A Memory of Violets (23 page)

Tilly was relieved that she had the right person. “Yes! We sat opposite each other on the London train. I was starting work at the Flower Homes that day.”

“Yes! Yes! I remember. It's hard to forget hair
that
color! Miss Harper, isn't it?”

“That's right. Tilly.”

“What a surprise!” She held out a gloved hand. “A pleasure to meet you again.”

Tilly smiled and shook Mrs. Ingram's hand, detecting the scent of damask rose as she did.

“So, how is everything going?” Mrs. Ingram asked.

“Very well, thank you. Very well indeed.”

“Delighted to hear it. And I believe it was the girls from the Flower Homes who made all these beautiful roses.”

“Yes! They've worked so hard. Aren't they wonderful?”

“They certainly are. My daughter insisted that we come out to support the event. I must introduce you.”

She led Tilly toward the younger woman, who was talking to one of the lady sellers.

“Darling, I'd like you to meet Miss Harper. She works at the Flower Homes with the girls who made all these wonderful pink roses. Miss Harper, this is my daughter, Violette Ashton.”

Tilly shook the woman's hand. “Very pleased to meet you, Mrs. Ashton,” she said, struck by the woman's beauty. She guessed that she must be in her late thirties—possibly a little older.

“Likewise,” Violette replied. “It is always a pleasure to meet another person with red hair.” Tilly laughed, touching her own hair self-consciously. Violette picked up a rose buttonhole from the display table. “Did you make the flowers yourself? They're very lifelike.”

“Oh, no!” Tilly laughed. “I'm not one of the flower girls. I
work as a housemother. I look after the girls and the running of Violet House.”

“Ah. My namesake! Well, it sounds like a very worthwhile position,” Violette remarked. “And the girls have done such wonderful work. You must be very proud.”

“Yes. I am. We all are.”

Violette opened her purse and took a small card from inside.

“Actually, I wonder if I might ask a small favor of you, Miss Harper,” she said, handing the card to Tilly. “Perhaps you would be kind enough to ask Mr. Shaw to contact me. I'd like to arrange a regular supply of floral arrangements. My personal details are on the card.”

Tilly read the card:
Mrs. Violette Ashton, Nightingale House, Richmond Hill, Borough of Richmond, London
. “Yes, yes, of course. I'll pass it on to him. Thank you.”

Violette smiled. “You are very kind. Now, come along, Mother. We really must get going. We don't want to be late for the Lady Mayoress.”

As she spoke, she took a handkerchief from her handbag, dabbing at her cheeks and the nape of her neck. “My goodness, the heat today is unbearable. Thank goodness these aren't real roses. They'd have died of thirst by now—as I think I might do if I don't get something to drink soon!”

Her voice faded into the distance as Tilly stared at the handkerchief. Lace. Neat stitching. A cluster of shamrocks in one corner.

“Well, good-bye, Miss Harper,” Mrs. Ingram said. “It was lovely to meet you again.”

Tilly mumbled a good-bye, standing absolutely still as she watched the two women walk away.

She didn't see her box drop to the ground, or the dozens of
tiny pink roses blown around her feet by the warm breeze. All she could see were shamrocks in the corner of a lace handkerchief and the face of a little girl with flame red hair lost to London's streets.

S
HE LAY IN BED THAT NIGHT
, still and silent, exhausted by the day and troubled by her thoughts. She glanced toward the writing table, thinking about the wooden box; about Flora and Rosie; about Mrs. Ingram and Violette Ashton; about a lace handkerchief. Tilly didn't believe in coincidence; she believed in fact and purpose.
There is a reason for everything, and everything has a reason
. Her father's words danced around her mind.
Keep a close eye on life, Tilly, and you will always know what that reason is
.

She'd always loved her father's wisdom, his ability to find just the right words to suit the moment: comforting words, thought-provoking words, inspiring words, loving words. How she wished she could talk to him now.

A steady stream of tears slipped down her cheeks as she crept around the edges of sleep: thoughts of Esther, of her father and mother, of Herbert Shaw and his quiet brother, Edward, tumbling and swirling around her mind like a hundred rose petals blown by the wind.

In her dreams, her thoughts turned to Flora. The young child's heart-wrenching words lifted from the pages of the notebook, whispering into her ear as if she stood beside her, talking to her now.

Please find her.

The sensation of a cool breath brushing against the delicate skin at the nape of her neck, the words spoken with absolute clarity.

Please find Little Sister.

Tilly sat bolt upright in bed, her heart pounding. It was unmistakable. The words had been spoken—it wasn't a dream.

“Flora? Is that you, Flora? Are you here?”

A distant sigh. The faintest sound of weeping, far, far away.

Tilly's skin fizzed and prickled. Was Flora still here, drifting between the edge of one life and another, lurking in the shadows of a past she couldn't release?

“I'll help you, Flora,” she whispered into the cool dark of the room. “I'll find your little sister. I'll find Rosie.” As she spoke, a glorious, intoxicating scent of violets flooded the room. “It will be all right now, Flora. I'll find Rosie. I'll bring her to you.”

A prolonged sigh resonated around the room, as clear as a breeze sending ripples dancing across the surface of the lake. It wrapped itself around Tilly, like silk against her skin.

Her promise was made. She had to find Rosie. She had to reunite the two lost sisters, and perhaps, by doing so, she would find some absolution from the guilt that had surrounded her all these years.

As she lay back against her pillow, the scent of violets dissipated and a sense of peace settled across the room.

“Will she live, Doctor? Will she live?”

                    
Her mother's anguished sobs. The doctor's anxious face.

                    
Standing in the shadows in the corner of the scullery. Forgotten. Unimportant.

                    
“Life-threatening injuries,” the doctor said. “Lucky to be alive. Difficult to recover.”

                    
Her mother sobbing at the table. “My little Esther. My child. My beautiful daughter.”

                    
Anger burning within her.

                    
What about me? She wanted to scream, but the words wouldn't come out. What about me? I'm your child, too. I'm your daughter, too!

                    
Hot tears falling down her cheeks. Fists balled in rage. Fingernails digging into the palms of her hands.

                    
Why hadn't her father come home? He would have loved her. Why hadn't he come home? He'd promised he would come home . . .

As the final, honey-dipped days of summer slipped away, the distinctive chill of autumn settled over London. The golden and amber leaves on the trees in the parks illuminated the city like never before. The colors reminded Tilly of home, so that she found her thoughts returning there more and more frequently. It was six months since she'd left Grasmere, and still she'd received no word from her mother.

With the passing of the months, Tilly's dreams had only intensified, rather than fading away, as she'd so hoped they would. Often she awoke in the night, so alarmed by her visions that she was unable to go back to sleep. Other times, she would wake in the lavender-hued, dawn light—her dreams so real that she was momentarily unsure whether she was back in her bedroom in Grasmere or still in London. These were the dreams that stayed with her all day, troubling her, asking questions of her as she went about her work.
“Running away, running away, running away,”
the train had whispered as she'd sped southward on that bright March morning. Whether running away or not, it was now clear to Tilly that for all she had gained from her new life at the Flower Homes, she hadn't been able to escape her past.

A
LTHOUGH LIFE IN
V
IOLET
H
OUSE
was calmer after the intense months leading up to Alexandra Rose Day, Tilly's days were still busy. She worked hard—harder than she'd ever worked at Wycke Hall—and was pleased when Mrs. Pearce, or one of the other mothers who'd called in for a cup of tea, commented on the sheen on the floors, the sparkle of the windows, and the neat
corners she'd turned on the bed linen. And as her numbed hands turned the mangle in the backyard, or took frozen petticoats off the washing line—stiff as a board from an early autumn frost—erratic thoughts of Flora and Rosie, of Mrs. Ingram and Violette Ashton, clamored for space in her mind. She knew there was a connection between them all, but couldn't yet understand what it was. It nagged at her as she went about her work and as she walked through Farringdon Market to buy food for the evening's meal.

Tilly loved the atmosphere of the markets: the hustle and bustle of the wagons and donkeys and the cries of the sellers. “Chestnuts all 'ot, a penny a score,” and the cry from the young girls who carried baskets of walnuts, their fingers stained brown: “Fine warnuts! Sixteen a penny, fine war-r-nuts.”

She relished the feeling of the frost-tinted air on her cheeks as she walked past the fruit and vegetable sellers, their stalls covered in yellow onions, green broccoli, purple pickling cabbages, and crimson berries. She paid no heed now to the sickly looking hens and stick-thin dogs that wandered aimlessly around her feet.

Most often, she found herself watching the flower sellers, the little girls—no higher than her knee—slipping on walnut husks and cabbage leaves as they darted past, their baskets piled high with violets, watercress, and oranges. She looked at the faces of the older sellers, observing them as they went about their work. Were any of them Rosie Flynn? Did any of them remember a little Irish girl called Flora? Wherever she went, she just couldn't get the two girls out of her mind. Nor could she forget Mrs. Ingram and Violette Ashton. And yet, for all that her instincts told her there was some connection between them all, she couldn't find the courage to send the letter that sat in an envelope between the pages of Flora's notebook.

Dear Mrs. Ashton,
she had written.

Firstly, my apologies for writing to you in such an unexpected manner. My name is Matilda (Tilly) Harper, and I am employed as housemother at Shaw's Training Homes for Watercress and Flower Girls in Clerkenwell. We were introduced by your mother on Queen Alexandra Rose Day last week . . . I know this will sound most unusual, Mrs. Ashton, but I believe you may be able to assist me in discovering the whereabouts of someone who I would dearly love to find.

But each time she read the words, she doubted herself. The letter remained unsent. Rosie remained lost.

T
HE GIRLS OF
Violet House were all looking forward to their annual trip to the Flower Village in Clacton. They had eventually settled down after the excitement of Rose Day, although they still talked about it frequently. To give the girls a chance to work on the increased orders for flowers that had come in over the summer (awareness and admiration of their work having spread across London after Rose Day), it had been decided that a Harvest Festival fete day would be held this year, instead of the usual summer fete day. Tilly was to accompany them, at Mrs. Shaw's insistence, and was delighted to accept the invitation.

The impending trip was all the girls talked about over supper.

“It's so wonderful there, Miss Tilly,” Hilda said, as she helped to lay the table. “The smell of the salt in the air is something else, and the sea sparkles so beautifully in the clear light. Even the train journey is great fun!”

It was impossible not to get caught up in the girls' enthusiasm.

But before the trip to Clacton, more enjoyment arrived for Tilly, in the form of an invitation to dinner with Mr. Shaw and his family. They were celebrating the fortieth year of the Flower Homes and wished to invite the housemothers and assistant housemothers to a dinner party to mark the occasion.

Tilly's first thought, on reading the invitation from “Mr. Shaw and his family” was whether this would include Herbert and Edward. It had been some time since she'd seen the two nephews, apart from fleeting glimpses and brief, awkward exchanges at chapel on Sundays. While Herbert became more maddeningly handsome and flirtatious each time she saw him, Edward seemed to grow only more uncomfortable around her.

“Who do you think will attend the dinner party?” she'd asked Mrs. Pearce as they shared a cup of tea in the scullery—a familiar routine they had settled into as part of their morning's work.

“All the housemothers and assistants will be going . . . and I expect the nephews will be there. Looking forward to seeing Mr. Herbert again, are we?” Mrs. Pearce teased, winking at Tilly, who gave her a sharp dig in the ribs with her elbow.

“Honestly, I do
not
have feelings for Herbert Shaw! He may be handsome—granted—but he's incredibly arrogant. And as for Edward . . . I honestly don't know which of them is worse. I hope I don't find myself sitting next to either of them. I'd be embarrassed to death by one and bored to death by the other!”

Tilly's concerns about the seating arrangements were followed by the dilemma of what to wear. She didn't need to look in her wardrobe to know that she had absolutely nothing suitable. She was a girl of the outdoors, who liked nothing better than mud on her petticoats, the wind at her heels, and the fresh smell of rain in her hair. Dinner gowns were not something she thought about very often. All the same, she wanted to impress at
the dinner party. Exactly
who
she wanted to impress, she wasn't quite sure.

Eventually, she confided in Mrs. Pearce, who offered to make a dress for her.

“Would you, really? Oh, that would be wonderful, Mrs. Pearce! Thank you!”

“Well, I doubt whether your housemother's wage will stretch to the shops in the West End.” Mrs. Pearce chuckled. “It won't be an overly formal affair, so you don't need anything too fussy, but it doesn't do a young girl any harm to dress up for an occasion every now and again.” She eyed Tilly with a knowing look. “I've some spare fabric. I'm sure I'll be able to put something acceptable together.”

A week later, a black evening dress was unveiled to great drama and much approval from the girls, who had gathered in the kitchen to see Mrs. Pearce's creation for themselves. They all gasped as Tilly entered.

“Oh! Miss Harper. You look wonderful!” Hilda said.

Even Queenie agreed, in her own way. “Never knew you'd scrub up so well. You certainly look nice enough.”

Tilly was surprised by how pretty she looked all dressed up. The beads and feathers—which Queenie had lent her for the evening—looked wonderful in her hair and added the finishing touch to her outfit. She twirled around, laughing, as the girls admired her. She remembered her father's words and felt a prickle beneath her skin. She felt as though she truly belonged.

O
N THE NIGHT
of the dinner party, when Tilly was ready to leave, the older girls—Queenie and Alice—were given instructions to take charge of the younger girls for the evening, and to fetch her if there were any problems at all.

“I'll make sure the girls behave,” Queenie added, having gladly appointed herself housemother for the evening. “You don't need to worry about us.”

Tilly walked with Mrs. Pearce to the Shaw's home at the end of the road. The other housemothers and assistant housemothers joined them, slowly emerging from their houses like nervous chicks emerging from their shells. They huddled together as they walked, gossiping and speculating about the evening ahead.

At the house, they were warmly greeted by Mrs. Shaw—a vision of elegance in cream lace and chiffon. Her soft, silvered hair was gathered in a neat pompadour style, which showed off her petite face and dazzling blue eyes.

“Welcome! Welcome, everyone,” she enthused, ushering them in from the cool evening. “Come inside. We've a fire in the parlor.”

There were eleven invited members of staff in total: two each from Bluebell, Rosebud, Primrose, Orchid, and Iris House, and Tilly from Violet House. Then there was Mr. Shaw, Mrs. Shaw, a gentleman called Mr. Hogg, who was introduced as the architect of the homes in Clacton, and finally, Herbert and Edward.

Herbert took great delight in entertaining everyone, reveling in the attention he commanded among so many women. He smiled as he was introduced to everyone, acknowledging Tilly in exactly the same way as the others. It was as if he had never seen her before, offering no glimmer of recognition, no spark of friendliness. It infuriated her. Did he not remember their unexpected meeting in the park? Did he not remember their conversations at chapel? It infuriated her even more when he took the seat beside her at the dinner table.

“Miss Harper,” he said, sitting down and pouring himself a glass of wine. “What a delight.”

She wished she could have kicked his shins with the toe of her
new shoes. Instead, she managed a cursory “Mr. Shaw,” picking up her own wineglass and allowing him to pour before she took a long sip. Mrs. Pearce caught her eye as she did so, winking in collusion. Mrs. Pearce had never believed Tilly's protestations about not being attracted to Herbert Shaw. Tilly barely believed them herself.

For a while, she enjoyed the good-natured envy that was clear in the eyes of the other women seated around the table. She knew they'd all hoped Herbert would take the seat next to them, and although she wished she didn't find him so attractive, she really couldn't attribute the racing of her heart to anything—or anyone—else.

As everyone settled to their meal, Tilly glanced around the table, noticing that Edward was sitting between two new assistant housemothers, chatting happily to both. Why couldn't he talk as easily to
her
? Why was he so awkward around
her
?

“So, Miss Harper, I trust you are enjoying your work here?”

Herbert's remark pulled her attention away from his brother.

“Oh, yes. Very much so. Everyone is so kind and helpful—and the girls are wonderful.”

“Indeed they are. Still, it must be quite a change for you. Forgive me if I'm wrong, but you're originally from Yorkshire, I seem to recall?”

“Westmorland,” she corrected. “The Lake District.”