The Tea Rose

by Jennifer Donnelly

  “Didn’t know you were married, Bowler,” Roddy said, picking up the half-eaten steak and tossing it to the dog. “Your wife’s quite a looker.” The animal swallowed the chunk of meat whole, then let out a loud, rumbling fart. Roddy heard snickering from behind him.

  “Shut it!” Bowler barked. He glared at Roddy. “What do you want?”

  “Your man at the bar had a tussle with a lad by the name of Joe Bristow the other night.”

  “You’re joking, right? Don’t tell me you’re ’ere over two lads scrapping.”

  “I’m here over a lass. Fiona Finnegan. Bristow says your gorilla wanted to know her whereabouts. I want to know why.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Constable,” Bowler said, in a highly aggrieved tone. “And what’s more, I think you’ve quite a nerve barging in ’ere, ruining a man’s dinner, accusing ’im of crimes ’e didn’t commit…”

  Roddy sighed, then steeled himself to listen as Bowler ranted on, feigning ignorance, innocence, outrage – the usual. When he finally ran out of steam, Roddy said, “If that’s the way you want it, Bowler, fine. You know I’ve always believed in live and let live. A criminal like you wants to take money off another criminal like Denny Quinn, that’s all right by me. As long as you’re not bothering good working people, I couldn’t give a tinker’s piss. But I’m warning you, that’ll change. Tell me what I want to know or I’ll make t’ings hard for you. You leave your house in the morning, I’ll be there. You go to a pub, a whorehouse, a dog fight, cock fight, rat fight – I’ll be right behind you, stuck to your arse like a shitty nappy. You even try to –”

  “All right! All right!” Bowler said. “Christ, I’m sorry the Ripper murders ever stopped. I liked it better when Jack ’ad you lot running about with your skirts over your ’eads playing blindman’s buff. Kept you out of me ’air.”

  “What about Fiona?” Roddy demanded.

  Bowler took a swallow of beer, then said, “Your Miss Finnegan stole five ’undred quid from an associate of mine. ’E wants it back. ’E doesn’t want no trouble. ’E just wants me to find ’er and get it back.”

  “And who might this associate be, Bowler?”

  “That I can’t tell you. Suffice it to say ’e’s a toff and ’e don’t want ’is business known.”

  Roddy nodded. “Fine,” he said, standing up, “we’ll do it the hard way. When you’re tired of lying to me, you let me know.”

  “Aw, for God’s sake, O’Meara, I can’t bloody win with you! You want the truth, I tell you the truth. And then you don’t believe me!”

  “Bowler, you wouldn’t know the truth if it bent you over and fucked you up the arse. I’ve known that girl me whole life. Helped raise her, I did. And I know she’s as likely to steal five hundred pounds as you are to be knighted for good works. I’ll be seeing you.”

  Roddy left Bowler muttering about the fact that England was still a free country the last time he checked. No one could push him around. He had rights, by Christ.

  When Roddy reached the door, he turned and said, “Wherever she is, Bowler, not’ing better happen to her. Something does, it’s you I’m coming after.”

  “That’s bloody great! I don’t know where the ’ell she is any more than you do! Anything else you want to ’old me responsible for? The Trafalgar Riots? The ’Undred Years’ War?”

  Outside the Taj, Roddy took his cap off and ran a hand through his hair. He was frustrated and worried. Always worried. He was no wiser now as to Fiona’s whereabouts than before his interview with Sheehan. He’d fix that bleeder, though, for telling him tales and wasting his time. He’d gone to see him on his own time today, but the next time he paid him a call, it would be on the force’s time. He shivered, chilled by a cold wind blowing in off the river.

  He hoped Fiona was warm enough, wherever she was. Seamie, too. The nipper’s mittens were worn out. He’d bought him a new pair the night they’d left. He wondered if he’d ever get the chance to give them to him. He pulled his collar up around his neck, jammed his hands in his pockets, and started for home.

  Chapter 30

  Fiona lowered her head and wept. She was standing at the entrance to the cemetery where her mother, father, brother, and sister lay. The gate was padlocked. She’d tried to get in, rattling the bars until their hinges squealed and her palms were raw, but to no avail. She wanted to sit with her family. She wanted to tell them her troubles and know they were listening even if they couldn’t reply. She lifted the padlock and crashed it down against the lock’s faceplate, over and over, fighting back tears.

  A voice called her name, a voice with a soft Irish lilt. “Fiona, lass …”

  She dropped the padlock; it clattered against the gate. Her father was standing on the other side, only inches away. He had his jacket and cap on, and his grappling hook slung over his shoulder, just as if he were coming home from the docks. “Da!” she cried, unable to believe her eyes. “Oh, Da …” She thrust her hand through the bars. He caught it in his own and held it to his cheek.

  “Da, where have you been? I missed you so.” She was crying now. “You’ll come out of there now, won’t you? You’ll come home and bring Mam and Charlie and the baby …”

  He shook his head. “I can’t, luv. You know I can’t.”

  “But why? I need you, Da.” She tugged on his hand. “Please …”

  “Take this, Fiona,” he said, and she felt him put something into her hand. “You have to use what you know.”

  She looked down at what he’d given her. It was a tiny plant. No more than four inches high. A slender, fragile stalk with a few glossy green leaves on it. She raised her eyes to his, confused. “What is this?” she asked him.

  “What you know.”

  “What I know? Da, that doesn’t make any sense … I’ve never seen a plant like this …”

  He released her hand and took a step backward.

  “Where are you going? Da, wait!” She cradled the little plant to her chest with one hand, the other clutched at her father. “No, don’t go. Please, don’t go. Come back …”

  “Care for it and it’ll grow, lass. So big, you can’t imagine.” He waved at her, a bittersweet smile on his face, then walked away, fading into the gloom of the cemetery.

  “No!” she sobbed. “Come back! Please, please, come back!” She shook the gate with all her might, but it held fast. She crumpled against it and gave over to her grief.

  As she wept, she heard the sound of horses galloping. She looked up and saw a carriage approaching. It was sleek and black, polished to a glossy sheen. Flames flickered crazily in the lanterns on its sides. Two stallions, each the color of night, pulled it. Blue sparks flew from their hooves as they crashed over the cobbles. It looked as the devil’s carriage might look if he decided to go for a midnight ride. What she saw next convinced her that it was.

  Frances Sawyer, or what was left of her, held the reins. Her face was gone; Jack had cut it away. Her skull gleamed whitely in the gaslight, the scraped bone slick with blood. Her tattered dress hung about her mutilated body in blood-soaked shreds. Fiona could see her ribs fold and crease, accordion-like, and the flayed bones of her arms work as she brought the horses up sharply. She turned her head, the edges of her severed throat sliding wetly over each other, and stared from empty black eye sockets. “ ’E’s ’ere,” she said, her voice thick and gurgling.

  Flattened against the gate, unable to move or scream, Fiona forced her eyes from the coach’s driver to its occupant. The window was open, but she could only see his silhouette – top-hatted, hands crossed on his walking stick. Still… she knew who it was. Jack. The dark man. His fingers curled around the sill. The door was flung open and tea leaves poured forth in a torrent. He stepped out, touched the brim of his hat in a mock salute, and grinned, revealing pointed white teeth clotted with blood. It wasn’t Jack. It was William Burton. And he was holding a knife.

  He lunged at her, his right arm raised. The blade made a loud, sucking thuk as it
sank hilt-deep into her chest. She screamed at the pain. He pulled the knife out, licked the wet crimson dripping from it, and said, “An Assam. Has to be. Too strong for a Darjeeling. Too rich for a Dooars.” He raised the knife again, but her paralysis had broken. She flailed at him madly.

  “Stop that, Fiona!” he cried, fending off her hands. “Jaysus!”

  “I’ll kill you!” she shrieked, tearing at his face.

  “Ow! You little … that hurt!” He took her by the wrists and shook her. “Wake up, you daft lass! It’s me, Michael! Not the bloody bogeyman!”

  Fiona woke with a start. She opened her eyes. An angry, sleep-swollen face was staring back at her. Her uncle’s. Not Burton’s. She looked around, her heart still hammering. She was sitting in a chair in Michael’s parlor. The shop’s ledger and a copy of the London Times were at her feet. She was in New York, not London. She was safe, she was, she told herself. But she had to look down at her chest to make sure there was no knife sticking out of it before she believed it.

  “Uncle Michael… I’m sorry … I was dreaming …” she stammered.

  He released her. “What the hell’s the matter with you?” he muttered. “Screeching and carrying on … scared the bejaysus out of me. T’ought someone was killing you.”

  “So did I.”

  “What are you doing out here anyway? Why aren’t you in bed?”

  “I was going over the books. For the shop. I guess I fell asleep.”

  He nodded. “Well… as long as you’re all right now,” he said gruffly.

  “I am,” she said, but then a violent fit of trembling overtook her. He saw it and told her to stay put. Still grumbling, he padded off to the kitchen. Fiona heard water running. Blimey, what a nightmare, she thought. The worst one yet. She covered her face and moaned softly at the memory of Jack. Of Burton. They had melded in the nightmare, become one and the same man, a hellish amalgamation of her greatest fears. A bogeyman, all right. The King of the Bogeymen.

  She leaned forward in her chair to collect her papers, determined to throw the dream off. As she reached for the Times, lying open on the floor, her eyes came to rest on the article she’d been reading. “Lucrative Public Offering Engineered for Tea Merchant,” the headline said, and under it, “Burton Tea Embraces Ambitious Plans for Expansion.”

  That’s what’s done it, she realized. She’d bought a copy of the paper earlier in the day, as she often did, hoping for some news of the docker’s union, and instead she’d seen the Burton article. Although she didn’t completely understand what the stock market was, or how it worked, she remembered her father talking about the offering, citing it as one of the reasons Burton would never willingly consent to a raise for his workers. She knew that the offering represented a huge triumph for him, and indeed the article detailed how interest in the shares had surpassed his expectations. It went on to say that Burton planned to use the monies raised to modernize his London operation and purchase his own tea garden in India – moves that would allow him to land and package tea more efficiently. “It is my aim, over the next two years, to both reduce the cost of my tea to the public and provide a handsome return on my shareholders’ investments,” he was quoted as saying. And though, as the reporter noted, he would now have to answer to shareholders, control of the company remained with him, as he had retained fifty-one percent of the one and a half million shares issued.

  Knowing that William Burton prospered when her father, her entire family save for Seamie, lay in the cold ground, cut Fiona as deeply and painfully as the knife in her nightmare had. Before reading the article, she’d gone over the shop’s ledger and had been pleased to find that its earnings were higher than she’d thought, high enough to allow her to begin to pay herself back the money she’d used to cover her uncle’s debt. That knowledge had given her a wonderful sense of security. But now, in the aftermath of the nightmare, the shop’s earnings seemed paltry. Laughable, even. They were nothing compared to Burton’s wealth.

  As the Britannic had left the shores of England, she had vowed revenge on Burton. Fine words, she thought. And words were all they were. It was now the first week of May; she had been in New York for over a month and still had no idea how she would carry out that revenge. Or finance it. She knew she would need a lot of money to strike at someone as powerful as Burton. But as yet she had no idea of how to make that money. Will had told her she should build on what she knew. The trouble was, nothing she knew would make her rich. Oats and biscuits and apples were not silver or oil. She needed to find something, something that would make her fortune … but what?

  Michael came into the parlor carrying a cup of tea. “Here, drink this,” he said. His gesture surprised Fiona. She wasn’t used to displays of concern from him, but she accepted it gratefully. He sat with her for a few more minutes, yawning and rubbing his face. Looking at him, she was again amazed by his resemblance to her father. An image, blurry and fleeting, flashed into her mind – her father as he’d looked in her nightmare. He was trying to give her something, trying to tell her something, but she couldn’t remember what. And then Michael said he was going to bed and that he hoped that the bogeyman had made his one and only appearance for the night, and as quickly as the image had come, it was gone again. He advised her to get some rest, too.

  “I don’t think I could sleep if I tried, Uncle Michael,” she said, standing. She knew if she did go to bed, she’d only lie awake reliving her nightmare. Work was the only antidote to her fears, the only thing in which she could lose herself. She reached for the apron she’d thrown over the back of her chair earlier and tied it around her waist.

  “It’s midnight,” Michael said. “Where the divil are you going?”

  “Downstairs. To get a jump on the day.”

  “Wait till sunup at least. You shouldn’t be down there alone.”

  Fiona gave him a tired smile. Alone? With all those ghosts and memories? “I won’t be, Uncle Michael,” she said. “I’ve got the bogeyman for company. And all his friends, too.”

  Often, on nights when he couldn’t sleep, Nicholas Soames liked to walk Manhattan’s streets. There was a calm, peaceful feeling to be had after dark. A sense of the monster at rest. The city seemed to belong to him and him alone at such times. The sidewalks were empty. Shops were shuttered. Only the pubs and restaurants were lit up. He could actually stop and look at things, if he liked. There were few people about to jostle him, and no one to mutter if he paused to investigate an interesting building or peer into a pretty courtyard.

  He had walked quite a distance tonight. All the way from his hotel on Fifth and Twenty-third, down past Washington Square to Bleecker Street. It was late, just after midnight and, finally tired, he decided he would find his way to Broadway and see if he could scare up a cab.

  He was about to cross Bleecker when he saw them. Two men. They were walking side by side. Not holding hands, not touching, but he knew all the same. From the way one inclined his head toward the other. From their easy laughter. He knew.

  He watched as one of them opened the door to a saloon and they both disappeared inside. He stood there as motionless as a lamppost. Two more entered the saloon. And then one on his own. And then a foursome. When he got up enough nerve to cross the street, he saw a small sign next to the door. THE SLIDE, it said. A hand passed in front of him. Fingers curled around the door handle. “Coming in?” said the hand’s owner, a man with curly blond hair.

  “Me? No … I… no, thank you. No.”

  “Suit yourself,” he said.

  In the second before the door closed, he heard laughter, smelled cigarettes and wine. He bit his lip. He wanted to go in. He wanted to be with his own kind for an evening. To share a bottle of claret with a handsome man. To let the mask drop. Just for a bit.

  He grasped the handle, then let it go. It was too dangerous. He wasn’t free to be what he was. Hadn’t he learned that by now? With all the grief and pain he’d brought upon himself, his family, Henri? He walked away from the door,
retreated to the shadows of a large sheltering elm.

  Go back, he told himself. Turn around. Now. This was too risky. What if someone saw him? Someone he knew? He cast one last glance at The Slide and saw a man walking toward it. He was tall and beautiful with long dark hair that fell to his shoulders in thick waves. From a distance he looked like Henri. The man paused, squinted into the shadows at Nick, then shook his head and laughed. “Are you going to hide under that tree all night, Chicken Little?” he asked. He was still laughing as the door closed behind him.

  Nick stared at the door. He raked a hand through his hair. All he wanted in the world right now was behind it. Companionship. Laughter. Warmth. Understanding. His longing was overwhelming. I’ll only go for a short while, he told himself. Just an hour. I’ll just have a drink or two. Maybe chat for a while. It’s harmless, really. Just one drink and then I’ll leave. Just this once.

  Chapter 31

  “How about some more pie, Seamie luv?” Mary asked, getting up from the table.

  Seamie nodded eagerly and held his plate out.

  “The bottomless pit,” Fiona observed.

  “Oh, rubbish. He’s got a good healthy appetite. Like a growing lad should.”

  “I’ll have some more, too, Mum,” Ian said, standing up to help his mother.

  “Me, too,” Fiona said.

  “Fiona, that’s your third piece!” Mary said, laughing. “Who’s the bottomless pit?”

  Fiona, giggling sheepishly, handed her plate to Ian. Mary’s cooking was delicious. Her pie crust was golden and flaky, the steak pieces tender in their rich gravy. Her mashed potatoes were fluffy and her peas cooked perfectly.

  Mary piled the plates high again. She’d made a lot of food and Fiona was glad of it. She was starving. It had been another busy Saturday and she’d been on her feet all day. They ate in Michael’s kitchen instead of Mary’s, as it was roomier and had a big table they could all fit around. When it came to cooking, Fiona had little ability and even less interest, but it was important to her that Seamie had good hot meals. She and Mary had made a deal weeks ago: she would supply the food for the evening meal and Mary would cook it. It was an arrangement that suited them both. Fiona enjoyed supper with the Munros. She’d come to think of them as her family. She and Seamie were a part of their lives, and they of hers, in a way that her uncle – who still spent most of his time at Whelan’s – was not.