The Winter Rose (101 page)

"You've been at it since five this morning. It's seven now. That's
fourteen hours. You had no dinner. I checked. Your clothes are soaked
with sweat and your hands are torn to bits."

"My hands are fine. I've a few blisters is all."

"Still doing penance, eh?" Maggie asked. "Still looking for forgiveness?"

Maggie's words hit home. "For Christ's sake, leave me alone!" he
snapped. "I don't need to be forgiven. I'm only getting what I deserve.
No more. No less."

But Maggie had no intention of leaving him alone. "Who are you to say
what any of us deserves?" she snapped right back. "Are your sins so
much worse than everyone else's? Your soul beyond redemption? What sets
you so far apart from the rest of us?"

"You don't know what I've done. You don't know what I was."

"No, I don't. I know what I've done, though. And what I was."

"Rob banks, did you, Maggs? Steal from people? Break heads?" he asked acidly.

"No."

"Didn't think so."

"I killed a man. My husband."

Sid stopped hoeing. He straightened. He'd worked for Maggie for six
years, yet he could count on one hand the number of times she'd
mentioned her husband.

"Sam, his name was," she said. "Samuel Edward Carr. We had two
children. A boy of four named Andrew. And a two-year-old girl, Mary. We
were in Australia before we came here. And in Devon before that. I loved
it there. Would have stayed forever, but Sam was restless. He wanted
land. Open spaces. So we sold our place, packed up the kiddies, and set
out. Bought five hundred acres of ranch land in New South Wales. Planned
to raise sheep..."

Her voice trailed off. Her eyes were far away, seeing things he
couldn't see, things from long ago. "What happened?" he asked quietly.

"The dusk was coming on one night. Just like it is now. Our house
wasn't built all the way yet. We were still living in a tent. We'd
finished our supper. I collected the dishes and went to wash them in the
stream. Usually I took the children with me, but Andy had twisted his
ankle and I didn't want him hobbling after me. I asked Sam to keep an
eye on them while I was gone. We had an open fire by the tent, you see,
and I didn't want the children near it. I shouldn't have done that. I
should never have done that. Sam wasn't used to minding small children.
He had no idea how easily distracted they are.

"Just after I left, our dog started barking. We had a few sheep in a
pen and some hens in a makeshift henhouse. Sam was always worried about
the dingoes--they'd carried off a lamb and some hens--so he went to
check on the animals. He told Andy to watch his sister. I'd just
finished the washing up when I heard the screaming. I dropped everything
and ran. It was almost dark then and I saw my children. Their clothes
were in flames. They were running. Trying to escape it. They didn't know
not to. Sam got to Mary. I got Andy. We rolled them into the dirt to
put the flames out."

Maggie stopped talking suddenly and it was a good long minute before
she could continue. Sid couldn't imagine what was going through her
head--the memories, the images.

"Mary kept screaming," she finally said. "Right to the end. Andy took
longer. He hung on for almost a day. He didn't scream. Just moaned. He
told us he'd tried to keep her from the fire, but she'd gotten too close
and her dress had caught. He'd tried to put it out, but his own clothes
caught. I couldn't hold him as he died. Couldn't even touch him. His
skin was gone. He kept saying, �I'm sorry, Mummy. I'm sorry...' "

"What happened then?"

"We buried them. Sam wanted to stay. We couldn't, though. I burned
the house to the ground. Wanted to throw myself into the fire, but Sam
caught me and held me down. He sold the animals and our land. Didn't get
much. He brought me here. It was the only place we could go, really.
He'd heard the government was looking for settlers. That they were
leasing land cheap. Five years later he was dead. Because of me. Because
I couldn't forgive him. I blamed him for our children's deaths. I
couldn't let go of my rage. My grief. We lived together and yet we were
totally apart. There was no warmth. No kindness. He used to look at me
across the table, you know. Or out in the fields. His eyes always asking
me ...pleading. There was so much pain in those eyes. It killed him,
finally. He was a good man. He deserved forgiveness, but I couldn't give
it to him. It would have meant forgiving myself, you see."

Maggie stopped talking. She seemed to him to have aged a hundred
years in the last few minutes. He saw that it had cost her dearly to
tell him these things. Finally, she said, "It's getting on. I'm going to
head back to the house."

The dusk had settled now. It would be dark soon. She always insisted on being in the house before dark. Now he knew why.

"I'll have Alice keep your plate warm," she said. Never had her voice sounded so old, so weary.

"Maggie, I..." he began, searching for something, anything, to say to her.

She laid a gentle hand on his arm. "You want to be forgiven, Sid?" she asked softly. "Then learn to forgive."

India stared at the plains of Thika for the last time. They were
leaving tomorrow, she and Freddie and Charlotte. She wouldn't be seeing
this place again. She had ridden out here every morning for the past few
days. She wanted to impress the place upon her memory--the way the
grass moved in the breeze, the scudding clouds, the distant hills. She
wanted to be able to remember it, because it was where Sid Malone lived.

Seeing him again had devastated her. She was not able to eat. She
barely slept. She felt disoriented, unreal, as if she were moving in a
dream. The world, once solid under her feet, was solid no longer.
Despair engulfed her. For herself, and what she had lost so
unnecessarily. For Charlotte, because her real father was alive, but she
would never know him. And for Sid, because he would never know his
beautiful daughter.

She moved woodenly through her days, wondering at the cruelty of the
gods. How could they take Sid from her once, only to do it again? How
could Charlotte grow up under the cold eye of a man who despised her
instead of in the arms of a father who loved her? How could she, India,
live, day after day, year after year, with a vision of what might have
been and the unbearable knowledge of what was?

She was seated on the McGregors' mare, still gazing toward the Carr
farm, when she saw a horse and rider leave the farm. She figured it was
Maggie on her way to a neighbor's. But the rider turned out of the drive
and headed toward her, getting closer and closer, never veering, and
India realized, with a cold dread, that it was Sid. Why was he coming to
her? Did he know it was her? Or did he think she was someone else?

Panic-stricken, not wanting to face his anger a second time, she
touched her heels to her horse, turning the animal toward the
McGregors'.

"India!" he bellowed from behind her. "India, wait!"

She wanted to stop, wanted to answer him, but she was afraid.
Instead, she dug her heels in harder, spurring her horse to a gallop.
But Sid's horse was faster and in only a few seconds he was alongside
her.

"Stop!" he shouted.

"No!" she shouted back.

"Please, India!"

Finally, she did.

"I thought it was you," Sid said, as the horses slowed to a walk.
"Well... Maggie said it was. She said you ride out here every day."

"I did. I do," she said quickly. "I mean ...I won't anymore. We're leaving soon and I--"

"Look," he said, cutting her off. "I'm sorry about the other night. I
was awful to you. I shouldn't have shouted at you and I shouldn't have
...oh, sod it... it's no good, this. Why did you come to Maggie's,
India? Why?"

"I didn't mean to!" she cried. "I'm sorry. How did I know Sid Baxter was you? You can't blame me for that. I had no idea."

"Sid Baxter? Didn't the name ring any bloody bells?" he yelled.

"Yes, it did. But I didn't think it could possibly be you, because you're supposed to be dead!"

"I haven't slept since I saw you. I can't eat."

"I'm very sorry, but you must stop shouting at me. I shall leave if you don't."

"Sorry," he said, in a softer voice. "Don't go. Stay. Please." He dug
frantically in his saddlebag. "Would you like some dinner? I brought
sandwiches. Alice made them. And cake. And a bit of port. It's all she
had."

India looked at him warily.

"I won't shout anymore. I promise. Look, there are some flame trees there. We could sit under them."

"All right."

They rode to the trees and tied their horses.

"That's a nice spot, right there," Sid said, pointing to a patch of
grass half in the sun, half in the shade. But neither of them sat. Sid
stood with the saddlebag in his hands. India stood, arms crossed over
her chest, cupping her elbows.

"You're here, then. In Africa," he finally said.

"Yes, Sid. Yes, I am."

"Freddie's sorting things out, is he? Between the government and the settlers?"

"He's trying."

"Think he'll succeed?"

"I'm certain of it. He always does. One way or another."

"Foreign secretary, is it?"

"Undersecretary for the colonies."

"He's done well for himself."

"Yes, he has."

"How's Charlotte feeling?"

"Better, thank you."

"She's an amazing girl. Smart as a whip. I've never met a child like her."

India closed her eyes for a few seconds, squeezing back tears. Here
she was, standing next to Sid. Sid, whom she'd loved more than any other
man in her entire life. Sid, whom she'd thought was dead. Here she was,
standing next to the father of her child, making small talk with him
when all she wanted was to run to him and kiss him, tell him all about
Charlotte, and tell him she loved him.

"India, is something wrong?"

"No, nothing," she said quickly.

She opened her eyes again and raised them to the horizon to avoid
looking at Sid. She affected a look of calm detachment, determined not
to lose control. As Sid continued to talk, another voice spoke to
her--one from the depths of her memory.

"You what? You feel, Jones?" this voice said. "You are not in my classroom to feel..."

Professor Fenwick. She hadn't thought about him in years. How like
him to pop in at a time like this to lecture her. He was right,
though--it was better not to feel. Feelings carried too high a price.
Hugh Mullins had taught her. Whitechapel had taught her. But Sid Malone
had been the best teacher of all.

"Well, anyway, I just wanted you to know that I'm sorry about the
other night. I really am. I'm just happy to know that you're happy,
India," he said.

As he spoke those words, a choking anger filled her. She tried
desperately to tamp it down, but she couldn't. It twisted and roiled
inside her.

Why had he always been able to do that? To make her so angry? At
Teddy Ko's. Again at the London Hospital. In the Barkentine. At her
flat. In the dark streets of Whitechapel. They had never talked in those
days without fighting. Even now, when he was trying hard to apologize,
he made her angry.

"You deserve happiness," he continued. "More than anyone."

In an instant the anger ignited into rage. It was too much, this. To
hear from the man she loved that he was happy she was happy being
married to a man she hated. It was unbearable.

"Is that what you think?" she asked, Fenwick's warning now forgotten. "That I'm happy to be married to Freddie?"

"Well, aren't you?"

"No, you bloody fool. I'm not."

Sid winced. "Steady on. I was trying to be nice to you," he said.

"But you're not nice. You're stupid and heartless."

"What's wrong, then? Why aren't you happy? You should be," Sid said,
his voice sharp again. "You got what you wanted, didn't you? A nice
respectable man for a husband instead of a criminal. What's the matter?
Aren't all the houses and horses and parties and balls enough?"

"No, they are not. Good day, Sid," India said, turning on her heel. She had to leave. Now. Before she did lose control.

"Not so fast." Sid's hand closed on her arm. He spun her around to face him again. "Why the hell did you marry him?" he asked.

"I had my reasons," she spat, trying to shake him off, but he wouldn't let go.

"Yes, Joe Bristow and Gemma Dean, right? You thought I did for them. That's why you changed your mind."

"What are you saying?"

"Just tell me one thing. Did the police come to you, or did you go to them?"

"What police? What are you talking about?"

"Arden Street. You told them about Arden Street. You helped them set a trap for me."

"No," she said. "That's not true. They found out--"

"Bloody right they did. You told them!"

"Is that what you think? That I betrayed you to Freddie? I would've
given up everything for you--medicine, the clinic, my home. I did give
up everything!" she shouted. "I gave up my life for you." She was
weeping now. Unable to break his grasp, she buried her face in his
chest.

"Then how did they find out? Donaldson told me my lady had told him."

"He meant Gemma Dean, not me. She told Freddie. Before she died. At
least, that's what he's always said." She looked up at him. "Why didn't
you come for me? I waited and waited. Before Arden Street and after. I
was out of my mind with worry waiting for you."

"I thought you'd betrayed me. I thought you wanted nothing to do with
me," he said, looking as if someone had reached inside him and ripped
his soul out. "All these years..." he said softly.

"All these years I thought you were dead. And all these years you hated me."

"I never hated you," he said. "I wish I could have. It would have made my life so much easier." His voice broke.

India heard it. The sound of his pain was agony to her. She couldn't
bear it. She wanted to stop it. Instinctively, she took his face in her
hands and kissed him.