“I hope you had a comfortable journey down to London,” Albert continued after his nephews had left the room. “All the way from the glorious Lake country, I believe. Quite the distance traveled.”
“Yes. It seems like a long while since I left this morning,” Tilly replied. “But the train was very reliable and made good time.”
“And Mrs. Pearce informs me that poor Mrs. Harris is incapacitated. I hope we haven’t startled you too much by providing you with an immediate promotion to post of housemother! Although I’m sure Queenie can be relied on to help out, should the girls become too unruly.”
Tilly nodded, wondering which of the girls Queenie was.
“Life here will be very different for you at first, Miss Harper,” Albert continued, “but I’m quite sure that, with the support of the girls and the other members of our staff—and of course with the blessings of God—you will come to love London and family life with us, just as much as you do your own family and home.”
His words weighed heavily on Tilly, as if they demanded an immediate acknowledgment of the truth: that she didn’t love her home, or her family. Not anymore. Not since Esther had arrived to spoil everything with her perfect face and perfect manners and perfect white-blond hair.
Esther! Esther! Where are you? I can’t see anything. Esther! Where are you?
The unfamiliar sound of the budgie chirping in its cage drew Tilly back from her thoughts. Albert Shaw stood in front of her, waiting for her to speak. All she could manage was an uninspiring “Yes. Thank you. I will.”
“Very good. Now, I must go and prepare for my sermon.” If Mr. Shaw had noticed Tilly’s distraction, he chose not to draw attention to it. “I look forward to seeing you all at chapel, and”—he continued, lowering his voice and leaning down to be closer to the faces of the girls—“I have some most exciting news to share with you all, most exciting indeed!”
With that, he bid them farewell and walked out of the room, leaving the space of twenty men behind him.
Chapter 12
London
June 1876
Florrie
Da is dead. Dead and gone wherever the likes of men such as him go.
He didn’t say nothing before he passed, just stared at me, though I don’t think he was looking at me proper. It’s awful to say, but I weren’t even sad. I didn’t cry—not one tear. I know he was my da, but I don’t feel nothing for him like a daughter should. I don’t miss him at all and that’s the truth of it.
Auntie May’s all me an’ Rosie have now, and she’s not well, neither. She talks to herself a lot and screams at me sometimes. “Get out of my house!” she shouts, jabbing her finger at me. “Get out, ye little tinker.” Swears she’s never seen me before and that I’m after stealing things. Mrs. Quinn says it’s syphilis. Syphilis can do that to a person, y’know—send them barmy. She’ll end up in Bedlam with the rest of ’em, no doubt.
After Da was buried, I made Auntie promise not to send us to the workhouse. She says she won’t, so long as we keep selling our flowers and earning some pennies, so I’ve been trying to sell as many bunches as I can.
At least we’ve the warmer days now and the start of summer. There’s always something nicer about the summer. People are more friendly, and ye’ll never get a lady or gen’leman refusing a posy on a fine summer’s day, sure you won’t. And them ginger-beer fountains that pop up all over the city—Lord! The best and fanciest I ever seen was in Petticoat Lane. Dark shining wood and gleaming brass on the pump handles, the glasses all shining in the sun, two handsome ponies to pull the machine—like something from Buckingham Palace it was. Oh, I wished I had a ha’penny to spare so as me and Rosie could have a taste of it.
All the sweetest flowers are in bloom this time of year, so we should have a decent trade, if the rains hold off. It’s the violets and roses I like selling best. They look so pretty all tied up, and the violets with their leaves shaped like love hearts and the rose petals what feel so soft in my fingers I imagine I’m touching the ladies’ velvet skirts. Smell good, too. It’s nice to put them roses to your nose and forget about the stink of that busted drain at the Court. “God gave us roses in June so that we can have memories in December.” That’s what Mammy used to say. Loved the roses the best, so she did. Reckon that’s why she named Little Sister after them. Dear little Rosie. Sweet little thing. All I have in the world, so she is. All I have in the world.
Chapter 13
Violet House, London
March 25, 1912
Now, girls, let’s not forget our manners,” Mrs. Pearce nagged. “I’m sure Miss Harper is keen to get to know you all. While Mrs. Harris is recuperating, Miss Harper will be in charge of the running of the house. Queenie, I suppose we should start with you, seeing as how you’ve been here the longest.”
Moving around the room, Tilly was introduced to eleven residents of Violet House—Buttons had slunk off again while everyone else was fussing around the Mr. Shaws. Mrs. Pearce reeled off the names at an alarming rate: Doris, Lorraine, Betty, Hilda, Queenie, Alice, Edna, Bridget, Ivy, Maud, and Eileen. “And, of course, there’s also Primrose. The budgie.”
Tilly stared at the bewildering mass of faces. She guessed that the youngest girl, Hilda, was around sixteen, and the eldest, Queenie, around forty. She found herself relating each girl to her handicap, hoping that it would help her remember all the names. Doris—blind. Lorraine—wheelchair. Betty—one arm. Hilda—crutch (one leg ). Queenie—midget. Alice—wheelchair. Edna—blind. Bridget—wheelchair. Ivy—one hand. Maud—midget. Eileen—one hand. Like a list of groceries, she mentally marked them all down.
Despite her reservations, everyone was perfectly polite. Only Queenie seemed to bristle a little at her arrival, paying less attention to her than the others and yet observing her far more intently than anyone else. Tilly tried to appear calm on the outside, even if her heart was pounding and her knees were shaking. She spoke briefly to each of them, telling them how much she’d admired the wonderful displays outside and how clever she thought them to be able to make such lifelike replicas. She was relieved to find that she wasn’t too unsettled by the cumbersome wheelchairs and useless limbs that hung limply beneath cotton pinafores. Even the awkward stumps that some of the girls offered in place of a hand to shake didn’t trouble her.
If anything, she felt a strange affinity with the girls. Although she had no physical limitations, she did know what it felt like to be pointed at and whispered about, to be the object of others’ speculation and gossip. She knew how upsetting it was when people crossed the road so they didn’t have to acknowledge you, unsure of what to say or how to act around you. For as long as she could remember, she’d felt like one of life’s misfits. Maybe she had more in common with the girls of Violet House than they would ever realize.
When the introductions were complete, everyone readied themselves for the trip to chapel. Hats and coats were found, wheelchairs were navigated through the narrow door, crutches were matched to their rightful owners, and, finally, they were ready to leave.
Tilly helped one of the older girls, Alice, into her chair.
“Don’t mind Mr. Herbert,” Alice whispered. “He might be a handsome bugger, but there’s a lot to be said for manners.” Tilly smiled, grateful for the sentiment, although she couldn’t stop thinking about Herbert’s lingering gaze. “And as for the way he treats his brother . . .”
But Tilly didn’t hear what Alice thought of the way Herbert treated his brother, because Mrs. Pearce arrived at her shoulder, chivying everyone along to make sure they wouldn’t be late.
As they made the short trip to the chapel at the end of the street, Tilly noticed the easy harmony among the girls, each one compensating for another, lending an arm where there wasn’t one, becoming the eyes for a girl who couldn’t see. It triggered a rush of guilt within her as she thought about Esther.
“I hope you don’t mind my asking, Mrs. Pearce,” Tilly said as they walked, “but how did the girls bec
ome crippled? Was it factory accidents?”
“Some, yes. Those missing a limb will most probably have been involved in some manner of factory accident. Most of them suffer from diseases of the spine, bones, and joints—the result of tuberculosis. The blind, or partially sighted, are usually that way because of the scarlet fever. Others had rickets as young children. Of course, there are also tragic accidents. See Bridget over there? Her mother fainted and fell on top of her when she was just a baby. Paralyzed her from the waist down.”
“That’s terrible.”
“It certainly is. Most of their stories are. How they manage to laugh and smile as much as they do is a wonder to me. Take Lorraine here, for example.” She lowered her voice, indicating the girl whose wheelchair she was pushing. “Her father was out of work, so he moved the family to London from Bristol, hoping for a better life. Her sister went into service, and her brothers went to work in the factories. She was walking on unhealing fractured femurs since she was an infant. It was her Sunday School teacher who wrote to Mr. Shaw to ask if he could take her. Five operations on her legs—and here she is. Much improved, but she’ll never walk or run as freely as you or I can.”
Tilly walked on in silence, thinking about how difficult the girls’ lives had been and how remarkable it was to see them all chatting and smiling, simply getting on with the business of living. She thought about Esther. She couldn’t remember when she had last seen her smile.
“I know there are a lot of names to remember,” Mrs. Pearce continued. “You might find it helpful to remember the girls by their appearance.”
“Oh, yes. I started to do that already.”
“Good. Take note of who wears spectacles perhaps, or the color of their hair, or their eyes, or the shapes of their faces. Physical features can help you remember who’s who. It helped me anyway. Just a thought.”
Tilly flushed scarlet with shame. She’d already labeled the girls to help her remember them, but not according to their appearance, only according to their afflictions. She said nothing to Mrs. Pearce and vowed to say a prayer for forgiveness in chapel.
AFTER THE LONG TRAIN JOURNEY, the erratic drive through London’s streets, the drama of Buttons’s appearance in her wardrobe, the discovery of the wooden box and notebook, and the fuss of all the introductions, Tilly was relieved to be able to sit quietly and absorb the serenity of the chapel hall.
She settled herself at one of the wooden benches alongside her new charges. Glancing around, she estimated there were at least three hundred people crammed inside the chapel to hear the evening sermon, including rows of girls from the Flower Homes. The black dresses and white aprons of the housemothers and assistant housemothers punctuated their group here and there. Tilly wondered if they had all felt as nervous when they’d first started their employment here.
As more people entered the chapel, Tilly recognized Albert Shaw’s wife, Evelyn. She presumed that those who’d arrived with her must be her daughters, nieces, nephews, and grandchildren. She found herself scanning the faces for Herbert, despite the fact that she was still annoyed with him for embarrassing her earlier. Eventually, she spotted him sitting toward the front, his eyes fixed firmly on his uncle, his brother sitting quietly beside him with his head bowed.
Evelyn Shaw recognized Tilly as she caught her eye, mouthing a “Welcome” and offering a warm smile before settling herself beside Herbert at the front. Tilly was grateful to see a familiar face in all that was so new and strange. She was reminded of the letter Mrs. Shaw had sent to confirm the date and time of her interview. We feel it is important for anyone taking a position at the Flower Homes to have the opportunity to meet with some of the girls and to see, firsthand, the work we do. It may not be desirable to all. She also recalled how welcome Mrs. Shaw had made her feel when she’d arrived for the interview, a bundle of nerves and dread. It was hard to believe it was just a few months ago.
IT HAD BEEN a brief yet thorough meeting. The preacher’s wife—a slim, elegant woman—had made an immediate impression on Tilly. Her silvered hair was tied into a neat bun at the nape of her neck, the soft shade suiting her pale complexion. Just a hint of blush colored the apples of her cheeks, and her blue eyes smiled as she talked. She wore fashionable London clothes, which Tilly had seen only in journals and newspapers. She smelled of rosewater and soap, and a small silver charm bracelet jangled at her wrist when she moved.
“The girls usually come to us at the age of fourteen or fifteen—no younger. It’s at that age they would normally go into service, if they were able,” Mrs. Shaw had explained. “We bring the inmates up from the orphanage when they reach the appropriate age and have finished their schooling. Often, we find a girl selling on the streets and bring her here directly. It takes two years or so for them to become really proficient in making the flowers, so by the age of sixteen or seventeen they are fully trained. Many of the girls move out of the homes then, to live with foster families, but many have continued to live and work with us as grown women. Even so, we still refer to them as our ‘flower girls’—it’s a name that’s stuck, and of which they are all very proud.
“We prefer to use the term ‘afflicted’ rather than ‘crippled.’ You’ll find them all extremely determined young women—fiercely independent. While they may have private thoughts and feelings about the physical challenges they face, they rarely complain or permit themselves any amount of self-pity. They’ve taught me much about the possibilities of the human spirit, Miss Harper. They’ve shown me that there is always an opportunity to display fortitude in the face of adversity, that it is not up to society to provide us with a sense of belonging and acceptance but rather up to each of us to allow ourselves to belong, to allow ourselves to be accepted.”
Tilly had reflected on these words throughout that evening as dreams troubled her sleep on the long train journey back to Grasmere. She’d thought of them often since and was reminded of them again now, as she returned Evelyn Shaw’s smile.
AS THE SERMON BEGAN, Tilly picked up the small prayer book and focused on what was being said. She’d never been very good at reading her Bible, preferring to read the chapbooks and novels that the ladies at Wycke Hall sometimes passed on to her. It was her father who’d insisted they make the short trip to the local church every Sunday, to give thanks for their health and the food on their table. Tilly had prayed and said her amens only out of respect for her father.
She couldn’t remember exactly when her faith had really faltered, but whatever small amount of belief she’d once held had been truly suffocated by the events that had torn her family apart. Yet, here, in this room full of strangers, Tilly found herself sitting up, listening attentively.
All eyes in the room were fixed on the orator at the front, all ears attuned to his words. Albert Shaw seemed different in his role as preacher—taller, if that were possible. And there was something else, something indefinable, otherworldly almost. Albert Shaw, as Tilly had quickly come to realize, was a man people took notice of. His words stirred strong emotions within her, a sense of compassion she hadn’t felt for a while. She thought of Esther, of sea-green eyes staring blankly at her—through her—as if seeing a future she knew would never be hers.
At the end of Mr. Shaw’s sermon, during which he talked passionately about the desperate plight of London’s orphans and the need for the congregation to pray for those who suffered unthinkable hardships every day, he paused. There was much shuffling of feet and rustling of skirts, especially among the girls from the Flower Homes, who knew that his much anticipated announcement would follow.
“With God’s mercy, we have overcome many challenges and hardships—some physical, some emotional, some financial. But the work of our wonderful flower girls is not going unnoticed. We now supply many London homes and have even shipped our products as far afield as America and Australia. Indeed, the work of the girls is now so well known that we have been asked to produce something special—something very special indeed.
“Some of
you will be aware that our Dowager Queen, Queen Alexandra, is—this June—to celebrate fifty years since her arrival in our country from her native Denmark. There is talk of a large processional drive through London to celebrate this occasion. The Queen has requested that the event be used in some way to help the sick and needy and to raise funds for our city’s hospitals. It has therefore been decided that a ‘flag day’ will be held, to raise funds through the sale of artificial flowers on the streets of London. And we, here at the Flower Homes, have been selected to make the ‘Alexandra Roses’ that will be sold on the day!”
He had to stop talking then, as a great din of excited chatter erupted in the Chapel Hall. Tilly watched the girls, smiling at the excitement and joy on their faces. “The Queen,” they kept repeating, turning to each other and to those who sat in front of or behind them. “We’re to make flowers for the Queen!”
Mr. Shaw beamed like a proud father as he continued, projecting his voice to make himself heard again above the hubbub.
“It is wonderful and exciting news indeed! Never before has a charitable mission, such as ours, been asked to assist in this manner. That afflicted persons have been specifically asked to produce such important work is, most certainly, without precedent. But Queen Alexandra has heard of the excellent work being done by our girls, and of the wonderful flowers they make. She has therefore decided to honor our achievements by placing this order with us for her first Queen Alexandra Rose Day.”
There was prolonged, spontaneous applause, which started somewhere in the middle of the congregation and moved outward in all directions, spreading like ripples across a lake. Tilly thought of her small church at home, so stiff and formal. There would be great consternation at such an outburst. She joined in, clapping enthusiastically, caught up in the buzz and excitement.