by Sarah Jio
He reached into his pocket. “I want you to have something.” He opened my hand and let a cool silver chain fall into my palm.
“What is this?” I asked.
“A very special necklace. It was my mother’s.”
I held it up, taking a closer look at the locket attached to the chain. A flower that looked like a camellia had been engraved on the front. There was no doubt it was the necklace Mrs. Dilloway had described, the one she believed sheltered a precious item inside.
“Desmond,” I said, shaking my head, “where did you find this? Mrs. Dilloway said—”
Desmond smiled to himself. “Mum never took it off. It was her mother’s. It’s quite an antique. Pure silver. They don’t make them like that anymore.”
I tugged on the clasp of the locket, but it was jammed.
“Let me put it on you,” he said. “She would have loved for you to wear it.”
I shivered as his cold hands touched my neck. My heart beat faster as he fastened the clasp. How did he get it?
“Take it off,” Lord Livingston said, appearing from behind us. “That necklace belonged to my wife.”
“But I, I—” I stammered.
“Mum would have wanted Flora to have it, Father,” Desmond said.
Lord Livingston’s eyes narrowed. “What do you know about what your mother wanted? You were just a spoiled child. You were purely a burden to her.”
I hated hearing such ugly words.
Desmond took a step toward his father, fist drawn. “How dare you!”
Anger churned in Lord Livingston’s eyes. I looked away. “You convinced your mother that she didn’t love me,” he said. “You planted the seed in her heart.”
“I didn’t have to plant the seed,” Desmond countered. “It was already there.”
Lord Livingston lunged at him, and the two fell to the snowy ground. I hovered over them, pleading for them to stop. The older man’s eyes swelled with deep sorrow, madness, even. He leapt to his feet, stumbling to the carriage house. When the door wouldn’t open, he kicked it down, pushing his way inside. A moment later, he returned holding an ax.
“No!” I screamed. “What are you doing?”
He walked toward us, but his gaze was fixed on something behind us. The camellia. I gasped. The Middlebury Pink.
“I should have destroyed this tree a long time ago,” he said. I hardly recognized his voice, rough with urgent desperation. “She had too much time to think about life down here. Too much time to grow apart from me.” He wielded the ax over his head. “Step aside!” he shouted.
Desmond and I moved out of the way, but I begged him to stop. “You don’t know what you’re doing! Not this camellia. This one is rare; you said so yourself!” He ignored me, slamming the blade of the ax into the tree’s stately trunk. I winced as it took the first blow. Its branches swayed bravely, trying to hold on, pleading to be spared. But he cocked the ax back again, this time letting it fly toward the tree with greater force. I watched his anguished face. He couldn’t make anyone pay for Anna’s death, or for her great sadness, but he could take out his rage on the camellias. This camellia.
“Please!” I cried, trying in vain to make him stop.
The ax sliced through the trunk completely this time. The tree’s bushy top fell into a heap on the snowy ground, its branches flailing. He fell to his knees, burying his face in his hands. At some point in the scuffle with Desmond, he’d hurt his lip, because a trickle of fresh blood dripped from his face and dotted the snowy ground.
“Father, you’re hurt,” Desmond said, running to his side to take a better look at the wound. “It’s deep,” he continued. “I’m going to get Beardsley. We need a doctor!” He turned to me. “Stay with him. I’ll be back.” And then he ran up the hill to the house.
I took a step closer, cautiously.
“It’s time you go, Miss Lewis,” he said.
I nodded.
“Don’t make it any more difficult than it is,” he continued. “You’ve found the tree. And now it’s gone. No one can have it now.”
A tear spilled down my cheek.
“I won’t tell Desmond, the children,” he said. “It would break their hearts.” He rubbed his brow. “Now it’s time. Please leave us.”
I took a step back and turned quickly toward the path. I ran through the snow, up the hillside to the house ahead. I slipped into the servants’ quarters undetected and frantically piled my belongings into the old leather suitcase. My heart ached when I thought about the children. I ran to the driveway, where Mr. Humphrey was clearing snow from the windshield of the car. “Can you take me to the train station?” I asked, out of breath.
“Of course, Miss Lewis,” he said smiling at me curiously. I noticed a strange glint in his eyes. “Is everything all right?”
“I need to leave,” I said, looking over my shoulder. “Immediately.”
I climbed into the backseat as Mr. Humphrey got in behind the wheel. I spotted Desmond in the rearview mirror. As the car pulled away, he began to run after it. “Flora, stop!” he yelled. “Please, stop!”
Mr. Humphrey slammed the gas pedal with a surprising intensity and the wheels spun on the slick gravel, propelling the car forward with a jolt. We drove for a few minutes in silence. He eyed me through the rearview mirror a few times, before finally speaking. “It looks pretty on you,” he said.
I shook my head. “I’m sorry,” I said, wiping away a tear. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Her necklace,” he replied, still watching me in the mirror. I could see the corners of his eyes crinkle as he smiled.
I raised my hand to my neck. “How did you—”
“I was foolish,” he said, grinning. “It must have fallen out of my pocket in the house. Desmond found it before I did. Of course, he didn’t suspect anything. Not then. But he will.”
“Mr. Humphrey,” I said, feeling the blood rise in my cheeks, “I don’t understand.” And then I remembered seeing a silver chain in his car sometime before. Did he have it all along?
“Come now, Miss Lewis. You’re a smart lass. Surely you’ve figured it out by now.” He pulled a pistol from his jacket and held it up for me to see, then set it on the seat.
I covered my mouth.
“All the other girls were so easy to have,” he said. “They wilted like petunias. But not Anna. No, I could never have her. She had to go and die before I could get to her. That bloody Abbott. Of course, he meant the tea for Mr. Blythe. But the teapots got mixed up.” He chuckled. “The boy killed his own mother.”
I tried to speak but could produce no sound.
“Desmond’s probably back at the house now, putting it all together,” Mr. Humphrey continued. “I thought my goose was cooked when you found the necklace in the car that day. And then that night when you saw me coming up from the orchard.” He licked his lips with satisfaction. “Remember Theresa from the village? I had her down there. Buried her under the last camellia in the far row.”
My hands were shaking. Why hadn’t I seen this all along? The muddy boots. The lantern lights in the orchard. The burlap sack. Dear Lord.
“If Desmond had only asked to look inside the sack,” he said. “He’d have been in for a surprise.” He shook his head. “Just like his father, he’d never confront me. Cowards.”
I couldn’t speak. I could hardly breathe. The car was speeding along the road, and yet time had slowed, stopped even.
“I shouldn’t have kept the necklace,” he said. “Sloppy work on my part. But after I found her in the orchard, I snatched it from her neck. Believe me, I wanted more of her.” His eyes flashed in the rearview mirror. “But Desmond was coming down from the house. I had to take what I could get.” He chuckled to himself. “I think I could get ten pounds for it. I’ll see about that after I’m done with you.”
Terror seeped i
nto every inch of my body, but I couldn’t let myself succumb to it. Snowflakes streamed in through the window, open just a crack. I eyed the door handle. Could I escape? Could I throw myself from the car?
“I’m going to do to you what I had planned for Lady Anna,” he said.
“Dear Lord!” I cried. “Please, Mr. Humphrey. You’re not well. Take me to the village. We’ll find help for you.”
He shook his head. “The trees, they need blood.”
I grimaced. “Blood?”
“For the flowers shall be anointed with her blood, and spring forth beauty.”
“The words on the wall of the carriage house,” I said. “It was you.”
“Yes. Don’t you know? It’s the only way they’ll bloom.”
“But that’s not true,” I said. “They bloom. You just have to give them time. You can’t force a plant to flower.”
“Ah, Miss Lewis, but you can,” he said. “You saw for yourself. The Middlebury Pink hadn’t bloomed in a decade. That flower you saw on it?” He held up his arm, bandaged at the wrist. “I had to feed it myself. It was enough to produce a single bloom, but with you . . .” He paused. “With you, the tree shall blossom once again.”
“You’re mad,” I said.
He smiled to himself. “Lord Livingston never knew,” he said. “Oh, but how he helped by bringing all the girls to me. He bedded them all, so when their bodies are found in the orchard, he’ll be the natural suspect. Pretty ingenious, if I do say so myself.”
I shook my head in horror.
“They think that servants don’t notice,” he continued. “That we don’t hear. But I watched him. I knew how he’d sneak them up to his room or where he’d meet them in the village. He’d tire of them after a few months. And then it was my turn.” He fiddled with the radio dial. “It won’t be much longer now. I sure liked seeing the look on your face down in the orchard that first day.”
“It was you in the carriage house, wasn’t it?”
“Me and Genevieve Preus,” he said. “She was a feisty one.” He smiled. “Yes, today, I shall have you, and then, that bloody housemaid. If I have to hear her yap anymore . . .” He shook his head. “Lady Katherine will be ready soon. I’ve been watching her closely.” He rubbed his forehead. “What was it that Thomas Jefferson said?” His eyes met mine in the rearview mirror. “You’re American, you ought to know.” He thought carefully. “Yes, he said that ‘the tree of liberty must be refreshed from time to time with the blood of patriots.’”
My hands trembled as I reached into my pocket and pulled out the handkerchief Mama had embroidered for me, with my initials, FAL, in the corner. I dabbed the corners of my eyes, and it somehow gave me comfort, strength, as if Mama and Papa were there saying, “Don’t be afraid.” I remembered what Georgia had written on the first page of The Years: “The truth of the matter is that we always know the right thing to do. The hard part is doing it.”
And in that moment, I knew what I had to do. I leaned forward and dug my fingers into Mr. Humphrey’s eyes. My stomach turned as I felt his right eye pop as I gouged my finger deeper. He cried out and took his hands from the wheel to wrench my hands away, which is when he swerved right, then left. The car pushed past a guardrail on the roadside, careening through the air over the hillside. I pulled the necklace from my neck, feeling the clasp snap. I didn’t know if he’d survive, or if I would. But if he did, he would not sell this necklace for ten pounds. He would not lay a finger on it—or another girl. I hurled it out the window and closed my eyes.
CHAPTER 31
Addison
My eyes fluttered and then opened. The sun, low on the horizon, streamed through the windshield, warming me in my seat, where I sat pinned. I was grateful for the warmth, grateful for morning. The sun cut through the chills that had come over me. I felt damp all over, and when I looked down at my pants, I could see that they were soaked. How long had I been here? Days? Would Rex ever find me? Would Sean? My head ached and my legs throbbed—the parts I could feel, anyway. I touched the camellia branch that impaled the windshield and studied its intricate blossom. A few of its petals had wilted, shrinking back in defeat. “No,” I whispered. “You can’t die. Not yet. You’re my only hope.”
Nobody really talks about what happens right before you die. Does your life flash before your eyes? Do you slip into a nice, cozy dream where there are clouds made of whipped cream and soft music plays all around? Do angels sing? Does Jesus hold out his hand for you, welcoming you through the pearly gates? Are there really pearls on the gates? As I sat in the mangled car, in a moment of lucidity, I wondered if I might be in my final moments of life. Above my head, a dewdrop glistened on the camellia flower. I opened my mouth and waited until the droplet fell onto my parched tongue.
I shivered as a gust of wind rocked the car. The camellia above my head swayed, and a petal fell onto the seat. Hold on, little flower. Hold on.
An hour might have passed. Or a day, or maybe three. I didn’t know. “She’s inside the car!” someone shouted in the distance. A male voice. Deep. Hurried. I heard dogs barking and commotion overhead.
“Easy, now,” someone said. “She’s pinned. We’ll have to use the clamps. Careful. Not too fast.”
I opened my eyes for a moment, but everything was blurred.
“She’s awake!”
My lips parted momentarily, and I felt pressure on my legs.
“Don’t try to speak, ma’am,” a man said from somewhere overhead. “You just sit tight. We’re going to get you out of here, promise.”
“Addison!” That voice. So familiar. “Addison, darling!”
I opened my eyes and willed them to focus until I saw his face. Rex.
My eyes shut; everything faded to black.
A series of rapid beeps sounded from a machine at my left. I didn’t flinch when a cold hand held my arm and a needle pricked the skin. Where am I? What’s happening? I tried to open my eyes, but the camellia orchard lured me back in, along the brick pathway—just a few steps farther—under the rose arbor, past the stone angel, and there, beneath the fog, near the carriage house with the rusty weather vane twirling in the breeze, the tree. Her tree. In my mind’s eye, I took a step, feeling the soft soil under my feet. Fresh earth. The cries of so many. They could rest now. But could I?
I opened my eyes. “We almost lost you there,” a young nurse said, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “You’re safe now, honey. You’ve been airlifted to First Memorial in London. You were in a terrible accident, pinned in your car for four days. You’re quite a survivor, you know.”
A familiar song played somewhere nearby. I listened to the words: Good day, sunshine . . .
“That song,” I murmured.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” the nurse said, indicating the TV. “It’s a documentary on the Beatles. I have a thing for Paul McCartney.” She winked at me. “Let me just turn it off.” She pressed a button on the remote control and then turned back to me with a smile.
A woman with thick tortoiseshell glasses pushed a button on the hospital bed to incline it slightly. “Hello, I’m Doctor Hollis,” she said, examining a medical chart and then nodding assuredly. “You got quite a bump on the head. You’ve been in a coma for the last forty-eight hours. We’re very happy to see you awake.” She turned to the figure to her left. “This your sweetie?”
“Addison.” That deep British voice. My eyelids felt heavy. I wished the nurse hadn’t given me so much medicine. It blurred the line between reality and something else. Somewhere else. Heaven, maybe? Had I been in heaven? My eyes closed without my permission.
“Addison.” His voice was louder now, more persistent. I felt a warm hand on my cheek. My eyes fluttered again, and with every last bit of strength, I opened them, searching the room. And then I saw him—his tan jacket, those warm eyes—and smiled, feeling the life seep back into me.
“Rex,” I said, as a surge of warmth flooded my cold limbs. In an instant, I remembered the accident. I wanted to say a hundred things to him—about Sean, my past, about the camellia, the women who had lost their lives, about Lady Anna—but when I opened my mouth, air danced across my vocal cords. I gasped for breath.
“It’s OK, honey,” he said. “I’m here. I’m here, and I’m never going to let you go.”
“But what about—”
“You don’t have to worry about him anymore,” he said quickly. “They got him. He’s being extradited back to the U.S. as we speak. He can’t hurt you anymore.” He wiped a tear from his eye before it spilled onto his cheek. “I just wish you would have told me. I wish I could have protected you from him.”
A tear rolled down my own cheek, and I wiped it away. “So you know,” I said, shaking my head. “Of course, you did all along. Rex, I saw the file in your bag.”
He looked confused. “What file?”
“The one labeled ‘Amanda,’” I whispered, ashamed.
“That?” he said. “It’s a character file, honey. I thought you knew that the heroine in my novel is named Amanda.”
I looked down at my hands. A purple bruise appeared on my forearm.
“She’s brave and strong,” he said. “Like you.”
“But aren’t you angry at me,” I said, “for not being honest with you about my past?” I bit my lip, fighting back tears. “For lying to you?”
“You had your reasons,” he said. “And I respect them. But let me get one thing clear, please.” He looked deep into my eyes. “Nothing about your past can change my love for you—nothing.” He kissed my wrist, rubbing the spot I’d tried so hard to keep covered over the years. The nurse must have taken my watch off, but I didn’t care now. The scars no longer had the same hold on me.
“Rex,” I cried. “When I was fifteen, there was a little boy. He was only three years old. Sean killed him, Rex. He pushed him off a swing.” I sobbed. “I wanted to save him. I wanted to so badly.” Rex climbed into bed with me, cradling me. “But I couldn’t. I didn’t get to him in time. His name was Miles. Sean made me bury him. I never told anyone, Rex. Never, after all these years. I was afraid. Oh, Rex, I’m so ashamed.”
