A Memory of Violets

by Hazel Gaynor

  “When will Mr. Shaw be back?” Alice asked as they sat around the table for supper. “Will he be home for Christmas? It would be nice to see him again.”

  “He’ll be back as soon as he is well again,” Tilly assured her. “And there’s no better place to convalesce than Clacton. I’m sure he’ll be back for his traditional Christmas sermon.”

  Her words were laced with doubt. They all ate their meal in silence that evening.

  Tilly also sensed that the family was anxious. This was not merely a winter chill Albert had picked up; this was serious enough to produce a flurry of family meetings and furtive discussions behind closed doors. Tilly noticed the increasing regularity of visits from harried-looking men in business suits—lawyers, accountants, and clerks—carrying briefcases and hefty books under their arms, rubbing mist from their spectacles as the cold air lingered on the lenses. She recognized the process from her recent experience of her mother’s death: they were putting Albert Shaw’s affairs in order. They were preparing for the worst.

  Mr. Shaw’s worsening health also saw Edward and Herbert at Sekforde Street more than usual. While Mrs. Shaw had moved to Clacton to be with her husband, the nephews had been appointed to oversee the running of the Flower Homes in their absence.

  Tilly did her best to avoid Herbert. She found herself looking at him in an entirely different light, wondering how she’d never noticed the way he laughed nervously all the time, or how he blinked rapidly when he was listening to someone talk. Perhaps it was the gray light of winter, but he also appeared far less handsome than she remembered.

  Then, there was Edward, whose company she was delighted to find herself in more and more frequently, gladly accepting his offer to take a stroll or a carriage ride through the park. Mrs. Pearce would accompany them for appearances’ sake, although she allowed them their privacy, being surprisingly discreet.

  “How is your uncle this week?” Tilly asked as she and Edward walked in St. James’s Park, enjoying the shrieks of delight from the skaters on the frozen lake.

  Edward sighed, his breath captured on the cold air before being blown up to the snow clouds that hung overhead. He looked tired, the strain of his uncle’s declining health showing in the shadows under his eyes.

  “He’s not much improved, I’m afraid, Tilly. His breathing is very labored. He doesn’t leave the bed now, not even for the shortest stroll in the gardens. It’s so difficult to watch a man who has been so active—so vibrant—be so restricted.”

  “And how is Mrs. Shaw managing? It must be a great strain on her.”

  “Aunt Evelyn is a remarkably resilient woman. She goes about with such purpose, always a smile for everyone, always time to stop and talk to the children. But I see the strain on her face. There’s a weariness in her eyes. They don’t shine like they used to.”

  “I miss Clacton,” Tilly said. “I’d have liked to spend more time there, but . . . well . . . we both know why I couldn’t.”

  Edward stopped walking, taking hold of Tilly’s hand. “Then perhaps you could accompany me there on my next visit?”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. Really! You can discuss it with Mrs. Harris—we can work it around your quarterly day off.” There was something about the way Edward spoke, an intensity to his words. It suggested to Tilly that this were more than just an invitation to travel to Clacton. “It would make me very happy,” he continued. “Very happy indeed.”

  Tilly looked into his eyes, his kind, cornflower-blue eyes. Her heart soared at the feel of his hand on hers, his touch so tender, even through the fabric of her gloves. It was nothing but a whisper, and yet she felt it rush over her like a storm, over the nape of her neck, her back, every delicate hair on her skin responding to his touch. For a blissful, perfect moment, they stood in silence, the screams of the ice skaters muted behind them, lost in the distance.

  Kiss me, she willed him. Kiss me.

  His lips as soft as velvet upon hers; his hands so gentle as they held her.

  She gasped with the unexpected thrill of it, breathing him into her soul, and her heart soared into the dusky pink clouds above, as the first fragile flakes of snow began to fall around them.

  Chapter 41

  Nightingale House, London

  November 1912

  Violette Ashton was not the type of woman to dismiss the notion of coincidence as mere folly. She believed in the possibility of life existing beyond what she saw taking place around her every day. She believed in the paranormal, in the spirit world, in the strange predictions of the fortune-tellers and the sideshow hypnotists and psychics.

  Her mother scoffed at her.

  “I don’t understand why you would believe in such nonsense, Violette,” she said, waving a dismissive hand. “It’s all ridiculous. Quite ridiculous.”

  Violette disagreed.

  Her whole life, she’d felt there was something missing, some inexplicable event that made her feel misplaced, off balance. It had started with a visit to a gypsy fortune-teller in a red and white tent at a local fair. Violette was mesmerized by the exotic scents seeping from the tent, by the wide, staring eyes of the dark-skinned woman sitting within. In strange, broken English, she’d spoken to Violette about flowers and a little girl crying—repeating a name over and over again: Rosie, Rosie, Rosie. It meant nothing to her, but it had captured her imagination all the same and stayed with her ever since.

  While her father had always been a practical businessman, interested in machinery and industry, in how things worked—especially if they made him money—Violette had grown up full of wonder at the natural world. As a child, she would ask question after question. How does the sun stay in the sky? Why do the flowers all smell different? How do the birds know when it’s time to leave for the winter—and how do they find their way back again?

  Her naturally inquisitive nature had only been fueled further by regaining her eyesight at the age of twelve, when she and her mother had traveled from Manchester, back to London, to see Dr. Jeffrey, at Old St. George’s Hospital. He was the best eye surgeon a successful factory owner’s money could buy, and he’d performed a miracle, restoring Violette’s sight to near perfect vision. The world was more beautiful, more magical, more mysterious than she could ever have imagined.

  Hers had been a solitary, cosseted childhood, her mother overly protective, her father—although a perfectly kind and pleasant man—too busy to pay much attention to her. She’d spent much of her childhood playing with an imaginary friend, a girl of her own creation. They would sit on the lawns of the great house she lived in, making daisy chains or picking the wildflowers that she liked to tie into little posies. Everyone admired Violette’s posies. “Wherever did she learn to tie them so neatly?” people asked. She didn’t know. She just went on instinct—often closing her eyes to feel her way around the flowers as she bound them into perfect little clusters. It was a happy childhood, albeit one lacking in close friendships. But despite all her privileges and comforts, Violette had always sensed that there was something missing. It was indefinable, unreachable, and yet there it was: an invisible hole that she often felt defined her more than anything she could see or touch.

  The letter from Tilly Harper had stirred a memory within her.

  THE DAY OF MISS HARPER’S VISIT arrived with the first snow flurries of the winter.

  Gazing from the upstairs window of Nightingale House, Violette admired the views over Petersham Meadows sweeping down toward the Thames. She remembered seeing the view for the first time when she and her husband, Richard, had moved to this grand house, which her parents had once called home. She’d been a young woman when she’d first arrived here—just twenty-two—but as she’d looked across the fields, toward the London skyline, she’d felt a strange sense of déjà vu. She knew that view, knew the bends and curves in the river, the soaring church spires, the dome of St. Paul’s. She saw it so clearly in her mind’s eye.

  She observed the same view now, admiring the expansive beauty.
She watched as snow blanketed the bare branches of the elm and oak trees with a soft white dusting. Then she closed her eyes, listening to the wind as it blew around the eaves and gables; again, strangely familiar, as was the sound of the nightingales in the summertime. They were silent now in this wintry landscape, but she looked forward to their return in the spring.

  “Excuse me, m’lady. There’s a Miss Harper to see you.”

  She turned to address her lady’s maid. “Thank you, Martha, I’ll be right down. Could you show Miss Harper to the drawing room?”

  “Very good, m’lady.”

  She checked herself in the mirror, straightening her skirt and smoothing her hair as she listened to footsteps crossing the marbled floor downstairs. Sometimes Violette felt stifled by the grand austerity of this house, longing to be back in the smaller home that she and Richard had lived in during their years in Harrogate. It had been his idea for them to come back to London, to Nightingale House. It was prime residential property, Richard had explained. It gave the right impression for a man in his position. Violette had reluctantly accepted that it was not her place to argue or disagree, whatever her feelings on the matter.

  Descending the staircase and crossing the entrance hall—brightened by a spray of orchids from the Flower Homes—Violette walked purposefully into the drawing room.

  “Miss Harper,” she said, taking Tilly’s hand. “You are very welcome.” She shook the young woman’s hand firmly. “Thank you so much for making the journey over. I hope the roads were not too treacherous.”

  “They were fine, thank you,” Tilly replied. “It’s really very pretty with the snow settling everywhere.” She brushed a couple of flakes from her coat sleeve as the maid took it from her. A fire crackled in the grate, warming the room pleasantly. “You have a very beautiful home, Mrs. Ashton.”

  “Thank you. It was my parents’ home before they moved north. My husband and I returned some years ago. I always felt it was a little too large for our needs—but I’ll admit I am grateful for it when our girls go galloping about. They grow so quickly.”

  Tilly smiled shyly. Violette sensed that she was eager to dispense with the pleasantries and get to the real reason for her visit.

  “Let’s sit down. Martha will bring the tea.”

  They settled themselves into two comfortable Queen Anne chesterfields.

  “So, Miss Harper, you’ve been working at the Flower Homes for some time, I believe.”

  “Yes, since March of this year.”

  “And you enjoy your position there?”

  “Oh yes. Very much. The girls are so clever to make the flowers the way they do, and Albert Shaw is such an extraordinary man. Unfortunately he’s unwell at the moment. He’s recovering in Clacton. We all miss him very much.”

  “Yes, I was very sorry to hear that. My mother mentioned that he was unwell. She read about it in one of her religious magazines. I do hope he makes a full recovery.”

  “Thank you. We all do.”

  They paused as the maid set the tea tray onto the table beside them.

  Violette noticed how Tilly’s hand shook as she settled her teacup on the saucer, the rattle of china the only sound in the room for a moment other than the soft patter of snowflakes falling against the windows. Violette fussed with her own teacup, wondering how to bring up the subject of Tilly’s letter. The tension in the room was unbearable.

  “Would you like to see the handkerchief?” Tilly blurted out the words in a hurry.

  Violette was taken aback. It wasn’t very mannerly of the girl, but she was glad of it.

  She set her cup down onto the table, pulling her shoulders up and straightening her back. “Yes. Yes, of course. I’d like to see it very much. I have my own here, so that we might compare them.”

  Violette opened her purse, removing the small lace handkerchief and the little bunch of pressed violets that her mother had given her during a brief visit earlier that year. She set the handkerchief out on the table, smoothing her hand over the light creases where it had been folded. She watched Tilly closely for a reaction.

  “It’s so strange,” Tilly whispered, picking up Violette’s handkerchief and studying it closely. “They’re exactly the same. Look.”

  Tilly took the other handkerchief from her own purse, passing it to Violette, who ran her fingers across the stitching, turning it over and over in her hands before placing it on the table, beside the other one. They were identical. Undeniably identical.

  Violette’s voice was barely a whisper as she spoke. “How strange. They’re exact replicas. Look, the shamrocks are embroidered with the same stitching. The pattern of the lace is the very same. And you say you discovered yours in a box in the bedroom of the house you live in?”

  “Yes. It was in a box, under a pile of blankets at the bottom of the wardrobe. The room hasn’t been used for several years, so I presume the box had been sitting there all this time, undiscovered. The notebook I referred to in my letter was also in the box—and these.”

  Tilly handed Violette a button, a peg, and a rag doll. She took them, holding them in the palm of her hand, considering each in turn.

  The button meant nothing to her. She put it down on the table.

  The peg, although so simple, seemed oddly familiar. She closed her eyes and felt around the object, tracing its contours with her fingertips. Why was it familiar? She placed it on the table beside the button and the handkerchiefs.

  She looked at the rag doll next. It was composed of torn pieces of fabric—clearly made by a child. It was quite lovely in its innocence. “Rosie,” she read, as she ran her hands over the clumsy stitching on the front of the doll’s dress. “You said that was the name of the little girl who went missing.”

  “Yes. The older sister made the doll while she lived at the orphanage in Clacton. I think it gave her some comfort. Poor Florrie. She must have been so heartbroken.”

  “Florrie?” Violette felt the color drain from her face. She took a deep breath. “Did you say Florrie?”

  “Yes. That was what she was called by the flower girls. Her name was Flora, but she was also known as Florrie.” Tilly paused. “Are you quite all right, Mrs. Ashton? You look a little pale.”

  Violette nodded. “Would you excuse me for a moment?”

  She stood up, her head spinning as she walked from the room. She felt suffocated. She moved as quickly as she could toward the front door, throwing it open, a rush of cold air blasting into the house.

  “Good heavens, m’lady. You’ll catch your death.” Martha came rushing to her side, closing the door. “Are you quite well, m’lady? Can I fetch you something?”

  Violette faltered. “I’m fine, Martha. Thank you. Perhaps another pot of tea for myself and Miss Harper.”

  “Right you are, m’lady.”

  Violette watched as Martha descended the stairs to the kitchens. Her breaths steadying a little, she leaned against the door, glad of the solidity behind her.

  Florrie—the name of her imaginary childhood friend. Florrie—the little girl she had made her daisy chains and tied her posies with. Florrie—whom nobody else could see. She remembered how her mother had become so upset by her constant reference to Florrie, remembered how she would snap at her, telling her not to be so silly, that there was nobody sitting next to her, nobody else to set a place for at the dinner table, nobody else making the daisy chains.

  Florrie.

  So many questions raced around her mind. She needed to speak to her mother.

  Regaining her composure, she returned to the drawing room, where Tilly sat patiently, sipping her tea.

  “I am so sorry, Miss Harper. Please forgive me. You must think me quite rude.”

  “Oh no. Not at all.” Tilly stood up. “I should probably leave. I’ve taken up enough of your time. I thought this might all mean something to you, but I can see that it is not the case. I’m very sorry for troubling you, Mrs Ashton.”

  Violette sat down. Her hands trembling in her lap. “I
’d like to talk to you a little more, if I might, Miss Harper. This is all quite strange, but there is something to these objects. I’m not entirely sure what, but there is something familiar about them. You mentioned a notebook?”

  “Yes. Flora—Florrie—wrote quite extensively. It is fascinating—terribly sad, but fascinating nonetheless.”

  “I wonder if I might be able to look at the notebook. To read the entries. I will, of course, return it to you.”

  Tilly hesitated for a moment before passing the small, leather-bound book to Violette.

  “Thank you,” Violette said. “I’ll take great care of it.”

  “You’ll notice a very faint image of a flower on some of the pages,” Tilly said. “There were several flowers pressed between the pages of the book—hyacinth, carnations, primroses, violets, and pansies. I think they might have meant something to the two sisters.”

  “Really? How lovely. I’ll look out for them.”

  “Well, I must be getting back. The girls are very busy with Christmas orders and they come home with a tremendous appetite each evening. They would not be impressed if supper was late!”

  “Of course.” Violette stood up and rang the bell to summon Martha. “And thank you so much for coming to see me, Miss Harper. It has been quite . . . interesting, although I’m not entirely sure that I’ve been of any use in finding your missing flower girl. Perhaps if you give me a week or so to make some inquiries, I may be able to shed some light on the matter.”

  Tilly smiled. “That would be wonderful. Thank you, Mrs. Ashton. Thank you very much.”

  Violette watched from the drawing-room window as Tilly climbed into the carriage. She waited until it had disappeared from view, and only then did she rush to her room, clutching her lace handkerchief and the notebook. She was certain that the revelations that lay between the pages of the faded old book would create more questions than they provided answers.