A Memory of Violets (26 page)

Laughing at the girls' enthusiasm, she set to work. Soon a great pile of stockings and black shoes were assembled on the sand, like rags waiting for the bone grubber to collect. Snow-white toes were dipped tentatively into the foaming water, the girls shrieking at the cold as the waves lapped around their skin and rushed up the sand, catching those who were hovering at the edge of the water, too nervous to step in. Those in chairs were lifted down one at a time by Tilly and Elsie, so that they could feel the refreshing water for themselves.

They splashed and laughed for a good while, Tilly and Elsie joining them. As they ran up the beach, shrieking as they tried to outrun a larger wave, Tilly noticed a man walking alone in the distance. She raised her hand to her eyes, shielding them from the dazzle of the sun. He raised a hand and waved as he drew parallel with their group.

Edward.

Tilly waved in reply before he walked on, back through the dunes toward the houses. She thought about how invisible he had been in London, always lurking in the shadows, always skulking behind his exuberant brother. She winced at the thought of Herbert's relentless barrage of questions about her family. As she watched Edward disappear, she remembered her father telling her that sometimes it is better to look at the shadows rather than be dazzled by the sun. She smiled to herself as she turned her attention back to her charges.

“Right, girls. That's enough messing about in the sea,” she called, her voice whipped away by the breeze. “We have to go back now. The visitors will soon be arriving.”

“Are you looking forward to the fete, Miss Harper?” Queenie asked as they made their slow progress back along the sand, stepping over the worm casts and pools of seawater gathered here and there in the ripples left by the tide.

“I am, Queenie. Very much so. After hearing you all talk about it so enthusiastically, how could I not be?”

But what she didn't tell Queenie was that she was looking forward to her six o'clock meeting with Edward even more.

T
he lawns behind the houses were buzzing as the visitors walked around to admire the displays that had been prepared by the children of the Flower Village. Trestle tables had been put up to show the girls' needlework and knitting, handwriting and art. Other tables were covered with vibrant floral displays from the Flower Homes, made especially for the occasion. The youngest orphans sat with their teddy bears on a picnic blanket, while the toddlers ran egg and spoon races. The older girls put on impressive displays of hoop dancing and gymnastics. The warm afternoon sunshine added to the atmosphere, bathing everyone in a soft golden light as the giggles and chatter of the girls drifted through the air like music.

Tilly was kept busy in the scullery preparing refreshments for
the visitors: patrons of the charity, would-be patrons of the charity, friends and relatives of the staff, and relatives of those girls who were lucky enough to have some family members still living, and willing to visit.

Carrying a tray of lemonade to one of the refreshment tents, Tilly couldn't help but stare at the ladies, admiring their fashionable lace blouses and skirts and tailored suits. She noticed that their gentlemen escorts had peeled off their jackets and hats in the unseasonal warmth. Everything was so much more casual here, as if society's stuffy restrictions had been blown away by the breeze.

Spotting Buttons and Hilda, she called them over to have a drink.

“It's the Greek dancing next, Miss Harper,” Hilda said between gulps. “You must stay and watch. And the tug-o-war between the gentlemen will be after that, and that's always great fun, isn't it, Buttons?”

Buttons shrugged. She looked unimpressed. “I prefer the hoop display myself. But whatever takes your fancy, I suppose.”

Tilly laughed. For someone so short in stature, Buttons lacked nothing in attitude.

Sarah asked Tilly to help serve refreshments at the tea tent. She was soon busy filling cups with lemonade for the thirsty girls and making endless cups of tea from the huge urn for the adults. She enjoyed chatting with the visiting families and supporters of the Flower Village and Flower Homes, taking pleasure in the opportunity to talk about her girls and the success of Rose Day. She hardly noticed the afternoon slipping away as the sun began to sink on the horizon.

It was while she was refilling a milk jug that she heard her name spoken.

“Well, if it isn't Miss Matilda Harper!”

She turned around to see who was addressing her.

“Oh! Mrs. Ingram! What a surprise!” Tilly's thoughts immediately leaped to the letter hidden between the pages of Flora's notebook. “How lovely to see you again.”

She put the milk jug down, her hands shaking as she felt the color drain from her cheeks. She glanced around, looking for Violette Ashton. Was she here? The words of the unsent letter danced around her mind.
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.

“Are you not feeling well, Miss Harper?” Mrs. Ingram asked, staring at Tilly. “You look a little pale.”

“Oh, no,” Tilly bluffed, quickly recovering herself. “I'm perfectly well, thank you. Just a little weary. It's been a busy day.”

“Yes, I can imagine. And more train travel for you to get here. You poor girl, you have my every sympathy!” Mrs. Ingram sipped from her teacup. “I must say, the girls have put on some wonderful displays. You might remember my daughter, Violette? She insisted we come to show our support. She's become a firm supporter of the Flower Homes since meeting Mr. Shaw on Alexandra Rose Day. We were fortunate enough to have tea with him at the Mansion House that afternoon, courtesy of the Lady Mayoress. Ah, here she is now.”

Violette walked into the refreshment tent, three pretty, raven-haired girls at her side, ranging in age from ten to fourteen. The youngest walked with a crutch. Tilly hardly heard Violette speak as she introduced her daughters, missing their names entirely. She could only think about the letter concealed within Flora's notebook.

“It's quite the strangest thing, Mother,” Violette remarked, “but I can't help feeling that I've been here before. There's
something about the sounds and the smells—the sea, the salty air, the cry of the seagulls—it all feels so familiar.”

“Really, darling?” Mrs. Ingram replied. “I can't imagine why.”

Tilly's mind was racing. She remembered reading something in Flora's notebook, something about Flora meeting a French lady at one of the Clacton fete days. She'd said the lady had a child with her, a child with red hair.

Now it was Violette's turn to notice Tilly's distraction. “Are you unwell, Miss Harper? You look very pale.”

“No, I'm fine, thank you, Mrs. Ashton.” She pulled at the collar of her blouse. It was choking her. “If you'll excuse me, I need to go to fetch more lemonade. I'm sure the children will be glad of it.”

Rushing back to Poppy House, glad to be in the cool interior, Tilly ran upstairs to the room she had been given for the week. Lifting Flora's notebook from her coat pocket, she removed the unsealed envelope. It was marked simply
Mrs. Violette Ashton.
Did she dare?

Placing the envelope in her skirt pocket, she walked back downstairs, making her way toward the scullery, where she took a jug of lemonade from the dresser. As she did, she noticed a pile of picture postcards. The image on the front was of a group of girls from the Flower Homes. They were arranged around a work table that was covered with displays of their flowers. She picked one up, reading the label at the bottom.
SHAW
'
S HOMES FOR WATERCRESS AND FLOWER GIRLS
, 1883
.
She recognized it as the same postcard she'd found among Flora's possessions in the wooden box. Placing the postcard in the envelope with her letter—which she quickly returned to her pocket—she began to strain the lemonade into a clean jug. The scent of the lemons made the back of her nose tingle and her eyes smart.

She was almost done when Edward rushed into the scullery.

“Miss Harper! I'm so sorry. I didn't know anyone was in here.”

“It's quite all right,” she muttered. “I'm just finished.”

“We're about to start the tug-o-war and I need a ribbon to mark the center of the rope. Sarah said there should be one in a drawer here somewhere. You wouldn't happen to know . . .”

“Tilly! Are you in there?” Mrs. Shaw was calling for her now. “You're going to miss the gentlemen in the tug-o-war!”

She was flustered, as much by the sudden appearance of Edward as by the letter in her pocket.

“Coming!” she called back. “Sorry, Mr. Shaw. I have to go.”

“Go!” He laughed. “Ah, here are the ribbons. And I look forward to six o'clock,” he added as he rushed from the room.

Tilly blushed, straightened her skirt, and grabbed the jug of lemonade before making her way back outside, the slim envelope in her pocket weighing as much as ten men.

W
HEN THE LAST OF THE GUESTS
had departed, the last of the cups, saucers, and plates had been washed and dried, and the last of the many chairs and tables had been neatly stacked and removed from the gardens, Tilly wearily hung her apron on the hook at the side of the scullery door, smoothed her hair, pinched her cheeks, and stepped outside into the cool evening air. Her feet ached, her arms were sore from lifting and carrying, her hands were as dry as paper, her head pounded, and she still had supper to serve to dozens of hungry girls in half an hour, but the prospect of her six o'clock rendezvous lifted her spirits.

As she walked around the side of the house toward the rose garden, she watched the butterflies that flitted and danced among the purple buddleia. They replicated the fluttering in her stomach: whatever would she find to talk about with a man
who'd barely said two words to her since she'd arrived in London six months ago? An unchaperoned meeting like this was most unconventional and although Mrs. Shaw seemed perfectly happy with the arrangement, Tilly knew her own mother would not approve. It was one of the reasons she'd agreed to it.

Edward was waiting for her, leaning casually against the red-brick archway at the entrance to the garden. Tilly watched as he ran a hand through his hair and took a draw on his cigarette. He saw her and smiled.

“Very punctual, Miss Harper,” he remarked, checking the time on his pocket watch.

“Please, call me Tilly.” Her voice caught in her throat, betraying her nerves. “Miss Harper sounds so formal. Clacton doesn't seem like the sort of place for formalities.”

Edward laughed. “You are quite right. I'd be perfectly happy to dispense with the formalities. So,
Tilly
, shall we take a stroll in the rose garden. After you.”

As Tilly walked through the narrow archway, the aroma hit her immediately, the air laced with the sweet perfume of the many blooms that had been warmed in the sun. It was delicious. The garden was abundant with different varieties and colors of roses that still thrived in the mild September weather.

“Mr. Hutton started the rose garden years ago, when there were only a few houses here,” Edward explained. “It's always struck me how the garden has grown at the same rate as the orphanage, how the children have flourished just like the roses.” He paused to pick at some aphids on an ivory tea rose. “I often wonder what the children make of it all here,” he mused. “The contrast to their life in London could hardly be greater if they'd been removed to another world entirely.”

“It's a pleasure to see them so vibrant,” Tilly replied, “the
orphans and the flowers. It really is a special place for children to grow up.” She bent down to inhale the scent of a cluster of bright orange roses. “I've always loved the smell of roses. It reminds me of my grandmother.”

She was transported back to her grandmother's garden as she savored the sweet scent. She recalled how her grandmother had comforted her after her father's death, how she'd held Tilly tightly as they'd watched the snow falling among the Christmas roses, as tears fell down her cheeks.

“I've loved flowers since I was small,” she continued. “Granny had a lovely garden. She always took great delight in seeing the roses bloom. She said it was the first sign of summer.”

As they strolled along the winding pathways, clusters of vivid pink rambling roses scenting their way, it struck Tilly how comfortable she was in Edward's company—comfortable enough to talk about her home and family. She felt free under the clear skies of the south coast, finding it liberating to be able to talk without feeling judged or anxious.

As Edward told her about the history of the orphanage, Tilly was also surprised by how animated he was. He really was a different person here. Perhaps it was being away from Herbert, or perhaps it was just the beauty of this place—the vast, open spaces—which allowed people to relax in a way that London never could.

Reaching a small wooden bench nestled beneath a canopy of rambling rosebushes, Tilly bent down to read an inscription on a small plaque on the back of the seat.

GOD GAVE US ROSES IN JUNE SO THAT WE CAN HAVE MEMORIES IN DECEMBER

“That's so beautiful,” she whispered. “Do you know whose words they are?”

Edward stood at her shoulder. She could sense him next to her.

“It was one of the children. Apparently, it was something her mother used to say. An Irish girl, if I remember. Very poetic people. The matrons had the seat put here in her memory.”

“It's very lovely.”

Tilly stood in respectful silence for a moment, tilting her head to look up as a solitary seagull flew overhead, swooping and banking on the thermals.

“Do you like it here?” Edward asked, following her gaze skyward.

She turned to him. How had she never noticed how handsome he was: his hair always combed neatly to the right, his dignified nose—perfectly straight—and the slightest suggestion of a mustache that skirted his top lip? How had she not seen this before?

“Yes,” she sighed. “Yes, I do. I like it here very much.”

A
LL TOO SOON
, their brief time together had passed and Tilly had to return to the house to serve supper. They strolled amiably along the meandering pathways until they returned to the narrow archway.

“Perhaps I could show you the other gardens during the week?” Edward said.

“During the week?”

“Yes. You're staying on, aren't you? I'm sure Aunt Evelyn mentioned it.”

“Yes. That's right. Mrs. Harris is back, you see, so she'll be able to mind the girls in London while I'm here. I'll be helping with the babies.”

“I'm staying on a little longer also. Boring meetings with architects and accountants—that sort of thing.”