The Last Camellia: A Novel (5 page)

Flora

“H
ere we are,” the driver said, as he pulled into Clivebrook. “What was the address again, miss?” The village was smaller than I’d expected, with just a smattering of shops along the main street and a fountain at the center of town. A green awning caught my eye. The sign on the door read:
HAROLD’S BAKERY
. My stomach growled.

“If you don’t mind,” I said, “I think I’ll stop here and grab a bite.”

“Sure thing,” the driver replied.

I paid the fare and walked to the bakery, examining the strange-looking pastries in the window before venturing inside.

“Good day,” an older woman said from behind the counter.

“Hello,” I replied.

“Visiting from out of town?”

“Yes,” I said. “I’m from New York.”

“Fancy that!” the woman exclaimed, turning to the back room. “Harold!” she shouted. “Come out here!”

A moment later, a stocky man with a round belly appeared. He smiled at me warmly.

“She’s from New York,” the woman said. “If only Elsie were here. She dreamed of traveling to New York.” She pointed to a framed photo on the wall above a tub of icing. “Our daughter. Disappeared four years ago. The police’s theory is that she ran off to London with some chap,” she said, shaking her head solemnly, “but she wouldn’t do that. Not our Elsie.”

“I’m so sorry,” I said, “for your loss.”

The smile returned to the woman’s face. She looked at her husband lovingly. “And here I am going on about her again, Harold. I said I wasn’t going to do that anymore. No sense dredging up the past. Elsie wouldn’t want that.” She looked back up at the photo on the wall. The young woman’s soft blond hair curled around her face. She looked like a cherub.

“So tell me,
miss
, what brings you here to Clivebrook?”

I smiled nervously. “Just . . . visiting.”

“Well,” she said, handing me an apricot scone, “I hope you enjoy your stay here.”

I smiled and thanked her. Outside, the wind picked up, and I quickly fastened the top button of my coat, thinking of Mama and Papa and missing them deeply.
If something happened to me, would they keep my photo hanging in the bakery?

I walked along the sidewalk to the train station, where a driver wearing a black suit and tweed cap leaned against a parked cab. He swung a pocket watch on a chain in a circular motion. “Where to?” he asked as I approached.

I looked down at the scrap of paper that Mr. Price had given me, hesitant, even after coming this far, to go through with the plan. “Livingston Manor,” I finally said. The words sounded cold and foreign as they crossed my lips.

The man arched his brows and eyed me curiously. “Going up to the big house, are you?”

“Yes,” I said.

“An American?” he said, amused.

“I am.”

“And what brings a pretty girl like you to Livingston Manor?”

“A job,” I said stiffly. I didn’t like his arrogant tone.

“Well, I hope they’re paying you well,” he said with a sniff. “It would take a lot of dough to get me to take a job there, especially after, well, everything.”

“What do you mean?”

“The lady of the house died last year,” he said, leaning in closer and lowering his voice to a whisper. “Something’s not quite right up there.” He shook his head. “My brother does odd jobs, handyman work,” he said. “Well, he was up at the manor in February fixing a window on the second floor, and he said he heard the sound of a woman crying in the eaves of the house. Like a—”

“Well,” I said. A chill crept down my spine. “I don’t believe in ghosts.”

“You will when you see this place,” he said. “But, suit yourself.”

He lifted my bag, then eyed me curiously again. “What did you say your business was at the manor?”

“I’m the new nanny,” I said.

The driver smirked.

“What’s so funny?”

“I’m just surprised, that’s all.”

I folded my arms. “Why?”

“Nothing,” he said with an amused grin.

The car pulled up in front of the manor cautiously, then sputtered to a stop, as if the engine had no interest in motoring any closer to the property. The sight nearly took my breath away. The ivy-covered stone facade with ornate cornices and exquisite detailing looked like a page torn from a history book. Three stories high with five visible chimneys, it was far grander than I’d imagined, and as I took a step toward the entryway, my heart fluttered in anticipation.

“Should I wait here?” the man asked.

I shook my head. “Wait? Why?”

He looked at me as if I was a very foolish woman. “In case you change your mind.”

“No,” I said. “I’m not going to change my mind.”

The driver retrieved my bag from the trunk and set it down with a thud a few paces ahead, all the while looking up at the manor with diffidence. “Well, that’s as far as I’ll go,” he said. “Good luck to you, miss.”

I nodded, tucking a few bills into his hand—the last of my money. “Thank you, but I make my own luck.” It’s something Mama would have said.

As the car motored away, I lifted my suitcase and turned around quickly when I heard the crunch of gravel behind me.

An older man, perhaps sixty, with a regal-looking face approached. Tall, with a slightly protruding belly, he wore a black suit and stared at me curiously. “Good day, miss,” he said. “And you are?”

“Flora,” I replied. “Flora Lewis.” What was it Mr. Price had told me to say? “The agency sent me,” I said quickly, as if to prove that I had business here and wasn’t loitering on private grounds. I smoothed a wrinkle in my dress as he looked me over.

“Why, yes,” he said, flashing a disarming smile. “Of course. The new nanny.” He held out his hand. “I’m Mr. Beardsley, the butler. How do you do?”

“Very well, thank you,” I said a little nervously.

“I will apologize now,” he said, lifting my bag from my hand, “for the state of the gardens.”

“I don’t quite understand,” I said.

“You see,” he replied, eyeing my suitcase. I hoped he didn’t see the patch Mama had sewn onto the side. “We’re a bit short staffed at the moment, and I’m afraid things aren’t going to improve in that department anytime soon.”

“Oh?”

He cleared his throat. “We had a
situation
with our gardener,” he continued. “He was let go, which is why the gardens look the way they do. It is a great disappointment to me that they have fallen into disarray.”

I nodded. “If I may say, the grounds don’t look that bad.” The azaleas were overgrown, yes, and maybe the boxwood could use shaping, but everywhere, green lushness prevailed. A wall of rhododendrons lined the walkway, bloodred. I could smell their light, woody scent in the afternoon sun.

“You’re kind to say so, Miss Lewis,” he said. “But it wouldn’t be up to her Ladyship’s standards.” He spoke in a hushed voice, as if the laurel hedge might have ears. “She cared about each petal. And they cared for her.” He sighed. “The gardens simply haven’t been the same since she passed last year.” He pointed to the walkway ahead. “Well, let me take you inside.” He stopped to pick up my bag. “I must tell you,” he continued, “I didn’t expect an
American
.”

“Oh,” I said, surprised, “didn’t the, er, agency tell you?”

“I’m afraid they left out that detail,” he said.

“I hope it won’t be a problem, sir.”

“No, no,” he said, the corners of his eyes softening to reveal kindness I was starved for. “Let me show you to your quarters so you can freshen up before you meet his Lordship and the children.”

I followed him past a knot garden, where boxwood had been planted in a square formation. They looked a bit scraggly, as if in need of a proper clipping. Mr. Beardsley stopped and knelt down to pick up a large pink flower blossom lying on the pathway, marveling at it momentarily before tucking it into his pocket.

I wanted to stop and linger in the gardens, to soak up the beauty all around, but I followed Mr. Beardsley through a side door and descended a set of stairs. “Of course, given the nature of your duties, you won’t spend much time down here, aside from sleeping, but please know that you are always welcome in the servants’ hall.”

I nodded as a plump young woman, barely eighteen, approached. Her curly red hair sprung disobediently from her white cap and fell around her round, rosy cheeks. “Excuse me, Mr. Beardsley,” she said, tugging at her white apron nervously. I noticed a smudge of soot near the pocket. “May I have a word with you?”

“Yes, Sadie?”

“It’s just that, well, sir . . .”

“What is it?”

“It’s Mr. Nicholas, sir,” she continued. “He’s made off with the flour sack again.”

Mr. Beardsley frowned. “Again?”

“He has, sir,” she said. “And he’s scattered it out in the library. The bookcase looks as if it’s had a dusting of snow.” She giggled, then quickly covered her mouth with her hand before speaking again. “Mrs. Dilloway says it’s ruined Lord Livingston’s volume of Shakespeare. She’s worked herself into a frightful tizzy, I’m afraid. She said she doesn’t know what to do about that boy, that next thing he’ll do is burn the house down, and—”

“Fortunate for us all, then, that the children’s new nanny has arrived today,” Mr. Beardsley replied. “Sadie, allow me to introduce you to Miss Lewis.”

Sadie smiled warmly. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, miss,” she said.

“You as well,” I said. “Please, call me Flora.”

She nodded. “I’ll just be going now,” she said, before retrieving a basket of washing at her feet.

“Sadie,” I said, ignoring Mr. Beardsley, who’d already begun walking ahead. “Are the children really . . . that bad?”

She nodded. “We’ve gone through three nannies since January,” she whispered, studying my face, before smiling again. “I hope you stay. I like you.”

“Thanks,” I said with a grin.

I caught up with Mr. Beardsley, and we proceeded down a hallway to the kitchen. “This is Mrs. Marden,” he said, “the cook.” A large, gruff-looking woman sat at a table near the stove peeling potatoes intently. “Mrs. Marden, this is Miss Lewis, the children’s new nanny.”

“Another one?” she said, without looking up.

“Yes, Miss Lewis was sent by the agency and we are quite grateful to have her.”

“Well,” she said, tossing a freshly peeled potato into a cauldron of boiling water, her eyes meeting mine for the first time. The hot water splashed up in the air, and I lurched back to avoid getting scalded. “Better not get too comfortable. It’s only a matter of time before this place gets the best of you.” She looked me over. “No offense, but I’d be surprised if you have it in you to last past dinner.”

Mr. Beardsley cleared his throat. “The job is not without challenges, but I’m sure Mrs. Marden will agree that it also has its rewards. You won’t find a finer home for miles. And Mrs. Marden’s cooking is, of course, a perk.”

The woman smiled smugly as she began chopping vegetables. She paused to hold up a scrawny carrot, crimped at the end. “They’re bitter,” she said. “I don’t know how I’m expected to manage with ingredients like this. Since Mr. Blythe left, the kitchen garden has suffered. Everyone blames the cook. ’Tisn’t fair, I tell you. A proper kitchen must have a proper garden. ’Tisn’t right.”

“Thank you for voicing your concerns, Mrs. Marden,” Mr. Beardsley said. “We shall continue this discussion another time.”

She turned back to the vegetables and grumbled something under her breath.

I followed Mr. Beardsley down another corridor. He pointed to a door on the right. “This will be your room,” he said. “I hope it will be satisfactory.”

Inside was a simple twin bed, a dressing table, a chest of drawers, and a wardrobe. I peered out the window to see a distinguished-looking man standing alone on the terrace, gazing out to the gardens.

“That man,” I said to Mr. Beardsley. “Who is he?”

“Oh,” he said, cinching his tie nervously. “His Lordship must have returned early from London. Well then. I must be going. Please wash and be ready to meet the children in an hour. Mrs. Dilloway, the housekeeper, will be in the drawing room at two o’clock.”

I nodded as he turned to the door. “Wait,” I said, without taking my eyes off the lush landscape outside. “Those trees in the distance. The ones with the flowers. Are they . . .” My heart fluttered a little. “Camellias?” I thought of Mr. Price’s words.
Identify the Middlebury Pink, and then go home. In and out.

Mr. Beardsley sighed, looking momentarily pained, before he spoke. “Yes. They were Lady Anna’s prized possessions.”

“They’re beautiful,” I said, turning back to the window. There were so many of them.
Will I be able to locate the Middlebury Pink?

“Indeed,” he said, allowing the smile to return to his face. “Well, I’ll leave you now. See you at two.”

After the door closed, I turned to the window and gazed out at the camellia orchard, with its rows of elegant trees with showy blossoms in shades of pink, white, and scarlet. A cold wind seeped through the window frame, filling the air with an eerie, high-pitched hum. I shivered, wondering about the camellias and their secrets.

Addison

M
rs. Klein, the cook, stopped us on the landing of the stairway. Her cheeks bright pink, she motioned to Mrs. Dilloway.

“I’m sorry to bother you two,” she said. “Mrs. Dilloway, you’re wanted on the telephone.”

“I’m afraid we’re a bit old-fashioned,” Mrs. Dilloway said, turning to me. “There aren’t any lines installed on the second story. I’ll have to take it in the kitchen.”

“That’s fine,” I said, following her downstairs, where I waited in the drawing room on a blue velvet couch with carved mahogany feet, which reminded me of an old claw-foot bathtub I’d had in my first apartment after college, the one I’d rented before I met Rex at the fund-raiser for the New York Botanical Garden. Life had been less complicated then. I sighed, looking down at the book in my hands.
The Years.
I rested my elbow against the arm of the couch and cracked the spine. It had the feel of a book that hadn’t been touched in decades, creaking, as if to say
ahhh
. A waft of musty air hit my nose, punctuated with something else, something floral and pleasant. I thumbed past the title page, brittle, water-stained, until I came to the first chapter, simply titled “1880.” I read and then reread the first line:

“It was an uncertain spring.”

The line resonated with me as if I’d read it a thousand times, only I hadn’t. I let my mind wander to New York and the frightening shadow that hovered over me there, which is when I noticed something written on the inside cover. A bit of the blue ink had run, but I could still make out the words. The two lines puzzled me: “The truth of the matter is that we always know the right thing to do. The hard part is doing it.”

Who was Flora? And Georgia? And what had she meant by these words? I fanned the pages of the book, as if the answer lay buried inside the volume, which is when something fell out of the book onto my lap. I picked up the small square and turned it over to take a careful look at the treasure in my hands—a black-and-white photograph of a variegated camellia with a single bloom so breathtaking, I let out a little gasp. Before I tucked the photograph back inside the book, I noticed there was another stuck to it. Carefully, I separated the two images and discovered the portrait of a handsome young soldier, in uniform. He stood at the base of a staircase, smiling as though he may have loved the person standing behind the camera, perhaps very much. I recognized the paneling in the backdrop. The foyer at Livingston Manor.

I heard footsteps behind me, and I quickly tucked the photographs back inside the book. “Oh, thank goodness it’s you,” I said, grateful to see my husband standing in the doorway.

He planted a kiss on the top of my head. “Did I miss anything exciting?”

“Yeah,” I said. “Look what I found.”

He took the book in his hands, then shrugged.

“Look inside,” I said. “At the inscription.”

“Flora?”

“Yeah,” I said. “I wonder who she was.”

“Maybe she was Lord Livingston’s wife,” Rex offered.

“Perhaps,” I said. “Or his daughter.” I pulled out the photograph of the camellia blossom again and studied it carefully. “Why do you think this photo was left here?”

“Bookmark, maybe?”

I shook my head, remembering the photograph of the rose that hung above my desk at home. “No, I think this flower had some sort of significance to her.”

“Maybe,” Rex said, sitting on the sofa.

I nodded. The light from the window filtered into the room, beaming off Rex’s dark hair and illuminating his tan skin and hazel eyes. He was handsome. Sometimes, I worried, too handsome. “Did you get your razor?”

He looked momentarily confused, but then he nodded. “Oh, yeah,” he said, rubbing the stubble on his chin. “Yes, got it.”

“What took you so long?” I asked, standing up. “Mrs. Dilloway said you had business in town?”

“Yes, paperwork for my father,” he said. “It couldn’t be filed from China, so I had to sign for them with a notary.” He pointed to the driveway. “A courier brought them to the house just before I left.”

“Oh,” I said, remembering the woman in the blue convertible.

Mrs. Dilloway suddenly appeared in the doorway. “Pardon my intrusion,” she said, her voice steeped in formality that didn’t fit the decade, or perhaps even the century. “If you would like to accompany me, I will begin the tour now.”

We followed her up the stairs, and I marveled at the enormous crystal chandelier above. Its chain appeared perilously dainty for the weight it carried. The steps creaked underfoot as we made our way to the second floor. Above the landing hung a painting of a beautiful woman. Her blond wavy hair framed her pale face like a halo. Below the hollow of her neck, a locket rested. I leaned in closer to examine its floral design—a detail I might otherwise have missed—and felt as though she was looking at me, really looking at me. Those eyes. I knew their expression. Lonely. Troubled. Trapped. I looked away, but my gaze ventured back to the canvas. The woman clutched a flower in her right hand. A pink camellia. I recognized the familiar petal structure and the shape of the leaf. I squinted in the dim light. Could that be blood on the tips of her fingernails? I rubbed my own nails.
Probably just a shadow.

“Are you coming, Addison?” Rex called from down the hallway.

“Coming,” I said, collecting myself, and yet unable to look away from the painting. “Wait, Mrs. Dilloway—who is the woman in the portrait?”

She walked toward me reluctantly. “That is Lady Anna,” she finally said. “She was Lord Livingston’s wife.” Mrs. Dilloway closed her eyes tightly and then reopened them. “She was just a girl of eighteen when she first came to the manor,” she continued, surveying the painting as though she hadn’t permitted herself to look at it in a very long time. “It hasn’t been the same since she . . .” She turned away quickly. “Let’s continue on.”

Lady Anna.
I’d felt a vibe the moment I’d set foot on the property earlier that day, a certain presence that lingered in every door’s creak, in every bit of wind that blew up from the garden and whistled through the windows. I imagined her standing at the end of the long corridor, watching us, such strange, modern people, poking about her house, handling her belongings, staring up at her portrait. What did she think of us, this lady with a locket around her neck and a camellia in her hand? And why did she appear so sad?

“The Livingston children occupied this wing,” she said, pointing down a dark corridor.

“Children?” I asked. “How many?”

“Five,” she replied, before shaking her head. “I mean four.”

I shot Rex a confused look.

She stopped at a set of double doors at the end of the hall. The hinges creaked as she opened them and turned to Rex. “That dreadful decorator of your mother’s hasn’t gotten to this room yet.” Her face revealed a moment of warmth. “It’s just as the children left it.” Mrs. Dilloway looked pleased. “They spent many happy hours here.”

I walked to the bookcase and examined the storybooks inside. As a girl, I had dreamed of having stacks of books at my disposal—stories to get lost in, other worlds to live in when mine was so bleak. It’s why I went to the library every day after school—that and because there usually wasn’t anyone waiting for me at home.

I sighed, running my hand along the books’ spines, but I sensed Mrs. Dilloway’s apprehension, so I stepped back. I had the feeling that we were touring a museum that she alone curated.

“Should we keep going?” I asked, inching toward the doorway.

“Look at this!” Rex exclaimed, calling me over to a toy chest by the far wall. He held a tin airplane. Its red paint had long since eroded. “This is one of those old windup models,” he said. “A friend of mine collects these. They’re rare. It must be worth a fortune.”

Mrs. Dilloway eyed the plane protectively until he’d set it back down on the toy chest. “It was Lord Abbott’s,” she said. “One of Lord Livingston’s sons.” She turned and walked out the door, which was our cue to follow.

“Did I say something wrong?” Rex whispered to me.

I shrugged, and we quickly proceeded into the hallway behind Mrs. Dilloway.

“The guest quarters are down that way,” she said. “It’s where visitors stayed when the Livingstons entertained. Now,” she continued, “I must go check on the drapes on the third floor. That infernal decorator had them installed last week and they’re so thin, I fear the light will destroy Lord Livingston’s paintings.”

I turned to follow her up the stairs, grasping the railing, but Mrs. Dilloway placed her icy hand over mine. “There’s nothing of importance up here,” she said.

“Oh,” I said quickly.

“I’ll see you both this evening,” she said in a dismissive tone.

After she’d gone, Rex turned to me. “That was strange.”

I nodded.

“Addie,” he whispered, “she talks about Lord Livingston as if he’s still
alive
.”