A Memory of Violets (16 page)

A
s the searing heat intensified over London, so did the emotions within Nightingale House. Violette still asked regularly about Florrie, still whispered to her when she thought nobody was listening.

Marguerite couldn't bear it.

“It will pass,” Thomas reassured her when she fell into his arms, weeping. “She'll soon forget about her previous life and her sister. She'll have to—there's no hope of finding the girl. Even if we did go searching among the slums of London's Irish—which I'm quite sure neither of us wishes to do—it would be like looking for a needle in a haystack. If you would let me make an appointment with one of the matrons of the children's homes, this
could all be over. She would be well cared for and she wouldn't be our responsibility—or our problem—anymore.”

But his words only upset Marguerite further. She didn't want this to “all be over.” She didn't view Violette as a “problem.” She was happy for her to be their responsibility. It could all be so perfect—if only the constant feeling of dread would leave her, if only Violette would stop whispering that name.

It nagged and it nagged at her, until she could ignore it no longer. For all that she longed to forget about Violette's past, she found herself unable to deny the feelings of guilt. The fact that she might be preventing the child from finding the sister she clearly adored and missed terribly preyed on Marguerite's mind. Although she was afraid of losing the child, she knew that she had to try to find Florrie.

She couldn't say anything of her plans to Thomas, knowing that he would absolutely forbid her to go anywhere near the slums of the East End, so she settled on speaking about it to her lady's maid—her longest-serving maid, whom she trusted—as soon as possible.

V
IOLETTE LOOKED FORWARD
to the evenings, when the nightingale sang in the oak tree outside her window. She'd never heard a sound so beautiful. She remembered hearing the cock linnets sing in their cages at market, but even those she'd hardly been able to hear above the cries of the sellers.

“Since you like the nightingale so much, I must read you a story about it,” Mrs. Ingram said. “It was written by a Danish man, Hans Christian Andersen. I used to read it to Delphi—Well, let's just start, shall we?”

It quickly became a favorite. Violette asked for it every night,
and Mrs. Ingram would fetch the big book, sit beside her on her bed, wrap her arms around her, and read.

She loved to hear about the Chinese emperor and his beautiful city and the palace and gardens. She loved to listen to the words of the story as Mrs. Ingram read.
“The nightingale sang so sweetly that the tears came into the emperor's eyes, and then rolled down his cheeks, as her song became still more touching and went to everyone's heart.”

Violette pitied the nightingale, kept within a cage for her beauty, let out to fly only when tethered by a silken thread. She didn't think it was fair that the emperor kept the bird just for his own pleasure. She especially loved the descriptions of the artificial nightingale, covered all over with diamonds, rubies, and sapphires, and she worried when it broke and was only allowed to sing once a year. She wept when the emperor fell ill, and she clapped her hands with joy when the real nightingale returned to sing to him and made him better.

“I will sit on a bough outside your window, in the evening, and sing to you,”
Mrs. Ingram read,
“so that you may be happy, and have thoughts full of joy. I will sing to you of those who are happy, and those who suffer; of the good and the evil, who are hidden around you.”

And now, when Violette heard the nightingale sing outside her bedroom window, she imagined it was the emperor of China's nightingale, sent to tell her of what it had seen and of stories from far away.
“Florrie,”
she heard it sing.
“Dear Florrie. She looks for you. She waits for you
.
”

I
T WAS WHILE
dressing for dinner that Marguerite gathered the courage to speak to Wallis—her lady's maid—about her plan to look for Violette's sister.

Several of Thomas's business colleagues were to be their guests that evening, to discuss the possible purchase of a number of sugar factories in the north of England. It was tedious business, and Marguerite was not looking forward to it. She fussed and fidgeted in her seat at the dressing table, while Wallis tugged and teased her hair, shaping it into a fashionable knot at the crown and pinning it tightly into place until her head ached.

“Wallis, I need to ask for your help with something. It's a highly sensitive matter and cannot be known by anybody else. Not even Mr. Ingram. Do you understand?”

Wallis stopped her pinning and looked at Marguerite, surprised by the seriousness of her mistress's tone.

“Yes, m'lady. Of course. You have my word. Are you unwell?”

“No, it is nothing to do with my health. Oh, Wallis. It is the most desperate secret. I must have you swear on the Bible that you won't tell anyone of it.”

“Of course, m'lady. I swear. What is it?”

Marguerite stood up and motioned for her maid to take a seat beside her on the chaise.

“You're familiar with some of the poorer areas of London, aren't you? The places where the flower sellers live? The Irish, in particular.”

“I know a little about them, yes. Most of the Irish are in Rosemary Court. That's where they gather.”

“And do you think you could take me there?”

Wallis stared in astonishment. “Take
you
to Rosemary Court? But why ever would you want to go there, m'lady? It's a terrible place—riddled with filth and disease. That's no place for a lady like you.”

Marguerite grabbed her hands. “But I need to try and find someone, Wallis, and I cannot ask anyone else to do it. It's in con
nection with the child—Violette. I suspect the maids all know the truth of the matter anyway, but her arrival here was not entirely as we would have had you believe. She came to us quite by chance. She isn't the daughter of my cousin. She's a total stranger we are caring for. I've grown to love her with all my heart, but she's missing her sister desperately and I think I must try to find her. Will you help me?”

The words came out in a rush, as if she would burst if she held the secret within her any longer.

Wallis was silent for a moment, unsure of what to say. “But, are you quite sure of this, m'lady? The markets are no place for a lady to be seen, and the slums would make your stomach retch if you get within half a mile of them. Is there no one you can ask to make inquiries about this sister on your behalf—one of the stable lads, perhaps? Or Mr. Ingram?”

While she may have shared some of her maid's doubts and fears, Marguerite certainly wasn't going to show it. Marguerite Ingram was made of stronger stuff than people gave her credit for. Her mind was made up, and nobody was going to change it.

She sighed and stood up, pacing along the Turkey rug.

“Why do women always expect a man to do everything for them, Wallis? Really—it infuriates me. Surely we are perfectly capable of taking a carriage to London and making a few inquiries among the market sellers. And what of the filth and depravity? Will it not simply make us more grateful that we have this wonderful house to return to at the end of the day? We have no need to drink the infected water and will be sure to wash thoroughly when we return home. Really, you seem so against the matter I wonder if I might ask someone else to assist me.”

Marguerite could feel her cheeks reddening and grabbed her fan to try to cool herself.

“I'll gladly help you, m'lady. I just wondered. That was all.”

“Well, please don't. Leave the wondering to me.”

Marguerite settled herself back on the chaise and spoke to her maid in more detail about her plan. It was agreed that they would take the trip one morning the following week, when Mr. Ingram was due to be away on business. Wallis advised that it would be best to leave well before dawn, so they would arrive at Covent Garden early. She felt this would be their best chance of talking to the flower sellers, while they tied their posies. She didn't tell her mistress that she very much doubted they would be able to help them locate a young Irish orphan. It was like looking for a four-leaf clover in Petersham Meadow.

O
VER DINNER THAT EVENING
, Marguerite's thoughts were only with Violette. She left the men to their business talk for the first part of the meal, barely acknowledging Sarah Ross, their lawyer's wife, who was sitting opposite her.

“I hear you've agreed to take care of your cousin's daughter while she's recovering from an illness, Marguerite,” Sarah remarked when there was a lull in the conversation. “Most admirable of you both. I was very sorry to hear that your cousin had fallen ill. I hope she recovers soon.”

“Well, what more could one do for one's cousin? Violette will remain with us for the foreseeable future. She's a delightful little girl. Really, no trouble at all. We're enjoying having a child in the house again, aren't we, Thomas?” She smiled sweetly at her husband. Playing the part of doting wife and hostess over her husband's business dinners was something Marguerite had become very good at in the years of their marriage.

There was much shuffling of napkins and lifting of wineglasses as nobody quite knew what to say in response to Marguerite's
remark; they were all too aware of the gaping hole left in the Ingrams' life by Delphine's death.

Thomas returned his wife's smile and sipped from his wineglass. “Yes, darling. We are enjoying having Violette stay with us. And it is wonderful to hear the sound of a child's laughter in the house again. Truly, it is.”

“And will she go with you when you move north?” Sarah continued.

“Move north?” Marguerite glanced at Thomas, demanding an explanation.

He coughed and dabbed at his mouth with a napkin. “Nothing is settled yet, Sarah. As you know, for some time now I've been discussing the opportunities available to us to expand the business in the northern counties: Yorkshire and Lancashire in particular. I'll be taking a business trip to the regions next week to assess the viability of certain operations.”

Marguerite put down her glass, fixing her gaze on Thomas although her words were directed at Sarah Ross. “But of course we would take the child with us, Sarah. I made a promise to my cousin that I would look after her daughter for as long as she needs us to, and that is what I intend to do, regardless of geography. We consider Violette to be part of our immediate family now. Don't we, Thomas?”

“Yes, darling. We do. Very much so.” He threw his wife a pointed look that told her to leave the subject.

Marguerite left the men to talk business for the remainder of the meal, chatting dully with the women about the successes and failures of the Season's debutantes. She was relieved when the footman showed the guests out.

Thomas approached her as she was making her way upstairs. “Darling, I was going to tell you. Nothing is certain yet and I . . .”

“It's quite all right, Thomas,” she said, resting her hand on his shoulder. “You don't need to explain. I understand that it's just business. Let's talk in the morning. I have quite the headache.”

A
S
V
IOLETTE DREAMED
of the nightingale and of her sister, Marguerite slipped quietly into her room and sat by her bed, watching her. The child looked so peaceful when she slept, free from the hardships she'd faced in life. Marguerite willed her to sleep and sleep, so that she could sit and watch her and pretend she was watching her own child.

Like the flowers in her window boxes, the child had blossomed under Marguerite's care. When she gazed at Violette's beautiful little face—her skin now as clear as glass, her lips like rosebuds, her cheeks glowing with health, and her newly grown, russet-red curls nestling around her forehead—she couldn't help but love her with all her heart. As she silently watched the steady rise and fall of the blankets, Marguerite wept tears of sadness for the daughter she had lost and tears of joy for the child she had found.

She thought about her husband's business plans. In the north, nobody would know anything about them. In the north, they could be whoever they wanted to be and, perhaps, if they were farther away from London, farther away from the memories, Violette might forget about her sister. This could be the perfect opportunity to start again, to establish themselves as a family from the outset: Marguerite and Thomas Ingram, and their daughter, Violette.

She would still visit London's markets, though, still try to find Florrie. She owed that much to Violette, at least.

T
hey left under cover of darkness, while everyone else in the house was sleeping. It was a cool morning, the sun still many hours from rising, when it would bring the stifling heat back to the city. The two women wrapped their cloaks tighter around their shoulders as the carriage rumbled out of the stable yard, jostling them around like rag dolls as the wheels crossed the cobbles.

As they pulled out of the driveway, Marguerite saw a glimmer of candlelight from the maids' quarters at the top of the house. She'd informed Mrs. Jeffers that she was taking Wallis to see her physician in London as the girl had been complaining of pains in her stomach. Mrs. Jeffers had merely looked at her and nodded in response. Marguerite was doubtful that the housekeeper
believed her for one moment. Mrs. Jeffers was a perceptive woman, but Marguerite knew that she could also trust her housekeeper to say nothing, even if she had her suspicions.

Turning away from the light, she fixed her eyes on the driveway and her mind on the task ahead. Passing through the gates, the carriage rounded the bend at the top of the road and began the steady descent down the hill, London-bound.

“What will you do if we find this Florrie, m'lady?” Wallis ventured, her teeth chattering from the cold. “Will you explain about her sister? Bring her back with us?”

This was the one question that had kept Marguerite awake at night over the past week. What
would
she do if they found Florrie?

“I'm not entirely sure. Let's not worry about that until we find the child—
if
we ever do.”

Marguerite knew that Wallis still harbored doubts, that she was certain a lady such as herself couldn't be at all prepared for the depravity she was going to encounter among London's slums. But they were on their way now. The wheels were in motion. There was no turning back.

A
FTER WHAT FELT LIKE AN AGE
, Marguerite was relieved to see the black outline of the trees in Green Park. The driver kept a steady rhythm as they clattered along Piccadilly and on, toward the heart of the city. Eventually, he slowed the carriage, weaving and turning along the narrow roads leading to Covent Garden. Marguerite was glad of the posy of lavender that Wallis had insisted they take with them; the delicate perfume was a welcome relief from the sickening stench from the river Thames, which crept up her nostrils and settled at the back of her throat.

Peering through the window into the darkness, she could see that the streets were already choked with carts and barrows, donkeys and men, women and children—all jostling for position in a seething, sprawling mass. The noise was deafening.

As Thompson slowed the carriage, she faltered. Was she doing the right thing? What if she found Florrie? How could she bear to lose Violette now?

“We're here, m'lady,” Wallis whispered, sensing her hesitation. “Should I ask Thompson to go on?”

Marguerite looked at her. “No. You might ask him to wait beside the theater. Tell him we may be some time.”

“Very well, m'lady. If you're sure.”

Marguerite wasn't sure at all.

Stepping from the carriage, the two women hurried across the cobbles, stepping around piles of rotting vegetable leaves and all manner of excrement—human or animal, Marguerite wasn't sure. She kept her nosegay to her face but almost retched with the stench all the same, her eyes smarting.

They found themselves standing at the North Hall and the covered flower markets. For a moment, all thoughts of Florrie and Violette were forgotten as they stared at the sight before them, every color and tone imaginable, represented by one bloom or another. Marguerite inhaled a deep, lingering breath, savoring the sweet scent of stocks, violets, and lavender. She walked around the edge of the cavernous space, keeping to the shelter of the columns and arches.

“Pretty, isn't it,” Wallis said. “You'd never think a sight so lovely could exist among all the poverty.”

“Yes,” Marguerite agreed. “It seems a very cruel contradiction.”

Soon their presence caught the attention of the flower sellers
who were swarming around the vast displays like pollinating bees. They began pointing and whispering at the two ladies in their smart coats and hats.

“Come, Wallis. We don't wish to draw too much attention to ourselves.”

Marguerite looped her arm through her maid's, and they walked then, around the cobbled square, toward the portico of St. Paul's Church, whose clock struck the hour of five. Several groups of women and children were already at work around the columns and steps, tying bunches of violets, primroses, and watercress by the flickering light of tallow candles dotted here and there. Wallis struck up an easy banter with some of the women. Too anxious to speak to anyone, Marguerite stood behind one of the imposing stone columns, watching as the first rays of the morning sun cast their pale, straw-colored light over the market.

Removing a glove, she placed the palm of her hand against the stone of the pillar in front of her. It was icy cold to the touch, as if the memory of a hundred winter mornings were stored within it. She imagined the bitter January winds being blown off the Thames, whirling around the frozen flower sellers, costermongers, and barefoot children who wandered in front of her. She leaned forward, allowing her hand to idle on the pillar. The solidity of the structure—the permanency of it—was reassuring.

Hidden from view, she stood silently, watching the market come to life. Closing her eyes, Marguerite allowed herself to absorb the smells and sounds and sensations, just as Violette would have done: the low rumble of the carts and metal of the horseshoes striking the cobbles as the hawkers made their way up the narrow streets; the ripe aroma of hops from the
foaming tankards of ale, quaffed by the thirsty costers; the heat on her face from the hot coals of the smudge pot fires; the cries of “sparrow-grass, lovely green sparrow-grass” and “worter-creees” and “green gooseberries” and “cherries—round and sound” creating a wonderful melody of industriousness.

She opened her eyes, watching hungrily—reminded that she had missed breakfast—as steaming hot coffee and huge piles of bread and butter and hot shoulder of mutton were devoured by the hungry costers as quickly as they were produced by the women who worked the taverns and early coffee shops.

“You lost, love?” The voice made Marguerite jump. “It ain't often we see a lady round 'ere at this time o' day. Bunch o' violets was it?”

Marguerite studied the old crone who had spoken to her. Her face was as wrinkled as creased linen, her clothes muddied and torn, her mouth as toothless as that of a newborn infant, and yet her green eyes shone with the brilliance of a dozen emeralds, full of knowledge and spirit.

“Thank you,” Marguerite whispered, unable to take her eyes off the old woman as she took the just-tied bunch of violets from her gnarled hands. “Here's sixpence for the bunch.”

The crone smiled a toothless, gummy smile. “And one fer y'r friend?” she asked, holding out another bunch, sensing her opportunity to fleece the two women, who were clearly lost or uncertain as to the price of a bunch of violets.

Marguerite paid her another sixpence as the group of women sitting nearby joked and laughed among themselves. They were all dressed similarly: spotted scarfs tied around their necks, several shawls draped over their shoulders, ragged skirts, dirty white pinafores, black boots, and black straw hats adorned with
garish bows and feathers. Their flower baskets and shallows were gathered in front of them, filled with the many bunches they had already tied. They worked with incredible dexterity, their stained fingers twisting and intertwining so rapidly Marguerite could hardly follow them.

“Actually, I was wondering if you might be able to help me,” she said, bending down so that she was on a level with a cluster of women, the light from a candle illuminating her face and theirs. “I'm looking for a little girl. A flower seller. Irish. I believe her name is Florrie.”

The group of women stared at her blankly before bursting into raucous laughter. Marguerite was unnerved.

One of the women eventually calmed herself and spoke up. “Florrie, you say? Irish?”

“Yes! That's right. Do you know her?”

“Oi! Charlie!” the woman shouted, addressing a group of young costermongers who were standing outside a nearby ale house. “You ever come across a young Irish girl? Florrie? Sells 'er flowers?”

The coster took a long drink of his ale, wiping the foam from his mouth with the back of his filthy coat sleeve, considering her question.

“Well, let me think now. I'm sure I knowed an Irish Florrie once—Florrie Butler was 'er name. And then there was Florrie Molloy. Oh, and old Florrie O'Grady and Florrie Dolan. Must be, what, about a hundred Florries round 'ere. What d'ya reckon. P'rhaps more?”

His response caused another great outburst of laughter among the women.

Marguerite stood up, glancing over to Wallis, who was standing beside a fire, shivering in the cold morning air.

“Come along. I don't think we're going to get much help here,” she said, taking her maid's arm.

The two women began to walk across the cobbled square, toward their waiting carriage. Marguerite was angry with herself. She'd been a fool to come here.

“Wait!”

Marguerite turned. A younger girl, whom she hadn't noticed before, had stood up. She was dressed in a manner similar to the other women, but there was something different about her, a softness to her face.

“I knew a Florrie,” she said. “Irish girl. Walked with a crutch.”

Marguerite rushed back toward her. “Florrie? You're sure it was Florrie?”

“Yeah. My mam knew her mam. Had a little sister, if I remember right.”

A shiver ran up Marguerite's spine. She took hold of the girl's hands. They were freezing cold. Even through the fabric of her gloves, they felt like ice.

“Used to go everywhere with her little sister. Rosie was 'er name. Think she were blind,” the girl continued. “Never left 'er side, Florrie didn't, 'specially not after the mammy died.”

Rosie. She was called Rosie.

Marguerite looked at the girl's face, at the dark shadows under her eyes, at her sunken cheeks and stooped shoulders. She had the appearance of an old woman, although she couldn't have been more than thirteen or fourteen years old. She hardly dared ask the question that hovered on her lips.

“Do you know her? Do you know where Florrie is?”

The girl sighed. “Ain't seen neither of them for a month or so now. I reckon they got taken to the workhouse what with them being orphans. I know she lived in Rosemary Court. You might
find 'er there. Or you might not. I ain't promisin' nothin'. What you want 'er for, anyway? She in trouble with the law?”

“No! No. She's not in trouble. I just . . . I . . . I knew a relative of hers. That's all.”

The girl looked at Marguerite in a way that suggested she didn't believe her.

“And where might I find Rosemary Court?” Marguerite asked.

“Off Drury Lane. Behind the oil shop.”

Marguerite thanked the girl and pressed a silver sixpence into her hand, urging her to get herself something warm to eat. As she again pulled Wallis away from the group of women, a heaviness settled across her heart. What would she do if she found Florrie?

“I can't believe it,” Wallis said as they walked. “I honestly thought you didn't have a chance of ever finding her. Perhaps Florrie is closer than you'd expected. Perhaps she's somewhere in this market, right now.”

Marguerite could hardly bear to think about it.
And if she's here, she will be searching for her sister,
she thought,
searching and searching, brokenhearted and cold and hungry.
What if Florrie had seen her that day on Westminster Bridge as she'd climbed into the brougham and told Thompson to take her home. What if Florrie was looking for
her
?

As the chimes of the church clock struck the half hour, the two women walked back toward where Thompson and the carriage were waiting. Marguerite's attention was drawn to the many children she'd barely noticed in the dim pre-dawn light. Now she saw them clearly: some darting about like rats, some huddled under market barrows, some sitting with their mothers, others kicking a rotten apple along the cobbles. She gazed at a pair of half-starved toddlers, their hands held tightly as they walked across the piazza in their bare feet, standing in all the filth and
dirt, their empty, glazed eyes seeing nothing of the dreadful conditions around them.

Some of them stopped to stare at the two ladies. A girl approached them—a pretty little thing, despite her ragged clothes and pinched cheeks. Her flame-red hair reminded Marguerite of Violette. She held a bunch of violets in her hand. She couldn't be more than four years old. “Buy a flower off a poor girl? Oh, please, Miss. Do buy a flower.”