The Winter Rose (63 page)

"No, you're not. You don't know India. She'd never take up with the likes of Malone. Never."

"We followed Sid a few nights ago. Me and Frankie Betts," Gemma said.
"He hasn't been around much, and Frankie wanted to see where he's been
keeping himself. We saw him take a hackney cab to Brick Lane. Saw it
stop just past the caff. Moskowitz's. Where she's staying. We waited. A
few minutes later we saw her come out and get into the cab. We kept
following them. All the way out of Whitechapel. To a house. They went
inside together. We saw the lights come on in a flat on the top floor.
They didn't come back out."

Freddie didn't reply. He couldn't. Sid Malone and India--it was
unthinkable. Impossible. Not only had India left him, she'd taken up
with his greatest enemy--the man who'd robbed the Stronghold, who'd cost
him the Home Rule victory, and very likely the election. He'd never
been able to recover after his humiliation in the Commons. He'd lost too
much cred-ibility.

A red rage boiled up inside him now. A lethal rage. He grabbed Gemma's wrist. "Where's the flat? What's the address?"

Gemma pulled free. "I'm tired of being fucked, Freddie. Fucked and
fucked over. You want the information, you can pay for it. Cash up
front. Two hundred quid will do nicely."

"Gemma, please..."

"You know where I live."

"You bitch!"

"Four hundred," Gemma said. Then she turned on her heel and walked away.

Seamie Finnegan wanted a hot cup of tea like he'd never wanted one
before. He wanted dry clothes, a blazing fire, and a nice soft chair.

He'd been standing in the same spot, on the pavement outside Ernest
Shackleton's house, for a day and a half, and he was ready to keel over.
But he wouldn't. He'd come this far, and he'd stand here another day
and a half if that's what it took to get Shackleton to talk to him. He'd
stand here for a week.

He'd approached the man after the Royal Geographical Society lecture,
but Shackleton had been mobbed and Seamie hadn't been able to get near
him. He'd tried again when the crowd died down, but Shackleton had been
on his way to dinner at the Explorers' Club.

"Mr. Shackleton, sir, might I have a word?" Seamie had called out, trot-ting behind the man and his entourage.

"What is it, lad?"

"I'd like...I'd like to join your expedition, sir."

Shackleton had laughed. So had his companions. "You and all the
schoolboys in London!" he said. "We're all full up, lad," he'd added, a
bit more kindly. And then he was gone.

"Come on, Seamie," Albie had said. "Come drown your sorrows with a
pint. George here says there's a good pub right round the corner."

Seamie didn't answer him; he was still watching Shackleton.

"You want to go after him, don't you?" Willa said.

She had read his mind.

"I wouldn't. If you dog him, you might anger him," Albie said.

"So what?" Willa said. "He'll see that you mean it."

"I'll see you back at the house later," Seamie said, starting off. "Or not."

"Good luck!" Willa called after him.

Seamie followed his quarry to the Explorers' Club. It was nearly
mid-night by the time Shackleton came out. As soon as Seamie saw him, he
ap-proached him again, but Shackleton cut him off. "I'm not a
pheasant," he'd said. "I don't enjoy being stalked."

Still, Seamie did not give up. When Shackleton got into a cab, he
did, too, and had his driver follow. He arrived at Shackleton's house as
the man was entering it.

"Not you again!" Shackleton said upon spotting him. "What the hell do you want, boy?"

"To join the expedition to Antarctica."

"That's impossible. As I've already told you. Now, if you don't leave, I shall have you removed."

"That is your prerogative, sir," Seamie had replied.

Shackleton had trotted up his steps in a huff. Once inside, he'd
pulled the curtains, but Seamie had seen them twitch once or twice. He
hadn't had Seamie removed, but he had pointedly ignored him on the
several occasions he left or entered his house the next day.

Yet Seamie still refused to budge. He'd stood there from midnight on
Tuesday to now--just after nine on Thursday morning. He wondered what
would happen to him. He thought he might faint, but didn't know if it
would be from lack of water, lack of food, or lack of sleep. And if he
did, what would Shackleton do? Step over him? Roll him into the gutter?

As he was pondering these questions, the door to Shackleton's house
opened and the man himself stepped out, a white linen napkin in his
hand. Lovely, mouth-watering aromas of bacon and buttered toast wafted
out after him. Seamie's stomach growled.

"Quite a stunt you've pulled, lad," Shackleton said. "Standing outside my house for thirty hours straight."

"Thirty-three hours and ten minutes, sir."

"I imagine you think me quite impressed."

"I would not presume to know your thoughts, sir. I did not aim to im-press, only to demonstrate the depth of my commitment."

"Commitment, eh? At fifty-eight degrees during the day and forty-two at night?"

"It also rained, sir. Last night. From just after midnight to five thirty."

Shackleton stroked his chin thoughtfully. "Did it?"

"Yes, sir."

"The question is, can you do it for forty-eight hours? For
seventy-two? For a week? A month? When it's ten degrees during the day
and forty below at night? Can you do it in a blizzard when your hands
won't work and your toes are turning black? Can you do it then? Think
carefully before you an-swer. Men--better men than you--have died
trying."

"I'm not afraid to die, sir. I'm afraid to never live."

Shackleton worked a bit of food from his teeth. "Big words from a boy," he finally said.

"I am seventeen, sir. A year older than you yourself were when you sailed around Cape Horn on the Hoghton Tower."

Shackleton was quiet for a few seconds, then he said, "Come inside.
My cook's made eggs and rashers." He held up a finger. "I make no
promises. I only wish to feed you up a bit before I send you home to
your mama."

"My mother is dead, sir. And you may try to send me home, but I won't
go. The sea is my home, the wild, uncharted waters of Antarctica, and I
will stand right here, in wind and rain, until--"

Shackleton rolled his eyes. "Enough! You'll be on about white whales
next. This isn't Moby Dick, you know, all sea dogs and romance. It's a
scientific expedition. Can you do anything? Have you ever set foot on a
boat?"

"I hold the record for the fastest run from Yarmouth to Key Largo in a cutter. I did it alone."

"In a cutter, you say? Bowsprit?"

"No, sir."

"Gaff mainsail?"

"Yes, sir. With a genoa jib set."

"You sailed in that all the way from Nova Scotia to the Keys? Why?"

"I wanted a challenge, sir."

"Sounds like you got one. What's your name again, lad?"

"Seamus Finnegan, sir."

Shackleton smiled. "An Irishman, eh? I was born in Ireland myself.
Come on, then, Seamus Finnegan, let's get you some tea. I'm still making
no promises, but I'd like to hear more about that cutter. Genoa jib,
you say?"

Seamie's legs were numb from standing so long. He stumbled on the
first step, quickly righted himself, and followed Shackleton inside.
Five minutes ago he'd wanted to drop down dead. Now he felt like he
could fly. He wanted to whoop, dance a jig. He did neither. He would
remain serious and sober. He had a chance, just a slim one, but it was
all he needed. He had a crack at Shackleton now, a crack at Antarctica. A
crack at his dream.

India woke where she had fallen asleep--in the crook of Sid's arm. He smiled as she stirred and kissed her head.

"You snore. Did you know that?" he said.

"I do not."

"You do. Like an old man."

"Rubbish."

Rain swept against the window. India looked out of it. It had still
been twilight when they'd tumbled into bed. It was pitch-black outside
now. Inside the room an oil lamp glowed softly from its perch upon the
bureau.

"What time is it?" she asked.

"Just gone midnight. I heard the church bell."

She looked at his face. She saw the circles under his eyes and the weariness in them.

"Why are you still awake?" she asked. "Can't you sleep?"

He smiled. "I don't want to. Not when I'm with you."

India propped herself up on one elbow. "But you never sleep."

"I do."

"You don't." She frowned at him. "Did you have coffee this evening? Tea? An excess of alcohol?"

"No, no, and no, Dr. Jones. I'm fine."

India bit her lip. She didn't believe him. "Something's worrying you, then."

Sid's gaze flickered away from hers and she knew she was right.

"What is it, Sid?"

"Nothing."

He was putting her off. Evading her questions. Lying to her. He always did this. To protect her, he said. It made her furious.

"You can tell me, you know," she said testily. "I won't run back
tattling to Ozzie, Cozzie, Rozzie, and the rest of the wide boys."

"I told you it's nothing and it's nothing," he said tightly.

India flung the sheets back and got out of bed. She stalked across the room to the chair where her clothing lay.

"What are you doing?"

"Getting dressed," she said, stepping into her petticoat.

"Where are you going?"

"Home," she replied.

"India, for Christ's sake, why? Why are you doing this?"

"Because you don't love me."

"Of course I do."

She whirled around. "No, you don't. You say you love me, Sid, but you
don't trust me. That's not love. If you really love someone, you trust
her. I told you everything about my life--everything!--in the hospital,
when I barely knew you. Just because you asked me to. You promised me
you would tell me your story, but you never do. You won't tell me about
the past. You won't let me talk about the future. You won't even tell me
why you can't sleep, for God's sake! Never mind where you came from, or
who your parents were, or what you did before ...before..."

"Before I went bad."

"I didn't say that!"

"You didn't have to." He took a deep breath and blew it out again. "India, there are some things you just can't tell people."

"Is that what I am to you? People?"

"No," he said stubbornly. He said nothing else.

She pulled her blouse on and buttoned it. A doctor, she was used to
dressing quickly in the middle of the night. She sat down on the bed and
picked up one of her shoes.

"India, please don't go. Please."

Something in his voice made her put her shoe down and look at him.
She saw that he no longer looked angry. He looked helpless and scared.

"Why can't you tell me, Sid? Why can't you tell me who you are?" she asked softly.

He met her gaze and she could see that he was struggling with
himself. At length, he said, "I did hard time. Years ago. When I was
eighteen."

She nodded, uncertain where he was going, but willing to follow. "Is
that where you got the scars on your back?" She had asked him that
question before, but he had never given her an answer.

"Yes."

"How?"

"Thirty lashes with a cat o' nine."

"Oh God," India said. She felt all her anger drain away. A terrible sorrow took its place.

"Why, Sid?"

"I threatened a guard."

"Physically?"

"No. I threatened that I would go to the warden."

"Why?"

"To tell him... to try to..." His words trailed off.

"Thirty lashes could have killed you."

"They nearly did."

"Is that why you can't sleep? Do the scars give you pain?"

"No. Not those scars."

He gazed out the window. She saw that his throat was working. It was
as if he were trying to bring the words up from inside himself and
couldn't. Suddenly he turned back to her and in an anguished voice said,
"I was raped there. In prison."

For a few seconds, India thought she would be sick. "When? Who?" she whispered.

"A guard. Wiggs was his name. Two others held me down. It went on for
nearly four months. They always came after dark. I heard their
footsteps on the stone floor. Coming closer. Their voices. That's why I
don't sleep. I can't sleep."

India reached for him, but he shied from her.

"Don't touch me. Don't," he said.

"I'm sorry. I won't. I won't, Sid. It's all right," she said. "You
said it went on for four months. What happened then? What stopped it?"

"Denny Quinn stopped it."

"Who?"

"Quinn. Me old guv'nor. He waited for Wiggs to come out of his local one night. He followed him and cut his throat."

India's hands came up to her mouth.

Sid laughed cruelly. "Still love me?" he asked.

Then he leaned back and banged his head against the wall. She'd seen
patients in Bedlam do the same thing. Tortured souls trying to crack
their heads open to let the bad memories out. She crawled across the bed
and got between him and the wall.

"Stop it. Stop it now," she said. "Look at me. Look at me, Sid." He
raised his eyes to hers. "I do love you. Do you hear me? I love you."

His fists were clenched so hard that the veins stood out on his
forearms. His whole body was shaking. His breath was rapid and short.
India knew he wanted to punch something, smash something. He'd held the
pain in for so long, and now it was coming out and he was terrifled. She
knew what to do. She would take it from him. All the rage and sorrow.
All the poison. Slowly, gently, she reached for his fists. Softly, she
smoothed them open.

"Let it out. Let it go," she whispered.

She put her arms around him and held him tightly. He tried to push
her away again, but she wouldn't let him. She felt him dig his fingers
into her back, felt his body shudder, then heard his sobs, harsh and
tearing. His tears were hot against her skin. She held him and rocked
him, whispered to him and kissed him and cried for him, but she did not
let him go.