by Sarah Jio
He looked momentarily confused, but then he nodded. “Oh, yeah,” he said, rubbing the stubble on his chin. “Yes, got it.”
“What took you so long?” I asked, standing up. “Mrs. Dilloway said you had business in town?”
“Yes, paperwork for my father,” he said. “It couldn’t be filed from China, so I had to sign for them with a notary.” He pointed to the driveway. “A courier brought them to the house just before I left.”
“Oh,” I said, remembering the woman in the blue convertible.
Mrs. Dilloway suddenly appeared in the doorway. “Pardon my intrusion,” she said, her voice steeped in formality that didn’t fit the decade, or perhaps even the century. “If you would like to accompany me, I will begin the tour now.”
We followed her up the stairs, and I marveled at the enormous crystal chandelier above. Its chain appeared perilously dainty for the weight it carried. The steps creaked underfoot as we made our way to the second floor. Above the landing hung a painting of a beautiful woman. Her blond wavy hair framed her pale face like a halo. Below the hollow of her neck, a locket rested. I leaned in closer to examine its floral design—a detail I might otherwise have missed—and felt as though she was looking at me, really looking at me. Those eyes. I knew their expression. Lonely. Troubled. Trapped. I looked away, but my gaze ventured back to the canvas. The woman clutched a flower in her right hand. A pink camellia. I recognized the familiar petal structure and the shape of the leaf. I squinted in the dim light. Could that be blood on the tips of her fingernails? I rubbed my own nails. Probably just a shadow.
“Are you coming, Addison?” Rex called from down the hallway.
“Coming,” I said, collecting myself, and yet unable to look away from the painting. “Wait, Mrs. Dilloway—who is the woman in the portrait?”
She walked toward me reluctantly. “That is Lady Anna,” she finally said. “She was Lord Livingston’s wife.” Mrs. Dilloway closed her eyes tightly and then reopened them. “She was just a girl of eighteen when she first came to the manor,” she continued, surveying the painting as though she hadn’t permitted herself to look at it in a very long time. “It hasn’t been the same since she . . .” She turned away quickly. “Let’s continue on.”
Lady Anna. I’d felt a vibe the moment I’d set foot on the property earlier that day, a certain presence that lingered in every door’s creak, in every bit of wind that blew up from the garden and whistled through the windows. I imagined her standing at the end of the long corridor, watching us, such strange, modern people, poking about her house, handling her belongings, staring up at her portrait. What did she think of us, this lady with a locket around her neck and a camellia in her hand? And why did she appear so sad?
“The Livingston children occupied this wing,” she said, pointing down a dark corridor.
“Children?” I asked. “How many?”
“Five,” she replied, before shaking her head. “I mean four.”
I shot Rex a confused look.
She stopped at a set of double doors at the end of the hall. The hinges creaked as she opened them and turned to Rex. “That dreadful decorator of your mother’s hasn’t gotten to this room yet.” Her face revealed a moment of warmth. “It’s just as the children left it.” Mrs. Dilloway looked pleased. “They spent many happy hours here.”
I walked to the bookcase and examined the storybooks inside. As a girl, I had dreamed of having stacks of books at my disposal—stories to get lost in, other worlds to live in when mine was so bleak. It’s why I went to the library every day after school—that and because there usually wasn’t anyone waiting for me at home.
I sighed, running my hand along the books’ spines, but I sensed Mrs. Dilloway’s apprehension, so I stepped back. I had the feeling that we were touring a museum that she alone curated.
“Should we keep going?” I asked, inching toward the doorway.
“Look at this!” Rex exclaimed, calling me over to a toy chest by the far wall. He held a tin airplane. Its red paint had long since eroded. “This is one of those old windup models,” he said. “A friend of mine collects these. They’re rare. It must be worth a fortune.”
Mrs. Dilloway eyed the plane protectively until he’d set it back down on the toy chest. “It was Lord Abbott’s,” she said. “One of Lord Livingston’s sons.” She turned and walked out the door, which was our cue to follow.
“Did I say something wrong?” Rex whispered to me.
I shrugged, and we quickly proceeded into the hallway behind Mrs. Dilloway.
“The guest quarters are down that way,” she said. “It’s where visitors stayed when the Livingstons entertained. Now,” she continued, “I must go check on the drapes on the third floor. That infernal decorator had them installed last week and they’re so thin, I fear the light will destroy Lord Livingston’s paintings.”
I turned to follow her up the stairs, grasping the railing, but Mrs. Dilloway placed her icy hand over mine. “There’s nothing of importance up here,” she said.
“Oh,” I said quickly.
“I’ll see you both this evening,” she said in a dismissive tone.
After she’d gone, Rex turned to me. “That was strange.”
I nodded.
“Addie,” he whispered, “she talks about Lord Livingston as if he’s still alive.”
CHAPTER 8
Flora
Mrs. Dilloway greeted me in the drawing room at one. “Hello, Miss Lewis,” she said from the doorway. Could this really be the housekeeper? She didn’t look much older than I. Her light brown hair was pulled back into a tidy bun, without a single hair askew. Her face, with high cheekbones and a regal mouth, looked wiser than her years. She had a formal way about her, and yet there was softness, too. I wondered if we might become friends.
“Hello,” I said.
She smiled at me curiously. “Did you expect someone else?”
“No, no,” I stammered. “It’s just that, well . . .”
“I know what you’re thinking,” she said with a brief smile. “I am quite young to be the head housekeeper of such a great house. But I can assure you that I am well suited for the job. Her Ladyship, rest her soul, would have no one else running things.”
“Of course,” I said. “I don’t doubt that at all.”
Mrs. Dilloway’s face softened, a good-faith attempt to erase our awkward start. “Well,” she said. “I am relieved that you’ve finally arrived. I’m certain that one more day of overseeing the children might do me in.” She smiled again and turned to the staircase. “I’m afraid you have your work cut out for you.”
The light fixture above our heads began to rattle, which is when we heard the thunder of footsteps stampeding down the staircase. I set my hand on the side table to brace myself. “They sound like a pack of rhinoceroses,” I said nervously.
“Rhinoceroses would be easier,” she said under her breath. “Children!” she cried as they clamored their way down the stairs. “You know your father does not permit running in the house! And Mr. Abbott, remove yourself from the banister at once.”
A blond-haired boy peered around the corner.
“Mr. Abbott,” Mrs. Dilloway continued, “please come in and meet your new nanny, Miss Lewis.”
“We don’t want a new nanny!” another boy, this one younger and dark-haired, bellowed from behind his brother.
“Mr. Nicholas,” Mrs. Dilloway said, “that is no way to speak of Miss Lewis, who has traveled a great distance to see you. Please be polite and tell her hello.”
Nicholas stuck out his tongue before sinking into a wingback chair near the window. “I won’t tell her hello. And you can’t make me either!”
Mrs. Dilloway gave me a knowing look. “Miss Katherine and Miss Janie?” A dark-haired, serious-looking young girl appeared, with a towheaded tot waddling behind, a bedraggled doll clutched in h
er hand. “Will you greet Miss Lewis?”
I knelt down in front of the girls and smiled awkwardly. “Hello,” I said to the older one. “Tell me, how old are you?”
“I’m ten,” she said. “And Janie is two.” She sighed discontentedly. “And you are not our mother.”
“I’ll leave you now,” Mrs. Dilloway said, smiling to herself as she walked out the door.
Abbott kept his arms folded tightly across his chest.
I stood up and moved to the sofa. “I’ve come here to take care of you, and I hope we can be friends,” I said nervously. I hated misrepresenting myself to these children, especially after what they’d been through and knowing that I wouldn’t be staying long. But I needed their help to find the camellia in the orchard. “Do you think we can?”
“I don’t like to make friends with girls,” Nicholas piped up.
“Neither do I,” added Abbott.
I folded my hands in my lap and sighed. The old grandfather clock on the wall ticked and tocked. “All right,” I said. “I see.”
“I’m your friend,” little Janie said in a sweet voice, melting the icy silence. She walked over to me and planted herself in my lap, running a chubby hand along my cheek. I couldn’t help but smile.
“Thank you,” I said to the little girl.
Katherine shrugged with an annoyed look that far surpassed her ten years. “Janie doesn’t know what she’s talking about,” she huffed. “She’s only a baby.”
“No,” the tiny child protested. “I’m a big girl.”
“Katherine’s right,” Nicholas added. “Janie doesn’t even remember Mother.”
Janie looked at me and then down in her lap, crestfallen.
“It’s OK, honey,” I whispered before turning to the older children. “As you may already know, I’m from America. We’re a little less formal there, so I have to ask you: Must I refer to you as Lady and Lord? I don’t mean any disrespect, but, well, it sounds so stiff and formal. And you’re children, after all.”
“Well, I, for one, hate the title,” Abbott said, finally unfolding his arms from his chest.
“Me too,” Nicholas said, looking relieved, then thoughtful for a moment. “Could you call me Nicholas the Great instead? I read about a comic book character called that.”
“Nicholas the Great it is, then,” I said, smiling.
“You may call me Lady Katherine,” Katherine said with an air of annoyance. “And we don’t need a nanny. We can take care of ourselves.”
Abbott smirked. “Mr. Beardsley arranged for you to come, didn’t he?”
“Yes,” I said. “I believe he did.”
“Mr. Beardsley is a mean old booby!” Nicholas exclaimed, crossing his arms across his chest.
“Now, Nicholas,” I said, trying very hard to stifle a laugh. “I mean, Nicholas the Great.” His smile revealed one missing front tooth. “I don’t think it’s very nice to call Mr. Beardsley a”—I placed my hand over my mouth, but the gesture failed to repress the laughter that seeped out—“a booby.”
Nicholas smiled. “You think he’s a booby too, don’t you?”
The room went quiet in anticipation of my response. I peered over my shoulder to see if Mrs. Dilloway was near; she wasn’t. I smiled, and looked back at the children. “I suppose you might say he has one or two booby qualities.”
The children laughed—all but Katherine, who frowned, busying herself with the ribbons in her hair.
Janie looked up at me from her perch in my lap. “Booby,” she said with a giggle.
I smiled. This wasn’t going to be easy, but so far, so good.
“The children take their tea at three,” Mrs. Dilloway said in the servants’ hall later that afternoon. “Nicholas and Abbott have riding lessons straight after, and Katherine and Janie have piano lessons. The lessons are a terrible bore to Katherine, who’d much rather be out riding with her brothers.”
I nodded as she walked out to the hallway. “If you don’t mind my asking, why isn’t she permitted to ride with her brothers?” I asked Sadie, seated beside me.
She sighed. “Lord Livingston won’t allow it. Not since Lady Anna died.”
I lowered my voice. “Did she die in a riding accident?”
“No, no,” Sadie replied. “My stars, if only it had been a riding accident.” She clutched a rosary around her neck and sighed. “Since she passed, Lord Livingston hasn’t been the same.”
“How so?”
Sadie looked left and then right, as if she worried the teacups in the cupboard might be spies. “He’s cross now,” she said. “Closed off. Well, I suppose he’s always been, but now it’s different—much worse. The day she died, the children lost two parents, if you ask me. He hardly pays them any attention. It’s a pity.”
I leaned in closer to Sadie. “How did she die?”
She shrugged. “No one knows, really. They found her body out there.” She paused, lowering her voice to a whisper. “In the orchard.”
I covered my mouth. “That’s just terrible,” I said. “I suppose Lord Livingston must have loved her a great deal.”
Sadie looked conflicted. She took a bite of her roll and didn’t finish chewing it before speaking. “I guess you could say so, but she wasn’t happy here, Lady Anna. Never was. She never warmed to the moors, the isolation. She missed America. Of course, Lord Livingston tried to make her happy.” She gestured toward the window. “He brought in every plant, tree, and shrub you could ever imagine. Rare ones, too. You should have seen the gardeners parading through here with flowers pulled from the depths of the Amazon forest.” She sighed. “And that orchard. He helped her find all of the camellias. My, did she love the camellias. No expense was spared when it came to Lady Anna’s gardens. But, you know, they could never compare to her gardens in America.” Sadie nodded to herself. “I’ll never forget seeing her face one day when she received a letter from America. You’d think her heart was about to break right there.”
“Didn’t she go home to visit?”
She shook her head. “Lady Anna was from a wealthy family. From what I gather, his Lordship needed a fortune to save the manor. And her father wanted her as far away from Charleston as possible.”
“Why?”
“The rumor is that she fell for some boy who was poor and not suitable for her. So they sent her to England. But what Lord Livingston didn’t realize is that you can’t keep a wife, a human being, under lock and key. Not even in the company of the rarest flowers in the world. She longed for her life in Charleston, but Lord Livingston wouldn’t hear of it. And after the children were born, her fate was sealed. She couldn’t leave. It broke her, I think.”
“No wonder the children are so troubled,” I said, shaking my head. “What they must have endured!”
Sadie nodded.
“You said they found her in the orchard?”
“Yes,” she continued. “She and his Lordship had a row that morning. It was a bad one. I know, because I was scrubbing the floors outside of the drawing room. She ran out, and I could see that she’d been crying. She took her tea on the terrace with that awful gardener Mr. Blythe, and then she went for a walk in the gardens. They found her down there that night.”
“What happened?” I gasped.
“No one knows,” Sadie said in a hushed voice. “But it’s never sat well with me. His Lordship fired Mr. Blythe on the spot.” She sighed. “Only the sweet Lord Jesus knows what went on in that orchard,” she continued. “Poor Lady Anna, she—”
“That will be all, Sadie,” Mrs. Dilloway said from the doorway. How long had she been standing there? Neither of us had noticed her.
“Yes, ma’am,” Sadie said quickly, her cheeks reddening. “I was only telling Miss Lewis about—”
“Yes, I know what you were discussing with Miss Lewis—things that should not be spoken of,” she said. �
��Now, it’s time you get started on the bedrooms. The washing is ready to be collected. Get on with it, please.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Sadie said, jumping to her feet.
Mrs. Dilloway cast a disapproving look toward me and then turned on her heel.
“What’s America like?” Sadie asked in the servants’ hall later. It wasn’t really a hall, but that’s what they called it. The room contained a long table with a bench on one side and chairs on the other.
“Oh, it’s fine, I guess,” I said.
“I’ve never been fond of Americans,” Mrs. Marden said, casting a glance toward me. “But I do like the accent. Lady Anna had such a way of talking.” The cook frowned as though recalling something unpleasant. “I take it they don’t eat stew in America?”
“I’m not sure what you mean,” I said, flustered.
“You hardly touched your lunch today,” she added with a smirk.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I haven’t had much of an appetite since leaving home.”
The cook was a large woman, in both height and girth. She wore her gray hair short, and when she smiled, which wasn’t often, she revealed a crooked front tooth. “If you don’t like my cooking, you can just say so. No point in beating around the bush.”
“I don’t mean that at all, ma’am,” I said, flushing. To compensate, I pointed to the breadboard on the table. “That’s a fine loaf you’ve got there.”
Mrs. Marden arched her eyebrows. “And how would you know?”
“I know bread,” I said. “I grew up in a bakery.”
“My, my,” she said, as though my comment had added fuel to the fire. “A baker’s daughter has taken up residence in Livingston Manor.”
Mrs. Dilloway cleared her throat. “Mrs. Marden, perhaps she can give you a few pointers on your scones.”
The cook smirked and turned to her bowl.
A large man with dark hair and a prominent Adam’s apple appeared in the doorway of the servants’ hall. He was so tall, he had to stoop below the doorway as he passed through. I watched as he stopped at a basin by the window to wash his hands before joining us at the table. He looked up as he reached for the soap, and our eyes met, but he turned away without smiling. Dirt-tinged water streamed from his hands.
