The Winter Rose (59 page)

"It has to be perfectly flush," she'd explained. "And the seams have
to be sealed. Otherwise matter will build up in the cracks and breed
disease."

"Why didn't you have the builder's men do this?" he asked, kneeling down to do it himself.

"I did. Twice. They didn't get it right. They don't care."

She did, though. Deeply. He saw that in her. She cared enough to
de-vote herself to the poor women and children of Whitechapel. To make a
change for the better. To make a difference.

She was so unlike any woman he'd ever been with. Most of them had
wanted jewels and furs and dresses. Not India. She didn't give two
seconds' thought to her wardrobe. If her clothing was clean and
presentable, if her sleeves could be unbuttoned and rolled up, she was
happy. Jewelry held no interest for her; she thought it a nuisance. Her
eyes lit up over the most god-awful things, things that made him feel
light-headed just from glancing at them--sharp, shiny metal things,
mostly. Scalpels, clamps, and syringes. Chloroform masks. Bottles of
this and vials of that. Needles and tubes, beakers and flasks.

The day a thing called an incubator--a contraption of metal and glass
with a gas boiler attached--arrived from New York, she'd been so
excited she couldn't sleep. "It will save babies, Sid," she said. "The
early ones. The ones we've never been able to help."

His money had paid for these things. The money she'd tried to give
back. He'd finally convinced her to take it. "Take it for them," he
said, meaning her patients. "And for me." Giving her the money was the
second-best thing he'd ever done; loving her was the first.

Pottering about in the kitchen now, Sid made a nice tray of foods he
thought might tempt her. He'd stopped at Harrods before he'd come here.
He'd heard that that was where toffs shopped for food, and since India
had come from a wealthy home, he thought there might be things there
that she'd like more than fish and chips or pork pies. He was just
placing the opened bottle of wine on the tray when he heard her cry his
name. She sounded upset, frightened.

"Sid!" she cried again.

"What is it? What's wrong? I'm right here," he said, rushing into the bed-room with the tray.

She was sitting up in bed, blinking in the darkness. "I thought you'd
gone," she said plaintively. "I thought you'd left. I thought it was
morning."

Sid put the tray down on the bedside table. "Shh. I'm right here. I just went to get us some supper."

India rubbed her eyes. She looked confused. Sid sat down on the bed
and kissed her furrowed forehead. It was so hard to steal time together.
So bloody hard. They'd had the flat for a month, and had been together
in it only twice. India had to be back at the clinic tomorrow before
dinnertime to supervise the installation of an operating table. And he
had visits to pay. To Teddy Ko. And to the Blind Beggar. Visits he
dreaded. But he wouldn't think of that now. That belonged to tomorrow,
not tonight.

"You've been asleep, luv. Only for a few minutes. It's just gone eight. We've got the whole night ahead of us. Hours and hours."

India looked at him, disconsolate. "I don't want hours. I want days. Months. Years."

"Don't start. You know that's impossible."

"Why?"

"Because of who I am. And who you are. We've talked about this,
India. Here," he said. "I brought you some food. You should eat."

He topped up her wineglass and handed it to her. As she sipped from
it, he picked up the tray and set it on the bed. "I couldn't find any
broccoli. Or porridge. I hope this will do," he said.

"Very funny."

There were all sorts of delicious things: a roast Cornish hen,
fragrant with lemon and thyme. Slivers of salty glazed ham. Asparagus in
vinai-grette. Blush-pink new potatoes. Brussels sprouts fiecked with
bacon. And for afters, a wedge of sharp crumbly Cheddar. Blue-veined
Stilton. Plump apricots. A punnet of cherries. And chocolates.

"My goodness, this is a feast! Where did you get it all?" she asked.

"Harrods," he replied, pleased with himself.

India looked at him in disbelief and giggled.

"What?"

"The thought of you in Harrods. Rubbing shoulders with all the dowager ladies and sniffy shop clerks."

"Taking the piss, are we? Right, then. Next time it's pickled whelks
and jellied eels for you." He picked up a bit of ham and popped it into
her mouth.

She caught his hand in hers, kissed the palm, and held it to her cheek. "Marry me, Sid," she said.

"Finish your ham."

India swallowed, then said, "I mean it."

"Give us that wine glass back. You've had enough."

"I'm not drunk, I swear it. Marry me."

"The woman isn't supposed to ask the man."

"Stop joking. I'm serious, and I want you to be."

He gave her a long look, but said nothing.

"You could make a new beginning."

He laughed bitterly. "You don't know my world. Or the people in it. There are no new beginnings."

"Make one. Walk away. Tell them that you quit."

"Just pick up me bat and ball and go home, is that it?"

"Yes."

"It's a little late for that, luv."

"But why? Don't you want to leave it behind? The violence? The fear?"

"Fear is all I've got. Keeping people afraid is the only thing that keeps me alive."

"But, you could--"

"Christ, India, I don't want to talk about this!" he exploded. "For a
few hours I get to forget who I am and what I do, and I get to have
something beautiful and good in my life. For just a few bright hours.
Just one night every now and again. It's little enough. Please don't
take it from me."

He felt anguished. He would have given anything to be able to do what
she asked of him--to turn his back on his life and start again. With
her. But he knew it was impossible. Although he didn't say it out loud,
because he didn't want to upset her, he knew that once you were in his
world, you never got out. Unless it was in a pine box.

India kissed him. She shushed him. She put her arms around his neck
and pulled him to her. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I won't say another word
about it, I promise. I love you, Sid. I love you so," she whispered.

Sid buried his face in her neck. "I love you, too, India. I wish to God I didn't."

"Mummy?"

"Yes, Katie?" Fiona said, balancing her daughter on her knees. There
was hardly room for them all in the chair--Katie, Fiona, and Fiona's
enormous belly.

"Can I have a story?"

"Of course you may."

"Ten stories?"

"Two stories."

"Five stories?"

"You'll make a wonderful merchant someday," Fiona said, laughing. "I'll have to start bringing you to the tea auctions."

"Five, Mummy. Five."

"Five stories it is. Sold," Fiona said. "Now run along and have your bath, and when you're finished, we'll read."

Katie clambered down and ran to her nurse, Anna, who was waiting for
her in the doorway of Fiona's study. She turned back to Fiona on her way
out. "Mummy?" she said.

"Yes, duck?"

"I want Daddy."

Fiona winced. "I know you do, Katie, but Daddy's not here right now."

"I want him."

"He'll come to see you soon, my love."

"But ..."

Anna, awkward but gentle, said, "Come on, little Katie. We'll have a
treat. We'll put some pretty pink bath salts in your water. Would you
like that?"

Katie nodded and followed Anna out of the room. Fiona watched them
go, heartsore. The damage her attacker had left on her face and body had
faded. The damage Joe had inflicted was still raw. She was missing him
horribly. Katie was missing her father. Everyone was unhappy and it was
all her fault.

Or so Joe said.

He blamed her for this. All she had to do was go to him and tell him
she would no longer search for Charlie. He would come home, they would
be a family again and happy. Except for me, she thought.

She had lost so much. Her parents. Her sister. Nick. She would lose
Charlie, too, if she couldn't find him, couldn't make him see reason. To
prison or the gallows. Was it so wrong not to want to lose the brother
she loved? Was it wrong to want them both--husband and brother? Joe
wanted her to choose. She would if she could, but she didn't know how.
She didn't know how to turn her back on someone she loved.

She thought of her parents and wished they were here. She missed them
so much right now that it hurt. They would know what to do. Her mother
would tell her the right things. She'd always known what the right
things were. Her da would have upended every pub in East London until
he'd found his son, then dragged him out by the scruff of his neck.

"Tell me, Mum. Tell me, Da," she whispered, eyes closed. "Tell me what to do."

She waited for the sound of her mother's voice, whispering in her
heart. For her father's words, echoing in her mind. For some kind of
sign, some di-rection, but her only answer was a knock on the door.

"Come in," Fiona said, grateful for the distraction from her sad thoughts.

It was Foster. "Mr. Finnegan is here to see you, madam," he said.

"Mr. Finnegan? My brother?" Fiona whispered, unable to believe what she was hearing.

"Yes, madam. Shall I send him in?"

"Yes!" Fiona cried, rising from her chair.

Charlie was here. He had finally come. Charlie. Oh, how she had
longed for this! They could talk at last. She would tell him of the
danger he was in. She would convince him to leave London. And when he
was safely away, she could go to Joe and tell him the good news, tell
him to come home.

She heard footsteps in the hallway and was suddenly gripped by
nerves. Would he be friendly to her? Angry? What would he say to her?
What would she say to him? She didn't have long to worry, for the door
suddenly opened and a red-haired man stepped into the room.

"Hey, Fee."

Fiona blinked at the tall, wiry teenager standing before her.
"Seamie?" she said, completely surprised to see my younger brother
instead of Char-lie. "What on earth are you doing here?"

"Um... nice to see you, too," he said, kissing her cheek. She kissed
him back, tried to embrace him. "Wow, I can hardly get around this," he
said, patting her belly. "You having one baby or half a dozen?"

His teasing didn't even register. She knew why he was here. Something
bad had happened. Why else would he come all the way from America
without wiring first? Someone was ill. Or hurt. Or dead.

"Seamie, what's wrong?" she said. "Uncle Michael, Aunt Mary, the children..."

"Nothing's wrong. Everyone's fine. They all send their love."

"But why are you here, then? It's only October. You're not on your holi-days yet."

Seamie took off his jacket and sat down on the settee. "I've finished with school, Fiona," he said.

"Finished? How?" she asked, sitting down herself. "The school year's only just begun. Did you graduate early?"

"Not exactly."

"Oh, no," she said. "Seamie, you weren't expelled, were you?"

"Um...well...yes."

"Why?"

"The head said I was spending too much time climbing and sailing and not enough time in class."

"He said that and then he expelled you? Without letting you make
amends? Doesn't he believe in warning his students before he chucks them
out?"

"Yeah, he does, actually," Seamie said, looking uncomfortable. "He
gave me four warnings, then he chucked me out. Can't blame him. My
grades were pretty bad. But the way I saw it, there was nothing left to
learn. Nothing more they could teach me."

Fiona blinked at him, unable to believe what she was hearing. Seamie
was--or had been--in his final year at Groton, an exclusive private
school in Massachusetts. He was to have graduated in June and then gone
on to university.

"Nothing more they could teach you, Seamie?" she sputtered. "What about science and maths and history and Latin? What about--"

"It doesn't matter, Fee. None of it matters. The head was right. I
was spending all my time climbing and sailing. I became the youngest
person to climb all forty-six high peaks of the Adirondacks. The
youngest person to sail from Nova Scotia to the Keys alone."

Fiona listened, incredulous, as he went on about peaks and ridges,
sextants and stars. When he finished, she said, "You've thrown it away.
Your education. Your future. What are you going to do?"

"I'm going to go exploring. It's the only thing I want to do."

She shook her head. This conversation was becoming more unreal, more outlandish, by the second.

"That's why I'm here, Fee. In London. The Royal Geographical Society
is financing an expedition to Antarctica. Captain Robert Scott's leading
it. I'm going to approach him. Ask him to take me on as a crew member.
Beg him, if I have to."

"Antarctica? You can't go to Antarctica! You can't go anywhere!
You're only seventeen!" Fiona shouted. She had recovered from Seamie's
sudden appearance and his news. The shock she'd felt upon seeing him had
been replaced by anger at his rash, foolish move.

"Fiona, I know this is hard on you, I know it was unexpected--"

"To say the bloody least!"

"But you have to try to understand something: The world is getting
smaller every day. If I wait until I'm through university--nearly five
years from now--it'll be too late. Everything will be found and climbed
and crossed and mapped."

"Seamie, I'm not interested in a bloody geography lesson!"

"Listen, Fiona, listen--the source of the Nile's been found and just
about every other river, too. There have been attempts at the North
Pole, and many of the major mountains have been taken. Everyone's
talking about Everest now. It's the third pole. All the good climbers
want a shot at it, but the Tibetans won't let anyone in. Francis
Younghusband, the explorer, spoke at the Royal Geographical Society last
month. I got a copy of his paper. Word is that the viceroy's going to
send him in. To Lhasa. To open talks. He's been everywhere. Manchuria.
The Gobi Desert. Mongolia. Nepal. And now he wants Everest. Everest! Can
you imagine?"