Chapter Seven #2
Her eyes caught on two large oil portraits above the fireplace.
In the portrait on the left sat a much younger Doris Oppenheimer Towers in a pale-blue dress, a man standing behind her, who Florence could only suppose had once been her husband, though she couldn’t guess at his name—he had been dead a long time.
In the portrait on the right was the most recent iteration of the Towers family.
Scarlet Towers was seated in the middle, her husband, Augustus, standing behind her.
Florence had only a vague memory of him.
There had been a big to-do in the servants’ quarters a couple of years back when he had died suddenly of a ruptured ulcer in his spleen.
Charles, Augustus’s son from his first marriage, stood behind them in the portrait, and Scarlet and Augustus’s daughters stood to either side.
The smallest girl had a bunny-slope nose and an impish grin.
The other girl was striking in her beauty.
She had a heart-shaped face and large, round violet eyes.
“How old are you, dear?” Scarlet Towers asked.
Florence tore her gaze away from the portrait. “Six,” Florence said, but her voice was so small and meek that it came out almost a whisper.
“Six,” Scarlet repeated brightly. “That’s a wonderful age. I have a little girl, you know, who’s six exactly. Her name is Verity.”
Florence nodded.
“Come sit next to me, child,” Doris said. “I’d like to take a closer look at you.”
Florence glanced back at Mrs. Wilson, and Mrs. Wilson nodded.
“Go on, now,” she whispered curtly.
Florence ambled forward, her chin tucked down, too frightened to look Doris Oppenheimer Towers in the eyes. She glanced back at Mrs. Wilson as she sat down between Doris and Scarlet, and she thought she saw her cringe as her dirty dress made contact with the immaculate velvet sofa.
They all sat there in weighted silence for a moment.
Florence was too terrified to breathe, let alone speak.
She kept her head down, her eyes catching on Doris’s hands and, in particular, a ring she wore on her index finger.
Florence had never seen anything quite like it before.
It was a beautiful silver ring, with little beads and a cross.
“Do you like it?” Doris asked, catching her stare.
Florence immediately looked away, embarrassed at being caught.
“It’s quite all right,” Doris said, slipping the ring off her finger. She held it out in the flat of her palm for Florence to see. “Go on, then,” Doris said. “Try it on.”
Florence hesitantly obeyed, taking the ring and slipping it onto her index finger at first, just as Doris had worn it, but it was far too large. So she put it on her thumb next, where it was a snugger fit. She marveled at wearing such a thing on her finger. She had never worn jewelry before.
“You can keep it if you like it so much,” Doris said.
And Florence finally had the courage to look up at her, to study her expression, to see if she was serious.
“It’s a rosary ring,” Scarlet interjected from Florence’s other side. “The beads represent the Hail Marys, and the cross is the Our Father.”
“Never mind all that,” Doris said. “I wear it because it’s pretty. And I think it’s just fine to wear something because it’s beautiful, because it brings you joy.”
Florence could feel Scarlet stiffen next to her, but she didn’t say anything in return. Instead, she tilted her needlework toward Florence so she could see it.
“Do you know how to cross-stitch, dear?” Scarlet asked her, and Florence shook her head.
“Well, every girl should know how to cross-stitch,” Scarlet went on, showing her how to hold the needle, how to push it in through the fabric and pull the thread taut.
Florence pursed her lips as she concentrated and made a stitch on her own, and then another.
“Very good, dear,” Scarlet commended her.
Doris turned back toward Mrs. Wilson. “The child has no other family?” Doris asked.
“No, ma’am, none,” Mrs. Wilson said. “The sisters of Saint Mary’s Convent in Sacramento have agreed to take her in. It’s a very good home, I assure you. She’ll be brought up in the way of the Lord. Communion every Sunday.”
“I see,” Doris said.
Florence could feel Doris’s gaze on her, observing her, and she tried very hard to keep her hand steady with the needle.
“You’re a quick study, Florence,” Doris said approvingly.
She was quiet a moment. “Child,” Doris finally said, “how would you like to come stay in the nursery with Verity? You could take your lessons together. I daresay, Verity could use the influence of a companion with a sharp mind or, at the very least, the company.”
Florence looked up at her with wide eyes. She could hardly believe her luck. But before she could say anything, Mrs. Wilson interjected.
“But, ma’am,” Mrs. Wilson started. “I’m sorry, ma’am, I mean no impertinence; it’s just—I’m not sure Florence is the proper company for Miss Verity to keep.
She has not been brought up in the proper way.
Nothing against her mother, ma’am, as I will not speak ill of the dead, but the child has not been taught manners and has never been to a day of school. She does not know how to read.”
“All the more reason, then,” Scarlet said, speaking up from her place next to Florence and placing her hand on Florence’s shoulder.
“The Lord instructs us, ‘Rescue the poor; and deliver the needy out of the hand of the sinner.’ The Lord tells us, ‘The stranger and the fatherless and the widow, that are within thy gates, shall come and shall eat and be filled: that the Lord thy God may bless thee in all the works of thy hands that thou shalt do.’”
“Yes, ma’am,” Mrs. Wilson said. “That is all very well, but there are things you do not know.”
“Yes?” Doris prompted her.
“I do not wish to speak indelicately,” Mrs. Wilson said, “but I am not entirely sure the child’s mother was married. I wouldn’t wish that stain upon your household, ma’am.”
Florence stared down at the fabric of the couch, heat rushing into her cheeks.
Next to her, she felt Scarlet grow silent and withdraw her hand from her shoulder.
Florence felt ashamed of herself, of her very being.
She ran her fingers along the velvet sofa under her as the words repeated in her head. A stain. A stain. A stain.
“Remarkable,” Doris said. “A woman who was able to evade matrimony. I’m very sorry now I didn’t get to meet her. I’d have liked to ask her how she managed such a thing.”
“Doris,” Scarlet said, in a scandalized whisper.
“Oh, come off it, Scarlet,” Doris said. “Either this woman took her pleasures where she could find them—a thing men do often enough—or she was taken advantage of and is deserving of our sympathy. Either way, that’s hardly the child’s fault.
” Doris turned once again to Florence. “So I ask you again, Florence. Would you like to stay here?”
Florence did not look at Mrs. Wilson or Scarlet. She stared straight up at Doris Oppenheimer Towers and nodded vigorously. “Yes,” she said, her voice small and gravelly from lack of use.
“Very good. It’s settled, then,” Doris said. “Mrs. Wilson, you can have Florence’s things brought up to the nursery.”
“As you wish, ma’am,” Mrs. Wilson said, resigned.
Maggie returned then with a tray of steaming stew and a platter of rolls with a fresh dab of butter.
“The cake’s in the oven,” Maggie said as she set the food down in front of Florence.
“Eat a bit, Florence, and then you can have some cake,” Doris said.
But Florence hardly needed prompting. The smell of thyme and rosemary, pepper and cream and potatoes and leeks, made her mouth water, and she barreled spoonful after spoonful into her mouth, suddenly ravenous.
That night, after Florence had packed up her things from the cottage, which all fit neatly into a cloth sack, Mrs. Wilson took her once again by the hand and led her upstairs to the nursery.
Florence could see in the glow of the night-light that it was a big beautiful room, with a giant bay window and two feather beds, one on each side of it.
In one bed, Florence saw a dark mop of hair spilled across the pillowcase and a lump under the covers.
That was Verity, she figured. Florence glanced up at Mrs. Wilson, and Mrs. Wilson pressed a finger to her lips.
“Don’t wake her,” Mrs. Wilson whispered sternly. “You can meet her in the morning.”
She pointed toward the empty bed, and Florence set her sack down at the foot of it and climbed in. Florence looked up at Mrs. Wilson, and Mrs. Wilson stared down at her. Florence knew better than to ask her to tuck her in.
“Good night, then,” Mrs. Wilson said gruffly.
When Mrs. Wilson had gone, Florence sat up in her bed and looked around the room, taking it all in.
The walls were painted to look like the sky—baby blue with soft, billowy clouds.
There were more toys than Florence had ever seen before—a miniature kitchenette and table and chairs, dolls, stuffed animals, blocks, a train.
There was a dollhouse, three stories tall, painted pale pink, with white shutters and an attic at the top.
Every room was carpeted, and there was decorative paper on the walls, and furniture—real furniture carved out of wood—and a whole family of dolls that lived there, one for each of them: Doris Oppenheimer Towers, Augustus and Scarlet Towers, and the children: Charles, Astrid, and Verity.
Florence lay back down on her back and stared up at the ceiling in the soft glow of the night-light. She whispered the three words that she had never thought to question until a few weeks ago, when she learned it could all be taken away from her.
“I am home,” she said. “I am home.”
“Mother says we get to keep her,” said a voice excitedly.
“She’s not a pet,” said another voice.
Florence slowly drifted into consciousness. She could feel the sunlight, heavy and bright against her eyelids, and she blinked her eyes open.