The Last Camellia: A Novel (19 page)

“They won’t believe you,” I said. “You’re a liar.”

“They will believe me. I promise you that.”

My hands trembled. Could he be right?

Sean placed his hand on my waist. “Here’s what you’re going to do,” he said. “You’re going to walk upstairs and get a trash bag.”

“No,” I whimpered.

“Yes,” he said. “What’s the name of that stupid garden you volunteer at in the Bronx?”

“The Botanical Garden,” I said under my breath.

He nodded. “Do you have a key?”

“Yes, but I—”

“Good,” he said. “Tonight, after dark, we’ll bury him there. No one will know. It’s the perfect cover-up.”

I looked out at the street through my tears. The world looked foggy, gray, lonely. “But what about Jean?” I sobbed. “What about Miles’s caseworker?”

“We’ll tell them he ran away,” Sean said, grinning. A thin mustache grew above his upper lip. “Foster kids always run away. No one will care.”

“No,” I said. “I won’t do it.”

He clenched his hand around my wrist, sending a jolt of pain up my forearm. In that moment, all I wanted was to make him stop, to make it all stop, to end the pain, the sadness. “Please!” I cried. “You’re hurting me.”

“Go upstairs, Amanda,” he said methodically. “Get the trash bag.”

My body quivered as I stood up. Did I have any other choice?

“Hurry,” Sean said from behind me. He’d wrapped Miles’s body in three layers of black plastic, then stuffed him into an old duffel bag he’d found in Jean’s closet. “Faster!” he barked

I numbly walked toward the entrance of the Botanical Garden. My hands felt clumsy and tired as I inserted the key into the lock. Before this day, the gardens had been my private sanctuary, a place where Sean couldn’t hurt me. I volunteered twice a week, watering plants, sweeping up leaves. When my shifts were over, I hated going home. Jean was rarely there anymore. But I returned for Miles. Sometimes I brought him with me to the gardens. He loved it. I remembered the day he’d climbed the oak tree by the knot garden. I remembered the way he’d smiled. And now he would be buried here. Tears welled in my eyes.

“Are you sure no one’s here?” Sean whispered.

I nodded as we pushed past the doors. The evening gardeners left at nine. As we walked ahead, I eyed the fire alarm on the wall. I could reach out and sound the alarm. Then what? Sean would run, and I’d be left here with the body of the little boy. How would I explain myself? And what if Sean was right—what if no one believed me? It didn’t matter now. Nothing would bring Miles back.

Sean lifted a shovel from a rack on the wall, then pointed to the gardens in the distance. “We’ll bury him out there,” he said. “Come on.”

I followed him through the doors and out to the rose garden. The soil in the center had recently been tilled. No one would ever suspect that the ground had been disturbed. Sean dropped the duffel bag onto the ground with a careless thud, and I watched as he plunged the shovel into the earth. Sweat beaded up on his forehead, trickling down to his thin dark mustache. I looked away in disgust, resting my eyes on an orange rosebush a few feet away. Miles’s life had been a sad one. He’d seen so little beauty in the world. At least now he’d be surrounded by it. Sean wiped the sweat from his brow before heaving the duffel bag into the makeshift grave. The roses swayed in the night breeze. They’d watch over the little boy. Roses were maternal like that.

As Sean began to scoop dirt into the hole, I stopped him. “Wait,” I said, reaching into the pocket of my coat to pull out Miles’s beloved bear, the one whose head I’d painstakingly sewn back on. I held the matted stuffed animal against my cheek before nestling it beside the boy in his final resting place.

I rubbed my arms to blunt the chill. The wind had picked up. When had the children left the playground? I stood up, gathering my bag, which is when I noticed him, standing there leaning against the maple tree. He took a long drag of his cigarette before dropping it to the ground, smashing it with his boot.

“Hello, Amanda,” he said, grinning.

I froze. The familiar terror returned. He looked the same. Just as I’d imagined. Longish, greasy brown hair. Thick eyebrows. The stubble on his chin.

“Did you get my flowers?” he asked.

“Leave me alone, Sean,” I said, making a fist, looking around for someone, anyone. The park was empty. “I told you, I don’t have the kind of money you want.”

“Oh, Amanda, you always were the smart one,” he said, walking closer. “So clever. Here’s the thing,” he said, now inches from my face. I could smell his unwashed hair, the sourness of his skin. “I had a lot of time to think about you while I was locked away. Ten years I spent in prison.”

“That wasn’t my fault,” I said. “You raped a girl.” I shook my head. “I read the story in the newspaper. She was only thirteen, you bastard.”

He smiled at me as though I amused him. “Do you remember Miles? Do you remember how he cried for help?”

I shook my head. “You’re sick.”

Sean chuckled to himself. “You could have stopped me.”

“I tried.”

“Not hard enough,” he said, still grinning. “And you know what? You’re right. It’s not money I really want. I have plenty of it from my last job. The cops couldn’t get to my offshore account.” He nodded to himself. “You see, my dear”—he traced the outline of my face with his finger—“what I really want is
you
.”

I spat in his face, and he reached up to wipe the smear with his sleeve before reaching for my wrist, pulling my watch lower on my arm. “It’s still there,” he said. His touch made me feel nauseated. “What do you think that husband of yours will think when he learns that you killed a boy?”

“Don’t touch me!” I screamed.

In the distance, two people turned toward us, a man and woman. “Help me, please!” I shouted.

“Shut up, Amanda,” Sean warned.

The man ran toward us. “Let the lady go,” he said. His companion stood in the distance. She had a bobbed haircut and wore sunglasses. I thought she looked familiar, but in that adrenaline-filled moment, I couldn’t be sure.

Smirking, Sean shrank back and ran toward the pathway that led back to the main street. “This isn’t over, Amanda!” he shouted.

“Let’s go to the police,” the man said. “You’ll want to file a report.”

“Back already?” Maeve, the woman in the police station, asked. “Solved the Clivebrook Killer case?” Her expression changed to concern when she noticed the tears in my eyes. “Everything all right, miss?”

“She’s been assaulted,” the man said. “We found her just in time.”

“Come,” Maeve said, standing.

A female officer directed me to a chair in a room in the back. “Please, sit down,” she said. “My name is Lucy.”

She handed me a Styrofoam cup of water. I set it on the table, then bit the edge of my fingernail, tasting fresh blood.

“How long have you done that?” she said, indicating my hand. Instinctively, I tucked my fingers inward, covering my ragged nails.

“It’s a bad habit I’ve been trying to break for years.”

“People do that when they feel trapped, frightened,” she said. “I know. I’ve been doing this job a long time.”

I opened my hands and looked at them with new eyes.

“It’s OK,” she said.

A tear spilled out onto my cheek, and when she asked me my story, I didn’t hold back. I told her everything—about the abuse, Miles, the burns on my wrist, the threatening letters and calls, the promise to divulge my true identity to my husband, the past I’d tried so hard to hide and to move on from. When I’d gotten it all out, I felt lighter, somehow.

“Don’t blame yourself, miss,” Lucy said. “You were fifteen. You were only a child then. Anyone in your position would have done what you did. The important thing is that you tried to help the boy.”

I nodded.

“If you’ll wait right here, I’ll go call our counterpart in America and have them run this Sean character’s name,” she said. “I’ll see what they have on him.”

I nodded. A half hour later, she returned with a handful of pages fresh from the fax machine. She handed me one with a photo of his mug shot. “It’s him, all right,” she said. “Wanted in three states, for theft, rape, child endangerment, and other crimes. If we find him, and with your testimony, we’ll get him back to America, back behind bars where he belongs.”

“Thank you,” I said.

“Where’s your car?” she asked.

“Down the street.”

She nodded. “It’s dark. I’ll have an officer escort you home. For safety.”

“Thanks,” I said.

“Thank
you
, Amanda,” she continued. “For your bravery.”

I shook my head. “It’s Addison. I’m no longer that girl.”

I had planned to tell Rex about the incident in the park when I got home to the manor, but when I walked into the bedroom and saw his face, I couldn’t. If I told him about that, I’d have to tell him everything. I wasn’t yet ready to shatter his image of me, the one I’d so carefully crafted over the years.

After Rex had fallen asleep, I tiptoed downstairs to make sure all the doors were locked. I stopped in the drawing room when I noticed a few tubes of rolled-up paper in the corner by the windows. Were they the blueprints? I walked over and unrolled them, spreading them out on the floor in front of me. I was happy to see that much of the house would remain the same. A new kitchen would be going in on the first floor. The entryway would get a refresh, with new columns. Fine. The nursery, Anna’s study, the third floor with the conservatory, at least according to these drawings, appeared to be untouched. I flipped to the next page, with a detailed drawing of the property and gardens. Would the orchard be spared? It appeared so, but then I turned to the final page in the stack, and I could hardly believe my eyes. Could it be? Would Rex really have kept this from me? I remembered the way he’d acted when he got the phone call the other day, the way he spoke with secrecy. I shook my head, then started at the page, illustrated with crudely sketched plans for what appeared to be a golf course. A handwritten note in the margin read, “Overgrown orchard will be demolished this summer.” In the corner were my husband’s initials, RLS.

Flora

August 1, 1940

T
he atmosphere in the house changed the morning Lord Livingston was due back from London. Table linens were pressed with greater diligence. The silver received a second polish. Even the children seemed on edge. Janie clung to me all morning, refusing to nap, and the tutor said that Nicholas was quite distracted during his arithmetic lessons.

We knew when he would arrive, because Mr. Humphrey had gone to pick him up at the train station. It was a fifteen-minute drive into the village and back, so I let the children stand in the driveway to wait for him at half past ten. Janie squealed when the boys spotted the car in the distance, motoring up the winding road toward the house. She began walking toward the vehicle, but I scooped her in my arms.

Katherine patted her braid. I’d twisted it into a bun and pinned it up, surprised at how grown-up she looked. “Do you think Father will notice that I’m wearing my hair up now?” she asked.

“Yes,” I said. “I’m sure he will, dear. He will think you are most beautiful.”

“I hope he brought us presents from London,” Nicholas said, grinning.

Abbott turned to us. “Do you think he got the model airplane I told him about? The one in the Harrods catalog?”

I hoped, for the children’s sake, that their father was as excited to see them as they were him, but when the car pulled up to the driveway, he stepped out without so much as a smile.

“Welcome home, Father!” Nicholas cried.

Lord Livingston walked up the steps to the house and nodded at us. “Hello, children,” he said without emotion, before handing his hat and coat to Mr. Beardsley. “Bring my tea up to my study at once,” he said. “There’s an urgent matter that needs my attention.”

He hurried into the house and the door closed swiftly behind him. It hadn’t felt cold outside when we first stepped outside, but the wind had changed. Janie shivered and Katherine rubbed her arms. Nicholas stuck out his lower lip. “Come, children,” I said. “We’ll see your father later.”

Abbott kicked a pebble and it flew out to the driveway, where it ricocheted off the hubcap near Mr. Humphrey.

“Abbott!” I cried. “Apologize to Mr. Humphrey at once!”

“I won’t!” he shouted, running off to the terrace.

Mr. Humphrey knelt down and immediately began shining the hubcap with his handkerchief. He muttered something under his breath.

“I’m sorry,” I said to the chauffeur. “I’ll speak to him about it.”

“It won’t do any good,” he said, scowling. “I told you that boy’s the devil.”

We didn’t see Lord Livingston again until lunch, and by then the children had spent the morning sulking. But when they arrived at the table a present waited at each of their seats. The parcels were wrapped in blue paper and tied with twine. Katherine let out a scream of joy when she saw hers, tearing open the paper immediately to find a porcelain doll with a dress made of pink silk. Janie received a set of children’s books, and Nicholas a train. My heart fluttered a little when Abbott opened his box. But by the look on his face, I knew the gift wasn’t a model airplane. His face stiffened. “Thank you, Father,” he said, holding up a pair of riding boots. “I will enjoy these.”

Lord Livingston sat at the head of the table and smiled. “There’s something for you, too, Miss Lewis,” he said, indicating a box wrapped in pink paper near the corner of the table.

“Oh,” I said, surprised. “How kind of you, but truly, you didn’t have to get me anything.”

He smiled. All traces of his foul mood from earlier that afternoon had vanished. “I wanted to. Go on, open it.”

Katherine nodded with anticipation. “Yes, please do!”

I pulled the box in front of me, carefully untied the ribbon, then tore the wrapping, lifting the box free and opening the lid. Inside were three small canvases, a smock, a set of acrylic paints, and five paintbrushes.”

“I’ve asked Mr. Humphrey to bring the easel to your room,” he said. His eyes sparkled. “I hope you’ll be pleased.”

“Yes,” I said, finding my voice. “I don’t know how to thank you.”

“You don’t have to,” he said. “Just enjoy it.”

I nodded. “Oh, I will. I promise.”

Nicholas looked at me curiously. “Miss Lewis, we didn’t know you were an artist.”

“Well, I’m not, really,” I said. “But I do enjoy painting flowers and nature.”

“Mummy did too,” Katherine said, smiling at me proudly.

Lord Livingston cleared his throat uncomfortably. “Well, I was hoping you might paint something for us, a scene to add to the manor’s collection, perhaps?”

“Oh, I hardly think anything I’d paint would be worthy.”

“I beg to differ,” he said, nodding to Mr. Beardsley, who ladled soup into the bowl in front of him.

The children ate their lunch happily, and afterward, I excused them to the nursery to play with their gifts. When Mrs. Dilloway and Mr. Beardsley had left, I also got up to leave. But Lord Livingston cleared his throat.

“Will you wait just a moment, Miss Lewis?”

I stopped in the doorway. “Yes, of course.”

“Thank you,” he said.

“For what?”

“For making me see.”

I shook my head. “I don’t understand.”

He sighed. “I’ve been so lost in my grief that I didn’t see that the children needed me.” He rubbed his forehead nervously. “When I came home today, the way you had them out there waiting for me, well, it touched me. I didn’t realize it right away, though. In any case, I do realize I’ve been a loathsome father of late.”

“You haven’t been
loathsome
,” I said. “Your children love you a great deal.”

“Well,” he said, “I have some making up to do.”

I nodded. “You might start with Abbott. He seems to have gotten it into his head that he needs a model airplane.”

“Oh?”

“Yes,” I said. “Even better if his father would fly a model airplane
with
him.”

His eyes drifted to the floor as if he’d just realized that everything he thought he knew about his son was as insignificant as yesterday’s newspaper. “I’ll . . .” He paused, looking up at me with a troubled expression. “I’ll give it some thought.”

“Well,” I added, indicating the box of art supplies. “Thank you again, for the gifts. I had better go check on the children.”

After I tucked the children into their beds, I tidied the nursery and yawned as I walked down the stairs. It had been a long day, and I was anxious for sleep, but I’d promised Janie I’d mend her doll’s dress. She’d left it on the sofa in the drawing room. I’d just need to retrieve it before finding Mrs. Dilloway to see about getting the right color pink thread to match the rose-colored fabric.

I hurried into the drawing room, scanning the sofa for Janie’s doll.
That’s funny, she only just left it here.

“Looking for this?”

I jumped, turning around quickly to see Lord Livingston holding up the little blond-haired doll.

“Oh, yes,” I said, taking a deep breath.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to frighten you,” he said, walking toward me and placing the doll in my hands.

“You found Agnes,” I said, smiling.

“Agnes?”

“Yes, well, Aggie,” I continued.

“Yes,” he said, turning to the radio on the side table. “Now if I can just get a signal on this bloody thing.”

I knew finicky radios well. The one in the bakery was always dusted with flour, but I never failed to make it produce a signal. I couldn’t knead without a tune. “Would you like me to have a look?” I asked, walking toward the table. “I have a special touch with these contraptions.”

“Thank you,” he said. “If you don’t mind.”

I turned the dial gingerly, and listened as it wavered in and out of frequency, sending out garbled sounds and high-pitched noises. “It’s the antenna,” I said, reaching to the back. I pulled the wire toward the window, and a moment later a male voice drifted through the speakers, as clear as if he were standing right in front of us.

“Quite good,” Lord Livingston said.

I looked back at the door. “Well, I’d better be going.”

“Stay if you like,” he said, gesturing toward the sofa. “I mean, if you’d like to hear an update on the war.”

“I’m afraid I find it all terribly depressing,” I said.

He looked away awkwardly, then stiffened. “Right, yes,” he said.

A series of drumbeats sounded from the radio speakers. “Hitler and his army are advancing. What does this mean for England, for the world?”

My eyes remained fixed on the radio. All I could think of was Desmond. “Well,” I said, sitting down without thinking, “maybe I’ll stay. For just a minute.”

As it had in the car, it felt strange to sit so close to Lord Livingston, especially in the dimly lit room. But war was on the horizon, and the severity of the situation broke down emotional barriers. I clenched my fists at the sound of gunfire through the speakers, and listened intently: “As Hitler and his men sweep through Eastern Europe, more boys have been called up to protect the homefront,” the broadcaster went on, giving detailed reports about the status of the war. We listened for twenty minutes, until the broadcaster finished with, “We can only hope and pray that our home is spared from the atrocities of war. God save England, and God save the Queen!”

Lord Livingston stood and turned the dial until the garbled sound gave way to soft music, like the type you’d hear in a club back home. He sat down again beside me.

“Do you think it’s true, what they’re saying?” I asked. “Do you think war will come to England?”

“None of us wants to believe it, of course,” he said. “But we have to prepare for it.”

I nodded.

“We still have time,” he said. “One of my business associates in London, high-ranking in the Royal Air Force, ensures that nothing is imminent while they’re ramping up their defenses.”

A soft, melodic song began to play. I recognized it immediately. Louis Armstrong.
All of me, why not take all of me?
I looked down when I felt Lord Livingston’s eyes on me.

“Do you miss home?”

“I do,” I said, studying my hands in my lap. In that moment, my heart ached for Mama and Papa, for the bakery, for the bustling streets of New York, so far from the threat of Hitler, from this strange family and their problems. “I love it here, I do; it’s just that I didn’t anticipate the world changing while I was gone.” I wiped a tear from my cheek.

“Here,” he said, handing me a handkerchief from the pocket of his jacket.

“Thank you,” I said, dabbing my eyes.

I turned around when I heard footsteps behind us. Mrs. Dilloway stood in the doorway. “Pardon my intrusion,” she said stiffly.

Following Lord Livingston’s lead, I stood up quickly.

“Katherine’s had a nightmare,” she said. “You ought to go up and check on her.” Though she was speaking to me, she looked through me. Her eyes—tired, pained—fixed straight ahead, directly at Lord Livingston. I felt awkward standing there, out of place.

“Of course,” I said, my voice cutting the silence like a knife. I hurried past Mrs. Dilloway into the foyer as the door closed behind me, muffling the murmur of their voices.

Upstairs, Katherine sat at the edge of her bed with her knees pulled up to her chest. “I dreamed that Mother had gone into the village with Mr. Humphrey, and, and . . .” She sobbed into her hands. “And that he crashed the car.” She continued to sob. “Mr. Beardsley tried to save her, but he couldn’t.”

“My dear Katherine,” I said lovingly, stroking her hair.

She frowned. “Father’s already forgotten about Mother, hasn’t he?”

“Of course not,” I said quickly.

“He has!” she cried, her eyes welling up with tears once again. “He has, and I hate it!”