by Sarah Jio
“So there were four of you, then?”
He looked off into the distance before his eyes met mine again. “There was another,” he said. “Desmond.”
“Desmond?”
“Our eldest brother,” he said. “He disappeared in the war. Sadly, they never found him.”
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“Well, Ms. Sinclair,” he said as a cab pulled up in front of the manor, “it has been a pleasure. I’ll keep you informed of our progress with the investigation. The police will likely be by to take your statement and look around.”
“That’s fine,” I said. “I’ll let my in-laws know.” I watched the cab motor away before stopping along the walkway to admire the peonies, growing in profusion in a garden bed. Their blooms were so lush, so heavy, they bent forward onto the gravel pathway as if to kiss the ground. I knelt down to prop them up. “Poor things,” I said. “Someone needs to stake you.” I stood up. “I’ll just go see if I can find some twine in the house.”
I looked up to the steps, and I almost didn’t see him there; he blended into the gray of the stone. But when I did, my heart stopped.
“Hello again, Amanda,” he said.
CHAPTER 26
Flora
Desmond waited in the foyer as I slipped into the dining room, taking my usual place at the table beside Janie. Lord Livingston immediately stood up and set his napkin down. “Miss Lewis,” he said, smiling cheerfully. “It’s so very good to see you again.”
“You as well,” I replied.
He’d been gone for two months, but I felt as if years had passed. He was visibly thinner, and more gray had appeared along his hairline.
“We’re all so glad you’re home safe,” I said.
“Thank you,” he replied.
Mr. Beardsley refilled the children’s water glasses and cast a nervous glance toward the foyer. Mrs. Dilloway nodded at Desmond to signal it was time.
“Forgive me for the interruption, your Lordship,” Mr. Beardsley said cautiously, “but there’s someone here to see you.”
Lord Livingston set his napkin on the table. “Oh? I didn’t hear anyone come in.”
Mr. Beardsley looked toward the foyer and nodded at Desmond, who slowly walked into the dining room.
“Hello, Father,” he said, stopping at the head of the table.
Katherine cheered. “Can you believe it, Father? Desmond’s come home!”
“I see,” Lord Livingston said, looking away.
An icy silence fell over the dining room. Thankfully, Janie tapped her fork on her plate and squealed.
“Aren’t you happy, Father?” Katherine asked nervously.
Lord Livingston stood up and faced Desmond. “I will speak to you privately.”
They walked out to the foyer, and Mr. Beardsley followed, closing the door behind them.
I tried to distract the children from the shouting we all could hear. A few minutes later, Desmond stormed out the front door, slamming it behind him. Lord Livingston returned to the dining room smoothing his hair, which appeared unusually disheveled. He took a deep breath before addressing us. “I’ve asked him to pack his things and leave at once.”
“But, Father,” Nicholas said, clearly devastated.
Katherine began to cry.
“He can’t stay here,” he said coldly, as if speaking of a stranger instead of his own flesh and blood.
“But why, Father?” Katherine cried. “Why must you be so cruel?”
“I’ve made my decision,” he said, turning to Mr. Beardsley.
“Your Lordship,” Mrs. Dilloway said boldly, “I beg you to reconsider.” She reduced her voice to a hush. “For her Ladyship’s sake.”
“Yes,” Mr. Beardsley added. “He’s family. You can’t turn away family.”
Lord Livingston threw his napkin on the table and rose. “Why yes, old chap,” he said, “you can.” He looked at all of us. “Is there anything else you’re keeping from me?”
Mrs. Dilloway nodded. “You may like to know that Abbott has been ill,” she said cautiously. “He had a high fever. The doctors said it was a bout of meningitis, but he’s making a good recovery.”
“May I go see him?” he asked, his eyes flooded with emotion.
“He’s sleeping now,” Mrs. Dilloway said. “You might attend to your other son first.”
“Father!” Katherine cried. “Please, can’t you let Desmond stay? Won’t you make an exception? England is at war!”
He slammed his fist on table, rattling the water glasses. “I’m well aware of the state of the war.”
Katherine began to sob; Janie too. Nicholas’s face went white.
I stood up and lifted Janie into my arms. “There, there,” I said, patting her back softly. I could no longer keep quiet. My heart raced as I turned to Lord Livingston. I didn’t care anymore about the Middlebury Pink, the delicate family issues. I cared about the children. “You may know what’s best for the manor,” I said, “but you certainly don’t know what’s best for your children.” I turned to them and extended my hand. “Katherine, Nicholas, come with me.”
Only once the children were settled in with their tutors did I pause to consider the degree to which my confronting Lord Livingston had compromised my position in the house. I peered through the window glass, but I couldn’t bear to look at my reflection.
Out my bedroom window, I watched the way the sunlight filtered through the clouds onto the camellia trees, making their emerald leaves sparkle. I went to the closet and retrieved the easel that Lord Livingston had bought for me, then reached for the box of art supplies underneath the bed.
I placed the tubes of paint on the palette and selected a small canvas. I prepared the palette with an assortment of colors, then closed my eyes, remembering the way the moors had looked when I rode into town with Lord Livingston. He’d been so different on that drive into the village before he left for London. Had that been the side of him that Lady Anna had fallen in love with? I dipped my brush into the black paint and then mixed in some white until I’d created the right shade of gray, then touched the brush to the canvas. I loved the feeling of the paintbrush in my hand. He’d been kind to buy me the art supplies, but I remembered how he’d behaved in the dining room and at other times before that. How could he be so cruel, so unfeeling?
Once I’d painted the clouds, I moved on to the hills, mixing a sage green color for the grass and then dotting the foreground with a bit of lavender to simulate the heather. I stepped back from the canvas and frowned. It needed something else. But what? I looked out the window to the orchard.
The Middlebury Pink. Who took the page from Lady Anna’s book? Lord Livingston? I dabbed my brush into the brown paint and created the structure of the tree. Next I dotted the branches with its heart-shaped leaves and large, white, saucer-size blossoms with pink tips. I stepped back again to have a look at my work.
“You’ve captured it beautifully.”
I turned around, startled. Lord Livingston stood in the doorway.
“It was my wife’s favorite camellia,” he said. “The Middlebury Pink. It took me a great deal of time and energy to locate it. She’d seen it in an old botanical book and wanted it more than anything in the world. The same variety had once grown at Buckingham Palace, you know.” He looked lost in thought. “She was like that, Anna. She could become absolutely consumed by something. But nothing captured her attention like the camellias. I hired a gardener to search the country. After a year, we almost gave up. Its existence seemed only a fable. Botanists who devoted their careers to studying rare flowers scoured the country for the variety. But no one could find it. I couldn’t fail her. I wouldn’t. Then, a man in the village said he believed the Middlebury Pink was here on the property of Livingston Manor. Of course I didn’t believe him at first, but then we found it, near the carriage house. A botan
ist identified it, which wasn’t easy to do when it wasn’t in bloom.” He shook his head. “It had spent the last century undetected right under our noses. I kept the secret to myself and then surprised her with it on Christmas morning.” He rubbed his forehead. “That wretched tree never bloomed for her, though. She always said it would bloom when it sensed peace, and a rightness with the world.” He kept his eyes on the canvas, and smiled. “Yes, you’ve captured it perfectly, Miss Lewis,” he said, wiping away a tear. “It’s a wonder that you have such an interest in botany.”
He sat on the bed, looking out to the orchard. “There are many things I regret in life,” he said. “But there’s so much I regret about Anna.”
“Please,” I said. “We all make mistakes. You mustn’t blame yourself.”
He shook his head. “But I should,” he said. “And now I must pay.” He collected himself and stood beside me. “I’m sorry I bothered you.” He turned to the door.
“Please wait,” I said. “What about Desmond? Surely whatever disagreement you had isn’t worth losing your son forever.”
Lord Livingston sighed noncommittally. “I can’t promise reconciliation,” he said, “but I have asked him to stay.”
“And how did he answer?”
“He’s giving it some thought.”
“Good,” I said. “He’ll be shipping out soon, for the war, and I know you’ll be glad you had the time you did with him.”
His eyes met mine. “I suppose we all will.”
At breakfast the next morning in the servants’ hall, Mr. Beardsley turned away from his notebook and stood up abruptly. “Miss Lewis,” he said. “May I have a word with you?”
“Of course, sir,” I replied, following him to the butler’s pantry.
“Have a seat,” he said, closing the door.
“I’ve been going over the logbooks,” he began, “and I’ve come across something that may be a coincidence. Forgive me for asking, but the gentleman who paid you a visit recently—what is his relationship to you?”
My palms felt moist. Mr. Price. “I didn’t know that you—”
“Mrs. Dilloway told me of his visit,” he said. “We keep record of everyone who comes to the manor. It’s a tradition.”
“Oh,” I said, shaken. She must have been the one who let him in.
“Miss Lewis,” he continued. “I didn’t realize it until this morning, but the day the silver and crystal went missing was the day your visitor came to the manor. Surely you can understand my concern.”
I nodded.
“Who was he, Miss Lewis? Please.”
I rubbed my forehead.
“Miss Lewis,” Mr. Beardsley said again. “Are you in some kind of trouble? Because if you are, let us help you.”
I stared up into his big, kind face. I had deceived these people, and I was ashamed of myself. Deeply ashamed. “Yes,” I said. “I am. But I can take care of myself. I wouldn’t dream of burdening you or anyone at the manor. Forgive me for the intrusion. If it turns out that the man did steal those things from you, I will take personal responsibility for it.”
“But, Miss Lewis,” he said. “There’s no way you could cover the costs. They’d cost you four years’ wages, at least.”
“So be it,” I said. “If my presence brought a thief into Livingston Manor, then I will pay the price.”
“That’s very honorable of you,” he said. “But let’s be clear. No one is calling you a thief.”
At the table, I stirred one teaspoon of brown sugar instead of two into my porridge, since Mrs. Marden had warned us of war-related food shortages. We were lucky to still have sugar, she said.
“What was that about?” Sadie whispered to me. “Did he catch the thief?”
I shook my head.
“I think old Beardsley probably misplaced the silver,” she said. “Last month he turned the house upside down to find a missing shoehorn, and sure enough, it was on his desk.”
“I doubt it’s Mr. Beardsley’s doing,” I said. “He knows every ladle in the kitchen.”
She drizzled a bit more cream on her porridge. “I hate to think that there’s a thief among us.”
“Watch it there, missy,” Mrs. Marden warned. “We have to make that stretch; Mr. Beardsley hasn’t had his coffee yet. You know he likes cream.”
Sadie set the pitcher down. “Yes, ma’am.”
“We’re all going to have to get used to living without the little luxuries we’re accustomed to, now that the war’s heating up,” Mrs. Dilloway said.
“Indeed so,” Mrs. Marden added. “I spoke to another cook in town yesterday, and she said she couldn’t even get flour. Molasses was entirely out of the question. Fortunate for us, his Lordship has a supplier in London, but I hear that we won’t be able to count on that route for long. Everything’s being rationed, and it doesn’t matter who you are or who you know. The pickings are slim.”
Sadie leaned in to me. “No wonder someone’s stealin’,” she whispered.
I remembered seeing Mr. Humphrey late the other night. The incident struck me as strange, especially after talking to Mrs. Marden about potatoes. “Sadie,” I whispered, “does Mr. Humphrey have any business being in the orchard?”
She scratched her head. “The orchard? Why would he be in the orchard? He’s the chauffeur.”
“Exactly,” I said.
CHAPTER 27
Addison
Sean took a step toward me, smiling in a way that made my hair stand on end. “Did you think I forgot about you?”
I have to get out of here.
He continued to smile. “Cat got your tongue?”
I inched backward.
“Actually,” he said, “don’t talk. I’ll do the talking. You see, prison time is thinking time.” He was close now, too close. “Time to think about what I’d say to you if I saw you again. What I’d do.” He clutched my wrist. “My, you’re pretty. I watched you getting dressed this morning.” He nodded. “And, I mean, damn, girl. You’re a ten, Amanda. An eleven. But you ought to consider getting some shades in the bedroom there. You never know who could be watching you.”
I looked away from his face, that awful, twisted smile.
“Have you told him yet?” he said, keeping a tight grasp on my wrist. “Have you told him what you’ve done?”
At once, I was fifteen again. Scared. Trapped. I hated that he could reduce me to this level.
“I asked you a question, Amanda,” he said, his eyes narrowing, his mouth forming an angry snarl.
I heard a car on the road. I prayed that it would turn toward the manor. Please, God. Please, let it be Rex. He’d called that morning and promised to be back sometime in the afternoon. The engine noise grew louder, closer, until the car passed. My heart sank.
Then, I remembered the keys in my pocket, the ones Rex had left with me. There was one to the front door and another for the car. If I could break free, if I was fast, I could get to the old Rolls-Royce in the driveway. Parked in front of the fountain in the circle drive, it wasn’t far. But could I get there?
“Amanda!” he said again, this time more insistent.
He let go of my wrist, moving his hand to my waist, which is when I broke away. “Don’t call me that!” I screamed, running to the car. Just a few more paces. I heard his feet dig into the gravel, as if in slow motion. I pried open the door and leapt inside. He reached the driver’s side door just as I pushed the latch. I leaned to the other side to lock it too. My hands trembled as I fumbled with the key. It slipped out of my hand just as I felt a sudden impact beside me. Sean had bashed the window with an urn. The glass shattered into a jagged pattern, revealing a hole the size of a baseball. Like an animal that knows its prey is near, he reached his hand through the hole, tugging at the shards. Blood dripped from the window and he cursed me, pulling his hand back. I jammed the key in th
e ignition and revved the engine, peeling out of the driveway so fast, gravel sprayed into the air.
I saw him in the rearview mirror, running after me, shouting. I gunned the engine.
I wished I had my cell phone to dial Rex, the police. It was only a ten-mile drive into town. I blinked hard, feeling the sting of fresh tears. I recognized a song on the radio, playing faintly through the car’s old speakers: Good day, sunshine. Good day, sunshine. The lyrics seemed to mock me. There was nothing about this day that was good or ever could be. Tears blurred my vision, and as I reached to wipe them away, I started to lose control of the car. I’d forgotten about the steep curves on this part of the road. I grasped the steering wheel as the car lurched left. I heard the gritty crush of metal on metal as the car pushed past a flimsy guardrail, catapulting over the hillside.
No, no, please God, no no no . . .
Tall grass and canopy trees hurtled by, and the car hit the hillside with a violent thud and was swallowed whole by the dark forest floor. Warm blood trickled from my nose and left an acrid, metallic taste in my mouth. A bird chirped in the distance, its song pure and sweet—the antithesis of the fear I felt. No, this isn’t happening. I tried to lift my legs from the seat, but they wouldn’t budge. Pain shot through my limbs with the intensity of a freight train. No, I can’t die like this. Alone. So far away from home. Would Sean find me here? Would Rex? My eyes blinked like a camera shutter clicking through the frames of my life, except the images were mismatched and haphazard: a ragged-looking doll with a rose-colored dress; crocheted white baby mittens, slightly unraveled; a row of tulips, vibrant red; Rex’s smile; a rusty weather vane whirling in the wind.
My eyelids fluttered, fighting to remain open, but when they closed, the welcoming image that waited beckoned me to stay, promising to give me the comfort, the peace I longed for.
The camellias.
I could see them, seemingly endless rows of big, bushy green trees with waxy leaves and showy flowers the size of saucers. Pinks, reds—bursting into bloom, as if they’d been painted by the Queen of Hearts.
