Malley smiled, showing two gold-capped teeth. “It will chase them away with such power that they’ll be afraid to ever come back.”
Violet watched as Malley prepared the solution and the syringe, and she held Sam as Malley injected the substance into his arm. Sam leaned into her, and she could feel the tension drain out of his body as he became limp and heavy.
“Are you all right?” she whispered in his ear.
“Lie down,” he said, and so she lay on her side next to him, and he stroked her face with his hand. “Beautiful Violet.”
“You look so peaceful,” she said.
“Can we sleep here a little while?” But he was already drifting off, and she watched him flutter out of the world, leaving his horrors and his ghosts behind. His face in repose gave no indication that just half an hour before he had been shaking in her doorway. She tried to take comfort in his peace, although her heart harbored many other fears.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Violet resumed her visits to Sam’s room in the dead of night, but only every second night. “That is the price we pay for forbidden love,” he said, finally accepting her need for more rest. “Stolen moments.”
On the nights she didn’t come, he would write her furiously passionate love letters and leave them under her pillow with flowers pressed between tissue paper, or sweets, or pretty stones he’d found.
Sam returned to smoking whenever he wanted, and he evened out. She asked if he was going to see Malley for another injection, and was relieved when he told her he preferred his pipe to a needle and now he had enough opium to get him by for a while. He said his fear of the suicide’s ghost had also gone away, but he declared it in an airy tone she suspected was false bravery, and he still refused to use the bathroom in which the man had drowned. His illness and itches had left him, and he had an air of calm about him. But something else went away, too: the edge of his spirit was dulled, he seemed less interested in everything. Her desire for him was undimmed, but sometimes he needed to be persuaded to touch her. Violet began to grow embarrassed by their interactions, stripping her own clothes off, pulling at his until he seemed to wake a little and realize she needed his caresses.
The day before Christmas in June, she arrived at one in the morning to find him sitting on the floor surrounded by open books.
“Look at this, Violet,” he said. “This is what my sister gave me for Christmas. Is it not wonderful? Come and sit by me.”
She sat with him and listened as he pointed out the places in China he had visited, the places in Africa he dreamed of going, and all the farms and meadows his family owned back in England and Wales.
“Is there somewhere you’ve always wanted to go?” he asked her.
“I should like to see Paris, I think.”
He found the book containing maps of France, and showed her Paris, pointing out where the Eiffel Tower had been built, and describing the different character of each of the arrondissements. “I will take you there one day,” he promised. “You will see it with your own eyes.”
She kissed him and he pushed her over on the open map and made love to her in Paris. She closed her eyes and imagined they were really there, conjuring the smell of the Seine and the sound of accordions from Sam’s descriptions. Afterwards they sat up and pored over more maps, fingers tracing dreams they hoped to fulfill together one day. He was very taken with his gift, the way a small child might be taken with a treasured toy on Christmas morning.
At four, she returned wearily to her room. She slipped off her dress and pulled on her nightie, then lay down in bed. The last thing she expected was Myrtle’s voice in the dark. “Where have you been?”
Violet’s brain was too tired to think of a good excuse. “Nowhere,” she said.
“Were you nowhere the night before last, too? And two nights before that?”
“Nowhere interesting. I haven’t been sleeping well. I get up and walk around.”
“You come back smelling like opium smoke. Are you smoking opium?”
“Of course not! How do you know what opium smoke smells like?”
“Because we’ve all smelled it on Mr. Honeychurch-Black.”
Violet didn’t respond. Her pulse seemed very loud in her ears in the quiet room.
“I don’t want you to get in any trouble,” Myrtle said.
“I won’t. So long as you don’t tell anybody.”
“Not that kind of trouble,” Myrtle answered. “A different kind of trouble. The trouble girls get into when they aren’t careful enough around men.”
“How dare you?” Violet said hotly. “What kind of assumption is that to make about me?” She felt embarrassed and a little foolish.
“I don’t mean to offend, only to warn. I’m your friend, Violet. I won’t be around this time next week, so . . . so, I have to speak now. I know you’re seeing him. I know he leaves you little notes. I saw him in here putting one under your pillow. He scuttled off quick smart, but I’m not an idiot. Does he say he loves you?”
Violet didn’t answer, caught in the hot moment of being exposed, angry and fearful all at once.
Myrtle continued anyway. “He may well love you, but he can’t love you. A man like him wouldn’t be allowed to love a girl like you. You aren’t anybody. Men like Samuel Honeychurch-Black marry fancy ladies whose fathers are barons, women who have been to finishing schools and know a bit about the world. They don’t marry girls like you and me, Violet. It’s a fact of life.”
“You know nothing about him. Nor me. Nor us,” Violet exploded.
“Be as angry as you like,” Myrtle responded. “I don’t really care. I’m not saying all this to make myself feel superior to you. I’m saying it because for some foolish reason you haven’t thought it through yourself.”
Violet flipped on her side, roughly pulling the covers over herself. “I’m not listening to you anymore,” she said.
“Never mind. I’ve said my piece.” Myrtle grew silent and soon settled into the sleep of the righteous.
Violet, however, chased sleep fruitlessly until dawn. Not because she was angry with Myrtle, but because she feared that every word Myrtle said was true.
* * *
Violet had spent her whole life in and around Sydney, where Christmas was hot and bright. Of course she knew about cold Christmases because all the cards and decorations depicted Christmas this way, but until now it had seemed a remote or impossible way for Christmas to look. But when she stepped into the long room for Christmas-in-June celebrations, she was charmed by a sense of cold and wonder. The long room was used for occasional art exhibitions and community celebrations, and was really a conservatory that ran along the valley side of the east wing. The glass had caught and held much of the morning sun’s warmth, but two fireplaces had been lit and were crackling merrily. Wreaths of holly and ivy hung from the mantelpieces, and pretty red-and-green paper chains draped from the ceiling. A huge Christmas tree—one of the spruce pine saplings from the nursery—sat between the fireplaces, adorned with glass and glitter balls and handmade angels. Through the windows, Violet could see the cold day. Frost laced the hedges in the shade and the wind shook the bare branches of the crepe myrtle tree in the garden. A trio of singers rang bells and sang carols, and even though she knew it was not really Christmas, Violet let herself pretend.
Violet was on the first shift, and so began her work of carrying around large silver platters of star-shaped biscuits and slices of fruitcake iced thickly in marzipan. The guests converged around the fireplace and the tea table, and exchanged small gifts with laughter and cheeks made rosy from the cold and the fire. Or they gravitated to the three activities taking place at various parts of the room. In the far corner, under the spreading branches of a tree that dropped leaves relentlessly on the glass, was Clive with his easel, drawing portraits; in another corner, close to the fireplace, sat Thora in her gypsy costume, reading cards; and over by the bookshelves one of the bellhops made little wood carvings of elves. Violet focused as har
d as she could on the task at hand but was alert for Sam’s arrival. He had said he would definitely come, so where was he? His sister was here, standing by the tree with her fiancé and his entourage. Flora wore a beautiful dress of silk and beaded netting. She didn’t look happy, which made Violet suddenly worry that Sam might be ill or in some kind of trouble.
Then the door burst open and he was there, looking slightly disheveled but alert, which was a good sign; perhaps he hadn’t been smoking. Violet kept her head down, and within moments he had come over to take some cake and smile at her lovingly.
“Did you make this?” he said.
“No. I’m not much of a cook,” she replied.
“We’ll have servants.”
She blushed happily, then remembered her place; for now, she was the servant. But he had veered off, in order not to draw attention, and Violet kept working, ferrying sweet treats and then Christmas lunches to and from the kitchen via the long walkway outside, in and out of the heating until her poor body didn’t know whether to shiver or sweat. But then, once the main courses of roast beef, Yorkshire pudding, potatoes, and cauliflower were out, she was off shift and able to sit back and enjoy the carols and something to eat.
The party continued after the meal. Even though Miss Zander had allowed them to mingle with the guests, it was clear that the guests weren’t particularly interested in the staff. Violet saw Myrtle talking to Miss Sydney, and Alexandria in close dialogue with Cordelia Wright, the opera singer, but the rest of the staff hung together, chatting and laughing among themselves. Violet didn’t want to get caught up with them—she wanted to be free to duck away if Sam needed her—so she ambled about the room, stopping to look at the fire or admire the decorations on the tree.
Then she saw Sam and Flora up near Clive, watching him draw his portraits. She felt awkward in her own body, wanting so much to walk up there and join them, but feeling strangely shy about it. Usually she and Sam were alone together at odd hours or in strange places.
But then, wasn’t Clive an old friend? She could go and speak to him, watch him. Yes, he had said they weren’t friends anymore, but surely he would have cooled off by now. She knew she was telling herself lies, but she didn’t care. Taking a deep breath, she made her way down to the corner of the glass conservatory.
The light gleamed in Clive’s fair hair. He was concentrating on his easel. In front of him, with her back to Violet, was Lady Powell, sitting in an embroidered armchair. Violet joined Sam and Flora at a polite distance behind Clive as they watched the drawing appear on the paper.
My, but he was good! Violet had had no idea. She’d only ever seen him draw trees and buildings and bowls of fruit. But this portrait of Lady Powell captured everything about her haughty demeanor and the intelligent brightness of her eyes. She had to catch her breath, and the sound alerted Sam and Flora to her presence.
Sam looked up and smiled. Flora looked up and scowled.
“He’s very good, isn’t he?” Sam said.
This made Clive glance up. He saw Violet and quickly turned back to his work.
“Oh, yes,” Violet said. “I’m so impressed.”
Clive ignored her compliment, adding some finishing shadows to his drawing and then lifting the paper off the easel. “Here you are, Lady Powell,” he said, deferentially.
Lady Powell took the drawing and assessed it with her nostrils drawn down. Then the corners of her little mouth twitched up in a smile. “Well done, Mr. Betts,” she said.
He nodded, and she called Lord Powell over, who pressed a handful of shillings into Clive’s hands despite his protestations. Flora had wandered off, but Sam still stood next to Violet. Even though they were several inches apart, she was sure she could feel the magnetized heat of his body.
Clive sat down again and looked up at Sam. “Mr. Honeychurch-Black? Would you like a portrait?”
“I should like one very much, Mr. Betts,” Sam said. “But not of me. Of Violet.”
“Oh, not me,” Violet said, glancing around nervously.
“I’m only supposed to do drawings for the guests,” Clive said.
“You will be. For me. I will keep the portrait once it’s done, to remind me of my favorite waitress.”
“No, Mr. Honeychurch-Black, I really insist—” Violet started.
“No, I insist,” he countered, raising his voice a little, and then Miss Zander was there and Violet was sure she was going to lose her job.
“What seems to be the matter?” Miss Zander said.
“I’d like your artist to draw Violet,” he said. “I like to watch him draw.”
“Then perhaps we can get him to draw your sister?” Miss Zander suggested lightly.
“But I want to watch him draw her. I’ve seen him draw fine ladies, and now I want to see him draw a waitress. I want to see if he can capture any dignity or bearing in someone of his own class.”
Violet stung. Not a fine lady. A waitress. His own class. She knew Sam might be saying these things to manage Miss Zander’s suspicions, but they were true and they both knew it.
“Very well, then, Mr. Honeychurch-Black,” Miss Zander said, conscious of the interest that their conversation seemed to be provoking. “Violet, do sit down. Clive, your best work, please.”
Violet reluctantly sat in the embroidered chair, a little flushed and embarrassed by the handful of guests who had drifted over to watch her and Clive, and a little proud and vain that she had been singled out from all the staff. She kept her eyes down until Clive said, “Violet, you’ll have to look at me.”
She lifted her gaze. He met it, and there was such sadness in his eyes that her heart twinged. She remembered the reason he’d given for never having drawn her before. Because a page is too flat and too small to capture you. Was he thinking that now as his eyes appraised her face?
“Keep your head up, please,” he said, as his eyes went down and he began to draw. Violet looked past him to Sam, who stood with his back against the glass, smiling at her knowingly. She smiled back. Surely anyone who saw them like this would know they were in love. Was it an open secret? Maybe everybody knew and nobody cared. She relaxed her chest and shoulders, and her blood raced through her more freely. Being in love, reciprocated love, was pure bliss.
A small crowd had gathered, mostly guests. But Belle, the chambermaid, also approached and squeezed in next to Sam. She turned and smiled at him, then said something—Violet thought it might have been a simple, “Happy Christmas in June, Mr. Honeychurch-Black”—but he didn’t reply to her. He acted as though he hadn’t heard at all, but then Belle tapped his arm to get his attention, and Sam physically recoiled, giving Belle a look of contempt that Violet wouldn’t have believed possible if she hadn’t seen it with her own eyes. Belle lowered her gaze and scuttled away, and then Sam gathered some bluster and said to the crowd of guests, “Let’s leave Mr. Betts to do his work in private,” and wandered off. Violet felt deflated. The others dispersed, leaving her and Clive alone in the corner of the conservatory.
“Eyes front, Violet,” he said.
She did as he instructed, feeling her heart thudding softly in her throat. The silence was strained over words that couldn’t be said.
Finally, Clive spoke. “Mr. Honeychurch-Black seems quite taken with you.”
Violet couldn’t think what to say in reply. She glanced around the room, but she couldn’t see Sam.
“I think he will be happy with the portrait,” Clive continued. “I think I’ve managed to capture some dignity, despite your low class.” All this was said without a hint of a smile. It was meant to warn her. Or hurt her.
“Eyes front,” he said again, in a whisper.
“Sam is a lovely man,” she said, defensive.
“You know that, do you?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Then I shan’t interfere.”
The minutes crawled by. The carollers began again, and the music provided some relief from the long, awkward silence. Violet wanted very much to loo
k around—to see if Sam was back, to see what was going on—but Clive had her pinned to the spot. She wondered if he was taking an age on purpose, then reminded herself that each portrait had seemed to take him half an hour, and probably only half that time had passed since she sat. The room seemed too warm.
Finally, Clive sat back. “It’s finished,” he said.
She gave him a bright smile. “Can I see?”
“Yes, but I can’t give you the drawing. It’s for Mr. Honeychurch-Black.”
“Of course.” She rose and stood behind Clive’s shoulder, looking down on the portrait. She had seen photographs of herself from time to time and was always surprised—they never seemed to capture how she thought she looked—but this portrait . . . it was strange. There was the softness about her cheeks and the directness of her gaze that she knew from looking in the mirror.
“It’s very good, Clive,” she said. “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me, thank your patron. Ah, here he comes.” Clive stood and plucked the drawing paper from the easel, just as Violet turned to see Sam approaching. As he passed her, she caught a distinct whiff of opium steam. So, that’s where he had been.
“Ah, marvelous. Marvelous,” he muttered, admiring the drawing then rolling it up and tucking it under his arm. “Well done, Mr. Betts. I haven’t any cash on me to tip you . . .”
“I don’t need a tip, sir. I’m paid well for what I do.” A hint of wounded pride in Clive’s voice went unnoticed by Sam.
“Good-o, then.” He turned to Violet, nodded once. “Thank you, Miss Armstrong. I’ll . . . ah . . . see you soon.” Then he scuttled off and out of the conservatory.
“He seemed to be in a hurry to get away,” Clive said, his head down, rearranging the papers on his easel.
Violet narrowed her eyes, prepared to retort, then changed her mind. Clive was jealous; that was all. So instead she moved away, back towards the fireplace, and joined Thora in her silly gypsy costume and Myrtle who was eating a Christmas-tree biscuit. They pointedly didn’t ask her why she sat for a portrait for Sam, and she was glad not to have to make any more excuses.
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