The girl looked at Marguerite in a way that suggested she didn’t believe her.
“And where might I find Rosemary Court?” Marguerite asked.
“Off Drury Lane. Behind the oil shop.”
Marguerite thanked the girl and pressed a silver sixpence into her hand, urging her to get herself something warm to eat. As she again pulled Wallis away from the group of women, a heaviness settled across her heart. What would she do if she found Florrie?
“I can’t believe it,” Wallis said as they walked. “I honestly thought you didn’t have a chance of ever finding her. Perhaps Florrie is closer than you’d expected. Perhaps she’s somewhere in this market, right now.”
Marguerite could hardly bear to think about it. And if she’s here, she will be searching for her sister, she thought, searching and searching, brokenhearted and cold and hungry. What if Florrie had seen her that day on Westminster Bridge as she’d climbed into the brougham and told Thompson to take her home. What if Florrie was looking for her?
As the chimes of the church clock struck the half hour, the two women walked back toward where Thompson and the carriage were waiting. Marguerite’s attention was drawn to the many children she’d barely noticed in the dim pre-dawn light. Now she saw them clearly: some darting about like rats, some huddled under market barrows, some sitting with their mothers, others kicking a rotten apple along the cobbles. She gazed at a pair of half-starved toddlers, their hands held tightly as they walked across the piazza in their bare feet, standing in all the filth and dirt, their empty, glazed eyes seeing nothing of the dreadful conditions around them.
Some of them stopped to stare at the two ladies. A girl approached them—a pretty little thing, despite her ragged clothes and pinched cheeks. Her flame-red hair reminded Marguerite of Violette. She held a bunch of violets in her hand. She couldn’t be more than four years old. “Buy a flower off a poor girl? Oh, please, Miss. Do buy a flower.”
Marguerite stared at the child as a sense of unease spread within her like a fever. More than ever, she felt the burden of guilt at having taken something that didn’t belong to her. The filth, the poverty, the reality of what she had done washed over her like an unstoppable wave so that she felt unsteady on her feet, grabbing at Wallis’s sleeve as the stench of rotting vegetables and fish guts engulfed her. She doubled over and retched in the street.
“I can’t stand this any longer,” she gasped, pulling her maid along as she walked briskly across the cobbles. “I have to get away from here.”
She almost ran down the slope of Southampton Street, across the Strand, and down the narrow alleyway toward the Victoria Embankment, Wallis running behind, calling for her to wait. Only when she was some distance from the market did Marguerite allow herself to stop and retch again, the bile burning in her throat, a cold sweat beading on her forehead.
“Mrs. Ingram! Good Lord, m’lady. Are you taken ill? Do you need to go to the infirmary? Oh, I knew this was a bad idea.”
Marguerite stood upright, trying to catch her breath as she placed the violets to her nose to inhale their sweet fragrance.
“No. I don’t need the infirmary. I will be quite all right.” She stood for a moment, trying to regain her composure. “It’s the smell of this place. It’s enough to turn the stomach of the strongest of men.”
“It is that, m’lady. Should we go back to Richmond now? I think, maybe, you’ve seen enough?”
Marguerite turned to look at her.
“No. Not yet. We came to find Florrie, and we still have one more place to look. We must go to Rosemary Court. Come along. We’ll ask Thompson to drive us.”
She stood for a moment, watching the strengthening morning sun as it shimmered on the Thames. The glare dazzled Marguerite’s eyes, almost blinding her, so that she could make out only shadows and dark silhouettes of the boats on the river. She closed her eyes and said a silent prayer before she turned to walk back toward the din of the market.
Chapter 23
Covent Garden, London
August 1876
A lighting from the carriage at the corner of Drury Lane, the two women tentatively approached the entrance to Rosemary Court, the labyrinth of narrow alleyways quickly closing in on them, blocking out the sun. Marguerite shuddered, pulling her cloak around her shoulders. It was highly unconventional for a woman of her standing to be walking among these filthy, oppressive streets. She thought of how angry Thomas would be if he ever found out she had come here.
Turning a corner, they came across a group of women who were standing against a wall, smoking their pipes, their wrinkled faces partly obscured by their black bonnets. They stared at Marguerite and Wallis as they approached.
“You lost, love?”
Marguerite looked up to see a woman hanging her washing from a window, two stories above her head. “Look like you don’t belong round these parts. More likely it’s the Palace yer looking for.”
Her remark caused the other women to start laughing.
“I’m looking for someone actually,” Marguerite replied, trying to suppress the nausea that was rising again in her stomach. “A child. Florrie is her name. That is all I know. She has a little sister, Rosie. They’re Irish, I believe. I think they may have lived here.”
“Well, you’re in the right place if it’s Irish yer looking for. There’s a hundred Florries and Rosies living here, though, love. Don’t fancy yer chances.”
Marguerite sighed. “Well, thank you anyway.”
Disheartened but determined to continue, Marguerite led Wallis along the dark alleyways until they were deep inside the Court. She’d heard of London’s rookeries—the name given to the absolute worst of the slums—and wondered if this was one such place as her eyes darted from left to right, trying to take everything in. Chickens scraped at the ground, pecking between the cobbles. Emaciated dogs ran around her legs, barking at the geese, which scurried out of the way, flapping their wings and honking in fright. Barefooted, wretched children sat about in groups, some scraping at bundles of asparagus, some peeling walnuts, others minding infants who bawled with outrage at the indignity of it all. Empty baskets and shallows were dotted about the place, some with the remnants of unsold flowers from the previous day, withered in the heat. A dozen or so grubby, pale-faced children were gathered around a streetlamp, playing some sort of game with a long piece of rope. They stopped for a moment and stared blankly at the two women as they walked past. Everywhere they walked, they drew attention to themselves, despite the effort they’d made to dress in plain, dark clothes.
Eventually, they emerged into the center of the Court, where the early morning sunlight streamed over the tops of the buildings. Marguerite was glad of the light and the warmth, although she kept the posy of violets to her nose. They spoke to a group of women clustered around a small stall selling salt cod, who eyed Marguerite and Wallis suspiciously and told them they didn’t know of a Florrie or a Rosie. And then another woman approached, whose words made Marguerite’s stomach lurch.
“I knew a Florrie all right,” she said. “Lived over there with her little sister, Rosie. Knew their mother, Nora, so I did, before she died. And there was an aunt—May, I think she was called—gone off to Bedlam or some such place. Ain’t seen the littlest child for months now, though.”
“And the eldest? Florrie?”
“Not seen her neither. Just disappeared one day, so she did. They’re probably both gone to the workhouse. God love ’em.”
Marguerite thanked the woman and led Wallis toward the house the woman had pointed to. It was one of two dozen single-story buildings, squashed into a small square, no more than fifty feet wide. Long wooden shutters were closed over most of the windows. In others, the frames were rotting, the glass cracked or missing; faded, yellowing newspaper used in its place. The most appalling smell came from a standpipe in the middle of the court, making Wallis retch as they walked past. Barking dogs, bawling babies, gruff-voiced men, and the shrill cries of women all mingled into
a terrible noise that, to Marguerite’s ears, sounded like Hell itself.
With her heart pounding, and the palms of her hands clammy, Marguerite continued across the small square to a dilapidated house in the center. Placing her hand over her nose and mouth, she peered in through the broken window, her eyes adjusting slowly to the gloom of the interior. She struggled to see, just able to make out a tattered mattress in one corner, a tabletop on upturned vegetable pallets for legs, and a fireplace—the grate empty. The walls were riddled with black mold from the damp.
Only when her eyes had adjusted to the gloom did she notice a woman looking back at her. She was almost invisible in the murky dark of the room.
“Oh! Oh, I’m so sorry,” Marguerite gasped, jumping backward. “I didn’t mean to intrude.” The hollow eyes blinked at her. Marguerite faltered. She knew she had to ask the question, but it felt so wrong. “I’m very sorry to trouble you, but I wondered if you might know of a young Irish girl who lived here—Florrie?” The woman stared blankly at her before looking down at the infant suckling hungrily at her breast.
Marguerite pulled back from the window. “Let’s go, Wallis. There’s nothing here. Florrie isn’t here.” Her voice was weak; her knees trembled beneath her skirts.
They walked briskly away from the small square. She had done what she’d come for. Now, she just wanted to get back to the safety of her own home—back to Violette.
The two women twisted and turned, rushing down the maze of dark lanes.
“Which way is it, Wallis? Which way?” There was fear and panic in Marguerite’s voice. “I don’t remember the way!”
Turning a corner, she bumped into a little girl, almost knocking the basket of flowers from her hands.
“Oh, my goodness! I’m so sorry. Are you all right?”
The child stared at her. “Buy a flower, kind lady. Poor little girl. Buy a flower. Tuppence a bunch.” It appeared to be the only thing she was capable of saying.
Despite her anxiousness to get out of the dingy streets, Marguerite didn’t have the heart to say no. She reached into her purse for a coin, half a dozen other children flocking around her as she did, quick to spot the chance of a sale. They each held out their wares—posies, cresses, boxes of matches, horseshoe nails—imploring her to buy.
“Now, now, children. Give the lady some space.”
Marguerite was startled by the sound of a male voice behind her. She turned around and was surprised to see a smartly dressed gentleman. He looked as out of place as she did, his frock coat and top hat striking among the depravity of the dark alleyway. He smiled at the children, patting them on their heads.
“Good morning,” he said, extending his hand toward Marguerite. “Albert Shaw. I presume you are lost! We don’t often see ladies around these parts of London.”
Marguerite blushed, conscious of the fact that she shouldn’t be there at all. She was relieved to have encountered the gentleman, nevertheless.
“Well, yes. We do seem to find ourselves a little lost. We were looking for Covent Garden theater.”
“Well, you’re not far away. It’s so easy to lose your way in these little back streets. Perhaps you would permit me to escort you?”
“Buy a flower, kind lady?”
Albert smiled as another child thrust her flowers toward Marguerite. “Quite industrious, aren’t they? You’ve got to admire their work ethic.”
Marguerite felt her sense of panic subsiding in Mr. Shaw’s company. “And how on earth could I refuse such beautiful flowers from such a pretty little girl?”
She gave the child half a farthing.
Albert clapped his hands. “Now, run along, children. You’re not to be pestering the ladies again.”
The children ran off, chattering like birds as they melted into the shadows.
“You seem quite at ease with the children, if you don’t mind me saying,” Marguerite remarked, as Mr. Shaw guided her and Wallis out of the alleyway. “It is admirable to see.”
“Well, it takes a little while to get to know their ways. I have a small mission hall at Covent Garden. I encourage the children—blind and crippled flower sellers, mainly—to go there so that we can teach them about good people and read to them from the Bible. We provide a cup of cocoa and a hot meal. It’s a small thing, but it can make all the difference to them. They are unable to find any other employment, due to their physical limitations.”
Marguerite was reminded of the state poor little Violette had arrived in. She imagined the difference such a place would have made to her.
“And I assume the problem is widespread?” she asked.
“Unfortunately, yes. London is riddled with orphaned and crippled children. We can only begin to scratch the surface of the problem with the small amount of funding we receive, although I’m delighted to have the support of Lord Shaftesbury, who was recently appointed president of our mission. His involvement has made a significant difference. We take the older blind and afflicted girls into employment at a small workroom in Clerkenwell and the youngest go to an orphanage on the south coast.”
Marguerite was enjoying the conversation. It provided a welcome distraction from the staring eyes that followed them as they walked back toward the entrance to the court. “It sounds quite fascinating. What employment are the girls engaged in at your workroom?”
“They make silk flowers, which we sell to wholesalers and to private homes. They’re quite the thing nowadays.”
“Yes. I’ve seen some of the silk flowers from Paris. They’re very lifelike.” Marguerite raised the posy of violets to her nose again as they passed a woman gutting fish. “And the children are able to manage such intricate work? Even the cripples?”
Mr. Shaw chuckled. “Yes! It really is amazing how adept they can become. One girl holds the paintbrush in her mouth to add the detail to the petals. I wouldn’t believe it myself if I didn’t see them hard at work every day. We are delighted to have been asked to decorate the Guild Hall for the mayoral banquet. The girls are quite beside themselves with excitement!”
“Well, it all sounds most commendable, Mr. Shaw. Most commendable, indeed,” Marguerite remarked as they emerged onto Drury Lane.
“Ah. Here we are. Daylight!” Albert Shaw held out his hand. “I hope you won’t find yourself lost in Rosemary Court again,” he said. “It really is no place for a lady.”
Marguerite felt foolish as she shook his hand. “Of course. We will be sure to stick to the main streets in future. Won’t we, Wallis?”
“Yes, m’lady.”
“Well, it was very nice to meet you, Mr. Shaw, and to learn of your work with the flower sellers. I will certainly look out for your displays.”
Tipping his hat, Albert bid the ladies farewell before retracing his steps and returning to the dark alleyways.
It was only as Marguerite watched him walk away that it struck her. If he visited this area often, perhaps he knew of Florrie. Perhaps he knew a little girl whose heart was breaking because she was missing her sister.
She almost called after him, almost ran to him to explain everything that had happened—about the carriage and the little girl she’d found cowering within it. But she didn’t. She merely stood in the middle of the busy London street and watched Albert Shaw, until he was engulfed by the shadows.
“Come along, m’lady. We should be getting back now,” Wallis said, looping her arm through Marguerite’s and guiding them both toward the theater where Thompson was waiting.
Their skirts and boots muddied, the smell of decay sticking to their coats like glue, the women were grateful to climb into the carriage. Thompson clicked his tongue and cracked the whip as he urged the horse to trot on. They were both glad to feel the wheels rumbling over the cobbles.
Lost in private thoughts about everything they’d seen and heard, neither of them spoke as the carriage followed the bend of the river, the chimes of Big Ben striking nine as they passed Westminster. As the carriage wheels turned, so, too, did Marguerite’s th
oughts. She closed her eyes and wondered.
She wondered whether Thomas’s business trip would be successful and whether they might soon be far away from London, where nobody would ever know that Violette had once been a poor flower seller called Rosie. She wondered about the cruelty of life and why Delphine had been taken from her so soon. She wondered why a little girl had hidden in her carriage. She wondered whether the worry and guilt that pulled at her day and night would ever go away. She wondered about Albert Shaw’s work with the flower sellers and whether there might be a way for her to repay some of her debt to Florrie, even if she couldn’t find her. And she also wondered about the incredible power of love and hope, and it was that—love and hope—which she held on to. Then she locked those sentiments away, deep within her heart, as she resolved to do everything she could to make sure that the nightingales always sang for Violette, that her life would never again be one of cruelty and darkness but would be filled, always, with love and light.
Chapter 24
Violet House, London
June 1912
Galloping, galloping, galloping, the thundering hooves not going fast enough. The jangle of stirrups and bridle, the pony pulling at the reins. A fly in her eye. Wind rushing past her ears. Tears streaming down her cheeks. The thick, swirling fog distorting her senses.
Finally, the cottage, barely visible over the hill, never getting closer.
The crunch of gravel on the laneway. A tractor in a field somewhere nearby. Someone calling her name. “Good evening, Miss Matilda.”
Running, running, running. The cat leaping off the doormat. The cool darkness of the cottage.
“Mother! Mother! Come, quickly. It’s Esther! There’s been an accident!”
Her mother’s face, pale as a ghost.
“I told you to look after her, Matilda! I told you again and again to look after her!” Her eyes wild, flashing with fear. Screaming into her face, “What have you done to her? Where is she?”
She didn’t know. Esther was lost. The fog had taken her.