The Last Camellia: A Novel (8 page)

“I won’t let them help us,” he said proudly. “I know it might sound idealist, but when we have children . . . I mean, if we have children, I want them to know that their parents worked for what they have.”

I looked at my feet. “Rex, but I thought we decided—”

“Decided what?”

I sighed. “That we were going to table that discussion for now.”

“I can’t, Addie,” he said. “I want children—with the woman I love. I can’t deny that. And I don’t want to act as if it doesn’t matter to me.”

I stood up and walked to the window, my heart beating faster.

“I wish you’d tell me,” he said.

I spun around. “Tell you what?”

His eyes clouded with worry. “What it is you’re keeping from me,” he said. “Sometimes I watch you while you’re sleeping, and I think that if I stare at you long enough, I’ll be able to read your mind.”

We’d had this conversation dozens of times before, of course. I’d managed to appease him each time. I’d tell him things that made him feel better, that it wasn’t him, but me. That I couldn’t picture myself as a mom, and I didn’t think motherhood was for everyone. But when I looked him in the eye, I know he didn’t buy it. I know he believed there was more to the story. And there was.

I turned away. I couldn’t hold his gaze for fear that my eyes would project the hurt, the pain I kept buried inside. Sometimes I suspected that Rex
could
read my mind, as evidenced by small, silly moments, when he’d finish my sentences or come home with spring rolls and pad Thai at the precise moment I was dialing the restaurant for takeout. And then there was his uncanny knack for knowing when I was getting a migraine. Could he read my mind now? Could he see the anguish I’d kept hidden for half of my life?

He stood up and reached for his messenger bag. I turned around and watched him tuck his notebook and a few books inside. “I think I’ll head to that café in town and do a little writing there,” he said.

I nodded. I hated seeing him hurt, but I didn’t know what else to say. I could only watch as he slung the bag over his shoulder and walked out to the hallway, closing the door with a gentle click behind him.

I laid my head on the pillow, thinking about Rex for a long time, before I heard my laptop chime from the bedside table. Rex’s parents had wired the room for Internet use, and I’d almost forgotten that I’d plugged in the laptop the night before. I lifted the computer into my lap and pulled up my e-mail account. There was a message from a client and one from my assistant, Cara, letting me know that the butterfly garden had been successfully installed. She had attached a photo. The astilbes had been planted too close together, but besides that, she’d pulled it off.

I didn’t want to think of my own life then, so I let my mind turn to the gardens of Livingston Manor, in particular the camellias and the book kept by Lady Anna. I decided to compose an e-mail to one of my former professors, Louise Clark, director of horticultural studies at New York University. Last fall we’d exchanged e-mails about a rare pink lilac that had turned up in the garden of one of my clients in Brooklyn. Maybe she knew something about camellias.

Hi, Louise,

How are you? I’m spending the summer in England with my husband, Rex, at a manor owned by his parents. It’s gorgeous, and absolutely otherworldly. You wouldn’t believe the gardens, in particular the old camellia orchard out back. That’s what I’m writing about. I found an old book here, with information about the camellias planted on the grounds. I recognized most of them. Some are quite rare. I’ll have to send photos if this rain ever stops. In the meantime, I have two questions: 1) Have you heard of a variety called the AnnaMaria Bellweather? I didn’t recognize the name, and the bloom is gorgeous—a big pink blossom with a dark pink center. And 2) You don’t, by chance, know anything about any rare varieties that might have turned up in England in the 1920s or ’30s? Anything I should keep my eyes out for? I don’t know where I’m going with this—just a hunch. A page was torn out of the garden scrapbook. I can’t help but wonder if it recorded an important variety. Anyway, I hope this note makes sense. I’m jet-lagged. Thanks so much, Louise! Warmest wishes from England, Addison

P.S. Oh, forgot to mention: On each page, there is the strangest code next to the flower entries. For instance, on the Petelo, there are the numbers “5:3:31:2:1.” And below it are the words “L. sussex Hertzberg.” Any idea what this could mean?

I sent the e-mail and then turned back to the camellia book, reading through its pages again, until I heard my computer chime fifteen minutes later. I eagerly opened Louise’s response.

Hi, Addison! So good to hear from you. This will be a quick reply since I’m off to a meeting with the board shortly, but I couldn’t resist writing you back. Your discovery is an exciting one, indeed. First, I did a search for the AnnaMaria Bellweather in the database, and it appears to be a variety named after a woman from Charleston in the early 1900s. From what I know, all the debutantes wanted camellias named after them. It was considered a great social honor. But there were only so many to go around. This Miss Anna Bellweather must have been quite something. As for your other question—the rare camellias—oh yes. There is one in particular that you must Google. The Middlebury Pink. About fifteen years ago there was some renewed interest. I’m recalling an article in the
Telegraph
, I think. You’ll have to poke around. But anyway, it’s believed to be extinct. Maybe it is, maybe it isn’t. But what a coup if you were able to locate it! A plant lover’s dream! As for your botanical code, you have me stumped. I thought it might be Vienna code, which was used more often in England early in the century, but it doesn’t quite make sense. It must be a personal way of referencing plants that the gardener used. As for the “L. sussex Hertzberg,” I can’t find any reference in any of the databases. A mystery! Now, off to finish these papers. Best wishes, Louise

P.S. Keep me posted!

I immediately pulled up Google and typed in the words
Middlebury Pink
. Hundreds of entries came back. I combed through the articles, learning all I could about the stunning variety with white petals tipped with pink. It appeared in botanical history books, but its existence had eluded gardeners for decades, and many considered it merely a myth. And then, in a blog post written by a botanist at the London Conservatory, I read that the last known variety had been seen at Livingston Manor in the 1930s.

I ran to the window, looking out at the orchard, where the misty air clung to the hillside. Had the Middlebury Pink survived after all these years?

“Hey,” Rex said as we walked in from the driveway late that afternoon. I had gone out to greet him. “You wouldn’t believe the research I packed in today.”

I grinned. “Oh?” I was happy to see him smiling again after the difficult conversation we’d had earlier.

“Yeah,” he said. “I think I’ve completely mapped out the setting for this book.” He touched his index finger to his forehead, as if remembering some detail. “And you know what? The strangest thing happened in town today.”

“What?”

“I met a guy from
New York
,” he said. “From the Bronx.

I shivered. It had to be a coincidence.

“I wish I could remember his name,” he continued. “It was Tom or Shawn, or something like that. He said he was here visiting an old girlfriend. Anyway, small world, huh?”

“Yeah,” I said, nodding, feeling the old terror creep back.

In an instant, my mind turned to the summer of 1985, to the night that changed my life forever. I had just turned fifteen. It was hot, unbearably so. The leaves on the floor of Greenhouse No. 4 at the New York Botanical Garden crunched under my feet. Sean handed me a shovel and said, “Dig.”

“You OK, honey?” Rex asked, placing a hand on my arm.

I blinked hard, quickly pulling myself together. “Yeah,” I said, clutching my stomach. “I don’t think I’m quite used to these rich English meals, that’s all.”

Rex nodded. “You need some air. You’ve been cooped up in the house all day.” He reached for the newspaper on the side table near the door and tucked it under his arm. “Let’s go sit on the terrace for a while.”

I followed him outside, where we nestled into two chairs under an awning. The rain had finally stopped, and the ground seemed to ooze gray mist. Rex thumbed open the newspaper, and looked up a moment later. “Look at this,” he said. “Our little village seems to be the center of an unsolved mystery. A girl from Clivebrook went missing in 1931.” He pointed to a black-and-white photo of a young woman with dark hair and kind eyes. “Apparently this is the anniversary of her disappearance.”

“How sad,” I said, taking the newspaper in my hands. “And creepy.” I read the caption. “Lila Hertzberg, abducted on the second of January in 1931, was never found.”
Hertzberg. Where have I heard that name before?

Rex looked up from his book. “I know. It sounds like Clivebrook had its very own Jack the Ripper back in the day. I was talking to the owner of the café yesterday, and he said there were other women who disappeared in the 1930s,” he said. “One named Elsie. I had a babysitter by that name when I was young. She used to get into my mom’s boxed wine after we were in bed.” He smiled to lighten the mood. “I don’t know what I find more disturbing, the unsolved abductions or the boxed wine.”

I forced a smile as a raven dipped down from the sky and landed on a stone urn on the terrace, boldly cawing at us like a ghost from my past. I clapped my hands together and the bird retreated, defiantly.

Rex’s cell phone began ringing, and he pulled it from his pocket. “Better get this,” he said, walking along the pathway toward the front of the house. He waved to me as he pressed the phone to his ear, a gesture that said,
I’ll only be a minute
. I listened as his voice trailed off, getting fainter with each step. “Did you find it?” he asked. “Good. I’m coming over now. I want to see this. . . . Yes, of course. . . . No, she doesn’t. . . .”

When Rex was out of sight, I decided to go back inside. The breeze had picked up, and I needed a sweater. I passed a stack of mail on the entryway hutch. A tan envelope caught my eye. In the upper left-hand corner, I read the name “Lord Nicholas Livingston.” Wasn’t that one of the children who had lived here? It was addressed to my father-in-law. Surely, Rex’s father wouldn’t mind my opening it—it could contain important information that he needed to know about. I picked it up and walked to the drawing room, casting a glance toward the door before running my hand along the edge of the envelope to tear it, hastily pulling out the letter inside.

To Mr. Sinclair:

I am Nicholas Livingston, a former resident of Livingston Manor. There’s something of great importance that I would like to speak to you about. If you would kindly ring me at my office in London, we can discuss the matter. Please don’t speak a word about our correspondence to the household staff, especially Mrs. Dilloway.

Best regards,

Nicholas Livingston

What could he possibly have to say to my in-laws, and why didn’t he want it shared with Mrs. Dilloway? I heard footsteps behind me and hastily tucked the letter into the pocket of my jeans before I turned around to find Mrs. Dilloway in the doorway.

“Oh, hi,” I said nervously.

“Do you and Mr. Sinclair prefer dinner served at six or six-thirty tonight?”

“Oh, no,” I said. “I meant to talk to you about that. We’re going to grab dinner in town tonight.”

“Yes, of course,” she said stiffly, before holding up an envelope. “This came for you.”

“For me?” I asked, as she handed me a FedEx envelope. I eyed the label, with an overnight sticker on the edge. “I don’t understand,” I continued. “I didn’t tell anyone I was going to be here.”

The old woman looked at me curiously before turning toward the door. “Well, I’ll leave you now,” she said.

I sat on the sofa and held the envelope in my hands, waiting for the click of her heels to fade before I tore the flap open. My heart beat faster. I had recognized the handwriting on the envelope and felt the familiar sick feeling in my stomach.
How did he find me here?
Inside was a slip of ruled paper, the kind with frayed edges, torn carelessly from a spiral-bound notebook. “
Hello, Amanda.
”

I crumpled the page and leaned my head back against the sofa, remembering, as much as I desperately wanted to forget.