Seeing these insignificant little trinkets again made her so glad that she had kept them. Something about their simplicity had touched her all those years ago; some part of her had felt obliged to keep these small mementos of a life once lived. She planned to give the handkerchief and flowers to Violette on her twenty-first birthday. She would tell her the truth then, explain everything that had happened. With enough love in the intervening years, she was certain that Violette would understand. Perhaps then, Marguerite would finally be free from the guilt and doubt that she carried in her heart.
But that was for the future. Today’s journey was about a new beginning; there was no need to spoil it by worrying about where it might end.
“MOTHER, THE CAR is ready!”
Marguerite jumped at the sound of Violette’s voice. Her heart soared at the sound of that word: “Mother.”
“Yes, darling. I’ll be right down.”
Wrapping the delicate violets in the tissue paper with the handkerchief and placing the fragile package into her purse, she took one last look around the room as the footman knocked and entered to collect the final trunk.
“Is that the last, m’lady?”
“Yes, Roberts. That’s the last.”
Marguerite stood up, took the flower press, prayer book, and purse from the dressing table and walked from the room. She was relieved to close the heavy wooden door behind her, to close out all the sadness, all the painful memories.
Holding her head high, she walked downstairs.
Violette stood, small and alone, in the vacuous space of the entrance hall, its size emphasized now that the ornate pictures and grand display vases had been removed. Marguerite studied her for a moment. She was dressed so perfectly, her auburn hair curled into wonderful, shimmering ringlets. With a deep breath, she walked the rest of the way down the stairs and took her daughter by the arm.
“Now, my darling, are we all ready for our big adventure?”
“Yes, Mother. We’re all ready.”
They smiled at each other as they stepped out into the dazzling sunlight of a glorious autumn day. Thompson was waiting for them on the carriage circle, the horses’ coats gleaming like polished mahogany.
“Let us not forget this day, darling,” Marguerite said as she helped Violette into the carriage. “My mother always said that every journey comes with either an end or a beginning. I think we should consider this journey a beginning. What do you think?”
Violette smiled. “I like that idea.” She settled herself into the seat, having no recollection now of having once hidden beneath it, afraid for her life. “Will you miss the house, Mother?”
Marguerite considered the question for a moment. “A little. You?”
“I’ll miss the nightingales. I’ll miss them very much.”
“Well, perhaps the nightingale will find its way back to you one day, like in the story.”
Violette sighed and rested her head on her mother’s shoulder. “I do hope so, Mother. I really do.”
VIOLETTE SLEPT FOR MUCH OF THE JOURNEY, her head resting in her mother’s lap. She dreamed of flowers: hundreds of flowers, the air around her heavy with the rich perfume of roses, lilies, peonies, stocks, and violets. It was beautiful. She took hungry, grateful breaths, inhaling the sweet scent, tasting it on her tongue. All around her, the familiar cries of market sellers, stirring memories held deep within her. A girl’s voice, in the distance, rising above it all. “Rosie!” the girl cried. “Rosie! Little Sister, where are you?” She tried to call out in reply, but the words would not come and the image blurred into a mist, lost among the poppies and the meadows that stretched for miles, beyond the horizon and to the north.
A Note on Shaw’s Training Homes for Watercress and Flower Girls (from The Christian Magazine, June 21, 1912)
It is with the utmost honor that I received a request from Queen Alexandra earlier this year, for the flower girls of our Training Homes in Sekforde Street to make roses for her inaugural “flag day.” This flag day, “Queen Alexandra Rose Day,” will be held on Wednesday, June 26. The flower girls have made—by hand—thousands of pink roses, which will be sold as buttonholes on the streets of London, by a small army of female volunteers. The money raised from the sale of the flowers will be used to support hospitals and other charitable concerns across our city.
I cannot express in writing the pride I feel when I see how hard the girls have worked to produce such an incredible volume of flowers—every single rose as perfectly made as the next. Indeed, I am sure that God Himself would find it difficult to reproduce such perfect replicas time and time again.
What started out as such a humble operation now sees us running some dozen homes at our orphanage in Clacton (housing over one hundred girls in total). We also have six homes, housing twelve girls each, here in London and are proud to have recently opened a factory, dedicated to the production of the flowers.
I have so often felt that my ability to express, in writing, the plight of London’s orphans and street sellers is wholly inadequate. How does one explain the hunger, depravation, and fear that these poor unfortunates suffer, daily? It is quite impossible. I therefore felt it fitting to mark the occasion of Alexandra Rose Day with words, written some years ago, by one of the first flower sellers who came to the Training Homes, here in London.
I can only hope that those who read her words may be inspired to buy a rose from our sellers, and will, in turn, inspire others to do the same. By the end of the day, I hope that the man who never wore a buttonhole because he objected to making himself conspicuous will find that he makes himself conspicuous by wearing none.
Albert Shaw
Superintendent, Training Homes
for Watercress and Flower Girls
Sometimes, when I have a full belly and a clean bed to sleep in, it is easy to forget that I was once a starving little girl, living on the streets, selling flowers for a living. But I make myself remember, because I want to always be grateful for what I have now.
I first met Mr. Shaw when I was eight years old. He stopped to help me and my little sister, after a man had knocked my flower basket from my hands. When Little Sister went missing later that year, Mr. Shaw took me to his orphanage at Clacton.
It was like arriving in Heaven seeing those endless skies of the south coast. I don’t know what would have become of me if he hadn’t found me and given me a home there. When I was old enough, I was brought back to London and trained to make the flowers with the other girls. I know that we are a source of astonishment and pity to many people, but we don’t ask for sympathy. We just want to live and work as ordinary people—to do an honest days’ work for an honest days’ pay.
I can never thank Mr. Shaw enough for what he has given me, and the other girls of the Flower Homes and the Flower Village. He has been more of a father to me than my own flesh and blood ever was and I thank Mr. Shaw, and our Good Lord, for keeping me safe and for giving me a reason to hope, when I would otherwise have had none.
Flora Flynn, December 25, 1901
Chapter 28
London
June 26, 1912
Alexandra Rose Day arrived with a flurry of soft, white clouds and a whirlwind of excitement. Tilly threw open the sash windows, letting the sun warm her cheeks. She swept the stairs, scrubbed the front step, mopped the passage floor, and polished the mirrors until everything gleamed. She balanced on a chair at the window in the front parlor, hanging up the lace curtains that she’d washed especially for the occasion. She waved at one of the other housemothers as she walked by. The air fizzed with anticipation.
The girls could barely eat at breakfast—nerves and a steady stream of excitable chatter leaving no space for porridge or bread and butter, no matter how much Tilly reminded them that they needed their strength for the long day ahead.
“Come along now, girls,” she nagged. “Try to eat a little of something at least. We can’t have you fainting with hunger if you do meet the Queen.”
But she
was no more capable of eating anything herself, her stomach flipping and tumbling in great, giddy waves, so that it was all she could do to sip slowly at a cup of tea and nibble at a slice of toast. It felt like she was eating sawdust.
Mrs. Pearce had popped in early, to give Tilly a hand. She was her usual frantic self, rushing around like a dervish, fetching this, flapping about that, and chattering about the other.
“The men from the factory were up half the night, delivering boxes of roses all over London, ready for the sellers,” she said as she slammed a pot of tea onto the table. “There’s hundreds of volunteers going to be selling the roses. All of ’em highly regarded society ladies, and some of ’em friends of the Queen herself! Imagine. And they’ll be selling your roses, girls!”
With rumors rife that the Queen planned to visit the factory, all the girls had washed their hair until it shone, and brushed their teeth until they squeaked.
When breakfast was over, Tilly helped to pack the last few boxes of roses into the cars and carriages that had gathered on Sekforde Street, ready to take fresh supplies out to the sellers. Just as they had on the day she’d arrived, the girls had decorated the street and the outsides of the houses, garlands and garlands of pink roses crisscrossing the street from the upper floors of the houses and adorning every window box and doorframe. The vibrant pink petals shimmered in the early morning sunlight. Tilly stood on the doorstep, admiring their hard work.
Mrs. Pearce joined her, stopping for a second to catch her breath. They stood together, admiring the scene.
“Beautiful, isn’t it? Just beautiful.”
“It is that, Matilda. It is that.”
The excitement grew as the girls prepared to leave the house. They laughed over lost gloves and hats, fussing over each other as they pinned their own Alexandra Rose buttonholes to their pinafores. Tilly knew they were all waiting for the arrival of Mr. Shaw.
And then the alert they’d all been waiting for finally came.
“He’s here! He’s here!” Buttons shouted from the parlor, where she’d been watching at the window all morning. The parlor was usually reserved for Christmas Day, or when extra-special guests visited, but they’d been given permission to use the room today. Buttons’s cries were accompanied by the blare of a car horn. “Mr. Shaw’s here with the motor cab,” she cried. “Come and see! Oh, come and see. It’s beautiful!”
Tilly was nearly knocked off her feet as the girls rushed through the front door, spilling out onto the street. The girls from the other houses soon joined them. Tilly dropped her scrubbing brush into the tin pail, dried her hands on her apron and rushed to see for herself.
Mr. Shaw stood in the middle of the street, resplendent in his black frock coat and top hat. Beside him was a motor cab, although it was unrecognizable as any kind of motor cab Tilly had ever seen. Hundreds of tiny pink roses covered every inch of the vehicle. A special gauze frame had been placed over the windshield and decorated with roses that spelled out the words QUEEN ALEXANDRA ROSE DAY. On top of the car sat another gauze frame, more roses framing the edges, making a spectacular border for the magnificent A ROSE emblazoned across the front.
Tilly joined the others as they gasped and stared in admiration. Walking around the cab, she saw that each side panel had been decorated with roses spelling out the words PLEASE WEAR THE ROSE TODAY. Another large letter A was formed from roses at the back. On the driver and passenger doors were impressive crowns—made from roses—and all around the window frames, the wheel arches, and across the luggage rack, rose garlands were draped and twisted into stunning spirals. It was simply beautiful. The delight of the girls filled the street—those who could see describing in vivid detail to those who could not, and who felt their way slowly around the vehicle, seeing it through their fingertips.
“The motor cabs will take fresh supplies of roses from the factory to the sellers throughout the day, keeping them restocked,” Mr. Shaw explained. “This is one of dozens of decorated cabs. What a sight to cheer London’s dreary streets!”
If anyone had ever doubted the flower girls’ ability to fulfill the Queen’s request, they certainly didn’t doubt it now. The displays were stunning, the roses were out on the streets, and the volunteers were ready to start selling.
Mr. Shaw called everyone’s attention as he stood on an upturned crate to make an impromptu speech. “Today you can all be very proud. Today you do not need to hide in the shadows, afraid of what people might think of you. You have done an incredible thing. Be proud. Be jubilant, and let the work of the Training Homes for Watercress and Flower Girls be known by every person in London.”
A loud cheer went up as the girls hugged each other. Even Mrs. Pearce couldn’t resist, throwing her great arms around Tilly, enveloping her in flesh, as tears spilled down her cheeks.
“Oh, look at me,” she laughed, dabbing at her eyes with the corner of her apron. “It just gets to me sometimes. I couldn’t be prouder of them if they were my own daughters. Daft, isn’t it.”
Tilly smiled. “Not at all, Mrs. Pearce. I feel exactly the same.”
IT HAD BEEN ARRANGED that the girls from each house would travel to different areas of London to help the volunteers and to talk to people about the work of the Flower Homes. Arriving at their designated base at Hyde Park Corner, the girls of Violet House were met by an impressive display. Just outside the entrance to the park was a large table, draped with a Union Jack flag. To the right was a pagoda, standing some twelve feet high, decorated from top to bottom with garlands of pink roses and three large letter A’s at the front and sides. On the table were several framed pictures of a young Queen Alexandra and vases of roses and examples of the girls’ work.
Tilly was delighted to catch her first glimpse of the ladies who were selling the flowers. A dozen or so were gathered in a group to one side of the display. Newspaper reporters were talking to them as photographers took their pictures, recording the event for their newsreels and newspapers. The ladies were all neatly attired in white organdy and muslin dresses, with striking red and white sashes bearing the words ALEXANDRA ROSE DAY proudly emblazoned across their chests. They wore white stockings, white shoes, and straw hats with garlands of the pink roses around the brims. Each of the ladies held a box full of roses, and small collecting tins hung from their wrists. Crowds were gathering around to look.
“White and red are the national colors of Denmark, the Queen’s native country,” Mrs. Shaw explained to Hilda, who had asked about the ladies’ outfits. “They look wonderful, don’t they? Every one of the volunteers is dressed the same.”
“I hear there are titled ladies selling the roses today,” Queenie whispered to Tilly as they watched the group have their picture taken. “Quite the society event this has turned out to be. Look, there’s Lady Wyndham and Lady Bancroft. I heard that the Lady Mayoress has her own stall set up beside the Mansion House.”
The sellers laughed and joked with passersby. One of the ladies ran after a man on his bicycle, calling to him until he stopped and bought a rose. The chatter and laughter and the rattle of coins being dropped into the collection tins made for a wonderful atmosphere. Unable to resist the temptation to join in, it wasn’t long before Tilly picked up a box of roses and walked out into the gathering crowds to join the other sellers.
The roses were so popular that supplies soon began to run low, and the sellers and the Violet House girls were relieved to see one of the decorated motor cabs as it arrived with fresh stock. The word from the driver was that the roses were being bought by everyone.
The newspaper sellers at Hyde Park Corner proudly attached roses to their waistcoats, adding a cry of “Roses, buy y’r Alexandra roses” to their cry of the day’s news. Shoppers stopped to look at the rose sellers, children tugging at their mothers’ arms, encouraging them to buy a rose. The coal men, window cleaners, and road sweeps each paid his penny for a single bloom, proudly attaching it to his grubby clothing. Starchy-looking businessmen shoved their hands into thei
r pockets looking for a penny. Some gave shillings, half crowns, and sovereigns. Someone even placed a five-pound note in Tilly’s collection tin.
By noon, the volunteers and the girls were exhausted. Their feet ached and they were all uncomfortably hot under the midday sun. But their aches and pains were soon forgotten when word spread through the gathered crowd that the Queen’s carriage was approaching.
Hilda was the first to see her. “Girls! Girls! Look! It’s the Queen! The Queen is coming!”
They all rushed to the edge of the pavement, eager to get the best view of the procession.
The crowds cheered at the sight of their Dowager Queen’s black carriage making its way along the road. The mahogany coats of the two horses at the front gleamed like polished wood in the sunlight. The clatter of their hooves against the road reverberated through Tilly’s chest. Queen Alexandra smiled graciously as the procession passed Hyde Park Corner. She waved a white-gloved hand to the onlookers, who waved their handkerchiefs up and down in return, rejoicing at the sight of the Queen and Princess Victoria, who sat beside her.
Tilly stared numbly, trying to take it all in so that she would never forget what she was seeing. The Queen wore a beautiful black jacket and skirt, her clothing reflecting her status of mourning for the King. A heart-shaped headdress stood tall on her beautifully coiffed hair and a delicate veil fell across her face. The vivid blue of her garter sash was the only color about her other than the posy of pink roses she held in her hands. Her trademark pearl choker—worn, it was commonly believed, to hide a scar on her neck—glinted as it caught the sunlight, adding a soft luminescence to her face. The sides of her carriage were adorned with garlands of pink roses.