A Memory of Violets (9 page)

A
strange hush descended over Violet House as Tilly made her way downstairs. Each footstep she placed on the creaky steps seemed to emphasize the fact that she was a stranger here, that the house did not yet know her well enough to be fully at ease.

Wincing at the sound of each creak and crack, she wished she could spend more time in her room, reading the notebook. She wanted to know more about Flora and her sister, Rosie.

The knots in her stomach tightened at the prospect of meeting the “girls” who would be in her charge—some of whom, despite the affectionate name given to them as a group, were much older than her. She wondered whether they would accept her direction in place of Mrs. Harris's, whether she was up to the
“demanding circumstances” facing her. She thought of her mother, of how satisfied she would be if Tilly were to fail, were to arrive home within a week, her great London adventure come to nothing. The thought made her stand taller.
Come along, Tilly,
she chided.
Pull yourself together. How difficult can it be?

“Well, good evening, girls. And a fine one it is, too, without the rain to dampen our spirits.”

Tilly's thoughts were interrupted by a loud, jovial voice downstairs.

“Good evening, Mr. Shaw,” she heard the girls reply in unison.

He was here! Mr. Shaw was here. Tilly stopped on the landing, straining to listen to this man she had heard so much about, and for whom she already had so much respect and admiration, despite having never met him in person.

“And how are you today, Lorraine?” she heard him ask. “You're looking much better now, I must say. And Hilda, how's that sprained wrist coming along? We're hoping to see you back on the factory floor very soon—those orchids don't look quite the same without your delicate touch on the petals. Ah, Betty and Doris, I see you're planning to be first into chapel as usual . . .” On and on he went, naming each girl in turn, asking how she was, referring to some previous illness or problem, listening to them all, giving each of them his time and attention, like a doting father to his daughters.

Tilly hesitated, lingering on the stairs, not wishing to intrude.

“Well, are you going down to introduce yourself, or are you going to lurk on this staircase for all of eternity?”

Tilly jumped. She hadn't noticed Mrs. Pearce had joined her on the upstairs landing. “I just stopped to tie my lace,” Tilly mumbled, bending down to fiddle with her boot.

Mrs. Pearce raised an eyebrow. She was not a woman who was
easily fooled. “And there was me, imagining that you were eavesdropping.” She winked.

Tilly smiled. “I hear Mr. Shaw has arrived.”

“Three Mr. Shaws, to be precise.”

“Three?”

“Yes. Albert—and his nephews, Herbert and Edward. And all on account of coming to introduce themselves to a certain new assistant housemother, I believe.” Mrs. Pearce tilted her head sideways, indicating that Tilly should start moving on.

Tilly made her way down the remaining stairs, each one creaking louder and louder, as if to announce her arrival to everyone gathered in the room below. Reaching the bottom, she brushed her hands over the front of her new white apron to smooth out any creases and tugged at the cuffs of her blouse to straighten them. Taking a deep breath, she walked to a door that was slightly ajar, knocked, and entered.

All eyes fell on her the moment she stepped into the room. She felt her cheeks redden as so many unfamiliar faces turned in her direction. Some of the girls smiled, some giggled, some frowned, some stood, some sat. Without exception, they stared.

“Hello.” Her voice came out as a muffled whisper. She cleared her throat. “Hello, everyone.” Better.

As the many pairs of eyes continued to gaze at her, Tilly looked around the room. It was softly lit by a gasolier suspended from a ceiling rose, the glass beading along the edge of the shade disturbed by a draft. The walls were covered with pretty rose-patterned wallpaper, and several pictures hung from the picture rail: watercolor landscapes and still-life paintings of various flora and fauna. A rag rug lay in front of the fireplace; to one side sat a built-in cupboard, to the other, a dresser, where numerous jugs and cups hung from hooks. In front of the window was a large
mahogany table surrounded by Windsor chairs, where some of the girls sat. Another group sat huddled together, giggling, on a comfortable-looking couch. A butter-yellow budgie chirped happily in a cage hanging on a stand near the window, a collection of seed husks gathered on the floor beneath.

“And you must be our new assistant housemother! Welcome to our Flower Homes, Miss Harper! Welcome indeed!” A tall, dignified-looking elderly man, dressed in a smart suit and black frock coat, appeared from among the group of women. He held out a large hand in greeting, his voice reverberating through Tilly's chest. “Albert Shaw. It is a pleasure to meet you.”

Tilly gazed up at him, somehow remembering her manners and holding out her hand in return. He took it, shaking it firmly but warmly. He was an impressive sight. Tilly guessed he stood over six feet tall. His face was dignified, with what her mother would describe as a “proud chin.” Gray hair and sideburns added an air of gravitas. His eyes, a vivid cornflower blue, spoke of a man who possessed the qualities of passion and compassion in equal measure. He smiled at Tilly, a warm, generous smile that made the crow's-feet crinkle mischievously around his eyes.

“And these are my nephews, Edward and Herbert,” he continued. “Twins—although you'd never believe it to look at them!”

Edward Shaw stepped forward. Much smaller in stature than his uncle, he carried nothing of the same air of distinction about him. His features were not unpleasant to look at, although there was nothing in particular to admire, either. He barely glanced at Tilly as he held out his hand to shake hers, but she noticed that he had the same striking blue eyes as his uncle. Edward's eyes, however, did not sparkle and dance like his uncle's, instead appearing empty and distant.

“Very pleased to meet you, Miss Harper,” he mumbled, his voice barely audible as he tripped and struggled over almost every word.

“Likewise.” Tilly took his hand. It felt weak and cool to the touch.

He nodded and shuffled back behind the girls as his brother stepped forward.

“Miss Harper! Herbert Shaw. Delighted to make your acquaintance.”

Herbert Shaw didn't share his brother's awkwardness or hesitancy, and it didn't escape Tilly's notice that he was rather handsome.

“I'm very much looking forward to working with you all,” she muttered, thrown by the feel of Herbert's hand in hers.

He smiled confidently, holding her gaze for a moment longer than was appropriate. She was quite captivated by his deep brown eyes, so dark they were almost black. The protracted and yet fleeting exchange between them caused a quickening of Tilly's heart. She hoped Herbert hadn't noticed the flush of color that she felt creeping up her neck and was relieved when he released her hand from his.

“I hear you've made quite the journey to be with us,” he continued, “and by steam locomotive, I see.” He gazed pointedly at Tilly's right cheek, offering a handkerchief from his pocket.

She winced, realizing that while she'd been busy poking around in other people's possessions upstairs, she'd forgotten to wipe away the smoke smudge she'd noticed earlier. She was annoyed with herself and even more annoyed with Herbert Shaw for pointing it out so unkindly.

“Thank you,” she said, taking the handkerchief and putting it self-consciously to her cheek.

As he smiled—somewhat condescendingly—she decided that his lips were, perhaps, a little too large for the rest of his face.

“You're welcome. And you may keep that,” he added, gesturing to the handkerchief before turning his attention back to the girls. He made a comment that Tilly couldn't quite hear, but which made them all giggle.

“The boys are showing quite an aptitude for the business side of our operation,” Mr. Shaw added, giving Herbert and Edward each a hefty pat on the shoulder. “Which is just as well. With my dear wife insisting on producing daughters, I am forced to look to my nephews to take over the running of the charity when I am no longer able to see to things myself.”

“I doubt anyone will be taking over for many years yet, Uncle,” Herbert said as he turned back to Tilly. “My uncle has been blessed, Miss Harper, not only with the ability to save impoverished children from a life of destitution but also with the ability to continually deny the fact that he is not a well man.”

Albert laughed. “And long may my abilities continue—on both counts!”

Herbert then excused himself, said he looked forward to seeing everyone at chapel, and left the room, his brother following quietly behind. Tilly was disappointed to notice that, of the two of them, it was Edward who gave her a brief backward glance as they departed.

“I hope you had a comfortable journey down to London,” Albert continued after his nephews had left the room. “All the way from the glorious Lake country, I believe. Quite the distance traveled.”

“Yes. It seems like a long while since I left this morning,” Tilly replied. “But the train was very reliable and made good time.”

“And Mrs. Pearce informs me that poor Mrs. Harris is
incapacitated. I hope we haven't startled you too much by providing you with an immediate promotion to post of housemother! Although I'm sure Queenie can be relied on to help out, should the girls become too unruly.”

Tilly nodded, wondering which of the girls Queenie was.

“Life here will be very different for you at first, Miss Harper,” Albert continued, “but I'm quite sure that, with the support of the girls and the other members of our staff—and of course with the blessings of God—you will come to love London and family life with us, just as much as you do your own family and home.”

His words weighed heavily on Tilly, as if they demanded an immediate acknowledgment of the truth: that she didn't love her home, or her family. Not anymore. Not since Esther had arrived to spoil everything with her perfect face and perfect manners and perfect white-blond hair.

Esther! Esther! Where are you? I can't see anything. Esther! Where are you?

The unfamiliar sound of the budgie chirping in its cage drew Tilly back from her thoughts. Albert Shaw stood in front of her, waiting for her to speak. All she could manage was an uninspiring “Yes. Thank you. I will.”

“Very good. Now, I must go and prepare for my sermon.” If Mr. Shaw had noticed Tilly's distraction, he chose not to draw attention to it. “I look forward to seeing you all at chapel, and”—he continued, lowering his voice and leaning down to be closer to the faces of the girls—“I have some
most
exciting news to share with you all,
most
exciting indeed!”

With that, he bid them farewell and walked out of the room, leaving the space of twenty men behind him.

D
a is dead. Dead and gone wherever the likes of men such as him go.

He didn't say nothing before he passed, just stared at me, though I don't think he was looking at me proper. It's awful to say, but I weren't even sad. I didn't cry—not one tear. I know he was my da, but I don't feel nothing for him like a daughter should. I don't miss him at all and that's the truth of it.

Auntie May's all me an' Rosie have now, and she's not well, neither. She talks to herself a lot and screams at me sometimes. “Get out of my house!” she shouts, jabbing her finger at me. “Get out, ye little tinker.” Swears she's never seen me before and that
I'm after stealing things. Mrs. Quinn says it's syphilis. Syphilis can do that to a person, y'know—send them barmy. She'll end up in Bedlam with the rest of 'em, no doubt.

After Da was buried, I made Auntie promise not to send us to the workhouse. She says she won't, so long as we keep selling our flowers and earning some pennies, so I've been trying to sell as many bunches as I can.

At least we've the warmer days now and the start of summer. There's always something nicer about the summer. People are more friendly, and ye'll never get a lady or gen'leman refusing a posy on a fine summer's day, sure you won't. And them ginger-beer fountains that pop up all over the city—Lord! The best and fanciest I ever seen was in Petticoat Lane. Dark shining wood and gleaming brass on the pump handles, the glasses all shining in the sun, two handsome ponies to pull the machine—like something from Buckingham Palace it was. Oh, I wished I had a ha'penny to spare so as me and Rosie could have a taste of it.

All the sweetest flowers are in bloom this time of year, so we should have a decent trade, if the rains hold off. It's the violets and roses I like selling best. They look so pretty all tied up, and the violets with their leaves shaped like love hearts and the rose petals what feel so soft in my fingers I imagine I'm touching the ladies' velvet skirts. Smell good, too. It's nice to put them roses to your nose and forget about the stink of that busted drain at the Court. “God gave us roses in June so that we can have memories in December.” That's what Mammy used to say. Loved the roses the best, so she did. Reckon that's why she named Little Sister after them. Dear little Rosie. Sweet little thing. All I have in the world, so she is. All I have in the world.