by Sarah Jio
“Sneaky,” I said with a smile.
Desmond wiped a few stray cake crumbs from his mouth and walked toward the butler’s pantry. “None of it’s changed since the day I came to live here. Beardsley’s desk, the linen closet”—he looked up at the lightbulb that dangled from a wire in the hall—“everything.”
My eyes narrowed. “Oh, I always assumed you were born here, that your family had always lived here.”
“Well, I . . . it’s a long story,” he said.
We walked together to my bedroom door. “Say,” Desmond said, looking at the back door, “it’s a beautiful night. Let’s go look at the stars.”
I smiled, remembering how we’d gazed at the stars when we first met. “Like that night on the ship?” I asked.
“Precisely,” he replied. “I’d imagine they still have quite a lot to say.” He held the back door open for me, and together we walked outside. “Look,” he said, pointing ahead. “Not a cloud in the sky.”
“I don’t think I’ve ever been out here this late,” I said, marveling at the moon overhead. “Honestly, the place is a bit spooky in the dark.”
“Don’t worry,” he said with a grin. “I won’t keep you out past your bedtime.” He reached for my hand. “You’re cold,” he said, blowing warm air into my hand.
“It’s a bit chillier than it looked.”
“I’ll just run around to the front and grab my coat for you.”
I smiled, remembering the way he’d draped his coat over my shoulders on our first night together. It felt like a lifetime ago.
A moment later, he was back by my side, holding out his coat for me to slip my arms into. It was heavy and thick, and I was glad for its warmth as we walked beyond the terrace.
“I used to love coming out here at night,” he said, gazing out at the gardens. We wound through what was left of the rose garden, passing a pink bloom that grew despite neglect, and looked out over the grassy hillside that led down to the orchard. He pointed to a stone bench ahead, and we sat together.
“Desmond, what happened between you and your father?”
“It’s complicated,” he said. He didn’t look much like Lord Livingston, not really. I imagined he must take after Lady Anna.
“You know what I used to like to do, when I was a boy?”
“What?”
“I would come out here with Mum, and we’d lie in the grass and gaze up at the clouds looking for pictures. Once I saw a steam engine, as plain as day.”
“You were close, you and your mother, weren’t you?”
“We were,” he said.
I hesitated before speaking again. “How did she die?” I only knew what Sadie had told me.
Desmond sighed.
“If it’s too hard to talk about, I understand. I just—”
“No,” he said, raising his eyes to look at the orchard. He remained quiet for a few moments before speaking again. “She and Father had a terrible fight,” he began. “There was always a lot of fighting. He wanted her to be someone she wasn’t, to keep her in this house, like a little bird on display in a golden cage. But she couldn’t be confined that way. She wanted to be free.” He threw a pebble down the hillside. “One day, I found her on the terrace crying. I asked her what was the matter and she said she was thinking about going away for a while. She asked me if I’d take her to the train station. Of course I tried to talk her out of it. But she insisted. Said she wanted to go home to Charleston by herself, and that she’d be back after she cleared her head.”
“So you drove her there, then? To the train station?”
“No,” he said, looking at his lap briefly. “Father overheard our conversation from the upper deck. He stormed down in a terrible rage, blaming me for meddling in his business. Blaming me for everything, actually.”
“I don’t understand,” I said. “How could he be so accusing?”
“We’ve never seen eye to eye,” he said, “and I’ve come to realize that we may never.”
He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Anyway, Father was terribly angry. I’d never seen him like that before. Mum came unglued. They shouted at each other. Father stormed out. After that, Mum called Mr. Blythe up from the rose garden and invited him to join her for tea on the terrace. She did it to spite Father, knowing he could see them from his study. Mr. Blythe loved Mum. Everyone knew that. It used to irritate Abbott. He hated Mr. Blythe.”
“He did?”
Desmond nodded. “Anyway, Mr. Blythe joined Mum for tea. Afterward Mum walked down to the orchard, alone.”
“Did your father go out looking for her later?”
“No,” he said. “I don’t think he thought anything of it. Arguments were commonplace for them, and Mum always found solitude in the orchard.” He folded and then unfolded his hands. “But Mum didn’t come up for dinner, and I began to worry, so I decided to go talk to her, encourage her to come back home. It was getting dark, and she never liked the orchard at night. I walked down the hill and just past the meadow, at the edge of the orchard, I found her, lying in the grass.”
“What happened to her?”
“Her heart had stopped before I found her,” he said, his voice faltering a little. “I keep wondering how things would be different today if I’d only gone after her sooner. If Father hadn’t shouted at her the way he did, if he hadn’t driven her away . . .”
“Oh, Desmond,” I said, “how terrible for you.”
“It was,” he said. “I carried her up to the house. Fortunately, the children were asleep, so they didn’t see her in that state.”
“Do you know why she collapsed?”
“No one knows for sure,” he said. “And believe me, we all took it hard. Mrs. Dilloway, especially, and Abbott. He was so protective of Mum. For a time, every one of us was a suspect. But in the end, the doctor concluded that she died of natural causes. She was born with a weak heart. But Father blames me for her death. And I suppose, in a way, I blame him.”
“But of course neither of you is to blame,” I said.
Desmond shook his head.
“You don’t mean that he . . . ?”
“No,” he said. “No, he didn’t kill her, if that’s what you mean. I think she died of unhappiness.”
I shivered at the thought.
“I suppose we’ll never know, though,” he said. “I’m ready to move forward with my life now, ready to put it all behind me. Whether my father played a part in her death or not, I can’t hate him forever. Hate is like cancer; it corrodes the heart. I’ve decided to forgive him for the past. It’s why I came home again, why I want to see him this time. The war’s given me an eerie sense about leaving without mending fences with him.”
“I’m sure your father will appreciate what you have to say.”
“I hope,” he said with a sigh. “I just wish we could have saved her. I’ve turned the story over in my mind a hundred times, and I still can’t make any sense of it. I miss her so much.” He looked up at the big star that sparkled overhead. “You know, I’ve thought an awful lot about this, and I think that people are much like those stars up there. Some burn faintly for millions of years, barely visible to us on earth. They’re there, but you’d hardly know it. They blend in, like a speck on a canvas. But others blaze with such intensity, they light up the sky. You can’t help but notice them, marvel at them. Those are the ones that never last long. They can’t. They use up all their energy quickly. Mum was one of those.”
“That’s beautiful,” I said.
Desmond continued to stare up at the sky.
“Do you think you’ll come back home,” I asked, “after the war?”
He looked thoughtful for a moment. “I don’t know. When I was a boy, Mum would take me out here and we’d talk about life and where I might end up when I became a man. She told me never to stop searching until
I find my true north.”
“Your true north?”
“She wasn’t talking about a direction, in the longitudinal sense, but rather finding my way, my place in life, the intersection of life and love. My truth.” He paused, turning to me. “The day I stepped off the ship in Liverpool,” he said, “I made a promise to myself.”
I looked up at him curiously, with a shy smile, and waited for him to finish.
“I promised that if I ever saw you again, I’d make sure I never let you out of my sight.”
His words surprised me, and yet they were heartfelt. I knew, because I felt that way too. I searched his face. “What are you saying?”
“I mean that after the war, after all of this is behind us, I want to spend every day of my life with you, Flora Lewis.”
My mouth fell open. “Do you really mean that?”
“With all my heart,” he said, kissing me tenderly.
I hardly knew him, of course. But I knew I loved him, perhaps from the moment I’d first seen him.
“Make me the happiest man,” he said, “and promise me you’ll wait for me. Promise me you’ll be here after the war.”
My mind swirled with flashes of Mama and Papa, Mr. Price, the children, but everything paled when I looked into Desmond’s eyes. “I promise.”
I looked to the left when a figure suddenly appeared in the distance, trudging up the hill from the orchard. Desmond rose, moving in front of me protectively. “There’s an encampment of gypsies a few miles to the east of here,” he said in a hushed voice. “Sometimes we get drifters.”
“Yes,” I said, “your father told me.”
It was difficult to make out the figure ahead, but his shadow loomed large. “Who’s there?” Desmond shouted.
The figure, a man, stopped to look at us, then walked a little closer, until the light from the house illuminated his face.
I gasped. “Mr. Humphrey?”
“Miss Lewis,” he said, tipping his cap. He held a shovel in one hand and a burlap sack in the other. “Good evening, Lord Desmond.”
“Hello, Humphrey,” Desmond replied curtly. “What were you doing in the orchard at this hour?”
Mr. Humphrey fidgeted for a long moment. “I was just checking on the carriage house, sir,” he said. “I thought I saw a light down there a day ago and wanted to be sure we didn’t have anyone setting up shop.”
“Very well,” Desmond said. “And did you find everything to be in good order?”
“Yes, my Lord.”
Desmond eyed the burlap sack Mr. Humphrey held. “What’s in the sack, Humphrey?”
“Oh, this, my Lord? It’s nothing. Just, er, thought I might bring Mrs. Marden some potatoes if I found some.”
“Potatoes?”
“Yes, my Lord. There are wild potatoes that grow down there.”
“All right, Humphrey, don’t let us keep you, then,” Desmond said.
“Goodnight, Miss Lewis,” Mr. Humphrey said before continuing on toward the house.
Desmond turned to me. “I don’t like him,” he whispered. “Never have.”
“He means well,” I said.
“Just the same, I don’t trust him.”
Desmond stood up and looked toward the driveway. “A car,” he said. “Who’s here?”
We watched as Lord Livingston stepped out into the driveway. “He must have taken an earlier train,” I said. “Mr. Beardsley wasn’t expecting him until tomorrow. I sure hope everything’s all right.” I stood and took a step toward the house, but Desmond reached for my hand.
“I can’t,” he said. “I can’t see him. Not yet. I’m not ready.”
“Then what are you going to do? We can’t exactly hide you this time, now that the children have seen you.”
“That’s exactly what I was going to ask you to do,” he said. “Just until tomorrow. The children are in bed, and Father’s always in a better mood once he’s had a good night’s sleep. I’d rather meet him then than surprise him tonight when he’s tired and been through God knows what sort of ordeal in London.”
“You have a point.”
“Take me through the basement,” he said. “I can’t stay on the second floor. I can’t risk running into him tonight. Believe me, you don’t want to see Father’s temper.”
“Wait,” I said. “I have an idea. Come with me.”
We tiptoed into the basement through the back door, careful not to wake Mr. Beardsley as we passed his bedroom. His snoring rattled the plaster. At the linen closet, I slowly opened the door. It creaked, and I cringed at the sound. “Here,” I whispered, handing him a blanket and extra pillow. “We’ll go up the back staircase.”
The rear staircase was primarily used by Sadie, who transported the linens and laundry to and from the basement. We opened the door to the third floor, and I looked both ways before stepping into the hallway. “Where are you taking me?” Desmond whispered.
“You’ll see,” I replied with a grin.
I knelt down to the floorboard and lifted the flap of carpeting to reveal the key. I slipped it into the lock. Desmond followed me inside. “What is this?”
“You mean you’ve never been up here?”
“No,” he said. “The door’s always been locked. I assumed it was attic space.” He walked inside, marveling at the pink bougainvillea trained around the arbor. He breathed in the scent of the citrus trees. “This was Mum’s, wasn’t it?”
“Yes.”
He walked to the orchid table. “Everywhere she went, there was beauty. I’m surprised Father hasn’t gutted this place.”
“Mrs. Dilloway saved it. She kept it just as your mother left it. I come up here to water the plants and look after them. I brought Katherine up here too. She liked that.” I plucked a browned leaf from one of the dendrobiums and turned back to Desmond. “Stay here tonight. There are a few sacks of peat moss over there by the window; they’d make a fine mattress. And the sunrise ought to be spectacular.”
Desmond set the blanket and pillow down on a burlap sack of peat. “Yes,” he said, soaking up his mother’s presence, “it will be perfect.”
He walked to the edge of the conservatory and opened a window. The hinges squeaked.
“Shhh,” I said. “Your father will hear.”
Desmond kept his ear pressed to the window. “Listen, do you hear that?”
Soft music filtered through the open window. “I’ll See You in My Dreams,” he said.
I smiled. “I beg your pardon?”
“That song,” he said. “I know it. Django Reinhardt.” He walked toward me intently and took my hands in his. “Dance with me.”
The music had to be coming from Lord Livingston’s suite below, but I didn’t care. My body flowed with Desmond’s effortlessly, naturally. We fit. I pressed my cheek against his, and when the song ended, he pulled me closer than he ever had before and pressed his lips against mine.
The next morning, I sat up quickly, disoriented. I had dreamed that I met Lady Anna in the camellia orchard. She said she needed my help, to save the camellia she loved most, the Middlebury Pink. A headless man loomed in the distance, with a torch in hand and a black spider on his lapel, and we raced to save the tree before he burned it. Anna was lovelier than I could have imagined, and I had felt ordinary and plain in her presence.
I dressed quickly and went upstairs to check on Abbott, thinking of his mother.
I approached Abbott’s bedroom and knocked. “It’s Miss Lewis,” I said. “How are you feeling this morning?”
“Come in,” he called out.
I set a tray of toast and tea on the table near his bed, while he sat up and stretched.
“Better,” he said.
I held my hand to his forehead. “Your fever is gone. I’m so relieved.”
“How long will Desmond stay here with u
s?”
“Well, I suppose as long as he’d like to. It’s his home too, Abbott.”
The boy turned to face the wall.
“I wish you’d tell me why you’re so upset with Desmond,” I said.
“I don’t want to talk about it!” he cried, sinking back and covering his head with his pillow.
“All right,” I said. “You rest today, but we must work this out. You two are brothers, after all.”
Downstairs, Sadie waved at me from the kitchen. “Mr. Beardsley’s looking for you,” she said. “He needs us in the servants’ hall.”
“What’s going on?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “But I think it’s something big.”
I was eager to bring Desmond a pot of tea and pastry in the conservatory, so I hoped Mr. Beardsley would impart the news quickly. And painlessly.
“What do you think he’s going to say?” Sadie whispered.
“I have no idea,” I replied.
“How’s Abbott?”
“Better, thankfully.”
“I’ll look in on him this morning while you’re with the children,” she said.
“Thanks,” I whispered.
Mr. Beardsley and Mrs. Marden walked into the room together, exchanging a glance, before she sat down beside him near the head of the table.
Mr. Beardsley stared ahead. “It has come to my attention that some of the crystal and silver has gone missing.”
Sadie gasped.
“These are heirlooms that belong to this house,” he continued, looking at each one of us carefully. “And I will stop at nothing to see that they are returned. Do I make myself clear?”
We all nodded.
After breakfast, Sadie and I followed Mrs. Marden into the kitchen. “Strange about those things going missing,” Sadie said. “What do you think’s going on? You don’t suppose we have a real, live thief in the house, do you?”
I prayed that I didn’t look guilty. I wouldn’t dream of stealing from the Livingstons, and yet, my intentions weren’t far removed.
“It’s a shame,” Mrs. Marden added. “Lord only knows who could be involved.”
