Hearing a muffled cough behind her, she got to her feet, nodding a solemn good morning to the vicar’s wife, who was changing the floral arrangements. Tilly stopped to admire them—hypericum berries, bell heather, wheat, and lavender—before walking out into the pale buttercup light, following the gravel path down a small slope toward the cemetery gate.
Pushing the gate open, she walked straight ahead to the freshly dug mound of dark, peaty earth. Her mother’s grave. No headstone yet to mark it, no loving words of remembrance. Several floral tributes lay on the mound, along with the wreath from the Flower Homes.
She turned then to read the headstone beside her mother’s grave.
SAMUEL JOSEPH HARPER. 1860–1901.
IMPERIAL YEOMANRY. 11TH BATTALION
LOST AT TWEEFONTEIN, SOUTH AFRICA
LOVING FATHER AND HUSBAND
LOST, BUT NEVER FORGOTTEN
Tilly stood quietly. She thought about her past and her future. She thought about her father, carrying her on his broad shoulders, remembering how she had laughed with great squeals as he tickled her knees. She thought of her mother baking bread in the scullery, singing contentedly to herself as Esther kicked her fat little legs in the pram beside her. She thought of the storm, gathering in her heart, as she’d watched—unseen. She thought of the dark cloud that had settled over her as her father turned the corner at the end of the lane and disappeared from view. She thought of Esther’s broken body being lifted from the doctor’s wagon, thought of her mother’s desperate sobs when she was told that her younger daughter would never walk again.
“Why, Tilly?” her mother had whispered. “Why?”
She’d known what she was doing—known that it was dangerous to take the ponies so close to the train tracks, that they would startle if a train came by.
She’d only wanted to give Esther a fright. She’d wanted to see fear in those perfect, sea-green eyes—just once. She’d wanted Esther to know what it felt like to be scared, to feel lost and alone. She’d wanted—just once—to see Esther’s boots scraped and filthy, to see her hair muddied and imperfect, to hear their mother scold her for dirtying her skirts. “Thank goodness Tilly was there,” everyone would say. “How brave she was bringing Esther safely home. You’re a wonderful sister,” they would say.
The shrill blast of the whistle as the locomotive rounded the bend, the sudden sound of hooves thundering past her. Esther’s screams, fading into the distance, smothered by the fog. A faint, sickening crack, echoing off the mountains around her, and then silence.
Esther’s foot had caught in the stirrup as the pony bolted. She’d been dragged through the gorse and the heather, through the mud and over boulders, before the pony had stumbled—tripped by a rabbit hole—and fallen, landing on Esther with its full weight. Her boots were scraped. Her hair was muddied. Her back was broken—irreparable damage done to her spinal column. She had lain for an age like a rag doll, lost and alone in the fog. Poor crippled little Esther and her spiteful, selfish sister.
Tilly made herself remember everything as she stood at her father’s grave, and then she packed the memories away into the furthest recesses of her mind and threw her anger onto her mother’s grave, along with a handful of dew-sodden earth.
“Yes, I wanted to hurt her,” she shouted into the crisp, morning air. “But I never meant for this to happen, and I am sorry. I am so sorry.”
Her cries startled the crows from the church steeple. They took off into the sky with a great cawing, a black mass gathered above her before they scattered into the trees.
“No more secrets,” she said, brushing her fingertips over the lettering etched onto her father’s headstone. “No more secrets.”
Her words seemed to echo off the ancient slabs of the gravestones around her. Secrets, secrets, secrets, they whispered back. She turned to walk away, to leave it all behind.
And then she saw him. Silhouetted against the glare of the strengthening sun.
She walked slowly toward him, raising her hand to her eyes to block out the sun.
“Edward!”
He smiled as she reached him. “I got your message. It would be my honor to escort you and your sister back to London.”
He held out his arm.
She took it without a moment’s hesitation. She took it with a glorious abundance of hope, and as they walked back to the cottage together, Tilly was certain she could smell violets in the air around them.
Chapter 39
Violet House, London
October 1912
Florrie
She has returned to me, the girl with the almond eyes and the storm in her heart. I have been waiting for her, here in this room I once called home, and she has come back to me.
But something about her has changed.
There is a lightness to her soul, a vibrancy that was not there before. She sleeps soundly at night: no startled screams, no frightened cries. And yet, something troubles her. Letters remain unread, words remain unspoken.
From the veiled, distant world I inhabit, I come to her, watching as she sits at the window to draw her beautiful flowers: just budding roses, plump peonies, elegant lilies, simple little violets and their heart-shaped leaves.
“Tuppence a bunch,” we would cry. “Please, kind lady, buy a bunch from a poor child.” That’s what we would cry, Rosie and me.
“Find her,” I say. “Please, help me find my sister!” But my words are as fragile and fleeting as snowflakes and she does not hear.
She draws the flowers so beautifully that I imagine they will burst into life, the petals and leaves unfurling, wandering across the page, filling the room with their wonderful scents. I stand beside her, watching her work. I try to reach out to her, but I cannot.
And yet, she senses me here.
She turns, suddenly. “Is that you, Flora?” she asks. “Are you here?” and I rush to her, breathing the scent of a thousand flowers across her face.
“Find her,” I whisper. “Please find her.”
She weeps as she reads the words in my notebook, wonders who I am as she lifts the paper-thin flowers from the pages, searching for me within their delicate petals.
“I will find her,” she says. “I promise.”
So, I watch and wait, and others watch with me. A woman comes to her, and a man in uniform rests his hand gently on the top of her head until she sleeps, a deep, peaceful sleep.
Chapter 40
Violet House, London
October 1912
As Tilly returned to London, so the mild weather departed—early morning frosts and cloying fogs lingering over the city in its place. To her relief, she found that everything at Violet House remained the same: the girls still squabbled over whose turn it was to help with breakfast, the flowers were still being produced at a phenomenal rate, Buttons still went missing, Primrose still chirped merrily in his cage by the window, and Queenie still bossed everyone around.
And yet, Esther’s presence in London changed everything.
It had been agreed that she would live in Rosebud House, under the care of Mrs. Pearce. Rather than living under Tilly’s care at Violet House, Tilly felt Esther would have a better chance of settling at Rosebud, where she would be treated just the same as the other girls—no special treatment, no allowances made for the fact that she was somebody’s sister. She would be treated as an equal for the first time in many years.
“You’ll be just next door to Hilda, and Mrs. Shaw says you can sit together in the factory,” Tilly had explained as the train had carried them southward.
Esther was perfectly happy with the arrangements. Like a cloud moving away from the sun, a brightness was slowly returning to her.
“Some things change and some things stay the same, eh?” Mrs. Pearce chuckled as she hefted Tilly’s trunk back up the stairs, just as she had done several months ago—glad to help since Mrs. Harris was assisting at a church fete for the day. “We’re very glad to have you back, Tilly—and with your sister too! The girl
s missed you.” Reaching the top floor of the house, she put the trunk down. “Oh, bugger it, I missed you,” she said, engulfing Tilly in a great hug.
It was like being embraced by two huge hams. Tilly smiled, allowing herself to relax into it. “And I missed you all, too. I’m glad to be back, Mrs. Pearce. Very glad to be back.”
“Well, I’ll leave you to settle. Cup of tea?”
“That would be lovely. Thank you.”
The small bedroom that had once felt so strange to her was now a welcome sight. She checked in the wardrobe, thankful that nobody was hiding there. She looked out of the small, sash window at the street below. The knife grinder trundled past with his cart. A cat stalked a pigeon on the rooftops. She opened the drawer in the writing table—the box was still there. She looked around the room and felt that she had come home.
It wasn’t until she unpacked that she noticed the envelope on her bed. An envelope with a London postmark. There was only one person who might be writing to her: Violette Ashton. Settling herself on the edge of the bed, she took a deep breath, opened the small envelope and began to read.
Nightingale House
Richmond Hill
Borough of Richmond
London
October 1, 1912
Dear Miss Harper,
It is with some hesitancy that I write to you after reading the letter you passed to me at the fete day in Clacton.
I will admit that I was quite alarmed to learn about the poor little girl who was separated from her sister. How very frightening for both of them, especially with the child not having the benefit of her sight. I can imagine a little of how terrifying that must have been, as I was partially sighted as a young child. Unlike the little girl in your letter, I was fortunate enough to be given medical treatment and now have almost perfect vision. Even so, I still remember something of a life lived in the shadows.
How sad I was to read that the little girl was never found, that her sister was never reunited with her. My own sister died of the scarlet fever before I was born. Her name was Delphine. My mother still keeps a lock of her hair in a locket around her neck.
It is, indeed, a most unusual coincidence that the box you discovered in your room contains a lace handkerchief similar to the one owned by my mother—and now by me. It was only earlier this year that Mother gave me the handkerchief, along with a small bunch of violets that had been pressed between the pages of her Prayer Book for many, many years. Small trinkets that I had treasured as a child.
Miss Harper, while I do not know—nor have ever known—a person by the name of Rosie Flynn, I must admit that I found your letter most intriguing. There is something about the name Flora, and about the story of the two sisters, that seems somehow familiar.
As you suggest, it may be preferable to meet in person, to determine whether the handkerchiefs are, in fact identical. I would also be most interested to read the contents of Flora Flynn’s notebook. Perhaps you could visit me at Nightingale House, Richmond Hill. I will be visiting relatives for the remainder of October, but will be home from All Saints’ Day. Please send a telegram in advance to advise when it is convenient for you to visit.
I do thank you for writing to me, Miss Harper, and certainly would have done the same under the circumstances. There is nothing more likely to trouble the mind than the burden of an unshared secret.
With kind regards,
Violette Ashton
P.S. Many thanks also for the picture postcard that you included within the envelope. The girls in the photograph look so happy in their work. My mother spoke to a Queenie Lyons at the fete day in Clacton—Queenie happened to give my mother a copy of the very same postcard. Queenie is pictured in the center of the group, holding a large spray of orchids. It is wonderful to know that she is still at the Flower Homes. I wonder what became of the other girls who sat alongside her that day.
Tilly read the letter over and over. There is something about the name Flora, and about the story of the two sisters, that seems somehow familiar. Perhaps there was a connection after all.
She folded the page and placed it back into the envelope. She would send a telegram to Mrs. Ashton, advising that she would visit on her first afternoon off in November. It was several weeks away, but she would have to be patient.
Walking to the writing table, Tilly removed the wooden box from its hiding place in the drawer. She took out all the items from within, laying them out neatly on the small table: the notebook, the delicate pressed flowers, the wooden peg, the button, the handkerchief, the postcard and the rag doll. It was like a trail of bread crumbs spread out before her. Opening the notebook, she inserted Violette Ashton’s letter between the pages, knowing that it had brought her that little bit closer to understanding what had happened to Rosie, understanding what it all meant.
Turning to the last few pages of the book, she settled herself at the chair and read on.
November 24, 1896
It is twenty years since I last saw you, Rosie, and yet I feel your loss as keenly as if you’d held my hand just yesterday. How can it be that so many years have gone by without a word—without sight or sound of you? Where did you go to, Rosie? What became of you?
Most of the girls I once worked with have left the Flower Homes now—marrying and having children of their own. I am housemother at Violet House, and Queenie is still here. We share the responsibilities of looking after the younger girls and try to help the new girls as best we can. Queenie doesn’t have much patience, but I remind her that we were just like them once—lost and afraid. Truth be told, I think Queenie is still afraid—afraid to leave, afraid to step out into the world. I understand her fear.
But it is not that which keeps me here.
I have dedicated my life to the Flower Homes and to the man who helped me step out of the shadow you left behind. I will never leave because I owe it to Mr Shaw to remain. He has given me, and the other flower girls, so much. And I don’t just mean clothes and boots and a roof over our heads and food in our bellies. I mean purpose and confidence and hope, the things that can make more of a difference to a person than anything you can wear or touch.
There is a difference, you see, between living and existing. What me and you were doing on the streets was existing—and barely at that. What Mr. Shaw has given me is a life to live. And I am grateful for it, for the beautiful flowers I make, and the friendships I have formed.
I write in this notebook and I talk to Mr. Shaw and I have many blessings to be thankful for—but still, even after all these years, I cannot help but wonder what might have been. We knew nothing of what a comfortable life might be, knew nothing of warmth, clean water, or a father’s affection. We were lost little orphans, wandering the streets, gawping at the ladies who bought our flowers, wondering what it would feel like to wear a silk skirt or a bustle, to walk in elegant, heeled boots. But that was not the path life had chosen for us. We walked our path barefoot, with nothing but each other, and somehow, that was enough.
The girls ask me why I never married, why I never had children of my own. I tell them that even though it is sometimes easy to lose our past—especially when you have warm feet and a full belly and clean clothes—it is not always so easy to find our future.
Tilly found it difficult to adjust to Esther being in London—being part of the very world she had so carefully created to escape from her past, from her sister. Things were still awkward between them, a little forced. While location was easy enough to change, the two sisters accepted that their relationship would not be altered as easily. There were many bad feelings to excavate from the fragile foundations of their lives, and while Tilly’s wall was coming down, brick by emotional brick, it was a slow and difficult process.
It was with much relief, then, that Tilly saw how inseparable Hilda and Esther had become since they’d returned to London together. She took great comfort from watching the two girls, who found such pleasure in each other’s company. Tilly noticed how Hilda had also grown in confi
dence since meeting Esther, enjoying her role as instructor, tour guide, and confidante, despite the fact that she was the younger of the two. She’d noticed, too, how reliant Esther was on Hilda, turning to her for help and guidance, before she turned to Tilly.
The other girls of Violet House were intrigued to meet Esther and couldn’t get over how similar Esther and Hilda were in appearance and how dissimilar Esther and Tilly were.
“Are you sure you and Tilly are sisters?” Buttons asked in her usual direct way, inspecting Esther as closely as if she was a puppy she was choosing from a litter. “You don’t look anything like each other.”
Tilly laughed. She didn’t feel envy anymore; she didn’t feel pushed out. She was simply glad to have been able to do something positive for Esther, to have found a way to begin to make up for the past.
DURING TILLY’S WEEK in Clacton in September, she had become increasingly aware of Albert Shaw’s deteriorating health. It was with a heavy heart that she learned how his condition had worsened while she had been back home.
“He eventually relented and took the doctor’s advice to spend time away from London. He’ll spend the winter in Clacton,” Mrs. Pearce explained as she and Tilly walked to the markets together. “It’s where he stands the best chance of recovering.”
“Is there a possibility that he might not recover?” Tilly asked.
“I’m afraid so, dear. I’m afraid so.”
He was much missed among the flower girls. Even though they were busy with Christmas orders and distracted by dove-gray clouds that brought the prospect of snow, the absence of Albert’s calming, reassuring influence was keenly felt. Every one of the girls at the Sekforde Street homes owed her present situation to him. Without him, many of them knew they might not be alive or, at best, would be living in terrible conditions, trying to make a penny or two from the sale of their frost-ruined flowers and cresses. He was their savior, their protector: a father to every single one of them.