“Margot Lady, do you remember my doll?” asked Viscaria. “My doll has come to rescue me.”
“Of course she has, dear,” soothed Nurse Margot, and she left the doorway.
“Mama, no, it’s Floralie, Floralie Alice Laurel, your daughter.”
“I have a daughter?” Viscaria’s eyes grew large. “Oh my, when is she due?”
“Floralie—” started Tom. He edged close to the bed, but Floralie ignored him.
“No—no,” said Floralie, “I’m already born, I’m here; I’m eleven years old now.”
“Margot!” called Viscaria again. “Margot Lady, my Floralie Doll says I am to have a daughter who is eleven years old.”
Nurse Margot returned from the hall and shot Floralie a glare. “You are not to distress the patient, young lady. If she becomes any more upset, I am afraid I must ask you to leave.”
Floralie nodded and stroked Viscaria’s hand. “Mama,” she whispered, “don’t you remember me? Look, I’m wearing your old ballet costume; you must remember ballet. And Tom, and your mother, Miss Clairoux, and—and Mr. Tullier—you were friends with him . . .”
Miss Clairoux and Mr. Tullier neared the bed. “Our daughter . . . ,” breathed Miss Clairoux, clasping Mr. Tullier’s hand.
“Viscaria?” whispered Mr. Tullier. He removed his hat and held it against his stomach.
“Tullier . . . ,” whispered Viscaria. She narrowed her eyes, and then a hint of her vivacity sparked. “Do you water the willow tree for me?”
Mr. Tullier looked taken aback. He dropped his hat and fumbled for it before saying, “I—I—yes, I do.”
“But not at the poppy dollhouse where Floralie Doll lives. My willow grows in the forget-me-not dollhouse, that’s the one, yes? Who’s that?” Viscaria looked to Miss Clairoux.
“That’s Miss Clairoux,” said Floralie. “That’s your mother.”
Miss Clairoux reached for Viscaria’s hand and stroked it, but Viscaria made no sign of recognizing her. “Oh,” she said. “Floralie Doll, how many dollhouses have I lived in?”
“I—I don’t know, Mama,” choked Floralie. “Look, I found this box from you, see,” and Floralie withdrew the flower box from her bag. “Look, it’s got your letter right here. You must remember writing that? And all these flowers . . . I’ve been trying to decode your message so we could be together again.”
“My flowers!” burst Viscaria. “My Eglantine Doll flowers!”
“Eglantine?” Floralie looked from Viscaria to Mr. Tullier and back to Viscaria.
Viscaria ran her fingers along the dried flowers. “How is my Eglantine Doll? Is she still bright?”
“Gone, Viscaria,” breathed Mr. Tullier. “My daughter is gone.”
“Oh, that’s right,” and Viscaria snapped her fingers as if she had just lost a game of chess instead of a child.
Floralie looked to Mr. Tullier, confused. But Mr. Tullier did not meet her gaze. He stared straight on through to Viscaria. “Viscaria . . . ,” he whispered.
“Yes, Tullier Doll?”
“I know you can’t understand me clearly right now,” he started, and with a crack, his knees gave way to the floor, “but I never got to tell you.” He stared up at Viscaria and clutched her hand so tight his knuckles grew white. “You were more than a caretaker to Eglantine, and you were more than a caretaker to me. You are my daughter and Eglantine’s half sister. And we both loved you.”
Viscaria gazed straight through Mr. Tullier.
And then she turned to Floralie. “Floralie Doll,” she said, “you will water the willow tree, won’t you? When Tullier Doll is gone like Eglantine Doll? Will you do that back at the forget-me-not dollhouse? For me?”
Viscaria’s hand slipped from the flowers as Floralie stood and backed away from the bed.
Floralie felt as if she had chalk dust in her throat. “I—I’m not really a doll—you must know that . . . don’t you? This is just pretend . . .”
“Oh, I love pretend!” and Viscaria clasped her hands together. “What shall we play, Floralie Doll?”
Tears burned at the back of Floralie’s eyes. She shoved aside Mr. Tullier and Miss Clairoux and flew out into the hall. The moment she caught sight of Nurse Margot, she screamed, “You did this to her!”
The nurse’s cheeks went cherry red. “Please, you are disturbing—”
“I DON’T CARE!” bellowed Floralie. “I’LL DISTURB THE WHOLE WORLD FOR ALL I CARE! My mother’s gone, and it’s all your fault!”
Floralie felt Miss Clairoux’s gentle hand on her arm; Floralie pulled away, sobbing even harder.
“Floralie—” Tom tried, but Floralie didn’t want to listen. She wanted to shout and scream; she wanted to shatter the windows with nothing but her voice.
“You locked her up when she was meant to be free!”
“I assure you this institution has done no such thing!” insisted Nurse Margot. “Alice was half gone by the time we took her in, and good thing we did get her when we did, mind you. Now be quiet!” She turned to Miss Clairoux and said, “Madame, I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to ask you to remove the child from the building.”
“I will not be removed!”
A pair of arms wrapped around her stomach. “Floralie—listen to me—”
“The only one who should be removed is Mama! She doesn’t belong here—you don’t know the first thing about her!” Tears streamed down Floralie’s cheeks, and she let the arms swirl her away from Nurse Margot. Her fists were in some distant land, punching and hitting, but the body holding her did not flinch.
It was only when the body began to shake that Floralie looked up and realized it was Tom, and he was crying, too. Hard. Even harder than Floralie. His tears ran wild in Floralie’s hair, each teardrop a bluebird with wings that never took flight, pecking nests out of knots that never housed anything but rain. Between sobs, Tom breathed, “I’m so sorry.”
Floralie wiped at her own eyes and choked, “You never cry.”
Tom took a jagged breath. “I know. And that is why I’m sorry.”
Footsteps echoed from down the hall.
“Who—?” started Floralie, but as she turned, her stomach plummeted.
A most peacocklike figure waltzed down the corridor, feather hat bobbing, shoes clacking, rings glittering. The vague aroma of prunes and sour lemons filled Floralie’s nostrils. Grandmama had arrived.
“So it’s decided,” said Grandmama, pleasantly clasping her hands together as if they had just decided on where they were going to have their picnic. “She’ll have a day in Paris with the children—supervised of course—then away she goes.”
Papa’s face drained of all color, but he nodded and said, “Sure.”
Mama said not a word.
Tom gripped Floralie’s shoulder. “No, no, no,” he muttered as Grandmama came barreling down the hall. Floralie didn’t think she had ever seen her grandmother barrel.
Upon reaching them, Grandmama scowled down at Floralie and Tom, but said nothing. And then, quick as sheers clipping rosebuds, Grandmama raised a hand and struck Tom across the cheek. “You have disgraced yourself.” Her voice quaked with rage.
Grandmama yanked Floralie by her collar out of Tom’s grip. “Don’t you dare—” started Tom, but someone cut him off.
“Margot Lady?” It was Viscaria. “Margot Lady, where did my dolly friends go?”
Margot threw her hands up in the air. “Ah, mon Dieu! Out, out, out! All of you! Your little family reunion will just have to take place elsewhere,” and she began to shoo Floralie, Tom, Grandmama, Miss Clairoux, and Mr. Tullier back down the staircase.
Floralie’s collar pinched her neck, but she managed to glance back for one forget-me-not-sized moment. Viscaria peeked out from her room, and Floralie could have sworn she saw something bloom in the gardens within her eyes. But when Floralie looked again, there was nothing. It had only been a reflection.
“There is no excuse,” Grandmama hissed to Tom as they strode down the rain-was
hed Paris streets.
Floralie pushed and pulled to wriggle free from Grandmama’s grasp, but Grandmama held on with surprising strength. “And you stop making such a fuss, young lady! You’ll be lucky if you ever see a city light again, no less a drop of sunshine,” spat Grandmama into Floralie’s ear. “If only I had simply taken her the day I came to visit, we wouldn’t have had to go through this whole ordeal! I should have expected as much from the beginning—a runaway in the family! And you,” Grandmama snarled as she rounded on Miss Clairoux, “just who do you think you are, taking off with her like that?”
“I am Delphine Alice Clairoux. And I am Floralie’s grandmother.”
Grandmama swatted at Miss Clairoux as if she were a housefly. “Impossible! I’m Floralie’s grandmother, therefore I know what’s best for her.”
“No you don’t,” shot Floralie. “You don’t know me at all. And Miss Clairoux is my grandmother. She’s Mama’s mother.”
Grandmama returned her gaze to Floralie. “You are just like her, aren’t you, Floralie? Like that Viscaria. Rude, obnoxious, naïve. If you had had a proper mother, she would have taught you at least the etiquette beyond that of a three-year-old. But no, your mother is growing more insane by the minute, just like you will someday unless someone whips you into shape.”
Tears burned at Floralie’s eyes again at the thought of Mama. Floralie remembered now, the conversation between Papa and Grandmama. “She’s marring our family lineage, John-Paul,” Grandmama had said to Papa. “Heaven knows what damage she’ll do to our reputation once she’s fully lost it. It’s best to send her off.”
“Oh, stop sniveling, child,” scoffed Grandmama. “It is no secret that woman lost it ages ago.”
“That’s enough.” It was Tom.
Grandmama stopped mid-step. “What did you say?”
“I said that’s enough. You are not taking her. I won’t allow it.”
“Well,” said Grandmama. She brushed off her dress as if Tom’s words could spew invisible crumbs, and she yanked Floralie’s collar even tighter. “And how, pray tell, do you intend on supporting both yourself and Floralie with nothing but a barely stocked flower shop to fund you?”
Tom pulled Floralie loose of Grandmama’s grip and tilted up his chin. “We will just have to manage.”
All color in Grandmama’s face drained, and she looked from Tom to Floralie and back to Tom again, mouth agape. “Well then,” she said and huffed, “so be it. If my presence is no longer wanted, I shall burden you with it no longer.”
Tom wrapped Floralie up in his arms, turned to Grandmama, and said, “Lovely.”
Grandmama’s mouth twitched, but she said nothing. Tom took Floralie’s hand, pushed past Grandmama, and led the way to nowhere in particular.
Mama went dancing on the rooftop under oak tree leaves. Vivacious eyes, she called down to Floralie, “This is how to be alive.”
Twenty minutes of sloshing through puddles and a short taxi ride later, Tom, Floralie, Miss Clairoux, and Mr. Tullier ended up at a small café inside the Gare Saint-Lazare train station. Floralie listened to the chattering of many languages and breathed the tinny smell of train smoke.
The finality of Mama’s fate settled into Floralie’s stomach, her heart, her fingertips, like a moth relinquishing itself to a flame. The pain of it numbed her to the bone. She felt cold.
“I suppose we’ll have to go back to England now,” said Floralie to Tom as the four sat, sipping their tea (and in Mr. Tullier’s case, coffee).
Tom nodded. “I suppose we will.”
“And the flower shop—what will happen to the flower shop? And our house . . . surely we won’t be able to afford it all now.”
“That’s my job to figure out. It’s not your weight to carry, Flory. Here, have some of this.” He tore his croissant in two and handed one half to Floralie. “You must be famished.”
Floralie took a bite of the croissant, then laid it on her saucer. “It is, though—my weight to carry,” she said. “I got us into this mess. I’m growing up, and you’re not as old as you like to pretend you are, Tom. We’ve got to do this together.”
“Floralie, please just let me be your guardian as Papa intended. I will be able to handle the house and the shop and—”
“If I might be so bold as to intervene,” started Mr. Tullier. He gazed from Floralie to Tom, forget-me-not eyes twinkling.
Tom looked up. “Yes, sir?”
“You are not orphans anymore. Please tell me you realize that. I was just beginning to believe Floralie inherited my intelligence . . .”
“What?” breathed Tom.
“Of course,” said Floralie. “But you don’t have to, Mr. Tullier, we can find a way—”
Mr. Tullier put up a hand to silence Floralie. “You’ve got grandparents now.” He coughed, adding, “Grandparents that don’t try and lock you up in their dismal orphanage. We’re sticking together.”
“But your life—” said Tom. “You live here, in France. And, Miss Clairoux, you’ve got your library. We couldn’t ask that sort of sacrifice from either of you.”
“There’s nothing sacrificial about it,” grunted Mr. Tullier. “Do you know how long I’ve been mourning both my daughters? Eglantine and Viscaria?”
“Mr. Tullier,” whispered Floralie. “You never did tell me about . . . about Eglantine.”
Mr. Tullier shifted his eyes to his saucer. “Nothing to tell. She died as a baby.”
“I found her ashes.” The words hung in the air, heavy as a corpse.
Mr. Tullier snapped up his head. His eyes were bloodshot. “What?”
“Her ashes. Found them in Monet’s paint box. Mama may have dug her grave, but you never buried her, did you? You never let her go.”
Mr. Tullier closed his eyes, and Floralie wondered if he was flying to his wonderland. She wondered if he even still had a wonderland, and if he did, how long had it been winter there? But more important, were there yet buds on the trees?
“I—” Mr. Tullier’s voice cracked. “I killed her. I killed my own daughter. The little light of my life . . . I destroyed.”
“What?” breathed Floralie. “No . . . no, that’s a mistake. You would never, never, ever . . .”
Mr. Tullier nodded. “I did. It was an accident. Left her alone in my office for two minutes while studying a sprig of belladonna. Moment I came back, she was chewing on it. Do you know what belladonna is?”
“Poison,” murmured Floralie.
“That’s right. One of the most deadly flowers alive. And it was all for my book, my stupid floriography I was so obsessed with. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about the burned books. I wanted to get to know you and believed you would leave the minute you found out. I burned all the books after Eglantine died—except for the one your mother stole. She had been working as Eglantine’s caretaker, after running away from Delphine. I paid her in ballet lessons and trips to Palais Garnier. She didn’t even know I was her father, but my, how she loved Eglantine.” Mr. Tullier smiled at that and added, “Viscaria called Eglantine her ‘wildflower.’”
“‘Wildflower,’” repeated Floralie. “That’s what Mama called me. D’you think . . .?” She dug through her bag for the box of flowers and, upon finding it, pulled Mama’s letter out from inside. “It’s signed V.A.C. With a C for Clairoux—her maiden name. Do you think this letter and these flowers weren’t for me after all? Could they have been for Eglantine, before Mama even knew me?”
Floralie remembered the tiny knob on the side of the box, the initials that read, E.F.T.—Eglantine Floralie Tullier.
Mr. Tullier smiled. “Perhaps,” he said. “She certainly loved that little girl. I was going to let Viscaria go after that. After all, she was only there to take care of my child until Eglantine grew old enough, but Eglantine was not going to grow old. She was dead, and even my wife had died in childbirth; Viscaria had nothing to care for. But I couldn’t let her go . . . She was my daughter, even if she didn’t know it. I loved her. But I
was selfish. You see, eventually, she grew fond of your father, John-Paul. She wanted to marry, but I disapproved of him and feared being alone. I would not let her leave, and so she ran away with him, bounding from England, to Turkey, to Paris, and finally, back again to Giverny. I never told her she was my daughter—not until tonight.”
“Why didn’t you tell her?” asked Floralie.
“Because I was a coward. I thought if I told her, she would leave me. I thought if I told her she would hate me for abandoning her, for having to live thirteen years of her life fatherless.” He turned to Miss Clairoux and squeezed her hand. “For leaving her mother the moment I found out she was pregnant. I am a coward, Floralie. And I can never make up for that. But you can bet I’m going to try. Mr. Laurel”—he turned to Tom—“I will do whatever it takes to help your family. Our family. And, Floralie?”
“Yes?” Floralie looked up to the wizened face, wrinkles like scars, aching like thorn wounds.
“Do you want to live with me? Move to France? I can educate you. I taught children your age for many years, after all. I was a science teacher at a boys’ school after years of working at a university. You can paint as much as you wish. You can have Monet’s garden all to yourself. Would you like that?”
Floralie’s heart fluttered. Yes. Yes, she would like that very much. Yes, her heart longed for that. Yes, her heart would fly for that. She nodded.
Tom shifted in his chair and glanced up to Mr. Tullier. His face had turned burgundy. “Oh, but—but, Mr. Tullier, we could never put you out of your way—”
“Quite the contrary,” said Mr. Tullier. “Floralie is an excellent artist. I would be honored if she were to continue painting my flowers as I rewrite my floriography. She would make a superb illustrator.”
Yes, yes, yes. The word coursed through Floralie’s veins, thundered her heart.
“Well—” Tom looked from Mr. Tullier to Floralie. “Well—I’m sure she would, but . . . well, we have just been reunited . . .”
“Oh.” Mr. Tullier’s cheeks flushed. He bowed his head and stirred the bubbles out of his coffee. “Oh, but of course. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have mentioned it in the first place.”
The Flourishing of Floralie Laurel Page 18