A Memory of Violets (3 page)

T
illy shuffled awkwardly in her seat. Her corset was digging into her ribs, and her skirts rustled as she fidgeted. She wished she could stand up and walk around, wished she could get some fresh air. Her fingers worried at a button on the cuff of her coat. She was unsure what to say, already regretting engaging in this conversation with Mrs. Ingram.

She'd never really mastered the art of gossip and small talk, having been the subject of most of Grasmere's gossip for a long time. Even before Esther's accident, she'd never been very good at joining in with groups, finding the intricacies and etiquette of idle chitchat awkward and uninspiring. She preferred to retreat to the privacy of the lakes and mountains with her box of pastels and sketchbook. They were the only companionship she
needed. Outside, in nature, she was free to express her thoughts and emotions in pictures that were worth a thousand of her mother's nonsensical words. In more recent years, when she'd worked in service as a housemaid at Wycke Hall, the home of the local gentry, she'd become numb to the tedious conversations she overheard while going about her business, finding neither interest nor intrigue in the petty troubles of Lady Wycke and her tiresome daughters.

Many considered Tilly withdrawn, rude even. The simple truth was that she felt adrift, uncertain of herself, so that she had neither opinion nor comment to add. She busied herself instead with her chores: blacking the fires, scrubbing the hems of the ladies' dresses, running the bed linen through the mangle, washing the steps, sweeping the floors, and beating great clouds of dust from the Turkey rugs, as if she might set herself free along with the spiraling dust motes, if only she could beat hard enough.

“Although,” Mrs. Ingram continued, drawing Tilly back from her thoughts, “with today being Lady Day and the start of a new quarter, I suppose we should
all
be thinking about new beginnings, shouldn't we, especially after that dreadful winter. My goodness—I've never known cold like it. I sometimes felt as though I'd set out to the South Pole along with Captain Scott and his men!”

“It certainly was a cold one,” Tilly replied, remembering the icicles that had hung in thick shards around the doorway of their small stone cottage, as if her father had forged them in his blazing furnace and placed them there for decoration.

“I can't abide the winter months—or the autumn, for that matter,” Mrs. Ingram continued. “Far too dark and miserable. Thank goodness for the spring, I say. It does wonders for a
person's spirits to feel the sun on their face. Brings us all back to life. No wonder the daffodils look so jolly!”

Tilly only smiled. She couldn't entirely agree.

“It's as if the weather got inside you the day you were born,” her father said with a chuckle, his chestnut eyes sparkling in the reflection of the water as they sat by the edge of the lake. They were sharing a piece of delicious, still-warm gingerbread from Sarah Nelson's little shop in the village. Tilly rolled her tongue around her mouth, collecting every last crumb from her lips as she rested her head on his broad shoulder. “We'd never seen a storm like it that night—all raging wildness and dark clouds rushing across the sky. I'd say a piece of it got inside you all right, Tilly Harper.”

Perhaps he was right. She'd always been drawn to the later seasons of the year, reveling in the wild autumn winds that sent the leaves skittering down the lane and tore the trees up by their roots. While everyone else in the village complained about blocked roads and there being no food for the cattle or the local Herdwick sheep, Tilly enjoyed the drama of the first frantic snowstorms of winter, jumping into the deep, wavelike drifts that hugged the walls of their home.

She knew her father admired her tempestuous, free spirit, that he encouraged her lust for adventure and love of the outdoors. It was
his
passion for the countryside that became her passion,
his
wonder at the soaring peaks surrounding their home that became her wonder.

It couldn't be more different with her mother, who, as the wife of the local blacksmith, set higher standards for her daughters than those set by the more “ordinary tradespeople.”
She found Tilly's wild temperament a source of constant disappointment. They clashed. They argued. “For goodness' sake, child. Couldn't you take a brush to your hair occasionally?” she would chide. “Oh, honestly, Matilda. You've muddied your petticoats and boots again. Why can't you walk around the edge of the fields like a normal person, rather than running straight across them? Why can't you be more like your sister?”

Why can't you be more like your sister?

Dear, darling Esther. As clear and light as the perfect spring morning she was born on. The little sister Tilly had longed to love and care for. The little sister she had grown to envy and despise. Somewhere deep inside, she'd always sensed a storm was coming.

“Listen, Esther! A train! Let's try and outrun it. Come on. I dare you.”

“Are you traveling all the way to London for your beginning, or do you disembark en route?”

Tilly was so lost in her memories she'd momentarily forgotten where she was. She felt the color rise in her cheeks, as if she'd spoken her thoughts out loud and Mrs. Ingram had overheard.

“I'm traveling all the way to London,” she replied.

“First time?”

“No. I've been once before.”

Tilly recalled how nervous she'd felt when making the same journey just a few months ago, how she'd watched the same landscape flash by, covered then by a soft blanket of snow. She remembered how she'd fiddled with the same button on the cuff of her coat, wondering how her interview would turn out. It went well, as it happened, much to the surprise of her mother, Lady
Wycke, and herself. With the exception of her father, nobody had ever really expected—or hoped for—much of Tilly Harper. Perhaps she didn't deserve their expectations or hope. Perhaps she deserved their forgiveness and understanding.

“So, what takes you there this time?” Mrs. Ingram asked.

Tilly coughed. She was uncomfortable to be having such a personal conversation, aware that the other passengers were listening as they feigned interest in their novels and newspapers. All the same, there was something undeniably compelling about Mrs. Ingram. She was different from other women Tilly had encountered; her charming accent and the rich scent of damask rose that drifted around her were tantalizing hints of another world, a world to which Tilly knew she would never belong. Apart from anything else, Tilly was quite glad of the distraction from the butterflies turning somersaults in her stomach.

“I'm taking up a new position,” she replied.

“How wonderful. Good for you. Anywhere nice?”

Tilly wasn't sure whether the Flower Homes should be described as “nice.” “Purposeful” or “functional” would perhaps be more appropriate.

“Well,
I
think it's nice. I'm to be assistant housemother at Shaw's Homes for Watercress and Flower Girls in Clerkenwell. I don't suppose you know of it. Most people outside London don't.”

A sudden rush of air filled the carriage as the locomotive hurtled into a tunnel, the glass rattling dramatically in the windows. Tilly glanced at Mrs. Ingram, noticing the faintest flicker of a smile that played at the corners of her mouth. Tilly smiled back. The noise of the whistle and the reverberations of the carriage made it impossible for them to continue their conversation without shouting, which neither of them wished to do. They both turned their eyes to the window.

Tilly stared at her reflection, her image caught between the dark tunnel walls and the thin pane of glass that cocooned her inside the carriage. She studied her petite button nose, her large almond eyes, her round cheeks and narrow chin, staring without blinking until the image blurred. Once again, she was reminded of how unlike her sister she was in appearance. While Esther was porcelain skinned and fair haired, like their mother, Tilly's cheeks were reddened from too much time spent outdoors in inclement weather, her hair an unruly mass of russet curls.

Who are you, Matilda Harper?

She frowned at herself, fiddling with her hair to secure the stray curls that had escaped from her hat. It was new, bought for the occasion at her mother's insistence. “If Lady Wycke is kind enough to pay for a second-class train ticket, the least you can do is dress yourself properly.”

Another rush of air, as sudden as the first, brought the locomotive speeding out of the tunnel. Like a ghost, Tilly's reflection disappeared, set free to roam forever among the verdant fields and sapphire sky. She wished she could be liberated as easily.

“
Would you care to tell me about this flower girls' home you'll be working in?” Mrs. Ingram asked. Sunlight flooded the carriage again, settling on the silver locket that nestled against the nape of her neck. “It sounds like a most interesting place, and we've plenty of time to fill before we reach London.”

Tilly took a deep breath, resigned to the fact that she was now well and truly engaged in conversation. She began to talk, recalling everything she had been told at her interview by Mrs. Evelyn Shaw.

“I suppose the simplest way to describe it is as a charity. It was started nearly fifty years ago by a Christian preacher and philanthropist, Albert Shaw. He took pity on the crippled girls selling
flowers and watercress to make a living. It's a hard life—many are destitute and starving. He established a room near Covent Garden flower market where the girls could get a hot drink and something to eat, but he soon realized he needed to do more to make any lasting difference.

“He'd heard of the growing popularity of silk flowers being imported from Paris—the wealthy ladies like to use them for decorating their homes.” Tilly paused, wondering whether Mrs. Ingram was one such “wealthy lady,” but she didn't react, appearing to be unfamiliar with the concept. Tilly continued.

“Mr. Shaw saw an opportunity to teach the crippled girls to make the silk flowers themselves and provide housing for them while they were in training. This takes them off the streets and gives them a year-round occupation that isn't dependent on the seasons, or the weather. They make violets, primroses, and daisies for Mothering Sunday, and buttonholes for the announcers at Christmas—oh, and St. George's roses. They've established quite a reputation through their exhibitions. They even decorated the Guild Hall for the grand mayoral banquet in honor of the King and Queen of Norway some years ago. It's almost impossible to tell the artificial flowers from the real ones. Honestly. I've seen them.”

Mrs. Ingram smiled warmly, her head angled slightly to one side, her eyes looking at Tilly but not really seeing her, lost in distant thoughts.

Tilly read the silence as boredom. She shuffled in her seat. “I'm talking too much, aren't I? I'm very sorry.”