The Christmas Card: The perfect heartwarming novel for Christmas from the Sunday Times bestseller

Alice nodded her head. ‘You may go, Nettie. This will be done, I assure you.’ She waited until they were alone again. ‘You and I have been thrust together, Flora. I didn’t choose to work here and you didn’t ask to have me, so we’ll have to make the best of it.’

‘I’ll get rid of you like I got rid of all the others,’ Flora muttered half to herself, but just loud enough for Alice to hear.

‘We may have more in common than you think,’ Alice said casually. ‘I’ll tell you my story and I’ll be happy to listen to what you have to say. Maybe we can come to a truce, but first you will clear up the mess you made.’

‘My boiled egg and soldiers are getting cold. I’m hungry.’

‘Then you’d better hurry up or they’ll be stone cold and I’ll ring for Nettie to take the tray away.’ Alice could smell the hot buttered toast and she was so hungry she could have gone down on her knees and lapped up the porridge like a cat, but she had her own feelings under control. She met Flora’s rebellious gaze with a steady look. This was a battle she had to win.

‘All right, but I’ll make you suffer for this, Radcliffe.’ Flora went down on her hands and knees and picked up the scrubbing brush.

Alice smothered a sigh of relief. Life was difficult enough without a child dictating the odds. She stood in silence while Flora dabbed ineffectively at the glutinous mass, which was seeping into the cracks between the floorboards. In the end Alice went down on her knees beside her, taking the cloth from the bucket of rapidly cooling water and wringing it out. ‘We’ll do it quicker together.’

Flora said nothing and turned her head away, but not before Alice had seen tears glistening on the ends of her long eyelashes. She’s just a child, Alice thought wearily; a lonely child in desperate need of companionship as well as a firm hand. She sat back on her haunches. ‘I think we’ve done all we can, Flora. Eat your breakfast before it gets too cold.’

Flora scrambled to her feet, flinging the scrubbing brush into the bucket. ‘I’ll tell Mama of you, Radcliffe.’

‘Do as you please, but I can play that game too. I don’t suppose she would be too pleased to learn that you threw a plate at Nettie.’

Flora resumed her seat and ate in silence, while Alice tidied the room. It was simply furnished with a child’s desk and chair at the far end and a larger desk, which presumably must have been used by Flora’s governess, but was now littered with books and drawing materials. Sorting through them, Alice was encouraged to find that Flora had a talent for drawing, although most of the sketches had a dark, nightmarish quality that was disturbing. Another factor that seemed unnatural was the lack of playthings. There was not a doll in sight nor anything that might keep a nine-year-old amused during the long hours that Flora seemed to spend on her own. There was a bookcase but most of the shelves were empty, and there was not much reading material to occupy the mind of a lively child. There were a few framed prints on the walls, but these were mostly sombre lithographs of winter scenes, which were hardly cheering on a cold and snowy day. Alice sighed. This was not how she had foreseen her future, if she had ever thought about it at all, but at least she was attempting to put her time to good use. She put a shovelful of coal on the fire and sat down to wait for Flora to finish her meal.

Alice soon discovered that everything was a battle with young Flora Dearborn, from the frock she was to wear that day to the boots that went with it, and when Alice tried to run a comb through her young charge’s tangled mop there were shrieks and tears.

‘You’re hurting me.’ Flora cried petulantly. ‘Leave me alone, you bitch.’

Alice held the tress of hair firmly in her hand so that Flora could not pull away. ‘Mrs Upton said that we were to go down to the drawing room at half-past eleven to see your mama. I’m sure she wouldn’t want to see you looking as though you’ve been dragged through a hedge backwards.’

Flora stopped struggling. ‘Have you ever seen any- one who’s been dragged through a hedge backwards?’

‘It’s just a manner of speaking, but you know very well what I mean.’

‘You’re tugging too hard. You’re doing it to hurt me like Smithson used to.’

‘Who is Smithson?’

‘She was my nanny. She used to pull my hair and pinch me if I was naughty. She told me that Spring-heeled Jack would get me if I was bad. He’d jump up to my window and come in while I was asleep.’

‘That’s nonsense, Flora. Spring-heeled Jack is merely a tale told to frighten little girls. Now let’s try and get the comb through the worst of the tangles so that your mama will be proud of you.’

‘She’s not my mama,’ Flora said sulkily. ‘I have to call her mama but she just wanted a little girl to show off to her friends.’

Alice paused with the comb poised over Flora’s curly head. ‘Is this a tale you’re making up?’

‘No.’ Flora twisted round to look her in the face. ‘That’s why they lock me up at night. I keep trying to go home to my real mama, but they won’t let me.’

Shocked and upset, Alice could hardly believe her ears. ‘Where is your home then, Flora?’

‘It’s far away from here where the sun always shines. There are flowers all year round and tall trees with birds nesting in the branches. They took me from my real mama, but no one loves me here. I’m too horrible, like you said.’

‘If what you say is true then it’s quite appalling.’

‘I’m not a liar.’ Flora snatched the comb out of Alice’s hand and started dragging it through her hair, tugging at the stubborn tangles with tears spurting from her eyes. Alice covered the small hand with hers, gently prising Flora’s fingers apart and taking the comb from her.

‘I believe you.’

‘You do? No one else does. Mrs Upton says it’s a wicked lie and the others laugh at me. I know they do.’

‘How long have you been here, Flora?’

‘I don’t know. A long time.’

‘Who told you that Mrs Dearborn is not your real mama?’

‘Smithson did. She told me when she’d been drinking from the bottle she hid at the back of the cupboard. She said she’d been the midwife attending my real mama, and Mrs Dearborn gave her ten pounds to buy a baby girl.’

Alice stared at her, frowning. It was almost impossible to believe that a woman could sell her newborn baby, but Flora seemed certain that it was true. ‘Perhaps she was lying. Sometimes people say stupid things when they’ve been drinking.’

‘Rory says it’s true.’

‘Who is Rory?’

Flora smiled and her eyes lit up for a brief moment, but then the sullen look returned like a tragic mask. ‘Rory is my uncle, or that’s what I have to call him. He’s Papa’s younger brother.’

‘I don’t understand,’ Alice said, frowning. ‘Why would he say such a thing?’

‘He came to visit and found me crying.’ Flora’s eyes filled with tears, making her look vulnerable and completely different from the wild child who had greeted Alice earlier that morning. ‘It was after Smithson told me about my real mama. Rory said he’d find out if it was true, and if it was he promised that one day he’d take me to see my real mother.’

Alice ran the comb through Flora’s tangle-free hair. ‘There you are. Now you’re presentable.’ She glanced at the clock on the mantelshelf. ‘We should go downstairs to see your mama.’

‘Do you believe me?’ Flora turned to face her. ‘You think I’m lying, don’t you? They all think I’m a liar.’

‘No, I don’t think you’re making it up,’ Alice said slowly. ‘But I’d like to speak to your uncle. Does he come here often?’

‘Not often enough. I love Uncle Rory. He makes me laugh.’ She jumped to her feet. ‘You won’t tell Mama what I said, will you? She won’t like it.’

‘Of course not. It will be our secret.’ Alice held out her hand. ‘You’ll have to show me where we will find Mrs Dearborn. I don’t know where to go.’

The drawing room was a complete contrast to the nursery. It was furnished in the latest style and it did not take an expert to see that no expense had been spared. Alice would not have been surprised to see price tickets hanging from the opulent velvet upholstery of the chairs and sofa. The smell of the showroom still lingered, despite the bowls of potpourri placed on highly polished mahogany side tables, and the vases of hothouse chrysanthemums affordable only by the wealthiest in society. Alice felt her feet sinking into the thick pile of the Aubusson carpet, and each movement she made was reflected in one or more of the gilt-framed mirrors that adorned the walls.

Mrs Dearborn was handsome in an austere way, and elegantly dressed in the height of fashion. Pearl drops dangled from her ears and strands of pearls were hung around her slender neck. She was seated in a wingback chair by the fire with an embroidery hoop in her hand, although she did not seem to have progressed very far with the complicated pattern. She shot a wary glance at Flora. ‘Sit down, child. Don’t just stand there.’ She turned her attention to Alice, looking her up and down with a critical gaze. ‘So you are Mrs Radcliffe’s niece?’

Alice inclined her head. ‘Yes, ma’am.’

‘They might have found you a better garment to wear.’ Mrs Dearborn raised a lorgnette, peering at the ripped shoulder seam. ‘You cannot go round looking like a ragbag, Radcliffe.’

‘I’ll see to it, Mrs Dearborn.’ Inwardly seething, Alice made an effort to sound submissive.

‘Stop fidgeting, Flora.’ Mrs Dearborn put her embroidery aside, glaring at her daughter. ‘Have you been behaving properly this morning? Radcliffe will tell me if you’ve been a naughty girl.’