“You won’t tell me what for?”
“I’m sorry, I can’t. But it’s nothing sinister. Trust me.”
He sighed. “I do trust you, Violet.”
“You’re a good friend.”
“Yes, it seems I am. Here.” He climbed to his feet and went to the tool rack, fetched a hammer and chisel, and handed them to her. “Take your time. I have spares.”
She beamed. She wanted to kiss his cheek but thought better of it; it would give him the wrong impression, and, besides, she was fairly sure that Sam wouldn’t like it.
The next morning, just at dawn, when she was sure Sam was sleeping off their passion-fueled excesses, she picked her way down the bush path, scarf wrapped high around her ears and cheeks, hat pulled low, and fingers shivering even in her new leather gloves.
Violet was unprepared for how much work it would take to make an impression on the rock. She wanted the letters to be as deep as the love heart in which she was impressing them, and it took ages simply to make the first groove, the top of the S. The rest of the S, a lightning strike, came a little easier now she had learned the best angle on which to lean the chisel. Then she stopped and considered her work. She had intended to write SAM, but remembered that he always signed his love letters SHB. The H was easy enough, but the B looked a mess, like some kind of uneven Viking rune. Nonetheless, one hour and two aching wrists later, it was done.
Violet sat back and admired her work. Yes. She had chiseled her love for him into stone. He would understand how much it meant, and he would never doubt her love again.
She rose, stretching her legs, only to look up and see Clive standing at the entrance to the cave.
“Oh!” she cried, startled, her hand going over her heart. “How long have you been there?”
He inclined his head slightly. “I followed you down. But I didn’t approach until I heard you stop chiseling. I’m sorry, but I was worried about you.”
“Worried?”
“It’s an odd thing to ask for, Violet. I didn’t know what you were up to, what trouble you might get yourself into. Forgive me.”
He advanced into the cave, and Violet moved her body to stand in front of the rock. “Here are your tools,” she said, offering them to him.
“You may as well move. I’ll just come back here later to look.”
Violet stood aside. “I didn’t carve the heart. Just the letters.”
Clive looked at the letters a long time, and said nothing.
“Please don’t tell,” she said.
“I have nothing to tell,” he replied, forcing a smile. “It’s obviously in a language I don’t understand.”
Violet was grateful for his feigned ignorance, and for keeping his judgments about her behavior to himself.
“I’d best get these back to the workshop,” he said, turning on his heel.
“We’re still friends aren’t we, Clive?” she called after him.
“Perhaps not,” he called back, over his shoulder. “Perhaps that’s not best for either of us.”
She hurried after him, then changed her mind and hung back. Yes, perhaps it was not best for either of them. He was still sweet on her; of course he was. She knew it. She had taken advantage of it when she’d gone to borrow the tools from him. Once she’d been sweet on him, too, but the remembrance of their one chaste kiss was almost laughable next to the passionate kisses she and Sam shared.
It was time to let Clive go.
* * *
“Flora!”
Flora, who was sitting in a sunbeam near the fountain in the garden, turned to see Tony waving to her. At his side was Eliza, Vincent’s girlfriend, whom Tony had brought up from Sydney with him, grudgingly. The happy news that Tony had finished with meetings until after the wedding and could spend more time with Flora was tempered by the sad news that Eliza had come to take Vincent off the mountain for good. He had finally asked her to marry him.
Flora rose and walked towards them, admiring Tony’s well-cut suit and dashing hat and hoping he had done as she had asked and purchased a special Christmas-in-June present for her to give to Sam. “Did you bring it?” she asked.
“I brought more things than you can imagine,” he said, smiling. “I’ve had them sent up to your room already.”
“Dear Flora,” Eliza said, leaning in to kiss the air next to Flora’s cheek. “Happy to see you.”
“Indeed. And happy to hear that you’ll be heading down the mountain to get married.”
“You two won’t be far behind, I take it?” Eliza said, glancing at Tony.
Tony grinned. “Father Callahan said yes. September the eighteenth it is. Write to your father and let him know. We’ll take the Wentworth for the reception. My assistant is organizing it all.” He brushed his thumb lightly across Flora’s chin. “All you need to do is buy a wedding gown.”
Flora’s body tingled. Was it excitement or fear? They were similar enough. It must be excitement.
“Go on, you two,” he said. “Run off and do your women’s business. But Flora, do look in on your brother’s Christmas present. I must catch up with Karl for coffee at three.”
Eliza linked her arm through Flora’s. “Come on, up to your room,” Eliza said. “I’m dying to see what was in that trunk on the backseat of the car all the way here. Tony wouldn’t tell me a thing, the grump.”
“A trunk? Golly, I just asked him to get an atlas for Sam. A nice one.”
They went inside and up the stairs, and sure enough, in the middle of Flora’s room sat a trunk. She felt for the latch, then opened the lid. Inside were two dozen gold-embossed, leather-bound books. She pulled the first one out—it was enormous—and opened at a random page. Maps. The books were full of maps. She and Eliza pulled a few out and browsed the detailed, richly illustrated maps of continents and countries, islands and archipelagos.
“Oh my, Sam will love these!” Flora exclaimed as she stacked them on top of each other on the floor beside her. “Though I’ll never be able to wrap them.” She looked at Eliza. “I can’t imagine what possessed Tony to acquire such a gift. He and Sam don’t get along.”
“That explains it, then,” Eliza said. “When I asked him what was in the trunk, he said it was a peace offering.”
“He wants to make peace with Sam?”
“I expect so. Now that the wedding isn’t so far away. They’ll be brothers.”
“They have so little in common. It’s like they’re from two different species.”
“Men are men,” she said, diffidently, not meeting Flora’s eye. “I say, let’s go down to the games room and have a few hands of gin rummy.”
“I don’t much like playing cards,” Flora said, sliding the books neatly back into the trunk.
“The tearoom, then? I’m gasping for a pot of tea.”
The tearoom was open only on weekends, and was the favorite haunt of the older ladies, including Cordelia and Lady Powell. “Of course, if that’s what you want.”
She flipped the catch on the trunk and quickly checked her hair, and then she and Eliza descended the stairs and walked all the way to the end of the east wing to the tearoom. The thick, red drapes had been caught back with gold braided ties, letting sun fall through the hip-to-ceiling windows, and opening up the view out over the cliffs. The room smelled of cinnamon and butter, and buzzed with well-dressed ladies in silk and beads heaping delicacies onto china plates. Flora felt quite plain in her knitted cream jumper and paneled skirt. Long tables had been laid out with platters of sandwiches and scones and fresh fruit. A waiter showed them to a free table and brought them a pot of tea, and Flora had no idea at all from Eliza’s demeanor and conversation of the horror that was coming.
Finally, when they were alone, Eliza said, “I brought you here so that when I tell you what I have to tell you, you will be forced to keep your head and not make a scene.”
“What do you mean?” Flora’s blood iced over. Eliza’s face had become so serious. “What’s happened?”
&
nbsp; “I have known about this for some time, but only now that Vincent is quitting Tony’s ‘admiration society’ ”—she said these words with barely disguised loathing—“am I free to tell you.”
“Please,” Flora said, because she didn’t know what else to say, “be easy on my heart.” She reached for Eliza’s hand. “Please.”
“Your fiancé has not been faithful to you.”
Flora let this sink in. She found that it didn’t immediately cause pain, the way finding out her mother had died or Sam had been exposed to the police might. She nodded. “He has a lover?”
“Would that it were one, my dear. He keeps the regular company of ladies of the night when he is in Sydney.”
Flora shuddered.
“A good friend of mine is the wife of his assistant, the man who is charged with procuring and paying for these ladies. By his word, Tony doesn’t do a lot of work in Sydney. It is rather more pleasure. Worse, Tony’s father is the same. A man who lives off the fat of his business, pays cleverer men to do the hard work, and spends a lot of time in brothels.” Eliza exhaled loudly. “There, I’ve said it. I’ve been wanting to say it for a very long time.”
Flora recalled their conversation in the woods near the trout lake, Eliza’s doubts about men being able to do “the right thing.” Her cheeks flushed with embarrassment. “Does Vincent know?” she asked.
“They all know,” Eliza said.
“Then why haven’t they stopped him?”
“Because they don’t judge him. They think it natural for a man such as Tony to have what he wants. I have told Vincent, very clearly, that it is not natural for him to want such things and that I will wring his neck if he goes near another woman. Any type of woman.”
Flora’s cheeks stung. Eliza was right, though: being in a public place made her repress any urge to cry and rage. She folded her hands on the table in front of her.
“Tea, dear?” Eliza said.
“Thank you.”
“I’m sorry to be the bearer of this news.”
“It’s better that I know.”
“Will you still marry him?”
The question surprised Flora. It hadn’t even occurred to her that she wouldn’t. Her father wanted it, Tony’s father wanted it, they loved each other, the date had been set and the church booked. “I imagine I will,” she said. “Many men . . . do that. Even after they are married.”
“You make sure he stops before the wedding,” Eliza warned. “He’ll bring home the clap and give it to you.”
Flora found herself repulsed. The idea of being intimate with Tony, which so far had been a vague, dreamy fantasy on the edge of her mind, now seemed ugly and wet and too real.
Eliza poured her tea. “Now, we are going to sit here until I’m sure you are able to keep yourself composed.”
“I’m composed.”
“Are you angry?”
“I don’t get angry. It’s impractical.”
“Are you hurt?”
Flora considered her feelings as though from a distance. “I’m . . . sad. I think. And embarrassed.”
“It’s him who ought to be embarrassed.” Eliza leaned forwards and grasped Flora’s hands. “Will you talk to him about it?”
“I don’t know. Perhaps it doesn’t matter. Perhaps my feelings don’t matter.” She wondered if Tony ever sang opera songs to his lady companions.
Eliza sat back. “You matter, Flora. If you want him to stop, you have to tell him.”
Flora sat, mute and empty. She suddenly wished that Eliza had never told her. She wished she’d minded her own business.
“Will you tell him?”
“I don’t know,” Flora snapped.
Eliza arched a perfectly penciled eyebrow. “I thought you said you didn’t get angry. Now, drink your tea like a lady. Whatever you do, make sure Vincent and I are gone before you confront him. With Tony’s bad temper, who knows what he’ll do.”
Flora drank her tea. It tasted bitter, or perhaps bitterness was all she could taste.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Flora paced her room. Around and around. The trunk full of books sat in the middle of the floor. How could he? How could he? Pacing, pacing. How she hated the trunk of books, how she hated the idea that he had bought them out of guilt, rather than out of a desire to mend a fractured bond with her brother.
A knock at the door. It would be Tony; she knew it. How could she even look at him? Head down, she answered the door.
“Miss Honeychurch-Black?”
“Oh. Miss Zander. Is everything all right?”
“Well, no. May I come in? Or you could come down to my office if that’s more agreeable.”
“No, no. Come in. I’m . . . not busy.”
Miss Zander closed the door behind her. “It’s about your brother.”
Flora steeled herself. There couldn’t possibly be more bad news today. “Go on.”
“Some of the ladies on this floor have complained about him using their bathroom.”
Flora was confused. “Using the ladies’ bathroom?”
“Yes.”
“On this floor?”
“So they say.”
Had Sam smoked so much opium he couldn’t find his own bathroom?
“I’d approach him myself, but . . .” Miss Zander trailed off. “I’m unsure how to broach the topic sensitively, and I know you are very protective of him. He’s much younger than you, isn’t he?”
“Five years,” she muttered. “But yes, he lacks maturity. I will certainly speak to him. It’s probably a simple mistake. My brother’s sins are more often of omission than commission, Miss Zander. Try not to think too ill of him.”
“I think nothing but good things of your family, Miss Honeychurch-Black,” she said. “Good day.”
Flora took a moment to gather her thoughts. Tony. Sam. Both gave her nothing but sorrow; why did she love them both, then?
Down the stairs she went to Sam’s room. He wasn’t there. She hardly saw him about anymore, and she found it curious that he had discovered the pleasures of nature and the outdoors at precisely the time the weather had turned too bitter to leave the hotel.
She returned to her room for hat, coat, and gloves, and after an hour wandering around the grounds and shallower mountain paths, trying to clear her head, she made her way back, past the coffeehouse. As she glanced in the window she was surprised to see Sam sitting alone at a table, gazing out. Gazing right through her. She waved, and the movement caught his eye and he half smiled, but she could tell already he had been smoking. His mind was roaming a long way away.
Rather than invite him out where he might stumble and fall, she went in. The heating was up very high, and her skin prickled under her warm blouse. She hung up her coat and glanced about anxiously for Tony’s mob, but they weren’t there. She slid into the seat opposite Sam, wondering how he’d managed to find his way here without her help.
“Sam, are you all right?”
“Yes.”
“You’ve been smoking.”
“An hour ago. Coming down now.”
“Why aren’t you in your room? It isn’t like you to come out . . . in this state.”
He shrugged.
“Sam, Miss Zander came to see me. She said there have been complaints about you using the bathroom on the ladies’ floor.”
His head snapped up. “It was only once!”
“Why on earth were you up there?”
“I don’t want to use the bathroom closest to my room. The other bathrooms on the men’s floor were occupied. So, I went upstairs.” He dropped his voice. “I really needed to go, Sissy.”
“Why don’t you want to use your bathroom?”
“Because that man died in it, and now it’s haunted.” He said this matter-of-factly, as though he’d described it as dirty or too small.
“Haunted?”
He nodded.
“But you don’t believe in ghosts, Sam. Why would you think it’s haunted?”
�
��Because he died in there.”
“Great-grandpapa died on the sofa in our sitting room back home, and you were always happy to be in there. And to sit on the sofa, for that matter. I remember finding you there in an embrace with Mrs. Hanover.”
“Great-grandpapa didn’t haunt the place, Flora. It’s different altogether.”
Flora spread her hands on the table. The noise of men talking and the smell of coffee brewing whirled around them in the heated room. “You’ll need to explain. What have you seen or heard?”
“Nothing. I haven’t seen or heard anything. But I can feel it. I can feel my skin prickling. It’s cold in there. The sensations echo about.”
Even though it wasn’t rational, Flora’s own skin came out in goose bumps. What dark imaginings he was capable of. “It’s a bathroom,” she said forcefully, as much to reassure herself as him. “Bathrooms are always cold.”
“I’m not going back in there.”
“Just promise me you’ll stay out of the ladies’ bathroom.”
He shrugged.
“Miss Zander can decide we are too much trouble and send us home, you know.”
“She wouldn’t do that.”
“What if she did?”
“All right, all right. I’ll stay away from the ladies’ floor.” He ran his hands through his hair. “I haven’t been sleeping right. I’ve been having dreams. Ever since he died.”
“It’s the shock. We were all upset by it. You’ve always been more sensitive.”
“Yes, yes. That’s it. That’s it and nothing more. Thanks, Sissy.” He covered her hand with his. “How are you?”
Should she tell him? No, he already hated Tony. She made herself smile. “I have your Christmas present in my room.”
“Christmas isn’t for months.”
“Christmas in June, remember?”
“Oh. I’d best find something for you, then.” It had always been the way with Sam. She lavished him with gifts, and he would give her an old book he’d found under his bed or buy the first ugly thing he saw.
“Don’t worry about it, Sam. The best gift you can give me is to keep smoking less, and stay away from the lass.”
“You can count on me,” he said, unconvincingly. But today, too many other worries took precedence, and she could not bring herself to probe him further.
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