Free The Last Camellia: A Novel by Sarah Jio Page B

mud on Abbott’s shirt. It was much too large to be a rose petal. “I see you haven’t been truthful with me,” she said, eyeing the petal. “You’ve been in the orchard again, haven’t you?”
    The orchard.
    He nodded guiltily.
    “Mr. Abbott, you are twelve years old. You know better. Now, run upstairs and get in the bath. You too, Mr. Nicholas. There’s just enough time to wash and get this foyer cleaned before dinner. You’re very lucky that Miss Lewis and I have soft hearts and won’t mention it to your father. Now, be off with you.”
    The boys disappeared up the stairs, and Mrs. Dilloway sighed. “I’ll get Mr. Humphrey to wash Ferris,” she said. “If he insists on keeping a dog, he must bathe him. I told Lord Livingston a dog was a bad idea, but Mr. Humphrey convinced him.” She sighed. “You check on the boys. Make sure they scrub behind their ears and that their clothes are pressed for dinner. I’ll present you to Lord Livingston at six in the dining room. Servants don’t eat with the family, but the nanny is the exception.”
    “Yes, ma’am,” I said, walking upstairs. On the landing, a white sheet covered a large object that had been propped against the balusters. I lifted the corner to find a painting of a woman clutching a pink flower. Her sad eyes pierced mine, and I marveled at the emotion the artist had captured with the paintbrush.
Please
, she seemed to cry,
help me
. I shivered, quickly tucking the sheet back over the canvas before anyone saw me.

CHAPTER 9
    Addison
    “T here’s a concert in the park in town tonight,” Rex said that evening. “Want to go?”
    “Are you asking me out?” I said, grinning.
    “I am,” he replied with a big smile.
    We took the old Rolls-Royce and parked it along the street and walked to the park. Tables were set up in front of a small stage, where couples, young and old, were hovering over pints of beer, smiling, talking, whispering things into one another’s ears.
    “You find us a table,” Rex said, kissing my cheek lightly. “I’ll go grab the beers.”
    I chose a table toward the far right and sat down. While I waited for Rex to return, I noticed an older couple sitting at a nearby table. They held hands and gazed into each other’s eyes, seeming to speak a language all to themselves.
    “For you,” Rex said, setting a pint of amber ale in front of me. A bit of the froth had spilled over the side. I slurped it up.
    Rex took a drink, then leaned back in his chair. “So I was thinking,” he said. “In a novel, would the villain be the secretive housekeeper type—”
    “You mean, like Mrs. Dilloway?”
    He nodded. “Or a dark horse, like that guy over there.” He pointed to an older man in a dark suit seated on the other side of the park. A chocolate Labrador sat at his feet.
    “No, never the guy with the dog,” I said. “Dogs hint at a person’s goodness.”
    “Not unless it’s there to throw the reader off,” Rex said. “A way to make a character
seem
good.”
    “You may be onto something there,” I said, taking another sip. “So you’re thinking of adding a new character to your novel?”
    “Maybe,” he said, a little cryptically. “But I do have an idea.”
    “What?”
    He leaned in closer. “What if I start over, write a murder mystery about a family in an old manor house like the very one we’re staying in? A mystery that spans generations.”
    “I think it’s brilliant,” I said.
    Rex planted his chin in his palm and smiled. I loved it when he looked at me that way, as if the earth’s very orbit depended on my approval. “Will you help me?”
    “Honey, you’re the word guy,” I said.
    “But you’re so good at plot,” he continued. “Remember how you helped me work out the turning point, where the character leaves New York—”
    “And realizes he left behind the love of his life?”
    Rex nodded. “The story wouldn’t have been the same without that scene.”
    I shrugged. “I just knew they were