Evergreen Falls (24 page)

*  *  *

Violet had spent her whole life in and around Sydney, where Christmas was hot and bright. Of course she knew about cold Christmases because all the cards and decorations depicted Christmas this way, but until now it had seemed a remote or impossible way for Christmas to look. But when she stepped into the long room for Christmas-in-June celebrations, she was charmed by a sense of cold and wonder. The long room was used for occasional art exhibitions and community celebrations, and was really a conservatory that ran along the valley side of the east wing. The glass had caught and held much of the morning sun’s warmth, but two fireplaces had been lit and were crackling merrily. Wreaths of holly and ivy hung from the mantelpieces, and pretty red-and-green paper chains draped from the ceiling. A huge Christmas tree—one of the spruce pine saplings from the nursery—sat between the fireplaces, adorned with glass and glitter balls and handmade angels. Through the windows, Violet could see the cold day. Frost laced the hedges in the shade and the wind shook the bare branches of the crepe myrtle tree in the garden. A trio of singers rang bells and sang carols, and even though she knew it was not really Christmas, Violet let herself pretend.

Violet was on the first shift, and so began her work of carrying around large silver platters of star-shaped biscuits and slices of fruitcake iced thickly in marzipan. The guests converged around the fireplace and the tea table, and exchanged small gifts with laughter and cheeks made rosy from the cold and the fire. Or they gravitated to the three activities taking place at various parts of the room. In the
far corner, under the spreading branches of a tree that dropped leaves relentlessly on the glass, was Clive with his easel, drawing portraits; in another corner, close to the fireplace, sat Thora in her gypsy costume, reading cards; and over by the bookshelves one of the bellhops made little wood carvings of elves. Violet focused as hard as she could on the task at hand but was alert for Sam’s arrival. He had said he would definitely come, so where was he? His sister was here, standing by the tree with her fiancé and his entourage. Flora wore a beautiful dress of silk and beaded netting. She didn’t look happy, which made Violet suddenly worry that Sam might be ill or in some kind of trouble.

Then the door burst open and he was there, looking slightly disheveled but alert, which was a good sign; perhaps he hadn’t been smoking. Violet kept her head down, and within moments he had come over to take some cake and smile at her lovingly.

“Did you make this?” he said.

“No. I’m not much of a cook,” she replied.

“We’ll have servants.”

She blushed happily, then remembered her place; for now,
she
was the servant. But he had veered off, in order not to draw attention, and Violet kept working, ferrying sweet treats and then Christmas lunches to and from the kitchen via the long walkway outside, in and out of the heating until her poor body didn’t know whether to shiver or sweat. But then, once the main courses of roast beef, Yorkshire pudding, potatoes, and cauliflower were out, she was off shift and able to sit back and enjoy the carols and something to eat.

The party continued after the meal. Even though Miss Zander had allowed them to mingle with the guests, it was clear that the guests weren’t particularly interested in the staff. Violet saw Myrtle talking to Miss Sydney, and Alexandria in close dialogue with Cordelia Wright, the opera singer, but the rest of the staff hung together, chatting and laughing among themselves. Violet didn’t want to get
caught up with them—she wanted to be free to duck away if Sam needed her—so she ambled about the room, stopping to look at the fire or admire the decorations on the tree.

Then she saw Sam and Flora up near Clive, watching him draw his portraits. She felt awkward in her own body, wanting so much to walk up there and join them, but feeling strangely shy about it. Usually she and Sam were alone together at odd hours or in strange places.

But then, wasn’t Clive an old friend? She could go and speak to him, watch him. Yes, he had said they weren’t friends anymore, but surely he would have cooled off by now. She knew she was telling herself lies, but she didn’t care. Taking a deep breath, she made her way down to the corner of the glass conservatory.

The light gleamed in Clive’s fair hair. He was concentrating on his easel. In front of him, with her back to Violet, was Lady Powell, sitting in an embroidered armchair. Violet joined Sam and Flora at a polite distance behind Clive as they watched the drawing appear on the paper.

My, but he was good! Violet had had no idea. She’d only ever seen him draw trees and buildings and bowls of fruit. But this portrait of Lady Powell captured everything about her haughty demeanor and the intelligent brightness of her eyes. She had to catch her breath, and the sound alerted Sam and Flora to her presence.

Sam looked up and smiled. Flora looked up and scowled.

“He’s very good, isn’t he?” Sam said.

This made Clive glance up. He saw Violet and quickly turned back to his work.

“Oh, yes,” Violet said. “I’m so impressed.”

Clive ignored her compliment, adding some finishing shadows to his drawing and then lifting the paper off the easel. “Here you are, Lady Powell,” he said, deferentially.

Lady Powell took the drawing and assessed it with her nostrils
drawn down. Then the corners of her little mouth twitched up in a smile. “Well done, Mr. Betts,” she said.

He nodded, and she called Lord Powell over, who pressed a handful of shillings into Clive’s hands despite his protestations. Flora had wandered off, but Sam still stood next to Violet. Even though they were several inches apart, she was sure she could feel the magnetized heat of his body.

Clive sat down again and looked up at Sam. “Mr. Honeychurch-Black? Would you like a portrait?”

“I should like one very much, Mr. Betts,” Sam said. “But not of me. Of Violet.”

“Oh, not me,” Violet said, glancing around nervously.

“I’m only supposed to do drawings for the guests,” Clive said.

“You will be. For me. I will keep the portrait once it’s done, to remind me of my favorite waitress.”

“No, Mr. Honeychurch-Black, I really insist—” Violet started.

“No,
I
insist,” he countered, raising his voice a little, and then Miss Zander was there and Violet was sure she was going to lose her job.

“What seems to be the matter?” Miss Zander said.

“I’d like your artist to draw Violet,” he said. “I like to watch him draw.”

“Then perhaps we can get him to draw your sister?” Miss Zander suggested lightly.

“But I want to watch him draw
her
. I’ve seen him draw fine ladies, and now I want to see him draw a waitress. I want to see if he can capture any dignity or bearing in someone of his own class.”

Violet stung. Not a fine lady. A waitress.
His own class.
She knew Sam might be saying these things to manage Miss Zander’s suspicions, but they were true and they both knew it.

“Very well, then, Mr. Honeychurch-Black,” Miss Zander said,
conscious of the interest that their conversation seemed to be provoking. “Violet, do sit down. Clive, your best work, please.”

Violet reluctantly sat in the embroidered chair, a little flushed and embarrassed by the handful of guests who had drifted over to watch her and Clive, and a little proud and vain that she had been singled out from all the staff. She kept her eyes down until Clive said, “Violet, you’ll have to look at me.”

She lifted her gaze. He met it, and there was such sadness in his eyes that her heart twinged. She remembered the reason he’d given for never having drawn her before.
Because a page is too flat and too small to capture you
. Was he thinking that now as his eyes appraised her face?

“Keep your head up, please,” he said, as his eyes went down and he began to draw. Violet looked past him to Sam, who stood with his back against the glass, smiling at her knowingly. She smiled back. Surely anyone who saw them like this would know they were in love. Was it an open secret? Maybe everybody knew and nobody cared. She relaxed her chest and shoulders, and her blood raced through her more freely. Being in love, reciprocated love, was pure bliss.

A small crowd had gathered, mostly guests. But Belle, the chambermaid, also approached and squeezed in next to Sam. She turned and smiled at him, then said something—Violet thought it might have been a simple, “Happy Christmas in June, Mr. Honeychurch-Black”—but he didn’t reply to her. He acted as though he hadn’t heard at all, but then Belle tapped his arm to get his attention, and Sam physically recoiled, giving Belle a look of contempt that Violet wouldn’t have believed possible if she hadn’t seen it with her own eyes. Belle lowered her gaze and scuttled away, and then Sam gathered some bluster and said to the crowd of guests, “Let’s leave Mr. Betts to do his work in private,” and wandered off. Violet felt deflated. The others dispersed, leaving her and Clive alone in the corner of the conservatory.

“Eyes front, Violet,” he said.

She did as he instructed, feeling her heart thudding softly in her throat. The silence was strained over words that couldn’t be said.

Finally, Clive spoke. “Mr. Honeychurch-Black seems quite taken with you.”

Violet couldn’t think what to say in reply. She glanced around the room, but she couldn’t see Sam.

“I think he will be happy with the portrait,” Clive continued. “I think I’ve managed to capture some
dignity
, despite your low class.” All this was said without a hint of a smile. It was meant to warn her. Or hurt her.

“Eyes front,” he said again, in a whisper.

“Sam is a lovely man,” she said, defensive.

“You know that, do you?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Then I shan’t interfere.”

The minutes crawled by. The carollers began again, and the music provided some relief from the long, awkward silence. Violet wanted very much to look around—to see if Sam was back, to see what was going on—but Clive had her pinned to the spot. She wondered if he was taking an age on purpose, then reminded herself that each portrait had seemed to take him half an hour, and probably only half that time had passed since she sat. The room seemed too warm.

Finally, Clive sat back. “It’s finished,” he said.

She gave him a bright smile. “Can I see?”

“Yes, but I can’t give you the drawing. It’s for Mr. Honeychurch-Black.”

“Of course.” She rose and stood behind Clive’s shoulder, looking down on the portrait. She had seen photographs of herself from time to time and was always surprised—they never seemed to capture how she thought she looked—but this portrait . . . it was strange.
There was the softness about her cheeks and the directness of her gaze that she knew from looking in the mirror.

“It’s very good, Clive,” she said. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me, thank your patron. Ah, here he comes.” Clive stood and plucked the drawing paper from the easel, just as Violet turned to see Sam approaching. As he passed her, she caught a distinct whiff of opium steam. So, that’s where he had been.

“Ah, marvelous. Marvelous,” he muttered, admiring the drawing then rolling it up and tucking it under his arm. “Well done, Mr. Betts. I haven’t any cash on me to tip you . . .”

“I don’t need a tip, sir. I’m paid well for what I do.” A hint of wounded pride in Clive’s voice went unnoticed by Sam.

“Good-o, then.” He turned to Violet, nodded once. “Thank you, Miss Armstrong. I’ll . . . ah . . . see you soon.” Then he scuttled off and out of the conservatory.

“He seemed to be in a hurry to get away,” Clive said, his head down, rearranging the papers on his easel.

Violet narrowed her eyes, prepared to retort, then changed her mind. Clive was jealous; that was all. So instead she moved away, back towards the fireplace, and joined Thora in her silly gypsy costume and Myrtle who was eating a Christmas-tree biscuit. They pointedly didn’t ask her why she sat for a portrait for Sam, and she was glad not to have to make any more excuses.

*  *  *

Flora watched Sam leave, with the portrait rolled under his arm, and wished she could leave, too. She stood alone by the back conservatory corner, opposite the kind-faced handyman who was drawing portraits. What a torture today had become. Trapped with Tony and his friends, with preening Karl joining them after lunch. Mixing with the staff had aroused their most smug and mean-spirited jokes,
and they egged each other on to more and more outrageously snide comments. If one of the staff came to talk to them, they would politely smile and offer compliments as though they were the loveliest fellows in the world; but the moment the person walked away, they would snigger and gossip in the most unsavory terms. Flora was quite sick of it. Sam’s company, too, had been good only for a brief moment. But as soon as he’d seen Violet, he’d become belligerent and sullen. She’d spent a good deal of time sitting by herself trying to look as though she was enjoying the carollers, or trying to get a word in edgeways in conversation with Cordelia Wright.

“Isn’t the cold bracing?” Cordelia was saying, picking a cherry off a biscuit and popping it into her mouth. “You know, they’re saying it might snow. I do love snow.”

Snow? Now she’d never get Sam out of here. This cold weather wasn’t Christmas as Flora loved it. Christmas was warm sunshine and aching blue skies and waving grass and the throaty buzz of cicadas, relatives visiting and roast lamb and damper on the long back veranda of her parents’ rambling manor in the country, with brandy pudding after. What would Christmas—the real Christmas—be like this year? Married to Tony, living in the city, surrounded by his awful friends.

Would he stop seeing the other women? (She couldn’t even bring herself to
think
the word
prostitutes
.)

Flora itched to get away, and at last she resorted to feigning a headache.

“I’m sorry, Miss Wright,” she said, “but I think this Christmas brandy has gone to my head . . .” She pushed herself away from the glass wall.

“Oh, you poor dear. You just need more practice.” Cordelia winked and moved off, and Flora was just about to escape when she saw Tony approaching, the awful entourage in tow.