The Winter Rose (86 page)

"No, you stop!" he'd shouted. "Stop worrying. Stop hovering."

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean ...I...I...felt for you, that's all."

"I don't want your pity, Fiona. I can take the falls, I can take the pain, but I can't take pity. Not from you."

He kept going, exercising tirelessly, working his fragile body
mercilessly day after day. He kept working his legs until the muscle
regained its tone. He brought in masseurs to rub his numbed fiesh and
keep the blood flowing. He accepted that he would never feel his legs
again, but he was not prepared to lose them or his life. He became
healthy again and strong. He had defied his doctors. Next he would defy
the world.

Six months after he'd been shot, Joe announced he was going to run
for Parliament again. He'd had to relinquish his Tower Hamlets seat
because his injuries had made him incapable of fulfilling his duties,
but now he was capable and a new seat had become available. The MP for
Hackney had died and a by-election was about to be held.

Westminster thought his announcement was a joke. So did the press and
the people in the street--until Joe, in the wheelchair he'd had fitted
with a small engine, motored up to pub doors in Hackney, and factory
gates, and union halls, and began campaigning with even more passion,
more fire, than he had before.

Fiona, Katie, and baby Charlie were all with him the day he'd taken
his oath and was sworn in as a Member of Parliament. It was the proudest
day of their lives. When they'd walked out of Westminster they were
nearly blinded by camera flashes. Joe, the fighter, the East End lad who
never quit, had made the people of London fall in love with him from
the moment he'd begun his campaign and the love affair had only grown.

And as if having her Joe back, well and happy in his new political
role, wasn't enough, Fiona shortly found herself expecting another
child. Joe had made it clear when he came home from the hospital that
some things might have changed, but it would be business as usual in the
bedroom, tumbling into bed with her--literally tumbling--the first
chance he got.

"Two of me legs don't work anymore, lass," he'd said, "but me third
one still does. I'd have finished Betts's work for him if it didn't."

They'd struggled a bit, but they'd finally found their way. She'd
gotten pregnant with Peter a year after Charlie was born. And soon she
would have their fourth.

Joe put his paper down now and asked for a scone. She slathered one
with thick cream and strawberry jam and handed it to him. She looked at
him again as he took it, and at their children, and thought that there
was no woman on earth more blessed than she was. Charlie held his cup
out to her, asking for more milky tea. His emerald-green eyes caught
hers, he smiled his cheeky little boy's smile, and for a moment he
looked so much like his namesake--his uncle Charlie--that her heart hurt
and she had to look away.

Fiona still blamed herself for what had happened to Joe. She still
felt that if she had not searched for her brother, had not meddled in
his world,

Frankie Betts would not have come after Joe. She missed Charlie. She
hoped he was safe wherever he was. She hoped he was loved. She wished
desperately that he could be with them, around the fire, not out in the
world alone. She grieved for him sometimes, but she did not speak of him
anymore, and she never would. She had come close, so close, to becoming
a widow. Katie and Charlie had come so close to growing up without
their father. And now here they were, she and Joe, with their children.
And that was enough. She knew that for the rest of her life, she would
never ask for more than this.

"Uncle Seamie! Uncle Seamie!" Katie suddenly cried. Charlie and Peter joined in.

Fiona turned toward the door and saw her other brother walking into the room.

"How was Cambridge?" Katie asked. "Did you bring us something?"

"Katie, how rude!" Fiona said. "Hello, Seamie, luv."

"Hi, Fee. Hi, Joe," Seamie said. He turned to his niece and nephews
and affected a remorseful look. "I'm afraid I was so busy visiting
friends that I forgot to go shopping," he said.

Three little faces fell.

"I'm joking!" he quickly said. "Here, presents for all." He dug in
his rucksack amid excited squeals and pulled out an uncle's offering of
totally unsuitable gifts: a compass for Katie, a clasp-knife for
Charlie, and a slab of Kendal mint cake for little Peter. Fiona thanked
him, then quickly removed the knife and mint cake from her sons'
clutches, quieting their cries of outrage by redirecting their attention
to the compass.

"How was your visit?" Joe asked, as Seamie swiped a scone from the tray.

"Fine, but it looks like I won't be able to make Easter dinner next Sunday."

"Oh, dear. Why not?" Fiona asked, disappointed.

"I'm off traveling again."

"Did Shackleton's rich uncle die?" Joe asked. "How did he get the money together for another trip so fast?"

Seamie sat down and shook his head. "I'm afraid I'm not going to the
Antarctic. I'm going somewhere else. I made a really stupid bet and
lost. And now I'm going to Africa. To climb Kilimanjaro."

"Africa!" said Katie excitedly. "Will you bring us a tiger, Uncle Seamie?"

"A zebra?" asked Charlie.

"An ellyfint?" said Peter.

"All those and more," Seamie said.

"Hurray!" the children cheered.

"For goodness' sake, Seamie, don't tell them that," Fiona scolded. "They'll think you mean it."

"Africa?" Joe said over the din. "Cor, lad, you must have had some hand to make a bet like that."

"We weren't playing cards. Wish we had been. I might have stood a better chance. We were climbing."

"With whom?"

"Remember Albie Alden?"

"Of course," Fiona said. "Is that who you're going with?"

"No, not with him. With his mad sister."

Fiona and Joe traded glances.

"Don't even start, you two. It's not like that."

Fiona, unconvinced, raised an eyebrow.

"Willa Alden's not my type. And besides, she's got a bloke."

"Why isn't he going with her?" Fiona asked.

"He can't. He's at university. He has exams."

"What does he say about you going off round the world with his girl?" Joe asked.

"Have you met Willa?"

Joe shook his head. "I don't think so."

"If you had, you'd know that it doesn't matter what George says. Or
anyone else, for that matter. She wants to go, and she's going. She
would've gone weeks ago, but she didn't have a climbing partner. Now she
has. Me." He let out a sigh, then said, "If we do it, we'll set a
record on one of Kili's peaks. Make a bit of a name for ourselves. It
could turn out to be quite a good trip. For both of us."

"When do you leave?" Fiona asked.

"This Friday."

"That's so soon!"

"I know. I'll barely have time to get my kit together."

"Is it a tall mountain?" Fiona asked.

Seamie laughed. "Quite. The peak we're climbing is over sixteen thousand feet."

"You will be careful, won't you? You'll wear something warm?"

"You bet, Fee," he said. "I'll take my muffler and galoshes and a hot water bottle, too."

Fiona bit her lip. "I'm mothering you again, aren't I? I promised not to. You went all the way to the South Pole and back--"

"Almost all the way."

"And here I am telling you to bundle up. Sorry, luv. I can't seem to help myself."

Seamie smiled. He patted her hand. He was being a good sport. She
knew he found her worrying irritating and imagined that she was driving
him barmy. She vowed, yet again, to stop.

Fiona had no idea, none whatsoever, that he wasn't irritated with
her. Not at all. He was looking at her--as she held a tired Peter in her
lap, with Lipton tugging at Joe's blanket and Joe yelling at him and
Charlie dripping jam on the floor and Katie sloshing tea--and wishing
just for a second that he had what she had. A home. A family. A life.
Someone who loved him. Wishing to God that he wasn't about to set off on
a trek halfway around the world with a wild and beautiful girl who
loved somebody else.

India Lytton took off her eyeglasses and rubbed her temples, trying
to massage away a headache. The house was unbearably noisy. They were to
depart for Africa in five days' time, and though preparations had been
under way for weeks, there was still much to do. She was sitting in her
drawing room with Miss Lucinda Billingsley, her secretary, going over
the itinerary and packing list for the Kenya trip.

"And on the following Thursday you go to Nairobi," Miss Billingsley
said, "to the governor's mansion, where you'll stay for five days,
during which time you'll--"

They were interrupted by the sound of the doorbell. Again. A few
minutes later the butler appeared in the doorway, clearing his throat.

"Who is it, Edwards?" India asked.

"Lord Frederick's secretary, madam," the butler said.

"Show him to Lord Frederick's study, please," India said.

The doorbell sounded again. A few minutes later India saw Mary, her
maid, scurry by laden with bolts of khaki twill. She remembered that
Charlotte had gone upstairs for a fitting with Mrs. Pavlic, the
dressmaker, at nine o'clock. It was now nearly eleven.

"Mary?" India called after her.

Mary stopped in the doorway. "Yes, Lady Lytton?"

"Where is Charlotte?"

"In her room, madam. Being fitted."

"Two hours is far too long for a child of her age to be kept standing
still for a fitting. What is going on? Why hasn't Miss Gibson brought
her down yet? They should have left for the park by now."

"Lord Frederick detained Miss Lytton in her room, madam. Along with Miss Gibson."

"What? Why?" India said, immediately getting to her feet.

"He said Miss Lytton had not made enough progress in her studies."

"Thank you, Mary. Excuse me, Lucinda. That will be all for now."

"But Lady Lytton, we haven't finished..."

India didn't hear what it was they hadn't finished and she didn't
care. She was already out of the drawing room and heading for the
stairs. She was frightened for her child. The wolf had gotten into the
nursery. And it was her fault. All her fault. She should have been
paying more attention.

Charlotte's door was ajar and India could hear Freddie's voice, stern and displeased, as she hurried down the hallway.

"Major exports?" he was saying.

And then Charlotte's small voice, nervous and hesitating, "Coffee, sisal, ox hides, wool, copra--"

"Again. In descending order of value, please."

There was a pause, then, "Ox hides, coffee, sisal, wool, copra--"

"Copra before wool. Haven't I already told you that? And you forgot beeswax."

"I'm sorry, Father, I--"

"See if you can do any better with imports."

"Flour, sugar, tea..."

India pushed the door open all the way. Charlotte was standing on a
footstool in front of a cheval mirror. Her hands were clenched. Her face
was pinched and weary. She raised her eyes to India's and India could
see she was struggling to hold back tears. At her feet, Mrs. Pavlic,
India's dressmaker, was pinning a hem, not daring to take her gaze off
her work. Miss Gibson, Charlotte's governess, was standing nearby, a
pained expression on her face.

"What is going on here?" India asked. "You're tiring her. Can't you
see that? Is this really necessary?" Her voice, steady and calm,
betrayed nothing, but she could have beaten Freddie bloody, and gladly.

"It's her fault," Freddie said. "I set her some lessons. She hasn't learned them."

"I tried, Father," Charlotte said weakly.

"Trying means nothing. Any fool can try. Are you a fool?"

"No, sir," she whispered.

"Then you must succeed. Now, imports."

"Freddie..." India began, hatred blazing in her eyes.

Freddie turned his own eyes on her. The look in them cautioned her.
Not in front of the servants, it said. India knew better than to defy
him. He had ways of getting even with her. Many ways.

"Your secretary is here. He's in your study," she said tightly, hoping to draw the beast off.

Freddie rose. "Miss Gibson, I'm disappointed," he said. "I
specifically asked you to drill Charlotte on British East African
imports and exports and on Kenya's topographical features. I will ask
these same questions tomorrow and I expect to see an improvement."

"Yes, Lord Frederick," Miss Gibson replied.

When Freddie was in the hallway, India closed the door to Charlotte's room so that neither she nor the servants would hear her.

"How dare you! She is a child! Not a damned trained monkey!" she hissed.

"She is no mere child, India. She is my child, is she not? Isn't that
what you wanted her to be? She is the undersecretary for the colonies'
child. She will be expected to attend official functions in Africa and
make conversation with adults. She must impress them and she must not
embarrass me. See to it."

And with that, he left. India watched him walk away. This was the
game they played--she and Freddie. He was warning her. Reminding her
that she was not to put a foot wrong in Africa. Nor was Charlotte.
Neither was to do anything that might reflect badly on him, that might
slow his climb to Number 10. Otherwise there would be repercussions.
Small cruelties. And large ones.

India knew Charlotte would be upset, so she quickly returned to her.
"That will be all for now, Mrs. Pavlic," she said. The dressmaker
quickly gathered her things and left.

"Lady Lytton," Miss Gibson said. "She is trying hard. Very hard."

"But are you, Miss Gibson?" India snapped. "Make it a game. Make
rhymes. Make acronyms from the words. Do something. Find a way. I will
not have a repeat of what just happened. Do you understand me?"

Miss Gibson nodded and India dismissed her. She was harsh, but she
couldn't help it. She spent so much of her time trying to make sure
Freddie had no cause to reproach Charlotte. It was a life lived on
tenterhooks, and it took its toll.