Authors: Kimberley Freeman
Making a liar of me, Tomas phoned me just as I was going to bed, and I told him (without mentioning breaking the lock) about my futile trip to Samuel’s room.
“Any likely candidates for the love interest?” he asked.
I pulled my notebook close so I could read my notes. “There
were plenty of other guests staying around the same time, but only a handful of women who stayed the whole winter like he did. I’ve checked them out. Lady Powell was here with her husband. She’s quite a well-known writer and she was in her sixties at the time, so I can’t really imagine her being involved in a torrid affair with Samuel Honeychurch-Black.”
“You never know. Don’t underestimate the silver foxes.”
“I’m not. It’s just that in one of the letters, Samuel says his sister thinks he’s “far too young” to know what love is. So, I’m thinking he would have been a teenager or in his early twenties. Hardly compatible. That also goes for the opera singer, Cordelia Wright, who was born in 1868 according to Wikipedia. There was Miss Sydney, but he mentions her in the third person in his letters, so they can’t be addressed to her. Then there’s his sister. Obviously not her. The other guests who stayed through winter were all men, and . . . well, you’ve read some of the anatomically correct descriptions of what they did. His lover wasn’t a man.”
“Not even a man with rosy nipples,” Tomas joked.
“I guess it could have been somebody who wasn’t there over winter, but it seems unlikely. They needed time to fall in love. My understanding is that people in the twenties didn’t fall into bed with each other quite so readily as . . .” I trailed off, feeling a little embarrassed.
Tomas didn’t seem to notice. “Maybe it wasn’t a guest, then. Maybe that’s why it was forbidden. Maybe he was in love with one of the staff. Are there staff records in the library?”
I eyed the folder on the kitchen bench. “There might be. I’d have to go through the library report.” I yawned. “I remember the days when I used to complain I hadn’t enough to do in the evenings.”
“I’ll let you get off to bed.”
“Wait. How’s Sabrina?”
“No change.”
I wasn’t sure what to say, so I said, “I’m sorry.” Then remembering what Lizzie had said, I added, “You’re a good man. Not many men would do what you’re doing.”
“That’s a generous thing to say, Lauren. I have my reasons for being here, and they make sense to me. I can’t stop to consider what others might think.”
I wanted to ask him about the reasons, but I didn’t want to sound pushy or jealous. Instead, we said good night, and I took the library report to bed with me.
Pages and pages went by, and I found no mention of staff records. I was growing more and more frustrated, when a bold heading caught my eye at the top of a page.
Honeychurch-Black Map Collection.
I ran my fingers down the page. Apparently in 1926, Flora Honeychurch-Black had deposited a collection of twenty folio books of maps in the library as a gift to the Evergreen Spa. Maps?
I couldn’t wait to get back to the library to look at them.
* * *
I rang Anton Fournier’s number so many times I knew it by heart. He never answered, and I began to wonder if he was away. Fallview Road was only two blocks from me, so before work the next afternoon I took a stroll past it.
His house was positioned a long way back on the block, a high-set marvel of glass and wood. Its position told me that Anton Fournier would have an uninterrupted view of the Falls and the cliffs and the valleys, and that he probably had a lot of money.
I don’t know quite when I decided I would go and knock, but it was possibly when two spotted whippets appeared from around the side of the house to play happily in the front garden, which told me that somebody was home.
The dogs bounded up to me, barking happily, and he opened the door before I could ring the bell.
“Can I help you?” he said. I recognized him from the photo, the handsome set of his nose. His dark hair had a few streaks of gray, and he was wiping his hands on a tea towel. The dogs were barking so loudly they drowned out my first attempt to speak, and he shouted, “Romeo, Juliet, down!”
The dogs came to heel, looking a little ashamed.
“I’m sorry for dropping in unannounced,” I said, coming up the three front steps to the veranda. “I tried to ring, but—”
“The landline? I haven’t used it in centuries. Sorry, who are you?”
“My name’s Lauren. Drew Amherst gave me your name. You knew Adam. Adam Beck.”
His face softened, and his eyebrows twitched almost imperceptibly. “Adam? There’s a name I haven’t heard in . . . He died, didn’t he?”
“Yes, last year.”
He exhaled softly.
“I’m Adam’s sister and I—”
“Wait. You’re his sister?”
“Yes, and—”
His whole mood changed. His hazel eyes grew flinty and his body grew stiff. “I have nothing to say to you or anyone in your family.”
“Pardon?”
“Go. Get off my property.” He withdrew into the house. “Go on. Go.” Then he slammed the door, leaving me standing on his porch, wondering what on earth had just happened.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
1926
A
frost fell overnight, silvering the fallen leaves and making the grass glisten. Violet made her way to the post office carefully, breathing fog into the cold morning and trying to stay in the patches of sun that lined the way. Her eyes felt gritty from lack of sleep. Sam had woken her at four in the morning and urged her back to her own room, but she’d been too stirred up to return to sleep. Over and over in her imagination she replayed their encounter. How she longed to do it again. The time between now and when she might see him again, hold him again, stretched out forever.
The post office was a small stone building on the main street, and Violet took her place in the queue then dutifully sent her mother a short letter and some money. She was surprised she hadn’t heard from Mama yet, and she hoped her own letters were getting through. She also hoped Mama wasn’t expecting her home for winter.
“Cold this morning, isn’t it?” said the silver-haired woman behind the counter, eyeing Violet’s scarf. “You’ll be needing something a bit warmer than that soon. First winter up here, I take it?”
“Yes. This is the thickest scarf I have.”
“You ought to start knitting, precious. They’re saying it’ll be one of the coldest on record.”
Violet grew excited. “Will it snow?”
“Almost certainly. Last year we just had sleet. We’re due a big snowfall.” The woman counted back Violet’s change for the stamp, and Violet snapped her purse shut and headed out into the street.
She needed a new coat. A new scarf. Gloves. A hat. She checked her savings, and revised her wish list. Her old coat wasn’t pretty, but it would do; and surely there was nothing in the world warmer than her fur-lined cloche. But scarf and gloves were a must. Maybe even boots. She wandered down the main street, dropping in and out of stores to browse and daydream and spend a little money. Everywhere, people were talking about the frost, the sudden turn towards cold after an unseasonably warm start to winter, about how the last time conditions had been like this the snow had come thick and often throughout July. Violet had never seen snow, and her heart glowed at the idea of having a good job in a snowy place through winter and having Sam to keep her warm. She couldn’t remember ever being this happy. She bought boots, even though she could barely afford them. Perhaps by next winter, she and Sam would be married. Then she could have new boots whenever she wanted. Guiltily, she squashed the thought.
When she returned to her room, she found a letter Sam had left under her pillow. She unfolded it eagerly and read it with flaming cheeks. He recorded in detail all that he had done to her last night, all that he intended to do to her tonight when she came to him—1 a.m. was the appointed time again—and declared a love for her that weighed more than the moon. Violet carefully folded the letter away in its envelope and tucked it into the back of her gramophone. She could imagine the scandal if Myrtle read it accidentally.
Somehow she made it through her shifts, tired though she was. Sam’s sister was at dinner, but Sam wasn’t. Violet didn’t mind. Soon she would have him all to herself. She fell into bed at ten, promising herself she would wake up at one.
She woke at two, dressed in a silent panic, and rushed upstairs to see him.
He was sitting up in bed when she opened the door. That sweet smell she had come to associate with him filled the room. He sucked on a long, silver pipe.
Violet quietly closed the door behind her.
Sam exhaled, slowly. His eyes were half closed. “I waited,” he said, in a thick voice. “As long as I could.”
“I’m so sorry,” she said. “I was tired from last night, from a day’s work. I slept too long.” She sank down next to him, and his spare hand moved to untie her dress.
“Is that smell tobacco?” she asked.
“Take everything off but your bloomers,” he said.
“It’s a very sweet-smelling tobacco.” She slid her dress over her head and took off her singlet.
“Lie down,” he said, finishing his pipe and putting it away.
Her skin shivered. He remained completely clothed, his eyes dreamy and far away. He took her wrists and moved her arms above her head on the pillow, then lay down by her armpit, his face nestled against her left breast. His warm breath on her bare skin was intoxicating. He dragged idle fingers gently back and forth across her nipples, lost in some rhythm of his own. He kissed the side of her breast, his breathing slowing so much that she would have believed him asleep were his hand not still moving, cherishing her breasts at every curve and peak. She tried to roll towards him to gather him in an embrace, but he pushed her back, pinning her arms above her head now and moving his mouth over her breasts. She thought she might die from the pleasure.
“Take your clothes off,” she gasped.
“I’m too tired for that,” he said, his hand creeping up the hem of her bloomers. “Tired from chasing the dragon.” He slid his fingers
inside her underwear and she closed her eyes as he touched her and rubbed her until he brought her to climax, pressing his mouth over hers to drown out her cries of pleasure.
Afterwards she lay quietly, watching through half-closed lids as he rolled away from her and prepared another pipe. As he smoked, he fell deeper and deeper into hazy languor. Violet knew that it wasn’t tobacco, and she also knew now what he’d meant by chasing the dragon and worshipping the poppy god. But what was she to do? Should she ask for some? She didn’t want him to think her a coward.
“Can I try it?” she asked, hesitantly, but he was shaking his head before her sentence was finished.
“No. Never.”
“Why not?”
He rolled on his side to face her, his eyes glazed, and said in a very small voice, “It destroys me.”
“Then why smoke it?”
“Because I love it. I never give up what I love.”
They lay, knee to knee, forehead to forehead for a long time. She had thought opium smokers must be dirty people or members of razor gangs, not fiery-eyed angels such as Sam. A small niggle of anxiety, like the edge of a loose thread, had started in her belly, but she chose to ignore it lest it ruin this most perfect of moments. The sweet smell and the sound of his breathing lulled her, and she was almost asleep when he said, “You mustn’t sleep here, Violet.”
She sat up. “Why not?”
“Because one day we will forget to wake up, and then we will be discovered. My sister . . . she would destroy our happiness.”
“She would?” Flora Honeychurch-Black had always looked a kind woman to Violet.
“She will tell my father lies about you. Anything to stop us from being together. I’m a grown man and I can decide who I want to be
with, but she can’t stand the idea that I’ll be happy.” His brows drew down and his words tumbled out with violent passion. “She will take that happiness from me. She will say you’re a thief or a prostitute, and Father won’t let me be with you.”
Violet bristled at the idea of being called either of these things.
“So, we must keep our love secret from her, do you understand? Just until I can convince Father that you and I are destined for each other. Then . . .” Here his brow smoothed, and the dreamy look came back to his eye. “Then we will lie in bed every day until three, and servants will bring us fruit baskets to feed each other, and there will always be an orchestra playing somewhere.” He moved his fingers as though they were playing a tune. “But until that day, I must look as though I’m behaving.”
Violet kissed him. “I love you.”
“And I love you. That’s all that matters.”
* * *
After four nights in a row of visiting Sam, Violet was more tired than she had imagined possible. Interrupted sleep took its toll: she became clumsy and irritable, forgetful and slow. Hansel shouted at her twice on Wednesday evening, then when she confused another order, he took the unprecedented step of punishing her by making her wash dishes.
Long after the other waitstaff had gone to their rooms, she continued to wash and pile dishes in the echoing kitchen, while the scullery boy sat on the stairs behind her, watching and eating an apple. Finally, Hansel came over and told her she could go to bed. She wiped her raw hands on her apron and made her way across the kitchen.
Miss Zander blocked her way.
“Oh,” Violet said.
“Hansel told me he’s been having problems with you.” She took Violet’s chin in her soft, elegant hand and turned from one side to the other. “You look pale and tired. Are you ill?”
“I . . . ah . . . I haven’t been feeling the best.” Except between the hours of one and three in the morning, when the world slept and she and Sam stripped each other and made bruisingly sweet love.
Miss Zander dropped her hand and took Violet by the elbow, pulling her against her side. “Hansel! This is unacceptable. The girl is not lazy, she is sick. She’s to take the rest of the week off.”
Hansel said something in German that Miss Zander brushed off. “I want to see some color back in your cheeks,” she said to Violet. “Go to bed and
stay there
. Do you understand?”