Not a real rose, of course, but rather an embroidered rose, its petals made of stiff white satin, each attached separately to a backing of fine, nearly translucent fabric. Each petal was edged with tiny pearls and even tinier glass beads, all of them sparkling merrily under the harsh fluorescent lights of her mother’s kitchen.
She wiped her trembling hands on the fabric of her yoga pants, suddenly remembering that Nan had always insisted on clean hands when handling precious things. The edge of the fabric had been rolled under, a bit like an expensive scarf, and the stitches were so fine she had to squint to see them. In the bottom corner was a monogram worked in thread that was only a shade darker than the fabric.
“EP,” she whispered. “At least I think it says ‘EP.’”
Holding her breath, she lifted it up, really so she could look at the embroidery better, and saw there was something underneath. It was another layer of thin cotton fabric, the same as the wrapping. This she drew aside to reveal a second piece of embroidery: three star-shaped satin flowers, also decorated with pearls and crystals. Beneath that was a third design, this time of three curving ears of wheat, their grains made of rice-shaped seed pearls. And beneath that was a photograph.
“Hold on,” her mom said. “I didn’t notice that before.”
“What is it?”
“I’m not sure. There’s some writing here on the back. I think it might be Mum’s handwriting. ‘London. Oct. 1947. Waiting for HM.’”
It was of a group of women, most of them seated around one of four long, narrow tables in a large, bright, high-ceilinged room. Heather counted twenty-two women in total, most of them wearing white coats or aprons over vintage-style dresses. Not vintage when the photo was taken, she realized.
“Who are they?” she asked.
“I think they’re seamstresses. Embroiderers, actually. Look at those tables. They’re actually frames. Just like the ones we use at my quilting circle,” her mother explained. “The fabric is stretched on the frames before they start adding the beads and sequins and what-have-you.”
Heather examined the photograph minutely, searching for something familiar, something known, among the faces in the group. Her attention was caught by one woman, her fair hair clipped to the side, her expression solemn and unsmiling. She seemed wary, Heather thought, as if she was afraid of what the photographer might see.
“That woman by the window—” she began.
“I know. I think that’s Mum. Younger than I remember her, but I think it’s her. I just . . .”
“What is it?”
“It’s just that it doesn’t fit. I mean, Mum was good with her hands, and you know how she loved to knit, but she was never one for sewing or embroidery or anything like that. I don’t think I ever saw her sew on so much as a button.”
“Didn’t everyone learn to sew in those days?”
“Yes, but even then it was pretty basic stuff. Mending and darning and how to knit a scarf. This kind of work,” and here she nodded at the embroideries, “is another story. Embroidery like this takes years to learn.”
“So you don’t think Nan made these?”
“I honestly don’t know. She definitely never said anything to me about it. On the other hand, there she is in the picture.”
Heather couldn’t tear her eyes away from the young Nan in the photograph. “So why did she stop? Why did she come here?”
“I always assumed it was sadness that sent her across the ocean. Grief over losing my dad, and before him her brother. And I think I remember her saying that both her parents had died before the war. That would have left her more or less alone in the world, apart from Milly, her sister-in-law. And she’s the one who had already moved to Canada.”
It made a strange sort of sense. Nan had decided to make a fresh start, away from the death and destruction of the war, and that’s why she’d emigrated. That’s why she hadn’t ever talked about England—it had been too painful. And yet . . .
“If she wanted to leave everything behind, then why did she bring these embroideries with her?” Heather asked. “Why didn’t she ever show them to us? And why did she put my name on the box?”
“I’ve no idea. Perhaps she meant to give them to you, one day, and then never got around to it.”
“What do you think I should do with them?”
“I was hoping you could find out more. When you’re not so busy at work. One rainy afternoon in front of your computer and you’ll have it all figured out.”