The Wild Rose

by Jennifer Donnelly

  He remembered how they’d met again. Years later in the Pickerel, a Cambridge pub. She’d challenged him to a climb—up the side of St. Botolph’s Church—and bet him he couldn’t beat her. If he won, she was to buy him a new pair of hiking boots. If she won, he was to accompany her to Africa, to Kilimanjaro. She’d won. She’d won the bet, the wager, the summit, and his heart.

  And then he remembered coming home from Africa without her. He remembered standing here, in this very room, and telling her parents what had happened. He thought they would blame him for it—he blamed himself—but they didn’t. Instead, they’d guessed his feelings for their daughter and said they were sorry that things had ended up as they had. Both the admiral and Mrs. Alden had taken Willa’s decision to travel east instead of coming home very hard.

  “How could you do it?” he asked the girl in the photograph now. “How could you not come home? Not once in all this time?”

  The admiral had loved his daughter and she had loved him. She’d looked up to him and sought his respect and admiration in everything she did. How on earth could she have ignored her mother’s and brother’s many letters of the past few weeks begging her to return to London and see her father before it was too late? How could she be so cruel? She had certainly been cruel to him, true—but he was only her brokenhearted lover; Admiral Alden was her father.

  Seamie put the photograph back, knowing he would never have an answer to that question. Willa should’ve come. She should’ve said good-bye to her father. She should’ve been here to help her mother mourn the loss of the man she’d been married to for more than forty years. She should’ve been here for Albie, her brother, who had struggled manfully to comfort his devastated mother, organize the wake and funeral service, the burial and the mourners’ luncheon, all while trying to cope with his own grief. Willa should’ve been here, but she was not.

  Seamie walked back to the coffin. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a pebble, and placed it under the admiral’s folded hands. It was one of a handful he’d brought back from the icy shores of the Weddell Sea—a place he would never have got to if it hadn’t been for this man. He swallowed hard, snapped the admiral a smart salute, then left the parlor for the drawing room.

  There, he found Jennie again, sitting on a settee. She was talking with Mrs. Alden, who was seated in the chair across from her. Seamie took the empty spot next to her on the settee. As he sat down, Jennie wordlessly reached for his hand, and her gentle touch made his grief a bit easier to bear. He thought, as he had so many times over the last few weeks, how very good to him she was and how glad he was that he had married her.

  He smiled to himself now, though, as he recalled that he’d been something other than glad when she’d told him she was pregnant. He’d been shocked, actually. In fact, he’d seen his life flash before his eyes, as men sometimes said they did when they thought they were going to die. But he’d also immediately seen what he must do. Jennie was pregnant and he had made her so; he could not possibly take off to the Antarctic and leave her in London, alone and unmarried, to bear their child. Only an utter blackguard could have done that. And so he had done the right thing, the honorable thing, the only thing—he had proposed to her.

  He’d felt afraid as he spoke the words to her, and painfully torn. By asking her to marry him, he knew he was finally saying goodbye to Willa, once and for all. But to his great surprise, Jennie’s acceptance had made him happy. The fear had left him as soon as she said yes, and in the days that followed, he’d felt only contentment and relief.

  The thing was done, his decision made. In fact, all his decisions were made. He would stay in London. He would take the RGS job and leave exploring to other men—men who were younger, or crazier. Men who had nothing but themselves to lose. He’d been mistaken, he told himself, in his belief that Willa Alden was the only woman he could ever love, and he resolved to let go of the sad, destructive love he felt for her and to embrace the love Jennie offered. He took his memories of Willa—the sound of her laughter, the way she looked when she climbed, the taste of her lips—and locked them in a strongbox in the deepest recesses of his memory—a box that was never to be opened again.

  For the first time in many years, he felt at peace with himself—calm, contented, light and easy. Not restless, not churned up. Not feeling as if he was always bleeding inside from a wound that never healed.

  Yes, he told himself now, as he squeezed Jennie’s hand, I was mistaken all those years ago. He’d found love, at last, he knew he had. And happiness, too. With the woman sitting next to him. Willa Alden belonged to the past. And the past was where she would stay. His future was with Jennie Wilcott.

  Mrs. Alden excused herself and rose to greet some distant cousins who’d just arrived, and Jennie asked Seamie if he’d like another cup of tea.

  “No, thank you, my darling,” he said. “I’ve had three already and I’m bursting. I’m going to head to the loo. I’ll be right back.”

  On his way there, he passed the parlor, where Admiral Alden lay, and as he did, he heard voices coming from it—a man’s and a woman’s. They sounded strained. They rose, then quickly fell again. He hurried past, thinking that whatever was being discussed, it was none of his business, and that whoever was doing the discussing would soon finish and leave.

  But he was wrong. As he passed the parlor again on his way back from the loo, he discovered that the voices had only grown louder. Well, one of them had—the man’s. To his surprise, he realized he knew that voice—it belonged to Albie.

  Worried for his friend, Seamie stuck his head in the doorway. He saw Albie pacing back and forth. There was another man with him—an odd-looking chap who was tall and thin and dressed in loose trousers and a red cotton jacket and had a scarf wound round his head. Seamie could only see the man’s back, but he looked dusty and rumpled, as if he’d traveled a long way. Seamie wondered where the woman was. He could’ve sworn that he’d heard a woman’s voice, too.

  The discussion continued, only it sounded more like an argument now, and Albie was doing all the talking. Seamie could see that he was angry but trying to contain himself.

  Why was this person bothering him? Now? In a time of such distress? Seamie stepped inside the room, very concerned now. As he did, the strange man took a few faltering steps toward the coffin and Seamie saw that he walked with a slight limp.

  With a sharp, gut-wrenching suddenness, Seamie realized who the man was. He tried to back up quickly, to get out of the room before he was seen, but in his haste he backed into a pedestal with a heavy Chinese vase on it. The vase teetered and, before he could catch it, fell. It hit the floor and shattered. The man turned around. Her huge green eyes, swollen with tears, widened in recognition, and pain.

  “Hello, Seamie,” Willa Alden said.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Seamie stood stock still, emotions ripping through him like a howling arctic wind. He felt sorrow and anger for what she’d done to him, to them. Pity and guilt for what had happened to her. And love. Most of all, he felt love.

  He loved her. Still. As much as he did when he’d first told her so, on top of Kilimanjaro. As much as he did when she’d told him goodbye.

  “Hello, Willa,” he said quietly, unable to take his eyes off her.

  Willa’s face worked as she looked at him; tears slipped down her cheeks. She took a few hesitant steps toward him, then stopped.

  “The prodigal has returned,” Albie said acidly, breaking the silence.

  Willa winced at that, stung. Albie looked like he didn’t care that he’d hurt her. Instead of embracing the sister he hadn’t seen for years, he stood apart from her.

  Seamie remembered that last time they were all together, in the Pick. It felt like a lifetime ago. Seamie and Albie had been drinking there. Willa and George had come in unexpectedly. She’d been dressed in men’s clothes—tweed trousers and a bulky sweater. Her wavy brown hair had been cut short, setting off her long fawn’s neck and high cheekbones. Her eyes
had been merry and challenging and full of life.

  The Willa standing before him now looked very different from the girl in his memory. This Willa looked gaunt. Haunted. Her face was tanned and weathered. Her hair, under her cap, was no longer short but gathered into a long, thick braid. She was still beautiful, though. Her eyes had lost none of their challenging intensity. Looking into them now, Seamie saw what he had always seen inside them—the same restless, questing soul that lived inside him.

  He opened his mouth, wanting to tell her what he was feeling, wanting to say something that would make things right, that would bridge the gulf between them, all three of them, but all that would come out was “Well, then. Shall we have a cup of tea?”

  “No, we shall not,” Albie said, giving him a filthy look. “This isn’t bloody Epsom and I don’t want a bloody cup of tea on the bloody lawn!” And then he stormed out, slamming the door behind him, leaving Seamie and Willa alone.

  Willa wiped the tears from her cheeks with her sleeve. “He’s so angry with me. He called me cruel,” she said in a choked voice. “I never meant to come so late. I didn’t even know my father was ill. The letters were delayed—the ones from Albie and my mother. I set out the day they arrived—six weeks ago—and got here as quickly as I could.” She shook her head. “It doesn’t matter to Albie, though. My mother’s already forgiven me, but he won’t.” She smiled sadly. “Well, at least I made the funeral,” she added. “It’s still a good-bye of sorts, isn’t it? Not the one I’d have wanted, but the one I’ve got, it seems.” She went silent for a long moment, gazing at the coffin, then said, “I never thought he’d die. Not him. He was so strong. So full of life.” And then she broke down, covering her face with her hands.

  Seamie went to her, wanting to comfort her. The man in the coffin was her beloved father, this house was her home. And yet she seemed so utterly out of place here, so totally alone. He put a tentative hand on her back. “I’m sorry, Willa,” he said. “I’m so sorry.”

  She turned to him, helpless and heartbroken. “Oh, Seamie, I wish I could have said a real good-bye,” she said, sobbing piteously. “I wish I could have told him what he meant to me and how much I loved him. If only I’d got here sooner!”

  Her grief was so deep, so harrowing, that tears came to Seamie’s eyes for her. He forgot himself entirely, folded her into his arms, and held her close. Her sorrow came out of her in great, wrenching torrents. He could feel her chest heaving, her hands clutching bunches of his shirt. He held her as she wept agonizing tears, until she was spent and limp in his arms. And then he kept holding her, overwhelmed by their shared grief, overwhelmed by her nearness. Willa—whom he thought he’d never see again, whom he’d loved and sometimes hated.

  “I miss him, Seamie. I miss him so much,” she whispered, when she could speak again.

  “I know. I miss him, too.”

  They both heard the door open at the same time, heard the voice, a woman’s, say “Seamie? Are you in here … Oh! Pardon me, I … Seamie?”

  It was Jennie.

  Bloody hell, Seamie thought. He released Willa immediately.

  “Miss Alden?” Jennie said, uncertainly, looking first at him, then at Willa.

  Seamie was mortified. He felt terrible. Jennie would be hurt when she found out that the woman he’d been holding was indeed Willa Alden. She’d be furious. He only hoped that she would not make a scene. Not here. He hoped that whatever she had to say to him could wait until they were in their carriage.

  He cleared his throat, expecting the worst. “Jennie, this is Albie’s sister and my old friend, Willa Alden,” he said. “Willa, may I introduce Jennie Finnegan, my wife.”

  He waited then, watching Jennie’s face, expecting fireworks and tears. But Jennie indulged in neither. Instead, she walked up to Willa, took her hand, and said, “My condolences, Miss Alden. My husband has told me something of the admiral, enough for me to know that he was a wonderful man. I cannot imagine your pain and am so very sorry for your loss.”

  Willa nodded, unable to speak, and wiped her face on her sleeve again. Jennie opened her purse, took out a lace-edged handkerchief, and handed it to her.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Finnegan,” Willa said. “Forgive me, please. I wish we were meeting under better circumstances.”

  “I wish it, too,” Jennie said, “and there is nothing to forgive.” She looked at Seamie. “The hearse has arrived. We are expected to leave for the abbey in ten minutes’ time.”

  “I’ll get our coats,” Seamie said.

  Jennie shook her head. “Perhaps you should stay with Miss Alden for a few more minutes.” She turned to Willa. “Pardon me, Miss Alden, but you do not look to be in a fit state to travel. May I bring you a cup of tea? And perhaps a damp facecloth?”

  Willa nodded gratefully. Jennie bustled out of the room, and Seamie watched her go, marveling at her goodness and compassion. Another woman might’ve shouted and carried on. Not Jennie. She saw the best in people always. The most noble explanation for what she’d just seen was that her husband was simply comforting a grieving friend, and that was the only explanation she could accept. Seamie was touched, and not for the first time, at her faith in him, and in most everyone else. And he resolved, then and there, to always be deserving of that faith. To never hurt the good woman he had married. Whatever he had felt moments ago belonged to the past, and that was where it would stay.

  “She is very kind and very beautiful. You are lucky,” Willa said, sitting down tiredly on an overstuffed chair.

  “Yes, I am,” Seamie replied.

  Willa looked at her hands. “I’m happy for you. Happy you found such a wonderful person,” she said quietly.

  “Are you?” he said. The words came out bitingly harsh. He hadn’t meant them to.

  Willa looked up at him, a stricken expression on her face, and the promise Seamie had made to himself, only seconds ago, was lost in a rush of emotion. “Why?” he said. “Why did you—”

  But then the undertaker’s men were suddenly in the parlor, excusing themselves and closing the coffin, and Jennie was right behind them.

  “Here you are, Miss Alden,” she said, handing Willa a facecloth and putting a cup of tea down on the table beside her.

  Seamie turned away from Willa and Jennie and feigned interest in an old sailing trophy. What am I doing? he wondered. I’m letting my feelings get the better of me. Stop it, he told himself. Now. It’s utter madness.

  “Thank you,” he heard Willa say to Jennie. “I probably need more than a cat lick with a facecloth, though. I should change my clothes before we leave for the abbey. I’ve been in them for weeks.”

  “Was the journey very arduous?” Jennie asked.

  “Yes, and very long,” Willa said.

  “Will you be going right back or staying in London for a while?” Jennie asked lightly.

  Seamie closed his eyes, willing her to say she was going back east tomorrow. For his sake. For all of their sakes.

  “I don’t know. I actually hadn’t thought about it,” Willa said, and Seamie could hear the weariness in her voice. “I left in such a hurry, you see. I’ll be here for a few weeks I should think. Perhaps a month or two. I shall have to do something to earn my fare back. I spent almost all I have getting here.”

  “Perhaps we can help you,” Jennie said. “With the fare, I mean. Seamie, darling, could we?”

  The realization of exactly what was occurring here hit him like a bolt of lightning. Oh, Jennie, he thought, you might be kind and good, but you’re no fool, are you? He’d thought that she saw only the best in everyone, and that’s why she behaved so generously to a rival. Well, he was wrong. She’d seen exactly what was going on between him and Willa, but had behaved generously anyway. He thought then that she was the most admirable human being he’d ever met, and told himself once more that he must never do anything that would hurt her.

  “Of course, Jennie,” he said. He’d gladly pay Willa’s entire fare back. First class all the way if sh
e liked. Anything. As long as she would go and leave him in peace and let him forget the feeling of her in his arms, the smell of her, the sound of her voice. As long as she’d leave him to the life he now had—a life with Jennie and their child.

  “Thank you—you are both very kind—but that won’t be necessary,” Willa said. “I’m due to publish a book of photographs with the RGS. On Everest. I brought all the photos with me. I’m handing the materials all in a bit sooner than expected, and I’m hoping Sir Clements will pay up a bit earlier. I shall also speak at the RGS about Everest.” She smiled tiredly, then added, “For a fee, of course. I brought my maps with me. Couldn’t risk leaving them in Rongbuk. They might not be there when I returned.”

  Albie stuck his head in the door. “The hearse is leaving,” he said. “Mother wants you to ride with us, Willa.” And then he was gone again.

  “So much for changing my clothes,” Willa sighed. She stood up and looked from Seamie to Jennie. An uncomfortable silence descended, and Seamie found himself wishing to be at the abbey, where they would not have to talk. Where Willa would sit with her mother and brother, and he would sit with Jennie, far away from her.

  “Well, thank you again, both of you, for your kindnesses to me,” Willa said awkwardly. “And you’ll come, won’t you? If I speak at the RGS? Please say you will.”

  Jennie, smiling brightly, said they would make every effort to be there. Then she excused herself to fetch their things.

  Willa started walking toward the door, and Seamie followed her. Before she reached it, she stopped, turned, and put a hand on his arm. “Seamie, wait. About before … I … I’m sorry. I never meant—” she began to say.

  He smiled politely, the master of his emotions again. “Don’t, Willa. There’s no need to speak of it. Once again, my condolences. I’m so sorry for your loss.”