A Memory of Violets (30 page)

Perhaps she would have fallen asleep eventually. Perhaps she would have closed her eyes and stopped questioning, stopped wondering. Perhaps, if there hadn't been a faint knock at her bedroom door, she would have kept that brick wall strong and firm.

“I wish Mother had waited for you, too, Tilly. Really, I do.” Esther's words, whispered through the darkness.

The sound of rubber squeaking on the slate floor, the steady rhythm of the wheels moving away down the passageway. The lonely sound of her sister's life.

Only then did Tilly let the tears fall freely. Only then did she allow the wall to crumble around her, until she could cry no more and the violet light of dawn crept quietly into the room, bringing the month of October with it.

“White rabbits, white rabbits, white rabbits,” she whispered, as she always did on the first day of a new month.

Like the shamrocks on Flora's handkerchief, she could only hope that the words would bring her good luck.

T
illy dug her hands deep into her coat pockets and shivered from the biting chill of the northeasterly wind as she stood on the station platform, awaiting the arrival of the five o'clock train from London. She was quite alone, apart from the marmalade station cat, which lay on a bench. As Tilly walked past, the cat glanced up momentarily before yawning, curled its tail around its nose, and went back to sleep, disinterested in the turmoil within Tilly's heart.

Pulling her woolen shawl tight around her shoulders, she shifted her weight from one foot to the other, stamping her feet to keep them from going numb. She felt for the telegram in her pocket, taking it out to read.

So sorry to learn of passing of your mother. Girls insist on sending flowers. Evelyn will arrive on five o'clock train to deliver them. Edward

That Edward had sent her a telegram was heartwarming enough, but the girls making a wreath for her mother's funeral was one of the kindest things anyone had ever done for her. She moved her fingers across the printed words, imagining Edward in the post office in Farringdon, dictating his message. Had he thought about her, she wondered. Had he thought about their pleasant strolls around the gardens? Had he pictured her face as often as she'd pictured his?

The distinctive hum of the tracks and the smoke billowing in great plumes above the tree line, told her that the train was approaching. She straightened her skirt and adjusted her hat, conscious of her country clothes. She knew Mrs. Shaw would be elegantly attired, as usual.

The great mass of the locomotive edged along the platform, the brakes emitting a deafening hiss that sent the birds fleeing from the surrounding trees. Black smoke surrounded Tilly, the cat, the stationmaster, and an elderly man who had just arrived out of breath. She waited for the train to settle, peering through the murk into the carriages as they moved slowly past, trying to catch a glimpse of Mrs. Shaw's face. Tilly was looking forward to seeing her, to reconnecting with her life in London. She saw a man's hand poised on the door handle through the open window, ready to unlatch it as soon as the train came to a stop. She couldn't see Mrs. Shaw.

When the train stopped, she watched as the elderly gentleman greeted a young woman—his daughter, perhaps. Tilly smiled
at their lingering embrace. She watched the fireman step down off the footplate, his face blackened with soot and smoke. She watched the stationmaster unload a few packages from the mail carriage. Still Mrs. Shaw didn't appear. Wondering if she had the correct time, Tilly took the telegram from her pocket. As she was reading it again, a familiar voice spoke behind her.

“What beautiful landscape. I don't think I've ever seen such a glorious acknowledgment of autumn!”

Her skin prickled. The telegram fell to the ground. Her hands flew to her cheeks as she turned around and saw him.

“Edward?”
Her voice was as faint as the wispy trails of smoke that snaked around her feet. “Edward! But . . . how . . . I thought . . .”

“I know.” He smiled, taking her gloved hand in his, bringing it to his lips and kissing it tenderly in greeting. “You were expecting Aunt Evelyn. Uncle Albert had a bad night, so I offered to bring the flowers myself.”

Tilly was too astonished to ask further after Mr. Shaw's health, too stunned by the sight of Edward standing in front of her, too enraptured by the sensation of his breath warming her skin through her cotton glove. She could do nothing but stand in silent surprise.

“I hope you're not terribly disappointed,” he said, a shy smile at the corners of his mouth.

“No,” she whispered. “No, not at all. It's just so unexpected!”

“Oh, and there's someone else who insisted on traveling with me, to keep me company.”

Please, not Herbert, she thought. Please not Herbert.

Rising onto her tiptoes to peer over Edward's shoulder, she saw the stationmaster helping somebody—a child? It wasn't until he stood upright that she saw who it was.

“Hilda! Oh, my goodness!” A great smile spread from cheek
to cheek as she ran toward her friend. “Dear, dear Hilda! What a wonderful surprise!”

Tilly threw her arms around her. She was so delighted to see her.

“Hello, Miss Tilly!” Hilda beamed. “I hope we're not an inconvenience. I wasn't at all sure about coming, but Queenie said one of us should, to pay our respects. She said you'd enjoy seeing a friendly face.”

“And she was right, Hilda. It's so
wonderful
to see you, truly, it is! I've missed you all so much! But . . . I can't believe you're both here!” She turned again to Edward, who had joined them. “It's so good of you to come—and all this way.”

“It was important to us to give you these,” Hilda said. “For your mother.” She handed Tilly a brown paper parcel.

Tilly unwrapped it, revealing a beautiful wreath of snow-white lilies, ivory roses, creamy freesias, and white chrysanthemums, surrounded by green laurel leaves. The sight of it both delighted and appalled her—it was so lovely, but it was for her mother's funeral.

Her mother was gone; her questions would never be answered.

“Thank you,” she said. “It's really beautiful.”

“It was all Queenie's idea,” Hilda explained. “She insisted that the Violet House girls make something. We worked into the night to get it finished so we could bring it on the train this morning.”

“And we wish it was in less harrowing circumstances that we'd made the journey,” Edward added. “We were all so very sorry to hear of your mother's passing, Tilly. It must be a very difficult time for you and your sister.”

Esther. What would Esther think of her guests from London? What would
they
make of
her
?

Tilly turned her eyes to the ground. She spoke softly. “I think it was a release for her, in the end. She was taken ill with the
influenza. Everyone expected her to make a full recovery, but she took a sudden turn for the worse. She died just before I arrived.”

Edward looked at her. There was genuine sadness in his eyes. “That must be very difficult to accept.”

“It is. I think we all wish to have the chance to say good-bye.”

For a moment, the three of them stood quietly on the platform, Edward and Hilda taking in the view, listening to the calls of the pheasants and the birdsong from the hedgerows as greenfinches and robins picked at the ripe berries.

Edward stamped his feet, blowing onto his hands as he rubbed them vigorously, his warm breaths visible in the cold air.

“It's certainly colder than it was when we left London this morning,” he said. “And Mrs. Pearce assures me that Lakeland water makes a wonderful cup of tea.”

Tilly smiled. “Dear Mrs. Pearce. I hope she's well.”

“She is. She's glad to have Mrs. Harris back, even though she isn't quite back up to full steam. Everyone misses you and looks forward to your return.”

Tilly took Hilda's bag and placed her arm around her shoulder to help support her on her crutch. Edward picked up his luggage.

“I'm afraid there's no carriage to take us to the cottage,” Tilly said. “It's only a short stroll. You might get your shoes a little muddied, mind.”

“And don't they say that Lakeland mud is the best kind of mud?” Edward joked.

Tilly led them toward the lane that would take them to her home. “You must excuse the cottage,” she said, wondering whether Esther had remembered to put more wood on the fire. “It's only very small.”

Edward placed his hand on her arm. “We wouldn't dream of
imposing on you, Tilly. I've made arrangements for us to stay at the local tavern. The Blacksmith's Arms.”

“Oh, no. Really. You must stay with us. I can't possibly let you stay in the village tavern when you've traveled all this way.”

“Well, perhaps Hilda might prefer to stay with you,” he conceded, “but as for myself, I insist on staying at the tavern.”

“Very well. Mr. Lockwood will make you very comfortable.”

“Good. That's settled then.”

As they walked, Hilda and Edward commented on the stunning landscape, asking Tilly the names of the various mountains. She enjoyed pointing out the landmarks and explaining the geography of the area to them. Hilda told Tilly of a few incidents among the girls while she'd been away. Her stories made Tilly laugh and also made her realize how much she'd missed them all, even in the few days she'd been away in Clacton. It was comforting to hear everyone's names again and to learn that they were busy making Christmas cards to raise funds, along with hundreds of orders for Christmas flowers.

“It's so pretty here, Tilly,” Hilda said as they arrived at the cottage. “It must have been very difficult to leave it all behind for the drab gray of London.”

“Not as difficult as you might think, Hilda. Not as difficult at all.”

A
week after her mother's burial, Tilly awoke to a cold, crisp morning, the windowpanes covered with a delicate lacework of a hoarfrost that had visited in the night. Opening the window, she breathed in the pure, clear air. It tasted so good. She closed her eyes, shivering in her thin nightdress, as the cool morning air sent goose bumps running over her skin. It was a day that spoke to her of clarity and certainty, the day when she and Esther would return to London. Together.

I
N THE AFTERMATH
of their mother's death, the two sisters had sidestepped the issue of their futures, happy to let the arrangements of the funeral and the stream of visitors distract them from
the unspoken questions that drifted around the cool interior of the cottage.

In the days following the funeral, Tilly had been increasingly grateful for Hilda and Edward's company. She'd found herself relying on Edward, asking for his advice on matters concerning the will, giving him small tasks to do around the cottage—odd jobs that had been neglected for some time. The first, tentative buds of emotion Tilly had noticed in Clacton began to bloom and flourish under the clear Lakeland skies. She felt a sense of quiet contentment whenever Edward stood near her, a calming of the storm in her heart—although it still raced when he looked at her with those cornflower-blue eyes.

Hilda, too, had proven to be an incredible help, spending time with Esther while Tilly dealt with the formalities and business affairs. The two girls seemed easy in each other's company, talking about their injuries, sharing their frustrations. Tilly watched them as they went about together, noticing how alike they were. They liked to sit in the garden, blankets wrapped around them for warmth as they enjoyed the autumn sun on their faces: two young girls doing what young girls do best—chatting and laughing and making sense of the world. Tilly couldn't remember when she'd last heard Esther laugh, and despite the fact that she knew Esther was grieving for the mother she loved so much, Tilly saw a difference in her eyes, as if a long-forgotten light had been re-lit within them.

Hilda especially enjoyed telling Esther all about the Flower Homes, and Alexandra Rose Day, and the beauty of the orphanage at Clacton. While Tilly listened, unseen, never letting the girls know that she was there, Esther absorbed everything Hilda told her.

“The Flower Homes sound wonderful,” Esther said. “But how do you learn to make the flowers? Isn't it very difficult? I don't think I'd ever be able to make anything as perfectly as the flowers in the wreath you brought from London.”

“Oh, but you would, Esther,” Hilda replied. “It takes awhile to get the hang of it, but it's fascinating to see the flowers come to life in your hands. And when we put together the great displays—they're really something to be proud of, and to know that
we
did it, that
we
made every single petal and leaf . . . I think it's the best job in the world!”

As the seed of an idea grew in Tilly's mind, so she sensed something similar within Esther's. But she had to be patient. It just needed a few more days to blossom and grow under Hilda's care.

“H
ILDA
'
S BEEN TELLING ME
about the roses the flower girls made for Queen Alexandra,” Esther said one evening after supper. “She says London never looked prettier than it did with the motor cabs driving around covered with garlands of pink roses. She told me that even girls without arms make the flowers—they hold paintbrushes in their mouths.”

Having observed her sister closely for the past few days, Tilly wasn't surprised to hear Esther talking so enthusiastically about the Flower Homes.

“Yes, I've seen some of them paint with the brush in their mouth,” Tilly said as she swept the cinders from the fireplace. “It's amazing.
They
are amazing.”

“And Mr. Edward told me there have been a lot more orders since Rose Day. He said the girls can hardly keep up and that he's certain there would be plenty of work to keep one more flower girl busy.”

Tilly's hand stilled. “Edward?” She'd had no idea that Edward and Esther had been talking about this.

“Yes. Edward. Your sweetheart.”

Tilly felt the heat rise in her cheeks. “He's not my sweetheart,” she said, prodding at the stubborn cinders with the poker.

“Then he
should
be. He's a very nice man.” Tilly coughed at the clouds of soot and dust that were thrown up as she continued to brush the grate vigorously. “Anyway,” Esther continued, “he said there would be a place for me, if I was ever interested in moving to London. He said I should mention it to you.

For a moment, Tilly said nothing. She continued to methodically sweep the ashes, the steady
swish, swish
of her brush the only sound. Even the stiff breeze that had blown down the chimney all day, momentarily stilled. It felt as though the mountains themselves were holding their breath, waiting to see what Tilly would say next.

“And would you?” she asked, without turning around. “
Would
you be interested in going to London? To the Flower Homes?”

Esther didn't answer right away, and then a whisper, a thin pipe of a voice . . . “Yes.” It was just one, small word, a hesitant gesture toward a different future, and yet it held such weight, such importance. “Yes, I think I would. There's nothing to keep me here now, is there.”

It was a statement, not a question. Tilly allowed it to settle into the air around them as she continued to work at the fire, lifting the charred cinders into the coal scuttle.

“What life is there for a crippled orphan in Grasmere?” Esther continued, her voice wavering. “There's nothing left here.” She paused for a moment to compose herself. “I'm scared, Tilly. I feel lost.”

The word struck Tilly like a blast of wild autumn wind.
Thoughts of Flora and Rosie rushed toward her.
A person can never be truly lost, as long as someone is looking for them.
Flora had spent her life searching for her sister; she had never forgiven herself for letting go of Rosie's hand. And what had she, Tilly, done for
her
sister, for Esther?

I feel lost.

Placing the fire tongs and poker on the hearth, Tilly walked to Esther, her heart pounding, her hands trembling. Kneeling down on the cold, hard floor in front of her, she took hold of Esther's hands, looking straight into her eyes. Those haunting eyes, the same color as the kingfisher Tilly had seen by the river that morning, a flash of turquoise-green. Those haunting eyes that had so often looked through Tilly to some distant, unreachable future.

Not today.

As Tilly looked into her sister's eyes, they didn't reject or repel her. They didn't look beyond her. They reached out to her, asking for her acceptance, asking for her help.

“I'll take you,” Tilly whispered. “I'll take you to London, Esther, to the Flower Homes. We'll go back together.”

She wrapped her sister in her arms, and they held on to each other, afraid to let go, afraid to let the moment pass. There was so much Tilly wanted to say, but she let the silence speak for her.

A quiet hush fell over the sisters, disturbed only by a breath of wind that rushed down the chimney.

The mountains had reminded them to breathe, reminded the heart of this small cottage to beat.

T
ILLY WASHED AND DRESSED
before going to the scullery to prepare breakfast. She was surprised to see Esther already up, dressed, and sitting at the table, her gloves and purse lying expectantly beside her.

“I wanted to make sure we didn't miss the train,” she said, looking at the table and not at Tilly. A hesitancy still lingered between them.

“We won't miss the train, Esther. I promise.”

After breakfast, Tilly walked briskly into the village, leaving a note at the Blacksmith's Arms to inform Edward that she, Esther, and Hilda would be taking the ten o'clock train to London as discussed and hoped he would join them. She walked on then, toward the church, her breaths captured in the frosty morning air, her head held high, her gait strong and purposeful. She had nothing to be ashamed of, nothing to hide. People could look and stare and whisper to each other all they wanted. She didn't need their approval or affirmation anymore.

As usual, the church door was open, the grim-faced gargoyles keeping watch at either side. Stepping inside the dark interior, she walked to the altar, lighting two candles before bowing her head and saying a few silent words of prayer. Her whispered words echoed off the cold walls.

Hearing a muffled cough behind her, she got to her feet, nodding a solemn good morning to the vicar's wife, who was changing the floral arrangements. Tilly stopped to admire them—hypericum berries, bell heather, wheat, and lavender—before walking out into the pale buttercup light, following the gravel path down a small slope toward the cemetery gate.

Pushing the gate open, she walked straight ahead to the freshly dug mound of dark, peaty earth. Her mother's grave. No headstone yet to mark it, no loving words of remembrance. Several floral tributes lay on the mound, along with the wreath from the Flower Homes.

She turned then to read the headstone beside her mother's grave.

SAMUEL JOSEPH HARPER. 1860–1901.
IMPERIAL YEOMANRY. 11TH BATTALION
LOST AT TWEEFONTEIN, SOUTH AFRICA
LOVING FATHER AND HUSBAND
LOST, BUT NEVER FORGOTTEN

Tilly stood quietly. She thought about her past and her future. She thought about her father, carrying her on his broad shoulders, remembering how she had laughed with great squeals as he tickled her knees. She thought of her mother baking bread in the scullery, singing contentedly to herself as Esther kicked her fat little legs in the pram beside her. She thought of the storm, gathering in her heart, as she'd watched—unseen. She thought of the dark cloud that had settled over her as her father turned the corner at the end of the lane and disappeared from view. She thought of Esther's broken body being lifted from the doctor's wagon, thought of her mother's desperate sobs when she was told that her younger daughter would never walk again.

“Why, Tilly?” her mother had whispered. “Why?”

She'd known what she was doing—known that it was dangerous to take the ponies so close to the train tracks, that they would startle if a train came by.

She'd only wanted to give Esther a fright. She'd wanted to see fear in those perfect, sea-green eyes—just once. She'd wanted Esther to know what it felt like to be scared, to feel lost and alone. She'd wanted—just once—to see Esther's boots scraped and filthy, to see her hair muddied and imperfect, to hear their mother scold her for dirtying her skirts. “Thank goodness Tilly was there,” everyone would say. “How brave she was bringing Esther safely home. You're a wonderful sister,” they would say.

The shrill blast of the whistle as the locomotive rounded the bend, the
sudden sound of hooves thundering past her. Esther's screams, fading into the distance, smothered by the fog. A faint, sickening crack, echoing off the mountains around her, and then silence.

Esther's foot had caught in the stirrup as the pony bolted. She'd been dragged through the gorse and the heather, through the mud and over boulders, before the pony had stumbled—tripped by a rabbit hole—and fallen, landing on Esther with its full weight. Her boots were scraped. Her hair was muddied. Her back was broken—irreparable damage done to her spinal column. She had lain for an age like a rag doll, lost and alone in the fog. Poor crippled little Esther and her spiteful, selfish sister.

Tilly made herself remember everything as she stood at her father's grave, and then she packed the memories away into the furthest recesses of her mind and threw her anger onto her mother's grave, along with a handful of dew-sodden earth.

“Yes, I wanted to hurt her,” she shouted into the crisp, morning air. “But I never meant for this to happen, and I am sorry. I am so sorry.”

Her cries startled the crows from the church steeple. They took off into the sky with a great cawing, a black mass gathered above her before they scattered into the trees.

“No more secrets,” she said, brushing her fingertips over the lettering etched onto her father's headstone. “No more secrets.”

Her words seemed to echo off the ancient slabs of the gravestones around her.
Secrets, secrets, secrets,
they whispered back. She turned to walk away, to leave it all behind.

And then she saw him. Silhouetted against the glare of the strengthening sun.

She walked slowly toward him, raising her hand to her eyes to block out the sun.

“Edward!”

He smiled as she reached him. “I got your message. It would be my honor to escort you and your sister back to London.”

He held out his arm.