The Last Camellia: A Novel (18 page)

Mrs. Dilloway knocked at my door later that evening. “How was your time?”

“Fine, thank you,” I said, recalling my day in the village. I’d wandered down to the square and bought a bag of peanuts before planting myself on a bench and watching children play in the fountain. Then I ordered a cup of tea at the café, slipped into an upholstered chair, and finally finished
The Years
. “I’d go say good night to the children, but I take it they’re already asleep.”

“They are,” she said, walking into my room and shutting the door behind her. “Do you mind if we talk privately for a moment?”

“Of course not,” I said. “What is it?” My eyes narrowed. “Is everything all right? Janie hasn’t caught a cold, has she? She had a bit of the sniffles yesterday and I worried—”

“Janie’s fine,” she said. “You’re so good with them. Too good, perhaps. That’s what I want to talk to you about.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Miss Lewis,” she said, “nannies like you don’t stay forever. You can’t. You have a whole life ahead of you. Marriage. Children of your own, even.”

“Well, someday, but—”

“But you’re not staying forever, are you?”

“No,” I said.

“Exactly my point. I’m just thinking of the children, that’s all. I’m thinking of how they’ll take the news if it turns out that your intentions are . . .” She paused as if to search for the right word. “
Different
than intended.”

The hair on my arm stood on end. Was she hinting at something? “I’m sorry, I’m not sure what you mean.”

“All I’m saying is if you decide to leave, for whatever reason, give them time to get used to the idea,” she explained. “Their mother left just like that, and then a stream of nannies came in and out of this house. I can’t bear to see them lose you so suddenly after what they’ve been through.”

I nodded. “You love them, don’t you, Mrs. Dilloway?”

“I suppose I do,” she said, glancing at the clock on the wall. “Well, it’s getting late, nearly half past nine. I promised Mrs. Marden that I’d put the steaks in the marinade before bed. She likes them to baste a full twelve hours before lunch.” She smiled briefly before turning to the hallway. “Good night, Miss Lewis.”

“Good night,” I said.

After she left, I thought about the lonely life Mrs. Dilloway had chosen. I rested my head on my pillow and sighed. She was right, though. Someone had to look after those poor children. Abbott was on the verge of manhood, and yet he was so fragile and sensitive. I wished his father would pay him more attention. And Nicholas, sweet Nicholas, with his handsome face, that raven-colored hair and cheeky smile—the only thing he ever wanted was to be noticed. Katherine’s troubles seemed deeper than I could understand, and I wished I knew how to help her. Janie was too young to remember her mother, and that fact alone may have spelled her from the heartache the older children carried—burdens so great you could see their grief sometimes hovering in their eyes and their distant expressions. And Desmond.
Desmond
. Would he return? When?

Their father was such a complicated man. He’d seemed so stern and calculating when I first arrived, but today he warmed to me in a way I hadn’t expected. How could I get him to show that warmth to his children? How could I make him see how much they needed him? I yawned, reaching for the extra wool blanket at the foot of the bed. Nights were chilly in this big house.

Mrs. Dilloway was right. I wouldn’t be here forever, but I’d make the most of the time I had. I thought of the letter from Mr. Price. There wasn’t much time now. I’d need to find the camellia, or else.

During the month that Lord Livingston was in London, the entire house seemed to let out a sigh of relief. Even the grandfather clock in the foyer seemed less solemn in its movement, as if time had gone on holiday. I didn’t worry when the children’s game of hopscotch spilled into the rose garden or when Janie knocked a bowl of pea soup on the rug. We all had more breathing room.

Every night before bed, I visited the conservatory on the third floor. It was nice not to worry about tripping over a flowerpot and disturbing Lord Livingston on the floor below. I still had to be inconspicuous, though, so I worked by lamplight.

I had come to love the space, and I could see why Lady Anna had too. The orchids were positively glorious. She’d tagged each flower with its proper botanical name, but I favored the pet names she’d given each bloom. For instance, a stunning pink
Cattleya
was named “Lady Catalina.” And a yellow
Oncidium
, which to me looked like a flock of ladies in fluffy party dresses, was called “Lady Aralia of the Bayou.”

The night before Lord Livingston was to return from London, I went up to the conservatory to water the flowers, knowing it might be a few days before I could get back again. After the children were in bed, I tiptoed up the stairs the way I always did, slipping inside using the key under the flap of carpet. I gave the orchids a good drink, then refilled the watering can at the spigot and walked over to the plants by the east window. A bit of water soaked the hem of my nightgown as I emptied the can over the trunk of the lemon tree. I looked out at the night sky, remembering how I’d seen Lord Livingston on the terrace in his robe. I blushed at the thought. He’d been looking out at the camellia orchard that night. Was he thinking about the children? About Anna? Was he thinking about his regrets?

I poured the last few drops of water onto a palm in a terra-cotta urn, and reached for the lantern, when something outside caught my eye. I looked carefully into the night, and then I saw what looked like a faint glow in the orchard. A lantern? It moved right a few paces, then went out.

I hurried to the door, looking both ways before venturing into the hallway, then locked it behind me. I heard a sniffling sound.

I looked down to see a figure huddled in a ball. I recognized the pink nightgown immediately. “Katherine?”

She sat against the wall, knees tucked against her chest, and looked up at me with tear-streaked cheeks.

I knelt down beside her. “Katherine, what’s the matter, dear?”

“I followed you,” she said. “I wanted to know why you came up here every night.”

“Oh,” I said, setting down the lantern.

“Mother never let me go in there,” she said, pointing to the door. “She’d spend hours inside. All I wanted was to see her flowers. I just wanted to see them.”

“Oh, Katherine,” I said, stroking her dark hair.

“Never mind,” she said, standing up and composing herself. “It’s silly of me to go on like this.”

“It’s not,” I said, standing next to her. “We may never understand why your mother didn’t let you join her in the conservatory, and I’m sure she had her reasons.” I sighed, remembering Mrs. Dilloway’s warnings.
What good does this place do all locked up when it could bring joy to this little girl who misses her mother so desperately?
“You know, Katherine,” I continued, “I think you should see it now.”

Her eyes widened. “You do?”

“Yes,” I said. “But you mustn’t tell your brothers or Janie.”

She nodded eagerly. “I won’t tell.”

“Good,” I said. “It will be our secret.” I inserted the key in the door again. “Come on.”

Katherine followed me inside, mouth gaping as she took in the sight. “It’s, it’s . . . so beautiful,” she marveled as we passed the citrus trees. “Mummy used to bring us kumquats.” She paused, then looked at me with an embarrassed smile. “I’m sorry, Miss Lewis. I’ve been terrible to you.”

“It’s all right,” I said, kneeling down to look into her eyes. “You didn’t know me then.” I plucked a kumquat from the tree and popped it in her mouth. “And now you do.”

I touched her arm tenderly. “Honey, may I ask you about these marks? What happened?”

She pulled back her arm instinctively, then took a deep breath, relaxing. “Do you promise not to tell?”

I nodded.

She pulled her sleeve up slowly, turning over her small forearm to reveal skin littered with wounds—some scarred, some fresh, others scabbed. I winced.

“Oh, Katherine!” I cried. “Please tell me who did this to you.”

She looked down at her feet. “I did.”

I placed my hand over my mouth. “I don’t understand.”

“I should have made Mummy happier,” she said, beginning to cry. “If I had been a better daughter, she wouldn’t have been so unhappy.”

“No, no, Katherine,” I said, wrapping my arms around her. “That’s not true at all. Her unhappiness didn’t have anything to do with you. I promise you that.”

She buried her face against my shoulder.

“You must stop hurting yourself,” I said. “Please tell me that you will.”

“I’m so ashamed,” she cried.

“You have nothing to be ashamed of, dear,” I said, taking her hands in mine. “Your mother wouldn’t want you to feel this way.” I looked into her eyes. “I bet she’s looking down on you now, wanting to see you smile again.”

“Do you really think so?”

I nodded.

“And you don’t think she’d be cross about me being here with you?” Her dark hair fell all around her face, and I tucked a lock behind her ear.

I didn’t know the answer, of course. Not really. The more I learned about Lady Anna, the more mysterious she seemed. I wanted to believe that she had loved her children and wanted the best for them. But it didn’t matter what the truth was, not anymore. All that mattered then was what Katherine needed to believe.

“Of course she wouldn’t be cross, dear,” I said. “In fact, I think she was waiting until you turned ten to show you this place. Ten’s a very important age, you know.”

“It is?”

“Indeed.”

She held her head up a little higher and skipped over to the window to get a closer look at the palm. “Is this the one from the King of Thailand?”

“The King of Thailand?”

“Yes,” she said. “I remember Papa talking about it.”

“Perhaps,” I said. The conservatory was full of treasures. But I wanted Katherine to have one of her very own. She deserved that. While she admired the kumquat tree, I walked over to the orchids and found one with a blank tag. Its bright purple blossoms appeared almost blue in the moonlight streaming through the glass roof. I picked up a pencil on the table, scrawled out “Lady Katherine of the Moors,” and wedged the tag into the flowerpot.

“Katherine,” I said. “You must see this.”

She ran over beside me. “What is it?”

“It’s one of your mother’s orchids. Its botanical name is
Dendrobium
, but look, she’s written something else on it.”

She leaned in to read the tag, and then looked up at me with astonishment. “She named it Katherine,” she said. “After me.”

“See?” I said, grinning. “She named the most beautiful orchid after you. I bet she couldn’t wait to show you that.”

Katherine tucked her arm around my waist and gave me a squeeze. “Thank you, Miss Lewis. Thank you ever so much for letting me come in here with you.”

“You’re welcome,” I said.

I glanced out the window and saw the light flicker in the orchard again.

“Come on,” I whispered to Katherine. “Let’s get you back to bed.”

Addison

R
ex appeared in the foyer, holding the mail in one hand and a vase of flowers in the other. He’d spent the early part of the morning at the café, working on his research. “Look what was waiting for you on the doorstep.”

He set the mail down on the entryway table and handed me the orange roses. “You must have a secret admirer,” he said, grinning.

I opened the little envelope with trembling hands. On the card was one word: “Remember?”

“Who sent those?” he asked.

“Ah . . . my friend Kelly,” I said, thinking fast.

Rex scratched his head. “Kelly? From college?”

“Yeah,” I said. “She, um, she wanted to wish us an early happy anniversary.”

Rex nodded. “Wow, that was nice of her to remember.” He eyed the arrangement for a moment, curiously.

“How is your research going?” I asked as I set the flowers on the table next to the mail.

“Fine,” he said, rubbing his forehead. “I can’t help but think that this story is missing a crucial element—”

“I may have an idea for you,” I said. “I couldn’t sleep last night, so I went walking. And, well, Mrs. Dilloway showed me Lady Anna’s study. Rex, I think something very dark happened here long ago.”

“Really? Like what?”

“I’m not sure just yet,” I said. “I think I’ll head into town this afternoon to see if I can dig anything up.”

“Good idea,” he said. “I wish I could join you, but one trip into town is enough for today. Besides, I’m meeting with the foreman at noon.”

“Foreman?”

“Yes,” he said. “The man my father’s hired to do the renovation.”

I knew changes were in store, but I hated to think of them changing anything major about the manor. “They’re not doing anything dramatic, are they?”

“I’m not sure,” he said. “But it’s not my decision. My parents have already made their plans. I just have to sign off on some final details.”

I thought of the conservatory. Was it scheduled to be destroyed? Would they turn it into a media room? Would the bougainvillea be toppled to make room for a flat-screen TV?

My heart pounded. “Rex?”

“Addison?” he said, his eyes meeting mine.

I searched his face, so loving, so honest and strong. He was my rock, my peace, the only family I’d ever known. So why couldn’t I say what was in my heart? The conservatory, Mrs. Dilloway, the arrangement of orange roses that symbolized the terror of my past. I opened my mouth, but no words came out.

“You OK, honey?” Rex asked, kissing the spot between my neck and my right shoulder. He set his bag down by the stairs, and a few files slipped out, including the one labeled “Amanda.”

He quickly knelt down to tuck the files back into his bag before facing me again. I thought I detected distance in his eyes then, just a flash, a hint that just as he didn’t know everything about me, maybe I didn’t know everything about him.

I forced a smile. “Of course I am.”

Rex looked at me curiously from the stairs. “Be careful driving into town, OK?”

I nodded as I passed the vase of orange flowers, their petals the color of a bright, hot flame.

On the road into town, I swerved left, then right, narrowly missing an oncoming car. The honk of the horn bellowed behind me as the car passed. Despite my frequent visits to England with Rex, I could never get used to driving on the opposite side of the road.

I pulled into a parking spot in town, rethinking my plans for the day. What did I think I’d find here? I eyed the storefronts along the cobblestone road. The post office. A cobbler. Gretchen’s Café. Milton’s Pub. I watched as a policeman swung his baton around his wrist before walking into a brick building with a red door. I hastened my pace and approached.

“Can I help you, miss?” a middle-aged woman with John Lennon–style glasses asked from behind a desk. She wore her hair in a ponytail, and her blunt-cut bangs formed a perfectly straight line across her forehead.

“Yes,” I said, feeling my chest tighten. “I’m doing a little research, and I wondered if you could point me in the right direction.”

“Oh, you’re an American,” she said warmly. “Welcome to Clivebrook.”

“Thank you,” I said.

“What brings you to these parts?”

“My husband’s family recently purchased Livingston Manor,” I said. “We’re spending the summer here.”

“Ah,” she said. “So you’re part of the Sinclair family.”

“Yes,” I said. “I’m Addison Sinclair.”

“Pleased to meet you,” she said, extending her hand. “I’m Maeve.” She passed a file folder to an officer who had appeared by her desk, then turned back to me. “It’ll be good to see people smiling up at the old house again,” she continued, “after all the sadness there.” She shook her head to herself. “Some folks in town think the place is cursed.”

I nodded. “That’s why I’m here. I understand that some young women went missing from town in the 1930s and ’40s.”

“Indeed,” she said, pointing to a placard on the wall near the door. “Their names are all up there.”

“So they were never found?”

She shook her head slowly. “Such a dark time in our history. Of course, I’m too young to remember any of that, but my mum still talks about it as if Clivebrook’s very own Jack the Ripper is still out there.”

“Goodness,” I said. “Do you think he could be?”

“Oh, heavens no, dear,” she said. “If he was, he’d be pushing ninety.” She shook her head. “No, the crime spree stopped in 1940. My hunch is that he died then. But we may never know.”

I pulled out my notebook and wrote down the date. I’d ask Mrs. Dilloway about it later. “Do you know much about Lord Edward Livingston?”

“Just that he died in the 1960s,” she said. “He was deeply private. No one knew much about him, just the rumors. I remember he came into town once when I was a girl, and I was out there by the fountain playing jacks and one of the boys shouted at him. Called him a murderer. I felt sorry for him.” The woman sighed. “He didn’t look like the type of person who would kill his wife. Much too debonair for a crime like that, if you ask me.”

I nodded. “Anything else you can think of? Anyone else who may have worked at the manor over the years who struck you as off?”

“Well, there’s that housekeeper,” she smirked. “What’s her name, Mrs.—”

“Dilloway?”

“Yes,” she said. “She gives me the creeps, that one. To live in that old house for seventy years—she has to be hiding something.”

“She cared a great deal about Lady Anna Livingston,” I said. “It’s why she’s stayed all these years, to look out for her gardens.”

“Is that what she told you?”

“Yes,” I said. “I have to believe that it’s true.”

“Then why would she have filed a motion to have the autopsy report of Lady Anna sealed?”

“What?” I steadied myself on the edge of the desk.

“Sit down,” she said. “I’ll go see if I can pull the file.”

A moment later, Maeve returned with an envelope. “If you can believe it,” she said, “the judge favored her request. The documents are sealed, but you can see the motion right here.” She pointed to a photocopied page. “Look,” she said. “There’s her signature at the bottom.”

I wandered along the street for the next hour, trying to make sense of everything Mrs. Dilloway had said. If she had loved Lady Anna so much, if she had wanted to protect her, why would she want to conceal the truth about her death?

I walked along the sidewalk, until I came to a little park at the edge of town. Children played near a small garden. I listened to their laughter and watched as two little girls glided through the air on their swings. Happy. Carefree.

Fifteen Years Prior

“Manda!” the little boy cried.

I rubbed my eyes as I jumped up from the couch. How long had I been asleep? Aunt Jean, on a bender, had asked me to watch Miles. She was due back yesterday, but hadn’t returned. I ran to the bedroom, but he wasn’t lying on the cot beside Jean’s bed. The crumpled Big Bird blanket lay on the wood floor.

“Manda!” he cried again. This time, I ran to the window, peering out over the fire escape to the alley below, where some benevolent resident of the apartment had years ago installed an aluminum swing set. I gasped. Sean. He was swinging him too high. Miles’s little hands held on to the rusty chains for dear life. “Stop!” I screamed from the open window. “Sean, he’s going to fall off!”

I sunk my feet into my shoes and grabbed my jacket, wincing as the sleeve rubbed the spot on my wrist where Sean had put out a cigarette against my flesh the night before. Miles screamed in the distance. “I’m coming, Miles!” I shouted as I began climbing down the fire escape, scolding myself for oversleeping. Sean could torture me, but I would not let him hurt that little boy.

Once on the street, I turned a sharp corner into the alley, where the old rickety swing set swayed as if it might topple over and take little Miles with it.

“Manda!” he cried. “Help me!”

“Stop it, Sean!” I cried.

“Make me,” he said, smirking.

“Please!” I shouted. “He’s going to fall.”

I hated Aunt Jean for leaving us alone with this monster. I looked at Miles, barely three, his little legs flailing in the air. A few more moments and he would fall. He didn’t have the strength to hold on. He was slipping.

“Look, he’s going to wet his pants again,” Sean said, laughing. “Let’s see how long it takes.”

“Stop it!” I cried, trying to pull him back.

“That will come at a price,” he said, shoving me. “You know what I like.”

“You’re disgusting,” I said, shuddering and then clenching my teeth. “I won’t let you touch me.”

The next moments played out as if in slow motion. Sean’s hand making contact with Miles’s back. The little boy’s final cry. The look of sadness, fear, defeat as his small body drifted through the air, his blond hair flapping in the breeze. And then his head hit the cement. He lay there, eyes open, blood trickling from his nose. The face of a child who had never known love.

I ran to him, cradling his head in my arms. “Miles,” I cried. “Honey, no, no, please don’t die. I’m here. I’m here. I won’t let him hurt you again. I promise.” He lay there, lifeless. I rested my head on his still body before turning to Sean with rage. “You killed him!” Tears streamed down my face. “How could you do this?”

He smirked and folded his arms across his chest. “I didn’t do anything.”

“You pushed him,” I said. “You knew he was too little to hold on!” Blood covered my hand as I touched his cheek. “I’m going to the police.”

Sean took a step closer, unfolding his arms. For the first time, he looked frightened. “No, you won’t,” he said.

“I will,” I replied, gritting my teeth. “You won’t get away with this.”

He laughed. “No, you have it wrong.
You
won’t get away with this.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Murder,” he said. “Jean put you in charge of Miles. You were his babysitter. And now you have blood on your hands. Quite literally.”

I looked down at my hands, covered in the boy’s fresh blood. “No,” I said. “You’re wrong. They’ll hear the truth and they’ll—”

“But who will they believe, is the question.” He smiled, pointing up to the sixth-floor window that had been left open. “I’ll tell them he annoyed you, and that you pushed him.”