The Winter Rose

by Jennifer Donnelly

  "It wouldn't be ideal, of course," Fenwick said. "The tables from the library are old. The beds from the Royal Free are wooden, not the new metal ones with the sanitary finishes, I'm afraid."

  "The poor can't wait for ideal, Professor Fenwick," India said briskly. "They need care, even if it's rudimentary care, and they need it now. Old beds are better than no beds. We'll give them a good scrub with carbolic and hot water."

  Harriet raised an eyebrow. "That makes a change. Aren't you the girl who set off for Varden Street armed with a bag of porridge and pictures of smiling fruits and vegetables? What happened?"

  "Whitechapel happened," India said, laughing. "Now I think myself lucky if the chickens stay out of our examination room."

  The agent returned. India took him aside and made an offer of �800. He shook his head, told her it was far too low, but said he was duty-bound to convey it to the building's owner. Then he hurried them out, saying he had another appointment to keep.

  Fenwick watched him scuttle off, and said, "He doesn't have another appointment. He's going straight to the owner. You'll get it for nine. Mark my words."

  As India and Ella half-walked, half-ran back to Brick Lane, they tried to figure out how they would come up with the money for the monthly mortgage payments and the renovations. The �2,400 they had wouldn't cover it all. "We'll just have to take up where Wish left off and start knocking on doors," Ella said.

  "And try to get that Point Reyes land sold," India added.

  "But then there's the problem of staff," Ella said, frowning. "How will we pay them?"

  "I think I might have an answer to that," India said. "The London School of Medicine for Women. The students there are desperate for clinical training. If I talk to the dean, once we're up and running, maybe she'll send some of the students to us."

  "That's a wonderful idea!" Ella said.

  India stopped. She took Ella's hand, and squeezed it. "We can do this, Ella. We can! Maybe not the way Wish planned. Maybe not the right way..."

  "But our way," Ella said, grinning.

  They walked into the Moskowitzes' flat, excitedly calling for Ella's mother, eager to tell her the good news. As Mrs. Moskowitz joined them in the hallway, wiping her hands on her apron, Solomon informed them that India had received a package.

  "From whom, Solly?" India asked.

  The little boy shrugged. "Doesn't say."

  "It must," Ella said. "There's bound to be a return address."

  "There isn't. I looked. It came in a carriage. The driver handed it to me."

  "Maybe Freddie had second thoughts. Maybe he's returned your jewelry," Ella said.

  "Maybe you're the one sniffing the ether," India replied.

  Posy skipped into the hallway. "It's a present for India!" she sang. "Open it! Open it!"

  "I bet it's another doily," Miriam grumbled. "We only have five hundred of them."

  The door opened and Mr. Moskowitz came inside, followed by Yanki and Aaron. "What is the reason we are all standing in the hallway?" he asked.

  Mrs. Moskowitz told him as India looked at the package in her hands. Its plain brown wrapping gave no clue as to who'd sent it. She undid the twine and pulled off the paper.

  "What's Macanudo mean?" Solly asked.

  "It's a kind of cigar," Yanki answered, worldly wise.

  "India smokes cigars?" That was Posy.

  "No, you wally. It's just a box."

  "Solomon! Do not call your sister a willie!" Mrs. Moskowitz scolded.

  The children screeched laughter. "Wally, Mama! Not willie!" Solly said.

  "Don't say willie!"

  "But I didn't, Mama! You said willie."

  "Solomon Moskowitz! This is how you talk? Yanki, I blame you."

  "Me? What did I do?"

  Mrs. Moskowitz was about to tell him, but just then India lifted the cover of the cigar box and gasped so loudly that she couldn't.

  "Gott in Himmel!" Mrs. Moskowitz cried, peering into the box.

  It contained thick stacks of bank notes.

  "Count it!" Ella said.

  India shook her head. She put the box down on the hall table. She knew who had sent it and she didn't want it. Not from him.

  "I will, then," Ella said. She lifted the notes out and counted them three times with her family counting along. When she finished, she had to lean against one of the walls. "It's ten thousand pounds, India. Ten thousand bloody pounds."

  Mrs. Moskowitz, still in shock, didn't even scold her for the bloody. "To-night in Whitechapel, it is raining money," she said.

  "Look! There's a letter inside," Solly said, pointing at the box.

  Ella pulled it out. There was no salutation, no signature, just three words: For your clinic. "India, we can buy the building outright," she said. "And renovate it, too. And buy sheets and pay doctors..."

  "No, we can't," India said flatly.

  Ella looked at her. "Why not?"

  "I know who sent this. Sid Malone. This is blood money and I want no part of it. I'm going to give it back."

  "India, are you mad?"

  "It's not a fruit basket this time, Ella! It's ten thousand pounds."

  "Too bloody right it is!"

  "Each one made from opium. Or smuggling. Or prostitution. Or rob-bery. How can we start a clinic that's supposed to ameliorate human suf-fering with money made by augmenting it?"

  "Watch me."

  India gathered the money together, put it back in the box, and closed the lid.

  Ella closed her eyes. She shook her head. "You can't be this stubborn. Even you."

  "I'm right, Ella. You know I am."

  "No, not right. Righteous. There's a difference."

  India flinched, but did not back down. "I'm sorry you feel that way," she said. Then she took the money and left the Moskowitzes' flat.

  Chapter 47

  Sid was lying on his bed, eyes closed, waiting for sleep to come. Insomnia had kept him up for three days straight. He was hollowed out by exhaus-

  tion and wanted to sleep now, but the voices wouldn't let him. He heard them--coming up through the floorboards--one stubborn, one shrill, both loud. Finally, unable to tolerate them a minute longer, he got out of bed, stuffed his feet into his boots, and stomped downstairs. It was early eve-ning. The Bark was nearly empty, and he was able to spot the cause of the commotion almost immediately. It was India. She was standing at the bar arguing with Lily.

  "I know he's here. I need to see him. Will you at least give him my name?"

  "Sorry, miss. Never heard of him."

  "Never heard of him? You work for him!"

  "Sorry, miss. Will you be ordering a drink?"

  "Now see here, I insist that you stop this charade."

  "It's all right, Lily," Sid finally said.

  India turned.

  "To what do I owe the pleasure, Dr. Jones?" he asked blearily.

  India held up the cigar box. "I think you know."

  "Ah. Why don't we go to my office?"

  He led her up the stairs and into his room. When he'd closed the door behind them, he said, "You came here again. After I told you not to. And this time with ten thousand pounds in a cigar box. Are you out of your bloody mind?"

  "I took a cab. Almost all the way."

  "I don't care if you fiew. Don't do it again."

  India didn't reply. Instead, she looked around. At the iron bed with its rumpled sheet. At the clothes on the floor. The whisky bottle on the night-stand.

  "See here," she said awkwardly, thrusting the box at him, "I can't accept this. You have to take it back. You shouldn't have sent it. You know how I feel about... about..."

  "Blood money?"

  "Yes. Blood money."

  "Don't be so damned stubborn, India."

  "It's nothing to do with stubbornness. For God's sake, Sid, we both know where this money came from!"

  "Not another lecture. Please. I'm too tired to hear about people sunk deep in misery because they can't eat porridge."


  India glared at him. "It's not their misery I'm thinking of. It's yours, Sid. Yours."

  He turned away. Suddenly, he couldn't meet her eyes.

  "You want to give me this money so you can feel better about what you do. So you can stay in the life and ease your conscience at the same time. I won't let you."

  He spun around, furious. "I want to give you this money to help you! To help your patients!" he yelled.

  They were shouting at each other again. And he wanted ...he wanted to ask her to lie down with him. To put her arms around him and tell him stories. About her childhood. About her patients. About anything at all. Her touch, her voice ...they would soothe him. He could sleep, he knew he could, if only she would lie down with him.

  "Do what you like, India," he finally said. "Leave the money here. I'll just send it again tomorrow. I'll address it to Ella. I've a feeling she'll take it. She's nowhere near as pigheaded as you are."

  India angrily tossed the box onto his bed.

  Sid stared at it. "Great. You gave it back. What did that accomplish? You want to teach me a lesson? Hurt my feelings? Well, here's a bit of news for you. It doesn't hurt me. It only hurts the people who would use the clinic. Refuse the money, and you can stay warm and dry on your moral high ground. That's where you like to be, isn't it? Or take a chance. Step down into the mud with the rest of us and save a few lives."

  India looked near tears. His exhaustion had made him brutal.

  "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to..." he began.

  "There is one life," she began brokenly. "One life I would like very much to save. If I take this money I will be damning that life, not saving it. You have to get out, Sid. You have to get away from all this."

  "Christ, you never give up, do you? The bloody clinic's not even open yet and you're already trying to rehabilitate the hard cases." His eyes met hers and held them. "Don't you know that some are past saving?"

  "That's not true!" India said. He was surprised by the sudden ferocity in her voice. And then, before he knew what was happening, she had crossed the room, pulled his face to hers, and kissed him. Hard and hungrily. He closed his eyes, as wave after wave of emotion washed over him--shock, desire, love, sadness, and fear. Fear of her and of all she would ask of him. Fear for her.

  He wrapped his arms around her and crushed her to him. And then he pulled away. She looked up at him, her eyes questioning. He shook his head.

  "Why?" she asked.

  "Because you are good, India," he whispered fiercely. "So bloody good that you make me believe in better things, even when I know damn well there are none."

  "You don't want me."

  "I do want you. More than I've ever wanted any woman in me whole life. But I can't do this. I won't. It would be a mistake. A bad one. You know it would. You said as much yourself. You should go," Sid said gently. "I'll have Oz take you. He'll get you back to Brick Lane safely and--"

  "I don't want to go."

  "India..."

  "I ...I love you, Sid."

  It was quiet in the room. Sid heard a coal tumble in the grate, a dog barking in the night, and his own heart thumping.

  "What did you say?" he finally asked.

  "I said that I love you."

  "You don't."

  "Actually, I do." She looked down at her hands, overcome by emotion.

  Sid tried to speak, but found he couldn't. No woman had ever meant anything to him. This one did. She meant the world. Her love was everything he wanted and everything he feared.

  "It would be a disaster," he said at last. "You know that, don't you?"

  She looked at him and he saw the pain in her eyes. "I can understand if you don't love me and I will accept it," she said. "But if you do, please don't make me beg you."

  He pulled her to him again and held her tightly. "I do love you, India," he said. "God, how I love you."

  They stayed that way for some time, and then he felt her lips on his cheek, his mouth. Her kisses were passionate and fierce. His own were bruising. He wanted her. He wanted her naked in his arms, so he could feel her body next to his, feel the crashing of her heart. Here. Now. Without preliminaries. It was darkness, this love, he knew it was. It was sorrow and damnation, and it would crush them both. There was no road back from it, but that was all right now. He no longer wanted one.

  His hands went to her blouse. He pulled it off her, and then her camisole. The firelight flickered and danced over her skin, casting shad-ows. He kissed the graceful curve of her shoulder, the delicate hollow below her throat. Her breasts were small and delicate, and barely filled his hands.

  "I'm not very good at this," she said. "Not without a drink, I'm afraid.

  I'm...I'm cold."

  "I'll warm you."

  "Not that kind of cold. I mean..."

  "I know what you mean. You're wrong."

  He fumbled at the waistband of her skirt, pushed it down, and then her petticoats. He unlaced her boots and pulled her stockings off. When she was naked, he gazed at her, drinking her in. She colored under his gaze and tried to cover herself with her skirt.

  "Don't," he said, taking it from her. "I want to see you, India. You're beautiful. So beautiful. Don't you know that?"

  He pulled her down to him on the bed. He kissed her lips, wanting the sweet softness of her. Wanting only this night. This room. Her. He moved his mouth to her breasts. He kissed her smooth, flat belly. He bit the curve of her hipbone, found she was ticklish there, and did it again until she laughed out loud and begged him to stop. He wanted that so much, the sound of her laughter. The sound of her pleasure, her happiness. He bit her again and again, and when she was helpless with laughter he parted her legs and kissed the soft place between them, lapping at her until she was breathless and wet.

  "Make love to me, Sid," she whispered. "I want you."

  He pushed himself inside her gently, caressing her until she opened her-self to him. Then he gripped her bottom and rocked into her, aching with his need of her. Her eyes met his, searching. And then she closed them and moved with him. Slowly at first.

  "Oh, that's lovely," she murmured. "So lovely..." She sought his mouth, tangled her fingers in his hair. He felt her movements grow stronger, more urgent, felt her body grow warm and slick with sweat. Just as he thought he couldn't hold himself back another second, he felt her shudder and cry his name. He closed his eyes and let himself come, lost in the feel and sound and smell of her. When it was over, he did not let go of her, but held her close.

  "I love you, Sid. I love you so," she murmured, blinking up at him.

  She closed her eyes and nestled against him, her head upon his arm. He smoothed a damp curl off her cheek. After a few minutes, her breathing slowed and evened, and she drifted off to sleep. Sid stared into the firelight for some time. He would stay with her here through the night and when morning broke, he would love her again and then take her somewhere. Somewhere bright and beautiful. To the coast. To the sea.

  India stirred in his arms, sighing softly. Sid looked down at her, at her beautiful face, and wondered if he hadn't just committed the worst crime of his entire sorry life.

  PART TWO

  London, September 1900

  Chapter 48

  "Gentlemen, gentlemen! Is this Utopia? Or is this Whitechapel?" Freddie Lytton shouted, addressing the men--dockers, factory workers, builders--packed thickly into the smoky Ten Bells pub. "We may wish for an ideal world, but we certainly don't live in one. We live in the real world, where we must face real facts, make real choices. Vote for Labour and you've thrown your vote away. The Labour Party does not stand a chance. Any sane man can see this. We must all of us stand together and defeat the real enemy--Salisbury's Tories!"

  Men nodded gravely from their chairs or stood stroking their chins. Scattered cheers went up. Before they had died down, Joe Bristow attacked.

  "They said the same to the matchgirls in eighty-eight," he called out from across the room. "The politicians, the press, the factory owners--all the powers t
hat be: Labour doesn't stand a chance. They said it right before the girls struck for safer working conditions--and won. They said it to the dockers in eighty-nine. Right before they struck for the docker's tanner-- and won. Don't hope, they told them. Don't dare. Don't dream. I'm telling you not to listen to them. I'm telling you that you can make a change. I'm telling you to send a message to Westminster and to the world. I'm telling you to hope. To dare. To believe. Believe in the Labour Party. Believe in me. But, more important, believe in yourselves."