The Last Camellia: A Novel

by Sarah Jio

  “Good,” she said. “The water spigot is over there. Pruning shears are in the closet. Careful not to bang about. His Lordship could hear you. His bedroom and terrace are directly below.”

  My heart beat faster at the thought of being found skulking around his dead wife’s forbidden garden. “Maybe I shouldn’t—”

  “Oh,” Mrs. Dilloway continued, “there’s one more thing. One of Lady Anna’s necklaces, a locket, has been missing since her death. I always thought I’d find it here, but it hasn’t turned up. If you see it, well, bring it to me immediately.”

  “Yes,” I said. “Yes, of course.”

  She turned back toward the door, and I followed as she walked past the citrus trees, which gave off a sweet, heady scent in the sunlight. She paused to pluck a few kumquats before passing through the flower-covered archway and continuing on to the door. As she reached for the doorknob, I tapped her shoulder. “The necklace,” I whispered, sensing that there might be more to the story, perhaps much more. “Why is it so important?”

  She looked at me for a long moment. “It’s not so much the necklace itself,” she said, “but what’s inside it.”

  I nodded.

  “Here,” she said, reaching and tucking the kumquats into the pocket of my dress. “For later.”

  I smiled.

  “Don’t speak a word of this, now,” she said. “To anyone.”

  I followed her down the staircase, where Mr. Beardsley stood in the foyer. “Mrs. Dilloway,” he said, wiping his brow with a handkerchief. “Come quick. There’s been a situation.”

  CHAPTER 11

  Addison

  My eyes shot open at two a.m. I sat up, gasping for breath. In my dream, I saw Sean again. I looked over at Rex, sleeping peacefully beside me. It’s just a dream. It’s only a dream. But when I closed my eyes, all I could see was his face.

  Fifteen Years Prior

  My aunt Jean lit a cigarette in the car and blew a cloud of smoke toward me. “You don’t say much, do you?”

  I folded my arms, gazing through the smoky air out the window at the trees along the roadside.

  “Well,” she said, “you’ll like New York City.” She wore a blue bandanna around her head. Turquoise earrings dangled from her ears. Before she died, Mama had called her older sister a hippie. She took another puff of her cigarette and smiled. “The apartment’s small,” she continued, “but it’ll grow on you in time.”

  She meant well, I knew that. She hadn’t had to take me in when the caseworker discovered the situation at home. After Mama had died, Daddy started drinking.

  “I heard what he did to you,” Jean said cautiously. “Sweet child. You’ve been through so much.”

  “He didn’t mean it,” I said quickly, touching the scar on my temple. “It was the booze.”

  “Well,” she said. “Nobody’s going to hurt you anymore.”

  I nodded, wondering about New York City. I’d never ventured far from our home in the Adirondack Mountains. Mama had been afraid of the city and the people who lived there. I studied the tattoo on Jean’s forearm, a butterfly. They were as different as two sisters could be.

  “Listen,” she said, extinguishing her cigarette on the dash. An ember of ash rolled onto the carpet. I pushed the tip of my shoe against it. “You know you can talk to me, don’t you? About anything.”

  I bit my lip and nodded.

  We passed cow pastures, a church, and a junkyard with hundreds of rusted-out cars splayed out along the road. “My sister and I weren’t close,” she said. “You know that, of course. God, to think of what she must have told you about me.” She sighed. “Well, that’s all behind us. Now I only hope that we can be friends.” She turned her eyes from the road to me briefly and smiled.

  I turned back to the window. We drove for another hour, maybe more. I must have dozed off, because when I opened my eyes, tall buildings stood outside the car window. “We’re almost home,” Jean said. “I’m glad you got some shut-eye.”

  She pulled the car in front of a brick building. A shirtless man sat on a stoop smoking a cigarette. He shouted something at a woman walking by. A dog barked in the distance.

  I reached for my backpack on the floor and clutched it tightly as I stepped out of the car, following Jean up the steps in front of the building to a stairwell, where a crushed Coke can lay in the corner next to a crumpled bag from McDonald’s. A fly buzzed around me, and I swatted it away. The smell of urine lingered.

  “We’re six floors up,” Jean said. “The elevator’s been out for a year. It’s a hike, but you’ll get used to it in time.”

  Out of breath, I followed Jean out of the stairwell onto the sixth floor. She stopped at a door halfway down the hall and inserted a key. “Mama’s home,” she called into the apartment. Until that moment, it hadn’t occurred to me that Aunt Jean ever had children. If she had, my mother had never spoken of them.

  A cat leapt off of the back of a couch, and Jean scooped the ball of fur into her arms. Near the door, the contents of a plastic grocery bag spilled out onto the floor—disposable baby diapers and a bag of apples. “Sean!” she screamed. “Where are you?” I heard heavy metal music coming from a back bedroom. “That boy,” Jean said under breath. “I told him to watch Miles.” A toddler sat, wearing only a soggy diaper, in front of the TV. She knelt beside him. “You OK, sweetie?” He didn’t break his gaze from the TV screen.

  She laid the boy down on the rug and changed his diaper before wiping his dirty mouth with a baby wipe. “I take in foster kids from time to time,” she said. “I see it as a calling. That, and the extra one hundred and thirty dollars a month helps pay the bills.” She scooped the boy up from the floor and plopped him in her lap. “This is Miles. He doesn’t talk much. He came from a terrible home situation. He’s three, small for his age.”

  I nodded.

  Jean picked up a teddy bear a few feet away. The head had been torn off. She looked at Miles before frowning in the direction of the back bedroom. “Did Sean do this?”

  The child nodded, then looked down at his lap.

  “Sean!” Jean shouted. “I tell you,” she said to me, “I’m at my wits’ end with that boy. I thought I could change him, but you know, I think that some kids are just born mean.”

  A moment later a boy a year or two older than I, at least sixteen, maybe seventeen, appeared. His greasy, long dark hair hung around his face. He wore dark jeans and an AC/DC T-shirt.

  “Another?” he smirked.

  “This is Amanda,” Jean said. “My niece. She’s come to live with us. And, Sean, you will treat her with respect, do you hear?”

  Sean didn’t say anything. He just looked at me and smiled, a smile that frightened me to my core.

  The next morning at breakfast, Mrs. Dilloway set out a tray with eggs, bacon, fruit, and scones in the dining room. “I hope this will be sufficient for you,” she said stiffly, turning to look at me. “Mrs. Klein isn’t used to cooking for Americans.”

  “I beg your pardon,” Rex said playfully. “I may live in the U.S., but I’m a Brit through and through.”

  I cleared my throat. “What he means is the food is fine, thank you.” I admired the array of fruit in the crystal bowl and helped myself to a scoop, before pointing to what looked like a tiny orange. “Is that a—”

  “A kumquat,” Mrs. Dilloway replied, looking at me curiously.

  I stabbed the little fruit with my fork and took a bite, filling my mouth with its tart juice before turning back to my book.

  “What are you reading?” Rex asked.

  “The Years,” I replied. “The book I found in the drawing room.”

  “Oh, yes,” he said. “Mrs. Dilloway?”

  She looked up from a tray she was about to shuttle back to the kitchen. “Yes?”

  “Do you know if there was ever a woman by the name of Flora who liv
ed at the manor?”

  The carafe of orange juice teetered on the tray, and she set it down quickly before it fell to the floor. “Why do you ask, Mr. Sinclair?”

  Rex pointed to the book in my hands. “Her name is written here,” he said.

  Mrs. Dilloway looked out the window, as if envisioning a scene from the manor’s past.

  “Was she one of the Livingston children?” Rex asked.

  She shook her head. “She was employed as a nanny here a very long time ago,” she finally said. “Now if you’ll excuse me,” she continued, wiping a spot of orange juice on the table with a cloth from her dress pocket, “I’ll just step out to get the tea.”

  “So Flora was the nanny,” Rex whispered after Mrs. Dilloway had gone. “Adds a whole new dimension, don’t you think?”

  I nodded. “It’s odd that Mrs. Dilloway seems so affected by the recollection of her.”

  After breakfast, we went back upstairs, and I fanned the pages of the book again, which is when I noticed something I had missed in the upper corner of the inside cover. “F. Lewis,” written in blue ink. Now I had Flora’s last name. I pulled out my laptop and, on a whim, began searching for a Flora Lewis from the 1940s. A needle in a haystack, I knew that, but maybe I’d get a lucky break.

  I scrolled through a list of search results, getting nowhere, until a Wikipedia “Unsolved Mysteries” link caught my eye.

  “Find anything?” Rex asked, leaning over the laptop.

  “Look at this,” I said, pointing to the screen. Partway down the page, a headline read, AMERICAN NANNY VANISHES IN ENGLAND. I clicked it and read a scanned copy of a New York Sun article dated November 13, 1940.

  New York resident Flora Lewis, 24, was last seen at Livingston Manor in Clivebrook, England, where she’d been hired to care for the children of Lord Livingston, a widower and London businessman. Her parents, who could not be reached for comment, own a bakery in the Bronx. Local woman Georgia Hillman remembers Flora as a bright, kind young woman. “I met her on the ship to England,” she said. “I’ll never forget her.” Anyone with details of Lewis’s whereabouts are urged to contact the New York Police or notify the authorities in England immediately.

  So Flora went missing? I remembered Lila Hertzberg and shook my head. “This isn’t good, Rex,” I said. “What the heck do you think happened to these women?”

  He leaned back against the pillows, staring into his notebook. “Wait, what did you say the friend’s name was—the one quoted in the article?”

  I turned back to the screen. “Georgia Hillman.”

  Rex’s eyes lit up. “It’s the same name in the book,” he said, reaching for The Years and turning to the first page. “See, she wrote the inscription.”

  “Hmmm,” I said, turning back to the laptop. “Maybe I can find her.” I googled the name and keyed through the search results until I found a woman with the same name quoted in an article about the opening of a retirement home in Manhattan. I searched for the number of the retirement home, then called it on my cell phone, waiting for two rings, then three, and four.

  “Roosevelt Senior Living,” a woman’s voice chirped.

  “Yes, hello, I’m calling to see if a Ms. Georgia Hillman lives at your facility.”

  “We don’t give out resident information,” she said, sounding a little annoyed.

  “Oh, of course,” I said. “Then can you simply pass along a message?”

  “Sure,” she said.

  “I’m hoping that Ms. Hillman can call me,” I continued. “I need to speak to her about something important.” I gave her my cell phone number before hanging up. What are the chances that she’ll even call? That she even lives there? The newspaper article is seven years old. “So much for that,” I said. “She’s probably deceased.”

  I turned to my laptop when I heard the chime of an incoming e-mail. I didn’t recognize the sender. Not at first. Then I clicked the message open and my heart sank.

  I saw your husband in the village at a café. I almost told him everything. But I’m going to be patient, Amanda. I understand that your in-laws are in Asia. It takes time to wire that kind of money, so I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt. But not for long.

  Rex lay beside me, peacefully thumbing through a history book as my heart raced. Dear Lord. He’s here. He’s really here.

  CHAPTER 12

  Flora

  I wondered what Mr. Beardsley seemed so anxious about, but there wasn’t time to investigate. The children were waiting in the nursery. Abbott sat on the window seat, looking out to the gardens. Nicholas lay facedown on the floor, in protest. Katherine, sporting a permanent frown, tugged at her curls as she stood near the dollhouse, where Janie sat playing happily.

  “Nicholas,” I scolded. “You’ll ruin your clothes.”

  The boy sat up reluctantly, at a snail’s pace, before standing and shuffling to the window seat by Abbott. “Hey!” Abbott cried, giving his younger brother a hasty shove. “I was here first.”

  “Come now, boys, there’s room for the both of you,” I said.

  Mrs. Dilloway had explained the children’s schedule earlier. His Lordship had taken them out of boarding school, so their days were filled with a chorus of tutors and lessons, with very little playtime, except on weekends, and only for an hour in the afternoons.

  I kept an eye on the clock; the children would need to be dressed and ready for dinner by six. I felt a pit in my stomach, knowing I’d be meeting Lord Livingston for the first time, and I didn’t want there to be any hiccups.

  Abbott sighed, pressing his face against the window. Outside, the countryside was awash in gray. Rain splattered against the window. “Why must it always rain here?”

  Janie ran to my side. “It’s only thunder, honey,” I said, smoothing her silky blond hair with my hand.

  “I don’t like thunder,” she said. Her blue eyes clouded with worry and her little mouth turned down at the corners. She was a beautiful child. I wondered if she took after her mother.

  “What should we do to keep our minds off of it, then?” I asked, glancing cautiously at Katherine, who sat on a nearby sofa with folded arms. “Katherine, do you have any suggestions?”

  “It’s Lady Katherine,” she said sharply.

  Nicholas flung a rubber ball in the air; it bounced off the roof of the dollhouse. “You’re not a lady yet,” he said teasingly.

  “I am a lady,” she said. “I’m ten years old, and Father said I am to be called Lady Katherine by the servants.”

  “Miss Lewis isn’t a servant,” Nicholas piped up.

  “Yes, she is,” Abbott countered.

  “Children,” I said, raising my voice over their shouting. “Please, stop arguing. You may think of me however you like. But I am your nanny, and I am here to look after you. Like me or don’t, but please, do not shout at one another.”

  Katherine sighed and turned to face the bookcase. She reached to a high shelf, and the sleeve of her dress fell back to her elbow, revealing a dozen wounds, jagged and raw.

  I gasped, and rushed to her side. “Katherine, what happened to your arm? Did you get hurt?”

  She quickly covered her forearm with her sleeve. “It’s nothing,” she snapped.

  “Let me see it,” I said. “Did someone hurt you? Please, I—”

  “I’m fine,” she barked. “I only fell in the garden. It’s nothing.”

  I touched my hand to her arm, gently. “But I only want to help—”

  “Please,” she said, wrenching her arm away from me. “I told you it’s nothing.”

  Abbott picked up a comic book and buried his nose in it, and Nicholas sulked. I turned to little Janie, who held a doll with flaxen hair in desperate need of a brushing. I would have to get through to Katherine, but it wasn’t happening now. “Let’s see about this dolly’s hair,” I said, reaching for a hairbrush o
n the floor near the sofa.

  I turned to Katherine. “Do you like dolls?”

  “No,” she said, without looking at me.

  “Katherine doesn’t like anything,” Abbott said with a smirk.

  “You know nothing about me,” she said in protest.

  “She used to like to look at the flowers,” Nicholas added. “With Mother.”

  Katherine made a disgusted face at her brother. “Don’t speak of Mother in front of her!”

  “Why not?” Nicholas countered.

  I looked at Katherine again. “You like flower gardens, then, Katherine?”

  She didn’t answer.

  “I do too,” I said. “In fact, when the rain clears, I was hoping that you children could take me on a tour of the gardens. Maybe tomorrow.” I hated to think that I was using the children to lead me to the camellias, but I had to find a way into the orchard without being too conspicuous.

  “Father doesn’t like us to go into the orchard,” Katherine said, snuffing out the idea.

  “Why?” I asked, remembering a similar warning from Mrs. Dilloway.

  “Because Mummy—”

  Katherine elbowed Nicholas in the side. “Ouch!” he cried.

  “He doesn’t know what he’s talking about,” Katherine added, rolling her eyes.

  “Please,” I said. “Let’s stop all this bickering and amuse ourselves properly.” I glanced at the bookcase a few feet away. “Who likes stories?”

  The older children didn’t answer, but little Janie walked to my side and leaned against my leg. “I do,” she said with a smile.

  “Good, then,” I said, selecting a book from the shelf at random. “We shall read.”

  I felt Katherine brush my side as she pushed past Nicholas to secure a preferable seat on the sofa. “Excuse me,” she said briskly before nestling next to a pillow, returning her arms to a folded position. Nicholas sat beside her, and Abbott lay on his side on the rug and let out a yawn.

  “Now,” I said, turning to the first page before glancing at the clock. “Just enough time for a nice story before we dress for dinner.”