Isabella Rockwell's War Read Online Free PDF Page A

widened.
    “Really?”
There was another lurch and then a loud bang as the gangplank from
their deck of the ship was lowered.
    Mrs Jolyon
held out her arm to Mrs Trotter.
    “I think it’s
our turn now. Shall we make our way forward? They will send our
trunks on from our cabins.”
    Mrs Trotter
looked relieved at not having to take control.
    “Well, yes, of
course. Let us go.”
    Holding
tightly to Mrs Jolyon’s other hand meant Isabella’s head could
swivel at will. She felt she’d never be able to take it all in.
Most of the first class passengers had been taken from the dockside
by their carriages, pulled by fine, matched horses. As soon as they
reached the bottom of the gangplank, a footman in a pale blue satin
livery presented himself to Mrs Trotter.
    “Madam. Lady
Molesey has me convey her best wishes to you, and bade me escort
you to her carriage for your continued journey to her home at
Mayfair.”
    “By all
means.” Mrs Trotter turned to Mrs Jolyon. “Thank you so much Mrs
Jolyon, but we must now away to meet Lady Molesey, who has kindly
offered us lodging for the night. Good luck with your new
position.”
    Mrs Jolyon
smiled.
    “Thank you,
Mrs Trotter and a bon voyage for the rest of your journey.” She
gave Isabella a kind smile and disappeared into the crowd around
them. Isabella and Mrs Trotter moved toward Lady Molesey’s
carriage.
    “I thought Mrs
Jolyon was very nice, didn’t you?” Isabella asked, but Mrs Trotter
was looking vague.
    “Well I did…
yes… charming.”
    “And yet you
didn’t speak to her at all during the voyage, when actually her
company would have been very pleasant.”
    Mrs Trotter
was, by now, eyeing the steps up to the carriage with some
nervousness.
    “Yes, I
suppose it would have been.” Isabella sighed. Sometimes, watching
Mrs Trotter think was like watching spilt water roll across a
table. At that moment, a huge black coach rolled swiftly past them,
causing the carriage horses to nearly shy and unsettle. Mrs Trotter
stood, with her skirts pulled above her ankles, in preparation to
mount the steps to the coach.
    “Well
really…”
    But, it was
too late and Mrs Trotter overbalanced, and so had to enter Lady
Molesey’s coach with skirts covered in mud and a hat with a broken
feather.
    The journey
from the port to Lady Molesey’s home took an hour, and there was no
part of it during which Isabella found she could drag her eyes away
from the scenes outside. Their carriage, though often given right
of way over less grand vehicles, still took some time to thread its
way through the narrow alleys and byways which led from the City of
London to the West End.
    “Well, what do
you think of London, Isabella?” said Lady Molesey, plainly so
excited to be home, she was willing to overlook her dislike of
Isabella.
    “I think, so
far, it is beautiful,” she replied carefully. “But I wish it were
warmer.”
    Lady Molesey
laughed.
    “You’ll get
used to it.”
    Isabella
doubted very much that was the case. Her homesickness was
increasing with every mile the horses covered, but she was
intrigued by this city, its energy and its size. The horses were
moving more swiftly now, and yet houses and shops were still all
around them. The roads were well-made and laid with straw, and
there were carefully constructed gutters down each side to collect
the rainwater.
    And the
rain!
    How much could
one country contain? It hurled itself against the glass, crept
under the doors making her hair curl with its dampness; wetness,
which seemed absorbed by everything around it. Even the coach,
upholstered in velvet and polished wood had a smell about it, a
musty smell, a hint of tiny things growing beneath the seat
cushions. She pulled her cloak tighter, feeling a tickle in her
throat. She was well-used to rain, but the monsoon had been warm
rain that the parched Indian ground sorely needed. This cold
creeping damp was something else. She couldn’t imagine even the
Indian sun able to dry up