Marguerite nodded. Her heart was racing. She tried to appear unflustered. “Yes. Quite. I understand.”
The doctor stood up, placing his instruments methodically into his black medical bag.
“And how are you feeling yourself, Mrs. Ingram, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“I am quite well, thank you, Doctor. Of course, the summer months do wonders for a person’s joie de vivre.”
Even to her own ear, the words sounded forced.
“Well, I’m very glad to hear it. You will let me know if you require any more medication to help you sleep.” She nodded. He paused and cleared his throat. “I hope you don’t think it impertinent of me to say, Mrs. Ingram, but I do think it would be wise to give some thought to where the child might be placed—and sooner, rather than later. It could be confusing for her to remain here for any length of time. A foundling hospital may be appropriate, or I can recommend a number of very reputable children’s homes, some of which specialize in the care of blind children.”
Marguerite smiled. “Of course, Doctor. It has all been such a shock, as I’m sure you can imagine. It isn’t every day one discovers a wretched child in one’s carriage! Ingram and I felt it was our duty to give the child food and shelter for the night. Now that I have a clearer idea of the difficulties she faces, we will, of course, look into a suitable blind school, or somewhere that will be able to help her with her needs.”
Standing up, she rang the bell to summon Mrs. Jeffers.
“Thank you again for calling at such short notice, Doctor. It was very good of you.”
“My pleasure, Mrs. Ingram,” he replied, shaking her hand. “And again, do let me know if I can help at all with a suitable placement for the child.”
“Her name is Violette. And thank you. Ah, Mrs. Jeffers. Dr. Asquith was just leaving. Would you be so kind as to see him out?”
LEFT ON HER OWN, Marguerite sat on the chaise for a while, absorbing the doctor’s diagnosis. To discover that Violette was blind . . . She swallowed and tried to relax her hands, closing her eyes, imagining a life of darkness. It frightened her. Her head ached, her stomach flipped and tumbled. Perhaps Thomas and the doctor were right. The child needed to be taken into care. She wasn’t their problem, after all. How on earth could they cope with a blind child?
You must show strength, Marguerite. Courage.
Standing up, she walked to the fireplace. She felt cold, despite the warm weather, and wished the fire had been lit. Lifting her face, she studied her reflection in the large, ornate mirror that hung above the fireplace. A wedding gift from Thomas’s parents, along with Nightingale House. She’d never really cared for it—the mirror, finding it lacking in elegance.
Smoothing her chestnut hair, she ran her fingertips over her face. She looked pale and tired from the restless night. The once dazzling blue of her eyes was diluted, her cheeks pinched and deprived of the attractive flush of pink that used to reside there. Where was the confident, beautiful woman she used to be? Where was the vibrant young girl who’d arrived from Paris and fallen in love with the son of her father’s lawyer? Thomas Ingram was a promising businessman dealing in sugar—white gold—and the most handsome man she’d ever met. What had happened to that ambitious, hopeful girl he’d married?
As she turned her face away from the mirror, her gaze settled on a photograph that stood on a table by the window. Her daughter. She walked over and picked it up, brushing her fingers over the glass. Beautiful, beautiful Delphine. Her wide, blue eyes, full of love and innocence. Her endless smile. The peach-soft feel of her skin. The scent of lavender that lingered on her hands from warm days spent in the gardens.
The room fell silent, just the gentle ticking of the carriage clock marking the passing of time. Marguerite stood still, lost in her grief, her arms heavy with the ache of her child’s absence.
Her thoughts were disturbed by a nightingale that had settled on a branch of the oak tree outside the open window and struck up its familiar song. Clutching Delphine’s photograph to her chest, Marguerite walked to the window, pushing it open farther. She closed her eyes, listening to the melodic song, remembering how Delphine loved to hear the nightingales sing, how she’d been enchanted by the fairy story Marguerite read to her about the nightingale whose beautiful song had restored the dying emperor’s health.
As the little bird hopped and flitted among the dappled branches of the tree, Marguerite felt a flicker of hope stir deep within her. Discovering that Violette was blind did not lessen her affection for the child, it only increased it. There was no doubt in her mind that Violette had been sent to her to care for as her own daughter, and as the bird continued its joyous song, Marguerite’s heart soared with hope. She knew that she could never send Violette away. The little girl was part of her life now—her very own nightingale—and she would treasure her as if she were made of a thousand precious jewels.
Chapter 20
Nightingale House, London
July 1876
Three days after Violette’s arrival, Marguerite spoke to Thomas again, suggesting that the child remain with them a little longer, until she recovered her strength and returned to full health. Distracted by his business dealings, and happy to see his wife showing an interest in something again, he’d given his consent. As the days lapsed into weeks, still Violette resided at Nightingale House. With each passing day, Marguerite grew more and more determined to ensure it remained that way.
And yet, Violette’s presence troubled her. She worried about what—or who—might be waiting for them when they returned from a long walk around the gardens. She wondered about the child’s mother, whether she’d loved her little girl before she died or whether she’d died in childbirth, never knowing the joy of motherhood.
“Somebody may still come for her, Marguerite—a relative, or someone who knows of her,” Thomas cautioned. “We are only keeping watch over her until we can find a suitable foster home. She must still call us Mrs. Ingram and Mr. Ingram—not Mother and Father. You do understand the importance of that?”
“Yes, dear. I know. I understand.”
She could not have felt more constant dread if she’d stolen the crown jewels themselves. But whatever her worries and fears, and however much Thomas cautioned her against becoming too attached to the child, as she watched the roses in the gardens bloom, so she observed the child blossoming under her care. By the time the full heat of summer had settled over London, Marguerite found the prospect of living without Violette far worse than the consequences of living with her.
Whenever she felt suffocated by her worries, or by the memories of Delphine that lingered and whispered to her among the lofty rooms of Nightingale House, she took Violette for a stroll along the Terrace Walk. She held the child’s hand tightly, describing the magnificent view to her as they took a rest on one of the wooden benches, looking out across Petersham Meadows toward the city.
“The finest view in all of London, they say. A patchwork of fields, in a dozen shades of green, spreading for miles to the river Thames. It’s so far away, but I can see it clearly, glistening in the sun like one of the silver ribbons on your bonnet. It weaves toward the City, twisting and turning like an unpinned curl. And above the river and the fields I can see church spires and the Houses of Parliament and the clock tower. I can even see the dome of St. Paul’s. And the deer are watching us, Violette. We must sit very still, my darling. If we make any sudden movement they’ll hear us and run into the cover of the trees. Oh, it’s so beautiful. How I wish you could see it with your own eyes.”
As she sat with Violette, looking toward the impossibly huge metropolis, Marguerite wondered who was out there looking for the child. Did they feel the pain of separation as she had when Delphine lost her battle for life? Was there someone, at that very moment, looking across the London skyline toward the green fields of the suburbs, wondering where their dear little sister had gone, wondering whether she still lived? If she looked long enough, would their eyes meet? Would sh
e see them staring back at her?
Tearing her eyes away from the view, she gathered Violette up into her arms, and began to make her way back to the house.
“Violette,” she whispered as she held the child close. “My dear little Violette. Now you are loved and safe, loved and safe, loved and safe,” rocking her, until she fell into a peaceful sleep.
IN THE FEW WEEKS since her arrival, Rosie had soon settled into the ordered routines of Nightingale House under Mrs. Jeffers’s watchful eye. She explored the house, discovering favorite places where she liked to play with the toys Mrs. Ingram had given her. Sometimes she sat in a patch of light and warmth beside the windows, enjoying the feel of the sunlight on her face. Sometimes she preferred the cool, dark recesses of the library, or the space behind the ferns in the parlor, where she would play with the dollhouse, carefully moving the furnishings from one room to another, feeling the shape of each piece, walking her fingers along tiny corridors and rooms before deciding where to place them.
There was so much to occupy her, and so much food to eat, that occasionally she forgot that she hadn’t always lived in this grand, comfortable house where people cooked meals for her, washed her clothes, and gave her toys to play with. Her life as a flower seller seemed like a distant dream, it was so different to the world she now inhabited. And when she forgot about the stench of Rosemary Court and the noise of the markets and the ache she used to always feel in her belly, she allowed herself to enjoy many things about her new life: the sensation of Mrs. Ingram’s breath as she blew softly onto her cheeks, knowing how it made her chuckle; the gentle rhythm of the songs she sang to wake her each morning and the lullabies that sent her to sleep at night. She liked the way Mrs. Ingram smelled of roses and lavender and she liked to rub her fingers over the soft folds of silk on Mrs. Ingram’s dresses and on the ribbons that tied her bonnets.
She especially liked the way everyone called her Violette. It was the prettiest name she’d ever heard, and when Mrs. Ingram addressed her it was as if she were singing. Vee-o-lette. Vee-o-lette. She copied the sound, repeating it to herself over and over again when she was alone. “Violette,” she whispered into her ever-present gloom. “Violette, Violette,” until the name Rosie became a distant echo, hidden away in some dark corner of her memory.
She also loved to spend time in the kitchen, while Cook prepared the meals. She liked to sit on a stool by the open window, breathing in the perfume of the jasmine and honeysuckle bushes that crept along the wall outside. She savored the delicious cooking smells and listened to the tantalizing crackle and spit of meat roasting and of spoons beating against bowls as Cook whipped up a delicious dessert. She felt the familiar gnaw of hunger in her belly, knowing that it would soon be full. She sensed that she was well cared for, that she was loved and safe, and yet she often felt a sensation of falling, of being pulled by an invisible thread that connected her to another life, to another person, far away.
“Is Florrie coming soon?” she would ask, as she walked with Mrs. Ingram among the flower beds in the gardens of Nightingale House. The smells took her back to the flower markets: lavender, mint, basil, hydrangea, hyacinth, lilac, jasmine, lily of the valley, rose. She imagined herself with Florrie, waiting to buy their stock for the day.
“Oh, now, don’t you worry your pretty little head about that, darling. Mr. Ingram will be looking for her. London is a very large city. It might take a little time. Don’t you worry, Violette. You must concentrate on getting healthy and strong. Your sister wouldn’t want to find you unwell, would she?”
She often wondered if Florrie would be cross with her when Mr. and Mrs. Ingram took her back. Would she scold her for putting her through so much worry, or would she be excited to hear of her adventures at this big house and of all the toys and dresses she’d been given?
As the weeks progressed, she began to talk to Florrie, whispering to her when she thought Mrs. Ingram wasn’t listening. She began to imagine that Florrie was always beside her; she had pretend conversations with her as she played or walked in the gardens. “Listen, Florrie, can you hear the nightingale? Sweet, ain’t he?” Or “Can you smell ’em, Florrie? The roses. Buy a bunch, kind lady. Tuppence a bloom,” and on and on.
Sometimes, Mrs. Ingram would overhear her secret whisperings. “Stop it, Violette!” she would snap. “Stop talking like that. It’s silly.”
And then she would close up like an oyster, refusing to speak to anyone, and the echo of Mrs. Ingram’s weeping would drift through the vast rooms and corridors until it seemed that the whole of Nightingale House was weeping with her.
Chapter 21
Nightingale House, London
August 1876
As the searing heat intensified over London, so did the emotions within Nightingale House. Violette still asked regularly about Florrie, still whispered to her when she thought nobody was listening.
Marguerite couldn’t bear it.
“It will pass,” Thomas reassured her when she fell into his arms, weeping. “She’ll soon forget about her previous life and her sister. She’ll have to—there’s no hope of finding the girl. Even if we did go searching among the slums of London’s Irish—which I’m quite sure neither of us wishes to do—it would be like looking for a needle in a haystack. If you would let me make an appointment with one of the matrons of the children’s homes, this could all be over. She would be well cared for and she wouldn’t be our responsibility—or our problem—anymore.”
But his words only upset Marguerite further. She didn’t want this to “all be over.” She didn’t view Violette as a “problem.” She was happy for her to be their responsibility. It could all be so perfect—if only the constant feeling of dread would leave her, if only Violette would stop whispering that name.
It nagged and it nagged at her, until she could ignore it no longer. For all that she longed to forget about Violette’s past, she found herself unable to deny the feelings of guilt. The fact that she might be preventing the child from finding the sister she clearly adored and missed terribly preyed on Marguerite’s mind. Although she was afraid of losing the child, she knew that she had to try to find Florrie.
She couldn’t say anything of her plans to Thomas, knowing that he would absolutely forbid her to go anywhere near the slums of the East End, so she settled on speaking about it to her lady’s maid—her longest-serving maid, whom she trusted—as soon as possible.
VIOLETTE LOOKED FORWARD to the evenings, when the nightingale sang in the oak tree outside her window. She’d never heard a sound so beautiful. She remembered hearing the cock linnets sing in their cages at market, but even those she’d hardly been able to hear above the cries of the sellers.
“Since you like the nightingale so much, I must read you a story about it,” Mrs. Ingram said. “It was written by a Danish man, Hans Christian Andersen. I used to read it to Delphi—Well, let’s just start, shall we?”
It quickly became a favorite. Violette asked for it every night, and Mrs. Ingram would fetch the big book, sit beside her on her bed, wrap her arms around her, and read.
She loved to hear about the Chinese emperor and his beautiful city and the palace and gardens. She loved to listen to the words of the story as Mrs. Ingram read. “The nightingale sang so sweetly that the tears came into the emperor’s eyes, and then rolled down his cheeks, as her song became still more touching and went to everyone’s heart.”
Violette pitied the nightingale, kept within a cage for her beauty, let out to fly only when tethered by a silken thread. She didn’t think it was fair that the emperor kept the bird just for his own pleasure. She especially loved the descriptions of the artificial nightingale, covered all over with diamonds, rubies, and sapphires, and she worried when it broke and was only allowed to sing once a year. She wept when the emperor fell ill, and she clapped her hands with joy when the real nightingale returned to sing to him and made him better.
“I will sit on a bough outside your window, in the evening, and sing to you,” M
rs. Ingram read, “so that you may be happy, and have thoughts full of joy. I will sing to you of those who are happy, and those who suffer; of the good and the evil, who are hidden around you.”
And now, when Violette heard the nightingale sing outside her bedroom window, she imagined it was the emperor of China’s nightingale, sent to tell her of what it had seen and of stories from far away. “Florrie,” she heard it sing. “Dear Florrie. She looks for you. She waits for you.”
IT WAS WHILE dressing for dinner that Marguerite gathered the courage to speak to Wallis—her lady’s maid—about her plan to look for Violette’s sister.
Several of Thomas’s business colleagues were to be their guests that evening, to discuss the possible purchase of a number of sugar factories in the north of England. It was tedious business, and Marguerite was not looking forward to it. She fussed and fidgeted in her seat at the dressing table, while Wallis tugged and teased her hair, shaping it into a fashionable knot at the crown and pinning it tightly into place until her head ached.
“Wallis, I need to ask for your help with something. It’s a highly sensitive matter and cannot be known by anybody else. Not even Mr. Ingram. Do you understand?”
Wallis stopped her pinning and looked at Marguerite, surprised by the seriousness of her mistress’s tone.
“Yes, m’lady. Of course. You have my word. Are you unwell?”
“No, it is nothing to do with my health. Oh, Wallis. It is the most desperate secret. I must have you swear on the Bible that you won’t tell anyone of it.”
“Of course, m’lady. I swear. What is it?”
Marguerite stood up and motioned for her maid to take a seat beside her on the chaise.
“You’re familiar with some of the poorer areas of London, aren’t you? The places where the flower sellers live? The Irish, in particular.”
“I know a little about them, yes. Most of the Irish are in Rosemary Court. That’s where they gather.”