The Winter Rose (84 page)

After they'd traded news about Seamie's family and Albie's parents,
Seamie asked, "And what's Willa doing these days?" His voice was light
and casual; his interest was anything but.

"What isn't she doing?" Albie said. "Climbing in Scotland and Wales. Mount McKinley. The Alps."

"Really?"

"You're not surprised, are you? You know what she's like. She had
some money left to her by a batty old aunt of ours, and she uses it to
pay for her trips. I must admit, she's become a damned impressive
climber. She set a record on the Matterhorn. Fastest women's ascent.
Mont Velon, too. She wants to go to Africa next and take a crack at
Kilimanjaro. She wants to climb without quite so much cold weather
clobber. Less to haul in and out of the camps, she says."

"Is she there now?"

"No, she's here."

"Is she?" Seamie asked, a bit too excitedly.

"Didn't I tell you? I meant to. She's in town for a fortnight. She
came up with some friends from London. The Stephens sisters--Virginia
and Vanessa. They've lots of friends here. Their brother Thoby was at
Trinity. Bookish girls, a very odd pair, but then so's Wills. Odd, I
mean. So they all get on smashingly. Though, to be truthful, she's
barely made time for any of us. Too busy hiking with Mallory."

"Mallory? George Mallory?" Seamie asked, trying to ignore an annoying
surge of jealousy. "Not the chap we met years ago at the Royal Geo?"

"The very same. He's at Magdalene College now reading history. He's
become something of a star in climbing circles. Cuts quite a figure.
Gorgeous George, the ladies call him."

"Where are they climbing? I don't recall many mountains in Cambridge."

"St. Botolph's. The Town Hall. Great St. Mary's...."

"What?"

"Churches, municipal buildings, colleges ...they'll scale anything
with a toehold. They make bets. First one to the top wins. Wills lost a
locket to George and won it back twice. I think she's got his watch now.
They call it buildering. Instead of bouldering. Funny, isn't it?
Buildering... free-climbing buildings instead of free-climbing
boulders."

"Yes, Alb. I get it," Seamie said. He didn't think it was funny at all. He'd always known Mallory had an eye for Willa.

"They were caught two days ago by a local constable and warned to
stop. George, being a reasonable being, did, but Willa won't. Our mother
will have fits if she gets herself arrested and it'll all be my fault,
as always."

"Are they an--" Seamie was about to say item, but he never got the
chance. The pub door suddenly banged open. He heard laughter, merry and
challenging. A woman's laughter. He knew it. He'd heard it in his head
in the Antarctic. It had kept him warm in the bitter cold. Kept him sane
in the driving snow and screaming winds.

She stepped inside the pub, looking, as always, like Albie's younger
brother. She wore an oversized jumper, moleskin trousers, and a pair of
climbing boots. She was taller than he remembered. Slimmer, harder, and a
hundred times more beautiful.

God, but she's gorgeous, he thought. Her hair was cut impossibly
short. On any other woman it would have looked awful. On Willa it was
perfect. It showed off her fawn's neck, the strong angles of her face,
her luminous moss-green eyes.

Those eyes were trained on her companion now--a tall, strikingly
handsome young man. She was joking with him, pushing him playfully.
Seamie recognized him; he was George Mallory. Watching them together, he
knew he had the answer to his question. They were an item. Of course
they were. Had he really expected her to wait for him? He'd tried to see
her, her and Albie, but they were always somewhere else when he'd
called on them and he was always somewhere else when they called on him.

Meet me out there... somewhere under Orion, she'd said to him, just
before he'd left. Just after she'd kissed him. They had sustained him,
those words. For years. He'd believed they'd meant something. He saw now
that he was wrong.

Willa turned and looked around the room, her eyes darting and searching until they fell upon her brother.

"Albie! We've been looking everywhere for you!" she exclaimed.
"Should have known you'd be in the Pick. We've been for a ramble over
the fens. Damp's gone right through me! I feel as moldy as a Stilton.
Thank God you've got a table by the fire. Move over, will you? Can I
have that sandwich? Who's your friend? My God! Seamie! Is that you?"

"Hello, Willa."

She gave him a quick, hard hug. Her lips brushed his cheek. And then,
as if remembering herself, she introduced him to George Mallory. They
all sat down, talking excitedly. More pints were brought. The fire was
stoked. Willa and George, though they'd both read about the Discovery
Expedition, wanted to hear about it firsthand. Seamie had to tell them
everything. About the long voyage out. The storms and blizzards and the
unremitting cold. About the scientific studies they'd made. The trek
inland with Scott and Shackleton. About the scurvy and snow-blindness
that forced them back. They hadn't made the Pole, but they'd gotten
close, exploring three hundred miles farther south than anyone ever had.

"How beastly," Mallory said. "To be that close and have to turn back."

Seamie nodded. "It was," he said. "But we're going again. Scott's
trying to put something together. Shackleton, too. I'm signing up with
whomever gets the funding first."

Seamie had talked himself weary. He said he was parched and started
to rise to get another round, but Mallory made him sit down and went to
order it himself. Albie excused himself and headed off to the loo.
Seamie and Willa were left by themselves--something Seamie had both
longed for and dreaded.

Willa sat back against the wall, crossed her arms over her chest, and
looked at him. "So it was cold in the Antarctic, was it?" she asked.

"Very."

"I guess that explains it. I guess the ink froze in your pen. That or the wind blew your stamps overboard."

"Post offices are few and far between at 82� 17South," Seamie replied testily.

"How about 51� 30North? Any post offices there?" Willa fired back, citing London's coordinates.

"What about you?" he asked. "No time to write in the Alps? Too busy drinking schnapps with Gorgeous George?" he said.

"I don't care for schnapps and I didn't see much of George on our
Alps trip. He fell ill. Altitude sickness. I didn't. I set a record."

"There's nothing more important than that, is there?"

"You tell me," Willa said, looking daggers at him.

Seamie leaned in toward her. "Did it mean nothing?" he whispered angrily. "What you said about Orion? That kiss you gave me?"

"Not to you, apparently."

He was about to reply when George returned with a tray.

"Toasted cheese sandwiches are on the way," he said, setting four foaming pints down. Albie was right behind him.

George and Albie caught up on mutual Cambridge friends. When they
finished talking, there was an uncomfortable silence. To fill it, Seamie
asked Mallory what his next adventure would be.

"I'm going to do some rock climbing in the Lake District over the
summer," he said. "And after that I want another crack at the Alps." He
turned to Willa. "You should come with me again. Try for the women's
record on Mont Blanc."

"No. No more women's records. I don't want the women's record," Willa
said. "I want the climber's record. Full stop. You know how important
it is to be the first. That's how you get to speak at the Royal Geo. How
you get your name out there. How you get funded."

"What about Kilimanjaro?" Albie asked. "Can you get a record there?"

"It's already been climbed," Mallory said. "A German and an Austrian did it in 1889."

"They only climbed the Uhuru Peak," Willa said, correcting him. "It's
the highest one, but you can scramble it. It's supposed to be a doddle,
really, except for the altitude sickness. The Mawenzi Peak's the tough
nut. You need to be a good rock climber to take it. A good ice climber,
too. That's the one I want."

"Why haven't you done it, then?" Seamie asked, challengingly.

"Because I can't find anyone to go with me," Willa replied curtly.

"What about you, George?" Seamie asked.

"George isn't interested," Willa said.

"Hire some porters, then," Seamie said.

"The only ones available are local tribesmen and they'll go only as
far as the mountain's base. They don't like Kilimanjaro. They say it
holds bad spirits."

Seamie was about to tell her the bad spirits would make perfect
company for her when the sandwiches Mallory had ordered arrived. They
all tucked in, reliving past climbs as they ate.

When they finished, Willa said, "Gosh, all this talk about climbing's
got the blood up. Feel like a climb right now, me. Who's game for a bit
of buildering? Alb?"

Albie, every inch the academic now in his tweeds and spectacles, blinked at her. "Surely you jest," he said.

"George?"

"No, Willa," Mallory said firmly. "And you shouldn't, either. We were both warned. Do you want to spend the night in jail?"

"They'd have to catch me first." She turned to Seamie. "Well?"

He shrugged. "I don't know. I've never done it."

"Scared?"

"No."

"I'll bet you are. I'll also bet I could beat you to the top of St. Botolph's. It's an easy climb. All pits and ruts."

"I don't need easy."

"Ah, but I think you do. Easy pursuits. Easy conquests."

"What's the wager?"

"What do you want?" she asked him, looking him directly in the eye.

"Nothing," he said, hoping to wound. "Nothing at all."

"There must be something."

"Well, maybe there is."

She raised an eyebrow.

"A new pair of hiking boots."

"Done," she said. Her voice was even, but there was a glint of anger in her eyes.

"And if you win?" he said.

"If I win, you climb Kilimanjaro with me."

Seamie sputtered laughter. "I can't do that. Even if I wanted to.
Which I don't. I told you--Shackleton's getting an expedition together.
I'm going with him if he does. He wants to leave next year. Preparations
have to be made. Lots of them."

Willa leaned back in her chair. "I am flattered, Seamie. You must
think you're going to lose the wager. It's all right. You can back down.
You're among friends here. We won't tease you too much."

"All right, then," Seamie said, unwilling to be shown up in front of
Gorgeous George. "If you're so eager to buy me new boots, the least I
can do is let you."

Willa's eyes sparkled. "Good. Let's go," she said.

They paid their bill and left. Outside, Mallory said his good nights.

"Aren't you even coming to cheer me on?" Willa asked, disappointed.

"I'm heading back to my room. I have reading to do."

"Good night, then, darling George," Willa said. She flung her arms
around his neck and kissed his cheek. Seamie looked away. He didn't see
George puzzlingly touch the place where her lips had been.

"Yes ...um...well, good night," he said, then he disappeared down the street.

"Alb? Are you coming?" Willa asked.

"And watch my sister and my friend splatter themselves all over the cobblestones? I think not."

Willa rolled her eyes. "See you in the morning."

"I certainly hope so. I'll leave the door to my rooms open, should either of you survive."

After Albie had left, Willa turned to Seamie. "St. Botolph's?" she asked.

"St. Botolph's," he replied.

As they set off, she said, "It's a clear night. Plenty of moonlight.
Should be good for climbing. And who knows?" she added archly. "If we're
lucky, we might just see Orion."

It was quiet on Tower Bridge. The evening rush was largely over. The
sun was nearly gone; dusk was settling over London. A few people were
still walking over the bridge, stragglers from the City counting houses
hurrying home to warm slippers and hot suppers on this brisk March
evening.

But one person--a woman--wasn't walking anywhere. She was standing
perfectly still, one hand holding the bridge's railing, another
clutching a dozen ivory roses. She wore a black coat and hat--mourning
attire--and a veil, too, for she did not want to be recognized. It would
have made an incongruous sight--Lady India Lytton, wife of Lord
Frederick Lytton, undersecretary for the colonies--standing all alone on
Tower Bridge. explanations would be expected and she did not wish to
give any. No one knew it--not the people who passed by her on the
bridge, not her family, no one in her entire household--but she came
here often, as often as she could, to grieve for Sid Malone.

She felt close to him here, standing on the east side of the bridge,
looking toward Whitechapel. She could see him as clearly in her mind's
eye as if he were standing right next to her. People said you felt it
when someone you love died, you felt him or her gone. She'd never felt
him gone. She could still hear his voice, feel his touch. Six years
after his death he was more alive to her than all the living people she
knew--all save one, Charlotte, her daughter. Hers and Sid's.

Charlotte was India's entire life, her only joy. She was the only
color and light in her gray world, her rose in winter. And she came here
to tell Sid about her.

"She's beautiful," she said softly now. There was no one nearby, no
one to hear her. "Beautiful and kind and smart and good. So good. Not
just about manners and lessons and such things, she's good in her heart
and soul. Just like you were, though you could never believe that about
yourself, could you? She'll be six this year. I see you in her, Sid.
Every day I see you in her eyes. They're gray, like mine. But the look
in them, the way she regards the world... that's all you. Her smile,
too." India's eyes suddenly clouded, her voice took on a worried tone.
"When she smiles, that is. She's such a serious child. So watchful. I
wish she laughed more. Played more.