The Last Camellia: A Novel (3 page)

I met Mr. Price on the promenade deck, and he instructed me to sit beside him. “I’m glad you came,” he said, looking me over. “You didn’t tell your parents about our arrangement, did you?”

I shook my head. I didn’t like his speaking of Mama and Papa. “Of course I didn’t.”

“Good,” he said, before taking a long sip of his martini. A bit of it sloshed over the side of the glass when he set it down on the table in front of him. “Anyone else?”

I thought of the man I’d met earlier, Desmond. But I decided not to mention him. “No,” I said.

Mr. Price nodded. “So, I’ve already told you that you’ll be acting as the nanny at a manor in the countryside. But I haven’t told you exactly what you’ll be doing there.”

I listened expectantly.

“I run an international ring of flower thieves,” he said.

I gasped at the phrase. As if plucked from the pages of a novel, here was the ringleader, sitting beside me with a smirk on his face.

“Of course, we don’t exactly like to think of ourselves as
thieves
,” he said smiling with lamblike innocence when he detected my startled expression. “We are simply the
brokers
of fine flowers. Some of the prized specimens in your beloved New York Botanical Garden came from the men I work with. The fact is, flowers are a commodity like any other. If someone’s willing to pay, we’re willing to deliver.”

I nodded cautiously. All I could do was think of the roses, the lilies, the rare gardenia in the east wing—were they all acquired by dishonest means, uprooted from someone’s personal flowerbed in the cover of darkness? It seemed so sad, so wrong. My cheeks burned. “Mr. Price, how on earth can you—”

“No point getting into all those details,” he continued. “Leave the sausage-making to me. All you need to know is that a client has his sights on a rare tree that he believes is planted somewhere on the grounds,” he explained. “A camellia. He’s willing to pay a fortune for it, and your job is to find it.”

“I don’t understand,” I said. “You want me to find a
tree
? Couldn’t anyone do that?”

“No,” he said. “It’s a private estate, and it’s difficult to get on the property—unless, that is, you’re a trusted employee.”

I nodded, even though I felt a pit in my stomach.

“Here,” he said, digging into his suit pocket and producing a wrinkled envelope with a photograph inside. Even in black-and-white, the camellia was a stunning specimen. I flipped it over to read the words “Middlebury Pink.”

“It used to be in the royal garden at Buckingham Palace,” Mr. Price continued, “but for whatever reason, no seeds were saved, and it was lost over the years. According to my researcher, the last known tree of its kind may be at Livingston Manor.”

I didn’t take my eyes off the photograph. “Why doesn’t your client just go there and get it himself?”

“It’s not quite that easy,” he said with an amused grin. “There are at least a hundred varieties of camellias on the property. Apparently the tree has a very short blooming window.” He lit a cigarette. “Since you’re engaged as the new nanny to Lord Edward Livingston’s children, you can stay on until it blooms. It’s the perfect ruse. No one will suspect a nanny—until the tree is discovered missing, and by then you’ll be long gone.”

“But I know nothing about children,” I said, feeling a panicked flutter in my chest. “How can
I
do this?”

“Just do it,” he said. “Gain their trust, then inquire about the camellia. Find it and write me.” He handed me a card with a London address. “Don’t telephone. Someone could overhear.”

I nodded. “But, I don’t understand. What does this man want with the tree?”

His eyes narrowed, then he shrugged. “What the hell,” he said. “You might as well know.” He yawned. “Some higher-up in the Third Reich wants it. For his mistress.”

“The
Third Reich
,” I said, horrified. My stomach churned. “But, how can you . . . how could I . . . ? Surely I can’t—”

“Listen, Miss Lewis,” he said sternly. “Technically, you’re not doing anything wrong. All you have to do is find the tree, report back, and then you get your payment. Simple. In and out. Leave the rest to me.”

“But—”

He set down his martini glass, fishing an olive from its depths. “You care about your parents, don’t you?”

I nodded, remembering the way the debt collector had bloodied Papa’s face.

“And you’d like to see them out of debt, with more time to rest and relax, wouldn’t you?”

“Yes,” I muttered, dabbing my eye with a handkerchief.

“Then
find the camellia
.”

Restless in my cabin, I decided to go for a walk around the ship. The breeze had picked up, but I didn’t feel like going all the way down to my cabin to get a coat. Instead, I sat down on a bench on the west side of the ship, where the wind wasn’t quite as bad, and pulled out my sketchbook and a pencil. I thought about the camellia I had been hired to find, and as I did, I drew its delicate petals, its big rounded leaves.
Can I really go through with this?

“Oh, hello again.” I looked up to see Desmond walking toward me.

I quickly tucked my sketchbook back into my purse. “Hello,” I said quickly.

“You must be freezing out here,” he said, sitting down beside me. “Here,” he continued, slipping off his coat. “Wear this.”

“I’m fine,” I said. “I actually like the fresh air.”

He tucked his coat around my shoulders, and I was grateful for its warmth.

“I insist. My mum didn’t raise me to stand by while a young lady shivers beside me.”

I steadied myself as the ship jostled to the right. “It’s always rocky on the first few days,” he said. “It’ll even out soon.”

I nodded.

“I saw you on the promenade deck earlier,” he said. “Your boyfriend?”

I shook my head. “No,” I said adamantly, hoping he hadn’t heard any of my exchange with Mr. Price. “He’s a—”

“I, I mean,” Desmond stammered, “it’s none of my business, of course, but I—”

“He’s a business associate.”

“Oh,” Desmond replied. “From the conservatory?”

“Yes,” I said quickly.

The sun was beginning to set. The horizon took on a peach hue. “Have you always lived in London?”

Desmond took off his cap and scratched his head for a moment. “Yeah,” he said. “Well, mostly in the countryside. But my father keeps a home in London.”

I nodded, imagining the world he came from—so different from mine.

“So what were you doing in America?” I asked.

He smoothed his sandy blond hair. “Oh, just sorting out some business affairs.”

I nodded. I couldn’t exactly expect him to reveal details about his life if I wasn’t being frank about mine.

The boat sloshed along the sea, swaying like a cradle, and we sat in silence for a few moments.

“Can I confess something to you?” he finally said.

I turned to him and nodded.

“When I was in New York,” he said cautiously, “I almost decided to stay.” His eyes remained fixed on the horizon.

“Why didn’t you, then?” I asked.

He shrugged. “Duty. I joined the British army six months ago. I’ll be shipping off soon.”

“Oh,” I said, feeling a pang of worry. In the bakery, I’d been able to compartmentalize the war, to let it exist only in the headlines of the newspapers. But now? It stood before me in a gray suit, shoulders dusted with raindrops.

“I felt so free in New York, so unencumbered,” he continued. “I was tempted to leave it all behind and stay.” He smiled at me. “Start over, you know?” He shook his head. “But I have to finish what I started.”

I nodded, thinking about the camellia, the lies I was about to tell. “I know what you mean.”

Just then, music began to play from the direction of the upper deck. “Oh, I almost forgot,” he said. “The Captain’s Welcoming Ball is tonight. Did you see the invitation?”

My cheeks flushed. Of course, third-class passengers, I was sure, had not received the same invitations slipped under their doors. “Yes,” I said, momentarily ashamed of myself. But then Desmond took my hand, and all concern melted away.

“Let’s go,” he said. “Together.”

“But I’m not dressed appropriately,” I said, looking down at my simple blue dress. “I didn’t pack anything formal.”

“Nonsense,” he said. “You look perfect as you are. Besides, we don’t have to go in, if you don’t want to. We can just catch a little of the music and champagne from the lobby.”

“Well,” I said, “I—”

“Good,” he replied. “It’s a date.”

Ladies in formal attire bustled by us, on the arms of smartly dressed gentlemen. I felt out of place, and I wondered what Mr. Price would think of my presence here. I looked around, hoping not to find him in the ballroom.

“Good evening, sir,” a steward said to Desmond, before turning to me. I thought I detected a look of surprise on his face, but I tried to ignore it. “Good evening, madame,” he said. “Champagne?”

“Yes, thank you,” Desmond said, swiping two filled glasses from the steward’s tray and handing one to me.

I studied the way the bubbles skipped and danced in the glass flute. Desmond took a drink, and I followed. It was my first taste of champagne, and I liked it. The moment I’d finished the glass, a steward appeared with a fresh one. I felt warm all over, and when Desmond suggested we get some air outside, the cold wind didn’t have near the sting as it had earlier, especially with his jacket draped over my shoulders.

The band began playing a slower song, and Desmond smiled. “Care to dance?”

“Yes,” I said, feeling light and uninhibited. I wondered what Mr. Price would think, but I banished the thought.

Desmond pulled me closer to him, and we swayed to the mu- sic under the starlit sky. He looked up and pointed overhead. “Look,” he said. “That one’s trying to communicate with us.”

I grinned. “Oh, is it?”

“Yes,” he replied. “The stars have their own language, you know. If you’re careful, you can learn it.”

“All right, Aristotle,” I said. “So what’s this star trying to say?”

He stared up at the sky for a few moments, watching the star sparkle.

“And?” he said. He nodded his head to himself, then looked back at me. “Just what I thought.”

“So you’re not going to tell me?”

“Can’t,” he said, grinning.

“You’re something else, you know,” I said, stealing a sideways glance at him. I leaned my head against his chest, and we swayed together like that for a moment, before I felt a tap on my shoulder.

I looked up to see Mr. Price.

“Excuse me, Miss Lewis,” he said territorially. “It’s getting late. Don’t you think you ought to be finding your way back to your room?”

I dropped my hands to my side and took a step back. “I was only—”

“Miss Lewis,” Mr. Price said, giving me a stern look.

I turned to Desmond. He looked confused, concerned. “He’s right,” I said. “It’s getting late. Thank you for the lovely time tonight.”

Desmond nodded, despite his obvious disappointment, and I turned to leave, following Mr. Price to the blue-carpeted staircase ahead.

“Miss Lewis,” Mr. Price said when he’d deposited me at the door to my cabin, “I suggest you keep to yourself for the rest of the trip.”

“Yes, sir,” I said. He walked down the long hallway, and when he rounded the corner, I slipped my key into the door, but turned around quickly when I heard a
psssst
coming from behind me.

A woman, a few years older than I, peeked her head out from a door across the hall. “Excuse me,” she said. “May I have a quick word with you?”

“Me?” I said, a little confused.

She stepped out into the hallway, closing the door to her cabin behind her. “Yes,” she said. “It’s important.”

I nodded. “OK.”

She walked toward me. “We can’t talk here,” she said. “Inside your cabin.”

We slipped into the room, and I closed the door behind me.

“You’re working with Mr. Price,” she said, “aren’t you?”

I shook my head. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“You don’t have to pretend,” she said. “I know all about him. I used to work for him.”

I gasped. “You did?”

“Yes,” she said. “I saw you talking to him on the upper deck today, and I figured you’re one of his new girls.”