Evergreen Falls

by Kimberley Freeman

  Miss Zander shrugged. “No, you don’t. Not if you don’t want to. Did she make you sign a contract when you were a baby? Did she say, every time she put a spoonful of mush into your mouth, One day, dear, you’ll have to repay me? No. Parents ought not expect recompense from their children. How very unfair, to haul somebody into the world without an invitation, then to try to determine what she does.” She huffed. “If she wants you to look after her, then she can jolly well catch a train up here and find a little flat. You’ll be on good money, and there may be other opportunities in a year or so if you behave yourself.”

  “Mama will never leave Sydney. The cold makes her arthritis worse.”

  “Then tell her to stay in Sydney and look after herself.” Miss Zander sniffed. “Really, I get quite tired of the way girls get carried along on the wills of others so easily. I expect better of you, Violet.”

  Violet felt the burn of Miss Zander’s disapproval, and quickly filled the silence. “You’ve given me much to think about,” she said.

  “Good. I must say your color has come back, and you don’t look so frighteningly pale. A day or two in bed, then up and about. What do you say?”

  Violet was going to say something to assure Miss Zander that she’d do whatever it took to stay in her good favor, but then remembered the warning: girls get carried along on the wills of others so easily. She had to appear to be more independent. “I will be fine after a rest, I’m certain.”

  “Good girl.”

  * * *

  Miss Zander’s offer of a pay rise, along with her commonsense solution to Violet’s problem with Mama, served to intensify Violet’s guilt over sneaking about with Sam. When he suggested more dancing by the hurricane lamp that night, she refused.

  “You’ve not become a scaredy-cat, have you?” he teased, lying knee to knee with her in bed. He tapped her nose playfully.

  “No, I just really need to keep my job.”

  He shrugged off her concern. “I have so much money you’d never spend it all.”

  “Are you going to marry me?” she asked boldly.

  “Steady on. The man is supposed to propose, not the woman.”

  “It’s not a proposal, it’s a question,” she said.

  “Have I not reassured you sufficiently of my love? Here, let me show you again.” He began kissing her, and, as ever, desire washed her good sense away.

  He dozed after, curled around her. But whirling thoughts kept her awake, even though she knew she needed to sleep.

  “Sam?” she said, in the dark.

  “Hm?”

  “Where will we be in a year?”

  “Sailing to Antigua. Swimming in the Seine. Anything you’d like to do.”

  She tried again, bringing the imagined time frame closer. “Where will we be at the end of winter?”

  “Here,” he said.

  “After here?”

  “There.”

  “Where is there?”

  “I’m growing tired of these questions. Go to sleep. All will be well. If you keep asking me questions, I’ll think you don’t trust me.”

  She fell silent. Tired, bone-tired. She told herself to focus on the moment, his warm body in the dark, the lovely forbidden thrill of their affair. Her love, which was hot and bright and piercing. She told herself not to think of weddings and babies and—

  Babies.

  When had she last had a monthly visitor?

  Her panicked brain couldn’t focus for a moment. No, surely she was overreacting. Being tired and off her food was not unusual given how busy she’d been. But still her brain struggled to count backwards. Myrtle had still been here. Was it before or after Christmas in June? Before. Long, long before. Hot fear flooded her mind. This wasn’t happening to her. She’d assiduously avoided thinking about it, so it couldn’t possibly happen to her. Apart from the first time, Sam had never spilled his seed inside her. He said that had always worked, and she’d been so upset at the idea that he’d made love to other women that she’d taken him at his word and never asked for further details.

  Counting, counting . . . six weeks. She hadn’t bled in six weeks.

  Sam slept on behind her, softly snoring. She wouldn’t wake him. What purpose would that serve? He would either run a mile or feed her some more nonsense about golden cribs lined with ermine and angels singing above the child’s head.

  A sneakier thought crept in. Now Sam would have to marry her.

  But she dismissed it. Sam would do nothing he didn’t want to. A family like his could do whatever they liked, and if they chose to deny the child was his, that would be that.

  So she was trapped in the searing moment of horror all alone, watching her possibilities dwindle to nothing. Only minutes ago, life had been carefree. Now, reality was crushing down on her. Twenty years old, pregnant to a man who would never marry her.

  Violet lay awake a long time.

  * * *

  In the early hours of the morning, after Sam had left and Violet finally descended into a dreamless sleep, the snow came. Falling softly, white and clean, and settling this time. Settling in fine, powdery layers around the fountains and gardens, on the lawns and tennis courts. Forming soft piles on the branches of the pines, and clumping around rocks and scrub on the walking tracks. The guests and staff of the hotel woke to a world that had turned white, and they chatted with delight and excitement to each other over breakfast.

  All except Violet, for whom the world stayed black.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  The tearoom and the coffeehouse were closed for the winter, so Lady Powell had taken it upon herself to purchase a tea set and serve tea in her rooms every afternoon at three. She and Lord Powell shared an apartment on the top floor, with their own sitting room and bathroom. Flora resisted going most afternoons but would have appeared rude if she didn’t show up once in a while. The gentlemen, of course, had nothing to do with such a gathering, which Sweetie characterized as nothing more than a chance for women to talk about diets and face creams. Flora took offense at this: she had never once discussed either, with anyone. But as the conversation in the room took its predictable turn towards Miss Sydney’s beauty routine, Flora found herself agreeing silently with Sweetie.

  “Your skin is so smooth,” Cordelia said to Miss Sydney.

  Miss Sydney giggled and started talking about fruit soaps, and Flora tuned out, sipping her tea, glancing around the room. Flocked wallpaper, Oriental-patterned carpet, four comfortable sitting chairs. Father had suggested she and Sam share one of the apartments on their stay, but Sam had insisted on having his own room, away from Flora. So he could smoke without her knowing, she supposed, though she always knew.

  Miss Sydney continued to hold forth, the older ladies hanging on her every word, as though she had the power to grant them the return of their youth. Flora was surprised that Lady Powell should be so interested in such things, given the terribly turgid books she was famed for writing. But then, word had it that she had been a beauty in her day, and women valued for their beauty naturally tried to hold on to it for as long as they could. A curse that Flora would never have to endure. She supposed it very boring of her, but she placed much greater value on the possession of good morals, a quality that would not dwindle over time.

  A silence alerted her to the fact that everyone was looking at her expectantly. She had been asked a question. What was it?

  “I’m sorry, I was gathering wool,” she said, trying to laugh off her inattention. “Did you ask me something?”

  “Tony,” Miss Sydney said. “He has such lovely hands. We’ve all noticed. Clean, well-trimmed nails, soft skin. We wondered if you looked after them for him.”

  Flora pushed down the urge to laugh. Had to push it down very hard, because this seemed the most absurd, inconsequential thing anyone could think about.

  “No,” she said, “I’ve never touched his hands.”

  Cordelia smirked. “But have his hands ever touched you?”

  A ripple of wayw
ard laughter went around the room. Flora tried not to think about how Miss Sydney knew Tony’s hands were soft. She had seen Tony and Sweetie hanging about her a few times since her fiancé left. She was beautiful, so Flora couldn’t really blame them, but she did despise the way Sweetie spoke to her, all his words laced with innuendo and ribald laughter. For her part, Miss Sydney seemed to thrive on his silliness. Perhaps she was enjoying being away from her beau, who was old enough to be her father.

  Yes, the mood had changed since the winter closure. There was something a little lawless about all their behavior, as though they all enjoyed pushing at the boundaries of the codes of decency that usually kept them in check. Well, Flora wouldn’t be part of it. She let the laughter die away then rose to her feet. “I must go,” she said. “I promised my brother I would sit with him this afternoon.” It was a lie, but it would do.

  “You’re not angry with us, are you?” Miss Sydney asked, fluttering her lashes the way she did to Sweetie. And Tony, for that matter.

  “No, really. It was a good joke. Of course I’ve touched Tony’s hands, and of course he’s touched mine. I simply meant that I’ve never manicured him, and I’m fairly certain he gives his fingers scant attention, as there is really nothing less important in the world than how a man’s hands look.”

  “I disagree,” said Cordelia Wright. “One of my husbands had the tiniest, pale hands. Let me say, little hands predict little things elsewhere.”

  More laughter. Flora couldn’t stand it anymore. She nodded once and left without another word. So what if they thought her rude? She thought them rude.

  She flew down the stairs, deciding a few breaths of the frigid air outside were in order. It had been snowing steadily since the very early morning, and now inches of it were piled up. Just as she reached for the door, a voice behind her called, “Flora! Miss Honeychurch-Black!”

  She turned to see Will Dalloway approaching, his leather bag and hat on one arm, his overcoat folded over the other.

  “Dr. Dalloway,” she said, aware Miss Zander watched from behind the reception desk. “It’s a pleasure to see you.”

  “Are you off out into the snow? You’ll freeze.”

  Good point. “Just for a bracing breath, then straight back where it’s warm,” she said.

  “How’s our Violet today?” Miss Zander called.

  “Much improved,” Will answered. He turned to Flora, handed her his overcoat. “Here, take this for your bracing breath while I talk to Miss Zander.”

  She smiled and took the coat gratefully, then slipped it on and went outside.

  Violet had been ill. She wondered if Sam knew. He’d become very reclusive since the hotel had closed. Some days, she didn’t see him at all until dinnertime, when he yawned through food and conversations as though he hadn’t slept in years. She had no idea how much he was smoking, and kept hoping it was only a little.

  The snow came down soft and slow, but steady. Flora stood under the eaves and watched it. The white of the snow made other colors stand out more vividly: green pine needles, dark-brown trunks, cold gray bricks. The air tingled on her cheeks, and she huddled into Will’s overcoat, becoming very aware of the smell of it. A warm smell, a male smell. Spicy but clean. She turned her head to the side and took a deep sniff, letting her eyelids drop.

  Then she shook herself. Here she was, judging the silly ladies up in Lady Powell’s sitting room, or Tony’s friends with their lewd nonsense, and she was no better than them. Sniffing Will’s overcoat and thinking of him too fondly. Far too fondly.

  She shrugged out of the coat, just as the door swung inwards and Will stepped out.

  “Here,” she said tersely, offering it to him.

  “Aren’t you cold?”

  “I don’t mind it.”

  He took the coat, smiling at her. “Your brother? He’s well?”

  Of course she had encouraged his interest, and none-too-subtly. She had sat in his office and cried about her cheating fiancé. She had let him too far into her life, her heart. If she didn’t want to fall into the same casual unruliness in which everyone else was indulging, she had to push him back out. “All is well in my life, thank you, Dr. Dalloway. I will let you know if there is anything I need from you, so you need not inquire further.”

  His eyes flickered behind his glasses, and she had to swallow down hard. She’d hurt his feelings. It was for the best.

  “Good day, then,” he said, pressing his hat on his head and hurrying off to his car.

  She stood shivering in the snow for a few moments longer, knowing she’d done the right thing but feeling bereft all the same.

  * * *

  Even with the ballroom divided in half and the fire roaring in the grate, the cold seemed close, gathering in the corners of the room and up in the high ceiling. The candlelight and firelight gave the room a shifting, amber glow. A gramophone had replaced the orchestra, and it gave the room an emptied-out feeling, as though they were the last people left on earth. Flora sat close to Tony, listening as he told the table a story about the day he met the prime minister. Nobody seemed to mind that they’d heard it before: they had all had dinner together so many times it had become acceptable to recycle stories.

  Flora glanced at Tony’s hands. They were very clean and tidy; she hadn’t noticed before. Sam’s, by contrast, were pale, with ragged nails and cuticles. Even though he sat at the table, he seemed off in his own world, rocking slightly, thumbnail in his mouth, distracted gaze, messy hair. She watched him a few moments, then saw him straighten and remove his hand from his mouth, his whole countenance becoming light and engaged. She didn’t need to follow the direction of his gaze to know it was Violet who effected this change in him.

  Flora turned and watched Violet approach. She was pale but didn’t look particularly ill. The girl worked hard, and Flora admired that about her. She obviously made Sam happy, and it was the longest any of his love affairs had lasted. For the first time Flora found herself wondering if it would be the worst thing in the world if Sam married a woman like this. If she made him happy—given it was so hard to make him happy—surely that would be a good thing.

  Of course, their father would see things differently.

  Violet brought out their meals, careful to avoid eye contact with any of them. Flora could see Sweetie eyeing the young woman lasciviously, and she had to turn away. What a horrid ape he was. By contrast, Sam, eyes aglow, watched Violet with gentle affection, and Flora couldn’t help but smile.

  After Violet had returned to the kitchen, Flora leaned across to Sam. “You are quite taken with her, aren’t you?”

  “Life is a cold, vast ocean without her.”

  Flora was well used to Sam’s dramatic turns of phrase; at times ordinary expressions of human feeling seemed beneath him. For once, she didn’t tell him that Father would never approve. For once, she just let him love her.

  The conversation turned again. Lady Powell, a few too many champagnes past good sense, was holding forth on the idiocy of book reviewers while Cordelia Wright agreed emphatically about opera reviewers, and Sam’s agitation increased to the point where Flora knew he would soon spring out of his chair and stalk off, wordlessly, to his room and his opium pipe. Sure enough, his meal half finished, he did just that. The others watched him go, Miss Sydney with one eyebrow lifted disapprovingly. Perhaps she couldn’t understand why Sam didn’t ogle her like the others did. However, all were so used to his disappearances that it went unremarked.

  The evening wore on, and there was much talk about the weather. Violet came to clear their plates, and Flora noted the disappointment on her face when she saw that Sam had gone.

  “Miss,” Lady Powell said, tugging the hem of Violet’s apron, “what is our dessert tonight?”

  “Toffee pudding,” Violet answered.

  “Oh, none for me,” Miss Sydney said. “I’ll just have tea.”

  “I’m having pudding,” Lady Powell harrumphed. “Toffee pudding is my favorite.”

&n
bsp; “I feel like something sweet,” Sweetie said. “Are you on the menu, dollface?”

  Tony and Miss Sydney sniggered. Violet smiled politely and ignored it. “Only toffee pudding, sir, but I can bring you tea or coffee if you’d prefer.”

  Sweetie, either unable or unwilling to read the situation, pressed on with an aggressive glint in his eye. “I’d prefer a taste of you.”

  Flora saw a look of weariness come over Violet’s face, and wondered how many times in the past men like Sweetie had made comments like that. Flora had never had to endure such treatment, but for Violet it was probably regular. She remembered that the girl had been ill—ill enough to warrant a visit by Dr. Dalloway—and she spoke up.

  “Really, Sweetie, that’s enough. You’re embarrassing yourself.”

  Sweetie shot back, “Why should I be embarrassed?”

  “The girl is obviously not interested in you. You’re an oaf.”

  A grim silence descended on the table. Violet kept her head low and scuttled back towards the kitchen with their empty plates.

  “Steady on, Flora,” Tony said quietly. Threateningly.

  This inflamed her. Flora was not a woman to lose her temper, but week upon week with these people, especially odious Sweetie, had worn upon her nerves. “I won’t steady on. The world does not belong to him, nor to you, nor to any of you. We share it. We share it with people like Violet, who has a right to do her job without Sweetie insulting her.”

  “Too right!” Lady Powell said, raising her glass.

  “I wasn’t insulting her,” Sweetie spat. “I was flattering her. She loved it.”

  “She did not love it. She was embarrassed and probably frightened. She won’t say anything because she’s afraid of losing her job.”

  “If she didn’t love it, why was she smiling?”

  “She’s paid to smile at you. She probably hates you. Lord knows, I do sometimes. But I suppose you’re used to paying women to be pleasant to you.”

  Sweetie turned to Tony and snarled, “Get your woman under control.”

  Tony put his hand under Flora’s elbow. “Come on. We’re leaving before you insult anyone else.”