The Flourishing of Floralie Laurel

by Fiadhnait Moser

  Today, as Floralie kneeled by the wall, she painted bluebells, the saddest of flowers. And somewhere along the periwinkle petals, the peridot stem’s curve, Floralie lost herself in a world completely her own. She had visited this forest a thousand times. The flowers stretched tall, and the grass tickled her ankles. Sunshine warmed her scalp and danced in her hair. The hummingbirds flitted past, the foxes scampered by, and Floralie swore she heard the melodies of a chickadee in the top of an oak tree. In one blink, Floralie sat in the highest branch beside it, singing along in harmony: “Chick-a-dee-dee-dee.”

  From the top of the oak tree, Floralie could see her entire forest, blooming with colors. Reds, violets, greens, and blues. She could even see the invisible spectrum of colors that Tom had once told her only butterflies could see. But up in her oak tree, Floralie could be a butterfly. She could be anything she wanted to be.

  When her wrist grew sore, Floralie dropped her paintbrush and lay upon the cot. But she did not sleep. She simply watched the sun set and the moon rise, the stars twinkle and the moths flutter. She watched the window lights across the street flick off one by one until finally, hers was the only one left lit.

  As time passed, ivy slowly snaked up the legs of her cot, and again, Floralie was transported to her enchanted forest. Eagles soared among the clouds, and flowers bloomed with her every footstep. A great willow tree came into view, and Floralie ducked under and sat against its cool, dark trunk. Her back fit perfectly in the wood, as if it had been molded of clay for her. In the corner of her eye, a figure weaved in and out of the willow’s leaves. This figure, barely a shadow and never quite visible, so often appeared in Floralie’s forest that she had begun to refer to it as the gardener.

  The figure bent down, pulled a watering can from its cloak, and gently poured some water onto a patch of fragile purple flowers beneath the willow. It patted down the earth around the flowers, then disappeared, as always.

  Under that willow, with the purple flowers blooming around her, Floralie spent the night writing letters on her paper-white skin to Mama. And this time they came out in poems. When she ran out of skin, she counted words, each one bleeding out a different memory.

  And all night long, across the hall, like listening to someone from the other side of a window, the other side of a dream, Floralie could hear Tom’s whispering: “One thousand twenty-one, one thousand twenty-two, one thousand twenty-three . . .” Floralie wasn’t the only one counting ghosts that night.

  “Hey!” Tom shouted, crossing his arms and pouting his lips. “Papa, she’s splashing again.”

  “Floralie, stop splashing,” said Papa.

  “I can’t help where the water goes,” said Floralie as she dove down to touch the bottom of the Mediterranean Sea.

  “She’s right,” said Mama, as Floralie resurfaced. “Water’s a creature of its own being. And it loves to dance,” and Mama swung Tom around in a water waltz, before perching him onto her bony, though strong, shoulder. That was before Tom shot up, tall, like a beanstalk.

  Papa looked on in disapproval, but said nothing. Mama smiled and stood on tiptoes in the white sand to kiss Papa’s nose. “I love you,” she said, and Papa said, “I love you, too.”

  Mama put a London pride flower in the ocean. “Perhaps it will go to Africa,” Mama said. “Perhaps it will go to America; or maybe, it will go to Wonderland.”

  There was much hustle-bustle the next morning as Floralie made her way to the bridge, basket full of tulips and roses in hand. Shouts of shopkeepers and vendors swirled in Floralie’s head—“Get yer bread, get yer eggs,” “Newspaper, newspaper!” “Line up, folks, fresh pastries.” Floralie laced through the crowds of businessmen off to catch the train to Canterbury and farmers setting up their vegetable stands.

  Though Floralie stood in the heart of the English village, her own heart still felt stuck in France. She was always thinking of her little village of Giverny, which sounded of children’s laughter and smelled of fields of tulips and Claude Monet’s oil paint and Mama’s perfume. Floralie missed that perfume. The bittersweet of it wafted around her now, as if she were back in their kitchen watching Mama pirouette around wooden chairs, then twirling Floralie around and lifting her up into the air so Floralie could fly. And, oh, how she would fly! But that was before Mama started to act different. Before she started pulling out clumps of her hair and pouring orange juice on flowers. That was before Grandmama sent Mama away, and before Papa died. Floralie didn’t even know if Mama was still in France. She could be anywhere. All anyone had told Floralie about the whole ordeal was, “It’s better this way.”

  Floralie tried to stifle the memories and went about her work. She waved flowers under tweed-suited men, lilting, “Flower for your wife, sir?” and skipped around the skirts of women, saying, “Pretty rose for your hair, ma’am?” Some stopped and exchanged a coin for a flower, most out of pity, while the majority stuck up their noses and shooed her away.

  Gossip flitted through the air like cherry blossoms in the wind. Today, the villagers chattered of the new romance between the baker and the local journalist. They talked of rumors of the bicycle repairman closing his shop, and they talked of a child who went missing from Floralie’s grandmother’s orphanage. That, of course, only increased the number of butterflies batting their wings in Floralie’s stomach; she dreaded the scent of Grandmama’s perfume, her feathery hats, and perpetual scowl of disapproval.

  As Floralie wandered through thick crowds, images of a mess of shaggy brown hair and twinkling honey-colored eyes flickered in Floralie’s mind. But every time she looked, all she saw were the baskets of shoppers and the briefcases of businessmen weaving between one another like tightly knitted knots. No poem-loving boy that she couldn’t get out of her mind.

  Three hours of waving about flowers and collecting coins later, Floralie ducked behind a woman in a straw cloche hat and made her way out of the crowd. As she neared the bridge’s wall, however, someone grabbed her wrist.

  Floralie whirled around, flowers falling to the cobbles.

  Tom loomed over her. “What is the meaning of this?”

  “Stop, Tom—that hurts!” cried Floralie. Immediately, Tom pulled away.

  “I’m sorry.” He flinched, and repeated, “I’m sorry . . . But, honestly? You’ve been writing on your hands again?” Tom’s jaw tensed and he closed his eyes, which was something he did whenever he was really angry but trying not to make a fuss about it. “Oh, Floralie.”

  Oh, Floralie. Those were the worst words. They wormed into her brain, chewed at the edges of her heart.

  “You know Grandmama’s coming today.” He sighed and rubbed his brow with an almost-free hand. Curled inside of his palm was a tiny glass box of black tea leaves. He always went shopping for nice things when Grandmama came, as if to mimic her extravagant lifestyle for but an hour or two. “I can’t trust you with anything, not even yourself.” Floralie stared up into Tom’s eyes. They were the beige of quicksand with big dark circles underneath and wrinkles at the edges—not from smiles, though. Tom’s wrinkles were from tiredness. And a few from sadness.

  “I’m sorry,” murmured Floralie.

  Tom’s jaw slackened for a moment, a trace of guilt on his face. “No,” he whispered, “no, I’m sorry. I’ve overreacted. Come on, we’d better get home.” He turned, and Floralie followed him through the streets. She felt a sinking sensation in her stomach as she walked; she hated disappointing Tom.

  It was hardly afternoon (Floralie knew because the fishers in the river below hadn’t put on their sun hats yet). As they walked, the Upper Enders—which was what everyone called the wealthy people of Whitterly End—looked on in disdain at Floralie’s raggedy uniform (smuggled out of Mrs. Coffrey’s school) and scrunched their noses like they had caught a whiff of something rotten. The Lower Enders—the paupers and the farmers—on the other hand, smiled weakly at Floralie.

  News traveled quick as winks in Whitterly End, and nearly everyone knew about the “unstabl
e” child who had lost her mother, then lost her father, then lost her home. Nearly everyone knew of her being expelled from school, and nearly everyone, in some way or another, kept Floralie at a distance from them. But what no one seemed to agree on was whether to shame her or to pity her; Floralie wasn’t sure which was worse.

  When they reached their house, Tom led Floralie through the door and said, “Now wash that off”—he steered her through the kitchen and into the bathroom—“and don’t even think about coming out till that hand sparkles.” At first Floralie believed Tom to be angry, but when she looked into his eyes, all she saw was fear. He half closed the door, then paused and opened it again. “And, Floralie . . .”

  Floralie looked up. A hint of softness smoothed the veins in Tom’s neck, and Floralie was reminded of the face of a thirteen-year-old boy she knew long ago, laughing at one of Mama’s more “unrefined” jokes and Papa’s scowl—just a ghost of it.

  “I won’t let anything happen to you,” said Tom. “I promise you that.”

  Floralie narrowed her eyes, unsure of what Tom was on about. She didn’t exactly know how to reply to such out-of-place gallantry, so she simply said, “Sure,” and closed the door.

  Shouts echoed from the kitchen below. Papa had come home from work, and Mama had come home from rehearsal. Floralie never figured out what made them so furious that night, but she did remember Tom sneaking into Floralie’s bedroom late at night and stroking her hair. “He’s angry,” said Tom, “But we’ll be just fine.”

  In the morning, a fumitory flower appeared in the crack under Floralie’s door.

  Once alone in the bathroom, Floralie skipped across the checkerboard floor to the sink, careful to avoid the white tiles. She didn’t know why she avoided certain tiles—all she knew was that Mama had, too, and Mama had called it a dance. Mama loved to dance. This was one of those habits of which both Tom and Mrs. Coffrey disapproved. Floralie couldn’t fathom why; it was a most pleasurable of games, much more so than the who-can-hold-books-on-her-head-the-longest game she had played in her etiquette lessons.

  Floralie reached the sink and flicked on the faucet, icy water shocking her sweaty hands. She took the bar of soap and began to scrub at the ink, which, mind you, did not come off easily at all. These love letters were particularly stubborn, just like the person they were for—Mama. So Floralie scrubbed her hands until the skin went red and her fingers shriveled to prunes and the words crawled back into her head because they had nowhere else to go. They exploded like cannons in there, and Floralie splashed some water on her face to quiet them.

  She then combed through her tumbleweed of blond curls and emerged to the sitting room. Tom was there, changing the curtains from the yellowed lace ones to the fancy ones they only used when Grandmama visited. They were velvet, the color of red wine, and probably the most expensive things they owned.

  As Tom fixed the last curtain onto the window, the doorbell rang.

  Tom jumped. “The tea!” he yelped, his voice boyishly high-pitched. “I haven’t made the tea!” He scurried out to the kitchen, and Floralie rushed to the front door.

  “Remember like I said this morning, Floralie—curtsy, sitting room, tea. That’s all—please, please, please do not make a mess of this,” called Tom from the kitchen.

  Floralie took a breath and peeked through the window. Sure enough, there was Grandmama. She was a lavish sort of person, wearing long jewel-toned gowns that never showed her shoes. She could have been barefoot for all Floralie knew. In her right hand, she clutched a ruby-studded cane. Her silver hair was swirled up in a bun topped with an extravagant feather hat more suited for Mardi Gras, and her lips were covered in tulip-pink lipstick. Floralie opened the door, a waft of prunes and sour lemons and old lady soap filling Floralie’s nostrils.

  “Grandmama,” she said. “Er—wonderful to see you.” Remembering Tom’s words, she belatedly added a curtsy—a most ridiculous practice in Floralie’s opinion. Curtsies were meant for ballets, not grandmothers.

  “Well, well,” said Grandmama. She looked Floralie up and down. “My, how you’ve grown, Floralie.” Grandmama traced a ring-cluttered finger along Floralie’s chin, then fiddled with Floralie’s threadbare collar. “But I suppose it’s what’s on the inside that counts.”

  Floralie’s ears burned. There was a distant rattling, and then Tom’s voice leaped out from behind. “Grandmama! Come in!”

  Tom whizzed toward the door and ushered Grandmama in. He twirled around her (tripping over her cane on the way) to remove her coat and hat, then tossed them into Floralie’s arms.

  “Thank you, Thomas,” said Grandmama, and she followed him down the hall.

  Floralie wrestled the frilly coat and hat onto the rack, smoothed down her curls, and then hurried after Tom and Grandmama. They sat on the flower-patterned sofa. It was old and tattered and didn’t match the curtains at all, which, by the shifting of his eyes, Tom seemed terribly conscious of. Grandmama settled into herself, and then turned her stony gaze toward Tom and Floralie. Before she could speak however, Tom sprang up. “Oh! The tea!”

  But Grandmama put up her hand. “No, no, Thomas. No time for tea. Actually, I would like to speak to you alone. If you please, Floralie.”

  “Oh—oh, of course, Grandmama.” Floralie nodded and edged out of the sitting room into the back hall and closed the door behind her. She hovered outside the door, then knelt down and pressed her eye up to the keyhole. She held her breath and listened.

  “I see no reason to beat around the bush,” said Grandmama, turning to Tom, whose mouth twitched. “I fear Floralie is becoming corrupted.”

  Tom’s face paled calla-lily white; he gulped. “Oh?” His voice cracked, and he coughed to cover it.

  “I am concerned, Thomas,” pressed Grandmama, “for her well-being. I fear after . . . recent events . . .”

  No one spoke of Floralie’s expulsion. Not even Grandmama, who was notorious for gossip.

  “I fear that she will end up like that mother of hers. A starving artist slipping into madness. You can see why, can’t you? She’s practically a mirror image of Viscaria.”

  “She’s not like Mama,” whispered Tom. He looked like a feral cat being backed into a cage. “She’s nothing like her.”

  Melancholy flitted about Floralie’s head like a particularly irritating moth. All she’d ever wanted to be was like Mama.

  “And what about her father?” Grandmama flourished a handkerchief and blew her nose into it. “A worse fate I can’t imagine! Poor thing died of a broken heart.”

  That was what they always said, but Floralie knew the truth. She knew all about the alcohol. She knew about the nights Papa would come home late, red faced and angry, screaming, “Honey, you better mop this floor,” and “Darling, go get the broom this instant,” and then, finally, as the alcohol began to wear off, “Dearest, come home,” even though, by then, Mama had already disappeared.

  “There’s bad blood in this family,” continued Grandmama. “But I can straighten her out, just as I do all those ragamuffins who come groveling at my doorstep. Just as I turned your father and you into gentlemen, I can turn her into a lady—”

  “Now, this is not 1887 anymore, let’s be reasonable here,” cut in Tom. “Things are different from when Papa was a boy, and even me. I don’t know how you run things at your place nowadays, but if it’s anything like when I was there, I doubt it’s going to change Floralie into something she’s not. You don’t know her like I do; she’s stubborn.”

  Grandmama smirked. “Never underestimate the power of a missed meal and a good whopping.”

  “Things are changing, Grandmama,” pushed Tom. “And while I don’t condone Floralie’s actions, that finishing school you sent her to, well, I can’t imagine it not being dead and gone in two, three years’ time. And when she comes of age, Floralie could be a—a typist, a nurse—even an art teacher or illustrator if she wants to—”

  Despite the smile creeping over Floralie’s mouth, Grandmama
tut-tutted. “Don’t encourage her—”

  But Tom ignored her. “And with all due respect, that place of yours is heading for the drain as well. Believe me, that runaway child is doing nothing for your reputation. It’s not only the talk of Whitterly End, but all across Kent.”

  Grandmama pursed her lips. “Leave that boy out of this. What happened was indeed tragic, but inevitable. He was disturbed.” She huffed and added, “If all goes the way I plan, Floralie will never have to work a day in her life. No man will be able to turn her down; she’ll be a proper wife in no time, money galore.” A hunger took grip of Grandmama’s eyes, making Floralie’s stomach flop. “Let me take her, Thomas . . . for her sake and our family’s. Please.”

  Floralie leaped back and clutched her heart. She couldn’t possibly leave Tom—at least not to become a lady. The thought itself left a bitter taste in her mouth.

  Floralie took a breath and pressed her eye up to the keyhole again.

  “She’s growing up, you know,” said Grandmama. “Have not you noticed?”

  “She’s still a child,” said Tom, teeth gritted.

  “Coddle her as you will, but my word is final. I expect her at my home in one week. The more we drag this out, the more ill Floralie will get. Just like her mother.”

  A chill scuttled down Floralie’s spine. When Grandmama wanted something, most always she got it.

  Tom’s mouth dropped, and he began to stutter. “It—it’s only been two years since . . . since Papa, and—and Floralie’s still adjusting, you’ve got to understand . . .” Then Tom’s voice regained its hardness, and he barked, “This isn’t about manners or money; this is about you. This is about you wanting the child that my mother stole from you. This is about you and Papa, not me, not Floralie.”