After her shift, she lay for a long time in bed with that desire swirling in her body, keeping her awake. She wondered if she’d ever sleep well again.
* * *
The staff dining room always had a peculiar smell at breakfast time. Bacon and toast, yes, but also a yeasty, damp smell from having been locked up all night. Despite the cold, Violet opened a window a crack. The windows down here were almost at ground level, but a sweet sliver of fresh air made its way in nonetheless. Violet leaned at the window a moment, letting the cold air refresh her tired eyes after a night of tossing and turning. Other staff were making their way to the buffet and to tables, talking and laughing and clinking crockery and cutlery. But suddenly there was silence.
Violet turned. Miss Zander stood at the door, looking out of place with her immaculate hair and elegant pearls. She surveyed the room, and each staff member held their breath, wondering if she was looking for them.
“Ah, Violet,” she said, when she spied Violet by the window. “Have you eaten?”
“No,” said Violet, pulse pricking at her throat.
“Have some breakfast and come straight through to my office.” Then she turned and left without further comment.
The others eyed Violet with pity. Clive was with her a moment later. “What’s going on?” he asked.
“I don’t know.” She considered last night’s game with Sam. Had Hansel caught on that she was flirting with a guest? Had Myrtle told tales? Or was it worse than that? Had somebody seen them kissing, or standing at the Falls nearly naked?
“You’d better eat something, then,” Clive said. “Sit down, I’ll get you a plate.”
How was she supposed to eat with this worry hanging over her head? Her tired brain couldn’t grasp it. She just wanted to go back to bed and sleep until it was all over.
“Go on. Sit,” Clive said again, pushing her gently towards the women’s side of the dining room.
Violet sat and Myrtle joined her. Bless Myrtle; she sat close to Violet and gave her a squeeze. “I’m sure it’s nothing,” she said. “Miss Zander’s always putting the fear of God into us for no good reason.”
Clive returned with a plate of bacon and steak. Violet picked around the edges, then pushed it away, sliding off the bench. “I have to get this over with,” she said.
“Good luck,” Myrtle replied softly.
She made her way up the stairs and through the foyer to the pale blue door of Miss Zander’s office. She knocked and waited. At last, Miss Zander opened the door.
“Yes, good. Come in, Violet.”
Violet followed her in. Miss Zander took her place behind her gleaming desk, upon which papers, books, ink well, and pens were arranged precisely in parallel lines. Miss Zander didn’t invite Violet to sit, so she remained standing, hands clasped and clammy.
“Is there something the matter?” she asked. Here it came, the accusation of fraternizing with a guest. If she lost her job, would Sam really come to her rescue?
“I have spoken to several of my guests,” she said, looking at her papers.
Violet was almost deafened by the sound of her blood rushing past her ears. She didn’t dare speak.
“There are enough who have no firm plans to leave over the winter that I have decided to keep the hotel open with a skeleton staff in place. Ordinarily, you see, we would close after Christmas in June celebrations, and reopen again on the first day of spring.”
Because it wasn’t the accusation of misbehavior she expected, Violet wasn’t sure what to say.
“I’m very happy with your work, and I’m inviting you to continue to work through the winter.”
The relief washed through her like warm water. “Oh, yes!” she exclaimed. “Yes, please. That’s wonderful news.”
“Good girl. Now, keep it to yourself because there’s plenty who have worked here a lot longer than you who aren’t getting the extra work. Myrtle, for example. As far as I can tell, we will have fewer than a dozen guests to service. You may need to double up some duties. I hope you don’t think yourself above some chambermaid work.”
“Not at all. I am most grateful for this opportunity and I won’t let you down.”
“I know you won’t,” Miss Zander said with a smile, and Violet’s heart lifted.
With a startling clang, the wood-and-brass candlestick telephone on Miss Zander’s desk came to life. Miss Zander reached for it with one hand, shooing Violet out with the other.
“Thank you. Thank you,” Violet mouthed, backing out of the room.
She closed the door behind her and stood against it a moment, her eyes closed. Now she could write to Mama and promise her money over winter. Mama’s arthritis was worst during winter, and every year she feared the family she worked for would put her off. Violet opened her eyes and headed off to work, letting her mind turn to other things. Would Sam be one of the guests staying over winter? Her heart couldn’t stand not knowing.
* * *
A sharp rap on her door startled Flora out of her reverie. She had been sitting at her desk, a half-written letter to her father in front of her. How was she to frame the news that Sam was no better or no worse? Should she confess that she couldn’t stop him smoking opium? Was it worth including Dr. Dalloway’s testimony? Or was Father still unaware that Sam’s woes were largely self-inflicted? If so, to tell him would shock him so badly he might do something unforgivable, such as disown Sam. What then for her younger brother? Would he have to live on the street, like the filthy beggars she had seen in Sydney?
The knock was a welcome distraction. She rose and opened the door to Miss Zander, the elegant manageress.
“Good morning, Miss Honeychurch-Black,” she said, briskly. “Forgive my intrusion, but there is a telephone call for you in my office.”
“A telephone call?”
“Mr. Honeychurch-Black. That is, your father.”
Flora felt the blood drain from her face. “My father,” she whispered.
“Is everything all right?”
“Yes, yes. I was engaged in writing him a letter precisely when you knocked. It’s a shock, that’s all. As though I made him come to life.” She laughed nervously, realizing she sounded foolish. “Kindly show me the way.”
She followed Miss Zander downstairs and across the foyer to her office, where Miss Zander indicated the phone and politely left her alone. The door closed behind her.
Flora picked up the handset in one hand, the receiver in the other, and perched on the edge of the desk. “Hello, Father?”
“Florrie, my dear. How lovely to hear your voice.”
“I was just writing you a letter. What a coincidence.”
“You’re a good girl. Letters take too long, and I needed to speak to you about two pressing matters.”
Flora swallowed hard. “Go ahead.”
“I’ve had two pieces of correspondence that trouble me somewhat. One from your brother and one from your fiancé.”
“Tony wrote to you?”
“Why don’t we save that one for last, eh? About Samuel. He says you are staying a little longer in the mountains.”
“That’s right,” Flora said, her pulse prickling guiltily at her throat. “I was going to tell you myself. I had no idea Sam wrote to you.”
“He does from time to time. Long, rambling things that don’t make a good deal of sense, but he always did have an odd imagination. Am I to take it from your extended stay that his condition is improving?”
Flora opened her mouth to speak, to tell him her brother was an opium addict and she could no sooner make him better than she could fly to the moon by flapping her arms, but fear held her tongue. She had to protect Sam. “A little. A very little.”
“Then that is enough.” His voice sounded so relieved that Flora could have cried for him.
“Father, his condition is . . . I consulted a doctor who has offered his support to me.”
“Well done. With that and the fresh air and spa water, he will be back to himself in no time.
I have every faith you can resolve this.”
She was keen to change the topic but also wary. “What about Tony’s letter?”
His voice became stern. “I don’t think you’ve been perfectly honest with me, Florrie.”
“What do you mean?” She glanced out the window, at the white winter sunlight in the crisscross of pine branches. It looked cold out there, bitterly so, though the office was warm.
“Tony has asked to bring the wedding forward.”
“Oh.”
“But you told me he wanted it put back six months. I’ve just sent a letter off to him now asking him to explain, but thought it might be quicker and clearer if I spoke to you.”
Father had written back to Tony? A disaster. Tony would know she’d delayed the wedding. “I said we wanted it put back,” she explained limply.
“By ‘we,’ you meant ‘Flora,’ is that right?”
“Yes,” she said softly. “I didn’t talk to Tony about it. I didn’t realize he minded. He thought it was your decision.”
An exasperated noise. “What on earth can you hope to gain from putting the wedding off, Florrie?”
“I don’t know,” she said, and it was true. It was all coming, whether she liked it or not. She would be a wife and then a mother, she would manage a house and attend charity balls and grow old by Tony’s side, neatly fulfilling her duty as a member of the Honeychurch-Black family, even with her new, more exotic, surname.
Her father’s voice grew gentle. “Could you speak to Tony, please? Set a date. Sometime this year.”
Her breath compressed in her lungs. This year was already half over.
“Florrie?”
“He’s in Sydney for a few days, but I’ll definitely speak to him. Don’t send the letter to him. He’ll think me a liar, or he’ll think I don’t love him. I do love him.”
“I’m afraid it’s too late. It went in this morning’s mail. But perhaps that’s a blessing. Best to have it out in the open. A marriage doesn’t thrive in the shadows. Talk to him. Write to me with a date. I expect a letter by the end of next week. Will you promise me?”
“Yes, yes,” she said, dreading Tony’s return. “I promise you.”
* * *
After the breakfast shift, Violet returned to her bedroom and noticed her pillow had been propped up against the wall. Curious, she picked it up and found underneath it a small white linen bag with a red drawstring.
She untied the string. Inside the bag were sweets. Conversation sweets. Back in Sydney, she and her friends were always trading them with each other at dances or at the cinema. Violet tipped them out on her bed and sorted through them. Pink ones, white ones, yellow ones. On each one was stamped the words I love you.
Violet could barely contain her smile.
* * *
The early evenings were the worst. Flora had no idea which version of Sam she would find when she went to fetch him for dinner—smiling and acquiescent, irrational and cross, or lost to the world in his eyes-half-closed golden bubble. Flora sat in her room very still, willing the butterflies in her stomach to do the same. Finally, she rose and made her way to his room.
She knocked, and he opened the door almost immediately, wild-eyed and flushed. He was wearing a half-unbuttoned shirt and crumpled trousers that she suspected he had found on the floor or under the bed.
“Sissy?” he said, seemingly puzzled.
“Why aren’t you dressed for dinner?”
“Not coming. I have to see a friend. He’s been away and . . . I really need to see him.”
“A friend? What friend?” Sam didn’t have friends; he never had.
“Just a fellow I know from the village. I’m off to see him at six. Is it six yet?” He pulled out his pocket watch. “Twenty minutes. Twenty minutes, then I’m off.”
Flora grew suspicious. “What’s this friend’s name?”
“Never mind. You are terribly nosy sometimes. You go down to dinner. I heard Tony and his entourage pass by just a few minutes ago. I’ll see you in the morning at breakfast.” He moved to close the door in her face, but she held out her forearm to stop him.
“Sam, I spoke to Father today. You really must stop writing him strange letters.”
“Did I write him a strange letter?”
“He says you did.”
“I dreamed I wrote him a letter. Or perhaps that was real.” He frowned.
She dropped her voice low. “Do you see what the opium does to you? You can’t tell the difference between sleeping and waking.”
With a hard expression, he pushed her arm out of the way and slammed the door. Flora stood a moment on the other side, and made her decision.
She considered going to the dining room to tell Tony’s friends she wasn’t coming down for dinner, but they wouldn’t even notice she was gone, or perhaps they would ask questions and take the opportunity to sneer at Sam; so instead she took her coat from her room and, without telling anyone, went to wait outside.
The shock of cold air hit her as the heavy double doors closed behind her. The last orange sliver of sun had almost extinguished behind the valley, and stars emerged on the eastern horizon. She positioned herself between two pine trees along the front fence—they stood just over eight feet high—and watched the front door from the shadows.
An icy breeze ran over her, and she jammed her hands into her coat pockets, wishing she had stopped for her gloves or some sturdy boots. A few minutes later, the door opened, allowing out a finger of light, and Sam emerged, hunched into his coat. She watched as he walked briskly up the road, then she began to trail him a hundred feet behind.
It had been a long time since she had seen him move so fast. In the past year he had become languid and idle. His head was down, and if he heard her footfalls behind him, he gave no sign.
They went up the hill then crossed the train tracks. The station was empty and still, the EVERGREEN FALLS sign rattling in the breeze. The grass was long here, and damp with dewfall. Dusk had given way to night, and Flora alternated between watching Sam and watching her feet carefully so she didn’t slip.
At last he began to slow, glancing up at the houses on the left as though unsure which one he was supposed to visit. Finally, he stopped. Flora drew as close as she dared, then hung back behind an oak tree. Yellow and brown leaves showered down over her in a gust of wind. Sam ascended the five front steps to the low veranda of a dilapidated house. A lamp burned on either side of the steps, and another sat on the floor next to a long sofa on which an Oriental man was stretched out, stroking a fluffy ginger cat.
Flora strained to hear.
“Malley,” Sam said to him, “you’re back.”
“Back with everything you need.”
It was as she suspected: this man—Malley—was the supplier of Sam’s opium. How she wanted to run up there and scream at them both to stop, but instead she could only watch. Sam sat next to Malley, and as he did so and the lamplight hit the man in the face, she could see he wasn’t Oriental at all. He was as white as she was, but he was dressed in loose black pants and an embroidered Manchu jacket. He wore his long, black hair in a tightly contained ponytail, and his goatee beard and mustache were long and wispy. The beam of the veranda railing obscured what they were doing, but she supposed they were exchanging money and goods.
Flora sagged against the tree, the rage and pain boiling inside her. How dare this horrid Malley peddle poison to her brother, and all with such a relaxed smile on his face? She took deep breaths, waiting for Sam to finish his business and hurry off into the night. Then, instead of following him, she detached herself from the shadows and stormed up the front stairs of Malley’s house.
He looked up at her blearily. “Who are you?”
“I’m Samuel’s sister, and I absolutely demand you stop selling him opium.”
He smiled slyly, and the heat of her anger cooled enough for her to remember that she didn’t know this man, she was out here at night alone, and nobody knew where she was.
r /> “Why do you think that’s what I was selling him?” Malley asked.
“Because . . .” she stammered. She had no proof. “I know you were. Don’t try to be clever.”
He rose, and she backed down two steps, her heart hammering. But he wasn’t coming after her, he was opening his front door and slipping inside.
“I’ll tell the police about you!” she cried.
“Then I’ll tell them about your brother,” he answered, spreading his hands in a gesture of innocence. “Prison would suit him, don’t you think?”
With that, he closed the door with a soft snick, and left her standing on his front stairs shaking with cold and fear and anger.
She turned and looked around at the starry sky, the dark tree branches fretting in the wind. Her throat seemed blocked up with some terrible scream she was never allowed to release. Her vision swam and she feared she was about to faint. She realized she was only a block or two from Will Dalloway’s house. He had said she could call on him any time, hadn’t he?
She began to run.
A few minutes later, she was thundering on his door. “Will! Will! Let me in!”
The door opened, spilling out light and warmth and the smell of something good cooking. He looked at her in alarm, catching her in his arms and then setting her upright on the hallway floor while he locked the door behind her.
“What’s happened? Are you injured?”
“No, I’m not, I’m . . .” She realized she was sobbing, her face was damp and hot. “I’m not sure what’s wrong. It feels as though I’m falling apart. I’m . . .”