A Memory of Violets
Tilly understood the sentiment behind the words. Maybe her suspicions were right. Maybe there was a rivalry between the two brothers.
“It must be strange being a twin,” she said. “I suppose you’re always being compared to one another.”
“No more so than any brother or sister is compared to the other, I suppose. At least we’re not identical. People often don’t even recognize us as brothers, let alone twins.”
Tilly laughed. “That’s just like me and Esther. People were always asking if we—” She stopped.
Edward looked at her, his eyes shaded with concern. “If you were what?”
“It doesn’t matter. Would you mind if we sat for a moment?”
Walking toward a low bench set back slightly from the path and surrounded by wallflowers and delphiniums, they sat for a moment in silence. Tilly thought about how she would stare at Esther, wondering why they looked so very, very different: Esther with almost white-blond hair, and her with russet red. I think there was a cuckoo at work in your family, people would joke. Minding someone else’s eggs. Tilly hadn’t understood the reference, but she did understand why people remarked on their striking differences. It was a thought that had troubled her throughout her childhood. It troubled her still.
“I was very sorry to learn that your sister is paralyzed,” Edward said eventually. “It must be very difficult for you all.”
Tilly tensed at the words.
Edward sensed it. “Perhaps you don’t wish to talk about it. My apologies. Let’s talk about something else.”
“No. No. It’s all right. Really. I just . . . well . . . we were never that close you see and . . .” She hesitated, her fingernails digging into the palm of her hand.
“Would you prefer not to talk about your sister?”
Tilly smiled. “Yes!”
“Good. Because I’d prefer not to talk about Herbert.”
They both laughed.
Neither of them spoke for a while then, happy to let the sounds and scents of the garden supplement any conversation. A bee buzzed idly around the sweet peas, a seagull cried overhead. Tilly watched a peacock butterfly settle on a leaf and fan out its wings, absorbing the sunlight. Without speaking, an understanding seemed to pass between her and Edward as they sat side by side. For all that Tilly had wondered about Edward’s reluctance to talk to her when they’d first met, she now realized that, sometimes, words are simply not required.
Chapter 34
Clacton
September 1912
Running through the long grass, squealing with delight as her father ran behind, trying to catch her before she reached the gate. His strong arms, wrapped around her, scooping her up, spinning her around, the clouds blurring into a mass of white in the sky above.
Lying beside the lake, their backs warmed by the soft sand. Everything so perfect when it was just the two of them, Esther too young to join them on their nature walks and rambles along the mountains.
The screech of a pheasant hidden in the hedgerow, the hoot of an owl as dusk fell over the cottage, the cries of her baby sister.
The doctor’s voice in the hospital. “She’ll never walk again, Mrs. Harper. Her spine was crushed when the pony fell on her. I’m very sorry.”
Her father walking down the shale path in his soldier’s uniform. A smile on his face, a twinkle in his eyes. He had come home!
She ran, shrieking with delight, ran from the cool of the scullery into the warmth of the sun, to the warm embrace of the father she loved so much.
He stopped and sank to his knees as he saw her, his arms outstretched in welcome.
“Daddy! Daddy! You’re home! You came home!”
Running, tripping, falling into his outstretched arms . . . falling into empty space.
There was nobody there.
He had disappeared; blown away by the breeze that knocked the conkers from the horse chestnut tree.
She stumbled forward, fell to the ground. His arms weren’t there to catch her. He had never been there. He hadn’t come home.
A brown paper package on the table. A standard-issue, felt cap. A letter for each of them.
Her mother weeping.
He wasn’t coming home. He was never coming home.
Although her dreams still disturbed her sleep, Tilly settled easily into the routines of the Flower Village, and her love for the place soon extended to the town of Clacton itself.
While she ran errands to fetch cotton and buttons from the haberdashers, she liked to steal a few moments to walk along the pier, watching the paddle steamers coming in. She loved the gaiety of the brightly colored helter-skelter, the flags snapping and fluttering on top of the amusement stalls, the jaunty tunes of the organ grinders and the hurdy-gurdy, the cry of the toffee-apple sellers and ice-cream vendors. It reminded her of the day her father had taken her and Esther to Biggar Bank on Walney Island when they were young girls, how they’d gasped at the sight of the sea and shrieked with delight at the Punch and Judy show. It had been a pleasant, rare day when she’d enjoyed the company of her little sister, forgetting how much she envied her. She remembered the day so clearly, but mostly she remembered how delighted she’d been that it was her head, not Esther’s, that had rested on their father’s lap as they traveled home.
Tilly also enjoyed Elsie’s company during her week at Clacton. They chatted easily, relaxed in one another’s company as they went about their chores: making beds, sweeping sand from the floor, cleaning out and re-laying the fires, and repairing dozens of holes in dozens of pairs of socks and stockings. On sunny days they took their darning outside, laying out a blanket so that they could sit and watch the sea and the golden sand stretching around the great bay.
Tilly could sit for hours staring at the sea. She loved the way the color of the water reflected the weather: sometimes stormy and petulant, sometimes bright and fresh, sometimes calm and serene. It reminded her of how quickly the colors and reflections could change around the mountains and fells back home.
Elsie teased Tilly about Edward, whom they often saw strolling along the beach, his socks and shoes in his hands, his trousers rolled up past his ankles. It was a comical sight.
“Well, would you look? There’s your Edward again, taking his morning constitutional.”
“He’s not my Edward!” Tilly protested. All the same, she was pleased when he looked up toward the cliff top and waved at them.
“You clearly enjoy each other’s company. I’ve watched you walking together, and you talk about him all the time.”
“I do not!” Tilly put down her sewing and stood up, her hands on her hips. “I barely ever mention him.”
Elsie smiled. “Well, you can deny it all you like, but I can’t deny what I see with my own eyes.” She shook her head, laughing to herself.
“Honestly, Elsie!” Tilly didn’t know what else to say.
“Oh, don’t get all huffy. Come and sit back down. I think you’re good for him anyway, a tonic. Poor Edward. What with all that business with Miss Johnson and Herbert it’s a wonder he . . .” She trailed off.
“Miss Johnson? Who’s she?”
Elsie lowered her voice, glancing around to make sure nobody was listening. “I shouldn’t gossip. It was all very sad, really. Miss Johnson was Edward’s fiancée. Some years back now, mind. And then didn’t she fall for Herbert. Called the whole engagement off. Terrible business it was. Quite the scandal.”
Tilly was shocked. “But, that’s awful.”
“That’s not all. Miss Johnson contracted the scarlet fever and died not long after she’d left Edward for Herbert. Edward blamed himself, of course. Said that if he could have kept her happy, she’d never have gone to Herbert. And, of course, he blamed Herbert for not taking care of her—blamed him for her death. I don’t think he’ll ever get over it. Caused a dreadful rift between the two brothers, let me tell you.”
Tilly was stunned. No wonder Edward was so subdued around his brother.
“Listen, I’ve
probably spoken out of turn,” Elsie continued. “Promise you won’t breathe a word of what I’ve told you. Not to anyone. I shouldn’t have said anything.”
“I promise. I won’t say a word.”
Elsie packed up her sewing box. “Right, I’m all done. I’ll see you at lunch.”
She left Tilly alone with her thoughts and the ever-present sound of the waves rolling into shore. She thought about the despicable thing Herbert had done and she thought about what Elsie had said—perhaps she did talk about Edward a lot. But what Elsie didn’t know was that, in quiet moments, while she darned a sock, or rubbed the soap along the hem of a skirt, or mixed the starch into the water in the copper, she thought about Edward even more.
WHILE TILLY MISSED THE CHAOS of London and Violet House and was looking forward to seeing the flower girls again, she was sorry that her time in Clacton was drawing to an end. In the week she had spent here, she’d fallen in love with the children and the orphanage and the sound of the waves crashing on the shore. She had also enjoyed her dusk walks in the gardens with Edward—a comfortable routine they had fallen into after the fete day.
After her conversation with Elsie, Tilly had thought about Edward more and more, how they would exchange a glance or a smile whenever their paths crossed as they went about their work, how she would sometimes observe him from a quiet corner, smiling at his funny little habits—the way he folded his handkerchief into a neat square before putting it back into his pocket, the way he lifted his glass of water to his eye, peering through the clear liquid to whatever was on the other side, the way he crossed and uncrossed his ankles, the way he rubbed his fingers along his lips when he was thinking, just like her father used to.
“WILL YOU COME back?” Edward asked as they strolled, his cigarette paper crackling as he took a long final drag. It was the evening before Tilly was due to return to London.
“I hope so. I feel so at home here. It would be a shame to think that this is all I’ll see of Clacton.”
“Has it really been that disappointing?” Edward teased. “I hoped our walks had been quite enjoyable.”
Tilly blushed. “Oh . . . I didn’t mean . . . It’s just . . .”
They stopped walking. A bee buzzed around a honeysuckle.
Edward reached out to take Tilly’s hand. Her heart quickened. Her breaths came quick and short.
“I have very much enjoyed my week, perhaps more than any other I have spent here.” He pushed his hair from his eyes. “Tilly, do you think . . . when we get back to London . . . do you think . . .”
He hesitated at the sound of footsteps running along the shale path toward them.
“Oh! Tilly! I’m so glad I found you.” It was Elsie, flushed and out of breath. “A telegram has arrived for you.”
“A telegram? For me?”
“Yes. It’s marked from Grasmere, Westmorland. It was sent to London, but they’ve redirected it here.”
Tilly’s mind raced. Why would there be a telegram from home? Why would they contact her now, after all this time?
“It must be Esther,” she whispered. “Something must have happened to Esther.”
She took the small brown envelope from Elsie, her hands trembling as she opened the seal.
Mother very ill. Come as soon as you can. Esther.
Chapter 35
Violet House, London
September 1912
Her mother’s voice. “Your father’s dead, Tilly. He’s dead.”
Standing in the kitchen, a chill winter wind blowing down the chimneybreast, her body shaking as she read the telegram from the War Office confirming that the Eleventh Battalion had suffered heavy losses at Tweefontein, and that Private Samuel Harper had fallen.
A small, brown paper package on the kitchen table—all there was to show for his bravery and sacrifice for his country. A standard-issue felt cap and three letters: one for each of them.
A silent whisper into the murky, gray light of morning. “What will become of me? What will become of me now?”
Tears falling down her cheeks, a cockerel crowing in the yard, a dog barking, the kettle whistling on the stove. Esther comforting her mother, her mother comforting Esther, Tilly standing alone. Everything as normal, when nothing would ever be the same again.
A brown paper package containing a felt cap and three letters: one for each of them.
Tilly woke with a start. It was still dark outside, the light from the gas lamps creeping in through the window, sending curious shadows dancing across the walls. It took a moment for her to remember that she was back at Violet House.
SHE’D PACKED IN A HURRY after reading Esther’s telegram, sending a hasty reply from the post office in Clacton: Will arrive in two days. Tell Mother I am coming. Tell her to wait. Her farewells to Elsie and Sarah had been hurried and anxious, their kisses placed on her cheek along with a prayer that all would be well. She’d watched Edward turn and walk back into Foxglove House, her feelings confused, her heart full of hope and dread, as the carriage rumbled past the meadows where the children played so innocently.
The journey back to London had passed in a blur. The girls had greeted her with serious faces and words of support. She barely remembered being introduced to Mrs. Harris—a stout woman with a kind face and warm hands.
Her onward train north departed at nine o’clock the following morning.
With thoughts of her father racing through her mind, she lay perfectly still, waiting for the first hint of daylight to creep through the window. She remembered a line from Wuthering Heights. I have to remind myself to breathe—almost to remind my heart to beat! She’d never understood how it was possible to feel such despair, until the news they’d all been dreading had arrived in Grasmere, wrapped in a brown paper package.
She’d had to remind herself to breathe, remind her heart to beat.
Her father had always been a good horseman, teaching Tilly and Esther to ride when they were young. Because they were country girls, he taught them to ride like he did—legs astride—rather than in the traditional sidesaddle fashion.
Their mother disapproved. “How will anyone ever consider the girls for wives when they ride like a man? It’s not right, Samuel.”
He would laugh at his wife and kiss the top of her head. Tilly knew he adored her mother, even when she was fussing and criticizing, as she was so apt to do.
“Well, if any man is more worried about how the girls ride than what they know, or what they have read, or what interesting conversations they can hold, then I doubt we would want him for their husband, would we, Mrs. Harper?”
Tilly loved her father for that, how he always found the right thing to say.
But although he worked with horses, rode them whenever he could, and taught Tilly and Esther to ride as soon as they were able, nobody could have guessed that Samuel Harper would take his horsemanship to war.
Driven by the patriotic fervor that spread across England like a pox as the war in South Africa escalated, he’d taken an interest in the recruiting notice from the War Office. A second wave of volunteers was needed to join the Imperial Yeomanry—experienced horsemen were required. By that stage of the conflict, married men were no longer discouraged from signing up.
“They’re offering a wage of five shillings a week, Hannah. It’s my duty to go. It’ll be an honor to fight for Queen and country.”
The day he traveled to Aldershot for his training, Tilly sobbed inconsolably into her pillow. Even the mountains and lakes couldn’t help her this time.
It was a heavy, gray January morning when he left, the skies leaden with dense, dark clouds. Tilly watched him walk down the lane and knew that he would never come back, knew that her life would never be the same. It frightened her more than anything had frightened her before.
“I won’t look back, Tilly,” he’d said, his chestnut eyes smiling as he prized her hands, fingertip by desperate fingertip, from around his neck. “I’m going to walk away now, my darling girl, and I won’t look back.
I’ll see you again—when it’s all over.”
She’d stood on the stone doorstep of their cottage, her mother’s sobs audible inside, Esther standing quietly by her side. She so desperately wanted to run after him, wanted to scream and shout and wrap her arms around him so that he couldn’t go. But she didn’t. She stood perfectly still, trying to do what her daddy had asked: to watch him walk away from her with pride in her heart. He was going to fight a war for their country, and that was the bravest thing a man could do. That was what he’d told her.
“Look back, Daddy. Please, look back,” she’d whispered.
He didn’t.
If he had, she would have seen the tears streaming down his cheeks and the look of absolute terror on his face.
In letters that made their way slowly back to Grasmere from increasingly unfathomable distances, Tilly learned that after her father had turned the corner at the end of the lane, he’d traveled to Aldershot for his training (or what little training the hastily recruited soldiers were afforded). He’d passed all the necessary fitness and medical inspections, and because he was not a coward, a drunkard, or incompetent—as many of the other would-be recruits proved to be—Samuel Joseph Harper had set sail from Southampton on the SS Avondale Castle on March 14, 1901. He didn’t write much about what happened during their time at sea, but eventually a letter reached home to say that he and the rest of his Battalion had arrived in South Africa by the end of April. Tilly’s old schoolmistress showed her where South Africa was on a map of the world. To her young eyes, it seemed as though her father was as far away from the mountains and lakes of their home as it was possible for anyone to be.