The Wild Rose

by Jennifer Donnelly

  “What? What’s wrong?” he asked her.

  “We never will, though, will we? See Everest together.”

  He looked away. The light from the window was fading. Evening was coming down. He would have to leave now. To go to the RGS, where he was expected. And then home, where he belonged.

  As if sensing what he was feeling, what he was thinking, Willa leaned her head against his. “We have to stop this,” she said softly.

  He laughed sadly. “I would, Willa,” he said. “If only I knew how.”

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  “This will prove to be the spark in the tinderbox,” Churchill said hotly. “There can be no denying it.”

  A chorus of voices rose in enthusiastic support.

  “And we can fan the spark or douse it,” Joe said, just as vehemently. “This is the twentieth century, not the tenth. We must solve our disputes in staterooms, not on battlefields.”

  A volley of “Hear! Hear!”s went up in response.

  Joe was sitting in a private room at the Reform Club, the political headquarters of the Liberal Party. He loved the venerable old building, with its marble and its mirrors, its palazzo-like gallery and impossible crystal roof, and he usually took time to admire it when he visited, lingering in its many rooms and corridors, gazing at portraits of past Whig leaders or perusing volumes in the vast library.

  Tonight, however, he was in no mood to admire the architecture.

  Only hours ago, Archduke Franz Ferdinand, heir to the Austro-Hungarian throne, had been assassinated, together with his wife, in Sarajevo. The royal couple’s killer was a young Serbian nationalist by the name of Gavrilo Princip.

  News of the archduke’s death had sent shock waves of alarm through both the Commons and the Lords. The day had been dreadful, with the government publicly promising a calm and considered response to the calamitous event, and privately scrambling to head off an international disaster. Austria-Hungary had immediately demanded justice from Serbia, and Germany was raging, promising to rush to the defense of its wronged neighbor. Sir Edward Gray, Britain’s foreign secretary, had been quickly dispatched on a diplomatic mission of the utmost delicacy.

  And now, at eleven o’clock, the prime minister had adjourned to the Reform Club with members of his cabinet and a small group of key frontbenchers from all parties to discuss further response to Austria-Hungary, Serbia, and Germany.

  “Sarajevo is exactly what Germany has been looking for,” Churchill thundered, “and the kaiser will use it, by God. He’ll use it to march right into France and trample Belgium on the way. We must inform Germany immediately and in no uncertain terms that their interference will not be tolerated in this affair.”

  “Can we not wait until they tell us they wish to interfere?” Joe asked, to jeers and laughter.

  Winston waited until the noise died down, then he said, “The honorable member for Whitechapel is blind. He cannot see the consequences of hesitating.”

  “No, I cannot,” Joe shot back. “I can, however, see the consequences of rushing. I can see the consequences of hotheaded, blundering responses when patience and forbearance are required. I can see the consequences of forcing Germany’s hand. I can the see the bodies of hundreds of thousands of dead Englishmen.”

  “Can you? I cannot. I can only see the Hun defeated. Belgium spared. The women and children of France throwing flowers at our brave lads’ feet.”

  Joe tried to respond, but his words were drowned out by cheers and calls for God to save the King. He gave up. He recognized war fever when he saw it. He turned to Asquith, who was seated at his right, and said, “Henry, you can see what’s coming, can’t you? You must do all that you can to hold out against the dogs of war.”

  Asquith shook his head slowly. “I can control my own dogs, Joe—even that hothead Winston. What I cannot control is the pack across the channel.”

  “You think it’s unavoidable, then?”

  “I do. We will go to war. All of Europe will,” he said. “It’s no longer a case of if, but of when.”

  “I don’t believe that, Henry. I can’t.”

  Asquith sighed deeply. “Believe what you like, Joe. But be glad your sons are too young to fight and pray that it all ends quickly.”

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Max stepped outside of the elevator into the Coburg’s sumptuous lobby. He thanked the operator, smiled at a woman waiting to enter the elevator, and made his way to the front desk. His tanned, handsome face looked smooth and untroubled.

  Only because he wanted it to.

  Inside, he was jittery and rattled. His nerves were frayed. Everything was going badly. Bauer, Hoffman, Maud … and now this new catastrophe—Sarajevo.

  He had just received orders from Berlin, brought to his room hidden in a stack of freshly laundered shirts by a hotel maid on the kaiser’s payroll. They wanted as much information as he could possibly get them on British ships, planes, and cannon—and what could he get them? Not a bloody thing.

  The chain was still broken, and until he could forge a link between Gladys Bigelow and John Harris—Billy Madden’s man—he had no way of fixing it. What had that lunatic in Sarajevo been thinking? What had he and his fellow anarchists hoped to do? Set the world on fire? If that was the goal, they might well succeed.

  Lost in his thoughts, Max did not the see the woman walking toward him, her head down, until it was too late. He collided with her, knocking her hat and her purse to the ground.

  “My goodness,” he said, horrified. “How incredibly clumsy of me. I’m so sorry. Please let me get your things.” He bent down, picked up the hat and purse, and handed them to her. “Again, please accept my …” He stopped talking, stunned. He took a step back, recovered himself, and said, “Willa Alden? Is that you?”

  Willa looked up at him. “Max? Max von Brandt?”

  “Yes!” he said excitedly. “What a pleasure it is to see you.” He embraced her, then released her and looked at her, shaking his head. “I hardly recognize you in your Western outfit,” he said.

  Willa laughed. “I hardly recognize myself. You’re looking well, Max. What are you doing in London? The last time I saw you, you were headed to Lhasa.”

  “Yes, I was. I got there, too. And was granted an audience with the Dalai Lama, thanks to your influence,” he said. He then explained the falling out he’d had with his uncle, and that he’d come to London to get away from his family for a bit. “You look well, too, Willa,” he said, when he’d finished. “What are you doing here? I didn’t think anything could tempt you away from your mountain.”

  Willa told him about her father.

  “I’m so sorry,” he said, taking her hand and squeezing it.

  She squeezed back. “Thank you, Max. That’s very kind of you,” she said. “It’s still so hard for me to accept that he’s gone.”

  They talked more, and as Max looked into her large, expressive eyes and listened to her voice, so full of life, everything he’d felt for her in the Himalayas came flooding back. His heart was full of emotion. He wanted to take her in his arms, right here in the lobby, to hold her close and tell her what he felt.

  Stop it. Now. Before it goes too far, a voice inside him said. It’s too dangerous. You know that. This woman, these feelings … they’ll be the end of you.

  He ignored the voice. As Willa started to say good-bye, as she told him she must be going, he pressed her to stay.

  “But you haven’t even told me what you’re doing here,” he asked her. “What brings you to the Coburg?”

  “I’m … um … I’m meeting an old friend,” she said. “For lunch.”

  She was lying; he knew she was. She suddenly seemed agitated and nervous. Max was experienced in identifying the tells that betrayed liars—the too-quick laugh, the darting eyes, the rising voice—and Willa was exhibiting all of them.

  “Join me for a drink first,” Max said. “You must. I insist. And your friend, too. Where is she?”

  “I … I’m afraid I ca
n’t. I’m meeting her in her room, you see, and I’m late as it is.”

  “I understand,” he said. “But you must give me your address, and you must allow me to take you to supper while you’re in London.”

  Willa looked at him, her green eyes frank and appraising. “I don’t know if that’s such a good idea, Max,” she said.

  Max held his hands up, stopping her protests. “It will just be two old trekking companions catching up, that’s all. I promise you, I’ve no ulterior motives,” he said, smiling warmly.

  Willa smiled back. “All right, then,” she said. “Supper it is. I look forward to it.”

  “Tomorrow?”

  “I can’t tomorrow, I’m afraid. I already have plans. I’m meeting Thomas Lawrence.”

  “Ah, yes. The archaeologist. I’ve heard of him. Sounds like a fascinating chap. How about next week, then?”

  They set a date—Monday—and a place—Simpson’s. Then he kissed her cheek and walked her to the elevator. The smell of her, the marble smoothness of her cheek thrilled him. How did she do this to him?

  “Good-bye, Willa,” he said, working to keep his voice even. “Until Monday.”

  “Until Monday,” she said, and then the elevator doors closed.

  He stood there, watching the hand on the floor indicator until it stopped on five. Another elevator had just stopped next to this one. The doors opened. The occupants stepped out and Max quickly stepped in.

  “Hold the door!” a man bellowed from across the lobby.

  “Ignore him,” Max said, handing the operator a pound note. “Get me to five. Now.”

  The man did as he was told, whisking Max to the fifth floor in seconds. He stepped out quietly, in case she was nearby, and the elevator doors closed silently behind him. He looked left, then right, and spotted Willa walking down a long corridor. Her back was to him. He pressed himself against the elevator doors in case she turned around. But she did not. She stopped halfway down the corridor, turned to her right, and knocked twice on a door. The door opened and she stepped inside. As soon as Max heard it close and lock behind her, he made his way down the corridor.

  She had come here to be with a man. Max felt it in his bones. Why else would she have acted the way she did—so odd and skittish? Jealousy seared him. He knew it was a childish and stupid emotion, and he tried to damp it down, but he could not. He wanted her for himself and hated to think of her in the arms of another man, but at the same time, he had to know who the other man was. He reached the door that she’d entered, glanced quickly at the number, and kept on walking. To the end of the corridor and the fire stairs.

  When he was back downstairs in the lobby, he collared a bellhop, a lad he’d tipped generously on many occasions. “I need you to do me a favor,” he said quietly.

  “Anything, Mr. von Brandt.”

  “Find out the name of the man in room 524. I’ll be over there.” He pointed to a group of plush chairs.

  The bellhop nodded. A few minutes later, he was standing by Max’s chair, bending to his ear. “It’s a Mr. O. Ryan, sir,” he said. “But I think that’s a false name.”

  “Is it?”

  “Aye. Pete, my mate, gave the bloke his key. Said he knew him instantly and he wasn’t no Mr. Ryan.”

  “Who is he, then?”

  “He’s that famous explorer. The one who went to the South Pole. Finnegan’s his name. Seamus Finnegan.”

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  “I could eat every berry in Binsey, me,” Josie said, plucking another strawberry from her basket and popping it into her mouth. “Blimey, but they’re good.”

  “If you don’t stop, we’ll have nothing for our tea,” Jennie said, laughing. “We haven’t even got ourselves outside of the village yet. Wait until we get back to the cottage before you eat any more.”

  They had just come from the village square, where a market was held every Monday. They’d bought strawberries freshly picked that morning, a pint of clotted cream, rich and crumbly scones, a wedge of sharp cheddar, another of Caerphilly, a loaf of brown bread, some smoked trout, and a pound of pale yellow butter.

  Jennie knew she would only pick at the feast, for her stomach was upset most of the time now. Josie, on the other hand, would devour it. She had not been troubled by nausea in the least and was hungry all the time.

  Jennie looked at her as they walked along. Josie was the picture of health. Her cheeks were pink and her eyes were sparkling. Her belly had already begun to pop out. Jennie, whose due date was three weeks later than Josie’s, had not begun to show. She couldn’t wait until she did. It would make it more real. It would show her—and Seamie, too—that the baby was healthy and growing. She had just seen Harriet Hatcher last week and was due to see her again in a few days’ time. Harriet said that she’d heard a heartbeat and that so far all seemed well, but she’d still reminded Jennie of the delicate nature of her pregnancy and cautioned her against too much hope.

  “What shall we do today?” Josie asked, swinging her basket. “Pick flowers? Make jam? God knows we bought enough berries. I know! Let’s go to the river and dip our toes in. It’s already beastly hot and it’s only nine o’clock.”

  “The river … that sounds like a wonderful idea,” Jennie said. It was hot, far too hot for June. Jennie was perspiring heavily. Her cheeks were flushed. A wade in the river would be just the thing to cool them both off. “Let’s just put the marketing away, and then we’ll go.”

  Jennie had come up from London the day before. It was her third trip to Binsey in two months. She’d told Seamie, yet again, that she needed some quiet time—time to rest and relax. He had been agreeable to the trip and had not questioned her or protested.

  But then again, why would he? Her absence meant he could spend more time with Willa Alden.

  Jennie didn’t know where he was seeing her, or when, because he was always home at night, but she knew in her heart that he was.

  He was always preoccupied now. He spent more time in his study. And even when he was in the very same room with her, he was miles away. He was still kind to her, though—solicitous of her health, concerned about the baby, anxious that she was overtaxing herself. But he didn’t kiss her much anymore. Not like he used to. And at night, in their bed, he would turn out the light, roll on his side, and go right to sleep. They hadn’t made love in weeks. She had tried to interest him a few times, but he had said they shouldn’t. He didn’t want to do anything to hurt the baby.

  She thought of them together sometimes, Seamie and Willa—she couldn’t help it. In her mind’s eye, she saw him in bed with her, saw him kissing her and caressing her, and the images made her feel sick. There were days when she was so distraught that she vowed she would confront him. She would ask him about Willa. Ask him if they’d been together, if he was still in love with her.

  But what would she do if he said, Yes, Jennie, I am?

  And so she pretended. She pretended to him that she didn’t know. Pretended to herself that she didn’t care. That it didn’t matter. And she hoped and prayed that one day it wouldn’t. That one day soon, Willa would leave London and go back to the East. And that Seamie would come back to her, Jennie. To their home. Their life. Their bed.

  “We could go fishing,” Josie said suddenly, as they passed a small sporting goods shop. “I saw fishing rods in the coat closet.”

  Jennie laughed, grateful for Josie’s companionship, for her cheerfulness, and for the distraction Josie provided from her own dark thoughts.

  “Yes, we could,” she said. “If either one of us knew the first thing about fishing.”

  “All we would need are some worms,” Josie said. “And hooks. We could get the hooks here. Right inside this shop.”

  “And line. I think we need some sort of fishing line. I think we need …” Jennie gasped suddenly, as a pain—dark and horrible—gripped her deep inside.

  “Jennie? What is it?” Josie asked.

  “Nothing, I …” She stopped talking as another cramp, st
ronger than the one before, shuddered through her.

  She took a few more steps, and then she felt something warm and wet between her legs. It was coming out of her, seeping into her underthings. She didn’t have to see it to know what it was—blood.

  “Oh, no,” she said, in a small, scared voice. “Please, no.”

  “Jennie,” Josie said, her eyes large and worried. “What’s wrong?”

  “I think it’s the baby … I … I’m bleeding,” Jennie said. She started to cry.

  “Come on,” Josie said, taking her arm. “There’s a surgery at the edge of the village. It’s not far. Dr. Cobb’s the man’s name. I saw the shingle once. When I first got here. I made a point to remember it. Just in case something happened and I needed someone. It’s not far.”

  “No!” Jennie said, shaking Josie off. “I’m not going to any doctor.”

  “Are you mad? You need help. The baby needs help.”

  “I won’t go,” Jennie said. “He can’t know. Nobody can know.”

  “Who can’t know?” Josie asked. “The doctor?”

  “Seamie. My husband. He can’t know,” Jennie said, her voice rising. She was becoming hysterical, she couldn’t help it. “If the cramps don’t stop, if I keep bleeding,” she said wildly, “I’ll lose the baby, and him, too.”

  Josie looked at her with pity and understanding. “That’s how it is between you, eh?” she said softly.

  “Yes, that’s how it is,” Jennie said miserably. She didn’t want to be telling Josie these things, but she couldn’t seem to stop herself. “He’s got someone … another woman. And all I’ve got is this baby. It’s the only thing keeping him with me. I’m sure of it.”

  Josie nodded. “All right, luv. Calm down. Nobody’s losing anybody,” she said. Her voice was soothing, but her eyes were hard and determined. “We won’t tell Seamie about this, right? Because they’ll be nothing to tell. But we are going to see Dr. Cobb now. If you want those cramps to stop, we’ve got to see him. We’ll just nip in, you and I. He’ll check you over and give you something, and half an hour from now, you’ll be right as rain again. Here we go now, you and me … just a few more steps … come on now, duck.”