London, 1886
Isabella wasn’t superstitious, but getting stung six times in a row by the firethorn’s spikes was bad luck.
She was wrestling with the overgrown bush in the conservatory, wincing every time a thick, spear-like thorn stung her fingers through her useless gloves.
And they said firethorn didn’t grow well in England. The darn plant should be used as a weapon; it had tough armour, speed in growing, and an attitude to match its fierce appearance.
“You win, you bloodthirsty beast.” She tossed the pruning shears on the workbench. “I’ve had enough.”
The sunlight glinted off the glossy green leaves, making them look as if the plant were celebrating its victory. She removed her leather gloves. Ruby drops of blood trickled down her fingers.
“My lady!” The alarmed voice of Lawson, the lady’s maid, coming from behind her, made her jolt.
“What is it? Have the seedlings of my orchids arrived?”
“No, my lady. Your mother is waiting for you in the sitting room. The Dowager Duchess of Gloucester is here. Your presence is urgently requested upstairs.”
“But Mother said she didn’t need me today. She said I had the afternoon for myself.”
“The Dowager wants to see you as well. Honestly!” Lawson shook her head. “You should be ready anyway.”
After removing her pinafore, she wiped her hand on a cloth and patted her curls as Lawson waved her out of the conservatory.
“Quickly.” Lawson brushed off a few leaves from Isabella’s skirt as they walked along the hallway. “Heavens, you ruined all the work I did for you. The skirt is wrinkly and has drops of mud on the hem, just like when you were five years old.”
“I’m sorry. I got carried away with the firethorn. It keeps growing in the wrong shape, no matter what I do. And it’s overtaking the whole corner. I read about some gardening techniques in the notes of Lancelot Brown that?—”
“Yes, yes, fascinating. Now…” Lawson stopped in front of the closed set of double doors opening to the sitting room. “Leave gardening behind and turn into the younger daughter of an earl for the next half an hour.”
“I will, but the Dowager isn’t here to see me. She wants to talk to Helen.”
“It doesn’t matter, my lady.” Lawson straightened Isabella’s collar and brushed more dirt off her skirt. “The Dowager is curious to meet you. Remember to smile.” She plastered a smile on her face before opening the doors. “Your Grace, Lady Isabella.”
“Finally,” Mother said in a disapproving tone.
“Oh, the young one.” Her Grace Eve, the Dowager Duchess of Gloucester, narrowed her emerald gaze on Isabella as if assessing her qualities, which shouldn’t be many, judging by how quickly the matron looked away.
Isabella curtsied. “Your Grace.”
Mother shot her an incendiary glare that promised a long, private conversation, and her sister, Helen, seemed to have swallowed a lemon. But seriously, Isabella had no idea she would meet anyone today.
“What were you doing?” Helen asked, perched on the armchair with her back perfectly straight and her gown neatly pressed.
“The firethorn won another battle. Look.” She showed her pricked fingers. “That plant is a menace. My fingers are swollen and hurt. I don’t think I can type any articles tonight.”
Helen gave her the slightest shake of her head, her black eyes widening with fear.
Mother touched the bridge of her nose.
“Articles?” The Dowager put down her cup of tea somehow without making the cup clink against the saucer.
“I support?—”
“Isabella has a passion for gardening,” Mother said, silencing her. “She spends hours in the conservatory. But more on that later. Sit down and have a cup of tea, Isabella.” The words were sweet; the tone was a commanding one.
Isabella did as told. She guessed no one was interested in hearing how she supported the movement of women determined to obtain the right to vote. Not that she did much aside from volunteering to typewrite articles, letters, and leaflets, or attending marches. Other women risked being imprisoned or beaten by the police every day for their ideas.
She managed to pour herself a cup of tea without spilling a single drop despite her aching fingers. If that wasn’t an accomplishment, she didn’t know what it was.
