by Sarah Jio
“I’m afraid not,” he replied.
Mr. Humphrey stood up abruptly. “Well, I better be going.” He looked at Mrs. Marden. “I’ll pick up the groceries when I’m in town. And I can make a trip to the post office if anyone has a letter to be sent.” I handed him an envelope addressed to Mama and Papa, then turned to Mr. Beardsley. “You haven’t gotten any mail for me yet, have you?”
“I’m sorry, I haven’t,” he said. “Were you expecting something?”
“Oh, no,” I said, both relieved to have not heard from Mr. Price again and worried that I hadn’t received anything from Mama and Papa.
“I just realized,” Sadie said, turning to Mrs. Dilloway, “what day it is.”
“What day?” I asked curiously.
“Her Ladyship’s birthday,” Sadie continued wistfully. “Remember the way his Lordship would surprise her at breakfast, the way he’d—”
I heard the sound of porcelain shattering beneath the table. “Well, look at me,” said Mrs. Dilloway.
Sadie rushed to her side, picking up shards of white china and setting them in a pile on the table. “Don’t you worry,” Mrs. Dilloway said, holding out her hand. “I can manage.” She turned to Mr. Beardsley. “Please see that it’s deducted from my paycheck.”
Mrs. Marden shrugged. “Why all the fuss over a bloody teacup? I’d give a kitchen full of teacups for a decent apple.” She looked at Mrs. Dilloway. “Did you see the ones that came in this morning?” she asked disdainfully. “They’re all craggy and worm-eaten. I don’t know how I can be expected to turn out a proper tart with substandard ingredients.”
Sadie pushed the newspaper toward her. “We should get used to it,” she said. “I overheard Mr. Beardsley talking to his Lordship in the foyer yesterday, and, well, I wasn’t meant to hear it, but his Lordship said he’s in some kind of financial pickle.”
“Well,” Mrs. Marden huffed. “I wouldn’t be surprised, with the way he spends money. Did you see the shipment of cigars that came in from South America yesterday?”
“Not a good time to be having money troubles, if you ask me,” Sadie replied. “I don’t want to be out of a job in the middle of a war. It says right here that the Germans are advancing. Before we know it, they’ll be on our doorstep asking us to cook them bacon and eggs.”
“Stuff and nonsense,” Mrs. Marden said, standing and tightening her apron around her ample waist. “I’ll believe it when I see the whites of their eyes. For now, I suppose there’s no sense fretting about any of this.”
My parents had concerns about war in Europe when I left, but no one could believe that things could escalate to this level and that we might actually be in real danger. I reached for the newspaper and scanned the front page. Surely it was wrong. It had to be wrong.
Later, when I greeted the children, Mrs. Dilloway handed Abbott a box wrapped in brown paper, tied with a white ribbon. “Your father asked me to give this to you,” she said, giving me a knowing look.
“For me?” Abbott cried.
Mrs. Dilloway nodded, handing it to him. A moment later, he’d torn open the wrapping and was gazing at his very own model airplane.
“Thank you,” Mrs. Dilloway whispered to me.
CHAPTER 21
Addison
“Are you sure you don’t want to go with me?” Rex asked, tucking a lock of hair behind my ear. I considered the idea of accompanying him to London, where he’d made plans to see an old friend. After the incident in town, I didn’t want to be alone, but I was getting closer to solving the mystery at the manor, so I didn’t want to leave. And I couldn’t take any chances with Sean lurking.
“No,” I said. “I think I’ll stay here and go through the camellia book again. “I feel like there’s something we must have missed in the orchard. Some clue.”
“All right,” he said. “I’ll be back tomorrow, and then we can lay it all out together. The more we learn, the more I realize that there’s a novel brewing here.”
He slung his bag over his shoulder, and I remembered the file marked “Amanda” inside. I hadn’t asked him about it.
“I’m going to miss you,” he said, kissing my cheek.
“Have fun with Kevin.”
Rex smiled at me curiously. “You don’t get it, do you?”
“Get what?” I asked.
“I have the most fun when I’m with you.”
I smiled up at him, grateful for this man whose love for me was so genuine. But would he feel the same if he knew the truth about my past?
“That’s my cab,” he said as a car pulled up outside.
“Careful,” I said, kissing him good-bye.
“Remember which side of the road to drive on if you take the car out.”
I rolled my eyes playfully.
“I’ll call you from the hotel,” he said.
I watched as the cab drove away toward town, then I locked the door, instantly regretting my decision to stay behind. I listened as the antique clock ticked furtively on the wall. I made a fist, determined to ignore the fear I felt. No, I wouldn’t let Sean make me crazy. I’d be fine. Even if the police hadn’t found him, they were patrolling the area regularly, and I had the station’s number on speed dial.
Upstairs, I pulled out the letter from Nicholas Livingston, and dialed his number.
“Yes, hello,” I said. “This is Addison Sinclair. My in-laws recently purchased the manor. They’re traveling in Asia now, so when I saw your letter arrive, I took the liberty of opening it on their behalf.”
“Yes, of course,” he replied. “Hello, Addison.” He cleared his throat. “There’s a matter I’d like to discuss with you in person, if I may. Are you available tomorrow?”
“Yes,” I said. “I’ll be here.”
“Good. I could catch the nine a.m. train and arrive by lunchtime.”
“That would be fine,” I said. “Mr. Livingston, it’s just that, well, I thought, considering the circumstances of the sale, that the family, er, that you, had no interest in returning to the manor again.”
“It’s true,” he said quickly. “Especially after . . . well, we can discuss this all tomorrow, Ms. Sinclair.”
That night, I heard a knock on my bedroom door shortly after I’d laid my head on the pillow. “Ms. Sinclair, are you awake?”
I slipped my arms into the robe draped over the chair near the bed and cinched the tie around my waist. Mrs. Klein stood, breathless, outside the door. “I’m so sorry to bother you, ma’am, but it’s Mrs. Dilloway. She fainted. Knocked her head on the counter. I’ve called for an ambulance.”
I followed her downstairs to the kitchen. Mrs. Dilloway sat on the floor, leaning against a cabinet. Her eyes looked drowsy. I fell to my knees beside her. “Are you all right?”
She muttered something unintelligible. I squeezed her hand and turned to Mrs. Klein. “How long before the ambulance arrives?”
She looked out the window. Headlights flashed in the night. “I think I see it pulling in now.”
Mrs. Klein ran to the door and directed the paramedics to the kitchen. Mrs. Dilloway turned to me before they wheeled her out on a stretcher. “Please . . . the letter . . .”
I shook my head, squeezing her hand. “Save your strength.”
“It looks like she’s had a stroke,” one of the paramedics said. “Loss of speech is a sign.”
“I’ll go with you to the hospital,” I said.
“It’s late,” Mrs. Klein said. “You stay. Rest. I’ve been working for Mrs. Dilloway for twenty years. I’ll go. Better she sees a familiar face if she’s disoriented.”
I nodded. “But do call me when you have an update.”
I drew the curtains on the first floor after they left. It felt odd to be in the house alone. Just one soul in a home that could house hundreds. Or maybe there were hundreds of souls here with me. Souls th
at had long since passed. Souls that were watching, waiting. I shivered as I walked up the stairs to the bedroom. Lord Livingston had slept there. With Anna. And others?
The air felt cold suddenly, so I went to the closet to find another blanket, which is when I noticed a wooden box wedged into a corner on the top shelf. I reached to pull it down, knocking over a stack of blankets above my head. I carried the box back to the bed, opening the lid slowly. Inside was a crumpled piece of paper, folded into a square. I knew what it was almost before I opened it. The page from Anna’s camellia book. The Middlebury Pink. The pressed flower was gone, but all the notations were there. Lord Livingston had taken it. Why? And why had he saved it?
I walked to the window, looking out at the orchard under a veil of darkness. The Middlebury Pink was out there, I knew it. And—my eyes widened—so was someone else. A flashlight shone through the orchard, moving about through a row and then down the next. I slunk back behind the curtain, racing to the bedside to retrieve my cell phone.
“Hello, yes, this is Addison Sinclair, from Livingston Manor,” I said to the dispatcher. “I think there’s an intruder in the orchard. Could you send an officer over?”
CHAPTER 22
Flora
September 18, 1940
Summer left with little fanfare and no word from Desmond. Lord Livingston spent the majority of it in London, holed up in his flat there. He told Mr. Beardsley that business had detained him, but I worried it was something else, something serious. On a rainy Tuesday morning, he phoned from London, and I overheard Mr. Beardsley speaking to him in the drawing room.
“Your Lordship,” Mr. Beardsley said into the phone, “it’s so good to hear from you. . . . Yes, yes, the children are fine. . . . Yes, Miss Lewis too. . . . Oh? I’m very sorry to hear that. . . . Is there anything that can be done? . . . Very well, yes, of course. . . . Oh, is that so? . . . Lord Desmond, sir? You don’t say. . . . Well, it’s just that I had no idea, my Lord. None of us did. . . . Yes, yes of course.”
“Excuse me, sir,” I said from the doorway once Mr. Beardsley had hung up the phone.
“Yes,” Mr. Beardsley replied, straightening his jacket. “That was Lord Livingston. He phoned from London to check on the children. His Lordship expects to stay in the city another two weeks before returning home for the remainder of the fall.”
“Good,” I said. “The children miss him terribly.”
He nodded.
I hesitated before saying, “I wonder if I may ask you a question?”
“Yes, what is it, Miss Lewis?”
“When you were on the phone just now, you mentioned Desmond. Is everything all right?”
Mr. Beardsley pulled a handkerchief from his jacket pocket and pressed it against his forehead, as if to soak up phantom perspiration. “Nothing for you to worry about, Miss Lewis,” he said, tucking the cloth back into his pocket.
“Of course,” I said. An awkward silence fell over us. “I understand.”
“Well, if you’ll excuse me.”
“Yes, sir,” I said, watching him walk to the stairs.
Oh, Desmond. Please come home.
“Storm’s coming,” Mrs. Marden said as she whipped cream by hand in the kitchen. Mr. Beardsley had offered to buy her a modern mixer, one with a proper stand and a mechanical whisk, but she refused. “It would be like cheating,” she said. “I’m a cook. They pay me to whisk, and I’ll whisk.”
“I can’t bear to part with summer,” Sadie said, looking out at the garden longingly from the kitchen window.
Mrs. Marden plunged a finger into the white bowl in front of her and held it up, examining the peaks that the cream made. She shook her head, dissatisfied, and continued whisking. “What does it matter if the weather changes,” she said, “when you don’t have a beau to picnic with?”
Sadie poured a cup of tea and set it on the saucer in front of me, ignoring the grouchy cook. “I suppose you’ll be wanting to get back to America soon.”
“Yes,” I said. “But I spoke to Mr. Beardsley about it yesterday. They’ve closed down passenger routes in the Atlantic, at least for now.” I sighed, sitting down in the chair Mrs. Marden used when peeling vegetables.
Sadie patted my back. “I bet you miss your folks terribly.”
“I do.” I sighed. “I just wish they’d write to me. I can’t understand why they haven’t. It’s been five months.”
“You sure you’re using the right return address, and all?” Sadie asked.
“Yes,” I said. “I’ve checked it many times.”
She shrugged. “Maybe they’re just busy.”
“No,” I said. “I’m worried that something’s wrong.” What if Mr. Price’s men reached them? What if . . . ?
Mrs. Marden handed me a sack of potatoes and a peeler. “I’ll make you a deal,” she said, her smile revealing her crooked tooth. “If you help me peel these, I’ll tell you about the time I saw Lord Livingston without a stitch of clothes on.”
Sadie howled with laughter. “You don’t want to miss this one,” she said.
I smiled. “Well, the children will be busy with their lessons for another half hour. I suppose I could peel a few of these.”
A week passed, and then another. The leaves began to fall from the old maple tree in the orchard, dancing in the wind as if to remind us of the uncertainty all around. War hovered over England like a dark storm cloud, and we all prayed it would pass like a mild thunderstorm, with more bark than bite.
One morning in early October, I agreed to let the children listen to the radio after breakfast. When the broadcast finished, I stood up. “All right, children, Mr. Beardsley’s having the drawing room repainted this morning, so it’s time to go up to the nursery.”
As the children headed upstairs, the front door slammed, and Mr. Humphrey hurried toward us. “I’m just back from the village,” he said, out of breath. He held out a rain-speckled newspaper. “Look!”
The headline blared: GERMAN BOMBERS STRIKE LONDON; CASUALTIES.
“Dear Lord!” Mrs. Dilloway cried. She fanned her face.
“What about Lord Livingston?” I said. “Has anyone heard from him?”
“Not yet,” Mr. Humphrey said. “I’ve already been in to see Mr. Beardsley. He’s telephoning London as we speak.”
We rushed to the butler’s pantry, where Mr. Beardsley sat at his desk.
“Any news from his Lordship?” Mrs. Dilloway asked. Her voice quivered in a way I hadn’t known it could.
“I’m afraid not,” he said. “The phone lines are down. We’ll just have to wait.” He reached below his desk and pulled out a decanter. “And pray.”
Mr. Beardsley stood guard at the telephone, awaiting news from London. Since the painters had come in that morning, Mrs. Dilloway asked me to check in on their progress. I wondered how the fresh color would look on the walls. The latest thinking was emerald green, which I quite liked.
“Excuse me,” I said to a man in the drawing room. He sat in Lord Livingston’s chair, with his back to me and his feet kicked up on the ottoman. How irritating. Mr. Beardsley was right. Workers were getting lazier these days. You hired them to do a job and they expected an easy chair and a smorgasbord. “Remove your feet from the furniture at once,” I said.
The man spun around in the chair. Desmond.
“Top of the morning to you,” he said, rising to his feet.
“Desmond!” I cried, running to him. He wrapped his arms around me and held me close.
“I’ve missed you so,” he said into my ear.
I stepped back to look at him. “Why didn’t you write? Why didn’t you call?”
“I couldn’t,” he said. “I was deployed. Our mission ended up taking a lot longer than anyone anticipated. Communication was forbidden.”
“Well,” I said, “I guess I could forgive you for that.”
CHAPTER 23
Addison
“We did a full sweep of the property and didn’t find anyone,” the officer said on the doorstep. “You sure about what you saw?”
I nodded. “I thought I was. I’m sorry to waste your time.” I couldn’t imagine the same special attention from the NYPD.
“No time wasted,” he said. “If you’d like, I can sit out front for a while, until sunup if it makes you feel better.”
I exhaled deeply. “Yes, it would. Thank you.”
I took comfort knowing that the officer’s car was parked outside the manor, and yet I didn’t sleep, knowing that Sean was near. I could feel his presence, the darkness that lingered.
“You going to be all right here for a bit, miss?” the officer asked the next morning. He yawned. “If you’d like, I can get someone on the day shift to check in on you later.”
“It’s kind of you to suggest,” I said, noticing the dark shadows under his eyes. “But don’t worry. My husband will be back from London today.”
“Well,” he said, “just the same, lock the doors.”
“Thank you,” I said, latching the deadbolt behind him.
I walked over to my purse on the entryway table. Maeve, from the police station, had handed me an envelope the night Sean attacked me, but I’d been too worn out to open it. “Just something I found,” she’d said. “For your other investigation.”
I opened the envelope and pulled out the pages inside, photocopies of a 1942 deposition given by a waitress at a café in town regarding the disappearance of her friend and coworker Theresa Mueller. The sticky note on top of the pages read, Another missing girl from the ’40s. Maybe there’s a connection? Good luck to you!
I opened the camellia book and thumbed through each page to see if the date of disappearance, June 25, 1940, matched any of the numbers in the book. It didn’t. I sat down on the stairs. Maybe my hunch was completely off base. The missing girls may not have been connected to one another, or to Lady Anna.