A Memory of Violets (18 page)

Galloping, galloping, galloping, the thundering hooves not going fast enough. The jangle of stirrups and bridle, the pony pulling at the reins. A fly in her eye. Wind rushing past her ears. Tears streaming down her cheeks. The thick, swirling fog distorting her senses.

                    
Finally, the cottage, barely visible over the hill, never getting closer.

                    
The crunch of gravel on the laneway. A tractor in a field somewhere nearby. Someone calling her name. “Good evening, Miss Matilda.”

                    
Running, running, running. The cat leaping off the doormat. The cool darkness of the cottage.

                    
“Mother! Mother! Come, quickly. It's Esther! There's been an accident!”

                    
Her mother's face, pale as a ghost.

                    
“I told you to look after her, Matilda! I told you again and again to look after her!” Her eyes wild, flashing with fear. Screaming into her face, “What have you done to her? Where is she?”

                    
She didn't know. Esther was lost. The fog had taken her.

Disturbed by her dreams, Tilly often found herself awake long before the rest of the house. At first, she'd felt uncomfortable in the dark quiet of her room, unsettled by the strange sensations that interrupted her sleep—a hand against her cheek, a cool breeze, the feeling of being watched, the scent of violets, a whispered voice. Dreams, or reality—she wasn't sure. As the weeks had passed, she'd grown to accept the unusual atmosphere in her room. Now, when she awoke early, she took the opportunity to sketch by candlelight, until the violet light of dawn crept in through the window, signaling that it was time for her to go downstairs to light the fire in the range.

As the cool air of spring made way for the cloying heat of summer, which stuck to the buildings and people like honey, Tilly began to relax into the routines of Violet House. What had seemed so strange and unfamiliar on that March morning, when Mrs. Pearce had reeled off the daily routine without stopping for breath, was second nature to Tilly now. With the bright, summer days to cheer her, the sashes thrown open to let in a little of the morning air, and a formal promotion to the position of housemother due to Mrs. Harris's continued absence, Tilly carried out her tasks with a newfound confidence.

She enjoyed the hush of the house as she crept downstairs, going about her work with efficiency and order: lighting the fires in the range and the copper; dusting the mantel and picture
frames in the downstairs rooms; beating the mats and rugs in the backyard; scattering the tea leaves, before sweeping the carpets; washing the windows, which were always caked thick with coal dust from the factories.

She was grateful for the summer months, which meant no fires to clean and blacken and re-lay in the rooms. And although the warmer weather made the smell from the slop bucket much worse as she emptied the chamber pots in the girls' dormitories, she was glad that the pump handle was no longer freezing cold when she drew the water, and she took pleasure in hanging the starched and mangled bed sheets on the line across the backyard—even though they were often soot stained again by the time the warm air had dried them.

When the girls woke, the house was filled with the vibrant sounds of their chatter, and the thump and clatter of crutches and wheelchairs on the just-swept and polished floors. It was such a contrast to the hushed voices and polite conversations that had marked Tilly's days at Wycke Hall. While Lady Wycke and her daughters had lived a life as stiff and restrictive as the corsets that nipped at their waists, the flower girls filled Violet House with an infectious combination of noise and emotion. “Organized chaos,” Mrs. Pearce called it.

There was no doubt that Tilly was growing fonder of the girls as the months passed. Like a real mother, she scolded them when their beds weren't made, settled disagreements about whose turn it was to help lay the table for dinner, found missing stockings and pinafores, and reminded the girls where they'd left the books they were reading or the packs of cards they'd been playing with.

After breakfast, she liked to stand on the just-scrubbed doorstep, watching like a proud parent as her girls made their steady progress up the street. She'd watch until the last girl entered the
factory, then she'd close the door behind her and a strange hush would descend over the house once again until the daily round of callers started: the twice-daily delivery of milk; the baker's boy bringing the fresh loaves; the rumble of the coal cart; the bell and cry of the rag and bone man, “Bones! Any old iron! Bones! Any old iron!” She'd even enjoyed the drama of the visit from the sweep last month, despite the filth it had left for her to clean away.

But, between these pleasant interruptions, when the house was silent, Tilly thought about Flora and Rosie. Their story still intrigued her. There was such desperation in Flora's words that Tilly couldn't shake them. She wished she could reach into the pages of the notebook and help her. And while she read about the two sisters, she thought more and more of her own, of sea-green eyes looking at her, asking for her help.

While each new day in London brought a greater sense of belonging, Tilly's life back in Grasmere hung over her like a fog. Despite the passing of a season, there'd been no letter from home. She tried to ignore her disappointment when the postman made his deliveries and failed to bring anything addressed to her. Even the last delivery at night, past nine o'clock, would see her twitching at the window, wondering.

But nothing arrived.

No letter from her mother, asking how she was settling in; no telegram to wish her a happy birthday; no news of Esther. Even Mrs. Pearce, with all her charming lack of subtlety, had stopped inquiring, sensing Tilly's discomfort whenever she raised the matter.

As she swept and dusted, her thoughts often returned to Grasmere, picturing the simple blacksmith's cottage, the Coniston slate glistening from the recent rainfall, a thin wisp of smoke
curling from the chimney. She imagined her mother standing in the doorway of her bedroom, staring regretfully at the unslept-in bed. She thought of Esther, sitting by the window, a blanket covering her legs as she read her novels about the wild Yorkshire moors and unrequited love.

Did either of them think of her at all? Would they ever understand? Ever forgive her? If only her father was alive. He would understand. He would want to hear about her life in London. He would care.

She adored her father, and he adored her. They went everywhere together: to the lakes, to the mountains, to the fells and the stone circle at Castlerigg, touching the cool stones and imagining whose hands had first moved those giant boulders. And when they weren't going anywhere in particular, Tilly loved nothing more than to just sit and watch her father as he worked, hammering and pounding at the white-hot iron as he molded it, the sharp hiss of steam and the billowing clouds of smoke obscuring him from her view as he cooled the horseshoes in the bucket of water. The heat of the furnace in the forge was stifling, and she liked to take him a tankard of ale. There
had
been happy times, before war came and changed everything. She'd even loved Esther once. If only for a while.

He woke her in the dim half-light of a fresh spring morning, excitement burning in his chestnut eyes.

“Tilly! Tilly, wake up. The baby's coming. Run down to the farm. Tell Dr. Jennings to come, quickly!”

“Yes, Father.”

She was excited. For nine months, she'd watched her mother's belly grow. For nine months, “The Baby” was all anyone
had talked about. Finally, “The Baby” her parents had prayed for, “The Baby,” who would be the much-longed-for brother or sister for Tilly to play with, was coming.

She ran as fast as she could from the forge to the farm at the end of the lane, the long grass that grew alongside the hedgerows brushing her skin, her smock dress flapping at her knees, her petticoats wrapping themselves around her legs as if to trip her up, stop her bringing back the man who would make sure the baby came safely.

Tilly knew about babies dying. She'd had a sister once. For a few, fleeting minutes, their family was complete. But the cord was wrapped around her neck, taking her breath away before she'd even had a chance to taste the fresh Westmorland air. She was as blue as a bunch of cornflowers. The doctor couldn't get there in time. They'd called her Iris. Her mother had wept for weeks.

This baby would live. “The Baby” had to live.

Running past the fields of wheat and barley that swayed gently in the morning breeze, she raced the wispy clouds that drifted lazily across the sky. She was careful to avoid the potholes in the lane, jumping over the ruts from the tractors and plows and the indentations from horses' hooves, which were now murky puddles, filled with the rainwater of the previous night. She didn't stop until she saw the gate of the Jenningses' farm—didn't stop until she'd passed the butter churns and the chickens scratching for seed.

She could still feel her feet running as Dr. Jennings took her back in his cart, the great, lumbering shire horse trotting along as quickly as he could.
Please don't lose a shoe, please don't lose a shoe,
she repeated to herself all the way home.

They were in plenty of time.

The baby was still making its slow, difficult way into the world. Tilly stood in the scullery, covering her ears to block out the deep moans coming from her mother's bedroom.

“I think you're better off outside, love,” her father said, resting his large, callused palm on the top of her head. She'd loved that sensation since she was an infant. It gave her a sense of stability. Sometimes, he would rest his hand on her head for so long that she could still feel it hours later, long after he'd gone back to work.

He gave her some plums from the garden, the end of a loaf of bread, a chunk of cheese, and kissed her on the cheek. “I'll come and get you when it's over.”

She walked to her favorite spot by the lake, the mountains directly in front of her. She made piles of pebbles, balancing them, one on top of another, and watched the ripples from the fish as they caught flies from the surface of the water. It was a beautiful spring morning. She couldn't remember a day so perfect.

She enjoyed the plums, sucking every bit of their soft, juicy flesh from the stones, which she kept in her pinafore pocket to plant in the garden. Even when the breeze caused the goose bumps to bubble up on her arms, she didn't dare go home, afraid of what she might discover there.

It was noon when her father's footsteps came crunching along the shale path behind her.

“So, how would you like a little sister to play with?”

They were the best words she could have heard. She jumped into his arms. “Really? Everything's all right?”

“It was a bit of a struggle, but they got there in the end. Your mother is very keen to show her to you.” He carried Tilly home on his shoulders, the breeze blowing around her
hair, the gentle rocking motion as he walked almost lulling her to sleep.

From the outside, her home looked exactly the same: the bottle-green ivy creeping around the doorway, the pigeon-gray slate brightened from the light of the sun, the thin wisp of smoke twirling up from the chimney, the smell of woodsmoke in the air. But as soon as she stepped inside, Tilly sensed something different in the atmosphere—a sense of calm that hadn't been there before. It was as if The Baby's arrival had filled an invisible gap that she hadn't even known existed.

Her father took her hand and led her into the bedroom.

“Here she is. Your little sister,” he whispered. “Come and say hello to Esther.”