by Sarah Jio
“She’s been assaulted,” the man said. “We found her just in time.”
“Come,” Maeve said, standing.
A female officer directed me to a chair in a room in the back. “Please, sit down,” she said. “My name is Lucy.”
She handed me a Styrofoam cup of water. I set it on the table, then bit the edge of my fingernail, tasting fresh blood.
“How long have you done that?” she said, indicating my hand. Instinctively, I tucked my fingers inward, covering my ragged nails.
“It’s a bad habit I’ve been trying to break for years.”
“People do that when they feel trapped, frightened,” she said. “I know. I’ve been doing this job a long time.”
I opened my hands and looked at them with new eyes.
“It’s OK,” she said.
A tear spilled out onto my cheek, and when she asked me my story, I didn’t hold back. I told her everything—about the abuse, Miles, the burns on my wrist, the threatening letters and calls, the promise to divulge my true identity to my husband, the past I’d tried so hard to hide and to move on from. When I’d gotten it all out, I felt lighter, somehow.
“Don’t blame yourself, miss,” Lucy said. “You were fifteen. You were only a child then. Anyone in your position would have done what you did. The important thing is that you tried to help the boy.”
I nodded.
“If you’ll wait right here, I’ll go call our counterpart in America and have them run this Sean character’s name,” she said. “I’ll see what they have on him.”
I nodded. A half hour later, she returned with a handful of pages fresh from the fax machine. She handed me one with a photo of his mug shot. “It’s him, all right,” she said. “Wanted in three states, for theft, rape, child endangerment, and other crimes. If we find him, and with your testimony, we’ll get him back to America, back behind bars where he belongs.”
“Thank you,” I said.
“Where’s your car?” she asked.
“Down the street.”
She nodded. “It’s dark. I’ll have an officer escort you home. For safety.”
“Thanks,” I said.
“Thank you, Amanda,” she continued. “For your bravery.”
I shook my head. “It’s Addison. I’m no longer that girl.”
I had planned to tell Rex about the incident in the park when I got home to the manor, but when I walked into the bedroom and saw his face, I couldn’t. If I told him about that, I’d have to tell him everything. I wasn’t yet ready to shatter his image of me, the one I’d so carefully crafted over the years.
After Rex had fallen asleep, I tiptoed downstairs to make sure all the doors were locked. I stopped in the drawing room when I noticed a few tubes of rolled-up paper in the corner by the windows. Were they the blueprints? I walked over and unrolled them, spreading them out on the floor in front of me. I was happy to see that much of the house would remain the same. A new kitchen would be going in on the first floor. The entryway would get a refresh, with new columns. Fine. The nursery, Anna’s study, the third floor with the conservatory, at least according to these drawings, appeared to be untouched. I flipped to the next page, with a detailed drawing of the property and gardens. Would the orchard be spared? It appeared so, but then I turned to the final page in the stack, and I could hardly believe my eyes. Could it be? Would Rex really have kept this from me? I remembered the way he’d acted when he got the phone call the other day, the way he spoke with secrecy. I shook my head, then started at the page, illustrated with crudely sketched plans for what appeared to be a golf course. A handwritten note in the margin read, “Overgrown orchard will be demolished this summer.” In the corner were my husband’s initials, RLS.
CHAPTER 20
Flora
August 1, 1940
The atmosphere in the house changed the morning Lord Livingston was due back from London. Table linens were pressed with greater diligence. The silver received a second polish. Even the children seemed on edge. Janie clung to me all morning, refusing to nap, and the tutor said that Nicholas was quite distracted during his arithmetic lessons.
We knew when he would arrive, because Mr. Humphrey had gone to pick him up at the train station. It was a fifteen-minute drive into the village and back, so I let the children stand in the driveway to wait for him at half past ten. Janie squealed when the boys spotted the car in the distance, motoring up the winding road toward the house. She began walking toward the vehicle, but I scooped her in my arms.
Katherine patted her braid. I’d twisted it into a bun and pinned it up, surprised at how grown-up she looked. “Do you think Father will notice that I’m wearing my hair up now?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said. “I’m sure he will, dear. He will think you are most beautiful.”
“I hope he brought us presents from London,” Nicholas said, grinning.
Abbott turned to us. “Do you think he got the model airplane I told him about? The one in the Harrods catalog?”
I hoped, for the children’s sake, that their father was as excited to see them as they were him, but when the car pulled up to the driveway, he stepped out without so much as a smile.
“Welcome home, Father!” Nicholas cried.
Lord Livingston walked up the steps to the house and nodded at us. “Hello, children,” he said without emotion, before handing his hat and coat to Mr. Beardsley. “Bring my tea up to my study at once,” he said. “There’s an urgent matter that needs my attention.”
He hurried into the house and the door closed swiftly behind him. It hadn’t felt cold outside when we first stepped outside, but the wind had changed. Janie shivered and Katherine rubbed her arms. Nicholas stuck out his lower lip. “Come, children,” I said. “We’ll see your father later.”
Abbott kicked a pebble and it flew out to the driveway, where it ricocheted off the hubcap near Mr. Humphrey.
“Abbott!” I cried. “Apologize to Mr. Humphrey at once!”
“I won’t!” he shouted, running off to the terrace.
Mr. Humphrey knelt down and immediately began shining the hubcap with his handkerchief. He muttered something under his breath.
“I’m sorry,” I said to the chauffeur. “I’ll speak to him about it.”
“It won’t do any good,” he said, scowling. “I told you that boy’s the devil.”
We didn’t see Lord Livingston again until lunch, and by then the children had spent the morning sulking. But when they arrived at the table a present waited at each of their seats. The parcels were wrapped in blue paper and tied with twine. Katherine let out a scream of joy when she saw hers, tearing open the paper immediately to find a porcelain doll with a dress made of pink silk. Janie received a set of children’s books, and Nicholas a train. My heart fluttered a little when Abbott opened his box. But by the look on his face, I knew the gift wasn’t a model airplane. His face stiffened. “Thank you, Father,” he said, holding up a pair of riding boots. “I will enjoy these.”
Lord Livingston sat at the head of the table and smiled. “There’s something for you, too, Miss Lewis,” he said, indicating a box wrapped in pink paper near the corner of the table.
“Oh,” I said, surprised. “How kind of you, but truly, you didn’t have to get me anything.”
He smiled. All traces of his foul mood from earlier that afternoon had vanished. “I wanted to. Go on, open it.”
Katherine nodded with anticipation. “Yes, please do!”
I pulled the box in front of me, carefully untied the ribbon, then tore the wrapping, lifting the box free and opening the lid. Inside were three small canvases, a smock, a set of acrylic paints, and five paintbrushes.”
“I’ve asked Mr. Humphrey to bring the easel to your room,” he said. His eyes sparkled. “I hope you’ll be pleased.”
“Yes,” I said, finding my voice. “I don’t know ho
w to thank you.”
“You don’t have to,” he said. “Just enjoy it.”
I nodded. “Oh, I will. I promise.”
Nicholas looked at me curiously. “Miss Lewis, we didn’t know you were an artist.”
“Well, I’m not, really,” I said. “But I do enjoy painting flowers and nature.”
“Mummy did too,” Katherine said, smiling at me proudly.
Lord Livingston cleared his throat uncomfortably. “Well, I was hoping you might paint something for us, a scene to add to the manor’s collection, perhaps?”
“Oh, I hardly think anything I’d paint would be worthy.”
“I beg to differ,” he said, nodding to Mr. Beardsley, who ladled soup into the bowl in front of him.
The children ate their lunch happily, and afterward, I excused them to the nursery to play with their gifts. When Mrs. Dilloway and Mr. Beardsley had left, I also got up to leave. But Lord Livingston cleared his throat.
“Will you wait just a moment, Miss Lewis?”
I stopped in the doorway. “Yes, of course.”
“Thank you,” he said.
“For what?”
“For making me see.”
I shook my head. “I don’t understand.”
He sighed. “I’ve been so lost in my grief that I didn’t see that the children needed me.” He rubbed his forehead nervously. “When I came home today, the way you had them out there waiting for me, well, it touched me. I didn’t realize it right away, though. In any case, I do realize I’ve been a loathsome father of late.”
“You haven’t been loathsome,” I said. “Your children love you a great deal.”
“Well,” he said, “I have some making up to do.”
I nodded. “You might start with Abbott. He seems to have gotten it into his head that he needs a model airplane.”
“Oh?”
“Yes,” I said. “Even better if his father would fly a model airplane with him.”
His eyes drifted to the floor as if he’d just realized that everything he thought he knew about his son was as insignificant as yesterday’s newspaper. “I’ll . . .” He paused, looking up at me with a troubled expression. “I’ll give it some thought.”
“Well,” I added, indicating the box of art supplies. “Thank you again, for the gifts. I had better go check on the children.”
After I tucked the children into their beds, I tidied the nursery and yawned as I walked down the stairs. It had been a long day, and I was anxious for sleep, but I’d promised Janie I’d mend her doll’s dress. She’d left it on the sofa in the drawing room. I’d just need to retrieve it before finding Mrs. Dilloway to see about getting the right color pink thread to match the rose-colored fabric.
I hurried into the drawing room, scanning the sofa for Janie’s doll. That’s funny, she only just left it here.
“Looking for this?”
I jumped, turning around quickly to see Lord Livingston holding up the little blond-haired doll.
“Oh, yes,” I said, taking a deep breath.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to frighten you,” he said, walking toward me and placing the doll in my hands.
“You found Agnes,” I said, smiling.
“Agnes?”
“Yes, well, Aggie,” I continued.
“Yes,” he said, turning to the radio on the side table. “Now if I can just get a signal on this bloody thing.”
I knew finicky radios well. The one in the bakery was always dusted with flour, but I never failed to make it produce a signal. I couldn’t knead without a tune. “Would you like me to have a look?” I asked, walking toward the table. “I have a special touch with these contraptions.”
“Thank you,” he said. “If you don’t mind.”
I turned the dial gingerly, and listened as it wavered in and out of frequency, sending out garbled sounds and high-pitched noises. “It’s the antenna,” I said, reaching to the back. I pulled the wire toward the window, and a moment later a male voice drifted through the speakers, as clear as if he were standing right in front of us.
“Quite good,” Lord Livingston said.
I looked back at the door. “Well, I’d better be going.”
“Stay if you like,” he said, gesturing toward the sofa. “I mean, if you’d like to hear an update on the war.”
“I’m afraid I find it all terribly depressing,” I said.
He looked away awkwardly, then stiffened. “Right, yes,” he said.
A series of drumbeats sounded from the radio speakers. “Hitler and his army are advancing. What does this mean for England, for the world?”
My eyes remained fixed on the radio. All I could think of was Desmond. “Well,” I said, sitting down without thinking, “maybe I’ll stay. For just a minute.”
As it had in the car, it felt strange to sit so close to Lord Livingston, especially in the dimly lit room. But war was on the horizon, and the severity of the situation broke down emotional barriers. I clenched my fists at the sound of gunfire through the speakers, and listened intently: “As Hitler and his men sweep through Eastern Europe, more boys have been called up to protect the homefront,” the broadcaster went on, giving detailed reports about the status of the war. We listened for twenty minutes, until the broadcaster finished with, “We can only hope and pray that our home is spared from the atrocities of war. God save England, and God save the Queen!”
Lord Livingston stood and turned the dial until the garbled sound gave way to soft music, like the type you’d hear in a club back home. He sat down again beside me.
“Do you think it’s true, what they’re saying?” I asked. “Do you think war will come to England?”
“None of us wants to believe it, of course,” he said. “But we have to prepare for it.”
I nodded.
“We still have time,” he said. “One of my business associates in London, high-ranking in the Royal Air Force, ensures that nothing is imminent while they’re ramping up their defenses.”
A soft, melodic song began to play. I recognized it immediately. Louis Armstrong. All of me, why not take all of me? I looked down when I felt Lord Livingston’s eyes on me.
“Do you miss home?”
“I do,” I said, studying my hands in my lap. In that moment, my heart ached for Mama and Papa, for the bakery, for the bustling streets of New York, so far from the threat of Hitler, from this strange family and their problems. “I love it here, I do; it’s just that I didn’t anticipate the world changing while I was gone.” I wiped a tear from my cheek.
“Here,” he said, handing me a handkerchief from the pocket of his jacket.
“Thank you,” I said, dabbing my eyes.
I turned around when I heard footsteps behind us. Mrs. Dilloway stood in the doorway. “Pardon my intrusion,” she said stiffly.
Following Lord Livingston’s lead, I stood up quickly.
“Katherine’s had a nightmare,” she said. “You ought to go up and check on her.” Though she was speaking to me, she looked through me. Her eyes—tired, pained—fixed straight ahead, directly at Lord Livingston. I felt awkward standing there, out of place.
“Of course,” I said, my voice cutting the silence like a knife. I hurried past Mrs. Dilloway into the foyer as the door closed behind me, muffling the murmur of their voices.
Upstairs, Katherine sat at the edge of her bed with her knees pulled up to her chest. “I dreamed that Mother had gone into the village with Mr. Humphrey, and, and . . .” She sobbed into her hands. “And that he crashed the car.” She continued to sob. “Mr. Beardsley tried to save her, but he couldn’t.”
“My dear Katherine,” I said lovingly, stroking her hair.
She frowned. “Father’s already forgotten about Mother, hasn’t he?”
“Of course not,” I said quickly.
“He has!” she cried, her eyes welling up with tears once again. “He has, and I hate it!”
Before I retired to the servants’ quarters I stopped in the conservatory. Without a lantern, the space was fairly dark. The moon, partially hidden behind a cloud, provided only a glimmer of light, enough for me to water the plants. Though Mrs. Dilloway had warned me about bats, I jumped when one screeched and flew over the glass roof.
I stood looking out the window. The edge of the palm branch tickled my cheek. What had Katherine said? That it had been a gift to Anna from the King of Thailand? I couldn’t compete for the children’s affection with a woman who’d possessed such unparalleled charm it had summoned gifts from kings, nor should I. I was there for a reason, I reminded myself. The Middlebury Pink.
I peered through the window to Lord Livingston’s terrace below. Music played softly, and I paused to listen to the romantic melody. Under the cover of darkness, I watched as two shadows were cast across the terrace in the moonlight.
The next morning after breakfast, Mr. Humphrey announced that he was taking Lord Livingston to the train station.
“Oh, he’s leaving so soon?” Sadie asked, glancing at Mrs. Dilloway, who appeared more tired than usual this morning.
“All I know is that he had urgent business in the city,” the chauffeur said. “He asked me to have him there by ten and no later.”
Mrs. Dilloway’s eyes met mine before she turned back to her breakfast.
Mrs. Marden shrugged. “If you ask me, it’s just as well. One less mouth to feed around here.”
Mr. Beardsley frowned. “Mrs. Marden, I won’t have you speaking of Lord Livingston in that manner. You’d all do well to know that the reason his Lordship is spending so much time in London has everything to do with our livelihoods at the manor.”
“What do you mean?” Mrs. Marden asked.
“Before you speak ill of him,” Mr. Beardsley continued, “remember that he works very hard for this house, for all of us.”
“Mr. Beardsley,” I said, “has anyone heard from Desmond?”
