The Florist of Beacon Hill
- Louisa Blackthorne
- Mar 16
- 7 min read
Updated: Apr 17
March 1900
Boston, Massachusetts
Charlotte Hartwell started each day with a strong cup of English breakfast tea. Some things just stuck even if she wasn’t in her hometown of Liverpool anymore. Her family had emigrated over to Boston and were lucky enough to call Beacon Hill home. Charlotte loved the cobblestone streets that wound between the brownstones and the gas lamps that lit her way home from the market.
Her family owned Hartwell’s Floral, and they had unwittingly become the go-to shop for a specific need - funeral floral arrangements. They also sold tinctures and tonics - that was her mother’s expertise - but Charlotte had a knack for creating the most beautiful arrangements when a family was grieving. The newspaper had even featured her in their paper and business had been booming ever since.
Her customers felt she really cared about them and put her heart and love into creating a beautiful arrangement for the deceased. Her family home had a garden overflowing with flowers in the summers, and her father had put in a conservatory for her to grow flowers and herbs during the cold months.
Charlotte was known for her unusual use of herbs in the floral arrangements. Mint, specifically, masked the smell of decay, and several local funeral parlors ordered large quantities of mint from her to use in their funerary rites.
Charlotte shuddered as she thought about the use of the common herb; she preferred to think of it as enhancing a green bouquet for the family to enjoy. She often exchanged letters with her cousin, Amelia Reed, who resided in London. Amelia worked in her own family's funeral parlor. Charlotte was none to keen when Amelia described the necessary but unpleasant side of the funeral business and was glad they only provided the flowers and wreaths.
“Someone run over your grave, Ellie,” her older brother asked, sitting down with his newspaper.
She grimaced at Charles. “Don’t say things like that.”
“Well, dear sister, you’re the one who deals with death.” He winked and snapped the paper open, disappearing behind it.
“Not by choice, but it pays.”
“Mmmm,” was all he said, probably absorbed in some financial news.
Charlotte left the parlor, put her coat on and left, walking up the street to the trolley where she would ride to their shop. She hoped Margaret was there already and had the shop warm. These Boston springs rivaled England’s, and Charlotte pulled her scarf tighter around her neck as she waited.
No luck. The shop was dark. Margaret’s new baby must be keeping her. As Charlotte set to work, readying for the day, the bell above the door chimed, and she turned, setting aside a bundle of dried lavender. A woman stepped inside, her veil concealing her face. The death veil.
“Welcome in. How may I help you?”
“My name is Mrs. Whitmore,” the woman said softly. “My husband just passed and I was told to come to you.”
Charlotte came to the counter. “I am very sorry for your loss. Do you have an idea of the type of arrangement you would like and when you’ll need it? What funeral parlor is it going to?”
The widow’s gloved hands clutched at her shawl. “My Arthur loved mint,” she murmured, distractedly. “Always planted it in our garden. But, of course, there is none left from last year. I was told you were the best to help me with this.”
“Indeed I am.” Charlotte nodded. “I’ll be right back.” She went to the rear of the shop and returned with a bundle of fresh peppermint sprigs, tying them with a black ribbon. “Mint is for consolation,” she said, pressing it into the woman’s hand. “It soothes grief’s heavy breath. Will there be anything else today?”
“I will be back later. This is all I needed for now.” Mrs. Whitmore let out a brief sob and hurried out, the bundle of mint clutched to her heart.
Charlotte had learned the language of herbs and flowers from her mother, who had learned it from hers. In an age when doctors treated sorrow with laudanum and despair with rest cures, Charlotte offered a gentler path—mint for consolation, rosemary for remembrance, violets for mourning.
***
Later that evening, as twilight bled into the gaslit streets, a knock sounded at the back door. She opened it to find Nathaniel Grey, a gravedigger from King’s Chapel Burying Ground, his broad-shouldered frame bowed under some unseen weight.
“Miss Hartwell,” he murmured, removing his cap. “It’s little Thomas Hollis. The family’s planning his service.”
Charlotte’s breath caught. “Oh, that poor family. I was hoping he’d recover from that fall. How is his mother?”
Nathaniel shook his head grimly. “Beside herself.”
Charlotte turned back into her shop, selecting a cluster of white lilies and tiny blue forget-me-nots, their fragile blooms trembling in her grasp. As she worked, she felt Nathaniel watching. He had been coming to her for months, always lingering as though trying to find words he never quite spoke.
“Do you believe,” he asked, “that flowers can truly ease sorrow?”
She paused. “Not the flowers themselves,” she said. “But the care in choosing them, the meaning behind them—perhaps that is the comfort.”
He nodded, thoughtful, watching her still.
“Would you bring these to Mrs. Hollis?” she asked, placing the bouquet in his hands. “Tell her the lilies are for poor Thomas’ soul passing from his body and the forget-me-nots are to always remember the good times with her son.”
“I will,” he said, but he did not leave. His fingers traced the edge of a mint sprig resting on the counter. “And this?”
“Ah, I was looking for that,” she said. She plucked it from the counter. “To bring comfort to the family.” She placed it in amongst the flowers.
Nathaniel hesitated before tucking a bit of mint into his pocket. “Then perhaps I should take some, too.”
Their eyes met, and something passed between them, something unspoken yet understood.
“Are you friends with the Hollises?” she asked.
“We buy our fish from them. Thomas was always there, helping and making the customers smile. He’ll be missed.”
Charlotte nodded, handing him the bouquet after wrapping the stems in paper. Her fingers tingled when they brushed his, and she wondered if he noticed.
“They’ll need to be in water soon. When is the funeral?”
“Day after next.”
A man of few words she mused.
“I’ll be there,” she said.
Nathaniel hesitated, gazing at her, his expression unreadable as always. Then he donned his cap, nodded, and turned away into the dark street.
Charlotte quelled her frustration and closed up shop. Perhaps she should send him a nosegay to tell him how she felt. A secret smile crossed her face as she walked to the trolley.
***
The funeral was held in a small stone chapel in a neighborhood she’d never been to. Charlotte, seated in the back, watched as the Hollis family wept, the boy’s mother pressing the lilies to her lips as though they held the last breath of her child. Nathaniel stood near the church doors, hat in hand. Their eyes met and broke away.
Charlotte had her nosegay for him in a small bag at her feet. But would she be brave enough to give it to him?
Afterward, as mourners trickled away into the spring dusk, Charlotte made her way to the churchyard, where the earth was freshly turned, the grave covered. She knelt beside it, placing another bouquet of black and white roses with sprigs of mint woven throughout upon the mound.
A shadow fell across the ground beside her. Nathaniel. Her heart sped up. All the other mourners had gone. Now was her chance.
“You come to all the funerals,” he observed.
She exhaled softly. “So do you.”
He didn’t respond.
She held in a sigh. Life would be quiet with Nathaniel. But she didn’t mind. “Who will bring them comfort if I do not?” she asked.
He was silent for a long moment. “And who brings comfort to you, Miss Hartwell?”
The question unsettled her. She had spent most of her young life easing the grief of others, tending to their sorrow like one tends a fragile garden. But who, indeed, tended hers?
He held his hand out for her and she took it, standing. His hand was warm and solid. It gave her strength; she would use it to give him the nosegay.
Nathaniel let her go, hesitant, not meeting her eyes. Then, from his pocket, he withdrew a small bundle. He held it out to her—a nosegay of red carnations and tulips tied with a red ribbon. She couldn’t believe it.
“For you,” he said.
Charlotte’s breath hitched. A declaration of true, deep love. She took it, her hands trembling.
Smiling up at his worried face, she said, “Thank you. I never knew you felt this way.”
“I have for a long time, Miss Hartwell. Why do you think I come by so often?”
Not knowing what to say, she reached into her bag and pulled out the yellow and purple pansies. “I have one for you, too,” she said, suddenly shy.
Nathaniel’s face looked incredulous. “Pardon me, Miss Hartwell, but you’ll have to tell me what these mean. The florist only helped me with the tulips and I don’t remember the other one.” He scratched his chin.
“Carnations,” she said, smiling. “These are pansies.” She met his gaze. “They mean I’m thinking of you.”
Charlotte was happy to see her hands weren’t the only ones trembling as he took the bouquet.
“You think of me?” He looked so surprised she laughed out loud.
“Sorry, I don’t mean to laugh at you, but of course I do, Mr. Grey. Your gentleness and care with helping those who have lost someone. I’ve watched you help them say their goodbyes before the last turn of earth. I look forward to your visits even though it means someone else has left us.”
He blushed and looked away, his cap in his other hand. “I look forward to them as well.”
In the growing twilight, beneath the whispering boughs of the old chapel trees, the two talked. And for the first time in a long time, Charlotte and Nathaniel had hope for a bright future supporting each other as they helped others through grief and loss.
“May I escort you home, Miss Hartwell and speak to your father? I’d like to see you on a more personal basis.”
Charlotte thought she would float away but instead took his arm as they left the church yard.
“Yes, and I’m sure Father will allow it.”
Nathaniel smiled again as they walked away.
“But we will have to discuss your loyalty to this other florist,” she teased, putting the flowers up to her nose, squeezing his arm.
Nathaniel chuckled, his own heart lighter than it had been in ages.
Floriography Meanings
Mint
Mentha
Meaning: consolation
Rosemary
Salvia rosmarinus
Meaning: remembrance
Violets
Viola odorata
Meaning: mourning
Forget-me-nots
Myosotis
Meaning: forget me not
Lily
Lilium
Meaning: represents the soul passing from the body
Roses
Rosa
Black rose meaning: death, morning, and loss
White rose meaning: purity, innocence, and reverence
Tulips
Tulipa
Red tulip meaning: I declare my love for you
Carnations
Dianthus caryophyllus
Red carnation meaning: my heart aches for you
Pansies
Viola tricolor var. hortensis
Purple meaning: I hold you in high esteem
Yellow meaning: thinking of you
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