The Last Camellia: A Novel (15 page)

“Did he sack you?” Katherine asked.

“Katherine,” Mrs. Dilloway scolded.

“He did
not
sack me,” I said. “But he has given me strict orders never to take you into the gardens again.”

“Blast,” Abbott said. “If we could only go back, we might—”

“Abbott, you heard Miss Lewis,” Mrs. Dilloway scolded, tying a fresh ribbon in Janie’s damp hair, before turning to me. “Miss Lewis, may I have a word with you outside?”

I followed her into the hallway, closing the nursery door behind us. “What is it?”

“You should know that Lord Livingston’s estranged son has come home,” she said disapprovingly.

“I know,” I said.

“You do?”

“Yes,” I said. “We, well, we met.”

Mrs. Dilloway’s eyes widened. “Oh.”

“Why did you say ‘estranged’?”

“I’m afraid their grievances against each other are so great, I don’t know where to begin,” she continued. “But he’s gone into town for the day, left this morning, before his Lordship saw him. I expect he’ll return soon to gather his things. He shan’t be staying long.” She gave me a decided look. “Besides, he will be moving to the south with his bride after the wedding.”

I instantly remembered the letter, the swirly handwriting.
Vivien.
I hoped Mrs. Dilloway didn’t see the color in my cheeks. “His
bride
?”

“Yes,” she said. “He’s marrying a countess. If you ask me, it’s the best thing that ever happened to him.”

Addison

M
y breathing hastened as I clutched the trowel in my right hand. “Hello?” I called out, unable to see beyond the bougainvillea. “Who’s there?”

A figure pushed through the arbor. “I thought I’d find you here,” Mrs. Dilloway said.

“What are you . . . but, I thought you were—”

“Getting my hair done?”

I nodded.

“I came back because I forgot my pocketbook, and I noticed the chandelier swaying. You see, it does that only when someone’s moving about the conservatory.” She took a step closer, and an icy chill came over me. “When one lives in a home as long as I have, one comes to know the habits of a house. Little quirks that go unnoticed.” She stopped in front of the lemon tree. “Hear that?” she asked.

I shook my head.

“The floor creaks right here,” she said, pointing to a warped floorboard beneath her right foot. “I had to be careful, always.” She pinched a withered leaf from an orchid on the table next to her. “I suppose you’ll want to know all about this space,” she said, “why it’s still here after all these years.”

I remained silent.

“I promised Lady Anna,” she said. “It only seemed right after . . . what happened to her.”

“Mrs. Dilloway, what
did
happen to her?”

She looked to the windows, and a ray of sunshine revealed the glimmer of a tear. Her mouth opened as if she wanted to say something, to let the words flood out. But she quickly pursed her lips. “Come,” she said stiffly, motioning toward the door. “I will be late for my appointment.”

Flora

April 19, 1940

A
t breakfast, Sadie looked more tired than usual. She
yawned over her bowl of porridge. “I don’t have to meet the children in the nursery until ten this morning,” I whispered. “They’re having their music lessons. Why don’t you let me help you with the beds upstairs?”

Sadie’s eyes brightened. “Really?”

“Of course,” I said. “I’m happy to.” I hadn’t been able to get Desmond’s engagement out of my mind, and I didn’t want to run into him downstairs while waiting for the children. I felt silly for caring, and yet,
why hadn’t he been honest with me about it?
I thought of the way we’d danced on the ship, the way he’d looked at me that night on the stairs.

The room suddenly fell silent.

I looked up to see Desmond standing in the doorway of the servants’ hall. “Top of the morning to you,” he said, smiling nervously.

“Desmond,” Mr. Beardsley said, rising to his feet. “May we help you?”

“No,” he said. “I mean, yes. Well, I— I was hoping to have a word with Miss Lewis, if I may.”

Mrs. Dilloway and Mr. Beardsley exchanged glances before I nodded. Together, Desmond and I walked a few paces, until we were out of earshot of the servants’ hall.

“You didn’t come see me last night,” he said, looking hurt. “I was waiting.”

“How could I, Desmond?” I asked, looking into his big green eyes. “Mrs. Dilloway told me about your engagement.”

“Oh,” he said, taking my hands in his. “It’s true. I was engaged, but I assure you, I’m not anymore.”

I searched his face. “What are you saying?”

“I called it off. I went to see her yesterday.” He shook his head to himself. “It was all wrong. I should have known, after . . .” His voice trailed off. “Anyway, marriage should be about love, not about business arrangements.”

“Business arrangements?”

“Marrying Vivien might have secured the financial future for the manor, for the family,” he explained. “In Father’s eyes, I would have been a hero. But I couldn’t live with myself. I didn’t love her, and I never could.”

I searched his face, feeling my heart swell in a way I hadn’t expected.

“Now,” he said. “When can I see you again?”

“Tonight,” I replied.

He kissed my forehead, then turned to the staircase.

“Desmond’s certainly taken a liking to you,” Sadie said with a smile after breakfast.

I returned her smile, following her up the back staircase until we came to the second floor. We walked along the corridor into the east wing.

“Wait,” I said, noticing the closed door on the right. “Whose room is this?”

“The east wing belonged to her Ladyship,” Sadie replied, with big eyes. “No one goes up here now—well, except Mrs. Dilloway.”

“Why?” I asked, eyeing the door curiously.

Sadie shrugged. “Guilt, probably.”

“Guilt?”

Sadie looked pained. “Listen,” she said, “we’d better get started on the bedrooms.”

“Thanks for your help,” Sadie said, fluffing the last pillow.

“Don’t mention it,” I replied, following her out of the room. She lifted a basket of washing and disappeared down the servants’ staircase.

Alone on the second floor, I couldn’t stop thinking about the east wing, about Lady Anna. Why did Mrs. Dilloway go into her chambers, and what had Sadie meant when she spoke of her guilt?

I walked back down the corridor, looking over my shoulder twice. When I came to the door, I placed my hand on the knob, expecting it to be locked, but it turned and the latch released easily.

Inside, the air felt thick and sultry as I took a breath. I could smell a musky scent of vanilla and lavender. The drapes had been pulled shut, but as soon as my eyes adjusted to the dim light, I saw a large bed with four intricately carved posts. I walked closer, running my hand along the coverlet. My heart raced as the soft white lace touched my palm. This was
her
room. Her bed. Her linens.

I opened the wardrobe and gazed at the dozens of dresses inside. A white silk evening gown caught my eye, and I lifted its hanger, holding the fabric against me, twirling around like a little girl in a fancy dress shop. The skirt rustled as I hung it back on the rack. I walked to the dressing table, and my cheeks flushed as I regarded myself in the mirror. What would Lady Anna think of me here, in her bedroom—a stranger sifting through her most intimate possessions? In spite of my reticence, I couldn’t resist letting my fingers rest on the bulb of the perfume atomizer. A quick squeeze and the yellow cord connected to the stately cut glass decanter flooded the air with a sweet, floral mist. I breathed in the heady scent, and then I heard footsteps in the hallway.
Who’s coming? How will I explain myself?
I’d been seduced by my own curiosity and lingered too long.
I have to hide.
I looked ahead, where a dark hallway deeper in the room connected to an interior door, which had been left ajar. I slipped inside what must have been Lady Anna’s personal study. Framed botanical sketches hung over a desk and a bookcase.

I took a deep breath and peered through the crack in the door, unsure of whom or what I’d see. A figure walked toward the window and pulled the drapes open. I covered my mouth when I saw Lord Livingston’s face in the light. He looked deeply pained, grief-stricken, as he knelt beside Lady Anna’s bed. I watched as he hung his head, choking back tears. “I’m so very sorry, my love,” he muttered. “So very sorry.”

I stood frozen. And then, the creak of the door again. Lord Livingston turned and frowned as Mrs. Dilloway approached.

“Forgive me for interrupting you,” she said solicitously. She held a vase of pink flowers. Peonies. “I’ll leave you.”

Dabbing a handkerchief to his eye, he searched her face. “We were wrong, you know,” he said, “terribly wrong.”

She looked down at her clasped hands, solemnly. “Yes,” she said. “Yes, we were.”

My heart raced.
What are they talking about? What could they possibly mean?

Lord Livingston cast a glance in my direction. “I was just going to . . .” He shook his head, as if he didn’t have the emotional energy to continue.

Mrs. Dilloway took a step forward, and he pulled her toward him, burying his face in the crook of her neck. “Please, Edward,” she said, looking up. “You don’t have to carry this burden alone. Let me—”

He held up his hand, a quick dismissive gesture. In an instant, all trace of their intimate moment evaporated. “No,” he said in his usual clipped, businesslike tone. “We mustn’t carry on like this.” I could see the changed look in Mrs. Dilloway’s face too, as she followed his lead. Whatever moment they’d shared, whatever meaning had been exchanged in their eyes had vanished.

After Lord Livingston left the room, Mrs. Dilloway set the vase of peonies on the table near the bed. She paused to smooth the coverlet, before pressing her face against her forearm and weeping. I looked away. It felt wrong to watch her sorrow.

After I heard the door click shut, I exhaled deeply, which is when I noticed a book that appeared to have fallen from the bookcase. It seemed out of place on the floor in the tidy study. I knelt down to pick it up, and eyed the cover with interest. “The Camellias of Livingston Manor; Compiled by Anna Livingston.” I tucked it under my arm and hurried out the door, through the bedroom, and out into the hallway.

“What’s that in your hand?” Katherine asked suspiciously as I slipped inside the nursery.
How much time has passed?
I glanced at the clock on the wall: a quarter past ten.

“I’m so sorry I’m late, children,” I said. “I was helping Sadie with the linens this morning.”

Janie ran to my side, where she tugged at the book eagerly as though she’d seen it before. “Flower book,” she said, pointing to the cover.

“Where did you find Mummy’s book?” Katherine asked, hovering near me.

Cautiously, I revealed the book as I sat on the sofa. “Would you like to look at it with me?” I said, avoiding the question.

Katherine nodded and the boys gathered round as I cracked the spine and thumbed through page after page of beautiful camellias, pressed and glued onto each page, with handwritten notes next to each. On the page that featured the
Camellia reticulata
, a large, salmon-colored flower, she had written:
Edward had this one brought in from China. It’s fragile. I’ve given it the garden’s best shade.
On the next page, near the
Camellia sasanqua
, she wrote:
A Christmas gift from Edward and the children. This one will need extra love. It hardly survived the passage from Japan. I will spend the spring nursing it back to health.

On each page, there were meticulous notes about the care and feeding of the camellias—when she planted them, how often they were watered, fertilized, and pruned. In the right-hand corner of some pages, I noticed an unusual series of numbers.

“What does that mean?” I asked the children.

Nicholas shrugged. “This one was Mummy’s favorite,” he said, flipping to the last page in the book. I marveled at the pink-tipped white blossoms as my heart began to beat faster. The Middlebury Pink.

I leaned in closer to read Anna’s handwriting. “It says here that it’s the last remaining variety of this type in the world.” I turned to Katherine. “Is it in the orchard with the others?”

“Probably,” she said, standing up. “Unless Mr. Blythe moved it. He was always moving things around. He and Mr. Humphrey.”

I shook my head. “Mr. Humphrey?”

“He sometimes helps in the orchard,” Abbott added, rolling his eyes. “Mummy never liked him skulking. She said he made a mess of her rose garden once.”

“Well,” I said, “I’m sure he was just trying to be helpful.” I turned back to the book, and in the final pages before the Middlebury Pink, Lady Anna had pasted an entry from an old encyclopedia, detailing the story of the camellia’s introduction to the New World. I read for a few moments, before turning to the children. “Their seeds were brought by ship from all over Asia and considered very valuable,” I said. “According to this book, camellias can live for hundreds of years, which makes them the best secret keepers of all plants and trees.”

“Sounds silly to me,” Katherine said, feigning disinterest, but I could see that she was captivated. “Trees don’t keep secrets.”

“Well,” I said, “it says that in Victorian times, people used to believe that if you made a wish under a camellia tree, it would come true.”

Nicholas grinned. “Sort of like throwing a shilling into a fountain to make a wish?”

“Yes,” I said. “Your mother must have been a special person to have loved camellias the way she did.”

“Why didn’t the trees protect her, then?” Nicholas said. “The day she died?”

Abbott stomped over to the window seat. Of all the children, he seemed most disturbed by his mother’s death.

I closed the book, realizing that the memories of their mother might be too much for them to bear. “Let’s read something else,” I said, setting the book on the side table. I’d have a look again later. Perhaps there was a clue to the Middlebury Pink’s location.

“What’s that smell?” Abbott asked, pausing to sniff the air.

“I don’t know,” I said, a bit flustered.