The Winter Rose (27 page)

"Freddie? Is that you? Does Lady Burnleigh need her carriage brought round?"

It was Hugh.

The sound of Hugh's voice infuriated him. Jealousy over India boiled
up in him again. He wanted to take a swing at Hugh. To flatten him. But
he didn't. Because as his fingers closed around the second comb he
suddenly had another, better idea. A wonderful idea.

He closed the door to the carriage and put the comb in Hugh's hand. "Take it, Hugh," he said. "No one will ever know."

Hugh looked at the comb, puzzled. "Take it? Why?"

"To help Bea."

Hugh drew in a sharp breath. "You know?"

Freddie nodded. "Maud told me. She tried to get ten quid from her
mother, but Isabelle refused when she wouldn't say what it was for.
Maud's upset. We all are. She said you'll be tossed out if her father
finds out what's happening. Your whole family. Take it. Don't be
stupid."

Hugh looked at the comb. "It's Lady Burnleigh's, isn't it?"

"She lost it. I said I'd look for it. When I go back in, I'll say I
couldn't find it. She won't question me. She already thinks it's gone."

Hugh shook his head. He tried to hand it back, but Freddie wouldn't take it.

"It's only silver. The stones aren't real. It's not very valuable at
all, but it'll bring you a few pounds at the pawnbroker's. Enough to
help Bea. Think of her, Hugh. Think of Bea."

Hugh was struggling with himself. Freddie could see the anguish in
his face. Finally he nodded, and without a word, put the comb in his
pocket.

A week later, Bea was dead and Hugh was in jail. The pawnbroker had
turned in the comb, and Hugh, to the police. Hugh hadn't peached on
Freddie. He hadn't said a word. He was an honorable man. Freddie knew
that.

Lord Burnleigh was outraged when he'd learned what had happened.
India begged him to drop the charges against Hugh, and moved by her
pleading he agreed to--if Hugh returned the second comb. But Hugh
didn't. Because he couldn't. Because he didn't have it. Freddie did.

So Hugh went to prison, all the time insisting he didn't have the
second comb, that he'd never had it. The place he was sent was a hell
hole, full of vermin. He caught typhus from the lice in his mattress and
was dead within a month. Mrs. Mullins, Hugh's mother, unable to bear
the loss of her children, hanged herself. Hugh's father, homeless and
alone, had wan-dered the countryside, sometimes sane, sometimes mad. His
body had been found later that year in a nearby valley. He'd died of
exposure.

Woulds't be king? First rip out thine own heart....

That summer, he'd stilled the feeling in his heart almost completely.

By the time September came, and he was back at Oxford, everything and
everyone had changed. Hugh and Bea were dead. India had fallen out with
her parents and left Wales for London. Maud was about to make what
would turn out to be a disastrous marriage. Their days spent together at
Blackwood were gone forever. Their childhood was over.

The Red Earl was right. It was so much easier to function in the
world without a heart. Easy to despise India, whom he'd once loved. Easy
to watch her heartbreak unmoved, to offer only feigned sympathy, when
the man she loved died. Easy to contemplate a loveless marriage to her
when a distraught Isabelle visited him during his third year at
university and begged him to marry India and put an end to her medical
studies. He would never have India's heart, never have anything more
than affection from her, so he would take her money instead. It was far
more useful.

There was another knock on his door. Freddie put the comb back into
the drawer. He'd never sold it; he never would. It was too dangerous.
With the Tiffany mark and Isabelle's initials, it was too identifiable
to show to even the most discreet of pawnbrokers.

"Enter," he said.

"Beg pardon, sir, but I've come to draw your bath." It was his man.

"Thank you, Armstrong," he said, putting the box down. "Armstrong..."

"Yes, sir?"

"When you've finished, will you please tell the butler to bring out
some champagne before dinner? I wish to celebrate this evening. I will
be announcing my wedding date."

"Very good, sir. And if I may offer them, my sincere congratulations."

Freddie accepted the man's good wishes. He felt as if a huge burden
had been lifted from his shoulders. And indeed, one had--penury. He'd
fixed that particular problem quite nicely. As he'd fixed other things.
Because no one else would. And someone had to. Soon he would fix himself
a starring role in the Liberal Party--something a damn sight better
than backbencher--chief whip perhaps, or shadow foreign secretary. He
would do it with his Home Rule speech and with his anti-crime efforts.
Donald-son would continue to harass Malone. He would turn up something
even-tually, Freddie was certain. India had told him that Malone had
nearly died in the hospital. He'd told her to make certain to keep him
alive, for he wanted the pleasure of sending him down. By October, he'd
be returned as MP for Tower Hamlets, married, and happily ensconced at
Berkeley Square. Perhaps in November he'd take a journey to Blackwood,
too, to inspect his future estate.

Blackwood didn't have Longmarsh's pedigree--it hadn't been designed
by Wren--but it was much bigger, and it had all the modern conveniences.
Today even this shit-heap of a Longmarsh was out of his reach, but soon
nothing would be. Not even the one thing he wanted more than anything
in the world--the sound of people calling him not Sir Frederick or
Honorable Member, but Prime Minister.

He would do it. With brains and boldness and India's money. He had
ripped out his heart, just as the Red Earl had advised, and one day he
would be king.

Maud Selwyn Jones sat at the vanity table in her room at Longmarsh,
trimming her jet-black bangs. She snipped and shaped, then sat back in
her chair, assessing the result. She shook her head, loving the way the
bobbed ends felt against her neck. Freddie's and Bing's mother had
blanched when she'd seen the cut. Maud smiled at the memory. She enjoyed
shocking the wrinklies.

She picked up a coral earring. As she fastened it to her earlobe, her
arm started to itch. "Have you gone and got yourself fieas, you dirty
imp?" she asked Jerome, the tan pug who was lying at her feet. The dog
looked up at her, blinking his coal black eyes. "No? Hmmm. Must be the
beastly wallpaper then. Toile always brings me out in hives."

But Maud knew it wasn't the wallpaper. And she knew the itching would
engulf her entire body, making her feel as if there were thousands of
ants crawling on her. Unless she did something about it. Immediately.

She rose, opened the wardrobe, and dug in the pockets of her duster.
To no avail. She opened her hat boxes and dragged her suitcases out,
cursing the maid all the while.

"Where did that damned girl put it, Jerry?" she said, raking her
nails over her forearm. She bit her lip, turning around in the center of
her room. Her eyes, frantic now, came to rest on the night table. She
ran to it and pulled open the drawer.

"There you are!" she said, lifting out a slim enameled case. She drew
a cigarette from it, lit it, and took a deep drag. She held the blue
smoke in her lungs, then slowly exhaled, eyes closed. When she opened
them again, they were soft and liquid.

"God bless Teddy Ko," she murmured, smiling. He'd rolled a bit of
pow-dered opium with tobacco for her to make what looked like proper
cigarettes. She had just settled herself down at her vanity again when
the door to her room was abruptly opened. It was India, still in her
riding habit.

"Good ride?" Maud asked.

India said nothing. She closed the door, pulled off her jacket, and
tossed it on the bed. Then she tossed herself on the bed, flopping into
the soft cushions.

Maud turned around. She saw from her sister's face that she was upset. "Indy? What's wrong? What happened?"

India didn't answer. She just lay on the bed looking up at the ceiling. "Maud, am I cold?" she finally asked.

Maud walked to the bed. She felt India's forehead. "You feel quite warm, actually. Are you ill?"

India sat up. "Oh, Maud. Not that kind of cold. I mean ...you know... cold."

"Ah," she said. "Trouble with Freddie?"

"Yes," India said. She twisted her engagement ring as she spoke. It
was an old-fashioned emerald that had belonged to Freddie's mother.
India wore it only around him to please him. She didn't care for
jewelry; it har-bored bacteria. "We settled on a wedding date."

"Did you? That's splendid news!"

"Yes, I suppose it is. Afterward, he kissed me, you see. And...and more. It didn't go very well. Does that mean I'm cold?"

"You and Freddie just made love?"

"Yes."

"But you've been engaged for two years! Do you mean to tell me you haven't slept with him in all this time?"

"Yes."

"India, you are hopeless," Maud said, sitting down at the vanity again.

"I suppose I am," she said miserably.

Maud softened. "Look, don't despair. There's nothing wrong with you
that a little practice won't put right. Men are like bicycles. Not much
fun till you learn how to ride them," she said, taking another drag of
her ciga-rette.

"How... how do you learn?" India asked.

Maud coughed up a lungful of smoke. "How?! Didn't they teach you anatomy in medical school?"

India looked at the floor, pink with embarrassment, and Maud saw that
this was painful for her. She regretted her flippant remark. "Look,
darling, next time have a nice bottle of wine first," she said. "Then
just let your feelings take over."

India nodded uncertainly.

"India, you do know what I'm talking about, don't you? You do have those feelings?"

"For Freddie?"

"Yes, of course for Freddie!"

India frowned as if concentrating on some thorny medical problem,
then said, "Yes. Yes, I do. He'll make a wonderful husband." She
continued talking, telling Maud what a brilliant leader Freddie was and
how much he cared about the poor. "Why, just last week he accompanied me
to a lecture by Benjamin Seebohm Rowntree, the Quaker reformer, on his
ground-breaking study of poverty in the city of York. We'll be so
effective as a cou-ple, Maud. We'll do such important work together."

Maud sighed, exasperated. "Yes, Indy, I know all that. The question is: Do you want to fuck him?"

India blushed crimson. "Maud!"

"Oh, stop being such a prude. It sounds to me like you love Freddie the way I love Jerome. Or Wish."

"You love Wish? Well, of course you do! Who wouldn't love Wish?" Wish boomed, striding into the room.

"Does anyone believe in knocking?" Maud asked.

"Never! Gives a girl too much warning. How am I to catch a glimpse of
ankle that way? Or something even better?" He hooked his finger in the V
of Maud's silk robe and peered down the gap. She slapped his hand away.

"You didn't used to mind showing me your bosoms," he said.

"When I was ten and had none. And besides, you used to pay me for a look then."

"I'll pay you now. As much as you like. I'm about to have pots of
money. Pots and pots and pots," Wish said. He plunked himself down at
Maud's feet and scooped Jerome into his lap. Maud picked up a hairbrush
and at-tempted to make order out of Wish's unruly brown mop. He smiled,
enjoying the petting. "Don't you want to know how?"

"No," Maud and India said in unison.

"I knew you would. I'll tell you all about it." And with that, he
launched into a pitch for his latest investment scheme--a land
development project in California. "The place is called Point Reyes, and
it's paradise," he said. "It's about fifty miles north of San
Francisco. You've never seen anything so beautiful. You've never even
dreamed anything so beautiful. It's an outcrop-ping of land on the
California sea coast. And twelve hundred acres of it are for sale. I'm
going to buy the entire parcel and put a hotel at the water's edge. Not
just any hotel, mind you, a luxury hotel. There's more money than you
can possibly imagine in San Francisco, and I'm going to lure it north.
The venture can't fail. You've got to get in on it. Both of you. I'll
make you a bloody fortune."

"That would make a change," Maud said. "You lost me a bloody fortune on that South African diamond mine."

"How did I know they'd start a war over there? I made you money on U.S. Steel, didn't I? Quite a bit, actually."

"I suppose you did," Maud admitted.

"And you, Indy? Are you still living off that Bank of England account?"

"What? Oh, yes. Yes, I am."

"Well, it's time you got rid of that. The return is far too low. It's
too safe, that account. It's for vicars and little old ladies and...I
say, old hound, is something wrong?"

"How very observant you are, Wish," Maud said archly.

"What is it, Indy?" he asked.

"Nothing, really. I'm fine."

Wish gave her a look.

"India just met the Honorable Member's member. And didn't particu-larly like him."

"Maud!" India screeched, mortified.

Maud flapped a hand at her, then told Wish what had happened.

He nodded sagely, then said, "Not to worry. I know exactly what the problem is."

"Oh, do you?" Maud asked.

"Yes. Absolutely. Let me ask you something, Indy--do you love Freddie?"

"Of course I love Freddie."

He clapped his hands together. "Well, stop it. Love buggers
everything. Love be damned, I say. You should never be in love with your
spouse. You should only be in love with your lover. And he should be
someone entirely unsuitable. An actor, perhaps. Or a painter. That
sort."

"That's some fabulous advice," Maud said.

"It's excellent advice!" he protested. "One should only marry for
heirs and spares, houses and horses. Why else would one do it? It's like
volunteering to go to prison. I'll never do it. Prefer to make my money
honestly."