The Last Camellia: A Novel (14 page)

I looked at my wristwatch, the one Papa gave me on my nineteenth birthday. “Goodness,” I said, “we haven’t seen the camellias yet.”

With Abbott as our guide, we made our way down the hill and into a small valley. Fog had rolled in so thick, we were practically enveloped in a cloud. Abbott led us down a row of large camellia trees. I eyed the blossoms. Some were showy, the size of my hand; others were small and fragile, with silken petals. All had bright, waxy emerald leaves. We wandered through the second row, and the third, but so far, no Middlebury Pink.

I reached to touch a blossom and tripped on a protruding root. Holding Janie tight, I lost my footing and lurched left. I held out my left arm to blunt the fall, wincing when I felt a sharp pain on my wrist.

At the same time, Katherine screamed, “Look out, Miss Lewis!”

It was too late. I’d fallen on a rusty rake, left with its prongs pointing upward. I set Janie safely on the ground before inspecting the injury. It was a deep scrape, and blood oozed from my wrist.

Katherine knelt beside me. “Are you all right? Does it hurt?”

“Yes,” I said. “I’ll need a bandage.”

“Here,” Abbott said proudly, unbuttoning his coat and tearing a piece of fabric from his shirt. “Use this.”

I smiled at the gesture. “Thank you,” I said, wrapping the fabric from his white shirt around my wrist. Blood soaked through the first layer, so I asked Abbott to help me wrap it tighter.

“If you’d like to turn back,” he said, “I’ll understand.”

My wrist throbbed, but I rose to my feet, brushing dirt off my dress, and lifted Janie into my arms, being careful not to apply too much pressure to the wound. I could hear Mr. Price whispering in my ear.
This is your chance. This is your opportunity. Take it.
“Let’s go on.”

“If you’re sure,” Abbott said.

I nodded. “Just a little farther.”

We weaved through the rows of camellia trees—none resembling the Middlebury Pink—and true to his word, a minute later, Abbott stopped. “We’re here,” he said, his face plastered with a huge grin.

I looked right, then left, and shook my head. “Where? I don’t see anything.”

“Come closer,” he said, pointing ahead, where fog hovered so low, it was difficult to make out the landscape. “You’ll see it then.”

We walked through an arbor covered in pink climbing roses. I held Janie closer so her arms wouldn’t get pricked by a stray thorn. Then, with each step, I began to make out the sight ahead. There was a roof, moss-covered, with an old rusty weather vane standing at attention. A home?

“What is this place?” I asked Abbott, feeling the hair on my arms stand on end.

“The carriage house,” he said, in awe, turning to me. “Miss Lewis?”

“Yes, Abbott?”

“Have you ever gotten the feeling that a place could be”—he paused and scratched his head—“well, that a place could be . . . evil?”

Katherine sighed and folded her arms. A few moments later, however, she jumped when a sudden wind gust swept through the valley, causing a window shutter to creak on its hinge.

“See?” Abbott continued, his cheeks pink from the bluster. He spotted a pitchfork resting against the trunk of a nearby maple tree and picked it up. “For protection,” he explained.

“Abbott!” I cried. “Please, don’t scare your sisters.”

Nicholas walked to Abbott’s side. “Do you think the evil spirits are here?”

“Maybe,” Abbott said, looking right, then left.

Nicholas nodded. “Don’t worry,” he said. “The camellias will protect us. Mummy said they’re special.” He looked around the orchard. “It’s why she had so many.”

Katherine walked ahead, pretending to examine a red blossom on a tree.

Abbott looked at his brother, then swung the pitchfork at a pink camellia blossom. “Well, the trees didn’t save Mum when she needed them most,” he scoffed.

“Abbott!” I shouted. “Enough.” I inspected my wrist again. “Have you seen what you wanted to see?”

“Not yet,” he said, eyeing the door of the carriage house as if transfixed by it. “The month before she died, I followed Mum out here. Father was always cross with her back then, so she liked to be alone out in the orchard. I wanted to talk to her. I thought I could cheer her up. But when I walked down here, she was gone. I ran up and down the rows of trees looking for her. Then, I turned around and saw Mummy running out of the carriage house. She was crying.”

“Oh, Abbott,” I said, placing my hand on his shoulder.

“She probably got a sliver in her hand,” Nicholas chimed in. “I always cry when that happens to me.”

“That’s because you’re a sissy,” Katherine mocked.

I gave him a reassuring grin. “You are
not
a sissy.”

“Well,” Abbott continued, “she didn’t have a sliver, or any other kind of injury that I could tell; it was that bloody Mr. Blythe.”

“Why do you say that?” I asked.

“He was here,” he said. “I saw him run after her. He made her cry. I know it.”

“Maybe you got the wrong impression,” I said, unsure of what Abbott had seen.

He shook his head. “I know what I saw.”

He looked at the old building, its roof covered with mounds of soft green pillowy moss. The exterior had weathered to a light gray.

Abbott walked closer and placed his hand on the doorknob, before turning back to face us. “Locked.”

“Well, that ends our grand adventure,” I said. “Come on now. Enough of this spooky business. Let’s head home.”

Abbott sighed. “I’m telling you,” he said, looking back at the carriage house with an unsettled expression, “there’s something queer about this place.”

We began walking back, toward the entrance of the orchard. I placed my hand on Abbott’s shoulder, but turned around quickly. A noise. The distinct sound of a door opening and then closing with a thud.

“Run!” Abbott cried, turning to the pathway.

Katherine screamed, and Nicholas dropped the stick he held. Both jetted on ahead, running faster than I could with Janie in my arms.

“Children!” I cried. “Please slow down. You’ll get hurt.” But it was no use. They didn’t stop, so I tucked Janie in closer on my hip and picked up my pace, running down the path lined with camellia trees, without looking back, until I came to the edge of the hillside. From the bottom, it seemed as steep as a mountain, but I charged onward. A thunderclap sounded in the distance and the rain began to fall again, this time with greater force.

“Abbott, Katherine, Nicholas!” I cried. Between the fog and the rain, I could only make out three blurred figures ahead. “Please wait!”

I continued on for what seemed like an eternity, feeling very foolish to have taken the children out in the first place, until finally the house came into view. My heart sank when I saw the scene ahead. Three mud-splattered, rain-soaked children standing under an umbrella beside a stern-faced Lord Livingston, with Mrs. Dilloway at his side.

“I’m ever so sorry,” I said, running to them, out of breath. “We went for a walk and got caught in the rain.”

“That will be all, Miss Lewis,” Lord Livingston barked.

“But Father,” Abbott cried, “Miss Lewis is hurt!”

Lord Livingston’s eyes flashed with momentary concern. “What happened?”

“Oh, it’s nothing,” I said. “Just a scratch.”

“Children, run up to the bath,” Mrs. Dilloway continued. “I’ll be up in a minute. Give your wet clothes to Sadie. And hurry, you’ll catch cold!”

Katherine and the boys scurried into the house with downcast faces, and Mrs. Dilloway reached for Janie in my arms. “Come here, love,” she said. “Poor thing. Soaked to the bone.” She looked at Lord Livingston. “I’ll give her a bath myself.”

I could only imagine how I must have appeared—sopping wet with rouge streaming down my cheeks. The little compact of makeup had been a going-away gift from my friend Pearl. For some silly reason, I’d decided to put some on that morning. “Please, sir,” I said. “I really am very sorry, I—”

“Save your sentiments,” he said sternly. “You will not take the children to the orchard ever again. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, yes, of course,” I said, looking down at my waterlogged shoes.
What am I even doing here? And how could I think that finding the camellia would be so easy?
My eyes began to sting, but I willed away the tears.

“Go in and change,” he said. “Then, meet me in the drawing room.”

I nodded and ran to the back door, peeling off my wet shoes as quickly as I could and then tiptoeing to the door to the servants’ staircase, leaving a trail of wet footprints behind me.

Downstairs, I hurried down the long hall to my room, and nearly ran into Mr. Humphrey, the chauffeur. “Sorry,” I said. “I’m a little turned around.”

“Indeed so,” he said. “And I nearly stepped on your foot. Where are your shoes?”

“I left them at the door,” I said. “It’s terribly muddy out back in the gardens.” I glanced down at my wet stockings, which is when I noticed the mud on his boots. “I see you’ve been caught in the mud too.”

“Oh, this? Just stepped in a bit of a puddle in the driveway.”

“Well,” I said, “I better get changed.”

I pulled a towel from the linen pantry and hurried to my room. I pulled the shade closed before I undressed, then dried off.
Was there really someone out there today? Someone in the carriage house? And what did Abbott say about hearing his mother’s cries?
I pulled on a fresh pair of stockings and a new dress, then ran a brush through my hair and pinned it back. I took a look at myself in the little mirror above the dresser. I could not let him fire me. Not yet. I needed more time. The Middlebury Pink might bloom soon. I’d find it. I had to.

I smoothed my dress before I walked into the drawing room. Thanks to Mr. Beardsley, my wrist had been washed and bandaged. Lord Livingston sat in a green velvet wingback chair facing the fireplace. The flames, roaring and crackling, reflected in his eyes. “Come in,” he said, without looking up.

I walked toward him, feeling the warmth of the fire on my face. I tugged at my hair, still damp from the day’s mishaps. “Please allow me to apologize, sir—I mean, your Lordship,” I said. I hardly recognized my meek voice.

He continued to stare at the fire for a long moment before turning to me. “Didn’t Mrs. Dilloway tell you that I’ve forbidden the children from going into the gardens?”

I looked down at my hands in my lap. “Why, yes, sir, I mean—”

“Then why did you take them there against my express wishes?”

“My Lord,” I said, “I felt sorry for them. Children love to be outdoors. I thought it would be fun.”

“Fun?”

“Yes,” I said. “And good for their health.”

He rose to his feet, running a hand through his dark hair. “I know what’s best for my children,” he said. “They go into town every Saturday, and the boys have riding lessons during the week. It’s not as if we keep them under lock and key, Miss Lewis.”

I smiled awkwardly. “That’s not what I implied, sir. It’s just that, well, I was only trying to cheer them up.”

He clasped his hands together. “I’ll forgive the incident in the garden today, if you promise never to take the children out there again. Let them play on the terrace if you must, but they must never be permitted to wander into the orchard. It isn’t safe. There’s an encampment of drifters a few miles from here. You never know who’s lurking there.” His face softened. “How is your wrist?”

I eyed the bandage, feeling tears well up in my eyes. I missed Mama and Papa. Home. “Fine, thank you,” I managed. “But I think it’ll be a nasty scar.”

He reached toward my wrist, with a momentarily tender expression, before snatching his hand back and glancing at his wristwatch. “The children should be out of their baths now,” he said, retreating. “Mrs. Dilloway will be waiting for you to relieve her in the nursery.”

“Of course,” I said. “I’ll go now.”

In the nursery, Abbott lay sulking on the sofa. Nicholas played quietly with a toy train and Katherine read a book on the window seat, while Mrs. Dilloway fastened the buttons on Janie’s dress.

“Was Father cross with you?” Nicholas asked, with genuine concern in his eyes.

Katherine looked up expectantly.

“Of course not,” I said.