Evergreen Falls (35 page)

Flora watched in admiration as Violet refused to be intimidated. “I understand your frustration, sir, and I’m sure Miss Zander intends to compensate all of you for your inconvenience. If you need one of us, we are most likely to be in the kitchen.”

“Steady there, Sweetie,” Tony said smoothly. “The young lass here can hardly control the elements. Thank you, my dear,” he said to Violet. “Pass on our best to Miss Zander. She’s a fine woman.”

Flora beamed at him, her heart light.

They finished breakfast, and Flora made an excuse to hang back and walk down the corridor to the kitchen, where Violet was scraping plates.

“Violet?” she said.

Violet turned, saw her, and moved towards the threshold, wiping her hands on her apron. “It’s Sam,” she said.

“What’s happened? Did you tell him?”

But Violet was already shaking her head. “I didn’t have a chance. He came to me . . . he’s very, very ill. He says he’s run out of opium. He looks dreadful.”

Flora suppressed a groan. She knew what happened next. She’d seen it before. “God save us all, then,” she said. “It will be awful.”

“It already is.”

Flora patted her arm. “You’re not to worry. I’ll go see him.”

Violet nodded, and Flora hurried away to Sam’s room.

When she didn’t find him there, Flora’s first thought was Will Dalloway’s warning about suicide. But as she stood, frozen, in the corridor, he emerged from the bathroom, pale and shaking.

“Sam!” she cried, racing to his side and guided him towards his room.

“My insides have turned to lava,” he said.

“Come to your room. Let me help you.”

“Help me?” he cried, his voice loud and harsh. “You’d make me just like you, wouldn’t you? Don’t you see? I can’t be like you. I can’t be one of the ordinary mob who don’t know.” He spread his shaking hands. “I have seen . . . paradise. Now I must give it up.”

“You will be glad that it’s over,” she said, stilling his hands and drawing him into his room.

He roughly shook her off, and went careening down the corridor to the bathroom once again. She stood where she was, trying not to hear the awful sounds of him vomiting, of him crying out in pain and despair. In time, he emerged and slunk past her to his bed.

She closed the door behind him, then opened the curtain.

“No,” he said. “No daylight. My eyes sting.” He flipped from one side to the other, then back again, then rose and paced. “Everything hurts me, even these wretched blankets. Pain. Pain is everywhere.”

She didn’t know what to say that she hadn’t already, so she simply watched him and waited. The back of his shirt was soaked in sweat.

“The nightmares I had. Oh, God save me from them. That man who killed himself, shuffling into my room all blue and cold. Over and over, he came. Shuffled up to my bed and stretched his hand out to me with a hissing noise. I woke up every time only to fall back into the same horror.” He began to weep. “All is lost, Sissy. All is lost.”

“All is not lost, I assure you,” she said. “Trust me. Haven’t I always looked after you?”

He stopped, leaned over her, and kissed her head. “Yes, you have. My dear sister. My dear sister. You will stop the pain for me, won’t you? Malley isn’t there, but he might have left something behind, something that can—”

“Surely you’re not suggesting I go out in three feet of snow, Sam?”

“If you loved me, you would.”

“I love you, and so I will not. Dr. Dalloway told me the withdrawing pains can’t kill you. So, if it doesn’t kill you, and at the end of it you are free of that wretched substance, then the last thing I will do is end your misery now.”

He drew his hand back and slapped her hard across the face. “Get out!” he shouted.

Her cheek stung, but she told herself not to be angry with him. This wasn’t Sam; this was the opium leaving his body, piercing every fiber of him as it left. She stood and spoke calmly. “You know where I am when you need me. I can bring you food, love, whatever you want. But don’t ask me to bring you opium.”

Of course it was hard to leave him like that, but she told herself over and over it was for the best. If left to give up the opium on his own, there would never be a right place or time. But here, cut off from the world by hills of snow with hardly anyone around . . . it was almost perfect.

Flora walked away, hearing his sobs through the door.

*  *  *

Violet took the tea tray down the stairs to the staff quarters where just a few days ago she had slept. She wasn’t sure which room Clive was in, so she knocked on all the doors softly until he called out, “In here.”

She balanced the tray on her hip and pushed the door in. She had just delivered tea to Miss Zander, who was laid flat on her back with a fever that had soaked her nightgown but still she managed to give orders as Violet stirred sugar into her tea.

“Cook is experienced, but he’s not good with people. Make sure you’re there at every meal, smiling at everyone. Reassure them. Use my name often. I’ll be up tomorrow, I’m almost sure of it. Have you
heard anyone yet? Any tractors or trains? Somebody must come to clear the roads soon. Surely they haven’t forgotten about us.”

Clive had far less energy.

“How are you feeling?” she said, laying the tray on the dresser beside his bed.

“Wretched,” he said, then as if to emphasize the point, he coughed loudly. It was a deep, wet cough that might have alarmed Violet had she not been with Sam just an hour before and seen how sick he was. Her chores today seemed a waste of time that should be spent with Sam, holding him and stroking him and reassuring him.

Still, she said, “Good grief, that’s a terrible cough.”

“I’ll be fine in a day or so. Are you well? And Cook? We aren’t going to have to let the guests fend for themselves, are we?”

“I’m sure it won’t come to that,” Violet said, smiling. “Can you sit up? I’ll pour your tea.”

He struggled into a sitting position. He was wearing navy pajamas, and one of his buttons was missing. She could see through to the sparse hair on his chest, and it made her feel awkward and blush. She turned to the tea tray, poured him a cup, and added a spoon of honey.

“So, you remembered how I take my tea?” he said, as she handed him the cup. She noticed he had adjusted his pajama shirt so it no longer gaped.

She smiled. “Of course I did. Black with honey. You must have told me a hundred times when we worked at the Senator.”

“Only because you kept giving me milk.”

“Who drinks tea without milk? Only oddballs,” she teased.

He smiled weakly and sipped his tea. “The Senator would never have been snowed in and cut off.”

“A lot of things wouldn’t have happened at the Senator,” she said wistfully, sitting on the opposite bed.

“Is everything all right with you, Violet?”

She sighed deeply. “No, but thanks for asking.”

“You could tell me, you know. I’ll listen.”

She looked at him, and remembered when she’d first met him. How she’d thought him sweet and merry, and how she’d happily gone on dates with him. But she’d always had a fickle heart, until she met Sam.

“Are we friends again?” she asked in a quiet voice.

He nodded. “I’m sorry if I was angry with you. It was out of concern, not jealousy. Or at least I hope it was. I like to think of myself as a decent man.”

“You
are
a decent man,” she said. Then, before she could change her mind, she said, “Clive, I’m pregnant.”

Bless him. He tried hard not to look shocked. “Ah,” he said. “That’s rather a spanner in the works, I imagine.”

She braced her chin so she wouldn’t cry, and nodded unhappily.

“Will he marry you?” Clive asked.

“I don’t know. He’s sick at the moment and I haven’t told him yet.” So sick. Sicker than she’d ever seen. “But I suspect . . . I suspect he won’t. That he never could have anyway.”

“I’ll marry you,” he said, without missing a beat.

His offer speared her heart. “Why on earth would you say that?”

“Because it’s true. Because your baby needs a father and because I’ve always loved you . . . Come now, Violet, none of this is a surprise, is it?”

Violet dropped her head. How much easier things were back at the Senator, when she and Clive were sweet on each other. If she’d stayed with him, life would have unfolded with so few complications. “I can’t marry you, Clive, because I don’t love you. Flora has promised to send help with the baby.”

“But will she keep her promise?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know anything.” She didn’t even know if Sam would survive his illness. “It’s all a bit . . . bleak.”

Clive fell silent.

“You
are
a good man,” Violet said.

“And you are a good woman,” he countered. “Good will come to you.”

“You won’t tell Miss Zander, will you? I mean, I can’t keep it a secret forever, but you’ll keep it to yourself?”

“Of course I will, Violet. Of course I will.”

She rose. “I’ll come back for your tray later. I have a thousand things to do.”

“Do take care of yourself.”

“I’ll do my best,” she said, and left the room. She stood in the dim corridor for a few moments, catching her breath.

There were other things to do, but Violet couldn’t help gravitating back to Sam’s room. She paused outside his door, listening to the voices within. One female voice. Flora. Violet hesitated, then knocked lightly.

Flora opened the door a crack. “Yes?”

“I wanted to see how he is.” She craned to see behind Flora. Sam was sprawled on the bed.

Flora moved to block her view and dropped her voice to a whisper. “This is not your concern right now. Come back and see him when he’s well again.”

Violet bristled. Even though Flora’s tone was gentle, it was underpinned with steel. How unfair of Flora to speak to her so; she’d thought they were friends now. “I want to help him get well,” she said.

“He will get well on his own. Please, you must trust me.” Flora’s voice was determined, but Violet sensed a note of desperation. “He
will
get well. It’s better if you don’t see him like this. Better for both of you.”

Violet was so unsure. Was this just another attempt to keep them apart? Was Flora’s concern of the previous evening just a ruse to get information out of Violet about their relationship? Were promises of help and money insincere?

“Go, please,” Flora said, her eyebrows scooping upwards. “This is a family matter.”

“I could never be family. I understand,” Violet said, turned away, and marched down the stairs. She half hoped Flora would call her back, but she didn’t.

*  *  *

Night came and still they were cut off. Violet kept imagining she could hear the whistle of the train approaching the station, or the rumble of a tractor. Every time, she raced to the window and opened it, listening out into the silent, frigid air. But every time, she was disappointed. It had started to snow lightly again. She kept telling herself that when Miss Zander was better, things might seem more normal, more in control. But with each meal, the remaining guests grew more and more exasperated. Especially the horrible man called Sweetie.

“Potatoes? Again?” Sweetie said as she laid his plate in front of him.

“I apologize, sir, but our flying fox isn’t working, and we can’t get fresh food until it is.”

“This has gone on for two days now!” he roared. “Why hasn’t somebody simply walked to the village for help? Get Miss Zander. I want to give her a piece of my mind.”

Violet gritted her teeth. “Miss Zander is ill, and so is one other staff member. Cook and I are doing everything we can. Besides, there are two or three feet of snow out there, and the village is several miles away.”

“Yes, don’t be unreasonable,” Lady Powell said to Sweetie. “It’s
inhospitable out there.” Then Lady Powell turned to Violet. “Now, I distinctly tasted powdered milk in my afternoon tea. Can you ensure I have fresh milk tomorrow?”

Violet was bewildered that a woman as clever as Lady Powell hadn’t figured out where the fresh milk was. She glanced at Flora, wondering if she would come to Violet’s defense. But Flora had her head down and was absently pushing her food around her plate.

“As I said,” Violet repeated slowly, “the flying fox that brings our fresh produce up from the valley is not working.”

“So, you’re out of fresh milk?”

Violet nodded. “We are out of many things. I must ask you to be patient just a day or two longer. We aren’t that far from civilization, so this isolation won’t last.”

Lord Powell came to life, his gruff voice booming in the empty, lamp-lit room. “It seems to me a hotel of this caliber should have prepared better for such an emergency.”

Violet was tired of explaining, weary to her marrow. So, she simply repeated that she and Cook were doing the best they could and then slipped away to the kitchen.

“They’re complaining again,” she said to Cook.

Cook, who was sitting at the kitchen table with his head in his hands, looked up. “I think I’m getting sick, too.”

Horror flooded Violet’s body. “No. I can’t be the only one standing. I can’t cook! What will I do?”

“Perhaps I’m just tired,” he said. “A good night’s sleep might sort me out.”

“Go, then. Go now. I’ll finish up here.”

Violet collapsed into bed very late, very tired. She left her door unlocked in case Sam visited in the night. Despite her anxiety and uncertainty, she immediately fell into a deep, dreamless slumber.

The knock didn’t wake her. The door opening didn’t wake her. In
fact, she didn’t wake until Sam was sitting on her bed, shaking her shoulder. “Violet, wake up,” he said.

She hauled herself out of sleep, reached for him. “What’s wrong?” she said. “Are you better?” She couldn’t make out any detail in the dark, but an unpleasant smell clung to him. A sour smell, so at odds with his usual sweet odor that she almost wondered for a moment if it really was Sam.

“No, I’ll never be better.” He began to sob, and she reached for him. Her hand made contact with a cold, sweat-soaked back. “Let’s put a light on,” she said, climbing out of bed. With the hurricane lamp on the desk by the window, she could see how very ill he looked. His pallid skin, his eyes encircled by dark shadows, his frame weak and shaking. He wore only a singlet and long johns.