The Last Camellia: A Novel by Sarah Jio Page B

blue ink had run, but I could still make out the words. The two lines puzzled me: “The truth of the matter is that we always know the right thing to do. The hard part is doing it.”
    Who was Flora? And Georgia? And what had she meant by these words? I fanned the pages of the book, as if the answer lay buried inside the volume, which is when something fell out of the book onto my lap. I picked up the small square and turned it over to take a careful look at the treasure in my hands—a black-and-white photograph of a variegated camellia with a single bloom so breathtaking, I let out a little gasp. Before I tucked the photograph back inside the book, I noticed there was another stuck to it. Carefully, I separated the two images and discovered the portrait of a handsome young soldier, in uniform. He stood at the base of a staircase, smiling as though he may have loved the person standing behind the camera, perhaps very much. I recognized the paneling in the backdrop. The foyer at Livingston Manor.
    I heard footsteps behind me, and I quickly tucked the photographs back inside the book. “Oh, thank goodness it’s you,” I said, grateful to see my husband standing in the doorway.
    He planted a kiss on the top of my head. “Did I miss anything exciting?”
    “Yeah,” I said. “Look what I found.”
    He took the book in his hands, then shrugged.
    “Look inside,” I said. “At the inscription.”
    “Flora?”
    “Yeah,” I said. “I wonder who she was.”
    “Maybe she was Lord Livingston’s wife,” Rex offered.
    “Perhaps,” I said. “Or his daughter.” I pulled out the photograph of the camellia blossom again and studied it carefully. “Why do you think this photo was left here?”
    “Bookmark, maybe?”
    I shook my head, remembering the photograph of the rose that hung above my desk at home. “No, I think this flower had some sort of significance to her.”
    “Maybe,” Rex said, sitting on the sofa.
    I nodded. The light from the window filtered into the room, beaming off Rex’s dark hair and illuminating his tan skin and hazel eyes. He was handsome. Sometimes, I worried, too handsome. “Did you get your razor?”
    He looked momentarily confused, but then he nodded. “Oh, yeah,” he said, rubbing the stubble on his chin. “Yes, got it.”
    “What took you so long?” I asked, standing up. “Mrs. Dilloway said you had business in town?”
    “Yes, paperwork for my father,” he said. “It couldn’t be filed from China, so I had to sign for them with a notary.” He pointed to the driveway. “A courier brought them to the house just before I left.”
    “Oh,” I said, remembering the woman in the blue convertible.
    Mrs. Dilloway suddenly appeared in the doorway. “Pardon my intrusion,” she said, her voice steeped in formality that didn’t fit the decade, or perhaps even the century. “If you would like to accompany me, I will begin the tour now.”
    We followed her up the stairs, and I marveled at the enormous crystal chandelier above. Its chain appeared perilously dainty for the weight it carried. The steps creaked underfoot as we made our way to the second floor. Above the landing hung a painting of a beautiful woman. Her blond wavy hair framed her pale face like a halo. Below the hollow of her neck, a locket rested. I leaned in closer to examine its floral design—a detail I might otherwise have missed—and felt as though she was looking at me, really looking at me. Those eyes. I knew their expression. Lonely. Troubled. Trapped. I looked away, but my gaze ventured back to the canvas. The woman clutched a flower in her right hand. A pink camellia. I recognized the familiar petal structure and the shape of the leaf. I squinted in the dim light. Could that be blood on the tips of her fingernails? I rubbed my own nails.
Probably just a shadow.
    “Are you coming, Addison?” Rex called from down the hallway.
    “Coming,” I said, collecting myself, and yet unable to look away from the