The Last Camellia: A Novel (23 page)

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 us?”

“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.”

“Don’t look at me!” Sadie exclaimed, grimacing.

Mrs. Marden lowered her voice. “There’s a shifty-looking milkman who comes round on Sundays and Wednesdays. Always tries to poke around the kitchen and talk all friendly-like before he heads back to the village. Once I ran down to the stockroom for a mere minute and when I returned he was helpin’ himself to bread and butter!”

I smiled. “I didn’t realize that milkmen were such a shifty lot.”

“The worst kind,” she said.

“Oh, by the way, I was going to ask you—do you happen to know much about potatoes?”

“Do I know much about potatoes?” she parroted back. “That’s like asking a doctor if he knows much about medicine! Girl, I can fry, bake, poach, and roast potatoes. I can whip them and mash them and puree them. Do I know about potatoes? Hmph!”

I smiled. “No, no,” I said. “I didn’t mean preparations. I was wondering about the way they
grow
. Do you have to plant them from seed?”

“Well they don’t grow magically, child,” she said with a laugh.

“So they don’t grow wild, then?”

“No chance of that,” she replied. “Least not around these parts, with such tough, stubborn soil. I’m surprised her Ladyship got anything to grow out here. Besides, potatoes aren’t easy. Got to plant the little devils, and even then, they sometimes grow all shriveled-like.” She stirred her soup pot. “Say, why do you ask?”

“It’s nothing,” I said. “Just curious, that’s all.”

“Americans!” she muttered to herself as I tucked a scone into my pocket and headed to the back staircase.

“Desmond?” I whispered as I slipped into the conservatory.

He sat up groggily. “Top of the morning to you,” he said with a yawn.

I smiled to myself. Someday, I hoped I’d hear him say those words each and every morning.

He stretched and looked up at the glass roof of the conservatory, where daylight had just begun to show. “Wow, what time is it?”

“Half past seven,” I said. “How’d you sleep?”

He rubbed his eyes. “Fine. You know, if I was an enterprising man, I’d go into business making mattresses out of peat moss. I think that was the best night’s sleep I’ve had in a good while.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” I said. I handed him the scone from my pocket. “I smuggled this up for you. I wanted to bring tea, but I lost my nerve. I couldn’t exactly say that I was bringing it for the children.”

“Awfully kind of you,” he said, taking a bite. “Here I am, a stowaway in my own house.”

I sat down beside him, blushing a little as I thought of the night before. “Speaking of the children,” I said, collecting myself, “I meant to ask you about Abbott.”

“Yes?” he said.

“What happened between the two of you? Why does he have such hard feelings?”

“Oh, I wouldn’t worry about him,” he said. “He’ll come around. I’m sure he’s just being moody. Everyone’s moody at the age of twelve.”