My latest novel Orchid Pink is now available as an ebook download. Please contact your usual supplier or
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Please enjoy this extract from Orchid Pink ...
Daisy soon made herself at home. She was respectful to her elders and a willing worker.
‘She’s a breath of fresh air, that little girl,’ Mrs Dodge told me at the end of Daisy’s first week. ‘Good worker too.’
Indeed she was. But the time had arrived for my new maid to learn boudoir skills. So far, her walks along my corridor had been accompanied by a morning tea tray. When I’d shown her around the house on her first day, she’d noticed the big painting adorning the wall facing the fireplace in my room. Her jaw had dropped and she’d glanced away in a fluster. I said not a word. But when I pointed out which garments went where, I saw her eyes slide back to the lush curves of the naked lady reclining on a fur spread.
The previous occupant of my delightful quarters was my mother. My father had used the room next door. My nursery had been at the other side of the house. As I outgrew the need for a nanny, I sensed my mother outgrowing my father. Only children are more likely to notice subtle indicators. In my case, I also possessed an imagination far too big for its boots.
My mother presented me with a copy of Jane Eyre to keep me occupied when, aged about ten, I took a nasty chill. My throat felt like the sandpaper I'd seen John Faraday use at his work bench and my neck was mummified in goose grease-soaked flannel. I was told to remain in bed and read. I think Ma was terrified of catching my germs and it was her maid, Betty, who administered the throat-wrap and the dosings of glycerine. I still shudder at the memory of trying not to gag while swallowing that unctuous oil. Betty would pop an aniseed ball into my mouth afterwards.
So began many visits to Lowood. Also to Thornfield Hall as I grew with Jane. Revisiting her red-room torment often preceded a lurid childhood dream for me and in daytime, if entering my mother’s boudoir, I would shoot nervous glances around its dark crimson walls. I would force myself to look at the towering wardrobe and hold my breath as though Mr Reed’s sneering corpse might fall through its doors at any moment.
Once I became 21, I decided it was time to banish the ghosts. My father had already selected a large bedroom overlooking the back garden. More influenced by the lush décor than the front-facing location of my mother’s old room, I moved in, with help from John Faraday. The avalanche of white bedspread was long gone. I replaced it with a counterpane of buttercup yellow. And I still empathised with Jane. She’d been lonely, as I had. Friendships did not come easily for her. Sometimes I wished for a warm, friendly body lying beside me during the long, winter nights.
I added touches of my own, slowly erasing my mother’s presence. Her green leather jewel case still squatted on the floor of the wardrobe and I remained intrigued as to why she hadn’t taken it with her. Maybe it
Daisy chuckled with delight when I first flung open closet doors to display my clothes. My passion for vivid colours spilled into the room along with the zest of spicy oranges. Daisy sniffed and gave an appreciative little sigh.
‘I like pomanders placed with everything hanging up, Daisy.’ I pointed to the tallboy standing beside the big bay window. ‘My freshly laundered undergarments are always layered with bars of scented soap or lavender bags.’
‘Yes, miss.’ Daisy’s eyes gleamed as if she couldn’t wait to start reorganising my lingerie. ‘It’s a bit like playing house, miss.’
I wanted to hug her; such was my little doll’s energy and playfulness. ‘Let’s hope you still feel like that after Mrs Dodge shows you how to wield a flat iron. Especially on flimsy fabrics.’
She noticed another of my mother’s possessions on top of the chest of drawers. Her hands flew to her face and she shook her head back and for. ‘That thing! What is it?’
‘It’s only a workbox to keep sewing things in. It’s made from armadillo shell. The lining’s quite fragile now.’
‘It’s made from some kind of creature?’
‘Well, yes. Does it worry you?’
She gulped. ‘Not as long as I don’t have to finger the outside, miss.’
I was impressed by her frankness and resolved to buy her a workbox of her own. As a child, I’d baulked at touching the rough shell of the hairy armadillo. I connected with Daisy in a way I’d not anticipated.
When she stood behind me later, preparing to pull the pins from my hair, I let my eyes close. Breathed in the essence of her girlhood. The tip of one breast brushed my earlobe as she stretched for the dressing table, making the room revolve as if I was riding a carousel. This heightened state of awareness shocked me. I basked in the sensation and ignored the alarm bell ringing in my head.
I breathed deeply. Relaxed. Allowed her touch to soothe me, mesmerise me. I drifted in and out of this dreamlike state until she said, ‘Pardon us for saying so, miss, but your hair’s the colour of autumn leaves. It’s beautiful.’
