His voice grew quiet. “That’s what real love is, Violet. It isn’t empty promises and drawings on rocks and desire that can’t contain itself.” He looked pointedly towards her belly. “It’s sacrifice and selflessness. Tell me one time that man was selfless, one thing he sacrificed for you.”
She couldn’t answer him. Wouldn’t answer him. “Put your coat back on. I’m dry now. We’ll share the clothes.”
He slipped the coat on and she pulled off her scarf and tied it firmly around his neck. She heard the wheeze as he breathed in, breathed out, and noted the thin film of perspiration on his upper lip.
“I’m sorry,” he said, his eyes going to the love heart. “It was childish of me.”
Violet remembered Sam scribbling over Clive’s name on her portrait, and it made it easy to forgive him. “You are very ill.”
“Don’t worry about me.”
She touched his forehead. He was burning up.
“We can’t do anything now,” he said. “We have to wait out the worst of the rain.”
So they sat, silent, waiting and waiting. The rain seemed to grow deeper rather than lighter. His cough worsened. An hour passed, two. His decline was rapid, horribly evident, right before her eyes.
Violet could stand it no longer. “We have to go for help.”
“But the rain—”
“I’ll go.”
“That’s madness. What if Sweetie or Tony are on the walking paths?”
“I won’t take a walking path. I’ll find my way up another route. There are houses on the escarpment, on the western side of the hotel. Somebody up there will help.”
Clive coughed again, for such a long time that Violet was afraid he would never catch his breath. Then, finally, he said, “We’ll both go. I need shelter, a fire. I’ll die out here.”
They commenced their ascent from the far side of the cave, towards a ledge that led up to a narrow groove, steep but passable. Clive climbed up first then put his hand down to help Violet. They made their way upwards, over tree roots and rocks. The rain soaked them in minutes, soaked them to the bone. When they came to a gap between two bulging boulders, Violet went through first, turning on her side and breathing in. Her hip bones caught then slid through. Clive got stuck, and leaned for a moment on the rock, coughing and coughing.
“Go back if you can’t get through.”
“I can’t go back. We must keep pushing in this direction.” With a huge effort, he hauled himself through, calling out in pain as the rocks tore at his clothes and broke his skin. Blood bloomed over his kidneys.
“You’re hurt,” she said.
“It’s a graze, that’s all. We have to keep moving.”
They found themselves under a huge overhang. No snow had collected here, but the ground was green and slimy with years of no sunshine. They made their way along, crouching as the overhang descended dramatically, then out the other side onto a steep, bushy slope. Rain and snowmelt poured down it, through their shoes.
“Up here,” he said.
Violet began to walk, trudging, her heart thudding, hanging on to saplings or rocks, sometimes crawling on her hands and feet. Up and up, behind Clive, who periodically stopped as his body was racked with coughs. Just ten feet up, now, they could see the edge of the escarpment. But that final ten feet was no longer a passable slope. It was a sheer rock face.
Clive stopped. Sat down. His skin was ashen.
“How do we get up there?” she asked.
“We have to climb.”
Her eyes searched for handholds: small outcrops, recesses, sturdy plant roots. She was cold and ached with weariness.
She became aware that Clive was sobbing. The failure of his courage frightened her terribly.
“Clive, it will be fine.”
“You go. You go. I can’t take another step.”
“I won’t go without you.”
“If you go, you’ll live.”
“You must come with me.”
“Do you not see? I can’t. I’ve pushed past my endurance. Go. Go and live your life and be happy.”
Violet glanced up at the rock face, plotting a route for them both. Then she reached down for Clive’s forearm and hauled him to his feet. “Up!” she commanded. “Clive Betts, if you do this, I promise I will marry you.”
He stood, weakly. “Violet, don’t play with my heart. Not at a time like this.”
“I am perfectly serious. If you climb up there, and we reach the top—together—I will marry you in the spring.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re a good man with a good heart, and I will have a good life with you.”
Clive looked up, then walked along the ridge for a few feet until he found a rock to stand on. Then he started to climb. Violet was right behind him, reaching for handholds, using branches as precarious footholds. Neither of them spoke. The climb was only ten feet, but it may as well have been ten miles as rain and slippery rock conspired to force them back down. The whole time her heart thundered and electricity jumped in her veins. She banged her limbs, overstrained her muscles, but she would not allow herself to feel it all until tomorrow. For now, to ensure her survival, her dear friend’s survival, she had to keep going. Keep going.
Keep going they did, finally clambering over the top of the ridge, then up a short slope and into the back of a eucalypt wood.
Clive doubled over, gasping for breath. Violet caught him, fearful that the exertion would finish him off. But then he stood, straightened his back, and pointed to the back of a house in the distance. “There,” he said. “Smoke from the chimney. There’s somebody home.” He stumbled forwards, but stopped again, hands on knees.
“Let me help you,” she said, her arm around his waist. He leaned on her, and she nearly collapsed from the weight. But she labored on, one foot after the other, through the sodden wood. The house came into clearer view. Clive’s cough shook him violently, but they kept moving. Up the stairs, thundering on the back door.
An elderly woman with snowy hair opened the door, an alarmed expression on her face.
“Please,” Violet said. “Please help us.”
And Clive pitched forwards, falling to the floor at the old woman’s feet, limp and pale.
* * *
Flora didn’t move for a long time. She was aware of Will going about his day, back and forth to his surgery, carrying books and paperwork about. He stopped by her from time to time to give her tea, buttered toast, or just to touch her shoulder. She was in a kind of stasis, after the terrible past, before the uncertain future; just sitting, breathing, watching the fire while the rain hammered down outside.
The knock at the door roused her. She heard Will’s footsteps, then heard him say, “Oh my God.”
Flora was out of her chair a second later, moving towards the door, nearly colliding with Will, who had under his wing a shivering, sodden Violet, dressed in ill-fitting men’s clothes. Her lips were blue, and her breath was short.
“Violet!” Flora exclaimed. “Bring her in by the fire. Oh, good God, what has happened to you?”
“Clive,” the girl managed. “Clive is . . . terribly sick. I ran . . . I ran as fast as I could.”
Flora looked up at Will. “Clive Betts is one of the staff at the hotel.”
“Is he injured?” Will asked.
“He’s . . . coughing. Can’t breathe properly. He’s been sick. Thought it was just a cold. Much, much worse.”
Will met Flora’s eye. “Get her warm and dry. I’ll go to him.”
“Not at the hotel,” Violet managed. “The white cottage west of the Evergreen Spa. Mrs. Huntley’s place.”
“I know it.”
“Can you drive on the roads the way they are?” Flora asked.
“I’ll drive as far as I can, then I’ll run,” he said. “Get her warm. She’s in shock. Possibly hypothermia. Warm and dry.” Then he dashed off.
“Violet, you must get these clothes off,” she said. “Do you understand?”
/> Violet nodded, and started to strip. Her skin was white and puckered. Flora went across the corridor into Will’s bathroom—neat, smelling of wood and spices—and fetched a towel. When she returned to the sitting room, Violet was completely naked, her back to Flora. She was a slender thing, with round hips and a tiny waist. Flora came up behind her and covered her with the towel, then turned her around.
“Sit down. I will get rid of these damp clothes and see if I can find you something else to put on. But sit close to the fire and get yourself warm.” The girl wore a haunted, agitated expression. “Don’t run off anywhere, all right? We have a lot of things we need to talk about.”
“I won’t.”
Flora found Will’s bedroom and brought Violet his thick dressing gown and a pair of wool socks. Then she went to the kitchen, where she made a pot of tea and toasted some bread. Just in the other room, sitting in front of the fire, was the person who had killed Sam. Flora fought with her feelings. On the one hand, she wanted to rage and scream at Violet. On the other, she knew it was an awful accident. An accident that, in many ways, had been inevitable.
She arranged the tea and toast on the tray and brought it back to the sitting room. Flora placed it on the floor and sat with Violet, who still shivered beneath the robe. Flora reminded herself that Violet was pregnant—pregnant with Sam’s baby. She knew that Violet was no villain; she was a victim. A naive girl who had fallen for the wrong man and paid the highest price for it: her future. Not only would Flora not blame Violet for causing Sam’s death, she would never tell her she had caused it.
Flora handed a cup of tea to Violet, who took it, sipped it once, and said, “I know you won’t believe me, but Sweetie tried to kill me.”
There it was. The uncertain future that Flora had feared. The sweet moment of respite sitting in the wing-backed chair had passed. Now she listened as a nightmarish story unfolded, about how Violet had overheard the talk of Sam’s death, how Tony had been keen to silence Violet, and how Sweetie had taken it upon himself to make that silence permanent. And while it was shocking, she wasn’t as surprised as she perhaps should have been. Sam had always warned her that Tony was a brute.
Flora let Violet finish, then held her close and let her cry.
After a few minutes, Flora asked, “What is your favorite memory of Sam?”
Violet sat back, looking puzzled.
“Go on,” Flora said. “You loved him as much as I did. Tell me your favorite memory. I don’t mind what it is.”
“He took me into the empty ballroom, very late one night,” Violet answered. “We danced by lamplight, no music. It was like . . . magic.” She sniffed. “What’s yours?”
“When he was nine, he made me a little book. On each page, he’d glued a dried flower and on the facing page he’d written a story about the flower. Some of them were ghastly: the poor daisy had died quite horrifically under the hooves of a draft horse.” She laughed, and Violet laughed with her. “But it was such a special gift. He was so artless in his love for me. I still have it somewhere at home.” Then she remembered, and smiled. “There was a violet,” she said.
“What happened to the violet?”
Flora couldn’t remember. It had receded down the dark corridors of her memory. So, she said, “The violet came through bad times, with a strong spirit and joy in her heart.”
Violet smiled through tears, her hand dropping to her belly. It occurred to Flora that if they did go out and find Sam, if there was an inquiry into his death with police and doctors, they would likely discover how he’d died, and Violet would be implicated. She knew then that she would go along with the deception—not for Tony or her father, but for Sam’s child.
“Violet,” she said, “as soon as the trains start again, you need to leave. You need to disappear. I don’t know what Tony and Sweetie are capable of, but I’d be happier if you and the baby were far away from the Evergreen Spa.”
“I know. But I’ll have to wait for Clive. I’m going to marry him.”
Flora’s eyebrows shot up. “You are?”
“It’s the only sensible thing to do.”
Flora nodded sympathetically. “Well, I’m going to break off my engagement to Tony.”
“Really?”
“Yes,” she said. “It’s the only sensible thing to do.”
* * *
Violet paced. Around and around. She wanted to go out there, she wanted to return to Mrs. Huntley’s and be with Clive, but Flora wouldn’t let her. Will Dalloway had been gone for hours. Hours.
“He’s a good doctor,” Flora said.
“It matters little how good the doctor is if the patient is dying,” Violet responded, more heat in her voice than she had intended. In the wake of Sam’s death, she couldn’t bear to lose Clive as well.
Then, finally, they heard the key in the door. Violet raced to greet him, but he gently pushed her back inside. He wouldn’t speak until they all sat in the sitting room. He looked exhausted and his clothes were damp.
“Violet, Clive will be fine. Mrs. Huntley has agreed to let him stay there until he’s fit to be moved. The infection hasn’t made it all the way to his lungs, and I’ve set his ankle fracture.”
“Ankle fracture?”
“You didn’t realize? He was in severe pain, and he put a lot of pressure on the joint, walking and climbing. It will probably never heal just right, and he’ll always have a limp. But as I said, he’ll live.”
Violet palmed away tears. “He didn’t even tell me.”
“You both had a lot on your minds. He told me what happened.” He turned to Flora. “While I was at Mrs. Huntley’s, the alarm was raised. Tony DeLizio, your fiancé—”
“Ex-fiancé,” Flora muttered.
“He was out on the bush track. He found a body.”
“Sam’s body?”
Will shook his head. “Sweetie’s. It looked as though he slipped and fell after . . .” He indicated Violet with a soft hand gesture.
Flora put her head down and exhaled loudly. Violet tried not to feel the surge of jubilation in her blood.
“Miss Zander was alerted, and she came next door to the Huntleys’ house to see if they had a phone. Of course they don’t. We still haven’t alerted the authorities.”
“Two deaths,” Flora said. “Two deaths in two days. I need to get back there. I need to speak to Miss Zander before she speaks to anyone else.” Flora stood. “Will you look after Violet? She’ll have to stay here until she can catch a train home.”
“You’re welcome to stay, Violet,” the doctor said. “I have a spare room, and I’d like to keep an eye on you until your color comes back. Flora, the road is mostly clear until the train line. Would you like me to drive you back?”
“Thank you.” Flora turned to Violet, gave her a quick, awkward hug. “I will see you soon.”
They left, and Violet lay down by the fire, thinking. Clive had said he hadn’t seen Sweetie on the bush track. Was that because Sweetie had slipped and fallen to his death before Clive had come after her? Or was it because Clive had encountered Sweetie? Sweetie was a bully and a braggart. Had he told Clive he’d got rid of Violet, that he’d do the same to Clive? Clive was not a large man, but he was tall, agile. Smart.
Violet smiled. It didn’t matter. She would never ask. She and Clive would get away from here, and life could start anew. What had happened before this moment need not matter anymore.
* * *
Will dropped Flora near the train station, and offered to walk her to the hotel.
“No,” she said. “I need to think. Look after Violet. She’s pregnant with Sam’s child. She’s just about the most important person in the world to me right now.”
Will smiled. “I will do that for you, Flora. I would do anything for you.”
But they both knew that now wasn’t the time for declarations of affection. Flora needed to instruct Miss Zander in how things would unfold.
Two men fatally lost on the bush path in icy weather. It was alm
ost perfect in terms of explaining Sam’s death: the story wrote itself. Sweetie and Sam went out for a walk; the conditions were terrible; they both died. One body was found, one body remained undiscovered. But Flora couldn’t bear the idea that anyone might think Sam would keep the company of a man like Sweetie. No, she intended to take Sam home with her. Not his body—that was lost in the wilds—but she would take him home with her in her heart, and only when the time was right would she announce his death, and arrange a proper funeral. The idea would appeal to her father and mother. They wouldn’t want a Honeychurch-Black to disappear off a bush track in a snowstorm. It would put them in the news. Especially if it was alongside that thug.
And as for Tony. Well, she would make him break off with her, under threat of exposing his role in Violet’s imprisonment and attempted murder. She could return home nursing a broken heart, and there would be nothing anyone could do.
Without intending it, Sam had set her free.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Six months later
“This will be your room,” Violet said, opening the door. “And across here will be the nursery.”
Her mother peered into the room with an expression somewhere between bewilderment and suspicion. “And how are you affording this house?”
“That’s not for you to worry about.”
Mama dropped her voice low. “Is it Clive? Is he secretly wealthy?”
Violet shook her head sadly. Poor Clive, who could barely work now, with the constant pain in his leg. Still, he’d slowly but surely painted the rooms and polished the floorboards. It was a small house, a modest gift, but more than enough to give them a start. The rest was up to Violet, and she intended to work hard—while Mama and Clive looked after the baby—to build on what she had been given. “Mama. I can only say that I have a generous benefactor who would prefer to remain anonymous.”
“Well, you’re luckier than I ever was,” her mother said, indicating Violet’s swollen belly. “First, you got the chap to marry you. Now, this.”
Clive came up behind them. “What do you think, Mrs. Armstrong? Will you be happy here?”
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