She turned her face to Violette’s, her eyes clouded with tears. “You know.” Her voice so faint, so brittle the words would surely break before they were heard. “You know. Don’t you?”
They gazed at each other in silence, frozen in a moment neither of them could bear to move on from,; one afraid of hearing the answer to the question that hung in the air between them, the other afraid of providing it. The only sound, that of the wind whistling through the eaves.
Violette walked toward the bed and handed the notebook to her mother. “Yes. I know. I know everything.”
“What is this?” Marguerite looked at the faded, cracked book in her hands.
“My life,” Violette replied, her voice as icy as the blast of air blown through the window. “It is the story of my life. My real life. Mine—and my sister, Flora’s.”
“But . . . but, I don’t understand.”
Violette watched as her mother leafed through the pages, noticing names and dates. “Where did you—”
“It doesn’t matter.” Violette sat down again, staring numbly at the frosted grass on the lawns in front of the house. It glistened like diamonds. A single tear slipped down her cheek. She refused to scream or shout, refused to wail or sob uncontrollably. She just wanted to understand.
“Why?” she asked, turning to face her mother. “I just want to know why.”
Marguerite, her powder-blue eyes soft, compassionate, looked at her. Her shoulders dropped, as if a lifetime’s burden had been lifted from them. “Because I loved you. Because I saw your terrified little face and your bare, muddied feet and your tiny hands clutching your tattered flowers—and I loved you.” She dabbed at her tears with the lace handkerchief. “I loved you,” she repeated, walking to her daughter and grabbing her hands. “I love you.”
She waited for Violette to speak. Violette had no words. Marguerite continued.
“I can’t expect you to understand—can never expect you to understand. I don’t deserve your understanding—or your forgiveness. It’s so hard to explain. You were hiding in my carriage. You were hiding from someone. You were so terrified, my darling. So utterly lost and terrified. I couldn’t bear to send you back. You were a street urchin, a little dot of a thing—four years old at most. We took you in, nursed you back to health. I couldn’t let you go. How could I let you go when I loved you so, so much?”
“Violette isn’t my real name, is it?”
“No. It isn’t. You couldn’t speak. You were so afraid, you couldn’t tell me your name. I called you Violette after the violets you held in your hand.”
“I was Rosie Flynn,” Violette said. “And my sister was Flora—Florrie—Flynn. We were orphaned flower sellers living in Rosemary Court in London. I was almost completely blind and Flora looked after me until we were separated on Westminster Bridge. She thought that a man who sold lemonade had tried to snatch me. It’s all there, written in the book. And then you found me—and Flora spent the rest of her life looking for me.”
“I knew nothing of your circumstances before I found you, darling. All I knew was that you needed a mother—and I needed a daughter. Somehow, we found each other.” She dropped to her knees, her eyes searching, beseeching. She shook her daughter’s cold hands. “I am so, so sorry, Violette. So sorry for keeping it a secret from you. I should have told you a long time ago, but I was afraid.”
“Afraid of what?”
“Afraid of losing you. Afraid of losing another daughter.”
Violette knew she was referring to Delphine, the girl she had grown up believing was her sister. She’d almost forgotten about her in all the revelations from Flora’s book.
“So, Delphine wasn’t my sis—”
“She died when she was four years old. The scarlet fever took her from me. She died before I found you.”
Violette looked at the locket hanging around her mother’s neck. She didn’t deny her the grief she felt for Delphine. She couldn’t deny her that.
“But what about my real sister? Flora. Did you never think of her?”
“I thought about nothing else. I never stopped thinking about her, wondering who she was, where she was. I looked for her. I went to the places you’d lived and worked. I asked for her. You were children of the shadows, you and her—she was as lost as you were.”
Violette looked down at her mother. She had been a good, kind woman. She had given her the best of everything: her time, her love, her passion for nature and music.
“She spent her whole life looking for me,” she sighed. “Her whole life, wondering, waiting. It’s so sad, Mother. So very sad. I think I remember her—very vaguely. She used to sing to me. She was very kind to me. She loved me, too.”
She wept then, wept for her sister.
“I may not have given birth to you, darling,” Marguerite whispered through her tears, “but I do not know how it is possible for a mother to love a child any more than I have loved you.”
There was nothing else either of them could say. They sat together, bound by grief and sorrow, until the grandfather clock in the hall chimed six.
Time passed.
Life moved on.
MARGUERITE STOOD UP. She walked to the window and pulled it shut.
“Could we take a walk in the garden? We used to have such lovely times together walking in the gardens, admiring the view over London from the Terrace Walk.”
Violette considered her. She didn’t feel anger anymore, she felt only numbness and pity.
“But it’s dark outside, Mother. And cold.”
“Then let’s put on our coats and hats and mufflers. I would like to see the lights of London.”
THEY WALKED IN THE DARKNESS of the December night, their breaths captured by the cold air as they gazed over the pitch-black meadows toward the London skyline. The gas lamps of the city illuminated the winter fog that lurked over the church spires and chimney tops, giving everything a peculiar, yellow hue.
The two women stood in silence.
Violette looked at the city sprawling in front of her, and she wondered. She wondered about the privileged, happy life she had lived, and she wondered what it might have been, what might have become of her if she’d lived her life on the streets, beneath the fog.
Without speaking, Violette looped her arm into her mother’s. The gesture spoke a thousand words.
A lone deer watched, unnoticed, within the shadows of the trees, before turning and disappearing into the blackness of the night.
Chapter 44
Violet House, London
December 1912
Do you think she’s found her, or found something out about her?” Queenie asked. She was helping Tilly decorate the parlor for Christmas. “Surely, she wouldn’t have sent the telegram to ask if she could visit if she didn’t have some news.”
“Maybe she just wants to return the notebook,” Tilly replied. “I’m not sure.”
“When is she coming?”
“Today. Three o’clock.”
Tilly’s stomach flipped as she said the words.
Since Tilly had returned to London after her mother’s death, Queenie had been surprisingly supportive. “I know what it feels like to be without a mother or father,” she’d said. “It doesn’t matter how young or old you are when you lose them, it still leaves you feeling just as lost.”
Tilly found Queenie’s empathy very touching. Surprising, but touching nonetheless.
So much had happened in the past month—the revelations in her father’s letter, the visit to Violette Ashton, Esther coming to the Flower Homes—that Tilly began to feel overwhelmed by it all. It was Edward who had encouraged her to talk to Queenie. He knew how desperate she was to ask Queenie about Lily Brennan, to talk about her mother with someone who’d known her.
She’d finally plucked up the courage and told Queenie everything.
Queenie was speechless, but she was glad Tilly had told her and promised to tell her everything she could remember about Lily Brennan. It gave Tilly immense c
omfort to talk to Queenie about her.
“What was Lily like?” she asked.
“She was a very kind girl. Had a fierce temper, mind, but you’d expect that with the red hair, I suppose. Everyone liked Lily Brennan—and she was very talented at making the flowers. Violets were her specialty. Loved the violets. She liked to draw flowers, too—real ones as well as the ones we made in the workrooms.”
Tilly fizzed with excitement at these snippets of information. Slowly, the fog was clearing. She could finally see who she was, where she’d come from.
“How did she get placed at the orphanage?”
“Her parents died when she was a baby—within months of each other apparently. Consumption, I think she said. An aunt arranged for her to go to Clacton when she was only a few months old. She was one of the few girls who didn’t have any physical limitations. She came to the Flower Homes when she’d finished her schooling. It was always intended for her to go into service, as all the able-bodied girls did, but she had her heart set on coming to work on the flowers. She told Mr. Shaw that she had such admiration for the work the girls did, that she felt it was more important than fetching and carrying for some rich folk. She was like that, Lily—down-to-earth, practical, keen to help others.” Tilly absorbed the words hungrily, taking in every detail of her mother’s life. “Then she left—all of a sudden. Went up north to stay with the aunt, who was sick,” Queenie continued. “Flora missed her terribly. ’Course, we weren’t surprised when we heard she’d met someone and married. Last we heard, she was carrying a baby. Never heard from her again. We all thought she was just too busy with the new baby to write. Turns out that wasn’t the case, eh?”
Tilly had also told Queenie about the notebook and the flowers and trinkets she’d found in the box in the wardrobe. She asked Queenie about Flora, and the time they had spent together in Clacton and London.
“I remember her scribbling away in that notebook,” Queenie said. “We used to tease her about it at first. We shouldn’t have, though. It was something she needed to do. Said it made her feel that she was talking to Rosie. ’Course, she wrote less and less as the years passed, but she took good care of that wooden box. Mrs. Shaw gave it to her one Christmas, if I remember. I’d forgotten all about it, to be honest.”
Queenie had also explained how it had been Flora’s idea to set up the Forget-Me-Not Society.
“It was for the flower girls who moved on—who left the orphanage and Flower Homes. She wanted to find a way for everyone to keep in contact, wanted to make sure we didn’t lose each other after spending so many years together. It was a nice idea. She didn’t like the thought of losing anyone after all that business with Rosie, see.”
Tilly enjoyed Queenie’s company as they hung paper chains around the picture frames. They chatted about the Christmas traditions in the Flower Homes and both hoped that Mr. Shaw’s health would improve.
As it approached noon, they stood back to admire their work. They both agreed that the swags and garlands of little red silk roses finished off the room perfectly.
AT THREE O’CLOCK there was a faint knock on the door. She was exactly on time.
Tilly put down the sampler she was working on as a Christmas gift for Mrs. Pearce, removed her white apron, and smoothed her skirt. She took a deep breath. The house was perfectly quiet—the girls having gone out for their Saturday afternoon off and Mrs. Harris having gone on some errand or other.
She removed her white cap, scrunching it up and shoving it into her pocket as she opened the door.
Violette Ashton stood on the doorstep, a bunch of snow-white tulips in her hands. She looked pale, as fragile as a china teacup.
“Mrs. Ashton!” Tilly said, taking her hand in greeting. “Thank you so much for coming. Please, come in, out of the cold.”
“Miss Harper! So lovely to see you again,” she replied, smiling and shaking Tilly’s hand in return as she stepped inside the narrow passage. The scent of the cold air entered with her, captured in the fabric of her hat and coat. “I hope I haven’t come at a bad time.”
“Not at all. Please, come inside.” Tilly showed her into the parlor. It was the best room in the house, reserved for the most special occasions, but still, Tilly was conscious of how humble it was after the grandeur of Nightingale House. She gestured to a chair by the fire. “Please, take a seat. I’ll make tea.”
Violette perched on the edge of the chair. Tilly noticed how she clasped her hands tightly on her lap, how she fidgeted and fussed with her hair as she admired the flower garlands around the walls.
Tilly rushed off to the scullery, quickly spooning the tea leaves into the pot before lifting the heavy kettle from the range and pouring in the hot water. She set everything onto a tea tray and carried it back to the parlor. Her heart thumped in her chest. Her hands shook, rattling the cups and saucers.
She set the tray down on the sideboard, noticing that Flora’s notebook had been placed there.
“Thank you for returning the book,” Tilly said. For something so small, it had a profound effect on the atmosphere of the room.
“You’re welcome,” Violette replied. “I enjoyed reading it.” She fell silent as Tilly poured the tea, the crack and spit of the fire the only sound. “What a charming little room,” she remarked, looking around. “So neat and cozy. I must admit that it feels a little strange to be here, in Violet House, after reading so much about it.”
“I imagine it must be,” Tilly said, willing her hands to steady as she passed Violette a cup of tea.
Violette thanked her, resting the tulips in her lap as she took the cup and saucer.
“It was so very heartbreaking to read of Flora’s desperate sorrow,” she said. “So very sad . . . I . . .”
Her words trailed off. She didn’t know what to say.
They sat for a while, drinking their tea, talking about the weather and plans for Christmas—about anything other than Florrie and Rosie Flynn, and while an undeniable sense of anticipation stung the air around them, Tilly felt far more relaxed in Violette’s company here than she had in the austere surroundings of Nightingale House.
She studied Violette’s face as they chatted. She looked tired. There was something different about her. She seemed distant, displaced—as if a taut thread had been suddenly released to unravel into a dozen strands.
They talked and talked until Tilly could bear it no longer.
“So you found the notebook interesting?”
Her words seemed to get caught among the dust motes, floating around in a shaft of pale winter sun that peered through the window.
Violette swallowed. She set her teacup down onto the table beside her.
“I did,” she said. The words were spoken quietly, carefully. “Yes, I found it very interesting.” She paused, tugging at the choker around her neck. “Miss Harper, I wonder, if it isn’t too impertinent of me to ask, whether it would be possible to see the room that Flora—Florrie—lived in, when she was here. It really would mean a great deal to me.”
Tilly understood. Part of her had been expecting Violette to want to see Flora’s old room. She was glad now that she’d taken the extra time and gone over the floors twice and dusted all the surfaces thoroughly that morning.
“Of course. Please, follow me. It’s quite a climb to the top of the house, I’m afraid.”
Ascending the stairs, Tilly remembered how nervous she’d felt when she first arrived here, following Mrs. Pearce, not knowing what would be waiting for her when she reached the top. She felt the same trepidation now.
Reaching her room, she opened the door and stood to one side.
She spoke quietly. “This is it. This is the room that Flora Flynn called home. She shared it with another girl for some years, but it was just hers for the final years of her life.”
She wanted to tell Violette about Lily Brennan, about how she’d only just discovered the identity of her real mother, about how Lily and Florrie had been such good friends, but as she watched Violet
te step into the room, she noticed her face change. She stood to one side and said nothing.
Violette was completely silent. She stood on the simple rag rug in the center of the room, her eyes closed. Tilly hovered in the doorway. She felt the temperature in the room drop, detected the scent of violets around her.
After a while, Violette spoke, her whispered words—charged with emotion—filling the small room like electricity, fizzing in the air.
“What a palace, Flora. What a beautiful palace you found to call home. I remember, Flora. I remember you. I remember the flowers and the cries of the sellers.”
She paused for a moment to catch her breath, dabbing at her tears.
Tilly stepped into the room. She waited by the door.
Violette closed her eyes again. “She’s here. She’s still here, isn’t she, Miss Harper? Do you sense her, too?”
Tilly nodded. “I wasn’t sure for a long while, but as I read more of the notebook, the sensations became more noticeable. The room cools very suddenly. I sometimes get a sense of someone brushing past me. It never frightened me, though. It’s comforting in a way.” She walked over to the bed, perching on the edge. “Do you smell the violets, Mrs Ashton?”
“Violets?”
“Yes. Every so often I smell violets, although there have never been any in the room.”
“How funny,” Violette said. “And yet all I smell are roses. Wonderful, sweet roses. Her favorite.” She breathed in deeply. “Perhaps there are others who linger here, too, Miss Harper.”
Violette took another breath and began to sing softly; her voice as clear as a nightingale’s.
“At early dawn I once had been
Where Lene’s blue waters flow,
When summer bid the groves be green,
The lamp of light to glow—
As on by bower, and town and tower,
And wide-spread fields I stray,
I meet a maid in the greenwood shade,
At the dawning of the day.”
Tilly sat on the edge of the bed, plaiting the fringe of the counterpane. She felt as if she was intruding. She waited until the song came to an end.