"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."
Chapter 84
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.
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.
Chapter 85
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 d
oesn'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.
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