After what seemed an age—she couldn’t say how long because she’d lost track of time—the box jumped.
She jolted, alert. She hadn’t felt a gust of wind. Had somebody heard her? Was it Clive?
The box jumped again, then began a slow, lurching journey back towards the hotel. “Thank you, God, thank you,” she said. She needed warmth, the woodstove, hot tea, something substantial to eat.
Slowly, slowly backwards. Then she could see the ground. She could see a man’s shoes and the fear boiled up inside her because they weren’t Clive’s shoes. Clive had never had a pair of shoes that expensive. Time seemed to slow as the man fumbled with the latch.
Everything that happened thereafter happened in a jolting, too-bright rush. The door opened, and it was Sweetie, Tony’s thuggish friend. Tony was nowhere to be seen and something about this fact made Violet’s stomach turn to water. Tony could at least be reasoned with. This other man, however, had made it clear that he thought of her as something less than human. Before she could scream, he reached in and covered her mouth with his meaty hand, then dragged her kicking and flailing out of the box and dumped her on the ground. The world looked quite different from the night before. The gleaming white mounds of snow had dissolved to dirty slush. He pinned her to the ground with his foot in the center of her back, her mouth pressed against the snow so she could neither breathe nor scream, and tied her hands behind her. Then he lifted her head by her hair and tied a cloth—A tie? A scarf?—between her teeth then around again over her mouth. She tried to shout for help, but all that came out was a guttural gasp.
He lifted her roughly in his arms, facing down. She kicked as hard as she could, but he plowed on, down the steps to the bush paths. Violet flexed her wrists back and forth to work her bonds loose, and he shook her roughly and said, “Stop that if you know what’s good for you.”
She stopped, her heartbeat deafening in her own ears. She didn’t know what he intended and she didn’t want to anger him further.
A mound of snow was still piled at the base of the fingerpost. Everywhere else the snow had melted unevenly. She watched Sweetie’s feet. Sometimes the snow was above his ankles, but never above his knees. His feet must be sodden by now, and cold. Good. She hoped he was suffering for whatever horror he intended to inflict upon her.
Down the bush path they wound. She could hear the Falls. She thought about the afternoon she had met Sam there, the plunge they had taken under the cascade, nearly naked. It seemed at once both achingly recent and terribly long ago. A more innocent time. Before death and . . . whatever this morning would bring.
If he hadn’t gagged her, she would never have been quiet. What are you going to do with me? I’m pregnant, you mustn’t hurt me. I’ve done nothing to you, let me go. But most of all, she would have screamed. Any name she could think of. Clive. Flora. Tony. Miss Zander. Because she was afraid of what he intended. She didn’t know how far he would go to punish her, to silence her.
What she never imagined was that he intended to kill her.
As they approached the water hole, panic rose through her like a flame. No, no.
“I saw you here with him,” Sweetie said, gruffly. “You thought nobody was looking, but I was. I saw you. Stripped off like the whore you are. Then you pretended you were too proper, too decorous for me. But I know what you really are.”
She bucked her body violently, trying to get out of his arms, but he had her tightly.
“So, when Tony says to me that we need to make sure you shut up, let me say I know how to make you shut up.” He waded into the water then threw her in to the deep part of the pool.
Down, down she went, her legs kicking madly but her arms useless behind her back. She struggled against the ties around her wrists, couldn’t loosen them. Her heart was frantic, her lungs blocked and desperate. She curled up, sinking farther, and tried to bring her arms under her hips so she could push them in front of her. No use. She kicked against the bottom of the pool, propelling herself up, but the surface was just too far away, and she was running out of breath.
Wildly, she pulled her hands apart, pulling and pulling, hoping she wasn’t making the knots tighter. With a slow drag they came free of each other. She speared them through the water ahead of her and swam towards the surface. She could see bubbling, churning water ahead and knew it was where the cascade fell. If she came up behind it, Sweetie might not see her.
Air. She needed air. But she needed to breathe cautiously.
Her face broke the surface, and she tore the tie from around her mouth. She gasped. Water rushed into her mouth, and she went under again. She hadn’t seen him. Had he gone already? She rose again, just tilting her face out of the water. She breathed, looking around. Everything was distorted through the screen of the falling water. Sweetie was nowhere to be seen.
Still, she stayed behind the wall of water. The silk cravat he’d used to tie her hands was now hanging limply off one wrist. She waited for her heart to still, but it wouldn’t. Now she was wet, freezing, outside. She couldn’t return to the hotel—Sweetie would be there, and she couldn’t be sure Tony and Flora weren’t in on it, too—but if she stayed out here, the cold would certainly kill her. The only negotiable tracks led back to the hotel. Everywhere else was rough ground, layered with snow.
Her body began to shake, such huge shuddering shakes that she feared she would die right here in the water. She had to get out. She had to make for Lovers Cave.
Violet swam to the shallow side of the pool, then stumbled out. Her body felt as though it would shake into pieces. She could hardly walk, and her breathing was still labored. All around, rain still fell. Falling and falling as though the sky couldn’t bear to see the horrors being played out below, and wanted to wash them away. Violet needed shelter, and she needed it soon.
She started the ascent up the path. Her feet slid and slipped underneath her in the slushy snow. Her lungs burned. The big muscles in her thighs felt as though they had turned to butter. Her skin was puckered and blue.
Violet started to suspect she wasn’t going to make it. She sat down on a rock.
“Sam, Sam,” she said. “What do I do?”
Her aching heart dragged her body down. She put her face on her knees and waited to die. But then she focused: it wasn’t just her who would die. Sam’s child would die along with her.
She pushed breath into her lungs, willing her heart to thump harder and move her blood all the way to her toes and fingers and nose. “Get up,” she told herself. “Get up.”
She got up. She went a little farther, then pushed herself to go farther again. She stopped and rested, then pushed herself once more.
Then she heard a sound that made her whole body warm. A voice. Not awful Sweetie’s voice.
Clive’s voice. “Violet? Violet?”
“Here!” she cried, in a voice so weak it frightened her.
Then she heard footsteps, lumbering footsteps as he pounded as fast as he could through the slush and snow. He was there, hands grasping her shoulders. “You’re soaked. We need to get you back to the hotel.”
“No. Did you see Sweetie on your way down here?”
“I saw nobody. Why?”
“He locked me in the flying fox all night, then this morning he tried to drown me.”
“What? I—Violet, we need to get you somewhere warm. You’re blue.”
“I can’t go back to the hotel. I don’t know what’s happening. Oh, Clive. Sam’s dead. And Tony and Sweetie think I know something about it and they’re willing to do anything to cover it up.”
“The cave,” he said.
“That’s where I was heading.”
He put his arm around her. “Come on, then. Out of this rain.”
When she couldn’t keep up with him, he lifted her so her feet skimmed across the snow, then put her down for a few steps on her own. She hungrily clung to his side, his body heat. They climbed the last few rocky steps up to the cave, then finally they were out of the rain.
Clive was already shrugging out of his greatcoat, scarf, hat, and gloves. “Take those wet clothes off,” he said.
“I can barely move,” she replied, her shaking fingers jumping about on her buttons.
He came to her, stopping a few inches in front of her. His face was sad, and she started to cry.
“He’s gone, Clive, he’s gone.”
“I know. I saw his sister this morning.” He reached across the space between them, and, as gentle and patient as a parent undressing a child, he undid her buttons one by one. He slipped the dress off her shoulders and it landed at her feet. He left her underwear on her for modesty’s sake. “I’m sorry this is awkward,” he said, removing his own shirt and trousers so he stood in his long johns, “but you need clothes.” He offered them all to her. “Put these on.”
She indicated he should turn around, and she struggled out of her wet underwear, stockings, and shoes. Then she wrapped herself in his clothes, fastening his trousers around her waist with the damp tie from her wrist. Then his shirt, his scarf, his coat. Instant relief. He pulled off his Wellington boots, the same ones she had worn on her mercy dash to Malley’s, and his socks, and offered them to her.
“You’ll be cold.”
“I’m not soaking wet. I’ll be fine.”
She pulled on the boots but refused his socks. Bare feet in this cold were too much to ask of him. She gratefully took his hat and gloves, then collapsed on the floor of the cave. He sat next to her, his shoulder pressed against her.
“You don’t mind, do you?” he said, indicating their proximity. “Body heat.”
“Of course I don’t mind.” She leaned into him. Minutes passed. The rain hammered, but they were dry. The shivers began to ease. Her tired brain began to slow.
“We will have to make our way to the village,” Clive said. “When the rain stops.”
“It seems as though it will never stop.”
“You look so tired,” he said.
“I didn’t sleep. I’m sore and sad and frightened.”
“You can sleep now.” He pulled her down, shifted so he lay curled behind her, his arms around her. “Sleep. You’re warm and safe.”
The floor of the cave was cold and rough beneath her, but the weariness that penetrated her bones responded to his kindness, his warmth. “I’ll just close my eyes a little while,” she said.
“We can keep each other warm,” he said.
She lay with her eyes open, Clive’s arm over her waist. She watched the rain, falling and falling outside. Her gaze went to the carved heart on the stone, Sam’s initials still there. Sam was gone, but the mark of her love would be there long after today, long after her baby was born, long after she died. Something about that thought made her smile, and the haze of sleep descended.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Flora had wrapped up as well as she could, and of course she had taken an umbrella. But she hadn’t counted on the rain splashing under it, or the melting snow getting into her boots.
Her heart was glad, though, to see that other people were out in it, that the great isolating snowfall had lost its grip on the world. A man swaddled in layers of warm, waterproof clothing was sweeping snow off the train platform, and a tractor was clearing roads on the other side of the rail line. The rails themselves were clear, so no doubt the trains would come again soon. Probably today. Life had begun again.
But not for Sam.
Flora was sodden and freezing when she climbed Will Dalloway’s front steps, and it occurred to her for the first time that he might not be here, that he might have been one of the clever people who evacuated to Sydney before the snowstorm. The thought knocked the breath out of her lungs. She raised her hand wearily and grasped the knocker with her glove. She gave it three hard raps and stood back to wait.
Almost immediately she heard footsteps inside. The door opened, and Will was there.
“Flora,” he said, surprised.
“Will, you have to help me.”
“Come in. Come in. I have a fire burning in the sitting room. What’s happened?”
She followed him inside, in through the door marked PRIVATE. His house was warm and neat. He pulled the wing-backed chair close to the fire and offered it to her.
“Sit down,” he said.
“Can I take my shoes off?”
“Of course. I can’t believe you came out in this weather. I haven’t seen anyone in days.”
She unbuttoned her shoes and slipped them off. Her stockings were sodden, but she’d rather they were damp than take them off in front of Will, and he didn’t seem to notice. She stretched her feet towards the fire, and the warmth was penetrating and good.
Will pulled an ottoman up beside her and sat on it. “What has brought you here?”
Flora took a deep breath, and the story poured out. Sam’s withdrawal, finding his body, being pressured by Tony to let them dispose of it in the wilds, Violet’s disappearance. Through it all, he didn’t touch her or make a sound. He listened, shocked but silent, his eyes fixed on hers. Her voice seemed to go on forever in the warm, fire-lit room, then finally it wound down and stopped.
“Oh, Flora,” he said. “I can’t begin to express my sympathy.”
“Will you help me?”
“I will do anything in my power. What particularly do you want my help with?”
“How did he die? You said the withdrawal wouldn’t kill him.”
Will nodded sadly. “The pouch with the syringe that you found,” he said. “It sounds as though somebody obtained for him an injectable drug to ease his pain. There’s an injectable opiate called heroin that works very quickly. Unfortunately, it’s much stronger than he would have been used to. Too much and . . .”
“It killed him?”
“Yes. That’s my educated guess.”
“But how did he get it? He couldn’t leave the hotel. He could barely leave his room—”
Flora froze as the answer became clear. It was Violet. Violet, who would have done anything to relieve Sam’s pain. Violet, whom Flora had seen that day with florid cheeks and damp hair, as though she had been roaming outside. Violet, who couldn’t know that her actions would kill him. Anger and pity warred in Flora’s breast.
“This is a horror,” she whispered, gazing at the fire in the grate. “A nightmare.” Then she lifted her head to look at Will. “I want to find his body, and I want to take him home and bury him properly. I don’t care what Father thinks.”
“I can help. Once the rain has eased, once the road is open. Later today, maybe tomorrow. I will go down there myself and look for him.”
“Good. Thank you. If Father cuts me off . . . well, then I will survive anyway. And if Tony no longer wants to marry me because my name is muddied, then I no longer want to marry Tony.” She paused, listening back to her own words. I no longer want to marry Tony. The thought gave her such freedom. “I no longer want to marry Tony,” she said again, more emphatically.
“Nor should you if all he’s interested in is—”
“No, no. You don’t understand. I mean under any circumstances. I don’t want him.”
Will’s eyes were soft. “Don’t you love him?”
“I don’t know anymore. He’s not the man I thought he was. There’s something cold in his heart. His friends are awful. They’re either sycophants or thugs. Sometimes both.” The idea of a life not subject to the opinions of her father or Tony seemed an impossible bliss. “Do I have to marry him?”
Will smiled. “I’ve never thought you should.”
She smiled back, then stopped herself because it felt wrong to smile the day after Sam had died. “First things first. Find Sam.”
“First things first. Let me make you food and tea and wait for the rain to ease. Perhaps by this evening I’ll be able to take my car out of the garage, and then we can get help from anyone you need: Miss Zander, the police, your family; whoever you think can help. But until then, I will keep you warm and safe, and you aren’t to worr
y. Save your energy for grieving.”
Impulsively, she reached for him, grasped his hand in hers, and ran her thumb over his knuckles. He looked from her hand to her face, and she could see the tenderness in his eyes.
“You are a lovely man, Will Dalloway,” she said.
He hid a smile, gently extricated his hand. “I’ll make tea,” he said.
Flora leaned back in the chair, taking deep breaths and watching the fire, letting the tears fall freely down her warm cheeks.
* * *
Violet woke to a hacking noise. Disoriented, she blinked rapidly. Shifted. Felt the hard ground under her and remembered where she was.
What was the noise? Where was Clive? She sat up. Clive, dressed only in his long johns, was crouched in front of the stone, the one with the lovers’ heart etched into it, and was scratching furiously at it with a sharp rock. But that wasn’t the hacking noise.
The noise was his cough.
“What are you doing?” she asked, groggy and sore.
He dropped the rock and looked around guiltily.
“Why would you do that?” she asked.
“Because he caused you nothing but sorrow.”
“I loved him,” she protested. “He’s the man I loved, and he died, and you would do something as . . . petty as that?”
He coughed again, a deep rattling cough in his chest that alarmed her.
“How long have I been asleep?” she asked.
“A few hours,” he replied.
She rose, shrugged out of his overcoat. “How long have you been coughing like that?”
“Just the past hour or two. No, you keep the coat.”
As she reached for him, she realized his skin was burning. “You have a fever.”
He shrugged. “I had it when I left the hotel this morning. It started last night.”
“Yet you came out in the cold and the wet and you stripped to your underwear?”
“What was I to do, Violet? Flora was worried that you were in some kind of trouble, and she was right. So, I came looking for you.”
She glanced from him to the scratched-up love heart and back again.
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