A Memory of Violets (24 page)

“Oh, yes.” He laughed. “That's right. I always get confused when it comes to the north.” He said “the north” as if it were some strange, mythical land that Mr. Dickens had created in one of his stories.

Herbert looked intently at Tilly as he spoke, a mischievous twinkle evident in his deep brown eyes. She really wished he wouldn't look at her like that. It made it difficult to concentrate
on anything else. In any event, she suspected that he knew perfectly well where she was from and was just teasing her.

“So, if you're from the Lake District, you must know the famous Miss Potter—or perhaps Wordsworth is more your style.”

“Beatrix Potter?”

“Of course.”

Tilly was surprised that Herbert knew of Beatrix Potter, let alone where she lived.

“I can't say I know her personally, but I know of her. My father shoed her horse once, when she was passing through Grasmere on a summer holiday. She returned to illustrate the forge and father's horse for one of her books. She bought a farm at Near Sawrey, some years ago.”

“Really! How fascinating.”

Herbert took a sip of wine and asked Tilly to tell him more about her father's forge. For a while, he appeared to be genuinely interested in what she had to say, so that she ignored her usual reluctance to talk about home. Still, she was relieved when the conversation returned to matters of work.

“And how are you finding your employment here? I imagine it wouldn't be for everybody.”

“It was a little overwhelming at first. But as I've got to know the girls I can honestly say that I hardly notice their physical differences. I don't see them as ‘cripples,' I just see them as individuals, like you or I. It's the girls' personalities that really make them stand out. They're such characters! Really, I think they just want to be independent—to do as much as they can. It makes the ladies and gentlemen I used to be in service to look quite pathetic, with their reliance on others to do absolutely everything for them. I'd find it very hard to work in that type of
household now. I don't think I could bear to assist a lady to dress when she is perfectly capable of doing it herself.”

Herbert laughed.

“You're a very intriguing young woman, Miss Harper. Very intriguing.”

Before she could respond, the dinner plates were collected and the conversation around the table became focused on the puddings that had been brought out: a very impressive blancmange and a jam roly-poly served with custard sauce. It all looked, and smelled, delicious.

Leaning across the table to help herself—as instructed—Tilly reached for the custard sauce. Edward reached for it at the same time, their fingers touching briefly as they both grasped the handle of the jug. Tilly pulled her hand away, as if she had touched hot cinders.

“My apologies,” Edward said quietly. “After you.”

He smiled, shyly—his face softening, the candlelight reflected in his blue eyes.

“It seems as if your custard sauce is as popular as ever tonight, Aunt Evelyn,” Herbert joked, his eyes fixed firmly on his brother. “We'll be drawing straws next, to see whose turn it is.”

His remark produced a titter of laughter around the table.

Tilly ignored him, smiling at Edward.

“Thank you,” she said, taking the sauce and pouring it over the steaming pudding before placing it back on the saucer. She could still sense the light touch of Edward's fingertips on hers as she did and felt his gaze burn against her cheek as she started to eat.

With the wine and the enjoyable food, Tilly soon began to relax. She quite enjoyed Herbert's company, feeling more of an equal to him now that they were dinner guests around the same
table. There was no flush creeping over her neck, and her heart had stopped racing. She glanced at him while he busied himself with the blancmange, suppressing the urge to laugh when a great dollop of it fell from his spoon and landed in his lap.

“And I presume your family will be traveling down to join us at the Harvest Festival fete day in Clacton?” he said, after he'd wiped the blancmange from his trousers.

Tilly bristled at the comment. “Oh, no. I don't think so.”

“You surprise me, Miss Harper.
All
the housemothers invite their families. It really is a wonderful event. Would you not reconsider? I'm sure they would enjoy it.”

Tilly wished he would be quiet. His voice was too loud, fueled by the wine. “No. It's such a long journey and—”

“But we've had people from the north before. Haven't we, Aunt Evelyn,” he continued, grabbing Mrs. Shaw's attention. “I was just saying to Miss Harper about inviting her family to the fete day in Clacton and she thinks the journey would be too much for them. We had a family travel down from Scotland once, didn't we?”

Mrs. Shaw dabbed at the corners of her mouth with a napkin.

“Oh, yes. The fete days are extremely popular, Tilly. It's a nice way for the housemothers to show their families what we do. You must invite them. Everyone else will.”

“Exactly,” Herbert agreed, turning to Tilly again, his voice grower louder with his drunken insistence, so that the rest of the guests fell silent. “You see, even my aunt insists!”

Be quiet,
she thought, curling her fists into tight balls under the table.
Stop talking about my family
. She could feel anger rising within her, storm clouds gathering.

Herbert persisted. “You heard what Aunt Evelyn said.
Everyone
will be inviting their families. Surely you wouldn't want yours to—”

“My sister is a cripple,” she hissed, unable to tolerate his ridiculous assumptions about her family any longer. “She is paralyzed and, besides, she wouldn't want to travel to Clacton, even if I wished her to.”

She'd spoken much louder than she'd intended; her frustration with Herbert—and her temper—getting the better of her.

All eyes fell upon her, the clatter of a spoon falling into a bowl the only sound in the room.

The familiar sensation of guilt, of being the object of gossip and speculation, flared within Tilly. She stood up, placing her napkin on the table. Tears welled in her eyes.

“It was a riding accident,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “An accident. There was nothing I could do.”

She ran from the room, ignoring the voice that called after her.

“Miss Harper! Wait!”

It was only later that she realized it was Edward who had spoken.

T
he day of the trip to Clacton dawned clear and bright. The chill in the morning air pinched at the girls' cheeks, giving them all a wonderfully healthy glow as they arranged themselves into the motor cabs and carriages that were to take them to Liverpool Street station. A great convoy of vehicles lined Sekforde Street, and the excited chatter of the girls filled the air like birdsong. For some, this was a regular event they had come to cherish. For others, the trip would be their first experience of the seaside—their first experience of anything beyond London. After a week of skulking around the house, ashamed of her outburst, Tilly felt buoyed by the positive atmosphere.

Since Mrs. Harris had announced that she would return to work the following week—her leg having healed well in
Brighton's sea air—it had been agreed that Tilly would spend a full week at Clacton.

“It's a good opportunity for you to familiarize yourself with the work of the housemothers at the orphanage,” Mrs. Shaw had said. “It is always useful for housemothers to be familiar with the routines of both the Flower Homes and the Flower Village. We never know when we might need to call on someone at short notice, if a mother is taken ill—or breaks her leg, like poor Mrs. Harris. And,” she'd added in that wonderfully soothing voice of hers, “I thought you might be glad of a little time away from London—glad of a break away from . . . things.”

Tilly was grateful for Mrs. Shaw's understanding. She'd felt horribly self-conscious since the dinner party, refusing to discuss the matter with anyone—even Mrs. Pearce—who'd given her a great big hug the following morning, told Tilly that her family was nobody's business but her own, and that there would be no more said about the matter as far as she was concerned. A week away at the seaside couldn't have come at a better time and Tilly hoped that when she returned, everyone would have forgotten about her little drama, having found something, or someone, else to gossip about instead.

Through the streets of Farringdon, along Old Street, City Road, and across London Wall to Bishopsgate, their convoy made quite the spectacle. Pedestrians, bicyclists, street sellers and shop owners, mothers and their children all waved and raised their caps and handkerchiefs in acknowledgment of the flower girls, whom they knew and admired for the success of Rose Day. The girls waved back enthusiastically. Tilly could not have felt prouder if she'd been in a royal carriage parade.

Reaching Liverpool Street station, and after a great deal of assistance and plenty of complicated maneuvering of people and
equipment, the seventy-two flower girls, and the six members of staff, were seated on the train.

“It's a Pullman Express,” Mr. Shaw announced, as the Violet House girls crowded into the compartment. “Quite the modern train. We'll be in Clacton in an hour.”

Tilly noticed a flash of concern across a number of the girls' faces as he struggled to control a fit of coughing. She thought about Mrs. Shaw's words the day she had been shown around the factory workroom.
“He doesn't have the strength he once had. The filthy London air chokes his lungs.”

As the last of the girls settled into their seats, Hilda shuffled into a space beside Tilly, remarking on the décor of the second-class carriage.

“Can you believe it is fully lit and heated?” she said. “And look at the leather upholstery! Mr. Shaw said there's a ventilated parlor, a buffet car, and a smoking car. Imagine that!”

Finally, the great black locomotive made its way out of the station, the carriage compartments creaking and groaning under the strain as the wheels began to turn. The girls clustered around the windows, pressing their noses to the glass as they watched the drab gray of London give way to green fields and open countryside. For some, this was their first time on a train. For many, it was the first time they had seen green fields. For all, it was a thrilling adventure.

Just as she had a few months earlier, Tilly found herself watching the countryside flash by as the train wheels hammered and clattered on the tracks beneath, rocking her gently from side to side. How long ago that journey from Grasmere seemed, how distant the sense of doubt and uncertainty she'd carried with her that spring morning. “Is this an end or a beginning?” Mrs.
Ingram had asked. Tilly hadn't understood the question at the time. Now, perhaps, she understood the sentiment a little better, and found herself wondering which conclusion this particular trip would bring.

So much had happened in the months since she'd left Grasmere, so much about Tilly—about her life—had changed. She now felt part of daily life at Violet House. She'd made friendships with many of the girls: Hilda in particular—and even Queenie, with whom she had reached an understanding. She enjoyed their company in very different, yet equally important ways. She'd experienced the historic events of Alexandra Rose Day, she'd dined with Albert and Evelyn Shaw—two people whom she held in the highest regard—she'd even managed to fall in and out of lust with the most handsome, arrogant man she'd ever encountered, and without his knowing it.

But of all the events that Tilly had experienced since she'd knocked tentatively on the door of Violet House that March morning, she couldn't help feeling that the most poignant was the connection she'd made with a young Irish girl. Something had drawn her to Flora Flynn. Something had compelled her to keep reading the notebook, to discover Flora's words and the pressed flowers that had lain among the pages for so many years—hyacinths, carnations, primroses, violets, and pansies—their images having left an indelible mark on the page—and on Tilly.

As she listened to the excited hum of chatter in the compartment, Tilly thought about the lace handkerchief in the wooden box. It was an exact replica of the one Mrs. Ingram had used on the train journey to London all those months ago. An exact replica of the handkerchief she'd seen Violette Ashton use on Alexandra Rose Day. Surely coincidence alone couldn't explain
something so strange, but she hardly dared believe that one of these women—Mrs. Ingram or Violette—had known Rosie, and might be able to tell her what had become of her.

Tilly also thought about the letter she'd written to Violette Ashton earlier that summer. Taking Flora's notebook discreetly from her coat pocket, she took up the envelope and removed the carefully folded sheets of writing paper.

Violet House

Clerkenwell

London

July 4, 1912

Dear Mrs. Ashton,

Firstly, my apologies for writing to you in such an unexpected manner. My name is Matilda (Tilly) Harper, and I am employed as housemother at Shaw's Training Homes for Watercress and Flower Girls in Clerkenwell. We were introduced by your mother on Queen Alexandra Rose Day last week. I had met your mother several months ago when we traveled on the same train to London. I had spoken to her then of the position I was about to commence at the Flower Homes.

                    
After we were introduced, you passed me a card with your personal details. You wished for Mr. Shaw to contact you regarding floral arrangements for your home—which I believe he has done.

                    
My reason for writing to you in person does not relate to the matter of the flowers, but is of a very sensitive and
personal nature. I have sat at my writing table on many occasions to write this letter, but find myself unable to find the appropriate words. 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.

                    
It may be nothing more than coincidence, but I recently learned of a previous occupant of the room that I now reside in at Violet House, Sekforde Street. I discovered a box of her personal possessions: a notebook and several trinkets.

                    
You may be wondering what this has to do with you, Mrs. Ashton. I hope I can explain.

                    
Among the possessions was a lace handkerchief with a cluster of shamrock leaves stitched into one corner. In her notebook, the girl—Flora—describes how she and her sister, Rosie, each carried one of these handkerchiefs when they were flower sellers on the streets of London many years ago. She believed the handkerchiefs to be lucky talismans, given to them by their mother—their own grandmother in Ireland having made them. I couldn't help noticing that you carry a very similar handkerchief to the one I discovered in the box. It caught my attention when I met you on Alexandra Rose Day. (I had also noticed your mother use the same handkerchief when we traveled on the London train together.) I cannot help but wonder if your handkerchief, and the one I found, are a matching pair, given to those little girls many years ago.

                    
Sadly, Flora became separated from her sister one day when they were out selling their flowers. She spent the
rest of her life searching for her, but never found her. Flora died some years ago.

                    
I do not wish to intrude, Mrs. Ashton, but with you having a similar—if not the very same—handkerchief as the one I discovered in the box in my room, I cannot help but wonder if you might have known Rosie, the missing sister—or if you might know someone who was connected to her in some way. Flora suspected that Rosie may have been taken into the workhouse, or died, unnoticed, on the streets. Perhaps the existence of this matching lace handkerchief suggests she survived?

                    
If this means anything to you at all, I would be very grateful for a reply. Perhaps we could meet in person and I could show you the handkerchief and notebook and other possessions.

                    
If I have things entirely incorrect and this is merely a strange coincidence, then please do excuse my intrusion. I felt that if I didn't write to inquire, I would always wonder. My late father used to say that fate is what happens to you but destiny is what you desire. Perhaps this is destiny, Mrs. Ashton?

Yours sincerely,

Matilda Harper

Folding the pages and placing the letter back into the envelope, Tilly sighed and turned her gaze back to the carriage window. She watched the undulating hills roll by as she searched for an answer among the hedgerows and fields.