A Memory of Violets (27 page)

Tilly laughed. “Then, yes. I'd love to see the other gardens.”

He bade her good evening and walked back toward Mr. Hutton's cottage.

Lost in her thoughts of the rose garden and Edward's pleasant company, Tilly returned in a daydream to Poppy House, where thirty hungry and exhausted girls were waiting for their supper.

A
FTER WAVING HER CHARGES OFF
as the omnibuses made their way to the station for the return trip to London, Tilly climbed wearily upstairs to her room. She splashed water on her face, changed into her nightdress, and collapsed into the comfortable bed. Too exhausted to read Flora's notebook, she lay in the dark and listened to the sea. She'd left the shutters open and turned on her side so that she could look out at the millions of stars twinkling in the clear, dark sky. She'd missed the sight of them.

She wondered, for just a moment, about the envelope she'd given to Violette Ashton. She'd said very few words as she'd handed it to her.

“I thought you might like a picture postcard of the Flower Homes. It was taken a few years ago, but you might like it all the same.”

Mrs. Ashton had simply thanked her and placed the envelope in her purse as the fire-drill display began.

Tilly wondered whether she'd read the letter yet. If she had, did it mean anything to her?

Lulled by the sounds of the sea and the ache in her limbs, she soon fell into a deep sleep, too tired even for dreams.

T
illy's immediate love for the Flower Village intensified over the following days. She found herself charmed by the stunning seascape, by the breeze that rippled through the long meadow grass, and by the atmosphere of love and hope that oozed from every home, every room, every child at the orphanage. In particular, she developed a strong affection for the very youngest children.

Although she'd become accustomed to the afflictions of the older girls at the Flower Homes, Tilly found herself less able to accept the sight of the infants and toddlers, who were still struggling to adapt to their useless limbs and unseeing eyes. Elsie explained how some of them had suffered from polio when they
were newborn, and Tilly's heart broke for them. Still, they made her laugh with their childish innocence and endless questions—excited by the chance to meet somebody new and ask her about the mountains and lakes of her home and about how the girls in London had made roses for the Queen. They loved to hear Tilly's stories, asking her to repeat them over and over again, especially the story of Alexandra Rose Day.

“It's quite amazing,” Elsie said as Tilly shadowed her in her work and helped her fold endless piles of bed linen, “how children who will hardly speak or look at you when they first arrive can blossom before your very eyes. Sarah says they're like crocuses in the spring, the way they open up. They break your hearts when they leave to go into service, or to go to London to the Flower Homes. I don't think I'll ever get used to that, no matter how long I work here.”

Amid all the usual routines of cooking, cleaning, and washing, Tilly found a new joy in her duties at the Flower Village. There was something less drab about scrubbing at small pinafores with carbolic while a pleasant breeze drifted through the open washroom window, and she almost took pleasure in hefting the heavy basket of mangled sheets out to the back gardens, where she hung them on long washing lines to snap and flap in the wind. The smell of the bed sheets when they were dried by the sun and the sea air was one of the nicest smells Tilly had ever known. She held the bundle of folded sheets to her face and breathed in deeply. Elsie laughed at her and said she must be cracked in the head if she took pleasure from the smell of folded bed sheets.

It was on the morning of her second full day at the Flower Village, while she was picking lavender for scenting the soap, that Tilly was startled by a cough behind her. She jumped and turned around, dropping the sprigs of lavender in the process.

“Mr. . . . Edward! You gave me a fright.” She put her hand to her chest, her heart pounding.

“I can see that,” he said, laughing. “My apologies. I didn't mean to startle you.” He stooped to pick up the dropped stems and passed them back to her. “Looks like you've gathered quite a bunch there.”

“Yes. For soap. But I think I might have gone a little over the top! It smells so lovely though, don't you think?”

He leaned forward to inhale the vibrant purple flowers, his face close enough to Tilly's that she could see the pale eyelashes that framed his eyes. She shivered, despite the warmth of the sun and the shawl around her shoulders.

Edward smiled and brushed his hair from his forehead. “I don't suppose you'd have time for a short stroll? I didn't get a chance to show you the walled garden yet. Mr. Hutton would never forgive me if he found out you'd returned to London without seeing his famous walled garden.”

Tilly hesitated, glancing toward the house. “Well, I should really be getting back to prepare lunch . . . but I suppose a few minutes can't do any harm.

“So, how have your ‘boring' meetings been going?” Tilly asked as they walked.

“Ha! Quite well, as it happens. It's so much easier to manage everything in person. There are so many little decisions that need to be made—windows to be put here instead of there, doors to open out rather than in. Progress is much faster when I'm here. And I'm always perfectly happy to find an excuse to stay awhile longer.”

“Is it a new house you're planning?”

“Two new houses, actually. A convalescent home and a new cottage hospital. It's incredible, the pace at which this place has grown since the early days, when only Buttercup and Daffodil
Houses were built. There's still plenty of land available for more building, too. I suspect we'll eventually use it all. That's what my uncle plans, anyway.”

Tilly stopped to shake a stone from her shoe before they continued walking.

“How is your uncle's health?” she asked. “Mrs. Shaw mentioned that he'd been feeling unwell recently and I can't help noticing how he coughs so dreadfully and struggles to get his breath.”

“Hmm. He isn't the best, I'm afraid. Even a short stroll down to the beach yesterday caused him quite some discomfort. It's the smog in London. Irritates his chest. The doctors say he should rest and spend as much time here as possible, but Uncle Albert is a stubborn old swine, and he can't bring himself to leave London. He feels he would be ‘abandoning his girls.'”

The sound of Mr. Hutton's grass mower grew louder as they neared the houses.

“Poppy. Foxglove. Freesia. Buttercup. Daffodil.” Tilly read the names of the houses, etched into stone lintels above the doors. “Such lovely names. I believe it was Mrs. . . . your aunt's idea to name each house after a flower.”

“Yes. She insisted that the orphanage be a place where the children could flourish. She always thought of the orphans as like little flowers that would blossom and thrive with the right care and attention. She was absolutely right.”

“You can see it in their eyes,” Tilly agreed. “There's a sparkle, a hope. And there's something about the space here. The meadow, the beach, the sea, the sky . . . I really can't think of a better place for any child to grow up—especially after all the darkness and horror of their terrible lives on the streets. No wonder they have such hope. How could you not when you realize the world is so vast and endless?”

They walked on in comfortable silence, the ever-present seagulls wheeling and crying overhead. They passed the rose garden and went on into the walled garden, where lavender, stocks, and sweet peas mingled to create the most wonderfully sweet scent. The high walls offered a welcome shelter from the cool breeze.

“I hope you don't mind me saying,” Tilly ventured as they walked, their feet crunching on the shale path, “but you seem a lot more relaxed here than you did in London.”

Edward was silent for a moment. “I think sometimes a place can bring out the best in a person, don't you? I don't know what it is, but I've always felt very comfortable here. I remember visiting as a young boy and loving the openness of it all, the rush of the wind in my ears. For the first time I felt I could run, laugh, and scream with the other children, free from the restrictions of a stuffy schoolroom. I didn't feel I had to be like . . . well . . . let's just say I felt as though I could be myself here.” He stopped for a moment to admire a bush full of rose hips, the lush berries just turning from orange to their rich, distinctive red. “And, of course, my brother can't stand the seaside, so he rarely comes here.”

Tilly understood the sentiment behind the words. Maybe her suspicions were right. Maybe there was a rivalry between the two brothers.

“It must be strange being a twin,” she said. “I suppose you're always being compared to one another.”

“No more so than any brother or sister is compared to the other, I suppose. At least we're not identical. People often don't even recognize us as brothers, let alone twins.”

Tilly laughed. “That's just like me and Esther. People were always asking if we—” She stopped.

Edward looked at her, his eyes shaded with concern. “If you were what?”

“It doesn't matter. Would you mind if we sat for a moment?”

Walking toward a low bench set back slightly from the path and surrounded by wallflowers and delphiniums, they sat for a moment in silence. Tilly thought about how she would stare at Esther, wondering why they looked so very, very different: Esther with almost white-blond hair, and her with russet red.
I think there was a cuckoo at work in your family,
people would joke.
Minding someone else's eggs.
Tilly hadn't understood the reference, but she did understand why people remarked on their striking differences. It was a thought that had troubled her throughout her childhood. It troubled her still.

“I was very sorry to learn that your sister is paralyzed,” Edward said eventually. “It must be very difficult for you all.”

Tilly tensed at the words.

Edward sensed it. “Perhaps you don't wish to talk about it. My apologies. Let's talk about something else.”

“No. No. It's all right. Really. I just . . . well . . . we were never that close you see and . . .” She hesitated, her fingernails digging into the palm of her hand.

“Would you prefer not to talk about your sister?”

Tilly smiled. “Yes!”

“Good. Because I'd prefer not to talk about Herbert.”

They both laughed.

Neither of them spoke for a while then, happy to let the sounds and scents of the garden supplement any conversation. A bee buzzed idly around the sweet peas, a seagull cried overhead. Tilly watched a peacock butterfly settle on a leaf and fan out its wings, absorbing the sunlight. Without speaking, an understanding seemed to pass between her and Edward as they sat side by side. For all that Tilly had wondered about Edward's reluctance to talk to her when they'd first met, she now realized that, sometimes, words are simply not required.

Running through the long grass, squealing with delight as her father ran behind, trying to catch her before she reached the gate. His strong arms, wrapped around her, scooping her up, spinning her around, the clouds blurring into a mass of white in the sky above.

                    
Lying beside the lake, their backs warmed by the soft sand. Everything so perfect when it was just the two of them, Esther too young to join them on their nature walks and rambles along the mountains.

                    
The screech of a pheasant hidden in the hedgerow, the hoot of an owl as dusk fell over the cottage, the cries of her baby sister.

                    
The doctor's voice in the hospital. “She'll never walk again, Mrs. Harper. Her spine was crushed when the pony fell on her. I'm very sorry.”

                    
Her father walking down the shale path in his soldier's uniform. A smile on his face, a twinkle in his eyes. He had come home!

                    
She ran, shrieking with delight, ran from the cool of the scullery into the warmth of the sun, to the warm embrace of the father she loved so much.

                    
He stopped and sank to his knees as he saw her, his arms outstretched in welcome.

                    
“Daddy! Daddy! You're home! You came home!”

                    
Running, tripping, falling into his outstretched arms . . . falling into empty space.

                    
There was nobody there.

                    
He had disappeared; blown away by the breeze that knocked the conkers from the horse chestnut tree.

                    
She stumbled forward, fell to the ground. His arms weren't there to catch her. He had never been there. He hadn't come home.

                    
A brown paper package on the table. A standard-issue, felt cap. A letter for each of them.

                    
Her mother weeping.

                    
He wasn't coming home. He was never coming home.

Although her dreams still disturbed her sleep, Tilly settled easily into the routines of the Flower Village, and her love for the place soon extended to the town of Clacton itself.

While she ran errands to fetch cotton and buttons from the haberdashers, she liked to steal a few moments to walk along the pier, watching the paddle steamers coming in. She loved the gaiety of the brightly colored helter-skelter, the flags snapping and fluttering on top of the amusement stalls, the jaunty tunes of the organ grinders and the hurdy-gurdy, the cry of the
toffee-apple sellers and ice-cream vendors. It reminded her of the day her father had taken her and Esther to Biggar Bank on Walney Island when they were young girls, how they'd gasped at the sight of the sea and shrieked with delight at the Punch and Judy show. It had been a pleasant, rare day when she'd enjoyed the company of her little sister, forgetting how much she envied her. She remembered the day so clearly, but mostly she remembered how delighted she'd been that it was
her
head, not Esther's, that had rested on their father's lap as they traveled home.

Tilly also enjoyed Elsie's company during her week at Clacton. They chatted easily, relaxed in one another's company as they went about their chores: making beds, sweeping sand from the floor, cleaning out and re-laying the fires, and repairing dozens of holes in dozens of pairs of socks and stockings. On sunny days they took their darning outside, laying out a blanket so that they could sit and watch the sea and the golden sand stretching around the great bay.

Tilly could sit for hours staring at the sea. She loved the way the color of the water reflected the weather: sometimes stormy and petulant, sometimes bright and fresh, sometimes calm and serene. It reminded her of how quickly the colors and reflections could change around the mountains and fells back home.

Elsie teased Tilly about Edward, whom they often saw strolling along the beach, his socks and shoes in his hands, his trousers rolled up past his ankles. It was a comical sight.

“Well, would you look? There's your Edward again, taking his morning constitutional.”

“He's not
my
Edward!” Tilly protested. All the same, she was pleased when he looked up toward the cliff top and waved at them.

“You clearly enjoy each other's company. I've watched you walking together, and you talk about him all the time.”

“I do not!” Tilly put down her sewing and stood up, her hands on her hips. “I barely ever mention him.”

Elsie smiled. “Well, you can deny it all you like, but I can't deny what I see with my own eyes.” She shook her head, laughing to herself.

“Honestly, Elsie!” Tilly didn't know what else to say.

“Oh, don't get all huffy. Come and sit back down. I think you're good for him anyway, a tonic. Poor Edward. What with all that business with Miss Johnson and Herbert it's a wonder he . . .” She trailed off.

“Miss Johnson? Who's she?”

Elsie lowered her voice, glancing around to make sure nobody was listening. “I shouldn't gossip. It was all very sad, really. Miss Johnson was Edward's fiancée. Some years back now, mind. And then didn't she fall for Herbert. Called the whole engagement off. Terrible business it was. Quite the scandal.”

Tilly was shocked. “But, that's awful.”

“That's not all. Miss Johnson contracted the scarlet fever and died not long after she'd left Edward for Herbert. Edward blamed himself, of course. Said that if he could have kept her happy, she'd never have gone to Herbert. And, of course, he blamed Herbert for not taking care of her—blamed him for her death. I don't think he'll ever get over it. Caused a dreadful rift between the two brothers, let me tell you.”

Tilly was stunned. No wonder Edward was so subdued around his brother.

“Listen, I've probably spoken out of turn,” Elsie continued. “Promise you won't breathe a word of what I've told you. Not to anyone. I shouldn't have said anything.”

“I promise. I won't say a word.”

Elsie packed up her sewing box. “Right, I'm all done. I'll see you at lunch.”

She left Tilly alone with her thoughts and the ever-present sound of the waves rolling into shore. She thought about the despicable thing Herbert had done and she thought about what Elsie had said—perhaps she did talk about Edward a lot. But what Elsie didn't know was that, in quiet moments, while she darned a sock, or rubbed the soap along the hem of a skirt, or mixed the starch into the water in the copper, she thought about Edward even more.

W
HILE
T
ILLY MISSED THE CHAOS
of London and Violet House and was looking forward to seeing the flower girls again, she was sorry that her time in Clacton was drawing to an end. In the week she had spent here, she'd fallen in love with the children and the orphanage and the sound of the waves crashing on the shore. She had also enjoyed her dusk walks in the gardens with Edward—a comfortable routine they had fallen into after the fete day.

After her conversation with Elsie, Tilly had thought about Edward more and more, how they would exchange a glance or a smile whenever their paths crossed as they went about their work, how she would sometimes observe him from a quiet corner, smiling at his funny little habits—the way he folded his handkerchief into a neat square before putting it back into his pocket, the way he lifted his glass of water to his eye, peering through the clear liquid to whatever was on the other side, the way he crossed and uncrossed his ankles, the way he rubbed his fingers along his lips when he was thinking, just like her father used to.

“W
ILL YOU COME
back?” Edward asked as they strolled, his cigarette paper crackling as he took a long final drag. It was the evening before Tilly was due to return to London.

“I hope so. I feel so at home here. It would be a shame to think that this is all I'll see of Clacton.”

“Has it really been that disappointing?” Edward teased. “I hoped our walks had been quite enjoyable.”

Tilly blushed. “Oh . . . I didn't mean . . . It's just . . .”

They stopped walking. A bee buzzed around a honeysuckle.

Edward reached out to take Tilly's hand. Her heart quickened. Her breaths came quick and short.

“I have very much enjoyed my week, perhaps more than any other I have spent here.” He pushed his hair from his eyes. “Tilly, do you think . . . when we get back to London . . . do you think . . .”

He hesitated at the sound of footsteps running along the shale path toward them.

“Oh! Tilly! I'm so glad I found you.” It was Elsie, flushed and out of breath. “A telegram has arrived for you.”

“A telegram? For me?”

“Yes. It's marked from Grasmere, Westmorland. It was sent to London, but they've redirected it here.”

Tilly's mind raced. Why would there be a telegram from home? Why would they contact her now, after all this time?

“It must be Esther,” she whispered. “Something must have happened to Esther.”

She took the small brown envelope from Elsie, her hands trembling as she opened the seal.

Mother very ill. Come as soon as you can. Esther.