Chapter 1
England
March 25, 1912
She was already some distance from home when it first occurred to Tilly Harper that she might be running away after all. âRunning away! Running away! Running away!â the pistons shouted as the wheels clattered and rattled along the tracks. It was as if the train could read her thoughts, calling out her secret to the armies of sunlit daffodils that swayed in perfect unison at the edges of the lush green fields. âRunning away! Running away! Running away!ââthe words coming faster and faster as the fireman shoveled more coal into the blazing furnace, pushing Tilly farther away from what was and closer toward what might be, in London. Running away, or running toward? She wasnât entirely sure.
Lulled by the rhythmic motion of the train, she leaned her head wearily against the cool glass of the window, glad to have secured a seat at the platform edge of the compartment. She was quite sure she could easily fall asleep if only the knots in her stomach would unravel, and the glass would stop juddering against her cheek, and the boxes and trunks would stop shifting around in the luggage rack above her head, sending a steady flurry of dust-fall into her lap. She sighed, sat upright, adjusted her skirts against the upholstered seat in the hope that they wouldnât be too creased when she arrived, and glanced, for the tenth time that day, at the letter in her hand.
Dear Miss Harper. I am pleased to confirm your appointment to the post of Assistant Housemother at Shawâs Training Homes for Watercress and Flower Girls, Sekforde Street, Clerkenwell . . . Crochet caps and white aprons will be provided. Please supply a coarse apron and bib, a holland apron for bed making and dusting, and plain cotton gowns for morning wear . . . Please report for duty on the twenty-fifth day of March, at your earliest convenience . . . May the Good Lord grant you a safe and comfortable journey. Sincerely yours, Mrs. Evelyn Shaw.
It was Tillyâs mother who had first learned of Mr. Shawâs workrooms in London, after sheâd seen a display of silk flowers at a church fete in Keswick. âQuite brilliant replicas of the real thing,â sheâd announced on her return home, âand all the more so for having been made by blind and crippled girls. You should write to this Mr. Shaw, Matilda. I believe they are looking for domestics to assist with the running of the homes the girls are housed in. Youâve the right sort of experience, after all. Doesnât she, Esther?â There was no apology for the cold manner in which sheâd said this. Tilly understood that none was needed. Her sister, Esther, had merely stared blankly at her across the gaping chasm of the kitchen table before cutting herself another slice of bread. The matter wasnât discussed again. Tilly had sent her letter of application, attended an interview, and here she was, halfway to London, to start her new position. Running away? Perhaps.
With each turn of the wheels, each blast of the whistle as they entered another dark tunnel, she sensed the distance growing between herself and the dramatic Lakeland mountains and fells that had framed the twenty-one years of her lifeâHelvellyn, Skiddaw, Scafellâthe places that had comforted her when nothing, and nobody, else could. They felt far behind her now, obscured by the mellow mist of a bright spring morning, a morning that seemed almost capable of erasing the dark shadows that lurked around the muddy edges of her life. âThat Harper Girl,â the people of Grasmere called her, a dismissive title by which she had been defined since the age of fourteen, when one reckless moment had changed everything. The passing of seven years and countless attempts to atone for her mistakes had made little, if any, difference to who Tilly Harper was, or might have been.
âRunning away! Running away! Running away!â The train continued with its relentless chatter, sending startled rabbits bolting for cover into their burrows and birds fleeing from the hedgerows in a blur of dun and black against the clear blue sky. Tilly jumped at the screech of the whistle as the guard acknowledged a group of excited children who were balanced precariously on the struts of a gate, disregarding their mothersâ words of caution in their efforts to get a better glimpse of the locomotive. She smiled as small, enthusiastic hands waved to the disinterested passengers, the rush of passing air blowing hats and bonnets off their young heads. Part of her wanted to wave back. She lifted her hand a few inches before feeling foolish and returning it hastily to her lap. But how she envied their innocence, their ability to find excitement and joy in such a simple thing as a passing steam locomotive.
It wasnât so long ago that sheâd shared in their childish enthusiasm, running beside the fence at the edge of the field, grasping Estherâs hand to pull her along behind, laughing as they tried to outrun the approaching train: the low rumble of the engine; the distinctive phut, phut, phut of the smoke rising from the funnel, just visible above the tree line; the audible humming of the tracks signaling its approach long before the locomotive appeared.
âHere it is, Esther! Look! Here it comes! Here it comes! Run, run . . .â
Tilly remembered it so clearly: the thrill as the rush of air tugged at their bonnets and sent their petticoats flapping around their knees; their hands covering their ears against the deafening noise as the carriages rushed pastâone, two, three, four, five; the acrid smell of smoke filling their nostrils; their squeals of excitement whisked away on the wind. And if they were lucky, the one thing they were waiting forâthe haunting cry of the whistle as the driver acknowledged their excited waving. Then silence, as the great black engine and its mulberry carriages disappeared around the bend into the distance and to the mountains beyond, a few smudges of soot on their cheeks and the swaying of the long grass the only signs that the train had ever been there.
âAll tickets please.â The conductorâs arrival distracted Tilly from her thoughts. âAll tickets,â he called as he slid back the compartment door.
His loud voice and sense of authority triggered a great rustling of coats and much standing up and sitting down as Tilly and her fellow passengers rummaged in ever-deepening pockets and dark, unyielding corners of handbags and purses, searching for their tickets. Tilly handed him her single-fare ticket to London Euston. He didnât even look at her as he clipped a small hole into the bottom and handed it back to her.
âRefreshments from the platform vendor at Crewe and Rugby,â he said, yawning as he spoke.
She wasnât sure whether the information was specifically directed at her or to the compartment in general. âThank you,â she replied. âI will be glad of some tea.â She smiled, maintaining her resolve to be pleasant to everyone she encountered. Every interaction is a chance to erase a piece of the past, she reminded herself.
The conductor ignored her, finished checking the tickets from the other passengers, and moved on to the next carriage, where, Tilly suspected, he would repeat the same procedure with the detached disinterest of a man who has been doing the same job for far too long. She vowed never to become as bored with anything, no matter how often she had to repeat it.
As the passengers gradually settled themselves back into their dozing and newspapers, and mothers resumed hushed recitals of nursery rhymes with their children, Tilly returned her ticket to her coat pocket and took out her book. Opening it to the page where she had earlier draped a thin, lilac-colored ribbon as a marker, she read only a couple of sentences before her mind started to wander. She closed the book again, placing it on her lap, her gloved hands resting on topâone gently over the other, as her mother had shown her. âJust because youâre in service to the ladies, Matilda, doesnât mean you canât dress and behave like one when you finish work for the day. You would do well to pay closer attention to your sister. She knows how to behave properly, even without . . . well . . . just pay more attention to her.â Tilly was tired of paying attention to Esther. It was all anyone ever did.
âSo, is this an end or a beginning?â
Tilly glanced up from her lap to see a smartly dressed elderly lady sitting opposite her. Vivid blue eyes were fixed firmly in her direction, an arched eyebrow anticipating a response to the question. Tilly squinted against the glare of the sun as it reflected off a delicate silver locket that hung from a slim rope of pearls around the womanâs neck.
âIâm sorry. Iâm not sure I understand.â
âIs this the end of your journey, or the beginning?â the woman repeated, dabbing at the corners of her eyes with a pretty lace handkerchief. Tilly wondered whether she was upset or a stray eyelash was bothering her. She noticed a cluster of shamrock leaves stitched into one corner of the handkerchief, admiring the intricate needlework and knowing that she would never be able to produce anything as neat, no matter how much her mother chided at her to take more care.
âI usually find, with trains, that people are either heading back home at the end of a journey or are just leaving home at the start of a new one,â the woman continued. âDepending on how much one likes oneâs home, I suspect it can make quite a difference to how much one is enjoying the journey.â She chuckled to herself.
Tilly smiled, finding the woman quite enchanting. She spoke in an accent Tilly couldnât place. It had an unfamiliar lilt: Irish, or French, perhaps? It only added to the womanâs charm, wherever it had been formed.
âI suppose so. Iâd never really thought about it like that,â Tilly said.
âOh, yes. It can make quite a difference to a personâs manner, you know, whether theyâre coming or going.â The woman crossed her ankles, folding her arms across her chest, just as Tillyâs nana did when she was settling herself in for a conversation. âIâm guessing, with all your fidgeting and sighing and opening and closing that book of yours, that youâre at the beginning stage. Going, as it were. Starting something youâre not quite sure of. Hmm?â She raised a quizzical eyebrow again.
Tilly remembered her now. Sheâd boarded the train at Preston, accompanied only by the captivating scent of damask rose, her skirts crinkling and rustling as sheâd settled into her seat.
âMrs. Marguerite Ingram,â the woman announced, holding out a gloved hand. âVery pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss . . .â
âHarper. Miss Harper. Matilda. Tilly, actually. Miss Tilly Harper.â
Mrs. Ingram smiled, shook Tillyâs hand, and turned her attention to the fields beyond the window, closing her eyes against the bright sunshine that streamed through the glass.
Tilly considered the question. Was this an end or a beginning? Since receiving confirmation of her new position at the Flower Homes, sheâd always thought of her move to London as an end, an end to all the years of guilt and remorse. Finally, she was escaping her past. Some might call it running away, but all she knew was that, in London, she wouldnât have to be âThat Harper Girlâ anymore. She hoped she could be herself again, the girl with the wind at her heels and a storm blowing in her heart, as her father used to say. But she couldnât explain any of that to a stranger.
âWell, yes. I suppose I am at a beginning. Of sorts,â she conceded. âYou?â
Mrs. Ingram opened her eyes. Tilly noticed how her face had clouded, the attractive pink blush in her cheeks faded. She looked at Tilly for a moment, the inquisitive sparkle in her eyes dulled, before returning her gaze to the window, as if searching for an answer among the latticework of hedgerows and fields beyond.
She sighed. âThat, my dear, is something I am afraid only my daughter can decide.â
