realizing it sounded defensive. “He’s been more than patient with you.”
Sam was slipping away into his golden bubble now, his breathing slowing and his eyes half closing.
Frustrated tears welled in Flora’s eyes, but she blinked them back. “Sam, you must stop that.”
“I can’t,” he said, in a small voice.
“Then you must see a doctor.” Suddenly this seemed the best idea she’d ever had, and she brightened. “Will you see a doctor while we’re up here? If you promise to, I’ll write to Father and tell him we’re going to stay. Until Christmas in June.”
He waved her away. “Yes. Yes, if that’s what it takes. You arrange it.”
A small ray of hope lit her heart. “Consider it done,” she said, then left him lying on the bed. As she closed the door behind her she saw that the same chambermaid had moved farther up the hall. Again, she eyed Flora curiously, perhaps wondering what she was doing on the men’s floor. Flora raised her chin and refusedto make eye contact as she strode past. Now she had to give Tony the news that she was staying five more weeks. He wasn’t going to like it.
* * *
Flora eventually found Tony at the tennis court, in a leisurely doubles game with Vincent, Harry, and Sweetie (the latter, a hulking thug of a man, was so named for his habit of calling every woman he met “sweetie”). She stood for a while watching. Their white clothes were dazzling against the green tennis court, and they laughed and shouted merrily to each other. Tony and his friends were so different from Sam. They were men who readily understood the world, and made it spin with casual, confident hands. Sam was a cipher in the margins, pale and rose-cheeked, with hair and eyes darker even than Tony’s. Sam had ever been a strange boy: fey and somehow bewildered.Since the moment he had come into the world, Flora had been compelled to look after him—both by her parents, who had little time for children, and by her own heart, which loved him immeasurably and fearfully.
By contrast, here was Tony, all gleaming olive skin and well-muscled forearms, banging the tennis ball about with his dark hair flopping forth over his eyes. How her heart had stung when she’d first seen him. Handsome and worldly, the heir to his grandfather’s shipping business, Tony was all charm and poise. Flora loved him, loved him madly. It was the idea of marriage she was not enamored of. Not yet.
He still hadn’t acknowledged her presence, so she tried a wave; it was Vincent who held his serve and said, “Tony, you can’t ignore her forever.”
Was that what he was doing? Ignoring her? Well, she could withstand that. Wounded pride was for fussy women.
He turned and she waved again, then called, “I have to speak to you.”
“Go,” said Vincent, always the kindest of Tony’s entourage. “We’ll meet you in the coffeehouse later.”
Tony handed his racquet to Sweetie and came to take Flora’s arm. “Come on, Florrie. Let’s take in the view.”
The tennis court was on the edge of the escarpment, and they walked across it towards the gleaming white stone fence that lined the boundary of the hotel gardens. When Flora was sure they were out of earshot of his friends, she said, “Sam isn’t going.”
“Then you and I will leave him here.”
“You know we can’t. Father was very particular. I’m to take care of him.”
“Take care of him? The impossible task. Does your father know ?”
“About the opium? I . . . I don’t know. Maybe he does and he pretends he doesn’t. But if he knew . . . It’s just . . .” Her eyes darted away.
Tony stopped and turned her to him. “What is it?”
“I can’t leave him.”
“He’s nearly twenty.”
“No, I can’t . I’m to stop him from doing anything foolish if I hope to . . . inherit.” She knew she shouldn’t talk about money. Tony had plenty, but her family had more. Much, much more. The Honeychurch-Black family owned property and
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