The Last Camellia: A Novel by Sarah Jio

sighed. “The gardens simply haven’t been the same since she passed last year.” He pointed to the walkway ahead. “Well, let me take you inside.” He stopped to pick up my bag. “I must tell you,” he continued, “I didn’t expect an
American
.”
    “Oh,” I said, surprised, “didn’t the, er, agency tell you?”
    “I’m afraid they left out that detail,” he said.
    “I hope it won’t be a problem, sir.”
    “No, no,” he said, the corners of his eyes softening to reveal kindness I was starved for. “Let me show you to your quarters so you can freshen up before you meet his Lordship and the children.”
    I followed him past a knot garden, where boxwood had been planted in a square formation. They looked a bit scraggly, as if in need of a proper clipping. Mr. Beardsley stopped and knelt down to pick up a large pink flower blossom lying on the pathway, marveling at it momentarily before tucking it into his pocket.
    I wanted to stop and linger in the gardens, to soak up the beauty all around, but I followed Mr. Beardsley through a side door and descended a set of stairs. “Of course, given the nature of your duties, you won’t spend much time down here, aside from sleeping, but please know that you are always welcome in the servants’ hall.”
    I nodded as a plump young woman, barely eighteen, approached. Her curly red hair sprung disobediently from her white cap and fell around her round, rosy cheeks. “Excuse me, Mr. Beardsley,” she said, tugging at her white apron nervously. I noticed a smudge of soot near the pocket. “May I have a word with you?”
    “Yes, Sadie?”
    “It’s just that, well, sir . . .”
    “What is it?”
    “It’s Mr. Nicholas, sir,” she continued. “He’s made off with the flour sack again.”
    Mr. Beardsley frowned. “Again?”
    “He has, sir,” she said. “And he’s scattered it out in the library. The bookcase looks as if it’s had a dusting of snow.” She giggled, then quickly covered her mouth with her hand before speaking again. “Mrs. Dilloway says it’s ruined Lord Livingston’s volume of Shakespeare. She’s worked herself into a frightful tizzy, I’m afraid. She said she doesn’t know what to do about that boy, that next thing he’ll do is burn the house down, and—”
    “Fortunate for us all, then, that the children’s new nanny has arrived today,” Mr. Beardsley replied. “Sadie, allow me to introduce you to Miss Lewis.”
    Sadie smiled warmly. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, miss,” she said.
    “You as well,” I said. “Please, call me Flora.”
    She nodded. “I’ll just be going now,” she said, before retrieving a basket of washing at her feet.
    “Sadie,” I said, ignoring Mr. Beardsley, who’d already begun walking ahead. “Are the children really . . . that bad?”
    She nodded. “We’ve gone through three nannies since January,” she whispered, studying my face, before smiling again. “I hope you stay. I like you.”
    “Thanks,” I said with a grin.
    I caught up with Mr. Beardsley, and we proceeded down a hallway to the kitchen. “This is Mrs. Marden,” he said, “the cook.” A large, gruff-looking woman sat at a table near the stove peeling potatoes intently. “Mrs. Marden, this is Miss Lewis, the children’s new nanny.”
    “Another one?” she said, without looking up.
    “Yes, Miss Lewis was sent by the agency and we are quite grateful to have her.”
    “Well,” she said, tossing a freshly peeled potato into a cauldron of boiling water, her eyes meeting mine for the first time. The hot water splashed up in the air, and I lurched back to avoid getting scalded. “Better not get too comfortable. It’s only a matter of time before this place gets the best of you.” She looked me over. “No offense, but I’d be surprised if you have it in you to last past dinner.”
    Mr. Beardsley cleared his throat. “The job is not without challenges, but I’m sure Mrs. Marden will agree that it also has its