Read Online A Memory of Violets by Hazel Gaynor - Free Book Online

neat bow across the lid. The ribbon personalized the box, suggesting that someone had cared about its contents. Tilly stood for a moment, wondering what to do. Maybe she should put it back? Forget about it. What if the box did belong to Buttons and she reappeared at any moment to claim it? The last thing Tilly wanted on the first day of her new job was to be accused of being a snoop. And yet, what harm would she be doing by taking just a quick peek inside?
    Carrying the box over to the writing table, she settled herself at the chair. Taking a quick glance back toward the door, she listened for the sound of footsteps on the stairs. All was quiet. Reassured that nobody was coming, she carefully untied the ribbon. It fell aside easily, like a deep breath, gratefully exhaled. She lifted the lid, the perfume of violets intensifying around her as she did.
    Inside the box was a small leather-bound notebook, its tan cover creased and worn with age. There was also a wooden clothes peg, a black button, a doll made of rags, and a postcard bearing a faded photograph of a group of young girls clustered around a display of flowers. The label at the bottom read, SHAW ’ S HOMES FOR WATERCRESS AND FLOWER GIRLS , 1883 . Tilly lifted each item out of the box, wondering who they had belonged to. On the back of the postcard someone had written, “December 1884. You will find her. I know you will. Happy Christmas. Lily B. x” At the bottom of the box was a delicate lace handkerchief, stained and spoiled a little with age. Lifting it up to the light of the window, she saw the faint outline of shamrocks stitched into one corner. Her thoughts flashed back to the train. To Mrs. Ingram.
    Walking over to the bed, Tilly spread the dusty items across the counterpane. It was a strange assortment of things. Why would somebody keep a peg—and a single button? But she wasmost interested in the leather-bound notebook. Opening it carefully, she read the inscription on the inside cover.

    For Little Sister.
All flowers are beautiful,
but some are more beautiful than others.
I will never stop looking for you.
Flora Flynn

    Tilly carefully turned the fragile faded pages, intrigued by the neat handwriting. The paper smelled musty and crackled as she turned more pages, the same, careful writing filling each one. As she turned a page toward the middle of the book, something fell into her lap. A flower. A pale yellow primrose, dry as an autumn leaf and paper-thin. She thought of her flower press at home, of all the beautiful wildflowers she had carefully placed between the layers of blotting paper: buttercups, harebells, bell heather, wild daffodils, summer snowflakes, bluebells, foxgloves, and marsh orchids. She remembered collecting them, each and every one.
    Turning the notebook upside down, she shook it gently, sending several more flowers tumbling from their hiding places between the pages: purple hyacinths, pink carnations, primroses, violets, and pansies, each fluttering gracefully into her lap, like butterflies released from a display case.
    She picked up each flower, running her fingers lightly over its delicate form. She held a violet toward the window, rubbing the stem between her thumb and forefinger so that it twisted back and forth, catching the light. It was almost translucent. She gazed at the skeletal structure of the leaf, every vein and cell of the petals. It was such a beautiful, fragile little thing. Looking back through the book, she saw that on each page from whicha flower had fallen was the faintest of imprints, a shadow of the flower’s image left permanently on the paper. Like a distant echo, the images spoke to her, whispering secrets of a forgotten past. Whose hand had placed the flowers here? Who had written these pages and pages of words?
    As the surroundings of her new home faded into the background, Tilly settled herself against the pillow, turned back to the first page of the book, and started to read.

    Flower