A Memory of Violets (21 page)

                    
I went back to the markets today, Rosie. It was so cold even in my nice boots and warm clothes—an east wind was blowing and a frost had settled in the night. Nothing's changed. Lots of the costers and sellers are still the same and the smells in the flower markets are as lovely as ever. It was strange to hear the cries of the sellers. “Lavender, sweet lavender.” It felt so familiar.

                    
I stood for a while, watching the catchpenny sellers down at Drury Lane and on the corner of Tottenham Court Road. I can hardly believe I used to live and work among them. If they could only see the waves crashing onto the beach—just once feel the sand between their toes.

                    
I looked at all their faces for as long as I could, wondering if any of them was you, Rosie. I stared the longest at anyone with red hair. You'd be eleven year old now—I wonder what you look like. Do you look the same? I still can't believe you're not here with me, Rosie. I think about you every day, wondering where you are, wondering what became of you and what your life is like now—because I know you still live. I know you are here in London—somewhere—I am sure of it.

                    
I went back to the room we had in Rosemary Court to see if you was still there, but it is taken by a family from Dublin. They tell me they know nothing of a little girl with pretty
red hair. I walk the streets every day after I finish making my flowers. I look for you everywhere. I know you'll be changed with the years, but I would know you. I would know you, for certain.

                    
If only I could find you, Rosie. If only I could know you are safe. It's the not knowing that's the worst of it—like a dark shadow that follows me everywhere.

Our working day in the chapel is long. We start straight after breakfast at eight o'clock, and we finish at six in the evening. The nights are closing in, so there's a darkness to the sky by the time we make our way back home. Queenie Lyons showed me around the workrooms when I first arrived and gave me some instruction on how to make the flowers. She told me I'd have three months to prove myself and if I wasn't any good I'd be sent back to the orphanage. I just ignore her when she's after saying things like that. I've a good pattern hand anyway—Mrs. Shaw tells me so. She says there'll always be plenty of demand for a girl who's good at designing the patterns, so Queenie Lyons can take that and shove it where the sun don't shine.

                    
Mr. Shaw tells me he remembers you; remembers when we used to first visit the Club Room all those years ago. Do you remember it, Rosie? The good and kind people there. I tell Mr. Shaw that I hope you'll find your way here, to the crippleage, or that maybe you'll remember the chapel and the singing and the brass band you loved so much. I can tell Mr. Shaw is very sorry about you not being found. He doesn't say so, but I can tell that's what he's thinking when I look into his blue eyes. He told me once that he understands a little of how I feel about losing you, because of their baby
what died. He says a loss of any kind is hard to bear. I asked him how he can still believe in God when He can let something like that happen. He says that there is a reason for everything, and even though we might not always understand the Lord's work, we should always try to accept it.

                    
Which makes Mr. Shaw a better person than me, because I cannot accept that you are not with me, Rosie, and I will never understand why you were taken from me.

November 1883

The photographer, Mr. Matthews, came to see us again today. Mr. Shaw is keen on us getting our pictures taken for the postcards he uses to promote the Flower Homes. Mr. Matthews was only here a while ago—I remember, because Lily sat next to me for the picture. Queenie sat on the other side of me, holding a great spray of orchids she'd made for a display at the Guild Hall. I'm sure she was trying to block my face out of the picture, but I stuck my neck out to make sure you could still see me.

                    
Lily likes to send the postcards home to her aunt in the north—an aunt she didn't even know existed until a year ago. She wrote on the back of one: “This is the big workroom but I am not in there I am in the better one with the girls and you no we don't get up to no tricks the lot of us. We are innocent little dears. I was making poppies last week and now I am making carnations. I am in the back row, in the middle, with Florrie.”

                    
Lily is cheeky all right. She has a fierce temper and can be bold when she puts her mind to it, but she makes me smile.
Lily looks as I imagine you must look now, Rosie; she has the same red hair, just like you.

                    
Anyway, we all lined up again today for Mr. Matthews' photograph and we all jumped when the flashbulb popped—just like we did the last time. It's funny, isn't it, how the strange can become the familiar.

                    
I think I'll be happy enough living and working here, but I do miss the orphanage and the sea air. I've set up the Forget-Me-Not Society, so that everyone who leaves Clacton will always be able to write to each other and keep in touch, wherever they go.

                    
I wish that you could write to me, Rosie, wherever you are. I wish that you could remember.

January 1885

I haven't written in this book for a long while now. I sometimes don't know what to write, Rosie. What else can I say to bring you back to me?

                    
I keep the notebook in a wooden box. Mrs. Shaw gave it to me as a gift for Christmas. I've also put my few trinkets inside. They're not much, but they remind me of the past. The black button from Da's coat, the wooden peg you used to play with as a doll, the rag dolly I made at the orphanage and the lucky lace handkerchief with the shamrocks stitched into the corner. I keep the box in the wardrobe and tie it with the lovely silk ribbon Mrs. Shaw also gave to me. I take the box out every now and again, to remind myself.

                    
Lily left the Flower Homes last year. I miss her terribly. She went to live with her aunt in a place called Windermere,
somewhere in the north of England. Lily says it is a nice place. She writes letters to tell me all about it and she sent a postcard at Christmas. It has one of the pictures on the front that Mr. Matthews took of us when he visited. She wrote on the back: “December 1884. You will find her. I know you will. Happy Christmas. Lily B. x.” I'm adding it to the wooden box so I can always remember her.

                    
She says there's lots of lovely lakes where she lives and huge, big mountains to climb. She tells me she's sweet on a young blacksmith's son who lives nearby and says she's always riding her aunt's horse on the rough roads, so as the shoes will need replacing. She reckons she'll marry that blacksmith's son one day. I hope he makes her happy if she does. Lily is a good girl. She deserves to be happy.

                    
Everyone deserves a little happiness in their life, Rosie. I only hope that you found some in yours.

B
efore she closed the lid of the last trunk, Marguerite walked over to her dressing table and settled herself on the stool. She looked around the room. It was strange to see it so empty—just a shell—nothing of herself or her life here visible anymore. Even her pots of cold cream, her lip balms, hairpins, bottles of fragrance and lavender water were absent from the places they had stood for so many years. Everything had been packed away, sent on ahead to the new house in Lancashire, where she and Violette would travel later that day.

It had taken much longer than either she or Thomas had hoped, but finally the right business opportunity had presented itself. Earlier that summer, Thomas had informed Marguerite that they would be leaving London and moving to a
wonderful home in the north of England. “It's in a small village called Worsley,” he'd explained. “I know you'll love it, darling. The gardens are stunning—the lawns running down to a lovely little stream—and the business prospects in Manchester are extremely good. This will be a wonderful opportunity for us. For all of us,” he'd added, glancing at Violette, who was playing quietly with a new doll.

Marguerite melted when she saw the obvious affection Thomas now had for the child. Despite his reservations about the circumstances under which she had arrived, and his continuing belief that somebody was bound to come looking for her—nobody ever had. Violette was as lost as it was possible for anyone to be. And although she still spoke occasionally to her imaginary friend, as the years had passed, she had stopped asking Marguerite about finding her.

That Thomas had come to accept Violette as their own daughter made Marguerite's heart soar with a hope she had never thought she'd feel again. While there would always be an ache in her arms from the space left by Delphine, their family was, once again, complete.

More than anything, it was the thrill of watching Violette observe the world around her that filled Marguerite with so much joy. Several medical procedures had improved the child's vision beyond anyone's expectations. There was much to be grateful for. Even so, the chance to move away from the prying, inquisitive eyes of London society couldn't come soon enough.

Sitting at her dressing table now, Marguerite studied her reflection. There was color in her cheeks again. Her eyes were bright and hopeful where once they had been so dull and empty. There was a purpose about her. She sat upright, pulling her shoulders back, turning her head from left to right to catch her profile in
the angled mirrors. This was the woman she remembered; this was the Marguerite Durant who had arrived in London as a temperamental teenage girl. This was the girl who had met and married a promising young businessman and become mistress of the renowned Nightingale House. She looked in the mirror and saw a woman who, despite everything, had endured.

The house was eerily quiet without the staff bustling about, without the clatter of tea trays and the comings and goings of endless callers. The only sound was the ever-present wind whistling around the eaves. Even the nightingale had stopped singing. She hadn't heard it for over a week now—perhaps it, too, had moved on.

Opening the drawer of the dressing table, she lifted out her prayer book, removing a delicate packet of tissue paper from beneath it. She hadn't looked at the lace handkerchief since placing it here, four years ago. Nobody but her had ever known it existed.

Having sat in the drawer all these years, the tissue paper was faded, but the handkerchief itself was pristine. She rubbed her fingers across the delicate lace, over the careful stitching of the shamrock leaves. She wondered about the person who had taken such care to make it. How strange that such a thing of beauty had survived among the depravity of Violette's former life.

Next, she took her flower press from the now-empty wardrobe—her dresses, coats, and furs having been packed and sent ahead with Wallis and Mrs. Jeffers. Opening the leather straps that held the press tightly closed, she removed the top page of thick card and carefully lifted up the delicate layers of blotting paper. She admired the simple specimens that she and Violette had collected on their many walks in the gardens and in Petersham Meadows: primroses, bluebells, daisies, pansies, ferns—all perfectly preserved where she had placed them. At
the very bottom of the press was the small bunch of flowers that Violette had been clutching the day she was discovered in the carriage. Flattened now by the pressure of the press, the violets were as thin and fragile as tissue paper. Lifting them off the page, Marguerite marveled at their simple beauty. They hadn't browned or faded but were a perfect, paper-like representation of their natural form.

Seeing these insignificant little trinkets again made her so glad that she had kept them. Something about their simplicity had touched her all those years ago; some part of her had felt obliged to keep these small mementos of a life once lived. She planned to give the handkerchief and flowers to Violette on her twenty-first birthday. She would tell her the truth then, explain everything that had happened. With enough love in the intervening years, she was certain that Violette would understand. Perhaps then, Marguerite would finally be free from the guilt and doubt that she carried in her heart.

But that was for the future. Today's journey was about a new beginning; there was no need to spoil it by worrying about where it might end.

“M
OTHER, THE CAR
is ready!”

Marguerite jumped at the sound of Violette's voice. Her heart soared at the sound of that word: “Mother.”

“Yes, darling. I'll be right down.”

Wrapping the delicate violets in the tissue paper with the handkerchief and placing the fragile package into her purse, she took one last look around the room as the footman knocked and entered to collect the final trunk.

“Is that the last, m'lady?”

“Yes, Roberts. That's the last.”

Marguerite stood up, took the flower press, prayer book, and purse from the dressing table and walked from the room. She was relieved to close the heavy wooden door behind her, to close out all the sadness, all the painful memories.

Holding her head high, she walked downstairs.

Violette stood, small and alone, in the vacuous space of the entrance hall, its size emphasized now that the ornate pictures and grand display vases had been removed. Marguerite studied her for a moment. She was dressed so perfectly, her auburn hair curled into wonderful, shimmering ringlets. With a deep breath, she walked the rest of the way down the stairs and took her daughter by the arm.

“Now, my darling, are we all ready for our big adventure?”

“Yes, Mother. We're all ready.”

They smiled at each other as they stepped out into the dazzling sunlight of a glorious autumn day. Thompson was waiting for them on the carriage circle, the horses' coats gleaming like polished mahogany.

“Let us not forget this day, darling,” Marguerite said as she helped Violette into the carriage. “My mother always said that every journey comes with either an end or a beginning. I think we should consider this journey a beginning. What do you think?”

Violette smiled. “I like that idea.” She settled herself into the seat, having no recollection now of having once hidden beneath it, afraid for her life. “Will you miss the house, Mother?”

Marguerite considered the question for a moment. “A little. You?”

“I'll miss the nightingales. I'll miss them very much.”

“Well, perhaps the nightingale will find its way back to you one day, like in the story.”

Violette sighed and rested her head on her mother's shoulder. “I do hope so, Mother. I really do.”

V
IOLETTE SLEPT FOR MUCH OF THE JOURNEY
, her head resting in her mother's lap. She dreamed of flowers: hundreds of flowers, the air around her heavy with the rich perfume of roses, lilies, peonies, stocks, and violets. It was beautiful. She took hungry, grateful breaths, inhaling the sweet scent, tasting it on her tongue. All around her, the familiar cries of market sellers, stirring memories held deep within her. A girl's voice, in the distance, rising above it all. “Rosie!” the girl cried. “Rosie! Little Sister, where are you?” She tried to call out in reply, but the words would not come and the image blurred into a mist, lost among the poppies and the meadows that stretched for miles, beyond the horizon and to the north.