The Winter Rose (45 page)

"I'm so sorry! I haven't even introduced you," India said. "Fiona
Bristow, this is my cousin, Aloysius Selwyn Jones, our director of
development. He's been working very hard on our behalf soliciting
donations. When he can spare the time, that is. We don't pay him
anything, you see. We can't afford to." There was an awkward silence as
India looked at her boots, then she turned her eyes up to Fiona's and
said, "I can't imagine how backward we must appear. Our strength--mine
and Ella's--is medicine, not money. We want to build a place where no
mother, no child, is ever turned away. Most people cannot understand
that." She smiled at Wish. "Even my dear cousin has difficulty with it.
Can you understand?"

"More than you might think," Fiona said, remembering another night in
Whitechapel, twelve years ago, when her frantic mother had gone out
into the darkness to fetch a doctor for her baby. "I lived here once.
Only a few streets over. We were very poor. We had nothing, in fact. My
baby sister became gravely ill and my mother had to go out very late one
night to fetch a doctor..." Her voice trailed off.

How like Sid's story, India thought. "Did she find one?" she asked.

Fiona shook her head. "No," she said. "No, she didn't. It was too late. Too late for all of us. We lost them both."

"I'm sorry," India said.

"I am, too," Fiona said. She felt embarrassed and a little angry with
her-self for telling such a personal story to three people whom she
barely knew. And yet she had wanted India to know that she understood
her. "Make sure medicine remains your strength, Dr. Jones," she said,
"and perhaps your cousin and I can work on the money." She looked at
Wish. "Would you visit me at my office tomorrow? I'll have a check ready
for you."

"Can I put you down for twenty pounds, then?" Wish asked, eagerly pressing his advantage.

Fiona smiled, but her eyes never left India. She was gazing at her,
taking her measure. There was something about her. She was so contained,
so controlled, and yet Fiona sensed there was fire inside of her, and
fear-lessness, and a quiet defiance. She sensed, too, that India Selwyn
Jones would have her clinic. With or without anyone else's help. She'd
have it if she had to earn every penny of its price herself, and if it
took her fifty years to do so.

"No, Mr. Selwyn Jones," she said. "You can put me down for a thousand."

"Did you know Sunny's uncle shot a dachshund once?" Bingham said, squinting in the sunshine.

"Whatever for? Was it attacking him?" India asked, distractedly.

"He thought it was a partridge. It was in the fields, you see. It
belonged to a friend. The lady was terribly upset. His uncle thought he
ought to put it right. So he had the dog stuffed and gave it to the
woman as a present."

"Oh, Bing, he didn't!"

"He did, the dreadful man. That was his idea of thoughtfulness. Can you imagine? Sunny said the poor woman cried for a week."

India laughed out loud. She couldn't help it; it was too horrible.

Bing smiled. "It's good to hear you laugh, old mole. You've been mighty glum. Anything wrong?"

Yes, she thought, I'm marrying your brother in a few weeks' time, but I am in love with someone else.

"No, Bing. Nothing. Nothing at all," she said brightly.

"Are you quite certain?"

India gave him a smile. "I'm positive," she lied, keeping her feelings as tightly reined in as the horse she was riding.

She and Bingham were at Blenheim Palace, the country estate of Sunny
Churchill, the Duke of Marlborough and Bingham's good friend. He'd
invited Bing, Freddie, Maud, Wish, and India for the weekend. It was now
Saturday afternoon and Sunny had declared that they must spend it
chasing a fox. Freddie and Wish--who'd not been able to come up
yesterday because of a dinner party he had to attend in London and who'd
only ar-rived at the house that morning--had been in the lead. India
and Bingham had fallen behind. They'd ridden to the crest of a hill to
see if they could spot them, but had had no luck. They could see the
tawny limestone of Blenheim behind them, and the estate's fields and
woods in front of them, but no flash of a red riding jacket, no horses
or hounds.

India was desperate to rejoin the chase. She was anxious and
restless, and she wanted to ride. Fast. So fast that she couldn't think
about anything but the next hill or hedgerow. Her mount seemed to sense
this; he shook his head unhappily at having to stand still and stamped
his feet.

"Indy, do you know what I love best about Blenheim? And Longmarsh, too?" Bingham asked.

"No, what?" India said, feigning interest.

"The furniture polish."

"What?"

"It's a mad thing, I know. Proust had his madeleine and I have
Goddard's. I love to stand in the dining room right after the maids have
polished and breathe it in. It lingers. Have you noticed that? It's
always there, mingling with kippers and bacon in the morning, with
pheasant and mushrooms in the evening. I love that smell. It's the smell
of my school holidays. My Christmases and New Years. Why, if a woman
had a mind to catch me, all she'd have to do is dab a bit of Goddard's
behind her ears. I'd be her slave." He went silent for a minute, then
said, "I wish it could last forever, Indy. This day. This moment. I wish
time would just stop. Right here and now. With all of us together. I
want to never move forward and never go back."

"Wouldn't that be lovely? Strawberries and cream on Blenheim's lawns for all eternity," she said.

But that was a lie. She didn't want strawberries and cream. Or
Blenheim or this damned stupid fox hunt. She wanted a pint of porter. In
Whitechapel. With Sid. She wanted to talk about things that mattered in
a place she'd grown to love, with a man she didn't dare to love.

"Croquet on the lawn. Long walks at dusk. And all the females in
white walking about so fetchingly with roses in their hair. Heaven's got
nothing on England in August." His smile faded. "Won't, though, will
it?"

"Won't what?" she asked. She'd barely heard what he'd said.

"Last."

"The summer?"

Bingham shrugged. "The summer. Us. This life."

India turned to him, struck by his wistful tone. "Goodness, Bing, now who's glum?"

"Times are changing, Indy. A few years ago--just last year, in fact--
Freddie would have romped home with the Tower Hamlets seat. The very
idea of Labour mounting an effective opposition would have been
laugh-able."

India's attention was suddenly riveted. "Bing, you don't think Freddie's going to lose, do you?"

Bingham hesitated, then said, "I think he might. The Tories are
making hay out of the Stronghold disaster. And he's underestimated Joe
Bristow. The press adores the man. He's in the papers nearly every day,
and the election isn't even official yet. It's going to be a three-way
race and damned hard to call, but if I had to put money on it, I'd go
with Bristow. He speaks to workingmen in their language. And that's
something neither Freddie nor Dickie Lambert does." He nodded at
Blenheim, golden in the afternoon sun. "This can't last. Too few have
had too much for too long."

"Is that what you argued about last night?" India asked.

The men had had a terrible fight in the billiard room after supper.

"That, too," Bingham said. "Freddie was cross and in his cups. A
terrible combination. He told Sunny he was a silly man who wanted only
to chase foxes. And he said Wish was a vulgar man who wanted only to
chase money."

India winced. "How dreadful of him. Glad Wish wasn't here last night to hear that. I hope he left you out of it."

Bingham shook his head. "He accused me of cowering in my study with
Byron and Longfellow while socialists and radicals overrun the country."

"Oh, dear. I'm sure he didn't mean it, Bing. He's under so much pres-sure."

"He did mean it. And he's right. Freddie's the best man out of all of
us. He's the only one with courage enough to enter the fray."

Freddie had been very upset last night; India knew he had. She tried
to cheer him by telling him about her clinic, and Wish's new role as its
fund-raiser, but it only seemed to make things worse. He'd been quite
drunk, too. Drunk enough to whisper, "Leave your door unlocked,
darling," as they were all going up to bed.

But she hadn't; she'd locked it. Then she'd sat up in her bed, in the
dark, unable to sleep. She'd heard him trying the knob, then rapping
softly. He hadn't dared to make any real noise. Someone might have heard
him. He'd been cross with her this morning over it. They'd had words
after breakfast. She'd told him it was an accident. A habit developed
from living alone in London. She'd turned the key in the lock
automatically, she'd said, then she'd fallen asleep and hadn't heard
him.

It was a plausible explanation and it had mollified him, but it
wouldn't work twice. She didn't know what she would do tonight. He
wanted to make love to her. Of course he did. He was her flanc�She
should want to make love to him, too. But she didn't. There was a man
whose touch she craved, though, a man whose body she longed to feel
against her own. And a week ago, he'd told her he never wanted to see
her again.

"Halloooo! Indy! Bing! Where are the others?"

India turned in her saddle, grateful for the distraction from her tortured thoughts, and saw Maud riding up behind them.

"My word! What happened to you?" India asked her.

Maud was splattered with mud--her riding costume, her hands, her
face. Her hat was gone; there were twigs and leaves in her hair. "I was
fol-lowing the others. We jumped a high wall. The mud on the other side
was a foot deep. They made it through. I didn't."

"Are you all right?"

"Mostly."

"Where are they now?"

"Buggered if I know. They disappeared into the woods, Freddie yelling
that the fox was his and Wish yelling it was his, and Sunny blowing on
his blasted bugle, and the damned dogs baying like hellhounds."

"What's going to happen if those two do actually catch the fox?" Bing-ham asked. "Does Wish have his pistol on him?"

"Yes, he was brandishing it earlier," Maud said. "Frightened a parlor-maid."

Wish loved the chase, but he couldn't abide the savagery of its
conclu-sion. He was an excellent shot and always put the animal out of
its misery immediately.

Freddie had teased Wish about this over breakfast, telling him he'd
never make a politician, for the savagery in the Commons was far worse.

Bingham sat up in his saddle. "Look! There they are!"

Wish and Freddie were galloping through a clearing toward them,
clearly racing each other. Wish flashed by, followed by Freddie, then
they slowed to a trot and doubled back.

"You owe me twenty quid, old boy," Wish said to Freddie, as they
ap-proached. He looked at Maud, still muddied, and laughed. "Not sure
that rouge suits you. A bit dark if you ask me."

"Haw, haw, haw, Wish," Maud said. "Freddie, you did that on purpose."

"Did what?"

"Took us over that hedge."

"Certainly did. But I was hoping to dump Wish in the mud, not you. Sorry, old girl."

"Where's Sunny?" India asked.

"Dunno," Wish said. "He was ahead of us, but we lost him. But listen,
India, speaking of Sunny, I've a bit of good news for you. I was
talking to him about Point Reyes--trying to get him to invest when I
take the whole thing public--and I mentioned your clinic to him, too. I
think he's inter-ested. He's talking about making a contribution."

"Is he really?" India asked excitedly. "That is good news. Thank you, Wish!"

"How much did you get? Two pounds?" Maud asked archly.

"More like two hundred, thank you. I like this fund-raising stuff.
I'm getting quite good at it. I'll have you all know that I got two
hundred from Lady Elcho last night. Collared her at a dinner party. One
hundred from Jennie Churchill. And"--he paused for dramatic
effect--"five hundred pounds from Lord Rothschild."

"Well done!" India exclaimed. She hadn't seen her cousin for a few
days, and this was all news to her. She couldn't wait to tell Ella.

"With four hundred�odd pounds already donated, and a thousand from
Fiona Bristow, that'll bring the fund up to around twenty-four hundred
pounds. And that's not all, Indy," Wish said. "Your friend Harriet
Hatcher was at the dinner last night, too. She said her parents will
make a donation. Three hundred pounds, she thinks. And--you won't
believe this--Princess Beatrice, who's a friend of Harriet's mother,
might--might, I say--be interested in becoming a royal patron."

India was saucer-eyed. Princess Beatrice was the queen's youngest
daughter. Her interest and support would give an immense boost to the
clinic. Even Maud and Bing were impressed. Freddie was leaning forward
in his saddle, fiddling with his horse's bridle and scowling.

"Apparently Mrs. Hatcher and Harriet are invited to tea with the
princess later this month, and the old girl is interested in meeting
you. Harriet told me to tell you that you have to go. Could you?"

"Yes, of course!" India said. "Nothing could stop me. Where? When?"

"It's in London. On the eighteenth."

"It's impossible," Freddie said brusquely. "That's our wedding date."

"Oh, damn, that's right!" Wish said. "I completely forgot. You couldn't move it up a week or two, could you?"

"No, we cannot," Freddie said, before India could answer. "Plans are already under way."

India leaned over to him, reaching for his hand. "Darling, could we?
We could push it to the twenty-fifth. I'm sure the vicar wouldn't mind.
We could ring him from the house. And the caterers and florist, too. I
wouldn't ask, but it's for the clinic and you know how important that is
to me."

"What if they can't do the twenty-fifth?" Freddie asked.

"Then perhaps we could move the wedding to September. I can't say no
to someone like Princess Beatrice. Not when it would mean so much to the
clinic's success. Please, darling?"