The Florentine Quilt

33. Florence

33

FLORENCE

LONDON 1905

CARNELIAN: Acceptance of the life cycle, trust, overcome negativity. Mother–child love

F lorence cast a furtive glance along the streets of Bloomsbury from the anonymity of the hansom cab. She had little interest in encountering anyone of her acquaintance today of all days. Then , with her head lowered to the wind, she set off on her mission and strode through the parterre garden towards the imposing building. The Foundling Hospital was surrounded by an ostentatious iron fence with sentry gatehouses more suited to the king’s palace than a charitable institution. She was reminded of her exit through the gates of Balmoral years before.

She had returned to England for her elderly aunt’s funeral in Northumberland , and the bitter chill of winter’s onset offered a marked change from the temperate climate Florence was accustomed to. Salvatore had waved her goodbye bathed in dappled sunshine and returned to his pruning, snipping the heads off the tired blooms in the garden of their home, Hallington - Siculo . Florence’s Sicilian garden was a labour of love and filled with memories—her secrets were buried and held deep in the soil.

The young men employed on the estate should have finished the harvest by the time she returned. Her olive trees flourished in the climate, nurtured by the rich volcanic soil. The grove spread along the pathway to the village and led to the towering follies she had commissioned. The garden’s beehive-shaped structures were her whimsical interpretation of those from the gardens of her childhood—both at Wallington Hall and Hallington . It overlooked her private isle of Isola Bella , both a solace and a place of refuge.

Shrugging her fox stole closer to keep the chill from her shoulders, Florence nestled her chin into the soft fur. Hopefully there would be better news to share with Salvatore on return. The one thing she had never shared was the name of Isabella’s father. Nor would it pass her lips again.

Florence stood for a moment before the entrance, letting the words on the carved tympanum sink in. With a frown marking her brow, she swallowed down the lump in her throat.

When my Father and my Mother forsake me, the Lord taketh me up. Psalm 27:10 .

Florence had been overjoyed to give Salvatore a son in their first year of marriage, but he died shortly after his birth and, with age against them, the couple held little hope of another. Salvatore immediately kept his promise and heartily encouraged Florence’s search for Isabella . But after years of poor communication, misinformation and excuses, Florence’s search for Isabella had amounted to nothing.

Whilst in Northumbria for the funeral, she had performed her duty, listening to family squabbles dredged up from decades before: the common arguments that linger amongst families and regrets for actions past. Yet while uncles and cousins insisted on discussing Florence’s business interests and pored over legal documents, she inwardly fumed. Her male relations were more perturbed that her fourteen-year marriage to an Italian gentleman might impact the combined wealth of the family’s estates and land holdings than they cared for Florence’s happiness and welfare.

For the most part, Florence had found peace across the Ionian Sea and was able to dispense with oppressive British formalities. There was only one thing missing from her life. Still , she pursed her lips and said nothing.

And then, there was Louisa . As an inmate of Dr Fox’s exorbitantly expensive lunatic asylum in Somerset , regrettably, Louisa was in no fit condition to attend the funeral with the rest of the family, nor was Florence permitted to visit her. If only it were possible to turn back the clock. How she had missed her dear friend over the years. They hadn’t conversed since the eve of the seance, and Louisa had refused to answer Florence’s letters.

When Louisa’s brother confirmed her committal into Fox’s institution, Florence finally conceded the full extent of her illness. The tragic demise of her mental state was yet another loss to mourn.

Despite the disquiet over business affairs, Florence had enjoyed the renewed acquaintance of her cousins and meeting their various offspring. The bloodlines of her family flourished in Britain and continued to grow. And thus, reminded her line had come to an end, she refused to leave without one last visit to London , to solve the mystery of Isabella .

The front door to the Foundling Hospital opened and she was ushered inside to plead her case. Shown to a room of generous proportions and lined with wainscoting, Florence was offered tea while she waited to speak to someone in authority but waved the young maid away with an impatient brush of her hand. Gripping her reticule in her lap, Florence pressed her lips together. The tick of the carriage clock on the mantel was the only sound, and the hollow echo reverberated through her body until it ached. Minute -by-minute the incessant ticking continued until a chime announced the quarter-hour.

She looked about the room, recoiling from the scent of stale smoke. Above the fireplace was the painting she had so admired during her first visit: The Foundling Restored to Its Mother . Portraying the joy of one such reunion, it had offered her hope at the time, as it would any mother placing her child in the hospital’s care. Sunshine streamed through the painted windows and shone across the foreground, while walls of eau-de-nil displayed tiny replicas of the valuable artwork hung throughout the reception rooms of the hospital—those generously donated by wealthy benefactors for the enrichment and education of the children.

Alas , the painting conveyed an optimism Florence was yet to experience as justified.

Tears pricked her eyes as she stood to take a closer look. A gold plaque attached to the frame gave the name of a female artist, Emma Brownlow . No doubt a relation of the redoubtable Foundling secretary.

Florence had met Mr Brownlow the day she arrived, feeling wretched and in despair, with Isabella in her arms. She watched as he officiously signed his name to the receipt she was given in exchange for her daughter’s care, as carelessly as signing an order for a delivery of vegetables. Every year she unfolded the receipt and studied it, wondering what had become of her darling child.

Florence returned to her seat and folded her hands together to stop them shaking. Someone must have answers. Now beyond her fiftieth year, she sensed this was the last time she would enquire. Determined to discover the truth, she hoped for better news than previously offered. She had never forgotten her promise to Isabella that she would return for her.

The panelled door groaned opened, and Florence’s stomach jumped as Mrs Gregory , the current matron-in-charge, joined her.

‘ Signora , I apologise for having kept you waiting.’ There was a lack of sincerity in her tone.

Florence felt a cool chill wash over her, immediately reminded of her first enquiry to the institution. There seemed little hope this matron was interested in assisting.

‘ It has been several years since you finally acknowledged the reports of my daughter’s death were incorrect; indeed, do you have a forwarding address for her? Have you made progress since my last request?’

‘ As we have previously stated, there was some confusion between your daughter and another child, an error in our records. I offer you our sincerest apologies.’

‘ Indeed —you have informed me of many errors. You might commence by advising me the name my daughter was given? There must be a record?’

‘ I am afraid that too was neglected.’

Florence leant forwards in her seat, her hands on the desk to hold steady. ‘ I cannot be expected to trace a woman whose name I do not know, Matron . In fact, why it was changed in the first place I am at a loss to understand. When I placed her in Brownlow’s care, he acknowledged my request to retain her birth name.’

Florence tilted her chin towards the matron. Dressed in the unbecoming shade of chartreuse, with her long, thin face and sallow skin, Mrs Gregory gave the impression of a giant grasshopper. ‘ There is no record to that effect. You must understand it is still a policy of the Foundling Hospital today to bestow each child with a new name on entry. We see it as a form of cleansing, of affording each of our charges a new start. The opportunity to embark on a new life.

‘ My daughter had no need of such cleansing. She was placed here temporarily and for her own protection. After learning she had not in fact died in your care, I have been trying to retrieve her. What of the substantial token she was admitted with?’

Each child was registered with a token of promise from their mother: recognition of the temporary arrangement until a mother was in a position to better provide for her child’s upbringing.

‘ Indeed .’ Mrs Gregory’s eyebrows lifted momentarily, as if wondering whether to continue. ‘ Unfortunately , your token was not found stored in the correct location. I imagine, given the decades that have passed, the corresponding label was dislodged, or perhaps was recorded incorrectly in the ledger. I cannot imagine Mr Brownlow would have made so careless a mistake. However , I do apologise—the token has undoubtedly been lost. We have no way of securing its whereabouts.’

Mrs Gregory neglected to add that the larger than normal token had been collected, according to the records, in 1878. An indecipherable signature was found next to the entry marked, Florence Trevelyan . It was yet another error painting the Foundling in a poor light.

‘ I suggest, Mrs Gregory , there have been several grievous errors regarding my child in your care. It is indeed an abomination.’

Mr Brownlow had been more than willing to err on the side of grace in Florence’s unusual case. Bertie had made certain of it. She recalled how his eyes had lit up and trembling fingers reached to take the bag of gold sovereigns from her hand. But was it possible she had made the error and signed the ledger in the wrong place? Was this her mistake?

She recalled that tears had blurred her eyes as she handed Isabella to a nursemaid and signed the receipt. Then she assured the director she would return as soon as it was possible. He nodded with a distracted look, and his lips twitched as though doubting her truth. His condescending manner had irritated her. Of course she would return for her daughter. Once Bertie was king, it would be safe for them all. The expedient arrangement was purely temporary.

However , now four years into the king’s reign, there remained no record of Isabella’s whereabouts.

Mrs Gregory barely hid her disdain. ‘ It is for the best, Signora . The majority of our girls go into service. Unfortunately , one never knows the full extent of the perils of a life endured in London —or what circumstances she may have been reduced to.’

‘ My daughter will not be found in London , I know it.’ Florence dabbed at her nose. Her hands shook.

‘ It has been more than twenty years, Signora .’ Mrs Gregory interrupted, ‘ I suggest it best you forget her. Time for all this to be done with. Dredging up ghosts from the past is never helpful for anyone involved.’ She stood, rising to her full height, and folded her arms across her body.

Florence had a sharp vision of levitating from her body and staring down on the matron like one of William Sharp’s spirits. She imagined reaching out and shaking her until the smug look slid from her face. Who was she to judge?

The Foundling Hospital was Florence’s last connection to her daughter. With a stab of disappointment, comprehension dawned. She would never find Isabella now. No one knew whether she was dead or alive.

‘ And what of the letters and gifts I sent her? How were they distributed?’

‘ We make it a rule never to pass on gifts. It does no good for the children to be reminded of their past. It is best they look to the future.’

The matron’s lips drew firmly together but her sour expression remained. Florence made to leave. It was a disgrace to place such a mean-spirited woman in charge of innocent children.

Heaviness dragged at her limbs. Feeling older than her years, Florence turned to the door.

‘ Return to your husband, Signora . Give thanks to the good Lord that your reputation was not sullied by the reckless actions of youth. Your secret rests safely.’

As the door to the Foundling Hospital closed behind her for the last time, Florence’s heart broke. This was the end of her search. Florence knew what it was to be a child alone and had dreamt of a better life for her daughter. With Salvatore , she had hoped for a family too. Perhaps , failing to have children of their own was penance for Florence’s sins of the past.

Every year on Isabella’s birthday, Salvatore gathered the dogs around them and took her by the hand. He walked her to her villa on the isthmus of Isola Bella and bade her farewell, allowing her to reflect in private. She adored birdwatching, and it restored her spirits to be surrounded by wildlife and the tranquillity that came from studying the natural habitat. Florence had made a bequest for birds to be protected on Isola Bella , to ensure their safety from feline hunters long after she was gone. Along with her gardens, it would be her continuing legacy to the community of Taormina .

While her love for her adopted village did not make up for the loss of her child, Florence liked to believe Isabella had known how dearly her parents loved her. Time had erased Orlando’s kisses from her memory, but their daughter’s image was etched into Florence’s heart and soul for eternity.

As a Trevelyan , it mattered that her daughter knew her lineage. Florence’s family were proud of their history and heraldic past—of tales passed on from before the days of Merlin and the knights of King Arthur’s court. Myths of chivalry and generations of royal favour were entrenched in their bloodline and recorded in the annals of history. The first Trevelyan came from the lost cities of Lyonesse , before William the Conqueror . Isabella was a Trevelyan too, descended from the single man who escaped the rising seas on the back of a white steed.

And what of the heirloom coverlet from Orlando’s family, also part of Isabella’s inheritance? Florence regretted offering it as token for her entry to the Foundling Hospital . As a result, that link to Orlando had disappeared too.

If only she were able to speak to Louisa . She alone might understand Florence’s despair.

With age comes a chance to face your past: the ability to confess your sins and move into the future with grace and peace. The light grew dim, and Florence sighed as the cab moved down the busy road towards her rooms at Claridge’s . A shaky hand flew to her chest as another of the pains she had been experiencing of late twisted and held fast. A tingle ran down her arm and squeezed tighter; she clenched her hand and balled it into a fist.

Isabella would be a woman now. Had she loved and been loved? Florence hoped so. Letting tired eyelids shutter over her eyes, she took a deep breath and held it until the pain subsided. If only she could find her Isabella . But time it seemed was against her.