Authors: Jennifer Donnelly
Tags: #Romance, #Historical, #Historical Romance
The Wild Rose (45 page)
The racket outside Willa’s hospital window was earsplitting. Men were yelling. Camels—it seemed like there must be a thousand of them—were bawling. Noisy motorcycles were sputtering by. A woman was scolding someone at the top of her lungs. An automobile was honking its horn.
“What on earth is going on?” Willa asked Sister Anna, who had just bustled into the room, an angry expression on her face.
“The Sunday souk,” Sister Anna said, firmly closing Willa’s window. “It’s one of the days that animals are traded in the marketplace. The other day is Wednesday. Camels, horses, donkeys, goats . . . they all pass by the hospital on the way to market, and pass by again on their way out of the city with their new owners. The noise and dust and mess are unspeakable. It’s disturbing for our patients and a health hazard, too. What you’re hearing right now is because a camel broke loose and upended a vegetable cart. Two people were hurt. The hospital’s administrators have spoken to the city authorities numerous times, but nothing changes.”
“Camels, you say? I should like to buy a camel and go riding. Right this very instant. It’s been so long since I was outside,” Willa said.
“Camel riding? With broken ribs?” Sister Anna said, raising an eyebrow. “I should think it will be a little while yet before you’re ready for that.”
“I suppose you’re right,” Willa said. “I’ll stick to my mapmaking for now.”
She had paper, pencils, and an eraser on a narrow rolling hospital table that allowed her to work in her bed, as her doctor would not allow her to work out of it. Max had asked her draw a map of the area south of Damascus, indicating what route Lawrence would take to attack the city.
“Mr. von Brandt is very pleased with your work. I overheard him talking to Dr. Meyers, asking him when he might be able to take you out of the hospital for a small jaunt,” Sister Anna said. “Wouldn’t that be lovely?”
Willa smiled. “I’m pleased that he’s pleased,” she said. Then she clumsily dropped her pencil, tried to catch it before it fell on the floor, and winced with the effort.
Sister Anna saw her. “Is the pain still bad?” she asked, frowning.
Willa nodded.
“I’m sorry to hear it. A woman with three broken ribs and typhus should not have been kept in a prison cell for even one day, never mind several weeks. The disease has obviously weakened you.” She reached into her skirt pocket and drew out a small glass bottle. “Here’s another pill,” she said. “It’s been slightly less time between dosages than I would like, but I do not like to see you in pain.”
Willa took the pill. She raised her hand to her mouth and took a drink of water—spilling some because her hand was shaking. Then she sat back against her pillows, her hands folded in her lap.
“Thank you,” she said, giving the nurse a weary smile of relief.
“I think you should rest for a bit or you will overdo it,” Sister Anna said. “You need to build your strength, not tax your body further. You can continue your work later.”
“But Mr. von Brandt’s maps . . .” Willa protested.
“They can wait for a bit. And if Mr. von Brandt has any objections, he may speak about them with Dr. Meyers.” She wheeled the table away from Willa’s bed, then walked to the window and let the blind down. “Sleep now,” she said.
Willa, eyes already closed, nodded gratefully. Sister Anna quietly left the darkened room, pulling the door closed after her, and locking it—as she always did.
As soon as she heard the bolt turn, Willa opened her eyes and sat up in bed. Her movements were quicker and surer than any she’d made in front of Max or Sister Anna. She quietly got out of bed and flipped her mattress up. She took the pill Sister Anna had given her—it was still in her hand, she’d only pretended to swallow it—and pushed it into a small hole she’d made in the mattress’s welting. Then she felt along the welting to make sure the other pills she’d hidden were still there. They were. No one had discovered them—yet. She lowered the mattress, got back into bed, and smoothed her sheets and blankets, then she closed her eyes to sleep.
Sister Anna was right. She needed to build her strength, for she would need it. Max had talked to Dr. Meyers about a jaunt. She doubted it would happen today, or tomorrow, but she was sure it would happen soon. Very soon. And when it did, she must be ready.
“Is that you, love?” India called out. She was sitting in the kitchen of the Brambles and had just heard the mudroom door open. She’d been expecting Sid for the last two hours.
“I’m afraid not. It’s just me, not my handsome brother,” Fiona called back.
India laughed. “Fancy a banger?” she said.
“I could murder a banger. A dozen bangers,” Fiona said, walking into the kitchen. “And mash and onion gravy. Have you got any?”
“Enough to feed an army. Sit down and tuck in,” India said.
She got up from the kitchen table, where she’d been reading at least twenty British newspapers—some that she’d sent for from as far afield as Glasgow and Leeds—and got a plate, cutlery, and a cup of tea for Fiona.
“Sit, India,” Fiona said, rubbing her hands together. “I can see to myself.” She gave her sister-in-law a quick kiss on the cheek, took the cup of tea from her hands, and took a seat at the table.
“How did Charlie do today?” India asked. “Any progress?”
“None,” Fiona said, shoveling potatoes onto her plate. “We’ve nearly got through the entire rose garden now, but he’s still exactly the same. I’d hoped for something—some small but steady improvement—ever since I saw that spark in his eyes. But there’s no change. I’m starting to wonder if I only imagined his reaction to the roses.”
“I’m sure you didn’t. It takes time. He’ll get there,” India said. “With a mother like you and an uncle like Sid, he has no choice.”
Fiona laughed, but India could see she was tired. She’d been working with Charlie all day long. Worried that Fiona would exhaust herself coming and going, she and Sid had asked her to stay with them at the Brambles—an offer she gladly accepted. Mr. Foster had gone back to London and Fiona had decided to return to London on the weekends, and come up again on Monday mornings. India was glad about the arrangement; she loved her sister-in-law’s company.
“It’s so quiet in here. Are the children in bed?” Fiona asked now, dousing her sausages and mash with gravy.
“They went up half an hour ago. They wanted to wait up for Sid—he promised them presents when he got back—but it was already eight-thirty and they could barely hold their heads up. I told them he’d give them a kiss when he got in.
“Where did he go?” Fiona asked.
“London. He went yesterday evening and spent the night. He was due back around six-thirty. I don’t know what’s keeping him.”
“London?” Fiona said, with a slight note of concern in her voice. “Why did he go there?”
“You don’t like it either, do you?” India said worriedly. “I told him not to go. But he said he had business there.”
“What kind of business?”
“He said he wanted to talk to someone about medical supplies for the hospital. Drugs, specifically.”
Fiona’s expression softened. “Oh, it’s just hospital business then, isn’t it? Forgive me, India. I was being silly. It’s just that given his past, I worry.”
“I know,” India said, gathering her newspapers into a stack. “I do, too. I’m always afraid someone from his old life will spot him in the city and try to make trouble for him. It’s probably a daft notion, but I can’t help it.”
“Well, I’m sure he’ll be back any minute. I bet he missed his train, that’s all.” Fiona pointed at the newspapers in front of India. “What do you have there? A little light reading?” she asked.
India suspected she was trying to change the subject. “Hardly,” she said. “I’m trying to follow any and all reported outbreaks of Spanish flu in Britain. It’s certainly getting a foothold here. The numbers of infected are increasing in Glasgow, Edinburgh, Newcastle, and York; holding steady in the Midlands and Wales; and starting to pick up in Weymouth, Brighton, and Dover. I’ve read that quite a few of the major cities are going to start spraying streets in hard-hit areas with disinfectant.”
“Any sign of it in the lads here yet?” Fiona asked.
“Not yet, no. Thank God. We have a quarantine ward set up though, just in case. Harriet wrote me to say that she’s seeing it starting in London. South of the river, mostly. I wish I could convince Jennie to leave the city and come here. And to bring James with her.”
“Have you spoken with her about it?” Fiona asked.
“I wrote her last week, inviting her to come, but she wrote back that she can’t leave her father, and he won’t leave his parish. She did say, though, that they aren’t seeing a tremendous amount of it in Wapping yet. She said if that changes, she’ll send James to me. You must be vigilant, too, Fiona, and send the children—at least the younger ones—if the outbreak grows.”
“I certainly will. I won’t need telling twice,” Fiona said. “You’ll have us all camped out with you. Mr. Foster, too.”
“That would be lovely,” India said, smiling. “I think the Brambles needs a butler. We could use some poshing up around here.”
The two women continued to chat as Fiona ate her meal. When she finished, she washed up her dishes, then excused herself. “I’m completely knackered,” she said. “I’m going to go up to my room, write Joe a letter, and then fall into bed. Thank you for the supper, India. It was delicious,” Fiona said. Then she impishly added, “What’s for supper tomorrow night? Pickled whelks? Cockles?”
India laughed. She’d grown up the child of very wealthy parents. They had been served fancy dishes at every meal, she’d once told Fiona, but—being a well-bred young lady—she’d never been expected to learn to cook any of them. She’d only learned her way around a kitchen after she’d married Sid—an East Londoner who liked his native dishes. She could not cook bifteck au poivre, or Dover sole in cream sauce, but she could turn out a perfectly cooked sausage, a wonderful steak and kidney pie, and the most delicious fish and chips Fiona had ever tasted.
“I’ll make you eel and mash tomorrow,” she said now.
Fiona made a face. “My brother doesn’t actually eat that, does he?” she said.
“I’m afraid he does.”
Fiona kissed India good night. “It’s late,” she said. “You should get some sleep, too. He’ll be home soon. Don’t worry.”
India smiled and nodded. “Good night,” she said. “Sleep well. Send our love to Joe.”
As soon as Fiona left the kitchen, India’s smile faded. She reached into her skirt pocket and pulled out a small jade Buddha, about two inches long. She’d found it in the pocket of one of Sid’s jackets earlier today, when she’d picked the jacket up off the back of a chair to hang it, and could not imagine where he’d got it or what he was doing with it. She stared at it for a bit longer, then put it back in her pocket. For some reason, she hated the sight of it. It frightened her. It seemed like a bad omen.
Desperate to busy herself, and so distract herself from her anxious thoughts, India rose from the table, put her newspapers away, wiped down the sink, and then went out the back door to shake out the tablecloth.
The night air was chilly, but she lingered for a few minutes, peering into the darkness, hoping to catch a glimpse of Sid coming up the drive. Trying to follow Fiona’s advice. Trying not to worry.
“Oh, Max! I don’t know what to say! It’s beautiful, and you shouldn’t have, but I’m ever so glad that you did,” Willa said happily.
“I’m so pleased you like it,” Max said, smiling. “It’s time you had something to wear other than a hospital gown.”
Willa sat in her bed, amid pink ribbons and tissue paper. Max sat in a chair close by. Moments ago, he had appeared in her doorway carrying an armful of boxes. Inside them were a pair of calfskin shoes, silk stockings, lacy underthings, and a beautifully made lawn dress—all in ivory.
“How did you have time to get to Paris and back? I saw you only two days ago!” Willa said, teasing him.
Max grinned. “The seamstresses here are astonishing. They can copy anything. And some of the shops carry very fine goods from Europe.”
“Thank you, Max. Really. You are far too good to me,” Willa said. “Shall I change into it? Are we going for another outing?”
Two days ago, Max had come for her with a wheelchair and had taken her for an hour-long ride around the streets of Damascus. They’d gone to the souk, where he’d bought her a lovely necklace, and then they’d had lunch in a cafe. And then Willa’s strength had faded and Max had brought her back to the hospital.
“As much as I’d love to take you for a jaunt this instant,” he said now, “I can’t. I have a meeting with Jamal Pasha in an hour . . .”
Willa knew the name. Jamal Pasha was the Turkish governor of Damascus.
“. . . but I was wondering if you would do me the great honor of joining me for dinner at my quarters this evening. If, and only if, you feel up to it.”
“I would be delighted to,” Willa said.
“Wonderful. I will call for you at eight.”
Willa suddenly looked down at her dress, not meeting Max’s eyes.
“Is something wrong? Is eight too late?” he asked, concern in his voice.
Willa smiled ruefully. “Nothing’s wrong. Nothing at all. It’s just that it’s so nice to have something to look forward to,” she said. “It’s been so long since I’ve had that.”
Max rose from his chair and sat on the edge of her bed. He hooked a finger under her chin and lifted her face to his. “You have the rest of your life to look forward to Willa Alden,” he said, kissing her mouth. “With me.”
Willa kissed him back. He put his arms around her and held her close, releasing her only when he heard footsteps in the hall.
“Sister Anna will scold me,” he whispered. “She’ll say I’m tiring you.”
“I hope you will. Tire me, that is,” Willa whispered. “Later.”
Max feigned shock at her words. Then, as Sister Anna came into the room, he said, “Until this evening, Miss Alden.”
“Until this evening, Mr. von Brandt,” Willa said.
“And how is our patient this afternoon?” Sister Anna asked. She had just started her shift.
“Very well, Sister Anna,” Willa said, as Max left the room. “I’ve been invited to Mr. von Brandt’s for supper this evening.”
“So soon?” Sister Anna asked. “Are you certain you are up to it? You are still taking three doses of morphine daily.”
“I will manage. One cannot always give in to pain and weakness. That is no way to win a war, is it? And Mr. von Brandt and I have much to discuss concerning the war.”
“Yes, of course,” Sister Anna said. “Is there anything I can get for you? Anything that you require?”
Willa looked at her beautiful new clothes, then said, “Yes, there is. A bath.”
Sister Anna smiled. “Of course. I’ll run one for you,” she said. “I’ll fetch you in about fifteen minutes.”
Willa nodded and Sister Anna left the room. As soon as she had, Willa’s smile faded and her jaw took on a grim and determined set.
So soon, she thought.
She’d hoped she would have a few more days. Her side still hurt. She was still weak from the typhus. She would have to overcome both, for Max was bringing her to his house tonight. Once she was there, it would be now or never. She would do her best to look as good as she possibly could. And she would hope like hell that he had wine to drink. A lot of it.
She suddenly felt terrified. It was such a hopeless long shot, her plan. Most likely it would all go horribly wrong, and then it would be her in the yard of the prison, blindfolded and awaiting the firing squad.
She thought of Lawrence and how he had endured years of hardship and privation in the desert to further the cause of Arab independence. She thought of Khalaf and Fatima and their little son. She thought of Auda and of all the wild, indomitable Bedouin. She heard Auda’s voice in her head. “Dwell not upon thy weariness, thy strength shall be according to the measure of thy desire,” he told her now, just as he had so many times before in the desert. Willa snaked her hand down under her mattress and felt for the pills she’d hidden.
“Tonight, then,” she whispered in the silence of her room.
“Inshallah.”