The Tea Rose

by Jennifer Donnelly

  Roddy had come from work three days ago with the news. River police had pulled a body from the Thames – the corpse of a young man, about sixteen years old. He’d gone to the morgue to identify the body – a task he’d said was nearly impossible in light of the time it had spent in the river. The face was gone. What hair remained was red. A search of the corpse’s clothing confirmed the identity. In one of the pockets was a battered silver watch with the inscription: “Sean Joseph Finnegan, Cork, 1850.” Her grandfather’s name. Her brother’s watch. She’d known immediately what it meant when Roddy placed it in her hands.

  She closed her eyes now, despair descending, and wished herself in the ground with them. Day after day after day, the black, suffocating grief engulfed her and her longing for her family, and Joe – always Joe – was unbearable. Mornings, she would sit and stare into space and wonder how she would make it through the day. She had wanted to end her life the night Joe told her he was going to marry Millie. And again, right after her mother’s death, unable to face the loss of her mam and the horrible manner in which she died, she wished herself dead. There were moments now, even as she tried to pull herself together for Seamie’s sake, that she still contemplated taking her life, for there was never any relief from her pain.

  To comfort herself, she tried to picture her mam’s face as she wanted to remember her – smiling and laughing. But she couldn’t. Those images were gone. All that came was the memory of her mother lying in the street, struggling to live as the blood poured from her side. Fiona had heard her cries and had come stumbling out of their room after her. She’d dropped to her knees beside her, pressed her hands over the wound and screamed for someone to help them. People had come, they’d done what they could, but Jack had pierced her mother’s heart. The end had come quickly at least. Her mother had touched her face with trembling fingers, smearing blood across her cheek, and then her body had gone slack, and her eyes had turned dull and empty.

  Fiona didn’t want to remember that night, but it kept playing in her head over and over and over again. She kept seeing her mother’s body in the street, kept hearing the baby wailing and Seamie shrieking from a policeman’s arms.

  And Charlie … she kept seeing him as he ran into Adams Court, shouting and pushing people aside. She saw his face, uncomprehending, as he gazed upon their mother. She’d called to him and he turned to her, but his eyes were wild and he seemed not to know her. He had picked their mother’s body up off the street and held her tightly, moaning and keening. He refused to let the officers take her away from him and fought them off until three of them finally overpowered him. When they released him, he tried to pull the body out of the coroner’s wagon. “Stop it, Charlie!” Fiona had screamed at him. “Stop it, please!” But he’d didn’t stop. He dashed himself against the wagon as it drove off, and then he ran. Out of Adams Court and into the night. No one knew where he’d gone. Roddy had searched for him for days, then weeks. And then the body had been found. There was no money on it and the skull had been fractured. Roddy guessed that in his shock and grief, Charlie had wandered down a dangerous street and become the victim of thieves – coshed, robbed, and pushed into the river. Fiona was thankful they’d missed his watch, thankful she had something with which to remember her brother.

  Up until the day Charlie’s body was found, Fiona had clung tightly to the hope that he was still alive. She grieved for him deeply. She missed his cocky swagger, his grin, all his daft jokes. She missed his strength and wished to God she had him there to lean on. It was just she and Seamie now. Poor little Eileen had survived her mother by a mere five days before the infection in her chest killed her.

  Fiona doubted that she or Seamie would have survived at all if it hadn’t been for their Uncle Roddy. He’d taken them in right after the murder. He’d lied to the parish authorities, telling them that he was a blood relative, their mother’s cousin, and demanding they all be released into his care. Fiona had been in no condition to look after Seamie and Eileen and he feared that the authorities would put them all in the workhouse.

  He had given them a home, fed them, cared for them, tried his best to ease their sorrow. On days when Fiona found it difficult even to get out of bed, he would take her hand and tell her, “One foot in front of the other, lass, that’s the only way.” And that was how she existed, numbly plodding along, unable to tell from one minute to the next if she wanted to live or die.

  For most of her seventeen years, Fiona had embraced life. Despite all of its struggles, there had always been something to look forward to – evenings by the fire with her family, walks with Joe, the life they’d planned together. But now her love of life and the hope with which she greeted her future were gone. Now she lived in a drab netherworld, adrift in a limbo. Unable to walk away from life because of her little brother’s dependence on her, but unable to engage in it because of the crushing losses that weighed so heavily upon her, she merely endured.

  She no longer found any purpose in her life, no longer carried any dreams in her heart. Her father’s words, words that had kept her going through many a hard time, held no meaning for her now. “Got to have your dreams, lass. Day you lose them, you might as well take yourself down to the undertaker’s, for you’re as good as dead.” She looked around herself now at all the graves, thought about her stillborn dreams, and knew she was as good as dead.

  A chill wind whipped through the cemetery, rattling the bare-branched trees. Fall had given way to winter. Christmas and New Year’s had come and gone; she’d been oblivious to them. It was already the middle of January, 1889. The papers all had a new story now – Jack the Ripper was dead, they said. He’d committed suicide. A body had been pulled from the river at the end of December. His name was Montague Druitt, a young London barrister. Druitt had a family history of mental instability and those close to him said they’d seen signs of erratic behavior. He’d left a note saying it would be better for him to die. His landlady had told police he kept strange hours, that he was often absent at night, only coming home after dawn. The press speculated that Druitt, plagued by horror and remorse after the Adams Court murders, drowned himself. His death gave Fiona no joy. She only wished he’d taken his life before he killed her mother.

  The winter wind brought snowflakes with it. She stood up. The air was turning bitter. A thaw had enabled the undertakers to bury her brother. She thought about him, so full of mischief, now buried in the hard ground, and felt tears threaten again. She searched her mind for some small comfort, some reason why she had lost her family, Joe, everything she had, as she did a hundred times a day, every day. As always, she found none. She walked out of the graveyard and headed for Roddy’s flat, a sad, pale figure against the bleak winter sky.

  Chapter 20

  During the early months of 1889, Seamie Finnegan shot up like a weed. His legs grew long and stalky and his body lost some of its puppy fat. He’d turned five in December and was fast leaving babyhood behind. He had the astonishing resilience of the very young and this, coupled with Fiona’s loving presence, helped him cope with the loss of his mother, his beloved brother, and his baby sister. He was a bright, sensitive child, almost always cheerful, and he was devoted to his sister, very finely tuned to her moods. When he sensed she was slipping away from him into that dark, quiet place inside herself where she sometimes went, he would clown for her until he got her to smile, or, if she was beyond smiling, he would climb into her lap and let her wrap her arms around him until she was better.

  And Fiona was every bit as devoted to him. He was all she had and she was fiercely protective of him, unwilling to let him out of her sight, only surrendering him to Roddy or Roddy’s fiancée, Grace Emmett. His freckled face, his sweet, childish voice, were her only comforts.

  She looked at him now as she prepared his tea. He sat at the table, a fork in his fist, eager for his meal. She put his food before him and he tucked into it hungrily. Bread, boiled potatoes, and a small kipper. It’s not enough for a growing child, she thoug
ht; he should have milk and meat and green vegetables. But it was all Roddy could do. He was supporting the two of them and his wages were stretched thin. He’d bought Seamie a warm sweater just the other day to protect him against the cold March weather, and he’d even made her a birthday present of a new shawl last week, when she’d turned eighteen.

  Fiona felt grateful to him for all he’d done for them. She also felt guilty. She saw the way he and Grace looked at each other. She knew they would be married by now and living under the same roof if it weren’t for her and Seamie. They’d been living with him since November. In recent weeks, she’d gained a bit of weight and lost the sunken, hollow-eyed look she’d had. She could manage the marketing, the cleaning, and the laundry now. It was time for her to go back to work and find a room for herself and Seamie. Roddy couldn’t take care of them forever.

  But the very idea of finding her own place overwhelmed her. She had no money. What was left of the twenty pounds from Joe had gone to pay for caskets and funerals. The landlord had sold the contents of their flat – their few bits of furniture, their dishes, her mother’s clothing, even the navy gloves Charlie had brought for her, and kept the proceeds in lieu of the rent that was owed him. Roddy had managed to salvage one thing from the sale – a cigar box with her parents’ wedding rings, photos, and documents in it. She had no job, either. She’d seen a friend from Burton Tea on the street who told her that her place there had been filled. Ralph Jackson had found someone new, too. She could start hunting, but it might take weeks to find something, and even when she did, it would be another month before she would have enough money to rent a room.

  She had hoped for help from her Uncle Michael. Her mother had written him after her father’s funeral, but received no reply. Maybe he hadn’t gotten the letter. Mail often went astray from one end of London to the other, never mind from London to New York. She would write again.

  A shout from downstairs took her out of her worries. It was Mrs. Norman, the landlady. She went to the landing. Mrs. Norman was standing at the bottom of the stairs, a letter in her hand. “For you, luv. Just came,” she said, waving the envelope impatiently.

  Fiona went downstairs for the letter, thanked her, then disappointed her by returning to Roddy’s flat to read it in privacy. The letter was from Burton Tea. It was addressed to her mother. She could see from the crossed-out writing on the front that it had been sent to Montague Street, then Adams Court, and now here. She opened it. Meticulous copperplate regretfully informed Mrs. Patrick Finnegan that her application to the Burton Tea Company for compensatory monies had been denied. Because her husband’s death was due to the negligence of a fellow worker, David O’Neill, and not the Burton Tea Company per se, no award would be made. She was advised to contact a Mr. J. Dawson, Labor Clerk, with any further inquiries.

  Fiona folded the letter back into its envelope. She’d forgotten all about her mother’s trip to Burton’s. She tried to recall how much she’d asked for. Ten pounds? Twenty? That was nothing to a company the size of Burton Tea. That William Burton wouldn’t even give a few quid to the family of a man who’d died on his premises seemed very unfair. Something flared briefly inside of her, but was doused just as quickly. Unfair or not, she told herself, there’s nothing you can do about it. Resigned, she placed the letter in her cigar box and sat down to her tea.

  She watched her brother as he pushed his crust of bread around his plate, sweeping up the last bits of his fish. Me and Seamie, she thought, we wouldn’t even be where we are right now if it wasn’t for William Burton and his bloody warehouse. Me da would still be alive, we’d all be back on Montague Street. I wonder what he ate for his tea today? Roast beef maybe, a nice chop? I bet it wasn’t a bleeding penny kipper.

  Like embers fanned by a breath, the smoldering indignation she’d felt sparked and struggled into a flame. Slowly, so slowly that she was barely aware of it happening, her resignation flared into anger. That money could’ve helped them so much when they’d moved to Adams Court, when they didn’t have enough for good food or warm clothes. When she didn’t even have the pennies needed to buy paper to write to Joe. And it could help Seamie and her now. It could provide the boost they needed to move out of Roddy’s flat. To make a new start. The bastard, she fumed. She was furious for the first time in a long time and she relished it. It made a change from grief. It strengthened her and brought back a little of her old determination.

  “Finish your tea, Seamie,” she said suddenly, getting up from the table.

  He gave her a puzzled look.

  “Come on, finish up. You’re going to see your Auntie Grace for a little while.”

  Seamie obeyed his sister, stuffing the rest of his bread into his mouth. She bundled him up, put her own jacket on, and took him to Grace’s. She told her she had an errand, that she’d be gone for an hour or two and asked if she’d mind watching Seamie. Grace, surprised at Fiona’s sudden animation, said of course not. And then she was off, heading west toward the City. She wasn’t entirely certain where she was going, but she would ask until she found Mincing Lane. It was late in the day, nearly five-thirty. Burton might be gone by the time she got there, but he might not.

  That money’s ours, she thought, striding briskly through the dark streets, her skirts swishing around her legs. Mine and Seamie’s. If William Burton thinks my da’s life isn’t even worth ten pounds, he’s got another thing coming.

  After forty minutes’ walk and a few wrong turns, Fiona found 20 Mincing Lane, home of Burton Tea. The offices occupied a magnificent limestone building enclosed by an iron fence. Just inside was a small glassed-in office where the porter was enjoying a mug of hot tea and a pork pie.

  “We’re closed, miss,” he said. “See the sign? Visitors’ hours from nine to six.”

  “I ’ave to see Mr. Burton, sir,” Fiona said, leveling her chin. “It’s urgent.”

  “Do you ’ave an appointment?”

  “No, I don’t, but –”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Fiona Finnegan.”

  “What do you want to see the guv about?”

  “About a claim my mother made,” she replied, pulling the envelope from her skirt pocket. “I ’ave a letter here saying that it’s null and … and … void. ’Ere … see? But that’s not fair, sir. Me da was killed at Mr. Burton’s wharf. There’s got to be a mistake.”

  The porter sighed, as if he were used to this sort of thing. “You’ll ’ave to see Mr. Dawson. Come by tomorrow and ’is secretary will give you an appointment.”

  “But, sir, that won’t do me any good. If I could just see Mr. Burton –”

  “Listen, dearie, the guv’s own mother couldn’t get in to see ’im. ’E’s a very busy man. Now be a good lass and do like I told you. Come back tomorrow.” He returned to his pork pie.

  Fiona opened her mouth to speak, then shut it again. Arguing with this man was a waste of time. He was not going to let her in.

  She walked down the steps. Outside the gate, she turned to cast one last reproachful glance at him and saw that he was getting up from his chair. He left his office and walked down the hallway.

  He’s going to the loo, she thought. She stood at the gate biting her lip. She didn’t want to see a clerk. She had to see Burton himself. She needed that money. On an impulse, she dashed back up the steps, sped past the porter’s desk, and made for the stairway ahead of her. She ran upstairs to the first floor. The vestibule was dark. She pushed through the glass doors that led off it and found herself in an even darker hallway. Her footsteps echoed on the polished wood floor. Frosted glass doors lined both sides of the hallway. They all looked the same. She tried a doorknob; it was locked. This can’t be where Burton works, she reasoned. It’s not grand enough.

  She headed for the second floor. This looked more promising. On the left side of the hallway were four doors, solid wood with brass nameplates, all closed. On the right was one massive double door. It was open. She tiptoed up to it and peered inside. She saw
a large room with an enormous desk in the middle of it. Behind the desk, from floor to ceiling, were rows of wooden filing cabinets. Three of the files, instead of being pull-out drawers, opened on a hinge, like a door. Behind the fake file door was a wall safe. On the desk was a brass lamp with a green glass shade. The light it provided was scant, but enough to illuminate the banded piles of notes on top of the desk. Fiona’s breath caught; she had never seen so much money. Surely Burton wouldn’t refuse her ten pounds.

  To the right of the desk was another door. It was halfway open. Someone was in there; there was a light on. She took a hesitant step forward, wondering if she was out of her mind. She was trespassing. If he came out right now and saw her, he’d assume she was trying to steal his money and have her arrested. Glancing at the piles again, she almost lost her nerve.

  Just as she passed the desk, she heard voices coming from the inner office. Burton was not alone. Should she still knock on the door? She heard two men laughing, heard them resume their conversation, then heard one of them mention a name she recognized: Davey O’Neill. Curious, she took a step closer.

  “O’Neill? ’E’s be’aving ’imself. Giving me names. Just like you told ’im to.”

  “Good, Bowler; I’m glad to hear it. That lad’s been invaluable. Here’s another five pounds for him. What has he told you about Tillet?”

  Bowler. Bowler Sheehan. Fiona’s blood ran cold. Her curiosity about Davey O’Neill was forgotten, along with her desire to plead for ten pounds. She had to get out of there. Now. Sheehan was a bad bloke. A very bad bloke. Whatever he was doing here, he wasn’t collecting for charity. She’d made a huge mistake sneaking into Burton’s office and if she got caught she’d pay for it. Dearly. She took a step back, then another. Quiet, be quiet, she told herself. Nice and slow. Don’t rush. She kept her eyes on the inner office door. She could still hear them speaking.