“At least a year. He went to China with a friend for several months and brought the pipe back with him.”
“How much does he smoke?”
“In a day? A week?”
“Let’s say a day.”
“Well, given I’m not with him all the time . . . I’d say it might be anywhere between ten and twenty pipes.”
“How early in the day does he start?”
“I don’t know for certain. His mood alters throughout the day. Manic some mornings, maudlin on others. He’s often further away in the afternoons, then angry at dinner. I think he smokes himself to sleep.” Her voice trailed off to a whisper. The shame. “I should add, he’s always been moody. Eccentric. Even before the . . . you know.”
Will was still writing. “To your knowledge, has he ever tried to stop?”
“Oh, yes, several times. But it’s horrid. He gets fevers and his guts turn to liquid and he moans and shakes. I’m so afraid he’s going to die.” Her voice dropped low. “Will he die if he stops?” she asked.
He looked up and frowned. “Coming off the drug is awful, it’s true, but it won’t kill him. No, the far greater danger is that he keeps taking it. Quite apart from the fact that he is much more likely to have an accident, to take too great a dose and stop breathing, to damage his brains and his organs, the addiction uses up the spirit. Many opium addicts grow so unhappy that they eventually self-murder.”
A chill ran from Flora’s toes to her scalp. Her stomach felt hollow.
“Unfortunately, there is no easy way for him to stop. I suspect, since he isn’t here with you, he’s not particularly motivated to stop.”
“How can I make him stop, then?”
“You can’t.”
His words were delivered gently, but she felt their cold, cruel edges in her body. Her eyes pricked with tears, and she dropped her head in embarrassment.
“Here,” he said, pressing a handkerchief into her fingers.
“Thank you,” she managed, balling it into her palm and letting the tears fall as quietly as she could. A minute passed. She gathered herself, dabbed her eyes, and offered him the handkerchief.
“You keep it,” he said.
She folded it and slid it away in her purse.
“Flora,” he said, “the toll of opium abuse is usually felt very strongly on those closest to the addict. You must take care of yourself.”
“Thank you.” She stood, determined not to meet his eye again, nor see that warm smile tinged with pity. “If you send the account to me at the Evergreen Spa, I will post you a check.”
“Any time I can be of assistance—”
“Thank you,” she said more firmly, then hurried outside.
In the car, she took a deep shuddering breath and laid her upper body down on the seat. What a horror, to love somebody so much and be doomed to watch him destroy himself. And by destroying himself, destroy her chances of happiness, too. Because if she couldn’t get him off the drug, Father would disinherit them both. Would Tony still marry her without her family connections? She had eyes in her head, and she could see he was handsome as clearly as she could see she was plain.
She opened her purse and pulled out Will’s handkerchief, which she pressed to her too-warm face. The car bumped over the rail tracks. Her brain felt crowded. You can’t make him stop.
No, she wouldn’t accept that. Somehow, she would reach him. He was still her darling Sam, her baby brother. She would find his heart, and she would make him see what he was doing to himself. What he was doing to them both.
* * *
Violet loved the way the dining hall looked at dinnertime. The chandeliers, which hung dormant all day, were switched on to their full, dazzling brightness. Each table was lit by a wheel of candles, and an orchestra played quiet music as the guests filed in, dressed in their beautiful evening gowns. Violet hated to admit it, but she was starstruck by many of the guests. The newly crowned Miss Sydney was here, a tiny flat-chested beauty with a heart-melting smile and bright blond curls. Accompanying her was a man Violet assumed was her father until he dropped his hand in full sight and squeezed Miss Sydney’s bottom. Also here was the famous opera singer Cordelia Wright, a blinking, mole-like woman with powdery skin and a sharp tongue. At another table sat the curmudgeonly poet Sir Anthony Powell and his novelist wife Lady Powell, who was renowned for writing stories so highbrow nobody could understand them. Violet had read more than a few of Sir Anthony’s poems in school, and had found them a little dull. Myrtle told her that these few minor stars were not as spectacular as some of the guests she’d seen over the years, including American film actors and English royalty.
The dinner bell rang, and Violet started to run between the beautifully lit dining room and the harshly noisy kitchen. The kitchen manager and head waiter, Hansel, was an ill-tempered German man and the second in charge an equally ill-tempered Austrian man. They ruled the other waitstaff with a rod of iron, shouting and clanging in the kitchen, but silent and obsequious in the dining room. The two seemed to hate each other, and argued much of the time in hot German. Luckily, the cooks were always friendly, particularly the older gentleman everyone simply called Cook, with his round red face. In the dining room, Violet picked up snatches of conversation between guests.
“It’s well past time when I should return to New York.”
“So I said, I won’t take a penny less than ten thousand for it.”
“No, it’s a big Studebaker car. I’m not a peasant.”
Their voices and sentences whirled past her, and she was more aware than she had ever been of the difference between herself and the very rich. These people made even the guests at the Senator seem humble. They lived a life her imagination could not grasp.
After the main course, things slowed down a little. Guests began to move onto the dance floor, and the orchestra played a lively waltz. Violet longed to dance but had to content herself with tapping her foot as she collected plates. Many of the diners skipped dessert, so she returned to the kitchen with a tray of fruit salads that she knew would end up in the pig bucket. Too difficult, though, to hide a fruit salad up the leg of her bloomers.
Myrtle stood by the big stone basins, running her hand under water.
Violet joined her. “What happened to you?” she asked.
Myrtle turned her round, flushed face to Violet. “I burned my fingers on the coffeepot,” she said.
“Let me see.” Violet turned Myrtle’s hand over. Her fingers were bright red. “You need to see Karl; he’ll put something on it.”
“Table eight have no dessert!” Hansel shouted at them in heavily accented English.
“That’s my table,” Myrtle said.
“She’s burned her hand,” Violet called to him. “Give me a moment.” She turned to Myrtle. “Go. Find Karl. I’ll cover for you.”
“You’re a dear.”
Violet scooped up her tray of desserts and headed for table eight. She offered the desserts around, looking curiously at a young, dark-haired man at the table. Could it be? He did look rather like the man she’d seen naked a few days ago. He was staring at the ceiling, as though he could see the music collecting there. The fair-haired woman at his side was in conversation with another man, a handsome Italian who Violet thought might be a film actor. The fair-haired woman wore a long string of pearls around her neck and was anxiously twisting them between her fingers. Violet set down her tray just as the woman called out, “Oh, no!”
Violet looked up. The young woman had stressed her necklace to the point that she had broken it, and the pearls now bounced everywhere.
Quickly, Violet dropped to the floor and began to collect the pearls before they rolled away. As she scooped them up, she was aware that another person was on the floor with her. She reached for a pearl under a chair and found herself accidentally grasping his hand.
“I’m sorry,” she said, realizing it was the young man from the Falls. What was the etiquette? Did she mention she had seen him naked? The t
hought made her laugh inside, and she had to try very hard to keep it in.
But the young man simply looked at her—his gaze burning through her eyes and deeper, deeper—and Violet felt trapped, her heart thudding. The music seemed to quieten, the pearls forgot themselves, and Violet gazed back at him. A slow heat kindled in her legs, crept up her thighs, burned up her ribs.
“Did you find them all?” This was the Italian man, only his accent was American.
Violet was returned to her senses. “I . . . I have these,” she said, sitting up and offering the Italian man her handful of pearls.
“Good girl,” he said, with a charming smile. Even though he was handsome and pleasant, looking into his face inspired a pale watercolor feeling next to those she had just experienced with the other man.
But that man was gone now, sitting back up at the table, counting pearls into the fair-haired woman’s hands. The disaster now resolved, Violet handed out desserts and returned to the kitchen.
Who was he?
She pondered this for the rest of her shift, and tried to hang about at their table to hear them speak or to catch his eye, but the man’s gaze had returned to the ceiling. One by one, the other guests at table eight stood up to dance, and Violet realized the fair-haired woman and the Italian were a couple. Eventually, only the dark-haired man remained.
Violet was clearing plates at the neighboring table by this stage, and was surprised when she turned around to see the man standing there, very close.
“Hello,” he said, without smiling.
“Hello,” she replied, warily.
“Thank you for helping my sister. It was very kind.”
What an odd thing he was. She smiled. “You’re welcome.” Then, even though she knew she shouldn’t, she extended her free hand and said, “I’m Violet.”
He looked at her hand for a moment as though unsure what it was, then picked it up and pressed it to his lips. Softly, gently, at first, but then fervently and hotly. Violet glanced around, frightened that Hansel would see her and sack her. He felt her pull away and released her, his hands slack at his side as he gazed at her.
“I’d best keep working,” she said, as the giddy desire receded.
“The necklace was meant to break,” he said, “so that you and I could meet.”
Violet didn’t know what to say. They stood a few moments in heated silence until he said suddenly, “Samuel Honeychurch-Black. You can call me Sam.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Honeychurch-Black, but I’m not allowed to call guests by their first names.”
“And do you always do as you’re told?” Was it a challenge? There was no smile, no twinkle in his eye.
She hesitated, then boldly said, “No. No, Sam, I don’t.”
Then he smiled, and it was like a star blazing into life. Violet experienced it like a physical blow. She may have even gasped.
“I hope to see you again,” he said, bowing his head.
Out of the corner of her eye, Violet saw Hansel enter the dining room. She put her head down to clear the table. When she next looked up, Sam was gone.
* * *
As Tony whirled her about, Flora watched Sam talking to the waitress.
“That’s not good,” she said.
“What?” Tony asked, following the direction of her gaze. “Oh, let him flirt.”
“He doesn’t flirt. He falls in love.”
“Then let him fall in love. She’s just a waitress. Nothing will come of it.”
But Tony hadn’t seen it happen before. Back in their hometown, three times now Sam had fallen for a woman who was beyond his reach in some way: a much older woman; a novice visiting the local church; the young wife of the grocer. Each of them disasters, for he loved them like a child loves a duckling. Fascinated, eager, but fatally clumsy. Broken hearts and homes and dreams. For none of them had had the power to resist him in those brief, bright months he had decided he would love them forever.
“Would you like me to have a word with him? Man to man?” Tony asked.
“He won’t listen to you.”
“That’s true.”
The music played on, and Flora tried to enjoy the dance. She watched the pretty, dark-haired waitress from afar and, although she didn’t know her, felt worried for her nonetheless.
CHAPTER SIX
Violet kept her eyes peeled for Sam at the breakfast shift the next morning. Every time the big double doors swung open she expected to see his dark hair, and every time they swung closed without his appearance she fought disappointment. Many of the guests didn’t come to the dining room for breakfast, choosing instead to have a meal brought to their room or to dine in the coffeehouse.
She cursed herself for being such a fool, for thinking that his interest meant anything.
With a mixture of deflation and embarrassment, she returned down the stairs and along the dim corridor to her room. The door was already open, and she found Miss Zander inside.
“Oh, Violet. There you are.”
“I was on shift.” Violet realized that Miss Zander had pulled back her mattress and was searching underneath. She bristled. “Is there a problem?”
“I will tell you in just a moment.”
Violet’s eyes darted towards her purse, hung on the back of the door, remembering the cigarette case inside. “Are you searching for something in particular?”
Miss Zander stood, patting her hair. “Pearls.”
Violet’s stomach went to water. “Pearls? Who’s accused me of—”
“Nobody,” Miss Zander said, quickly and sternly. “Here, let me check your pockets.”
Violet raised her arms and Miss Zander felt in both pockets.
“My purse is behind the door,” Violet said, deciding to come clean. “There are cigarettes in it, but they aren’t mine.”
Miss Zander raised one eyebrow. “Not yours, eh? Luckily, I already found them and disposed of them, though I’ve left the case in your purse. As for pearls, I’ve checked the whole room, and you’re in the clear.”
“Why were you looking for pearls?”
Miss Zander’s mouth hardened. “You are very forthright.”
“I’m not a thief.”
“Oh, I see. Your pride is wounded. Not to worry, dearie. It was only a precaution. No, a Mr. Honeychurch-Black, one of our guests, came to see me this morning.”
Violet tried to hide her interest. “Oh?”
“He wanted to commend you to me for being so quick to assist him and Miss Honeychurch-Black last night, when she broke her pearl necklace. I was merely checking to see you hadn’t kept one or two, because that would be terribly embarrassing. As I don’t know you very well yet, I thought the path of least resistance was to search your room. Now, have this.” She reached up the sleeve of her blouse and pulled out a small folded envelope. “Mr. Honeychurch-Black insisted on giving you a thank-you note. I told him there was no need, of course, but . . .” She shrugged.
Violet took the envelope and slid it into her pocket.
Miss Zander narrowed her eyes. “Aren’t you going to open it?”
“Later,” Violet said, feigning indifference.
“Hm.” Miss Zander pursed her lips and watched Violet for a moment before she spoke. “Don’t get ideas. About him.”
“I know my place,” Violet said. She wanted to be alone to open the envelope.
“Good girl. I like you, Violet. Don’t tell her, but I’m going to let Queenie go at the end of the week if you say you’ll stay on.”
“Yes!” Violet exclaimed, too quickly. Then remembered poor, dull, bony Queenie and finished guiltily, “I need the money for my mother. She has terrible arthritis.”
“You make a good impression on people, Miss Armstrong. Keep it up.”
Violet felt the warm glow of Miss Zander’s restored approval.
Miss Zander left, and Violet quietly closed the door behind her, then climbed onto her bed cross-legged in the weak light from the high window. She hadn’t the patience to be slow
or deliberate, so she ripped the envelope open and shook out a crisp, folded piece of hotel notepaper, and what looked like a button.
She picked it up. It was, indeed, a button—a large one, about an inch across. But on it was glued a dried flower and a pin on the back. The whole thing had been lacquered so it could be worn as a brooch. Had he made this for her? The thought filled her with excitement that heated her cheeks. She unfolded the note.
A precious pretty thing for a precious pretty thing. Gratitude. Your SHB.
“Your Samuel Honeychurch-Black,” she said aloud, and lay back on her pillow. Not Yours, SHB. Not formal. No: Your SHB. As though he belonged to her. Why would he write that? Did he really think she was pretty? And precious? She closed her eyes and held the note to her nose, sniffing it deeply. It smelled of something wild and sweet.
Then she sat up. If Miss Zander could come in here and go through her things whenever she pleased, Violet had to find somewhere to hide this note where it wouldn’t readily be found.
She scanned the room. Purse, suitcase, mattress . . . all had been overturned or searched. Then her eyes lit on her portable gramophone. She had bought it at a secondhand shop in Sydney, and it had always had a loose back panel. She rose and went to it, unbuckling the lid and flipping it open. She put aside the three records she kept in there and carefully prised the corner open with her nail, then slid the note inside. The thought that it might lose its sweet smell in there made her sad, but she didn’t want to risk Miss Zander finding it and wondering if there was something going on between her and Sam.
Was there something going on between her and Sam?
Violet clipped the lid back on the gramophone and returned to her bed, lying back to daydream about Sam. Confused, but smiling all the same.
* * *
She didn’t see Sam again that evening, or the next. Thursday came, her day off, and she dragged her feet getting out of bed. Queenie took forever in the bathroom, and by the time Violet was dressed and down at the staff dining room in the basement, most of the other staff had either gone on shift or headed out for the day.
Breakfast in the staff dining room was not skimpy. Every morning a long table was laden with platters of chops, sausages, bacon, and eggs. The men had one side of the dining room and the women the other, but in practice any couple who wanted to chat simply sat near the middle of the room, and turned around to speak to each other. Violet saw Clive on his side of the dining room, and took her bacon and eggs where they could talk.
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