by Sarah Jio
Mrs. Dilloway stood in the doorway in her nightgown.
“Come in,” I said.
“How can you ever forgive me?” she said.
“Forgive you for what?”
“I don’t know what I thought I was doing looking through your things,” she said, sitting down in the chair beside my desk. “I worried you were too perfect, and I thought if I found something in your room, I could have a reason to distrust you. Even when I found the coin, I didn’t believe you’d taken it, but I—”
“I’m not upset,” I said as it dawned on me what she was saying. “I completely understand. You did what you had to do.”
She shook her head, dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief. “No,” she said. “I was out of line.” She looked into my eyes. “I beg your forgiveness, Miss Lewis.”
“You don’t have to beg for it. I will give it to you freely.”
“Thank you,” she said, standing up.
“Mrs. Dilloway,” I said as she reached for the doorknob. “How long have you loved Lord Livingston?”
She didn’t seem the least bit startled by my question. Perhaps the incident tonight had leveled the playing field between us. We’d moved beyond the pecking order of the house to two women—two women facing our own battles, our own loves, our own heartache. “Oh,” she said wistfully, “I suppose since the day I arrived at the manor.”
I nodded.
“I never meant to hurt anyone,” she said. “Especially Lady Anna.”
“I know,” I assured her. “Please, don’t feel that you have to explain yourself.”
She took a deep breath. “Miss Lewis,” she said, looking at me with vulnerable eyes. This was the face of a friend. “You see,” she continued, “I’ve come to realize that you can fight a lot of things in life, but you can’t help who you love. You can’t change who your heart chooses. I’m afraid that very fact will be the greatest tragedy of my life.”
I didn’t bother to turn on the lamp by my bedside. The light from the moon streamed in through the window with the intensity of a forty-watt bulb. I took out a piece of stationery and an envelope from the desk drawer and sat down to write a letter home:
Dear Mama and Papa,
I miss you terribly, and yet I already worry about leaving the children. I’ve come to love them, even in this short time. I feel for them, having just lost their mother, and with a father who hardly acknowledges them. Well, perhaps I’m being too hard on him. Perhaps he has a heart after all? Anyway, I fear that without my presence here, they would suffer greatly, especially the littlest one, Janie. She’s just two years old, without a parent to show her the love she desperately needs. The ten-year-old girl, Katherine, is my hardest case, though. She misses her mother terribly. And Abbott, the older boy, is deeply troubled. I haven’t yet figured out why. Anyway, there’s something else: I get the feeling that there is some sort of dark secret surrounding the death of the lady of the house. Don’t be frightened for me. I know I’m in no danger here, but there are questions that no one will answer about her death. I’m making it my very own mystery to solve, how about that? Well, please write when you can. It feels very lonely here at times, and I’d love nothing more than a letter from home. I’d ask for you to send bread, but I suppose it would only end up hard and stale by the time it arrived. Instead, I’ll imagine Papa’s honey whole wheat and dream of home.
Your loving daughter,
Flora
I folded the letter and stuffed it inside an envelope, which I sealed and addressed before setting it on the desk. I’d bring it to Mr. Humphrey to mail in town tomorrow. Then I climbed into bed and thought about Mrs. Dilloway, then Lady Anna and her camellia book. If I was quiet, I could tiptoe up to the nursery without disturbing anyone and bring it back to my room to read.
Once in the nursery, I picked up the book from the table where I’d left it earlier that day. I carried it downstairs to the privacy of my bedroom and I immediately riffled its back pages. But where was the Middlebury Pink? I looked more closely and could see that a page had been torn out. All that remained was its jagged edge.
CHAPTER 17
Addison
Late that sleepless night, I was drawn to the east wing. I entered the darkened bedchamber. A lace-trimmed white coverlet had been pulled taut over the four-poster, and a vase of orange tiger lilies sat on the adjacent bedside table. As my eyes adjusted to the dimness, I noticed a tiny droplet of water on the cherry table. Someone had been here. Perhaps moments ago.
A door creaked behind me.
“What do you think of Lady Anna’s room?” Mrs. Dilloway asked from the doorway. A shadow covered her face, so I couldn’t make out her expression. “It is just as she left it.”
“I’m so sorry for barging in like this,” I said, putting down the hand mirror I had found on the dressing table. “I couldn’t sleep, so I went for a walk.” My words sounded hurried and defensive. “I passed this doorway. It was open. I guess my curiosity got the better of me.”
Mrs. Dilloway walked toward the dressing table, gazing at it lovingly. “There has never been anyone like Lady Anna, never before and never since,” she said. In the mirror, her eyes flashed with excitement, while her face appeared grief-stricken—a strange mix of exhilaration and pain.
I felt uncomfortable standing so close to her. I wanted to run to the doorway and sprint back to my room, to Rex, but my legs stood frozen. And then I felt Mrs. Dilloway’s icy hand on my wrist. “I would like to show you something,” she said. “Come with me, please.”
Mrs. Dilloway lifted a gold chain from her neck. Two keys dangled from it. She inserted one in the locked door deep inside the room. I peered into the doorway, letting my eyes soak up the scene as Mrs. Dilloway switched on a floor lamp. A gold-trimmed Louis XVI chair sat near the window, by a desk with a book splayed out. The sunlight had long since faded its pages. There were papers scattered about, photographs, a notebook with a pen beside it, as if Lady Anna had only recently finished signing her name on some correspondence, maybe a response to a dinner invitation in London or a formal event at the home of a duke. I imagined her threading her A with an elongated dash, curled at the end. Maybe she signed it with a little flower at the corner, as I did. I took a few steps closer, admiring the bookcase near the window. Instead of containing stories, however, the collection was entirely botanical. I pulled a spine from the shelf. The Care and Feeding of Roses. Another, larger book, a manual about perennials, featured a sketch of a hydrangea on the cover.
“She was self-taught,” Mrs. Dilloway said. “She knew more about plants and flowers than anyone.”
I nodded, watching the old woman gaze about the room. She walked closer to me, gesturing toward the upholstered bench by the window. I followed her lead and sat down. I imagined the children running in to see their mother here. The little girl lying on the bench looking out at the gardens while her mother worked, the boys engrossed in comic books. Such happiness. What had destroyed it?
Mrs. Dilloway appeared frail, more so than I’d noticed before. The light from the lamp illuminated the wrinkles on her skin, the tiredness in her eyes. “It’s no secret that I am old,” she said. “I don’t have much time left.” She patted her thin white hair. “Ms. Sinclair, the Wednesday appointments are not visits to the beauty parlor. I’ve been seeing a doctor. I have cancer. I will soon begin treatment, and I will be unable to keep up my duties here.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry; I didn’t know—”
“I don’t want your pity,” she snapped. “But I do need your help.” She opened the drawer of the desk and pulled out a stack of newspaper clippings. “Before she died, Lady Anna confided in me about a grave matter, something I have been unable to come to terms with all these years.”
I scanned the first newspaper clipping. “This is about that missing girl,” I said. “Lila Hertzberg.”
“Yes,” Mrs. Dilloway re
plied. “And there are others, too.”
I flipped to the next clipping. “Jane Ianella,” I said, before reading the others. “Ellen Hanover, Doris Wheeler, Beatrice Crane, Lisbeth O’Neely.” I shook my head. “All of them abducted.”
Mrs. Dilloway nodded, reaching up to a pewter jewelry box on the top shelf of the bookcase. “Lady Anna found this,” she said.
I took the box in my hands and opened the lid, where I found a gold bracelet resting on the blue velvet lining. I picked it up and looked at Mrs. Dilloway. “I don’t understand. What is this?”
“Read the inscription,” she said.
I turned the bracelet over and noticed an engraving on the back. “To Lila, With Love.”
“You think it’s . . .”
Mrs. Dilloway pointed to the stack of newspaper clippings.
I tugged at my wristwatch. “But Lila was a common name back then, wasn’t it? How could she be so sure that it belonged to that Lila?”
Mrs. Dilloway took the bracelet in her hand and turned it over, pointing to the “H” stamped on the clasp. “Because her father was a jeweler,” she said. “Hertzberg Jewelers.”
I gasped. “Where did Lady Anna find the bracelet?”
Mrs. Dilloway paused before answering. “In Lord Livingston’s bedroom.”
“Did you see Mrs. Dilloway this morning?” Rex asked after breakfast on the terrace.
“Just briefly,” I replied. I had yet to mention my midnight encounter to him. “Why?”
“She doesn’t look well.”
“She needs rest,” I said, concerned. “It’s time we insist that she take some time off.”
Though Mrs. Dilloway didn’t agree to a day off, she did come sit beside us on the terrace that afternoon with Mrs. Klein.
We played Thirty-one, and Mrs. Dilloway, at first reluctant, proved to be quite the competitor, winning four games in a row.
Later, while Rex dozed in a chaise longue, Mrs. Klein gazed at the orchard. “When you see a place every day for so many years,” she reflected, “you stop noticing how beautiful it is.”
“It’s lovely,” I said, nodding.
“Sometimes I feel sorry for her,” she continued.
“For who?”
“For Lady Anna,” she said.
Mrs. Dilloway sat up straighter in her chair, but looked away as though she had no interest in joining in the discussion.
“Why?” I asked.
“Well, of course, I never knew her,” Mrs. Klein continued, “but I can imagine her plight. A talented gardener who never felt the joy her creation brought to so many is like the cook who never glimpses the smiles of appreciation for her desserts.”
“I know exactly what you mean,” I said. “The rare tea rose in my New York garden wouldn’t have the same appeal without Rex there to enjoy it with me.”
Mrs. Klein nodded to herself.
“Maybe she’s looking down on it all?” I said after a moment of silence.
“She’s probably busy planting flowers in heaven for the angels,” she said quietly. Mrs. Dilloway raised her head for a brief moment before quickly turning back to the row of hydrangeas below the terrace. They’d recently come into bloom, and the effect was a stunning wall of blue. Blue hydrangeas only grow in acidic soil, and I wondered if Lady Anna had sprinkled the roots with coffee grounds over the years. It was the only way I could get a client’s hydrangeas tinged the perfect shade of periwinkle she’d hoped for.
“Well,” I said. “I think I’ll go take a nap.” I poured a cup of tea, and walked back up to the second-floor bedroom, thinking of Lady Anna with each step. Had she tried to notify someone of what she’d found before she died? Had she confronted Lord Livingston? I couldn’t wait to discuss all the details with Rex.
I closed the bedroom door behind me, and immediately heard Rex’s cell phone buzzing from his bag. I opened the flap to fish for the phone, but before I could retrieve it, I noticed a manila file folder labeled “Amanda.”
CHAPTER 18
Flora
In the days Desmond was at the manor, he’d successfully avoided his father, with the help of Mr. Beardsley and Mrs. Dilloway, of course. He wanted to see the children desperately, but we agreed it would be best to keep quiet for now. One word from Katherine or Janie, and Lord Livingston’s temper would flare. I wondered about the reason for their falling-out, but I didn’t press Desmond for details, and he didn’t seem eager to share them.
One morning after breakfast, I met him in the drawing room. He closed the doors behind us and took me in his arms. “I’ve just received a telegram from my commanding officer,” he said. “I’m afraid I have to report to London.”
“Oh, Desmond,” I cried. “Please tell me everything’s all right. Please tell me you won’t be in any danger.”
“Yes,” he said, smoothing a lock of hair away from my face. “At least, I think so.”
“How long will you be gone?”
“I don’t know.”
“But the children, you haven’t even seen them yet. What will I tell them?”
“Don’t tell them anything,” he said quickly. “I don’t want to worry them. Besides, I’ll be back before you know it.” He traced my face with his finger. “Promise me you won’t go anywhere?”
“I promise.”
He kissed my cheek and then he was gone.
A month passed, and then another. By then, I’d stopped jumping up the moment I heard a car pulling up the manor drive. “Don’t worry so much,” Mrs. Dilloway said to me one afternoon. “He’ll come home again.” It was as if she could read my mind.
While I waited, I settled into a comfortable routine with the children. I’d lost sight of the Middlebury Pink, the orchard, until one evening, just after sunset, when a kiss of light remained in the sky, I looked out my bedroom window to the camellias. A shadowy figure weaved in and out of the trees. Someone’s out there.
“Excuse me, sir,” I said, knocking on the door of the butler’s pantry, where Mr. Beardsley always went after breakfast. It was less a pantry and more an office, with a closet where the silver was kept. The room adjoined the wine cellar, which always remained locked.
“Yes, Miss Lewis,” Mr. Beardsley said, looking up at me from his desk. His very demeanor commanded respect.
“I’m sorry to interrupt, sir,” I said. The children were still having breakfast, and I had another fifteen minutes before I’d meet them in the nursery. “I wanted to mention something to you. Something I saw.”
“Oh? What did you see, Miss Lewis?”
“Last night,” I said, “before I went to sleep, I saw from my window a man—in the orchard, sir.”
“A man?”
“Yes,” I replied. “It seemed strange. Who would be walking out there so late?”
“Strange, indeed,” he said. “I’ll ask Mr. Humphrey to go have a look this afternoon.”
Later that morning, I ran into Mrs. Dilloway and Sadie just outside the nursery. “Is everything all right, Miss Lewis?” Sadie asked. “You look tired.”
“Yes,” I said. “I’m fine.”
“You’ve been working so hard since you arrived,” she continued. “Why don’t you . . .” Sadie looked at Mrs. Dilloway and then back at me.
“What is it, Sadie?”
“Well,” she continued. “I don’t mean to overstep my bounds, but it’s just that, well, Mrs. Dilloway, Miss Lewis hasn’t had a day off since she arrived.”
Mrs. Dilloway’s stiff expression softened momentarily. “Yes,” she said. “You’re right, Sadie. Miss Lewis, if you’d like to have a day to yourself, you may.”
Sadie smiled victoriously as I turned toward the children in the nursery. Nicholas, who’d been listening to our exchange, made a sour face behind Mrs. Dilloway’s back.
“I can take care of the children while you�
��re out,” Sadie said, indicating the doorway. “Why don’t you go into town, have a look around? You haven’t done anything but chase after children and mend clothes since you arrived.” She turned to Mrs. Dilloway. “And she could ride in with Lord Livingston and return this afternoon.”
Mrs. Dilloway hesitated. “But, I don’t—”
“He wouldn’t mind,” Sadie added. “Miss Fairfield used to have every Saturday off, and he’d let her ride along into town with him.”
Mrs. Dilloway nodded. “All right,” she said, a bit reluctantly. She eyed her watch and smiled. “You have just enough time to run down to your room to fetch your handbag.”
“Well,” I said, “as long as you don’t think Lord Livingston would mind.”
“Oh, before I forget,” Mrs. Dilloway said, reaching into her pocket and pulling out a letter, “this came for you.”
“For me?” I examined the envelope, expecting something from Mama and Papa, but I didn’t recognize the handwriting or the return address in London. “Thank you,” I said, turning to the stairs.
Inside my bedroom, I closed the door behind me, tore open the envelope, and held the letter in my hands.
Don’t get too cozy there, Miss Lewis. You have a job to do. Complete your assignment or I’ll pay a visit to your father, and it won’t be a cordial one.—Philip
I closed my eyes tightly, crumpling the letter in my clenched fist.
Mr. Humphrey had his head in the trunk of the car when I approached the driveway. “Oh, hello, Miss Lewis,” he said, flashing a startled smile. He threw two dirt-stained work gloves inside the trunk, then slammed it shut, before holding the side door open for me. I slid into the backseat and placed my black purse on the floor near my feet, where I immediately noticed a glint of metal that had caught the sunlight. I hovered for a closer look. “Mr. Humphrey, I think I’ve found something—”
“Ah, yes,” he said, swooping in to collect what looked like a silver necklace from the floor of the car. “There it is. I thought I’d lost it. It’s a gift for my mum. Purchased it in town yesterday.” I watched as he opened the glove compartment and tucked it inside, looking behind him when he heard the crunch of gravel in the distance.
