Nobody slept, and gray light glimmered outside the windows a few hours later. Dawn was accompanied by a sudden drop in the wind, and by the time Cook had brought in plates of steak and eggs for breakfast, the snow had stopped altogether.
Violet saw Clive heading for the exit and followed him. “Where are you going?”
“Outside for five seconds, to see,” he said.
“I’m coming.”
Lord and Lady Powell overheard and joined them. What a strange group they made: the noble writers, the waitress, and the handyman, all in their robes, gingerly opening the front door to the hotel—letting in a spill of snow that had piled up—and peering into the daylight.
The sky was pale blue and mostly clear, with gray clouds disappearing on the horizon. The frozen air was still. The sun was weak, and it gleamed wanly off the snow. The east wing looked no different from outside, but Clive told Violet a section of the roof about twenty yards across had collapsed under the wind and the weight of snow. As for the rest of the world: it was a different landscape from the one they were used to. Where paths and roads and rail lines had been, there were instead softly undulating snow hills. It was so pretty, Violet almost didn’t mind that they were cut off from the outside world.
“We should have gone back to Sydney yesterday,” said Lord Powell.
“The move would have disrupted me too much,” Lady Powell answered. “My novel is just getting to a crucial point.”
Lord Powell huffed. “Don’t marry an artist,” he said to Clive, then shuffled back inside, followed by Lady Powell.
Clive turned to Violet. “Sorry I got you into this.”
Violet looked back at him puzzled, then realized what he meant. “Don’t apologize. I made my own messes,” she said.
“You didn’t make it snow.”
“Yes, that’s true enough.” But for everything else, she blamed only herself.
* * *
It was a strange day, strange and silent. The guests retreated to their rooms, and the staff packed and relocated as instructed. Miss Zander grew paler by the moment, until finally she took herself to her new room at the top of the stairs, leaving Cook in charge until morning.
Violet didn’t have a moment to enjoy the luxury of her new room. After she finished moving she was busy making beds and serving meals, then as evening fell, she ran about organizing lamps for all the guest rooms, and finally waitressing at the small dinner in the dining room, which Sam did not attend. She took Miss Zander’s evening meal up to her, then ate her own dinner afterwards in the kitchen with Cook and Clive. Clive, too, had started to look distinctly unwell.
“Not you, too, Clive?” she asked.
“I’ll be fine. Don’t tell Miss Zander.”
Without thinking, Violet reached across to feel his forehead. It was only as her skin connected with his that she remembered their history, and how intimate the touch might seem. She jerked her hand away. “You’re very hot,” she said.
“So hot that I burned you?” he said with a smirk.
She wasn’t in the mood for jokes. “You should go to bed. Cook and I can manage.”
After an hour of cleaning up, Violet finally climbed the stairs to the ladies’ floor. Wearily she fetched her things from her room and took them with her hurricane lamp to the guest bathroom. It was so different to her own grim, lightless bathroom downstairs that she put the lamp on the ground and gazed around. Gleaming white-and-green tiles, here and there with a stylized pine tree engraved on them. Long green curtains caught back around a tall window. An elegant white sink with brass taps. A deep bath with shining clawed feet. And the bathroom rug—her feet seemed to sink inches into it. Two huge radiators warmed the space. She started to fill the bath and waited, sitting on the carved wooden toilet lid, letting the day drift away from her.
When it was full, she stripped off and slid into the bath. The lamp gave a soft, amber light, and she closed her eyes and tipped her head back to let her hair trail in the water. She was used to taking baths in a cramped tub with peeling enamel, in a room with no windows and no heating. This was bliss.
If only . . . If only . . .
Everything was going to change. When? She looked down at her breasts. They were already heavier, the nipples darker. Would Sam notice? Would she soon burst out of her uniform? Her stomach was still taut, her hip bones still prominent. Could it be possible that she would swell up like a melon? Could it be possible that she would give birth to a squalling baby? Then what?
But she knew what came next. What had happened to her mother came next: a long, thankless haul raising and educating a child, while youth and beauty bled away. Look at me, her mother used to say. No wonder I’m lonely. You’ve stolen my looks and figure, and no decent man would have aught to do with me.
That’s what waited.
Violet let herself cry, for the first time in a long time. Really cry with big heaving sobs, which echoed around the bathroom. But after a few minutes she sniffed them back. She splashed water on her face and climbed out of the bath. She dried off by the light of the lamp. She wasn’t sure if Sam would visit her tonight, or if she should visit him. Everything was topsy-turvy while they were cut off from the world, but she ached for the comfort of his arms.
As she emerged from the bathroom in her robe, she nearly ran into Flora coming the other way.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Violet said, bowing her head.
“No, I’m sorry. I thought this was . . . Miss Zander said the east bathroom?”
“She told me the east bathroom, too.”
“She probably had a lot on her mind. I’ll head up to the other bathroom. Not that I . . .” Flora trailed off. “I don’t want you to think that I wouldn’t share a bathroom with you because you’re . . .”
“Oh. No, I wouldn’t have thought that.”
Flora looked at her more closely. “Are you all right? You look as though you’ve been crying.”
Violet shook her head, but at the same time she said, “Yes, I’m in such a mess . . .” The tears came again. What was she doing? She couldn’t cry to Sam’s sister about her troubles. Sam had always said Flora would destroy their happiness, but she had been so kind, and she had such a sweet, gentle face.
“Oh, dear. Oh, dear,” Flora said, putting an arm around Violet’s shoulder. “Come with me. You oughtn’t be alone. Come with me.” She led Violet to her impeccably tidy room and sat her at the desk. Flora crouched in front of her. “Would tea help?”
“I . . .”
“Tea would help. Let me get it. Is there anyone down in the kitchen?”
“Cook should be there.”
“Now, it will take me a few minutes. Promise me you’ll wait here for me? Don’t race off anywhere.”
Violet nodded. Her hair dripped onto the collar of her dressing gown.
Flora patted her shoulder and hurried off.
Violet tried to get her feelings under control. She’d been up since the early hours of the morning, and extreme weariness meant everything had taken on a nightmarish hue. Her heart clenched with despair and hopelessness, and now here she sat in Flora’s warm room, waiting for tea. If she hadn’t promised Flora she would stay, she would have run right then.
But she had to tell someone, and like as not Flora would know as soon as Sam did. She couldn’t put off telling Sam much longer.
Flora was back in a flash. “Your cook had just made some for himself,” she explained. “He gave it to me. How kind of him.”
Violet didn’t tell Flora that it wasn’t kindness but obedience on Cook’s part. Guests always came first; Miss Zander would have it no other way. She watched as Flora poured tea, then she pulled up a chair opposite Violet and said, “Go on: drink.”
Violet sipped the tea in silence for a few minutes. It made her feel marginally better.
“Would you like to tell me what made you cry?” Flora said. “I don’t want to be nosy . . .”
“I’ll tell you,” Violet said, putting aside her cup. “Bu
t only because it involves Sam.”
“He’s broken your heart, hasn’t he? He’s done it before, to others. I’m sorry. I would have warned you if I could.”
Violet shook her head. “He hasn’t broken my heart. Though I suspect he might.” Her voice cracked and she breathed back a sob. “But it appears I’m to have his baby.”
Flora’s mouth dropped open a little, and she sat there for a long time by the lamplight, her lips forming a perfect, surprised O.
“I’m sorry,” Violet said.
“No, no,” Flora said, galvanized back into life. “No, I’m sorry. Sam should be sorry. But . . . oh, my dear girl. This can’t end in any good way.”
“What do you mean?”
“My father, if he finds out, will cut Sam off.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Me, too, I’m afraid.”
“He will?”
“Without a doubt. My mother has a big heart, but my father has a small mind. I would be fine, I’m to marry a rich man. But Sam . . . What kind of father will he make? Oh, what a mess. What a mess. He can’t stop smoking that pipe. How can he be a father?”
“So, he won’t marry me?”
“He could never have married you,” Flora said, but she said it gently and for that Violet was grateful. “Or at least, he could have, but then he would have nothing.”
“He would have had me.”
“Yes, yes, that would be something. But . . . Violet, you know Sam. I have no illusions anymore that you two stay apart from each other. Imagine him. Imagine him without a penny to his name. He can’t work. He can barely leave his room most days. That is what you’d be married to.”
The full weight of despair fell upon Violet, crushing her. The last hope that she and Sam would raise their child in luxury had now fled. She put her head in her hands and sobbed.
At length, Flora said, “I have an idea.”
Violet lifted her head, wiping her nose with the back of her hand. “What is it?”
“If we keep it a secret, then I can help you. I can’t say what Sam would do, but you can trust me.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“If we keep the baby a secret from my father, Sam and I will have the money to help you. We could buy you a little place, send you money. But you must promise never to do anything that would let my father find out—” Flora stopped, bit her lip.
“You can trust me,” Violet said. “I promise you. I won’t ask for anything much. I just want to be able to keep working. I just want a future.” Again she cried, and Flora clasped her hand and stroked it softly.
“You and your baby will both have a future, Violet,” she said. “I will make sure of it.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Violet woke the next morning, in the gray just before dawn, feeling light. The despair had lifted. She burrowed under the blankets for a while, enjoying the softness of the mattress, replaying the conversation with Flora in her mind. A small, cautionary voice told her not to trust Flora completely: she may feel sympathetic now, but as the years passed she might be less and less inclined to help. But it didn’t matter as much as Violet thought it would, because what Flora had helped Violet to see was that she would get by somehow. She would not be her mother. She was still young, could still work, and was not afraid of working hard. Certainly she couldn’t waitress with a big belly, but maybe Miss Zander would let her come back after she’d had the baby. She didn’t need to live at the hotel, she could find a little flat. Mama would simply have to leave Sydney and come to live with her so she could watch the baby during Violet’s shifts. If Mama refused to come, so much the better: instead of buying dresses, Violet could pay a girl as mother’s help. Or perhaps she wouldn’t have to work in a hotel at all. Perhaps she could work in a shop, something that sold expensive, fine things like scarves or shoes or Miss Sydney’s silly beauty products. If Flora really did buy Violet a home, or even pay the rent on one for a few years, so much the better. Violet was not educated, but she was clever. She was not high born, but she had a strong spirit. Mama’s problem wasn’t that she’d had no choices, it was that she had refused to see them.
A light knock at the door startled her. She flicked back the covers and listened, wondering if she’d imagined it. Miss Zander, if she were up, would simply let herself in. Was it Flora?
“Violet?”
It was Sam. She rose, gathering her courage. She had to tell him. Whatever came next she would take in her stride.
She opened the door, and he practically fell in, his head down and burrowed into her shoulder. “Oh, Violet, Violet,” he said. His skin was damp with perspiration, his body shaking. Had he come down with the same cold that Miss Zander and Clive were fighting off? How much longer could she stay well with so many sick people around her?
Violet quietly closed the door behind him and led him to the bed. “What’s wrong? Are you ill?”
He nodded. He was pallid, dressed in a sweat-stained red dressing gown. “I’ve run out.”
“Run out?”
“Of opium. Malley was supposed to be back from Sydney with more the day before yesterday, on the last train. The weather must have prevented him. Now the trains aren’t running, and there’s no way of getting out of here and—”
“Sh, sh, slow down,” she said, trying to still her own heart. “How long has it been?”
“I smoked my last pipe twenty-four hours ago.” He threw himself against her again, his cheek pressed against her breast. “Oh, God, Violet, oh, God. It feels as though I’m falling apart.”
Through the haze of alarm, she realized that she couldn’t tell him now about the baby. “What do you want to do?”
“There’s nothing I can do. I have to go through this. Maybe it’s best. Maybe it’s best. I could really get off it this time. What do you think, Violet? Am I stronger than the dragon?”
She imbued her voice with force. “Of course you are. You are the brightest star I know.”
“Oh, God, oh, God.” He shuddered against her. “Electricity. Horrible cold electricity all through my body. Under my skin. I’ll never be calm again.”
“Yes, you will. You will.” She stroked his hair, trying to soothe him.
He sprang to his feet, paced the room in ever-decreasing circles. “You don’t know,” he said. “You know nothing. All of you who have never tasted it, you know nothing. How can I be after opium? How is the world to smell and taste? There is nothing on earth to interest me after it’s gone. I can’t stop. I can’t.” He stopped, suddenly. “You must help me.”
“I’ll do what I can.”
“Help me stay strong. It will pass. Days, maybe weeks. It will pass.”
“I know you’ll be well again.”
He sat on the floor in front of her, his legs splayed, and began to sob. “It’s awful. I hate it. It’s awful.”
She came to crouch beside him, rubbing his arms.
“Don’t,” he said, flinching away. “My skin is crawling.”
“You can overcome this,” she said.
“The roads are cut. The trains are staying away. Malley’s gone,” he said with a horrible sigh, as though he had heard of the death of all he loved. “I have no other choice.”
* * *
Flora came down to breakfast with a headache. She had barely slept the night before, turning over and over in her mind the idea that Sam was to be a father. In some ways, she was surprised it hadn’t happened before now: he’d had plenty of opportunities to get girls in trouble. But Violet wasn’t like the other girls, and Flora saw that now. Why, Flora was half in love with her herself: Violet’s steady gaze and girlish vulnerability, coupled with a bright spirit that imbued even her weary movements with an energetic grace. She didn’t doubt Sam was in love, for real this time. Though whether it was real love was, unfortunately, irrelevant. Father would never welcome a waitress into the Honeychurch-Black family.
Violet was at breakfast, in her black-and-white waitress uniform, pouring tea for Lady Powell. Flora nodded
good morning, and noted Violet looking at her urgently, but then Tony appeared and no opportunity arose for Flora to seek Violet out alone. Instead, she sat through the meal and put up with Sweetie’s rough complaints about having to endure being cut off like this. Sam hadn’t come down, heightening Flora’s anxiety that Violet had told him about the baby and he was off smoking himself into a stupor.
Before she cleared their plates, Violet stopped in front of their table and said in a brave voice, “Excuse me, ladies and gentlemen.”
Tony whispered something to Sweetie, who laughed loudly. Flora elbowed Tony and sat to attention.
“I have an announcement from Miss Zander. I’m terribly sorry to say that of our four staff, two are bedridden with flu, including Miss Zander. Only Cook and I are well. Meals will continue as usual, and I will do my best to have all beds made as soon as possible after breakfast. But we still have no electricity, no phone, and no way of knowing when roads might be cleared or the rail station might reopen. It might be today, or tomorrow, and Miss Zander thinks no later than the next day. So, we all beg you for your patience in responding to your needs.”
Lord Powell huffed. “Don’t worry, girl. We’re hardly going to revert to savagery.”
“I’ve been feeling a little unwell myself,” Lady Powell said.
“Well, this is completely unacceptable,” Sweetie boomed. “Do you know how much we pay to stay here? More than your yearly salary, I’d wager.”
Flora watched in admiration as Violet refused to be intimidated. “I understand your frustration, sir, and I’m sure Miss Zander intends to compensate all of you for your inconvenience. If you need one of us, we are most likely to be in the kitchen.”
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