The Last Camellia: A Novel (12 page)

After the children were asleep, I returned to my room, where I took out a pen and paper to finish my letter home.

Dear Mama and Papa,

I am here in England, and I am fine. But I have a confession: I did not end up at London Conservatory. I have made a detour in the best interest of our family, and I hope you will not be disappointed in me. I’ve taken a job at Livingston Manor caring for four precocious children. The manor is beautiful and the children are as charming as they are a handful. They recently lost their mother, so it’s easy to forgive them for their behavior. The father is cold and unfeeling. He’s so different from you, Papa. It breaks my heart to think that the littlest one can’t even crawl into his lap the way I did with you as a child. Oh, Papa, Mama, how I miss you so.

Anyway, I must stay here, at least for a while. There’s something very important that I must do, and when it is complete, it will mean the end to your financial worries, I am happy to say.

Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine here. I have a lovely little room that looks out to the gardens and an orchard composed entirely of camellia trees. There is so much beauty here, and yet it’s hardly even acknowledged. I pray that I can help them see it.

Your loving daughter,

Flora

I folded the stationery and then tucked it in an envelope, before climbing into bed. I lay staring up at the stars outside the window, thinking about the children, Lord Livingston, and the mysterious Lady Anna. If only I knew what had happened to her. I tossed and turned for an hour before deciding to put my robe on and go for a walk. A walk would help. And besides, I could check on Janie while I was up.

I tiptoed down the hallway and upstairs, slipping quietly into the main house. It looked so different in the moonlight, which cast shadows that made the paintings look ghostly and the furniture appear ghoulish.

I shivered as I climbed the stairs and walked down the hallway until I came to the girls’ bedrooms. I opened each door slowly and peeked inside. Janie slept soundly in her small bed, and Katherine snored in hers next door. Poor things. They didn’t deserve to lose their mother.

I told myself I should turn around, go back to my room, but the conservatory on the floor above beckoned. I remembered where Mrs. Dilloway had left the key, under the flap of carpet near the baseboard in the hallway.
Why shouldn’t I go in?
She’d ask me to keep an eye on the place, and I had noticed some weeds sprouting up in the orchid pots. I could tend to them. Maybe. Yes, just for a few moments. I’d give the trees a quick drink of water before slipping back down to bed. I found the key and pushed it into the lock, hurriedly stepping into the conservatory and closing the door behind me. I looked up at the moon and stars through the glass roof above and gasped at the stunning sight, like a mural painted by a great artist. No wonder Lady Anna had loved this place.

I walked to the orchids and plucked a weed from a small terra-cotta pot that held a speckled pink and white flower. “There you are, beautiful,” I whispered, releasing a patch of clover roots from the bark near the orchid’s stem. “Is that better?” In the quiet of the night, I could almost hear the flower sigh.

I walked to the water spigot and filled a green watering can to the brim, then sprinkled the flower and her comrades. I marveled at how the droplets sparkled in the moonlight.

Katherine knew about the kumquats. Did her mother bring her here?
I walked to the window that overlooked the front of the house and unhinged the lock, opening the window to let in some night air. I leaned out and noticed a figure standing on the balcony below, gazing out at gardens.
Lord Livingston.
He stood with his elbows propped against the railing, cradling his head in his hands.

I fumbled with the window latch, trying to close it before he noticed me directly above, and as I did, a pebble from the windowsill fell onto the balcony below. I latched the window and shrunk behind the wall before making my way back to the entrance. I shut the door, locked it, then tucked the key under the carpet again.

My heart raced as I tiptoed through the hallway and down the stairs, aware of every creak my feet made on the staircase. I breathed a sigh of relief once I’d made it to the second floor, but when I rounded the corner, I collided with someone. A man, judging by his size. “Excuse me,” I said, quickly. “I was just, um, checking on the children.” The light was too dim to make out his face, but when he spoke, my arms erupted in goose bumps.

“Flora?”

“Desmond?”

Addison

T
he next day, my phone buzzed on the bedside table while Rex was in the shower. I didn’t recognize the number, so I decided not to answer, for fear that it could be Sean. When I checked my voice mail, however, I was relieved to hear that it was only a business call. A woman in Chelsea inquiring about a new backyard garden for a recently purchased home.

“Did you ever hear from Georgia?” Rex asked from the doorway to the bathroom, towel wrapped around his waist, chest dotted with water droplets.

“No,” I said. “I kind of doubt that’s going to pan out.”

“Well, we’ll find another avenue, then,” he said. “Maybe she knew someone in town. I thought I’d go to the café today to do some more research; maybe I could ask around.”

“Yeah,” I said. “That’s a good idea.”

“Want to come?” Rex asked.

“Nah, I think I’ll stay.”

“You’re going to weed, aren’t you?”

“How did you know?”

“You have that look in your eye,” he said.

I cracked a smile. “Doesn’t it drive you crazy that there are dandelions and clover in the hydrangea beds?”

“No,” he said, grinning. “But it drives you crazy. I get it.” He pulled me toward him. “You do know that my parents can hire someone to do their weeding, don’t you?”

I nodded. “But I
like
weeding.”

“You’re adorable.”

Later that afternoon my phone rang and I answered, cautiously. “Hello?”

“Yes, hello, this is Georgia Hillman.” Her voice sounded tired and crackly at the edges. “I got a message to call this number.”

“Yes,” I said eagerly. “My name is Addison Sinclair. I’m staying in England at a place called Livingston Manor, and I—”

“What did you say?”

“I said, I’m calling from Livingston Manor.”

The line went quiet.

“Ms. Hillman,” I said, “are you still there?”

“Yes,” she finally replied. “I’m here.”

“I’m sorry to bother you,” I continued, “but I came across some information about a woman who used to work here, a woman by the name of Flora Lewis. Do you happen to know her?”

The woman didn’t say anything.

“Ms. Hillman?”

“Yes,” she said. “I’m sorry. I haven’t heard that name in a very long time.”

“Then you know her?”

“I did,” she said. “Yes.”

“I found a newspaper article with your name in it,” I said. “I understand she went missing in England?”

“She did. And I’m sorry to say they never found her.”

“Do you have any idea what happened to her?”

“No,” she said. “I wish I did. I only knew her for a short time.”

“On the ship to England, right?”

“Yes,” she said. “She was working with a con man.”

“Con man?”

“Yes, and I’m ashamed to say I did too, at one time,” she said. “Listen, I’m not proud of that chapter of my life, but I left that life. And I didn’t want Flora to get mixed up in it. She was much too good for that.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Mr. Price knew how to get what he wanted,” she continued. “He knew how to make people behave like puppets on strings. Flora’s family desperately needed the money, and he knew that, so he used it to his advantage.”

“So Flora was part of a con operation in England?”

“Yes,” she said. “I overheard her talking to Mr. Price, and from what I can remember, she was supposed to locate a rare flower or tree at the manor.”

“You don’t mean a camellia, do you?”

“Maybe,” she said. “Actually, yes, that sounds right.”

“What did Mr. Price want with the camellia?”

“Money,” she said. “It was probably worth a great deal to someone, and he was hired to get it. He ran a ring of flower thieves. There was no plant or tree he couldn’t get his hands on.” She sighed to herself. “Well, he died in the 1970s, in a jail cell in Tampa, if that tells you anything about the kind of man he was.”

“Do you think Flora finished the job? Do you think she found the camellia?”

“I don’t know,” she replied. “Part of me thinks she got away, that she slipped off to some faraway place so he wouldn’t come looking for her. And he would, if he believed for a minute that she was alive. I like to think of her out there leading the life she always dreamed of. But I’m not so sure. She loved her parents, and as far as I know, they never heard from her again.”

“How do you know?”

“I went to see them five years after Flora disappeared,” she said. “I had some money, a little, from the last job I did with Mr. Price. What I didn’t give back to the family in Sweden we stole from, I intended on giving to Flora’s parents to cover their debt. I remembered what she’d told me about how they’d run into hard times. But when I got there, they wouldn’t accept any help from me, said that a relative had left them a large sum of money. I was glad to know they were taken care of. But money couldn’t replace their daughter. They never knew about her fall from grace, and I’m glad of that.”

“Ms. Hillman,” I said, “thank you so much for sharing all of this with me. If you think of anything else, anything at all, could you please call me?”

“Yes, of course,” she said. “I haven’t talked about that time in my life for so long, I’d almost forgotten. My husband, rest his soul, never knew. It’s funny how our past comes back around to find us again.”

I nodded to myself. “Yes, it is,” I said quietly.

After I hung up, I decided to do more exploring in the house. Wednesday was the one day of the week when Mrs. Dilloway went into town. Mrs. Klein had said it was to get her hair done, but if you asked Mrs. Dilloway, she wouldn’t admit it. In any case, I knew her absence was the only way I could poke about the house undetected. Since the first day, when I’d noticed her slipping into a room upstairs, I’d been eager to have a look myself.

After the car pulled out of the driveway, I walked up to the third floor, being sure that no one was following. The only other person at the manor that day that I knew of was John, a village boy Mrs. Dilloway had hired to trim the front hedges. The buzz of the electric trimmer hummed in the distance.

At the top of the stairs, I looked around. Mrs. Dilloway was right, there wasn’t anything remarkable about this floor, except perhaps the closer view it provided of the mural on the domed ceiling. I squinted to make out the cherubs fluttering about the garden scene painted above. Up close, I could see the cobwebs that congregated along the edges. I walked toward a door ahead and turned the knob. Locked. I gave the door a push, hoping that the lock might be so old it would give way, but it didn’t yield. I sighed, sinking down onto the carpet, tucking my knees against my chest.

I studied the print on the weave, worn and tattered from years of use. Surely my mother-in-law would be removing it soon. “Ghastly,” she’d call it. I wondered if there was hardwood below. I peeled back the carpet to find gleaming wood floors, which is when I noticed the glimmer of metal. I leaned in closer, picking up a small brass key. No, it couldn’t be. I stood up, quickly inserting it into the old lock. It stuck, but I jiggled it gently, and in an instant, the knob turned. I gasped, pulling the door open.

I took a cautious step inside, marveling at the sight before me. A vast conservatory awaited, or what
once
was a conservatory. Sunlight beamed through the enormous glass roof. I realized that its position at the center of the house precluded its visibility from below. In awe, my heart beating wildly, I lingered in an arbor covered with bright pink bougainvillea, with a trunk so thick, it was larger than my waist. Most of it had died off, but a single healthy vine remained, and it burst with magenta blossoms. I could smell citrus warming in the sunlight, and I immediately noticed the source: an old potted lemon tree in the far corner.
This must have been Lady Anna’s.

I walked along the leaf-strewn pathway to a table that had clearly once showcased dozens of orchids. Now it was an orchid graveyard. Only their brown, shriveled stems remained, but I could imagine how they’d looked in their prime. I smiled when I picked up a tag from one of the pots.
Lady Fiona Bixby. She must have given them her own names.
Perhaps there hadn’t been anything sinister going on in the orchard, after all. Lady Anna was clearly a creative spirit, and maybe that played out in her gardens and the names she gave to her flowers and trees.

I sat down on a bench by the window and thought about Flora, the nanny. Had she been here too? Did she love this place as much as Lady Anna? I picked up an old trowel, rusted at the edge. It triggered a memory I wished I could forget. I closed my eyes tightly, trying unsuccessfully to will it away.

Fifteen Years Prior

Jean glanced at the clock on the wall. “Is it already six? I’m late for my meeting.” She turned to me. “Honey, there’s a can of SpaghettiOs in the cupboard. Can you heat it up for Miles and you?”

“Aren’t you forgetting someone?” Sean said, annoyed. “Last I checked, the government sends you a nice fat check on my behalf each month.”

She scowled. “And most of it went to fix the wall you scorched last week.” She looked at me. “Keep an eye on Miles. I’ll be back by eight.”

I stared ahead, frozen, as she bustled out the door.

“AA,” Sean said. “She never misses a meeting; been sober for a year, at least that’s what she wants everyone to believe.” He walked to the kitchen and reached above a cabinet, pulling out a bottle of liquor. He unscrewed the cap and took a swig before offering it to me.

I shook my head, frightened.

“Go on, have some,” he said. “It’ll loosen you up.”

“No,” I said quickly.

Sean turned to the little boy in front of the TV. “Should we spike his bottle?”

I gasped, shocked he would suggest such a thing.

“I did that once at another home, to this little kid in Queens,” he said with a laugh. “It was hilarious.”

“That’s awful,” I said.

“All right, Goody Two-shoes.” He took another swig from the bottle, before screwing the cap back on and returning it to the top of the cabinet.

I walked to the living room and sat beside little Miles. He turned to look up at me cautiously.

“I’m Amanda,” I said to him.

He smiled shyly and handed me his headless bear.

“I bet we can fix this,” I said. “Do you know where the . . . head is?”

The child pointed toward the fire escape near the kitchen. I nodded and walked over to it, peering out the open window. There, near a scraggly potted rosebush, the bear’s head lay on the metal grating, facedown. I picked it up, stopping briefly to admire a single blossom, deep orange, the color of a sunset. I touched the rose gently, looking out at the city around me. Horns honked, neon signs flashed. I clutched the railing and froze when I heard movement behind me. I noticed a rusty garden trowel, and I picked it up, instinctively.

“Hey, don’t be so scared,” Sean said. I felt his hot hand on the small of my back. “What, did you think I was going to push you over the edge?” He reached out to pluck the orange rose. “You like flowers?” he asked. I cringed. Such a waste. “Ouch!” he cried. “This damn thing got me.” He held out his hand, displaying a few drops of fresh blood, before dropping the rose and wedging the heel of his boot against the delicate petals.