The Winter Rose

by Jennifer Donnelly

  "Smashing, Freddie. Just smashing," she said acidly.

  She was clutching a glass of champagne. She downed its contents and signaled for another. A waiter refreshed her glass immediately.

  "Heard about the election," she said. "Sorry you didn't win."

  "So am I."

  "Heard about your engagement, too. Guess it never rains but it bloody pours."

  "I guess so," he said, feeling vexed. He'd hoped that chatting up Gemma would improve his mood, but so far she was only making it worse.

  "Well, it's a bugger," she said, swallowing another mouthful of cham-pagne, "but at least you're free now. And so am I."

  Freddie felt the hairs along his neck prickle. He didn't like the direction this conversation was taking. "What do you mean, Gem?"

  "You were jilted. So was I."

  "Were you? I'm dreadfully sorry to hear it."

  She cocked her head. "Are you?"

  "You don't doubt me, do you?"

  She didn't answer his question. Instead, she asked one of her own. "Remember the last time you came to call on me?"

  "I remember every time I've called on you, darling girl."

  "Remember what you said?"

  "Um ...something about my campaign?"

  "No, something about us marrying. You said you wished you could marry me. But you had to marry India because that's what your parents wanted. Well, now she's broken it off. You're a free man. We can marry. What's to stop us?"

  Freddie stalled. "Gem, you know it's not that simple."

  "What I know, Freddie, is that you're a liar." Her voice was rising. Heads were turning.

  "Gemma, I think you've had enough," Freddie said, steering her to a quiet corner.

  "Oh, I've had enough, all right. Of you. And Sid Malone. And every other bleedin' stage-door johnnie."

  "Gemma, be reasonable," Freddie hissed. "You know how I feel about you. You know I think you're the most gorgeous woman in London, but marriages are made of more than attraction. We come from such different back-grounds. We lead different lives. We've hardly anything in common, really."

  Gemma laughed. It was a harsh, ugly sound. "Oh, you're wrong there, mate," she said. "We have more in common than you think. A lot more."

  "Do we?"

  "For starters, your former flanc� And mine."

  "Gem, old girl, I really would put that drink down. You're not making a tremendous amount of sense."

  "Sid Malone is bedding India Selwyn Jones. Is that clear enough for you?"

  It was Freddie's turn to laugh. And he did. Loudly. "That's a good one. Really. I don't think I've ever heard anything so absurd in my life."

  "I told you she'd come to visit him, didn't I? And about the rubber johnnies."

  "Yes ..."

  "You didn't believe me about that at first either. But I was right. And I'm right about this, too," Gemma said. Freddie saw that her eyes didn't look unfocused any more. They were sharp with bitterness and anger.

  "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.

  Chapter 55

  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.

  Chapter 56

  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 tryi
ng to crack their heads open to let the bad memories out. She crawled across the bed and got between him and the wall.