“He’s in love with you. Can you not see it? In every line, in every curve. The care, the detail.”
Violet chose her words carefully. Of course Clive was in love with her, but she had never known it to be so dangerous a problem before now. “But he showed as much care and detail in his drawing of Lady Powell. You saw that.”
“This is different. Look, he had the cheek to sign his name on the bottom.”
Violet peered at the bottom, where she saw Clive’s name crossed out.
“He crossed it out.”
“No, I did.”
“Well, then,” she said, “it’s gone. Anyway, what would it matter if he did love me?” she continued boldly. “Because I don’t love him. I love you, and my heart is constant.”
Sam put his pipe on the bed and climbed to his feet, sending the tray containing the scissors clattering to the floor. His face was desperate, the expression of an uncertain boy. “Do you promise, Violet? Because my heart cannot stand the thought of losing you.”
She handed him the drawing. “I promise. Of course, I promise.”
He beamed, then took the drawing to his writing desk. “Well, then.” He scrabbled around for a pen and ink, and wrote something on top of the drawing. “My Violet. Not his.”
“You never need to doubt me, Sam, I—”
Her sentence was cut short by a soft knock at the door.
Sam’s eyes widened, and Violet’s blood flashed with heat. Sam dropped his pen and, without a word, grasped her shoulder and pushed her towards the wardrobe. She opened the door and climbed in, between suit jackets and trousers folded over coat hangers, and crouched in the bottom. Sam shut out the light, and she put her arms tightly around herself and tried to be very still and quiet.
The door opened. “What is it?” Sam said.
“Everything all right in here?” a man asked. Violet didn’t recognize his voice.
“Yes, why?”
“I heard shouting. It woke me up.”
“You must have dreamed it,” Sam said, and Violet detected for the first time a note of fear in his voice.
“Have you got a lady in here?”
“As you see, I don’t.”
“Are you sure? I wouldn’t mind sharing her.” Then a sound she couldn’t place, like somebody patting down their trousers.
“Stop it,” Sam said.
“Or you’ll do what?” The sound continued.
“Just leave me be.”
Then an unmistakable slapping noise. “You’re a mental case,” the unknown man said.
“Leave me be.”
Violet’s heart beat fast. What was the man doing to Sam? Should she break out and call for help?
“Next time, I’m coming in,” the unknown man said. “I’m taking my share of whatever it is you shouldn’t be doing here.”
Sam didn’t answer. The door closed, and when Violet heard only silence, she emerged from the wardrobe.
“Who was that?”
“One of my future brother-in-law’s goons,” Sam said, straightening his hair and climbing back on the bed. “The one they call Sweetie.”
“What was he doing to you?”
“He slaps me around. The shoulders, the head. It’s not the first time, and it won’t be the last.”
“Then you should report him to the police!”
“They’d never believe me. Flora didn’t believe me. Tony protected him. He just likes to have his sport with me, then he goes soon enough. I would never let him lay a finger on you, so don’t worry about that.”
Violet remembered the one called Sweetie; he was much bigger than Sam, and she doubted Sam would be able to stop him if he got it in his head to search the room for her. Sam was lighting his lamp again, preparing another pipe with shaking hands.
She lay down next to him. “Sam, in a day or so I’ll be the only woman left on the staff floor. Why don’t you come to me from now on? You can spend the whole night. We don’t have to worry about Sweetie or anyone else.”
He looked dubious, so she said, “You’ll be away from the bathroom where that man died.”
“That’s true,” he said, drawing in the sweet opium steam. “I just want to be with you, Violet,” he said.
“It’s the same for me, my love. All I want is to be with you.” She thought of all the other things she wanted to say: that she was unsure, that she couldn’t imagine Flora ever welcoming her as a sister-in-law, that he needed to explain how they would overcome their differences in class and breeding, that she wanted reassurance she would always be enough for him. But as he smoked himself into oblivion, all of it went unsaid.
“To be together. It’s a simple wish, isn’t it?” he said, eyes flickering.
“So simple,” she said. Then why did it seem so impossible?
* * *
Sam coming to her room made all the difference. She was no longer braced against discovery. Nobody else was down here, and Miss Zander never ventured into the staff quarters at night. They were still cautious but were much more relaxed. More importantly, it meant Sam could now spend the whole night. No stumbling back to her room at three in the morning. Her back curled into his front, she slept in a haze of happiness, his breath behind her, his hands softly caressing her breasts and belly.
Nor did he bring his opium pipe with him. Sometimes when he turned up, she could tell he’d been smoking, but those times weren’t so bad. Usually then he would just want to sleep, and Violet needed the sleep. She was run off her feet with chores, busy from seven until seven every day, but in that first week or two of the winter period, she began to feel rested again.
They were so content with one another, so peaceful and cozy, that she didn’t want to upset it all by asking pointed questions about their future, though sometimes it was difficult. They talked about light things, made love, slept in each other’s arms, and were happy for a short time. Violet tried not to cling to the happiness too desperately.
* * *
Quiet settled on the Evergreen Spa Hotel. Flora didn’t mind it; she’d grown up in the country and was used to having few people around. Tony said he felt unsettled by it, as though they’d all been left behind, cut off from the world. Mealtimes were intimate, now. The dining room had been divided by a line of Oriental-themed silk screens on wooden frames, and only one large table was set for all of them. Not everyone came down, but at breakfast on the fifth day, they were all there: Flora and Tony, with Tony’s entourage pared down to Sweetie and Harry now that Vincent was gone (Karl, technically staff, still wasn’t allowed to sit with guests in the dining room); Lord Powell, being steadfastly ignored by Lady Powell, who was engaged in intense discussion with Cordelia Wright and young, wide-eyed Miss Sydney; Miss Sydney’s beau, a sweating businessman whom Flora still hadn’t properly learned the name of—Mr. Duke? Or was it Mr. Earl?—who tried to get a word in but was simply not allowed by the older ladies; and then there was Sam, dear Sam with his messy hair and slightly bewildered expression, sitting at the table but looking a million miles away. Her heart panged. How she loved him and worried for him. The fire was roaring in the grate, and the world seemed gray and flat outside the windows.
Lord Powell, seeming to give up on retrieving his wife’s attention, leaned across his bacon and said to Tony and his entourage: “They’re predicting the coldest winter they’ve seen.”
Tony visibly shivered. “Up here?”
“Yes. Won’t be pleasant. I trust our Miss Zander will know how to keep us warm. That woman is a marvel.”
“I’m betting our Miss Zander knows all kinds of things we can’t even imagine,” Sweetie said, and he and Harry shared a chuckle.
Flora was puzzled. They seemed to be hinting at some sort of rude nonsense, but she didn’t know what and she didn’t want to ask.
Lord Powell was oblivious, continuing in his praise of Miss Zander. “Yes, it’s true. She certainly knows how to please her guests.”
“Especially the ladies,” Harry snickered.
“Though I’d be happy to teach her a thing or two about gentlemen,” Sweetie responded, and the two of them burst into laugher.
Lord Powell sniffed indignantly and was saved by his wife, who turned to ask him a question.
Flora, however, was left with their uncouth nonsense.
“Ah, but she’s not interested in the gentlemen,” Harry said.
Tony laughed. “Is that so?”
“What do they mean?” Flora asked, leaning close to Tony, but her question was heard nonetheless.
“He means, dear Miss Honeychurch-Black, that Miss Zander is unmarried not because she didn’t find a husband, but because she didn’t want one,” Sweetie said with a salacious wink.
“Surely that’s not a thing to be rude about,” Flora shot back. “A woman can choose how—”
“Flora,” Tony interrupted, closing his hand over her wrist. “They mean she’s homosexual.”
Flora had never heard that word said aloud before, and it shocked her. “Really?”
“Of course she is,” Sweetie said, and he seemed to take cruel pleasure in her shock. “Haven’t you seen her eyes following all the young ladies? Miss Sydney here? Even you sometimes!”
Flora thought about Miss Zander and found she didn’t mind at all if the woman wanted to find love with somebody other than a man. What happened in people’s private lives was their own business, and Miss Zander was a good woman who deserved happiness. But why did Sweetie have to go on with such lascivious expressions and gestures about it, making it all seem so sordid? Why did Tony have to play along, laughing and egging him on?
“Oh, leave her be,” Sam snapped. Flora hadn’t been aware he was listening. “You know nothing for sure, and if it’s true, that’s a hard road for her to walk. Love is love wherever you find it, and nobody should be censured for it.”
This declaration sent Sweetie into peals of laughter, and Harry followed suit. Tony, aware he should protect his fiancée’s brother, intervened. “Enough,” he said in a low but authoritative voice. “That’s enough now. We’re not at a bar. There are ladies present.”
“Luckily for Miss Zander,” Sweetie blurted, which set Harry off again and this time even Tony.
Flora watched them as though they were strangers. Watched Tony and saw an unpleasant side of him she often chose to ignore. Even though she knew Tony could be a perfect gentleman and moderate his behavior, he would always be surrounded by buffoons like Sweetie. For the rest of her life, she would have to put up with Sweetie or somebody like him. The thought exhausted and diminished her.
Sam looked at Sweetie with unsheathed hatred, and Flora felt at once proud of him for defending Miss Zander, and sad that his declaration—that nobody should be censured for finding love—wasn’t true for him. He would eventually have to marry, and it would likely be somebody of their father’s choosing. Because Lord knew he wasn’t capable of choosing the right girl himself.
In the middle of all this, Miss Sydney’s beau leaned across the table and addressed them. “Are you all staying?”
“Staying?” Tony asked. “As you see.”
“Even with the news?”
“The news about the cold? We can handle a little cold,” Harry said, with swagger. He had an obvious infatuation with pretty Miss Sydney, and was puzzled and angry that she had chosen to take up with a plump man more than twice her age.
“Snow. There’s snow coming, and lots of it. I’m heading back down to Sydney today. I can’t afford to get stuck up here. I have a business to run.”
Miss Sydney pouted. “I don’t want to go home yet.”
Cordelia Wright put her arm around Miss Sydney. “Stay here with me, dear. We can finish that quilt we’ve been working on. It’ll be cozy.”
“You wouldn’t mind if I stayed?” she asked her beau, and he shook his head.
“Who else is staying?” Harry asked.
Flora turned to Sam. She knew what he’d say. With Violet here, she would never prise him free.
“I’m staying,” he said.
Tony rolled his eyes, and Flora flared with anger at the expression but said nothing. “I am staying with Sam,” she said.
“Then I’m staying with Flora,” Tony said.
Sweetie and Harry began to hem and haw, talking about the possibility of being stuck here, about business in Sydney, until Tony finally said, “I don’t care what you do. Stay, go. It doesn’t bother me. Be men. Choose your own path.”
“I’m going,” Harry said quickly.
“I’ll stick around,” Sweetie said.
Flora sighed a little in relief; at least one of those horrid men would be gone at last. Maybe if she could encourage Sweetie to spend the majority of his time with Karl, she might get to see more of the real Tony.
“You can come down in my Studebaker,” Miss Sydney’s beau said to Harry. “Anyone else?”
Lord Powell looked pointedly at Lady Powell. “There’s only one road out,” he said.
“There’s a train line. We’ll be fine.”
Lord Powell turned to them. “We’ll be staying.”
Now there would be just eight of them. That afternoon, the two men packed the car and headed off, leaving a strange, cold quiet to come over the hotel, as it shivered under grim skies on the mountain’s edge. Flora wished for winter to be over.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
2014
For the first time in as long as I could remember, I phoned my mother before she phoned me.
Still reeling from being booted off Anton Fournier’s front steps, I punched in her number as I walked home.
“Hello?”
“Mum? It’s me.”
The edge of panic hit her voice. “Is everything okay?”
“Yes, yes,” I said, forcing the irritation out of my voice. “I’m fine.”
“You don’t normally phone me, that’s all.”
You don’t give me a chance. “Mum, I’m going to say a name to you, and I want you to tell me what you know about him. Okay?”
“What? Why?”
“Just go along with it, please.”
“You’re behaving mysteriously.”
“Anton Fournier. Mum, who is Anton Fournier?”
There was a half second’s pause before she spoke. “I’ve never heard that name,” she said, but I knew she was lying. I’d heard the fear and anxiety in the pause. It came down the line as clear as a bell, because my mother was highly practiced in conveying her anxiety to me. I had heard it.
“Come on, Mum, who is he? Why does he hate us?”
“Hate us? What are you talking about? I told you, I don’t know who he is. Has he contacted you? You should call the police if he’s threatened you.”
I stopped, turned in a circle, my long shadow at my feet. The trees in the breeze. Mum would never, never tell me, especially not if I bullied her. And if she got to Dad before I did, he’d never tell me either: he was a servant to her anxiety as much as I was. But she knew who Anton was—I was certain of it. I’d bet all I owned (which admittedly wasn’t much) that she was the reason Anton Fournier had snarled at me as though I were some kind of fiend.
“Lauren?”
“Forget it, Mum,” I said.
“But is he—”
“I said forget it. Tell Dad I love him. Talk soon.” I ended the call and slid my phone back in my pocket. I longed to go back to Anton’s house, calm him down, get him to talk to me. What on earth had my mother done to him?
But I couldn’t go back there. I couldn’t call him. So, my only option was to write him a letter. I hurried home.
Dear Anton,
I know this letter will be unwelcome, but please read it. I don’t know why you are angry with my family, but I do know that my mother can be overprotective and interfering, and perhaps she is the one who has upset you. For my part, I am four years younger than Adam, and was little more than a child at the time you and Adam were friends, so I promise you I’ve never done anything to hurt you, or to hurt Adam, of course. He w
as my brother and I really loved him.
I stopped writing, put down the pen on the kitchen bench. I really loved him. It was too wishy-washy. Anybody could say they “really loved” somebody. It didn’t capture anything: the way my love for my brother existed in every pore of my skin, every strand of my DNA. I picked up my pen again, scribbled out the last line and started a new paragraph.
I was born in love with Adam: he was there before me, like my parents. But unlike my parents, he never nagged me to brush my teeth or told me I was getting too rowdy or that I should sit still because I was giving my mother a headache. Adam was on my side. Even though he was a boy and even though he was older, he never brushed me off or called me a brat or a dumb little girl. Granted, he never hit the school bully for me either. You know how skinny he was—he probably needed somebody to protect him from bullies. But he was protective of me in other ways. He was protective of my heart, of my ego. He was unfailingly kind to me when we were children, in a way I realize now was well out of the ordinary for a young boy.
I have all these memories that bubble to the surface when I think about Adam. We grew up on a big rambling property twenty kilometers outside of Hobart, and much of our playtime was spent imagining we were other people. One summer, we became obsessed with playing a game we set at a strict boys’ boarding school: St. Smithereens Boys School. He played the part of the clever senior, always outwitting the wretched teachers; I played the part of the wide-eyed junior, an accomplice to his brilliant plans who spent most of the game saying, “You are the smartest boy I know.” I worshipped him, in the game and out of it.
I put the pen down again, slumped forwards on the bench, and let myself cry. I would come back to the letter later, when I didn’t feel so raw. In the meantime, I would ask around about Anton Fournier. It was a small town: somebody must know something.
* * *
I knocked on Mrs. Tait’s door at ten the next morning, my day off, and she answered it with a smile. “Hello, dear.”
“Would you like to come over for a cuppa?” I asked.
“Why don’t you come in here? I have a lovely new teapot.”
“I’d love that.” Secretly, I was relieved. There wasn’t much room at my place, and I could smell something wonderful baking in Lizzie’s house.
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