Evergreen Falls

by Kimberley Freeman

  * * *

  Flora watched Sam leave, with the portrait rolled under his arm, and wished she could leave, too. She stood alone by the back conservatory corner, opposite the kind-faced handyman who was drawing portraits. What a torture today had become. Trapped with Tony and his friends, with preening Karl joining them after lunch. Mixing with the staff had aroused their most smug and mean-spirited jokes, and they egged each other on to more and more outrageously snide comments. If one of the staff came to talk to them, they would politely smile and offer compliments as though they were the loveliest fellows in the world; but the moment the person walked away, they would snigger and gossip in the most unsavory terms. Flora was quite sick of it. Sam’s company, too, had been good only for a brief moment. But as soon as he’d seen Violet, he’d become belligerent and sullen. She’d spent a good deal of time sitting by herself trying to look as though she was enjoying the carollers, or trying to get a word in edgeways in conversation with Cordelia Wright.

  “Isn’t the cold bracing?” Cordelia was saying, picking a cherry off a biscuit and popping it into her mouth. “You know, they’re saying it might snow. I do love snow.”

  Snow? Now she’d never get Sam out of here. This cold weather wasn’t Christmas as Flora loved it. Christmas was warm sunshine and aching blue skies and waving grass and the throaty buzz of cicadas, relatives visiting and roast lamb and damper on the long back veranda of her parents’ rambling manor in the country, with brandy pudding after. What would Christmas—the real Christmas—be like this year? Married to Tony, living in the city, surrounded by his awful friends.

  Would he stop seeing the other women? (She couldn’t even bring herself to think the word prostitutes.)

  Flora itched to get away, and at last she resorted to feigning a headache.

  “I’m sorry, Miss Wright,” she said, “but I think this Christmas brandy has gone to my head . . .” She pushed herself away from the glass wall.

  “Oh, you poor dear. You just need more practice.” Cordelia winked and moved off, and Flora was just about to escape when she saw Tony approaching, the awful entourage in tow.

  “You’re not leaving?” he asked, smiling that heart-melting smile, his hands spread casually.

  “I’m not feeling well.”

  “We’ve hardly spoken two words today. I have a little Christmas gift for you.”

  She allowed herself to smile, then looked pointedly at Sweetie and Karl. Tony made a buzz-off gesture with his hands, and then turned back to her. The afternoon shadows grew long outside, and the wind freshened and rattled against the big glass panes. The light in the room changed, and as Miss Zander bustled about lighting lamps, Flora couldn’t shake the feeling that the approaching darkness was somehow significant to her. Perhaps it was being alone with Tony. She felt she couldn’t be herself around him anymore. Her mind was always creating pictures of him with other women: hard-faced women who had no modesty. Was that what he liked? Were her dignity, her decorum, her decency liabilities?

  He stood close, kissing her cheek. He stank of alcohol. “Have you been avoiding me today?”

  “Your friends are buffoons.”

  “It’s just a bit of fun.”

  “You know I don’t like cruel fun.”

  He smiled, reaching into the pocket of his jacket. “Maybe this will make you happy.”

  The small box was wrapped with a ribbon, and she plucked it open. She knew she should be excited, but instead she found herself anxious. What level of obligation would attach itself to this expensive gift?

  Inside the box was a gold necklace with a large, rectangular emerald in its center. “It’s beautiful,” she said, trying to sound enthusiastic.

  “Would you like me to put it on you?”

  “Maybe later. I don’t want to draw attention to us.”

  A look of irritation crossed his face, but he didn’t push her to put it on. She snapped the box shut and smiled at him. “Thank you so much, my dear.”

  His voice dropped low. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing’s wrong.”

  “There’s been something wrong all week. You don’t smile at me with your eyes anymore. Now, what is it?”

  The words bubbled up her throat. Her vision went white around the edges as she wondered if she would tell him. Then it occurred to her very brightly: What if Eliza was wrong? Or what if she had made it up to spite Flora? Certainly Flora didn’t know her very well, and people often did strange things for strange reasons. What if she asked him, and he reassured her that it wasn’t true?

  Flora realized that long seconds had passed since he asked his question. She took a deep breath. “Eliza Fielding told me you see . . . ladies of the night . . . in Sydney.”

  Tony blinked. She took a last loving gaze at his beautiful face in case everything changed for the worse after this moment.

  “Men do that kind of thing,” he said.

  All the breath left her lungs. “So, it’s true?”

  “I’m a natural man. I have needs. You’ve put off our wedding for a long time. I can’t wait forever to have my needs met. It’s perfectly natural.”

  Flora felt sobs building up in her chest, but she wouldn’t cry. Not here in public. She tried to push past him, but he caught her.

  “You aren’t to judge me for this, Flora. I could have denied it. I told you the truth. All of the other men do it, too. Sweetie does.”

  Flora thought of Will Dalloway’s words: I certainly don’t.

  “Let me go,” she said.

  “Don’t go getting hysterical. Women and men are different.”

  She peeled his hands off her, but stood her ground in front of him. “Will you stop?”

  “When?”

  “Now. Will you stop now? Our wedding is only a few short months away and I . . . I won’t have it, Tony. Either you stop, or the wedding is off.”

  His eyes darted away. “All right. I’ll stop.”

  A victory. Why didn’t it feel like one?

  “Also, you must be tested and treated against any . . . illnesses you might have acquired.”

  “I haven’t any such illnesses,” he protested, but she merely shrugged, staring at him icily.

  He sighed, his shoulders softening. “Yes, yes. All right. I have to say, I didn’t know you had this much mettle in you.”

  She felt the corner of her lip twitch.

  He sensed her softening. “I’m glad I’m marrying you,” he said.

  “I predict we’ll make a good life together, Tony. But I expect impeccable behavior.”

  “You shall have it. I make that promise to you.”

  “Thank you for the necklace. Really. Thank you. It’s beautiful.”

  He caught her again, this time gently and lovingly, around the waist, and pulled her close against him, stroking her hair. “I’m sorry, my love. I never intended to hurt you.”

  Flora felt pierced by guilt for having told Will about their troubles. It wasn’t right for him to know so much about her personal life and feelings. She simply had to stay away from the doctor.

  “Merry Christmas,” she murmured against his shoulder.

  “Merry Christmas, Flora.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  The Evergreen Spa was due to close on the first of July, and the staff quarters were busy with activity as people packed and moved out. The mood was sometimes light and sometimes miserable, depending on whether staff had somewhere to go for the holiday or work to tide them over before their return in spring.

  Myrtle was in high spirits as she packed her things. She told Violet about visiting her sister in northern Queensland, where the weather was warm and mild and where the beach was only a ten-minute walk away.

  “Imagine, you’ll be up here in the snow, and I’ll be swimming in the sea,” Myrtle gloated, and Violet had to admit that swimming in the warm sea sounded very appealing indeed.

  “It might not snow.”

  “Well, I’ve never seen the snow here, to be honest,” Myrtle s
aid, snapping her suitcase clasp on her finger. “Ow!”

  “You really are clumsy, Myrtle.”

  She sucked her finger. “I was going to say,” she continued, “that everybody’s talking about snow and lots of it. One of the coldest winters predicted. I’m glad to be getting away.”

  Violet closed her case for her. “There. What time does your train leave?”

  “In an hour. I have to wipe down the drawers and my dresser now. Miss Zander insists on it. You can’t leave a thing behind, not so much as a hair.”

  Violet pitched in to help and they busied themselves meticulously cleaning out the drawers Myrtle had used for the past year. “I’m quite looking forward to being on skeleton staff,” Violet said, “though I have to make the beds on the ladies’ floor every day.”

  “Only a handful,” Myrtle said. “There aren’t many staying.”

  “I suppose.”

  Myrtle wrung out her cloth in her bucket again, and kept working. “The Honeychurch-Blacks are staying, are they?” she asked in a too-casual tone.

  “As far as I know,” Violet replied, equally casually, as though she and Sam hadn’t passionately celebrated the fact that they would be together another two months in a near-empty hotel.

  “She’s nice, isn’t she? Miss Honeychurch-Black? She has a lovely way about her, and she’s a bit . . . queenly.”

  “I don’t know.” Violet stopped dusting and drew her brows down, thinking of Sam’s warnings that Flora would try to stop them being together. “I think she’s quite bossy.”

  Myrtle stopped and turned. “She’s not bossy. I’ve served her dinner most nights for weeks. I’ve never met a less fussy, more kindly guest.” She put down her cloth and fixed Violet in her gaze, and Violet knew there were warnings and judgments coming.

  Violet sighed. “Go on, then,” she said. “Say your piece.”

  “Miss Zander called me in to see her, directly after Christmas in June. She asked if there was any chance I could change my plans and stay for the winter.”

  “So?”

  “I told her no, and I asked her why. Was she expecting more guests? But she just shook her head and said it was ‘a passing concern.’ ”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Don’t you see, Violet? I’m a waitress. You’re a waitress. She was thinking of replacing you with me. Now, I don’t know if she changed her mind when I said no, or if she asked all the other waitstaff and none could change their plans . . . but she’s not stupid, our Miss Zander. The business with Mr. Honeychurch-Black demanding a portrait of you . . . she’s not stupid.”

  Violet’s heart grew hot. “You think she suspects?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Am I going to lose my job?”

  “Not yet, you’re not. Put yourself in Miss Zander’s shoes: she wants to keep her very rich guests happy, and she knows that Mr. Honeychurch-Black likes you and that if she fires you while he’s here, he’ll be anything but happy. But after he’s gone, there’s nothing to protect you.”

  Violet drew her back up tall. “Sam will protect me.”

  Myrtle cocked her head to one side. “You’re sure of that?”

  Violet nodded, and Myrtle turned back to her drawers. “Then there’s nothing to worry about, is there?” Myrtle said.

  Violet lay back on her bed. No, there was nothing to worry about. The job at the Evergreen Spa couldn’t last either way. At the end of the winter, when Sam had sorted it out with his family, she would be engaged to him. Or else she would be heading back to Sydney to look after Mama. She wished she could be certain of the first, because the second was a sad, measly horror.

  Sam’s words returned to her: Don’t doubt me, my love, don’t doubt me. Everybody else does. I couldn’t bear it if you did, too. No, she wouldn’t doubt him. Provided they played it carefully for just a little longer, Violet had nothing to fear from Miss Zander.

  “There,” said Myrtle. “All done. I’ll go empty this bucket and then . . . would you walk me to the train station?”

  “I’d love to.”

  The air was cold and crisp outside, and Violet’s cheeks stung with it. Other staff milled about on the platform trading gossip and jokes, but Violet noticed that many of them seemed wary of her. Perhaps she herself had been the subject of recent gossip. She kept her head high and didn’t let it bother her; in fact, she was almost a little proud.

  Finally, the train was ready to leave, and Myrtle enfolded Violet in a soft, rose-scented hug. “Good-bye, Violet. I shall write to you.”

  “Go swimming for me,” Violet said, through a mouthful of Myrtle’s hair. “I should love to go swimming.”

  Myrtle put her mouth close to Violet’s ear. “Mind yourself, dearie. You are precious. Mind yourself. I don’t want anything bad to happen to you.”

  Violet fought to keep the irritation out of her voice. “It won’t,” she said. “Now, off with you. Enjoy your warm winter.”

  She stood on the platform until the train had gone. She had an overwhelming longing to be on the train with Myrtle, to be heading north to Queensland, where the sun was warm on the sea and all of this uncertainty was behind her. But then thoughts of Sam took over again, and her mind and senses were filled with the memory of their late-night encounters, and the yearning to be with him again burned through her like fire.

  * * *

  Footsteps constantly moving up and down hallways and stairwells, voices calling good-bye to each other, car doors closing and engines starting. It was a busy few days and everybody who could be pressed into service was. Violet even found herself carrying suitcases for guests like a lowly bellhop. One tall, fleshy man with an arrogant mouth had watched wordlessly as she tried to maneuver his two trunks into his car for him. They seemed to weigh a ton, but he said not a word in thanks. Clive, who was also helping out on leaving day, saw her at the last minute and raced over to help.

  “Thanks,” she whispered. “I was afraid I’d drop one.”

  “Stick to helping the lady guests,” Clive said. “Silk doesn’t weigh as much.” He winked at her then went back to his own duties.

  She was already exhausted when Miss Zander came to fetch her to clear the emptied guest rooms.

  “This is Agnes’s last day,” Miss Zander said, roughly jerking free a sheet while Violet tipped a pillow out of a slip. “She’ll launder all this today and hang it out, and I want you to bring it in tomorrow, then come up here and change all the beds for our remaining guests.”

  “Certainly. How many are there?”

  “Just three on the ladies’ floor, and five on the men’s. Lady Powell and Lord Powell share the regency suite on the upper floor. I know you think it’s beneath you, but I do expect you to do your best. Sheets, floors, rugs, dusting, and so on. Mr. Betts will be cleaning the bathrooms. Your work shouldn’t take too long, and of course your waitressing load will be lighter with so few here. So, don’t be asking me for extra money.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of it.” Violet hid her disappointment. Yes, there were fewer guests, but fewer staff, too. She’d have to work breakfast, lunch, and dinner as well as tidy rooms and boil sheets for six rooms. But then she reminded herself that this was better than not working at all, and she would still be close to Sam.

  In fact, she would have access to his room. This thrilling thought fell flat almost immediately as she realized the access to his room was for the purpose of changing his sheets and cleaning up after him, so she tried to buoy herself by imagining that they were married, and she was simply looking after him as a good wife would.

  “Right, take these,” Miss Zander said, shoving a rough ball of sheets into her arms. “Put them in the trolley outside.”

  Violet did as she was told, emerging from the room at precisely the same moment that Flora exited her own room, wearing a wool hat and a sumptuous fur coat. She looked at Violet with pale, startled eyes.

  “Good morning,” Violet mumbled.

  Miss Zander was right behind her. �
�Now we’ll take these down to—” She stopped, and her tone changed immediately. “Oh, good morning, Miss Honeychurch-Black. Off to town?”

  “Yes, I . . .” Flora touched her hat nervously, put her head down, and moved away, not finishing her sentence.

  “A lovely woman,” Miss Zander said. “So beautifully bred, so accomplished.”

  Violet wordlessly shoved sheets into the bag on the trolley, feeling low and servile.

  * * *

  That night, she dragged herself out of bed exhausted at midnight, and crept up the stairs to Sam’s room. She was determined to extract some kind of promise from him about when he would ask his father if they could marry. The uncertainty overwhelmed her. She opened his door and found him lying on his side on his bed, smoking his pipe. Underneath the lamp was the portrait of Violet that Clive had drawn.

  Violet was disappointed. When he smoked, he went off to his own world and was impossible to talk to sensibly. “Hello,” she said softly, closing the door behind her.

  Sam fixed her in narrowed eyes, then exhaled slowly. The warm, organic smell of the opium steam filled the room. “He’s in love with you, isn’t he?”

  Violet was taken aback. “Who?”

  Sam tapped the back of his knuckles on the drawing. “Clyde.”

  “You mean Clive?”

  His voice rose sharply, suddenly deafening in the quiet. “Don’t correct me! I don’t care what his name is and nor should you!”

  Alarm lit Violet’s heart. “Sh, Sam!” she whispered harshly. “Somebody would have heard that.”

  “I don’t care.”

  “Why are you so angry with me? I don’t understand.”

  “Look at it. Look at it!” He tore the paper out from under his lamp, nearly upsetting his pipe, and flung it on the floor at her feet.

  Violet picked it up and looked at it. She had no idea what she was looking for, but her pulse was pounding and she fixed her eyes on the paper nonetheless, hoping he would settle down before he woke the other men on the floor.

  “Well?” he said.

  “I’m so sorry, my darling, but you’re not making sense,” she said, as gently as she could.