A Memory of Violets (6 page)

Tilly felt her face pale.

“Oh, don't worry, dear. You won't be entirely on your own. I'll be around as much as I can, to help out—and you'll soon get the hang of everything. You look like a competent enough young woman. I can always tell a hard worker when I see one. You can feel it in their hands. That's why I always give them a good shake when I first meet a person.”

Tilly wished she could feel as confident about her abilities as Mrs. Pearce did. Her mind was in a whirl.
Twelve
girls to look after on her own. How had Mrs. Ingram described her new position? “Demanding circumstances.” Mrs. Ingram didn't know the half of it.

“We'll be heading to the chapel for six o'clock,” Mrs. Pearce said as she rubbed at the door handle with the edge of her apron, hovering around the entrance to Tilly's room, neither stepping inside nor leaving.

“Oh, yes. I meant to ask—if I'm not intruding,” Tilly said. “You mentioned that Mr. Shaw has an important announcement to make this evening. Are there to be some changes made?”

“No idea. Although,” Mrs. Pearce whispered, “I did hear a rumor that he received a letter from Queen Alexandra recently. Perhaps we're to be making some flowers by royal appointment! Imagine that!” Her hands flew to her cheeks, like a small child on Christmas morning.

“Really? Goodness, that would be quite something, wouldn't it?” Tilly had always had great admiration for Queen Alexandra, especially for the dignified manner in which she'd tolerated her husband's scandalous behavior and many mistresses, a matter that had been discussed and debated at great length by the ladies at Wycke Hall as they sipped their tea or played a game of bridge.

“Well, I suppose we'll find out soon enough anyway,” Mrs. Pearce continued, still fluttering around the doorway like an indecisive moth. “We'll meet in the kitchen and make our way together from there. Your caps and white aprons are in the wardrobe,” she added before turning on her heel and disappearing.

Closing the door behind her, Tilly placed her carpetbag on the bed and glanced around the room. It was pleasant enough, if a little cramped; a neat efficiency about the room that her mother would have approved of. A pale light crept in through the narrow sash window on the right, casting everything in a yellow hue. Lace curtains framed the window, and a small vase of dusky pink roses and purple violets stood on the windowsill. They gave off a wonderful aroma. A small rosewood writing table in the window alcove was well positioned to catch the best of the meager daylight. Tilly planned to do her sketching there.

An iron bedstead stood against the wall on the left. It reminded her of her bed at home. She walked over to it, running her fingers across the white fan-patterned counterpane, wondering whose patient hands had knitted the intricate pattern. A pastel blue candlewick blanket was folded neatly at the foot of the bed. She sat on it, her boot kicking the edge of the chamber pot beneath her as she bounced up and down. The mattress felt good and firm. The bed linen had a freshly laundered smell—she'd know the scent of Sunlight carbolic anywhere.

A gas lamp and a Bible had been placed on a lace doily on top of a nightstand to the right of the bed. A blue-and-white bowl and ewer stood on a washstand just behind the door, and a fire had been lit in the small grate, giving a much-needed warmth to the room, which, Tilly felt, would otherwise be cold and drafty. At Wycke Hall, Lady Day signaled an end to the fires
being lit in the rooms until the cooler autumn months returned. She was glad they didn't appear to follow that custom in Violet House.

Walking over to the window to look out at the street below, Tilly noticed that the flowers in the vase were made of silk. “Of course!” she whispered, her fingers brushing the dusty surface of the delicate, hand-painted petals. They were shaped and molded so perfectly, it was hard to believe they weren't real. She picked up one of the dainty stems, admiring the veined leaves and detailed workmanship that had gone into the construction. It was so lifelike she almost bent her face toward the petals to breathe in their perfume. She wondered, briefly, where the scent of violets was coming from, if not from the flowers, but the arrival of the rag and bone man distracted her. She leaned forward to watch as he trundled along, his days' collection clattering noisily as he bumped his cart over the cobbles and cracks in the road. His face was darkened with filth, his trousers and coat tattered. Tilly listened as he called out in a thick East London accent, “Bones! Any old iron! Bones! Any old iron!” She'd never seen, nor heard, anything like it. He stopped at the end of the street, lit a cigarette, and took a rest as he leaned against a lamppost.

Draping her coat over the chair at the writing table, Tilly turned back to the room, bending down to undo the buckles on the leather straps of her trunk. She took out her beloved sketchbook and pastels first, placing them neatly on the writing table. She opened the sketchbook, flicking through the pages she had already filled with her drawings: sweeping Lake District landscapes; rough sketches of wildflowers; a detailed study of the buttercups and cowslips that grew in the fields and fells around the
cottage; the mountains reflected in Lake Windermere and the lake at Grasmere. Turning back to the first page of the book, she read the familiar inscription:

October 2, 1900
To my darling Tilly, on your tenth birthday.
There is no greater gift than an empty page.
With much love,
Daddy

Running her fingers over the looping, sprawling handwriting, she thought about the man who had written these words. It had been such an unexpected surprise: not only the gift of the sketchbook and pastels but that
he
had chosen them and had written the inscription himself. It was a surprisingly tender gesture that had struck her at the time and had stayed with her ever since. Although he was a kind and gentle man, her father was not usually one for sentimentality. Perhaps he'd known. Perhaps he had sensed what was to come.

“I miss you, Daddy,” she whispered. “I miss you so much.”

Shivering from a cool draft that was coming through a gap in the window frame, she draped her coat over her shoulders as she checked that the sash window was fully shut. It was. She closed the sketchbook, the scent of violets intensifying briefly as she did, and returned to her trunk.

Kneeling down beside the trunk, she looked at the drab assortment of work clothes she had brought, sighing as she thought of the elegant outfits worn by Mrs. Ingram and her daughter, Violette, and many other ladies she had seen at the train station. How she longed to wear a dress of silk or chiffon; a dress to dance
in, rather than to clean floors in; a dress to catch the attention of an admirer—a would-be husband, perhaps. Among her many other flaws, Tilly knew that her failure to receive a proposal of marriage was a cause of great disappointment to her mother. “You would do well to observe your appearance as closely as you observe those wildflowers. Sketching harebells will not find you a husband, Matilda, of that I am quite sure.” She thought of her mother's words as she considered her plain country-girl clothes, the fabric cut and stitched by her own hands.

Bundling several garments in her arms, she walked to the wardrobe, lifting the brass latch and allowing the heavy doors to swing open. She hung up her two cotton day dresses and shook out her large holland apron and the coarse apron she would need for dirty jobs: cleaning the fire, sweeping the floors, and emptying the chamber pots. She brushed her hand over the starched fabric to smooth out the creases.

Next, she lifted out her shifts, drawers, corsets, and petticoats, giving them a good shake to free them of the soot and dust accumulated from the train journey before she set about refolding them. She had done this so often for the Misses Wycke when they returned from some outing or other. That it was her own clothing she was now unpacking and refolding sent a rush of nervous excitement tumbling in the pit of her stomach.

As she bent down to remove her shoes from the trunk, her eye was drawn to an untidy pile of blankets bunched together at the back of the wardrobe. Years of domestic service instinctively urged her to straighten and refold them. Kneeling down in front of the wardrobe, she reached into the back, her fingers grabbing one of the blankets. As she pulled, it fell to one side, and she found herself face-to-face with a young woman.

H
er screams brought Mrs. Pearce thundering up the stairs.

“Miss Harper! Oh, Good Lord. Miss Harper, is everything all right?” She burst into the room, her face purple with anxiety and exertion.

Tilly stood motionless in front of the wardrobe, a blanket hanging limply from her hands. Beside her was a very short woman, not more than four feet tall. She wore a simple black cotton dress with a white apron tied around her waist. A small spray of violets was pinned to her dress at the chest, and she clutched a neat posy of pink and purple silk freesias in her hands. Her hair was curled and pinned up around her face. She stared at Tilly with wide nut-brown eyes. Everything about her was childlike, and yet her face had the features of an adult's.

“Ah, I see you have found our missing Buttons.” Mrs. Pearce folded her arms across her chest as it became apparent to her what had happened. “Fancy, frightening Miss Harper like that,” she chided, leading Buttons firmly toward the door, “and what with her only just arriving. Barely opened her trunk, I shouldn't wonder. Must have thought she was seeing ghosts! Never seen the likes of it. Really, I haven't. Suppose you were trying to avoid going to chapel again, eh? I'm so sorry, Miss Harper. You must have got an awful fright. Sit yourself down on the bed. I'll fetch the smelling salts.”

Tilly had recovered a little by the time Mrs. Pearce stopped talking. “Oh, no. Really, there's no need. I'm fine. Just a little surprised.”

Her words fell on deaf ears as Mrs. Pearce bundled Tilly over to the bed, wafting the edge of her apron vigorously in front of her face.

“I only wanted to say hello,” Buttons protested, aware that she was in trouble. “I wanted to give Miss Harper the flowers, to welcome her. I must have fallen asleep.” She looked at Tilly with the innocence of a child as she handed her the posy of freesias. “I didn't mean to give you such a fright, Miss. Harper.”

Tilly folded the blanket she was still clutching and laid it on the bed beside her. She took the flowers, her hands shaking a little.

“I know you didn't mean to frighten me. And thank you very much for the lovely flowers. It was a very kind thought.” She was relieved to feel her heart rate slowing. “But I will admit that you surprised me! Moth balls I might have expected to find in the wardrobe—certainly not a person!”

“Goodness me! I shouldn't wonder if you had to spend the rest of the evening in bed with the shock,” Mrs. Pearce muttered,
turning a steely gaze on Buttons. “And it was
very
silly of you to hide in such a place, young lady. I hope such nonsense won't be happening again.”

Buttons gazed at the floor, a sullen expression clouding her face. “It won't.”

Mrs. Pearce winked at Tilly as she continued to speak to Buttons. “Mrs. Harris may be out of action, but she warned me about these games of hide-and-seek you're partial to. Now, come along. It's time you were dressed for chapel.”

She marched Buttons out of the room, closing the door behind her before Tilly had a chance to say anything else. She heard Mrs. Pearce's continued chiding as they disappeared down the stairs.

Glad to be left on her own again, Tilly quickly changed into one of her cotton dresses, stepping out of the skirt she'd spent all day in, which, by now, was as wrinkled as a winter apple. She placed the silk freesias among the roses and violets in the vase on the windowsill and returned to her task of folding her undergarments and straightening the blankets, welcoming the familiarity of a simple, domestic task and the distraction it provided from alarming encounters in wardrobes.

As she bent down to grab the rest of the blankets from Buttons's hiding place, her eye was drawn to a slim wooden box nestling in the corner at the very back of the wardrobe. She presumed it must have been beneath the blankets before Buttons disturbed them. Maybe Buttons had left it there. Intrigued to see what it was, Tilly grabbed an edge and pulled it out, bringing a shower of dust with it.

She turned the box around in her hands, running her fingertips over the smooth surface of the wood. There was nothing particularly remarkable about it: just a simple dark brown box, the width of her lap, with a thin, lavender-colored silk ribbon tied in
a neat bow across the lid. The ribbon personalized the box, suggesting that someone had cared about its contents. Tilly stood for a moment, wondering what to do. Maybe she should put it back? Forget about it. What if the box did belong to Buttons and she reappeared at any moment to claim it? The last thing Tilly wanted on the first day of her new job was to be accused of being a snoop. And yet, what harm would she be doing by taking just a quick peek inside?

Carrying the box over to the writing table, she settled herself at the chair. Taking a quick glance back toward the door, she listened for the sound of footsteps on the stairs. All was quiet. Reassured that nobody was coming, she carefully untied the ribbon. It fell aside easily, like a deep breath, gratefully exhaled. She lifted the lid, the perfume of violets intensifying around her as she did.

Inside the box was a small leather-bound notebook, its tan cover creased and worn with age. There was also a wooden clothes peg, a black button, a doll made of rags, and a postcard bearing a faded photograph of a group of young girls clustered around a display of flowers. The label at the bottom read,
SHAW
'
S HOMES FOR WATERCRESS AND FLOWER GIRLS
, 1883
.
Tilly lifted each item out of the box, wondering who they had belonged to. On the back of the postcard someone had written,
“December 1884. You will find her. I know you will. Happy Christmas. Lily B. x”
At the bottom of the box was a delicate lace handkerchief, stained and spoiled a little with age. Lifting it up to the light of the window, she saw the faint outline of shamrocks stitched into one corner. Her thoughts flashed back to the train. To Mrs. Ingram.

Walking over to the bed, Tilly spread the dusty items across the counterpane. It was a strange assortment of things. Why would somebody keep a peg—and a single button? But she was
most interested in the leather-bound notebook. Opening it carefully, she read the inscription on the inside cover.

For Little Sister.
All flowers are beautiful,
but some are more beautiful than others.
I will never stop looking for you.
Flora Flynn

Tilly carefully turned the fragile faded pages, intrigued by the neat handwriting. The paper smelled musty and crackled as she turned more pages, the same, careful writing filling each one. As she turned a page toward the middle of the book, something fell into her lap. A flower. A pale yellow primrose, dry as an autumn leaf and paper-thin. She thought of her flower press at home, of all the beautiful wildflowers she had carefully placed between the layers of blotting paper: buttercups, harebells, bell heather, wild daffodils, summer snowflakes, bluebells, foxgloves, and marsh orchids. She remembered collecting them, each and every one.

Turning the notebook upside down, she shook it gently, sending several more flowers tumbling from their hiding places between the pages: purple hyacinths, pink carnations, primroses, violets, and pansies, each fluttering gracefully into her lap, like butterflies released from a display case.

She picked up each flower, running her fingers lightly over its delicate form. She held a violet toward the window, rubbing the stem between her thumb and forefinger so that it twisted back and forth, catching the light. It was almost translucent. She gazed at the skeletal structure of the leaf, every vein and cell of the petals. It was such a beautiful, fragile little thing. Looking back through the book, she saw that on each page from which
a flower had fallen was the faintest of imprints, a shadow of the flower's image left permanently on the paper. Like a distant echo, the images spoke to her, whispering secrets of a forgotten past. Whose hand had placed the flowers here? Who had written these pages and pages of words?

As the surroundings of her new home faded into the background, Tilly settled herself against the pillow, turned back to the first page of the book, and started to read.

Flower Village. Clacton. June 18, 1880.

I been going to school these past years and learning my writing, Rosie, so as I can tell you what I been doing. Mother says my words is coming on grand. Mother is what we call the nice lady what looks after us here at the orphanage. It's by the sea. I watch the pleasure boats come up from London and think of us watching them leave Westminster Pier that day. That were four year ago, Rosie, and never a day passes that I don't think of you. I imagine you in the streets around Covent Garden, selling your cresses and violets. “Buy a flower off a poor girl? Oh, please, Miss. Do buy a flower.”

                    
I remember how ye'd sniff the sweet air of the flower markets, breathing it in like it was bringing ye back to life. And I'd tell you about all the different colors, what with you not being able to see them for yourself: the red and white roses, the pink peonies, the cream and lavender tulips, the purple stocks and hyacinths, and the reels and reels of shiny satin ribbon in every color of the rainbow.

                    
Don't think I could bear to see it now, what with you not being beside me.

                    
I ask Mr. Shaw about you when I see him. He says they
keep looking all around the markets and such, but that nobody sees a little girl with hair like flames. But she must be there, I tell him, she must.

                    
But ye never are, Rosie Flynn. Ye never are.

                    
Nighttimes are the worst. I wake, all cold and sweating like a cart horse, screaming and screaming for you, “Where are ye, Rosie? Where are ye gone to?” Mother comes to settle me then. Sometimes she lets me sleep in the spare bed in her room so as she can keep watch over me. She puts a damp cloth on my head to cool me. Tells me it'll be all right come the morning. But it isn't all right 'cause you're still not here with me, Rosie, sure you're not. You were just four year old and you were gone. Gone like a blown-out candle flame.

                    
I know our bare feet was always frozen and we had an ache in our bellies with the hunger and we slept on doorsteps to avoid a beating from Da, even though we feared them dark courts and alleyways and the bad men who lurked there, but as long as we was together, it somehow seemed all right. Like shadows we were, me and you, Rosie, held together by a thread we neither of us could see. And now that thread is broken and I'm all unraveled without you.

There was something about the careful, childish handwriting, a desperate yearning captured within the words that seemed to lift from the page, reaching out to Tilly as she read. She remembered the motor cab driver and his tale of the Irish girl and her lost sister.

“Who are you, Flora?” she whispered, brushing her fingers across the faded writing. Her words hung in the small room, as if they expected an answer.

Tilly shivered as the room turned suddenly cold again. A
prickle ran along the soft, downy hairs at the back of her neck, the powdery scent of violets strengthening and then dissipating just as abruptly. Something in the atmosphere of the room had changed.

“Miss Harper! Miss Harper!” Mrs. Pearce was thudding up the stairs. “Miss Harper. Are you decent? We have visitors who would like to meet you. And there's tea in the pot.”

Tilly slammed the book shut and jumped off the bed. “Yes, Mrs. Pearce,” she called through the closed door. “I'll be right down.”

Working quickly, while being careful not to damage anything, she gathered up the notebook, the delicate pressed flowers, and the trinkets, putting them all back into the wooden box before placing it in a drawer of the writing table. She smoothed her hair as best she could and hurried from the room, thoughts of a lost little girl, and a sister desperate to find her, settling like a fog around her heart.