We go down Wellington Street, off the Strand, and then along Russell Street. There’s no noise like it when the markets is getting goin’. Sure, ye can hear the shouts and cries from as far away as Chancery Lane. It doesn’t matter which way you’re coming from ’cause all the roads to market—Southampton Street, Bedford Street, Long Acre, Bow Street—are stuffed to bustin’ with the hawkers and costers, pulling their handcarts and barrows. Hundreds of men there are, balancing great baskets on their heads as they rush past, shoutin’ and cursin’ as they weave in and out of each other’s way, past the carts and the knackered old donkeys. The greengrocers’ wagons rumble past us, piled higher than an omnibus with their cabbage and sea kale, and I gawp at them funny-looking pineapples ’cause I never seen nothing like ’em. The wagons and carts make the road shudder under our feet. Me an’ Rosie don’t care about steppin’ on the rotten cabbage leaves and we don’t take no notice of the saucy dollymops who hang around the costers as they take their pint in the early taverns. We don’t look at ’em, like Mammy always told us not to.
I take Little Sister along the back streets if it’s getting too busy on the main roads. It’s easy to lose people in all that busyness—and that’s what frightens me more than anything else, losin’ Rosie. I’d rather lose the use of both legs and not eat for a year, so I would, than lose Little Sister. So I hold on to her hand fierce tight, ’cause you never know who might be lurking round them corners: the natty lads waiting to steal y’r stock money, or wicked men waitin’ to steal worse. You’d never know what, or who, was in them shadows, sure you wouldn’t. So we go darting like rats down the narrowest alleyways, picking another way to the Garden, and when we turn in to the grand avenue and see the Floral Hall, all gleaming glass and iron, it’s a nice feelin’, familiar, like.
I know we’re terrible filthy, we’re hungry and cold all the days and nights, and I wish for a pair of sturdy boots for us both, but when the sun shines on the flower markets on a summer’s morning, it can look real pretty; them baskets of violets shine like jewels. I tell Rosie how they reflect against the rain-soaked cobbles and turn the stones purple.
Sometimes, before we go sellin’, we visit the Club Room. I make sure we pay our ha’penny and we wait as patient as our rumbling bellies will allow as the ladies ladle the soup or mutton out of great cooking pots. Spoonful after spoonful they pour into the bowls and that meaty steam all risin’ up and the smell of that gravy getting up y’r nose is so good we can hardly wait a minute more. I never tasted nothing so good, sure I didn’t. We both get an ache in our bellies from eating too quick. And then we sit around the kind lady who tells us all about noble and good people. I tell Little Sister that we should try to be noble and good, then we won’t end up like that Nellie Byrne. Fell in with a bad lot so she did. Ended up at the bottom of the Thames. Only twelve year old. Lord knows what’s to become of her brother and sister what she used to mind.
I don’t think about food most days, it’s easier that way, though it was hard not to think about them hot cross buns when the coster boys arrived near where we was selling on Shaftesbury Avenue on Good Friday. Little Sister said she wished we could stay there selling our flowers forever, just so as she could breathe in that delicious smell. Poor little Rosie. How I wished I could pay a penny for one.
Well, the luck of the Irish came to me then. Didn’t one of them glistening buns fall out the seller’s basket! Rolled right up to my feet, so it did. I grabbed it before he could notice and stuffed it into my pocket. Off we ran then, me an’ Rosie. We hid behind a rag and bone cart on Haymarket. Stuffed that bun into our mouths quicker than you can say “one-a-penny, two-a-penny.” It weren’t stealing, sure it weren’t, ’cause it fell on the ground and I just found it there and that’s different from stealing from the basket, so it is. Sure, there’s nothing nicer than a belly full of sweet bun and those spices were still on our lips when we went back to Rosemary Court. Best of all, Da was out Greenwich way, hoping to pick up some rag before the Greenwich Fair. Me and Rosie slept better that night than we had in months. I said a prayer and thanked Granny for her lucky shamrocks and slept until daylight.
But them nights of a good sleep don’t come around often. When me an’ Rosie is sleeping outside, I can’t help thinking of the frightening men who walk around at night. I’m always glad to see the lamplighter come along with his pole and his light. I watch him from where we’re hidden; watch him reach the pole up and then the flame starts. Like magic it is when the lamp starts to glow, and it’s always nice to see that little puddle of light on the street. I can sometimes sleep for a while then, but mostly I keep my eyes open, watching out for danger, along with the cats and the rats and the scabby dogs who snuffle about near us looking for vegetable scraps. I start thinking on the stories the costers tell us then—the stories they’re after reading in the penny dreadfuls. Scare your bones off you, so they would, with all their talk of murder and ghosts. So I don’t sleep much. Can’t. I lie awake, and wait for morning, and remember my promise to Mammy.
Chapter 10
London
May 1876
The late spring frosts are after making life hard. We ain’t had flowers to sell for a week now—all ruined they are before they even get to market. The oranges and cresses are keeping us going, but only just.
Things are troublesome at home, too. Cousin Kathleen has run off and nobody’s seen her for two week or more and Da’s after taking ill with the consumption. Auntie May is minding him as best she can, but I don’t think she’s the full shilling herself these days and her nerves is playing up what with Kathleen disappearing. Auntie May says Da’s sure to die before the month is out. I can’t feel sad about it, even though I know I should, ’specially ’cause that’ll make me and Rosie orphans, and most orphans get taken into the workhouse. Mammy’s lucky handkerchiefs maybe ain’t so lucky after all.
At least me and Rosie have Mr. Shaw’s Club Room to go to—and we’ve got each other. Not like the little match sellers. Most of them are orphans—all alone—and some no bigger than Rosie. They come running like rats through the alleyways when they see the omnibus coming, the boxes of matches on the ends of their long sticks so as they can reach up to the passengers on the top deck. Rosie says they sound like a flock of birds with their little voices screeching all together.
More and more sellers come out as the months get warmer. We see the ham sandwich sellers, the coffee sellers, and the newspaper vendors who stand at the theater doors and the bridges and railway stations like us flower sellers do. Me and Rosie like the music of the nigger bands who play all the day in the summertime. It’s nice to hear them when we sell around Oxford Street and Regent Street.
Sometimes we stop to talk to the midget who stands at the corner of St. Martin’s Lane and Long Acre, selling his nutmeg graters. He’s a dwarf and no higher than me. I thought he was just a young boy at first, but then I saw his face—a man’s face in a boy’s body. He has a sign hung around his neck: I WAS BORN A CRIPPLE. I know ’cause he told me himself what it says. The graters hang all around him on fraying bits of string, clinking and clanking whenever he moves. He fell over once and sent up such a great clatter. He wears a smart cap and a neckerchief of crimson red. Y’d know him if you saw him. He has sad eyes, so I try and remember to smile at him when we see him.
I don’t care for some of the sellers, though. I ’specially don’t like the lemonade seller on Westminster Bridge. Looks at you funny when he talks to you, so he does. His eyes are shifty and his teeth all rotten and fallin’ out of his head, and he sneers when he looks at you. He stands all hunched over his stone barrel, his coat hanging about him and his hat balanced on his head. Maura Connolly says he looks like a monster. She says you could put him on the cover of a penny dreadful and have half of London terrified. “More frightening than Spring-Heeled Jack.” That’s what she says.
“Lemonade, buy your ice-cold lemonade fresh,” he cries when we go past. “Halfpenny a glass, sparkling lemonade.”
He knows we ain’t got a ha’penny to spare—cruel so he is to tempt us like that. But the glasses sparkle in the sun and it all looks so nice when you see the boys guzzling that drink down their throats without stopping. But I reckon the powder he mixes into the water ain’t lemonade powder at all. Persian sherbet he sometimes calls it when he makes it turn red. Vitriol—I reckon that’s all he’s putting in there.
“Don’t look at ’im, Rosie,” I say as we scurry past. “Don’t look in his eyes.” ’Cause the coster boys say if you look into his eyes he hypnotizes you and takes little girls off to work for him, stealing and begging and pickpocketing.
So we dart and dodge among the ladies and gentlemen as they go for a stroll. We duck underneath the horses’ bellies, making sure we don’t get a kicking from them, and we crowd around the carriages, begging the pretty ladies to buy our flowers as they get in or out. The horses snort and paw at the ground, their coats all covered in white sweat, and I hold on to Little Sister’s hands tight as I can. “Don’t let go, Rosie,” I tell her. “Don’t let go.”
Chapter 11
Violet House, London
March 25, 1912
A strange hush descended over Violet House as Tilly made her way downstairs. Each footstep she placed on the creaky steps seemed to emphasize the fact that she was a stranger here, that the house did not yet know her well enough to be fully at ease.
Wincing at the sound of each creak and crack, she wished she could spend more time in her room, reading the notebook. She wanted to know more about Flora and her sister, Rosie.
The knots in her stomach tightened at the prospect of meeting the “girls” who would be in her charge—some of whom, despite the affectionate name given to them as a group, were much older than her. She wondered whether they would accept her direction in place of Mrs. Harris’s, whether she was up to the “demanding circumstances” facing her. She thought of her mother, of how satisfied she would be if Tilly were to fail, were to arrive home within a week, her great London adventure come to nothing. The thought made her stand taller. Come along, Tilly, she chided. Pull yourself together. How difficult can it be?
“Well, good evening, girls. And a fine one it is, too, without the rain to dampen our spirits.”
Tilly’s thoughts were interrupted by a loud, jovial voice downstairs.
“Good evening, Mr. Shaw,” she heard the girls reply in unison.
He was here! Mr. Shaw was here. Tilly stopped on the landing, straining to listen to this man she had heard so much about, and for whom she already had so much respect and admiration, despite having never met him in person.
“And how are you today, Lorraine?” she heard him ask. “You’re looking much better now, I must say. And Hilda, how’s that sprained wrist coming along? We’re hoping to see you back on the factory floor very soon—those orchids don’t look quite the same without your delicate touch on the petals. Ah, Betty and Doris, I see you’re planning to be first into chapel as usual . . .” On and on he went, naming each girl in turn, asking how she was, referring to some previous illness or problem, listening to them all, giving each of them his time and attention, like a doting father to his daughters.
Tilly hesitated, lingering on the stairs, not wishing to intrude.
“Well, are you going down to introduce yourself, or are you going to lurk on this staircase for all of eternity?”
Tilly jumped. She hadn’t noticed Mrs. Pearce had joined her on the upstairs landing. “I just stopped to tie my lace,” Tilly mumbled, bending down to fiddle with her boot.
Mrs. Pearce raised an eyebrow. She was not a woman who was easily fooled. “And there was me, imagining that you were eavesdropping.” She winked.
Tilly smiled. “I hear Mr. Shaw has arrived.”
“Three Mr. Shaws, to be precise.”
“Three?”
“Yes. Albert—and his nephews, Herbert and Edward. And all on account of coming to introduce themselves to a certain new assistant housemother, I believe.” Mrs. Pearce tilted her head sideways, indicating that Tilly should start moving on.
Tilly made her way down the remaining stairs, each one creaking louder and louder, as if to announce her arrival to everyone gathered in the room below. Reaching the bottom, she brushed her hands over the front of her new white apron to smooth out any creases and tugged at the cuffs of her blouse to straighten them. Taking a deep breath, she walked to a door that was slightly ajar, knocked, and entered.
All eyes fell on her the moment she stepped into the room. She felt her cheeks redden as so many unfamiliar faces turned in her direction. Some of the girls smiled, some giggled, some frowned, some stood, some sat. Without exception, they stared.
“Hello.” Her voice came out as a muffled whisper. She cleared her throat. “Hello, everyone.” Better.
As the many pairs of eyes continued to gaze at her, Tilly looked around the room. It was softly lit by a gasolier suspended from a ceiling rose, the glass beading along the edge of the shade disturbed by a draft. The walls were covered with pretty rose-patterned wallpaper, and several pictures hung from the picture rail: watercolor landscapes and still-life paintings of various flora and fauna. A rag rug lay in front of the fireplace; to one side sat a built-in cupboard, to the other, a dresser, where numerous jugs and cups hung from hooks. In front of the window was a large mahogany table surrounded by Windsor chairs, where some of the girls sat. Another group sat huddled together, giggling, on a comfortable-looking couch. A butter-yellow budgie chirped happily in a cage hanging on a stand near the window, a collection of seed husks gathered on the floor beneath.
“And you must be our new assistant housemother! Welcome to our Flower Homes, Miss Harper! Welcome indeed!” A tall, dignified-looking elderly man, dressed in a smart suit and black frock coat, appeared from among the group of women. He held out a large hand in greeting, his voice reverberating through Tilly’s chest. “Albert Shaw. It is a pleasure to meet you.”
Tilly gazed up at him, somehow remembering her manners and holding out her hand in return. He took it, shaking it firmly but warmly. He was an impressive sight. Tilly guessed he stood over six feet tall. His face was dignified, with what her mother would describe as a “proud chin.” Gray hair and sideburns added an air of gravitas. His eyes, a vivid cornflower blue, spoke of a man who possessed the qualities of passion and compassion in equal measure. He smiled at Tilly, a warm, generous smile that made the crow’s-feet crinkle mischievously around his eyes.
“And these are my nephews, Edward and Herbert,” he continued. “Twins—although you’d never believe it to look at them!”
Edward Shaw stepped forward. Much smaller in stature than his uncle, he carried nothing of the same air of distinction about him. His features were not unpleasant to look at, although there was nothing in particular to admire, either. He barely glanced at Tilly as he held out his hand to shake hers, but she noticed that he had the same striking blue eyes as his uncle. Edward’s eyes, however, did not sparkle and dance like his uncle’s, instead appearing empty and distant.
“Very pleased to meet you, Miss Harper,” he mumbled, his voice barely audible as he tripped and struggled over almost every word.
“Likewise.” Tilly took his hand. It felt weak and cool to the touch.
He nodded and shuffled back behind the girls as his brother stepped forward.
“Miss Harper! Herbert Shaw. Delighted to make your acquaintance.”
Herbert Shaw didn’t share his brother’s awkwardness or hesitancy, and it didn’t escape Tilly’s notice that he was rather handsome.
“I’m very much looking forward to working with you all,” she muttered, thrown by the feel of Herbert’s hand in hers.
He smiled confidently, holding her gaze for a moment longer than was appropriate. She was quite captivated by his deep brown eyes, so dark they were almost black. The protracted and yet fleeting exchange between them caused a quickening of Tilly’s heart. She hoped Herbert hadn’t noticed the flush of color that she felt
creeping up her neck and was relieved when he released her hand from his.
“I hear you’ve made quite the journey to be with us,” he continued, “and by steam locomotive, I see.” He gazed pointedly at Tilly’s right cheek, offering a handkerchief from his pocket.
She winced, realizing that while she’d been busy poking around in other people’s possessions upstairs, she’d forgotten to wipe away the smoke smudge she’d noticed earlier. She was annoyed with herself and even more annoyed with Herbert Shaw for pointing it out so unkindly.
“Thank you,” she said, taking the handkerchief and putting it self-consciously to her cheek.
As he smiled—somewhat condescendingly—she decided that his lips were, perhaps, a little too large for the rest of his face.
“You’re welcome. And you may keep that,” he added, gesturing to the handkerchief before turning his attention back to the girls. He made a comment that Tilly couldn’t quite hear, but which made them all giggle.
“The boys are showing quite an aptitude for the business side of our operation,” Mr. Shaw added, giving Herbert and Edward each a hefty pat on the shoulder. “Which is just as well. With my dear wife insisting on producing daughters, I am forced to look to my nephews to take over the running of the charity when I am no longer able to see to things myself.”
“I doubt anyone will be taking over for many years yet, Uncle,” Herbert said as he turned back to Tilly. “My uncle has been blessed, Miss Harper, not only with the ability to save impoverished children from a life of destitution but also with the ability to continually deny the fact that he is not a well man.”
Albert laughed. “And long may my abilities continue—on both counts!”
Herbert then excused himself, said he looked forward to seeing everyone at chapel, and left the room, his brother following quietly behind. Tilly was disappointed to notice that, of the two of them, it was Edward who gave her a brief backward glance as they departed.