?’ she asked the freezing cold air, an image of Archie forming in her mind. In truth, the agony of not knowing was intolerable. Beatrix, to whom Flora had poured out the whole sorry story when she’d first arrived here all those years ago, had begged her to contact her sister to let her know where she was – and to ask after both of them. ‘War changes everything,’ Beatrix had said, but Flora knew that nothing could ever change her dreadful betrayal. Or Aurelia’s expression when she had told Flora she never wished to see her again.
Occasionally, she heard news of her parents through local gossip and it was with deep sadness that she had heard her father had died two years ago. She had written a letter to her mother in Scotland, but had never sent it. The bitterness Flora harboured towards Rose, following her abandonment after the King’s death, had rendered her incapable of communication. She had heard recently that Rose had left the Highlands and gone abroad – no one seemed to know where.
Winter was always the hardest time of year for her, for she could not exhaust herself with physical work to banish the dark thoughts that crowded in. She would be glad when spring arrived and her days became busy once more. Panting from her exertion through the snow, Flora arrived at Castle Cottage and knocked on the door. As always, she was greeted first by Beatrix’s two Pekinese dogs.
‘Flora dear, do come in,’ Beatrix said, as a flood of warm air enveloped her. ‘I was just baking a cake with my last egg. You might as well be the one to enjoy it, as William has gone through the snow to his office in Hawkshead. Now, don’t be afraid of trying this one, Mrs Rogerson helped me with it.’
‘How kind of you. And see, I have brought you some fresh eggs.’ Flora took off her gloves and placed the three eggs carefully on the table. ‘Are you better, dear Beatrix?’
‘Much, thank you. It was a nasty chill. And these days, it does go to my chest so.’
‘I also brought you some camphor,’ she said, taking it from her basket. ‘And a jar of last year’s honey from my hives.’ She sat down at the kitchen table as Beatrix cut her a piece of the sponge cake, the mean top and bottom more than compensated for by the amount of jam in the centre. As she put the slice to her lips, savouring the smell, a sudden thought struck her.
‘What date is it?’ she asked.