The Winter Rose (85 page)

Got into trouble occasionally. She needs ...well, she needs you. Her
father. Someone besides me to show her things. Teach her things. A real
father who will pretend he's a bear and chase her and catch her and
throw her up in the air. Freddie has no time for her. Never did." India
paused, then said, "He's not fond or affectionate to her, far from it,
but he's always treated her as his own. It's one good thing--the only
good thing--he's ever done for me."

India thought, though she did not wish to, of her cold, sterile
marriage. Having taken Sid from her wasn't enough for Freddie, he'd also
taken medicine from her, forbidding her to practice, to even be
involved with her clinic in Whitechapel or with her old friends, Ella
and Harriet and Fenwick. Instead she was to be a proper society wife,
circumspect, irreproachable, concerned only with the nonstop dinners and
parties and social rounds that were so crucial to the success of a
young politician.

India had honored her part of the bargain as she'd promised she
would. She spent her days planning menus and her evenings making small
talk with this lord and that lady, stuffy dignitaries, silly new wives
and frightful old ones who talked of nothing but horses and dogs. She
did these things week after week, month after month, year after year,
until everything real and vital inside her withered. The idealistic,
committed young woman who had walked the streets of Whitechapel,
lecturing the poor, ministering to the ill, was gone. A pale ghost had
taken her place.

It might have been different if she'd had more children, but she'd
never conceived again--and not for Freddie's lack of trying. He still
came to her bed regularly, determined to produce an heir. He was always
quick, but it was still horrible for her. She endured it, though,
grasping the bedposts, or twisting her hands in the sheets to keep from
crying out. Because she had promised that she would.

He blamed her for their lack of a child--a real child, as he put it.
He accused her of preventing a pregnancy, or terminating one.

"You're doing it to thwart me," he'd say.

"I'm not doing anything, Freddie. I wouldn't. Ever."

"I think you would. Why wouldn't you?"

"Because it would make me like you. Dishonorable."

She knew that she was not the reason they did not have a child
together--after all, she had conceived and given birth to one child. It
was Freddie. He was sterile. She was certain of it. But she was also
certain that he would never admit it to anyone. Least of all himself. So
his night visits continued, and somehow she continued to endure them.

India became aware of a stabbing pain in her right hand. She looked
at it. She'd clutched the roses she was holding so tightly, she'd driven
thorns into her palm. She could feel the blood now, slick and wet,
under her gloves.

She unclenched her hand, pulled a few thorns out of it. Freddie
thought them ugly--her hands--and told her so. But Sid had liked to hold
them, turning them over in his own, smoothing the fingers flat and
kissing the palms. She remembered running her hands over his body,
cupping his face, kissing his mouth, and pulling him down to her. He'd
told her she had power in her hands. And skill and talent. Magic, even.
He'd marveled at how such small, slender hands could have such strength,
how they could comfort and heal. They were rough then, always red from
being scrubbed. Now they were used only to write out place cards and
thank-you notes--not to deliver babies, cut away cancers, or soothe the
suffering. Now they were soft and smooth and white. A lady's hands, and
useless.

As she continued to stare at them, they blurred suddenly. She blinked
her tears back. She mustn't go home with red eyes. Freddie wouldn't
notice--even if he was at home this evening and not at his club or out
bedding the wife of a close friend. But Charlotte, a sensitive and
perceptive child, would. She missed nothing and tended to fret if her
mother was quiet or inward.

In the distance, a clock chimed the hour. It was six p.m. and India
knew she had to get home. There was much to do. Preparations for a long
and arduous trip were underway. She and Freddie were leaving for Africa
in a fortnight's time, and they were taking Charlotte with them. India
had argued horribly with him when he'd announced this, pleading with him
to make the trip alone, or with herself only, for she did not wish to
expose Charlotte to fevers and blazing sun and snakes and God knew what
else, but he was adamant. "You coddle her too much. She'll be fine,"
he'd said. India had heard the subtle threat in his voice--and heeded
it. She knew what would happen if she didn't.

Once, when Charlotte was four and ill with a fever, Freddie had told
India that they were invited to Blenheim for the weekend and that they
must go. She said she was not going anywhere, not while her child was
ill. Freddie had waited a day, until Charlotte had recovered a bit and
was sitting up, then he went into the nursery while India was reading to
her. "How's our little patient, then?" he'd asked. "Better, thank you,
Daddy," she'd said, glowing with pleasure at his attention. She received
so little of it. He'd sat down on the bed, taken the book from India,
and asked Charlotte to read it to him. Charlotte said she couldn't. He
asked her again and again she said she couldn't, she didn't know how.
He'd frowned at her, then he told her he was very disappointed in her
and that she must be a very stupid little girl not to be able to read at
four. Her tiny face had crumpled and she'd burst into tears.

"Now, are we going to Blenheim?" he asked India, over Charlotte's sobs.

"You are evil, Freddie, not just reprehensible, but evil. How could you--"

He'd cut her off. "I asked if we are going to Blenheim."

"Yes," she'd spat.

"Good," he'd said, smiling. And then he'd walked out of the nursery without another word to either of them.

India was defenseless against him. It ripped her heart out to see the
look of confusion and pain on Charlotte's face when her handsome,
golden father suddenly turned on her, becoming cutting and cruel.
Freddie knew it, and he knew she would do anything in her power to
prevent it.

India untied the silk ribbon around the bundle of roses and dropped
them one by one into the river, watching as the current caught them and
carried them away. All of a sudden, her sorrow at losing Sid, at losing
everything that once mattered to her, engulfed her. Unable to hold back
her tears any longer, she lowered her head and wept. Below her, the
swirling waters beckoned, and for a second she rested her weight against
the railing and imagined leaning over, farther and farther. She quickly
pulled back, horrified at her weakness. Despair made her think such
thoughts and she wouldn't give in to it. She would never harm herself,
for Charlotte needed her and loved her and she loved her daughter,
fiercely and desperately. She watched the roses float farther and
farther downstream, until they were only white specks on the gray water.

"I miss you, Sid," she said in a choked voice. "So much. And I love you. I'll always love you."

She folded back her veil to dab at her eyes. The face revealed was
not the face Sid Malone had known. There was no passion in it anymore.
The cheeks were pallid, the eyes hollow. India pulled the veil back down
and left the river, walking north on the bridge, still straight-backed,
but slower now, without purpose, without determination. A gaunt and
wasted figure against the dark London night.

Fiona Bristow, pregnant again, lumbered into her study and sat down
heavily in an easy chair by the fireplace. Joe sat in the chair
opposite, reading the Sunday papers, a blanket tucked around his legs.
Katie, her seven-year-old daughter, sat on the floor, carefully drawing a
picture of flowers and birds with colored pencils. Five-year-old
Charlie glued cotton wool onto a paper rabbit he was making for Easter,
and three-year-old Peter stacked colorful wooden blocks into towers.
Lipton the terrier slumbered by the fire. Twining nibbled at his tail,
but Lipton was too tired to do more than give a sleepy growl.

"Are you hungry, my luvs? I've just sent Sarah for tea and scones," she said.

"Famished," Katie said.

"Starved," Charlie said.

"Mmm," little Peter said, nodding.

"Thanks, Fee," Joe murmured, eyes glued to his paper.

Fiona smiled at him and at their children. They were quiet for once.
Peaceful and contented. She folded her hands across her large belly and
waited, for she knew it couldn't last. And it didn't.

Peter, suddenly bored with his blocks, grabbed the sticky cotton wool
Charlie had glued to his rabbit's backside and slapped it onto Katie's
picture.

"Mum! Mum!" Charlie cried. "Peter took my cotton wool!"

"Mum, look what he's done! He's ruined my picture!" Katie cried.

"Peter, that was very naughty. Apologize to your sister and brother," Fiona said.

But Peter didn't. He laughed.

"You think it's funny, do you?" Katie asked. She leaned forward and pushed his block tower over. "There! How do you like that?"

Peter didn't like it one bit. He started to wail.

"Katie! He's only little!" Fiona scolded.

"But he ruined my picture!"

"He doesn't know any better. You do."

"But look at it, Mum, just look at it," Katie said, reaching to pick it up.

Before she could, however, Twining, tired of not being able to rouse Lipton, snatched it and ran off.

"Muuuuuuum!" Katie howled, close to tears.

Fiona tried to reach for the dog, but, ungainly at seven months,
couldn't get out of her chair. "Joe, luv, could you help me out here?"
she asked.

Joe lowered his newspaper. "Oi! Peter! Pack it in!" The newspaper went right back up.

Fiona rolled her eyes. "Thanks, Joe," she said.

A truce was called, bruised feelings soothed, order restored. By the
time the tea tray arrived, the children were peaceable once more.

Sarah poured cups of coppery Assam tea for everyone and passed a plate of warm currant scones. Joe barely noticed.

"Must be something fascinating in that paper," Fiona said to him.

He looked up at her and grinned. "There is. Me."

Fiona threw a lump of sugar at him.

"Both The Times and the Gazette wrote about my call for an inquiry
into abuses at the Hackney workhouses. I'm going to get two of them
closed down. They're hellholes."

"What did you threaten poor Mr. Campbell-Bannerman with this time? Another march on Westminster?"

"No, something even better. Someone, rather. Jacob Riis."

"The photographer? Isn't he in New York?"

Fiona knew the name. Riis was an American social reformer whose
ground-breaking book on the plight of New York City's poor, How the
Other Half Lives, had so outraged the American public that they'd
demanded their legislators take steps to improve tenement conditions.

Joe nodded. "I've written to him. Asked him to come and snap away in
the East End. Said I'd pay his passage and put him up. I'm waiting for
his answer. I've already got the Clarion signed up to run his stories
and photos. Bloke at the Daily Mail says he'd be interested, too."

He went back to his article. Fiona's eyes lingered on him and her
heart filled with emotion. Six years ago, she wouldn't have thought she
could possibly love him more than she already did. But then the shooting
happened and he'd nearly been taken from her, and she found that she
could. She found that she loved him more than her own life, and would
have given her life for his, had it been possible.

He'd spent weeks in a coma, not moving, not talking, just wasting
away. His doctors had all but given up on him when he'd suddenly opened
his eyes. His first raspy words were "Where's Fee? Where's Katie?" His
next were "Where's that bleeding Frankie Betts?"

A few seconds later he'd realized that he could not feel his legs.
She would never forget the look on his face. She'd seen him so
frightened, so lost, only once before--the day he told her he was
leaving her to marry Millie Peterson.

She'd taken his hand and kissed it. "It's all right, love, it's all right," she'd said.

"It's not, Fee. Not by a long shot. But it will be. I promise."

He remembered everything about the shooting, and he was able to tell
Alvin Donaldson and Freddie Lytton that it was Betts, not Sid Malone,
who had attacked him. It had taken Donaldson a while to find Betts, but
he did. Frankie was arrested, tried, and convicted. He should have been
hanged, but he claimed he'd only wanted to frighten Joe, not shoot him.
He said the pistol had gone off in his hand accidentally and when he
tried to drop it, it had fired again. The judge had sentenced him to
life in prison.

Joe had survived his injuries, but his doctors told him he would be bedridden for the rest of his life, an invalid.

"You must understand, Mr. Bristow," one of them had said, "that there
are always complications. The legs wither. The muscles atrophy. The
blood can't circulate properly. Bedsores are common in paraplegics. They
often infect and turn gangrenous. I must prepare you for the
possibility that you will lose both of your legs."

Fiona had known Joe her entire life, had known him to be a good man, a
brave man, but even she had never truly known what he was made of. Not
until she'd watched him defy the fate his doctors had set before him.

Two days after he'd arrived home, he'd had a gymnasium installed in
their house. He had parallel bars set up, had his legs braced, and made
himself walk between them. The braces bit into his fiesh. His arms,
weakened by months in a hospital bed, shook with the effort of
supporting his body. After a few minutes, they gave out and he fell to
the floor. Fiona had run to him then, tears in her eyes, begging him to
stop, but he had pushed her away, furious.