“Would you like to be alone, Mrs. Ashton?”
Violette walked over to the bed and settled herself beside Tilly, taking hold of her hands, grasping them tight, as if she might fall if she were to let go.
Tilly looked into her eyes. They burned with so much intensity it was hard to believe that they once couldn’t see.
“It is me, Miss Harper. Rosie. Little Sister. I am Rosie.”
She let out a huge sigh as she spoke, a thousand memories tumbling from within her.
A cool breath of air rushed between them. Goose bumps bubbled all over Tilly’s skin. She couldn’t speak.
“Florrie? Florrie, is that you? Are you here?” Tilly watched, frozen, as Violette spoke into the pale midwinter light of the room. “I feel you,” she continued. “I remember you. It is me, Florrie. Rosie. Little sister. I am found. I have come back to you, Florrie.”
A distant sigh, like a breath of wind in the treetops.
Tilly felt hot tears prick her eyes. “I can’t believe it,” she whispered. “I can’t believe it is you. I can’t believe I found her.”
Violette continued to speak, lost in her memories. “I remember the flower markets, Florrie. The wonderful scent of the flowers—and the noise of the hawkers and costers. I remember your hand in mine—always in mine. I don’t blame you, Florrie. It wasn’t your fault. I hid in the carriage of a lady who found me and took me in as her own daughter.” She paused, her words broken by tears.
Tilly held her hands to her mouth, immobilized by what she heard.
“She has explained everything to me,” Violette continued. “She only meant for the best. She didn’t mean to deprive you of your sister, didn’t mean to break your heart. She is a good woman and has been a wonderful mother to me. She is so sorry for taking me from you, truly, truly sorry. I have forgiven her, Florrie—and you must forgive yourself. You must let yourself go on now—toward the light.”
Tilly could smell roses now; an intense perfume of a hundred roses, filling the room.
Violette stood up. She walked to the window and laid the white tulips on the windowsill.
“For you, Florrie,” she whispered. “White tulips for forgiveness. You don’t need to search for me anymore. You don’t need to wait. You can go. Be at peace.”
A gasp. Tilly heard it so clearly. A woman’s gasp. And then a sigh, a long, gentle sigh like the faintest breath of wind, blown in from the sea.
And then silence.
Chapter 45
Nightingale House,
Richmond Hill,
London
December 15, 1912
Dear Mr. Shaw,
I write to tell you how very moved I was to read your most recent entry in The Christian Magazine. You write with such eloquence, such dignity. And I quote: “To those who are blest with the riches of this world and who may chance to read these observations, I earnestly commend the cause of the Waifs and Strays and Homeless little ones, hoping that they will assist in providing the funds necessary to carry on this Institution, and so help in providing a Home for the homeless.”
I applaud your continued commitment to this most worthy of ventures.
With the Festive season upon us, I would like to donate a further sum of three hundred pounds to the Institutions. It is my only hope that this may assist in providing some poor, wretched child a home for Christmas and a brighter future for the New Year and beyond.
I hope that your health is much recovered after your period of convalescence in Clacton. I was fortunate to visit the resort earlier in the year and must admit that I found it uncommonly pleasant and quite difficult to leave behind when it was time to return to London.
You may recall that I first wrote to you some years ago, after seeing a display of the flower girls’ work. I was keen to support your work, and have always made my donations under an anonymous name. But the truth of the matter is a little more complicated than that.
My support of your work is driven by a deep sense of obligation to do whatever small thing I can to support the lives of London’s crippled and blind children. While the reasons for my obligation cannot be easily explained, it gives me great comfort to know that your wonderful work will prevent the needless suffering of other children.
With God’s blessings for a wonderful Yuletide and peace and happiness to you and all your family—including the flower girls and orphans you have dedicated your life to. I once heard you say that you think of them all as your daughters. They could not wish for a more devoted father.
With fondest regards,
Marguerite Ingram (“Daisy”)
Chapter 46
Clacton
December 1912
As the icy grip of winter brought everything in nature to a creeping halt, Albert Shaw’s health continued to deteriorate. Despite his insistence that he was perfectly well, there was no denying the fact that his rasping cough had worsened and his breathing was increasingly labored. From her room in Foxglove House, Tilly heard his continual struggle for breath. There was no escaping the sound of his pleurisy, the illness he had carried for many years. It frightened her.
True to his promise, Edward had arranged for Tilly to accompany him on a day trip to the Flower Village. He had some matters to attend to before the Christmas festivities commenced in full and insisted that she would be a great tonic to his aunt and uncle while he was taking care of business. With Mrs. Harris happy to hold the fort in London, it was settled. “And, it would certainly cheer me to be greeted by your smile each day, rather than Sarah’s,” Edward had joked. “She can be quite fearsome sometimes.”
“Dear Edward. You are too harsh. Sarah wouldn’t harm a fly. She may be all starch on the outside, but her heart is made of pure velvet.”
It was agreed that Mrs. Pearce would accompany them, since she needed to make arrangements for some of the older girls from the Flower Village to be moved up to the Flower Homes in London. While Tilly wished she could make the journey with Edward alone, she knew that Mrs. Pearce’s presence would keep matters more “appropriate.”
Tilly had told Edward everything about her life. She’d wept hard, gulping tears of guilt and remorse as the words and emotions she’d kept locked within her for so many years spilled from her as easily as milk from a dropped jug. Through all her revelations about Florrie and Rosie, Violette Ashton and Mrs. Ingram, Lily Brennan and Esther’s accident, Edward listened and understood. He didn’t judge or condemn her—just embraced and loved her. And she loved him in return. Truly loved him, with all her heart.
Before they left for Clacton, Queenie, Hilda, and Buttons gave Tilly a beautiful wreath of white lilies and snowdrops. “It’s for the little girl,” Queenie explained. “Edward will know what I mean.”
There was so much Tilly wanted to say to the girls, whom she saw now as friends and family, as well as her charges, but how could she ever begin to thank them for everything they had given her? They would never know the difference they had made to her life since she’d arrived in London that spring.
Although it was only to be a short trip, she packed some spare clothes in her small carpet bag just in case a snowstorm saw them stuck in Clacton. She added a few personal possessions, things she liked to have with her always—her sketchbook and pastels and her favorite reading books. She’d given the wooden box, and everything in it—the button, the peg, the rag doll, the pressed flowers, the handkerchief, the postcard and Flora’s notebook—to Mrs Ashton. She was delighted with the box of trinkets but said she would discard the button—that she didn’t like the feel of it.
And then there was Esther. Tilly was relieved to see how much her sister was flourishing under the watchful eye of Mrs. Pearce and the flower girls in Rosebud House—and the special bond she had forged with Hilda. When she looked at her sister now, she saw life and hope burning in those kingfisher eyes.
Esther had listened quietly while Tilly told her everything about the letter from their father.
“I’m sorry for how everyth
ing worked out,” she said. “I wish Mother could have loved you.”
“Me, too,” Tilly said. “Me, too.”
Esther had also shared the content of their father’s letter with Tilly. Her letter hadn’t contained any startling revelations or shocking truths, just words of love for the daughter he and Hannah had longed for, and words of encouragement for the life she would lead. Your sister is a good person, he’d written. Try to understand her. Try to follow her advice. You may be very different, you and her, but there is much that you have in common. Reach out to her, Esther, and I am sure that she will let you in.
Some of the bricks still refused to fall from Tilly’s wall, no matter how hard she pushed at them, but she could now see a way through at least. She hoped that, in time, there would be nothing standing between her and her sister. For now, she was content that they were building new foundations, forming a new relationship. Perhaps in the spring, she wrote in a letter she pushed under Esther’s dormitory door before she left for Clacton. Perhaps we’ll be able to start again in the spring. Daddy always said springtime is the best time for renewal, for starting again. I hope we can nurture the little bud of friendship we’ve discovered. Perhaps we’ll see it flourish by the summertime.
AS TILLY WALKED ARM IN ARM with Edward through Mr. Hutton’s frost-dusted gardens, she looked at the stark outline of the oak trees against the pale winter sky. Their branches were bare, their leaves withered on the ground. So much in nature was coming to an end—a quiet pause before the vibrancy of the spring—and yet she felt the love between her and Edward blooming as brightly as cherry blossoms in April.
They strolled on, through the rose garden, Edward carrying the wreath sent from the flower girls in London.
“There are lots of little symbols of remembrance for children who lived here and who, sadly, died here,” Edward explained.
“I remember this bench,” Tilly said, stooping beneath the gnarled branches of the rambling rosebush to read the words again. “God gave us roses in June so that we can have memories in December. Such lovely words.”
She remarked on the patterns left by the frost in the delicate folds of the petals of the Christmas roses. “Just like sugar frosting. It’s as beautiful here in the winter as it was at the end of summer.”
“Look, over here. This is the one we’re looking for.”
Tilly followed Edward toward the back of the garden, to a lilac tree, its branches now bare. She read the small plaque set into the earth. IN MEMORY OF ISABELLA HOPE DEARING, WHO WENT HOME ON CHRISTMAS MORNING, 1872.
“The flower girls send a wreath every Christmas,” Edward said. “To remember her. She was the first child to die here. My uncle tells a story of her every Christmas, and the mothers here read it to the orphans.”
Tilly leaned forward and placed the simple white wreath on the ground, saying a silent prayer.
They stood in respectful silence. Tilly thought back to how she’d watched the snowflakes gather in the corners of the cottage windows after the letter had arrived from the War Office. They hadn’t been able to bury her father—his body interred thousands of miles away. She thought of the memorial headstone they’d placed in the churchyard, a place she would go often to remember him.
“It’s a funny thing, grief, isn’t it,” she said. “It brings about a great change in people, makes them forget about the little things they had time to fret and worry over the day before, like the fact that they’ve an ache in their tooth or a missing button or a new hole in their boot or that it’s raining for the fourth day in a row. Grief washes all that away.” She brushed a tear from her cheek. “They tell you it will pass, that there’ll be a day when you wake up and your heart doesn’t ache, a day when you don’t cry, but laugh and smile and remember the person you’ve lost with great fondness. You can’t believe that day will ever come. But it does, doesn’t it? Somehow, it does.”
Edward placed his arm around her shoulder. She let her head rest against him.
“Sleep well, little angel,” she whispered as they left the memorial place. “Sleep well.”
They walked then, down the cliff path, through the meadow toward the sand dunes, a trail worn into the grassy sand by so many footsteps over the years. A chill wind blew, whipping around them, pulling at their coats and hats, nipping at their noses that soon turned as red as holly berries. Tilly had missed that sea breeze and the crash of the waves. She held tightly to Edward’s arm as she watched the clouds race across the low winter sun.
“Let’s walk barefoot,” she said as they reached the sea. “Let’s see how cold the water is.”
Edward laughed. “Dear Tilly. Are you insane? We’ll freeze to death!”
But she was already removing her boots and stockings, bundling them under her arm, driven by a wonderful, wind-fueled recklessness she hadn’t felt for some time. She didn’t care how shocking it was for a gentleman to see her bare feet and ankles, didn’t care how cold the wet sand was against her porcelain-white skin. This was Edward. This was Clacton—two things she loved more than anything in the world. “Come on,” she laughed, running ahead toward the water. “It’ll be fun!”
Tilly shrieked and leaped backward as the icy-cold water lapped between her toes. Soon, Edward joined her. They fooled around in the water for a while, before standing quietly to watch the white-tipped waves far away in the distance.
Turning her back to the sea, Tilly looked across the sand to the houses of the Flower Village, standing proudly on the cliff top like shining beacons of hope and safety—a lighthouse for all the lost little children who had found their way there.
“It really is a very special place, isn’t it?” she said, holding her hair back from her face.
Edward stood beside her, their shoulders brushing against each other. “It is,” he said. “Quite, quite special.”
“Do you think your uncle understands what he’s done for all the children he’s helped?”
Edward considered the question for a moment. “I don’t think it’s possible for anyone to fully understand the difference this place has made to them. Until you’ve lived their life, walked on frozen cobbles in bare feet and felt hunger pains in your stomach, I don’t think any of us can ever know what it really means to them—or how much Uncle Albert means to them.”
They stood, quietly. Looking. Thinking.
“You realize he’s dying, don’t you? That he won’t recover.”
Tilly let Edward’s words swirl around her in the breeze before answering, softly. “Yes. I know.”
“Do you think you could love it here as much as he does, Tilly?”
“I think I already do.”
Edward turned her to face him. She looked into his gentle, blue eyes, their color accented by the sea and the sky. The breeze tugged at the fabric of their clothes—Tilly’s skirts ballooning out, reaching to Edward, his coattails stretching out like fingertips toward her. She felt her heart swell with endless waves of love.
“Dear Tilly,” he whispered, his mouth so close to hers that his breath moved across her lips.
The freezing water lapped around her toes, but Tilly felt nothing but warmth. As their lips met, the seagulls wheeled in jubilation above them and Tilly Harper knew, with absolute certainty, that she was loved. That she mattered. That whatever had happened in her past was behind her. She closed her eyes and saw the rest of her life stretching endlessly before her, like the vast, beautiful sea.
Lost for a moment in their embrace, they were disturbed by a faint voice, high on the cliff tops, the words carried toward them on the wind.
“Mister Edward! Miss Tilly!”
Tilly opened her eyes. It was Sarah. She was standing on the path, her white hat flapping in the breeze, waving her arms, beckoning them to come—not wildly, but insistently.
And they knew.
Turning from the sea, Tilly linked her arm through Edward’s and they walked quietly along the sand. They didn’t stop to put on their stockings, socks, and shoes. They didn’
t care about the rivulets of freezing water they had so carefully sidestepped a few moments ago.
They walked peacefully up the worn path toward Sarah, whose ashen face confirmed their fears—that the man who had made all of this possible, the man who had given so many lost souls a life, had, finally, lost the battle for his own.
The world had lost a wonderful man, and hundreds of little girls had lost a dear father.
Chapter 47
Grasmere, Lake District
March 1913
March 1, 1913
Dear Daddy,
I’ve been drawing these pictures for you ever since the day the packet arrived from the War Office to tell us the news we had been dreading. I simply could not believe you weren’t coming home, so I continued my sketching, illustrating the hole your death left in my life. I always imagined that one day you would return, and I would give them to you.
I have to accept that I will never again run to you and fall into your open arms, as I so often dreamed I would. So, I am giving my drawings to you now—leaving them where I know you will find them, here at the lake, nestled within the mountains we loved so much.
I want to thank you for raising me on your own, for always believing in me. Fate may have led my mother, Lily, to you, but I believe it was destiny that brought me back to her. I see her in the photograph you sent with your letter. I look so much like her! How I wish I could have known her.
I wear the silver locket around my neck and I sometimes sense your hand resting on the top of my head. It comforts me to know that you are still here, watching me, guiding me. My husband tells me I still have the wind at my heels, but I feel a peace in my heart now. The storm has passed.
There are so many other things I want to say to you, but words seem so inadequate. I will let my sketches, and the beauty of this place, speak for me.