The Last Camellia: A Novel (4 page)

“Well, I . . . well, yes,” I said, finally confessing. “But you don’t understand, I have to do this. For my family.”

“That’s what I thought too,” she said with a knowing smile. “But there are other ways.”

I shook my head. “I’m already committed. I can’t turn back now.”

“You can,” she said. “Just think about it. Believe me, you don’t want to get mixed up with this man. I’m still trying to untangle myself.”

I nodded.

“My name’s Georgia.”

“Flora,” I replied.

“Nice to meet you, Flora.” She turned to the door, before looking back briefly. “I recommend that you stay in this room for the rest of the voyage. Tell the steward you’re ill and have your meals brought down to your room. The less you see Mr. Price, the better. And then when we dock, you can disappear into London. I can help you find the funds to get back home.”

I thought about Desmond, my father, and the men who had threatened him. Georgia’s plan seemed implausible, but I nodded again. “And, please, whatever you decide to do, don’t tell Mr. Price that you saw me.”

Addison

I
felt a gentle nudge on my shoulder. “Honey,” Rex whispered into my ear. “We’re here.”

I opened my eyes, letting the scene outside the cab’s window come into focus.

I gasped. “You didn’t tell me your parents bought
Buckingham Palace
!”

Rex grinned. “It’s pretty great, isn’t it?”

“
Great
’s hardly the right word,” I said, unable to take my eyes off of the manor. “It’s
grand
.” Three stories, built of intricate stonework, towered above us. Light green ivy, trimmed into submission, spread out over the masonry. I noticed a dormer window on the third floor and thought I saw the ruffle of a curtain, before my eyes met Rex’s again. “Didn’t you say the house was empty?”

“Well, yes,” Rex said, stepping out onto the gravel driveway. “Aside from the housekeeper.” He grinned. “Father said she came with the place.”

“Oh,” I said, scooting toward him on the seat, before taking his hand as he helped me outside. I felt the crunch of gravel underfoot.

Rex turned to me. “Shall we go in?” He hefted the bags from the driver’s arms and set out toward the entrance.

The cab driver cleared his throat, and I turned around. “Oh, I’m so sorry, did my husband forget to pay the fare?”

“No, ma’am,” he said quickly, lifting his hat and rubbing his forehead nervously as he eyed the old house. “It’s just that, well . . . you do know about this old place, don’t you?”

I frowned. “Know what?”

Rex was too far ahead to hear our conversation.

“My mum’s the superstitious type,” he said, taking a step closer to me and gazing up at the facade curiously. “She said it’s the only place in Clivebrook she wouldn’t dare step foot in.” He shook his head cautiously, eyes fixed on the manor. “Well,” he said, tipping his cap and smiling nervously. “Don’t mean to worry you.”

“What was that all about?” Rex asked once I’d caught up to him.

“His mother thinks the house is haunted,” I said, eyeing the pair of stone lions bracketing the front steps.

“Haunted, huh?” Rex strode up the steps, then suddenly turned to me and said, “Boo!”

I jumped back, startled. “Stop!” I cried.

Rex set the bags down and took me in his arms. I could tell by his serious expression that he was no longer joking. “You OK, Addie?” he asked, searching my face.

“Of course I’m OK,” I said, more defensively than I had planned. “Why?”

“You’ve seemed a little jumpy these past few days.”

“Sorry,” I said a little self-consciously. “I guess I’ve had a lot on my mind, with the trip and all.”

He pressed his nose against mine. He’d always been stellar at reading me, like the day I came home from work feeling sick. “You’re getting a migraine,” he had said. I asked him how he knew, but he just shrugged. “Your eyes change right before you get one.” I nodded now, feeling my chest tighten when I thought of the phone calls, when I thought of
him
, but I forced a smile.

“You’re sweet,” I said, “but everything’s fine. Really, I couldn’t be happier that I’m here.” I weaved my hand into his. “With you.”

He kissed my wrist lovingly, but concern lingered in his eyes.

An old woman stood before us, as if she’d materialized out of nowhere. Her wispy, chin-length white hair was tucked behind her ears, revealing a drawn face, with dark, sunken eyes and hollow, colorless cheeks. She wore a navy blue dress with sleeves that puffed slightly at the shoulders and a crisp white apron tied around her waist. She kept her hands clasped in front of her. “Welcome to Livingston Manor,” she said dutifully, through thin lips that formed a brief, uncomfortable smile before the corners of her mouth turned downward again.

“Thank you,” Rex said, holding out his hand. “I’m Rex Sinclair, and this is my wife, Addison. You must be Mrs. Dilloway? Father said you’ve been working here since the 1930s. Quite impressive.”

“Yes,” the woman said without emotion. She looked at me curiously, and I wondered how I compared to the other women who’d visited the manor years ago, ladies with impeccable wardrobes and grooming, no doubt. I bit the edge of the ragged cuticle on my left thumb. I wished I’d remembered to put on a bit of lipstick before we arrived.

Rex nodded. “And is it just you running the place?”

“Myself; the cook, Mrs. Klein; and the boy I hire on occasion to tend the garden,” she replied. “Oh, and a girl who comes in on Saturday to help with the laundry,” she said, casting a stern glance at me.

Rex dug his toe in the gravel, smashing an ant before looking up at Mrs. Dilloway curiously. “My father said you intend on staying on, and you’re most welcome to, but I want you to know that my wife and I can mind the house just fine on our own,” he said. “What I mean is, if you’d like the summer off, you’re most welcome.” I knew what Rex was getting at. She ought to be retired, not changing bed linens.

“Mr. Sinclair,” she said stiffly, “Livingston Manor is my home. It will always be my home. So, with respect, I ask that you please honor my wish to remain in service here.”

Rex nodded. “Then it’s settled.”

Mrs. Dilloway exhaled. “Now, let’s go in.”

My cell phone buzzed in my pocket, but I ignored it.

Flora

April 11, 1940

O
n the second morning of the voyage, when I was green with seasickness, I heard a knock at my door.

“Yes?” I called from the bed, too weak to get up. Besides, it was probably just a steward delivering breakfast. He could chuck the tray over the side of the ship as far as I was concerned. I’d never felt so miserable, and I was feeling increasingly wary about the job ahead of me.

“Flora?” I recognized Georgia’s voice, muffled by the door.

I sat up in bed. Vertigo instantly set in, and I steadied myself on the bedside table, then quickly smoothed my hair.

“Flora, are you in there?”

I looked at my face in the oval mirror on the wall. Pale and plain. I hadn’t bothered to dress. Georgia knocked again, this time louder, more determined.

“Just a minute,” I called out, reaching for my pink robe on the hook near the door. I turned the doorknob and pressed my nose to the opening.

“Oh, good,” she said. “I was getting worried.” She barreled past me.

She looked at me as if seeing me for the first time. “Are you well?”

“No,” I said, feeling annoyed.

“I thought you might like some reading material.”

“Yes,” I replied. “I’ve been staring at this wall for far too long.”

“Good, then,” she said, depositing a regal-looking dark blue leather-bound volume in my hands. I turned over the spine, reading the words: “
The Years
by Virginia Woolf.”

“I think you’ll like it,” Georgia said. “I read it the first time I traveled from New York to London.

“Anything to take my mind off this seasickness.” I opened the book to the first page. “It was an uncertain spring,” the first line read.
Yes
, it was.

April 14, 1940

Having nothing to do but read for the rest of the voyage, I finished the book on the final day at sea, and it wasn’t until the last page that I flipped back to the beginning and saw the inscription Georgia had written on the inside cover: “Flora, the truth of the matter is that we always know the right thing to do. The hard part is doing it. Love, Georgia.”

I tucked the book into my bag, and as I packed my suitcase, I thought of how much I’d changed even in the short time of the voyage. In New York, there was a right and a wrong. But now? Now, even despite Georgia’s prodding, I had come to realize that maybe sometimes there’s a gray. I hated what I was about to do, but I had committed to it, for Mama and Papa. And now that I was this far along, I couldn’t turn back, even if Georgia believed I could.

I pulled the brim of my hat lower on my forehead and ventured out, first collecting my train tickets from the front desk, then finding my way to the debarkation deck. Mr. Price had arranged for a cab to take me to the train station, where I’d board a train to London, and from London I’d take a cab to Clivebrook, to the manor. Part of me hoped to see Desmond once more, but I’d heeded Mr. Price’s advice and had kept to myself the rest of the voyage. I wondered if Desmond had looked for me, but there was no sense in thinking about him anymore. I had a job to do, and I’d never see him again.

I was happy not to find Georgia on the train from Liverpool to London. I’d already made up my mind. As I stared out the window at the foggy countryside whizzing past, I smiled at a young mother across the aisle, who had just pulled a loaf of bread from her bag. She broke off a piece and handed it to her tiny son, seated next to her. He wore a cap and overalls and promptly stuffed the chunk in his mouth. She then held up the loaf to me. “Care for a bit of bread, miss?”

I noticed the patch on the elbow of her dress and shook my head with a smile. “No, thank you. You’re very kind, but I’m fine. I ate breakfast on the ship.”

The little boy peeked at me from beside his mother and smiled.
What would they think if they knew what type of person I really was, if they knew I was coming to their country to help commit a crime?
I bit the edge of my lip. I wouldn’t be stealing, exactly. Mr. Price had said I was only to identify the rare camellia and report back. That was different, I told myself. And yet the guilt grew in me like a cancer.

When the train arrived in London, I gathered my bags and walked to the street, slowly, on leaden legs. I retrieved the address from my purse. Livingston Manor, 11 Westland Drive, Clivebrook.
This is it.

A cab pulled up. “Need a lift, miss?” the driver shouted from the window.

I looked up and forced a smile. “Yes,” I said, glancing at the card in my hand. “Can you take me to Clivebrook?”

“Sure thing, miss,” he said, jumping out to pick up my bag.

Inside the cab, I leaned my head back against the seat and sighed. I pulled the envelope from my purse and removed the photograph of the rare camellia.

The driver started the engine and turned the car out to the street slowly, before applying his brakes suddenly. “Miss,” he said, regarding something in the rearview mirror. “Do you know him?”

“Who?” I said, turning around.

Desmond stood on the sidewalk, waving his arms at the cab. He must have seen me getting into the car. He looked a little sad standing there. I wanted to jump out and run to him, but what would I say? And if I told him the truth, what would he think?

“Would you like me to turn back, miss?” the driver asked.

I clutched the photo tighter in my hand. “No,” I said, waving to Desmond, mouthing the words “I’m sorry.”

“No,” I continued. “Please don’t stop.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, applying his foot to the gas pedal.

Addison

M
rs. Dilloway showed us to our room, a large suite overlooking the garden. “This used to be Lord Livingston’s private quarters,” she said. “Of course, after he passed, it was redone for Lord Abbott during the years he stayed here.” Her eyes full of memories, she ran her hand along the dark trim before quickly snatching it back. “You’ll find towels in the bath,” she continued. “Can I have Mrs. Klein bring anything up for lunch?”

“We’re fine,” Rex said. “We grabbed a bite in London.”

I walked to the side window and looked out at a grove of trees. Spots of color pushed through the emerald leaves, some pink, others red, a few bits of white. The effect was stunning. “Very well,” Mrs. Dilloway said, turning to the door.

“Wait,” I said. “The orchard. It’s lovely. The trees—they’re camellias, right?”

Mrs. Dilloway pursed her lips. “Yes.”

“I’ve never seen so many planted together that way,” I said, pausing to admire them. They were past their blooming season, of course. Some bloomed later, some earlier, but the vast majority of camellias are best in early spring, when the air is crisp. Still, even with the few flowers that remained, it was easy to envision the orchard at its peak, like the Queen’s painted rose trees in
Alice in Wonderland
.

“Will that be all?” Mrs. Dilloway asked curtly. I could tell she wasn’t used to conversation.

I nodded, turning back to the window.

I felt Rex’s hand on my waist as he nestled in beside me. He gestured toward the mahogany bed with its perfectly smoothed duvet and gave me a mischievous smile. “We are the lord and lady of the house now.”

I pulled away. “Not now, honey,” I said quickly. “We have so much unpacking to do.”

“Oh,” he said, wounded. He sat down on the bed and fumbled with the collar of his shirt.

No matter how happy we were or how much we loved each other, there would always be the giant elephant in the room, the one that followed us everywhere, reminding us of the fact that Rex wanted children and I never would. I forced a smile. “How could we, anyway,” I said, planting a kiss on his cheek, “with that housekeeper poking around? Tonight?”

Rex’s smile returned.

“This place is perfect for your research,” I said, changing the subject. “Did you see that spooky old back staircase when we came up?”

“Yeah,” he said. “The servants’ staircase?”

I nodded. “It’s like the ones in the old murder mysteries, where the killer escapes.”

“The house does have a distinct Alfred Hitchcock feel to it, doesn’t it?” He set his jacket on a side chair. “I can hardly believe my parents got it for such a steal—fully furnished.”

“What’s the story of this house?” I asked, looking up at a painting of a stern-looking yet handsome man on the wall. “How strange that a family would sell all of their heirlooms.”

Rex shrugged. “From what my mother said, Lord Livingston died in the sixties, and Mrs. Dilloway stayed on to take care of one of his sons. The poor fellow had some kind of complications from a childhood illness. His condition worsened over time.”

“So he died?”

“Yes,” Rex said. “Last year, which is when the family put the home on the market. Mum said it was the strangest transaction. The lawyer who handled the estate insisted that all the furniture and art—everything—stay with the house.”

“Weird,” I said, tracing the edge of the mahogany side table. “You’d think that the family would have at least some sentimental attachments.”

“I guess not,” he said. “My father said something about one of the heirs.” He scratched his head as if trying to recall the details. “He hadn’t talked to his father in years before he died. Some family feud, I guess.”

I thought of what the cab driver had said about the house. “Rex, do you think something
happened
here?”

“Who knows?” he said, grinning a little. “Maybe the housekeeper has a pile of bodies stashed in the basement.”

“Shhh,” I said. “What if she hears you?” I began unpacking the clothes from my suitcase and setting them inside the dresser on the far wall. “Besides, I feel a little sorry for her. Imagine having to work as a housekeeper in your eighties.”

Rex shrugged. “Father offered to pay her a generous severance when he bought the house, but she insisted on staying on,” he said.

I looked around the room, surveying the antique furniture, the crystal chandelier overhead. “She must feel protective of this place.”

Rex cocked his head to the right. “That, or she’s hiding something.” He pulled out his notebook and jotted something down. “See, it figures. Why else would someone stay in service for the better part of a century, even after everyone in the family has died or moved on? This is novel material.”

“Now you’re talking,” I said. He had piqued my curiosity too. I walked to the window, looking out over the rolling hills and gardens that led to the orchard. I felt a pang of homesickness then. I’d miss the lupines, the asters, the rare poppies I’d planted from seed a few months back in our tiny New York garden. It would be a symphony of beauty and color for . . . the squirrels.

I sat down at the dressing table, pulling a comb through my light brown hair. I’d worked so hard to secret my past away, and now, like a rabid, caged animal, it growled and threatened. I twisted my wedding ring around my finger.

“I think I’ll have a shower,” Rex said, rummaging through his suitcase. “Did you happen to pack my razor?”

“Sorry,” I said. “I didn’t.”

“Oh well. I’ll just take a car into town and pick one up. Need anything?”

“No,” I said. “I’m fine. Wait, no—chocolate. I need chocolate.”

Rex grinned and reached for his coat on the side table. “See you in a few,” he said.

After he’d left, I looked up at my reflection in the enormous gilded dressing room mirror, wondering how many countesses and the like had gazed at their faces in the very same Edwardian looking glass—curled, corseted, and trimmed in lace, no doubt. I eyed my scraggly gray Gap cardigan and black cotton leggings and felt a shiver of embarrassment. There it was again, that deep-seated fear that had hovered since childhood, the one that whispered, “You’re not good enough.”

I willed away the thoughts as I grabbed the remote and turned on the TV, listening to the latest headlines on CNN. More unrest in Israel. A helicopter down in Iraq. I turned it off quickly, and walked to the large paned window that overlooked the gardens. I tucked back the yellow and white toile curtains, pressed into sharp pleats. Lydia’s decorator, who’d recently styled Nigella Lawson’s London flat, had encouraged her to preserve the traditional look of the old house, and I was glad to see that my mother-in-law had given in. The daughter of a developer, she intended to renovate the home and use it as a weekend residence. But her initial plan to gut the centuries-old manor and give it an open, minimalist feel just didn’t seem right. It would be the equivalent of putting a white picket fence around a Frank Lloyd Wright. Thankfully, she’d been talked out of such a dramatic overhaul. But there would be a renovation. Rex said an architect had been drawing up plans. I hoped they would preserve the integrity of the house—and the gardens.

Outside the window, Rex stood in the driveway in front of an old-fashioned car. Probably a Rolls-Royce. His father collected them, and Rex had been delighted to find one in the garage at the manor. A woman approached, and I leaned in to get a better look. Her blond hair was cropped into a blunt bob, and she wore sunglasses. I leaned in closer.
Who is she?
She spoke to Rex. He shook his head, looking back at the house. They exchanged a few more words, before she handed him a large envelope and walked to a blue convertible parked in the driveway. Rex climbed into the old car. Each started their engines simultaneously. I touched the glass and watched as the cars motored away.
Probably just someone who works at the house.

I waited for Rex to return, but after a half hour, I ventured downstairs by myself. Mrs. Dilloway had offered a tour of the manor, but where was she now? The antique wall clock’s ticktocking pendulum penetrated the silence that pervaded the decorous space. Passing intricate paneling, ornate moldings, and paintings depicting pastoral English life, I walked through the foyer and entered a room on the east side. A cabinet beside a window caught my eye. Its hardwood doors had been painstakingly carved in a floral design. I reached out to touch one of the glass knobs and tried to tug the door open, but it jammed. I tried again, pulling a little harder this time, and the knob released into my hand. Someone cleared their throat behind me.

My cheeks reddened when my eyes met Mrs. Dilloway’s. “Oh, hello,” I said guiltily. “I was just admiring this cabinet. I’m afraid I’ve broken the knob. I’m very sorry, I’m sure I can—”

“Give it to me,” Mrs. Dilloway said stiffly. She walked toward me and collected the knob, depositing it into the pocket of her dress. “I’ll have it repaired.”

“I’m sorry,” I said again.

“No harm done,” she said, though I could read her face. She didn’t trust me, and she didn’t want me skulking about the manor, opening cabinet doors that, for all intents and purposes, were to remain shut. “Now,” she said, glancing at the stairs. “Would you like to see the rest of the house?”

“Yes,” I said. “But maybe we should wait for Rex. I know he wanted to have the grand tour.” I turned to the window, a little annoyed. “I’m not sure what’s taking him so long. He only needed to pick up a razor.”

“Oh,” Mrs. Dilloway said. “Yes, your husband called to say he would be in town for another two hours. He had some, what did he say,
business
to attend to.”

“Business?” I shook my head. What type of business would Rex have in town, right after we arrived? “I don’t understand. Did he give you any details?”

“He didn’t say,” Mrs. Dilloway said slowly, staring at me curiously, her hands resuming the clasp she had fronted when we arrived.

“That doesn’t make any sense,” I said under my breath. “Why didn’t he call my phone?” I dug my cell out of my pocket and realized that the battery had died.

I followed Mrs. Dilloway to the doorway, before stopping suddenly in front of a bookcase. I realized I had left my book on the plane. “Maybe I’ll grab something to read,” I said. My eyes met Mrs. Dilloway’s. “That is, if you don’t mind?”

“Of course not,” she replied, even though her face told me that she did mind, perhaps very much.

I pulled a blue leather-bound book from the case, and read the words on the cover: “
The Years
by Virginia Woolf.” “How strange,” I said. “My assistant, Cara, was just telling me that I must read this book while I am in England. The characters are the kind of people who would have lived in a house just like this.” I followed Mrs. Dilloway back into the foyer, where our eyes met. There was a slight smile, just a flash, and then she pursed her lips.

“What is it?” I asked, hoping I hadn’t offended her.

“It’s nothing,” she said, pausing. “I seem to have forgotten the sound of an American accent.” She looked momentarily amused. “You remind me of someone who came to stay here a very long time ago.”