rewards. You won’t find a finer home for miles. And Mrs. Marden’s cooking is, of course, a perk.”
The woman smiled smugly as she began chopping vegetables. She paused to hold up a scrawny carrot, crimped at the end. “They’re bitter,” she said. “I don’t know how I’m expected to manage with ingredients like this. Since Mr. Blythe left, the kitchen garden has suffered. Everyone blames the cook. ’Tisn’t fair, I tell you. A proper kitchen must have a proper garden. ’Tisn’t right.”
“Thank you for voicing your concerns, Mrs. Marden,” Mr. Beardsley said. “We shall continue this discussion another time.”
She turned back to the vegetables and grumbled something under her breath.
I followed Mr. Beardsley down another corridor. He pointed to a door on the right. “This will be your room,” he said. “I hope it will be satisfactory.”
Inside was a simple twin bed, a dressing table, a chest of drawers, and a wardrobe. I peered out the window to see a distinguished-looking man standing alone on the terrace, gazing out to the gardens.
“That man,” I said to Mr. Beardsley. “Who is he?”
“Oh,” he said, cinching his tie nervously. “His Lordship must have returned early from London. Well then. I must be going. Please wash and be ready to meet the children in an hour. Mrs. Dilloway, the housekeeper, will be in the drawing room at two o’clock.”
I nodded as he turned to the door. “Wait,” I said, without taking my eyes off the lush landscape outside. “Those trees in the distance. The ones with the flowers. Are they . . .” My heart fluttered a little. “Camellias?” I thought of Mr. Price’s words.
Identify the Middlebury Pink, and then go home. In and out.
Mr. Beardsley sighed, looking momentarily pained, before he spoke. “Yes. They were Lady Anna’s prized possessions.”
“They’re beautiful,” I said, turning back to the window. There were so many of them.
Will I be able to locate the Middlebury Pink?
“Indeed,” he said, allowing the smile to return to his face. “Well, I’ll leave you now. See you at two.”
After the door closed, I turned to the window and gazed out at the camellia orchard, with its rows of elegant trees with showy blossoms in shades of pink, white, and scarlet. A cold wind seeped through the window frame, filling the air with an eerie, high-pitched hum. I shivered, wondering about the camellias and their secrets.
CHAPTER 7
Addison
M rs. Klein, the cook, stopped us on the landing of the stairway. Her cheeks bright pink, she motioned to Mrs. Dilloway.
“I’m sorry to bother you two,” she said. “Mrs. Dilloway, you’re wanted on the telephone.”
“I’m afraid we’re a bit old-fashioned,” Mrs. Dilloway said, turning to me. “There aren’t any lines installed on the second story. I’ll have to take it in the kitchen.”
“That’s fine,” I said, following her downstairs, where I waited in the drawing room on a blue velvet couch with carved mahogany feet, which reminded me of an old claw-foot bathtub I’d had in my first apartment after college, the one I’d rented before I met Rex at the fund-raiser for the New York Botanical Garden. Life had been less complicated then. I sighed, looking down at the book in my hands.
The Years.
I rested my elbow against the arm of the couch and cracked the spine. It had the feel of a book that hadn’t been touched in decades, creaking, as if to say
ahhh
. A waft of musty air hit my nose, punctuated with something else, something floral and pleasant. I thumbed past the title page, brittle, water-stained, until I came to the first chapter, simply titled “1880.” I read and then reread the first line:
“It was an uncertain spring.”
The line resonated with me as if I’d read it a thousand times, only I hadn’t. I let my mind wander to New York and the frightening shadow that hovered over me there, which is when I noticed something written on the inside cover. A bit of the
The woman smiled smugly as she began chopping vegetables. She paused to hold up a scrawny carrot, crimped at the end. “They’re bitter,” she said. “I don’t know how I’m expected to manage with ingredients like this. Since Mr. Blythe left, the kitchen garden has suffered. Everyone blames the cook. ’Tisn’t fair, I tell you. A proper kitchen must have a proper garden. ’Tisn’t right.”
“Thank you for voicing your concerns, Mrs. Marden,” Mr. Beardsley said. “We shall continue this discussion another time.”
She turned back to the vegetables and grumbled something under her breath.
I followed Mr. Beardsley down another corridor. He pointed to a door on the right. “This will be your room,” he said. “I hope it will be satisfactory.”
Inside was a simple twin bed, a dressing table, a chest of drawers, and a wardrobe. I peered out the window to see a distinguished-looking man standing alone on the terrace, gazing out to the gardens.
“That man,” I said to Mr. Beardsley. “Who is he?”
“Oh,” he said, cinching his tie nervously. “His Lordship must have returned early from London. Well then. I must be going. Please wash and be ready to meet the children in an hour. Mrs. Dilloway, the housekeeper, will be in the drawing room at two o’clock.”
I nodded as he turned to the door. “Wait,” I said, without taking my eyes off the lush landscape outside. “Those trees in the distance. The ones with the flowers. Are they . . .” My heart fluttered a little. “Camellias?” I thought of Mr. Price’s words.
Identify the Middlebury Pink, and then go home. In and out.
Mr. Beardsley sighed, looking momentarily pained, before he spoke. “Yes. They were Lady Anna’s prized possessions.”
“They’re beautiful,” I said, turning back to the window. There were so many of them.
Will I be able to locate the Middlebury Pink?
“Indeed,” he said, allowing the smile to return to his face. “Well, I’ll leave you now. See you at two.”
After the door closed, I turned to the window and gazed out at the camellia orchard, with its rows of elegant trees with showy blossoms in shades of pink, white, and scarlet. A cold wind seeped through the window frame, filling the air with an eerie, high-pitched hum. I shivered, wondering about the camellias and their secrets.
CHAPTER 7
Addison
M rs. Klein, the cook, stopped us on the landing of the stairway. Her cheeks bright pink, she motioned to Mrs. Dilloway.
“I’m sorry to bother you two,” she said. “Mrs. Dilloway, you’re wanted on the telephone.”
“I’m afraid we’re a bit old-fashioned,” Mrs. Dilloway said, turning to me. “There aren’t any lines installed on the second story. I’ll have to take it in the kitchen.”
“That’s fine,” I said, following her downstairs, where I waited in the drawing room on a blue velvet couch with carved mahogany feet, which reminded me of an old claw-foot bathtub I’d had in my first apartment after college, the one I’d rented before I met Rex at the fund-raiser for the New York Botanical Garden. Life had been less complicated then. I sighed, looking down at the book in my hands.
The Years.
I rested my elbow against the arm of the couch and cracked the spine. It had the feel of a book that hadn’t been touched in decades, creaking, as if to say
ahhh
. A waft of musty air hit my nose, punctuated with something else, something floral and pleasant. I thumbed past the title page, brittle, water-stained, until I came to the first chapter, simply titled “1880.” I read and then reread the first line:
“It was an uncertain spring.”
The line resonated with me as if I’d read it a thousand times, only I hadn’t. I let my mind wander to New York and the frightening shadow that hovered over me there, which is when I noticed something written on the inside cover. A bit of the
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