The Winter Rose (62 page)

Albie snorted. "Defenseless? You?"

"It's not fair! I want to hear Shackleton. I know more about
Antarctica than the two of you put together!" Willa said. She didn't
stomp her foot or cry or use any feminine tricks to get her way. She
just looked from her brother to Seamie and back again, pinning them like
frogs to a dissecting tray with her intense gaze. "Just let me come in
with you. Please? I'll sit in the back. No one will ever know. If you
don't, I'll just sneak in. You know I will. Please, Albie?"

Albert sighed, defeated. "All right. Fine," he said, pulling the cap down over her ears.

"I can come?" she asked hopefully.

"On one condition."

"Anything."

"If Mum catches wind, I knew nothing about it."

"You're a peach!" Willa said, giving him a quick kiss on the cheek.

"Stop that, Wills. You're supposed to be a bloke."

"Sorry."

Albie buttoned his sister's tweed jacket and straightened her shirt
collar. Not satisfied, he took off his spectacles and put them on her.
She was a slender, angular girl, and the disguise succeeded; to the
casual eye she looked like Albie's younger brother. Seamie was glad
Albie had relented. He wanted Willa to come with them. He wanted to sit
beside her. To talk to her.

The three teenagers loped up a flight of steps and through the
doorway of a shabby, tumbledown lecture theater in Burlington Gardens.
It belonged to the Civil Service Commission, which allowed the Royal
Geo-graphical Society to use it for talks. Shackleton's lecture had been
announced a week ago, and Seamie had barely been able to sleep or eat
ever since.

Albert Alden was Seamie's best friend. They were both seventeen, and
had met several years ago at the RGS and, bound by their common
enthu-siasm for mountaineering, had taken an immediate shine to each
other. Willa was Albert's twin sister. Seamie had learned early on in
his and Al-bert's friendship that you didn't get one Alden without the
other. He didn't mind, though. Most of the time he quite forgot that
Willa was a girl. She rarely behaved like one. She knew more about
climbing than most men did. More than he did, in fact, though he'd never
admit it.

She often told them--in a hushed voice so that her mother couldn't
hear--that she was going to be the first to climb Everest. When they
told her she couldn't--that even men hadn't done that--she would smile
and say, "Watch me."

Seamie had holidayed with the Aldens in the Lake District. Willa
would tell her mother that she was just going to watch the lads climb,
and then, as soon as she was out of her parents' sight, she would change
into a pair of Albie's old trousers and beat them both up a rock face.

"One member," Albie said now, showing his RGS membership card to the
man in the ticket booth. "And one guest." The clerk barely glanced at
Willa, he simply pushed two tickets at him. Seamie showed his own card
next, thinking that most people were too preoccupied to see past their
own noses. The three of them went into the hall, then Seamie led the way
to the front. He was taking no chances.

He wanted to be near the podium so that he could get to Shackleton
af-terward, talk to him, and hopefully convince him that he was
expedition material. He spotted four empty seats in the middle of the
third row. As they settled into three of them, a young man who looked
about their age came in from the other end of the row and sat down in
the fourth. He looked familiar. Seamie was certain he'd seen him at
other lectures.

"Supposed to be a ripping good speaker," the lad said.

Willa was about to reply when Albie talked over her. "One of the best," he said.

"They say he strong-armed his way onto Scott's expedition," Seamie said.

Within seconds all four were buzzing excitedly about the expedition.
They all knew its background, and Shackleton's, too. He was a hero to
them. He'd defied his father's wishes to enter medicine and had left
school for the sea when he was sixteen--a year younger than they were.
His first ship was the Hoghton Tower out of Liverpool, bound for
Valparaiso via Cape Horn. The ship made the cape in the dead of winter
and battled blizzards for two months before rounding it. Shackleton
spent the next five years sailing to and from the Far East and America
before making first mate and then mas-ter. He'd worked on merchant ships
until just last summer, when he'd wan-gled himself an introduction to
Llewellyn Longstaff, the principal financier of the Antarctic
expedition. He'd persuaded Longstaff to put him forth as a member of the
expedition and the man had done so, together with Sir Clements Markham,
the RGS's president. With their influence, he'd been accepted.
Shackleton had basically talked his way onto the expedition and Seamie
was convinced that he could do the same.

While the four were talking, the lights suddenly dimmed, signaling everyone to quiet down.

"Here we go!" Willa said. "Antarctica!"

"I'd give anything to be on board that ship," the newcomer said, his eyes lingering on her.

Seamie was curiously quiet.

"I'm Albert Alden, by the way," Albie said, reaching across to shake the newcomer's hand. "And this is my ...uh...my..."

"Twin," said Willa, her color suddenly high, her eyes sparking mischief.

"George Mallory," the lad said, shaking hands all around. "Pleased to meet you."

Seamie wondered if George Mallory knew that Willa was a girl. It
bothered him to think he might. To think that might be why she was
suddenly full of smiles. He sat back in his seat, irritated and
perplexed, as George and Willa made plans for all of them to visit a pub
afterward. What was any of that to him? So Willa was pretty. So what?
He didn't give a monkey's bum who she smiled at. Or who smiled back. He
was here to see Shackleton.

The lights went down. An austere figure took the stage--the society's president.

"It's Barkers," Albie groaned. "He can't half drone."

Willa snorted. George smiled. Seamie glowered. After an interminable
introduction by Sir Clements Markham, Ernest Shackleton took the stage.

Ten seconds into his speech, Seamie had forgotten all about Willa
Alden and George Mallory and everything and everyone in the entire world
except for Ernest Shackleton. The man was mesmerizing. He strode about
the stage, a compact, manic bundle of energy, talking about the call of
un-charted lands, of endless seas and stalwart ships and the brave
brotherhood of sailor scientists, of the honor that would accrue to the
society, to all of Britain, should Scott and the crew of the Discovery
be the first to claim the South Pole. He warned all present that their
rivals for the glory and con-quest of the Pole were relentless--hadn't
Nansen almost taken the North Pole? Hadn't another Norwegian, Carsten
Borchgrevink, just returned from Antarctica, having trekked farther
south than any man had before? Wasn't it a question not of if, but when?

Seamie sat on the edge of his seat, listening and watching, barely
breathing--and felt every fiber of his being strain toward the man,
toward his boldness and courage and vision. Ernest Shackleton was doing
every-thing Seamie wanted to do, he was being everything he wanted to
be. And he had started out, as Seamie felt he must, by leaving school
and taking to the seas. An hour later, Shackleton finished his lecture
to a roar of ap-plause, then stepped back from the podium to down a
glass of water. He bowed, held up his hands, then took the podium again
to answer questions.

Seamie watched the questioners stand one after another, some older,
some younger, and knew as he listened to them that questioning the likes
of Shackleton was the closest most of them would ever come to
explo-ration. To adventure. And he knew, too, that he would rather die
than remain one of them.

He was going to collar Shackleton. Tonight. Even if he had to follow
him home and sleep on his steps. Shackleton would hear him; he would
understand. They were the same inside. All he needed was a minute, maybe
two, to convince him. Let Albie and Willa and George bloody Mal-lory go
to the pub. Ernest Shackleton was going to Antarctica. And Seamie
Finnegan was going with him.

"Damned shame about the election, Lytton," Dougie Mawkins said. "Labour victory, was it?"

"Yes, it was," Freddie said.

"Thin end of the wedge, old man. Next thing you know, there'll be barrow boys in the Lords and a docker in Downing Street."

Freddie smiled tightly. He wanted to break Dougie's nose. If the man
offered any more condolences, spouted any more inanities, he would. He'd
come here tonight to forget about his disastrous loss, not to be
reminded of it.

"Ripping good party, though, don't you think?" Dougie asked.

"Just got here," Freddie replied. He'd heard about the party as he
was leaving his club. It was in a Chelsea atelier, all done up in the
Moorish style, and it was being thrown by a duke's son for his mistress,
a painter, to celebrate the first exhibition of her work.

"Have you seen Gemma Dean?" Dougie asked.

"No. Is she here?"

"Over by the windows. Looks a bit drawn, if you ask me. Or maybe it's
just that I haven't seen her in a while. Out of circulation for a bit, I
understand. Back now, though. Guess the rent's due." Dougie recognized
an-other friend and chased off after him.

Freddie watched him go. Had he wanted to break his nose? Now he
wanted to break his skull for the crack about Gemma's bill. Dougie
didn't have to worry about bills. His family owned ten thousand acres in
Cornwall and scores of buildings in London. That an idiot such as
Mawkins had fallen into a life of such ease and splendor, while he had
to worry about every pound--well, just thinking about it made him sick
with envy.

He craned his neck, looking for Gemma. He finally spotted her, or
rather her diamonds. She was wearing only the earrings, but they
sparkled like stars in the gaslight. He remembered her saying that Sid
Malone had given them to her, and that they were worth a fortune.

He could use a fortune now himself. Just last week Bingham had paid
his bill at the Reform Club--just as they were going to post his name.
His tailor had cut him off completely. Things were getting rather
desperate. He took a sip of his whisky and tried not to think about it.

He would prefer to think about the lovely Gemma Dean instead, but,
eyeing her, Freddie noticed that she seemed a bit less lovely. Dougie
was right. She looked drawn. Her dress was ill-fitting, loose in places.
He wondered if she'd gone in for the new look--all willowy and fey. It
suited some girls--pale, dreary girls who liked to spout poetry and
mope--but it didn't suit her. She was a woman with curves and she looked
best as her luscious self, round and ripe and ready to burst out of her
corset. He pic-tured himself unlacing that same corset and caressing
her warm, heavy breasts. A late-night romp with her would be just the
thing to snap him out of his funk.

"Hullo, old girl. How's things?" he said, walking up to her.

"Smashing, Freddie. Just smashing," she said acidly.

She was clutching a glass of champagne. She downed its contents and
signaled for another. A waiter refreshed her glass immediately.

"Heard about the election," she said. "Sorry you didn't win."

"So am I."

"Heard about your engagement, too. Guess it never rains but it bloody pours."

"I guess so," he said, feeling vexed. He'd hoped that chatting up
Gemma would improve his mood, but so far she was only making it worse.

"Well, it's a bugger," she said, swallowing another mouthful of cham-pagne, "but at least you're free now. And so am I."

Freddie felt the hairs along his neck prickle. He didn't like the
direction this conversation was taking. "What do you mean, Gem?"

"You were jilted. So was I."

"Were you? I'm dreadfully sorry to hear it."

She cocked her head. "Are you?"

"You don't doubt me, do you?"

She didn't answer his question. Instead, she asked one of her own. "Remember the last time you came to call on me?"

"I remember every time I've called on you, darling girl."

"Remember what you said?"

"Um ...something about my campaign?"

"No, something about us marrying. You said you wished you could marry
me. But you had to marry India because that's what your parents wanted.
Well, now she's broken it off. You're a free man. We can marry. What's
to stop us?"

Freddie stalled. "Gem, you know it's not that simple."

"What I know, Freddie, is that you're a liar." Her voice was rising. Heads were turning.

"Gemma, I think you've had enough," Freddie said, steering her to a quiet corner.

"Oh, I've had enough, all right. Of you. And Sid Malone. And every other bleedin' stage-door johnnie."

"Gemma, be reasonable," Freddie hissed. "You know how I feel about
you. You know I think you're the most gorgeous woman in London, but
marriages are made of more than attraction. We come from such different
back-grounds. We lead different lives. We've hardly anything in common,
really."

Gemma laughed. It was a harsh, ugly sound. "Oh, you're wrong there,
mate," she said. "We have more in common than you think. A lot more."

"Do we?"

"For starters, your former flanc� And mine."

"Gem, old girl, I really would put that drink down. You're not making a tremendous amount of sense."

"Sid Malone is bedding India Selwyn Jones. Is that clear enough for you?"

It was Freddie's turn to laugh. And he did. Loudly. "That's a good
one. Really. I don't think I've ever heard anything so absurd in my
life."

"I told you she'd come to visit him, didn't I? And about the rubber johnnies."

"Yes ..."

"You didn't believe me about that at first either. But I was right.
And I'm right about this, too," Gemma said. Freddie saw that her eyes
didn't look unfocused any more. They were sharp with bitterness and
anger.