She’d made him feel better, mainly because she’d hugged him and given him a biscuit. He’d been too little to understand her words then, but he knew what they meant now. Once, when he had Fiona and they had all their dreams and hopes, he’d known heaven right here on earth. Now he only knew despair. His gran was right. God didn’t have to punish him; he’d created his own hell. By himself and for himself.
Miserable, he turned onto his back and tucked his hands behind his head. From where he lay, he could see the dark, starry sky through the loft’s window. One star twinkled more brightly than the others. He remembered looking at this star … it seemed like a million years ago now … and telling it that he loved his girl, Fiona. Telling it they’d be together soon. He wondered where in the big wide world she was. The private detective he’d hired had not found her and was no longer looking now that he no longer had the money to pay him. Roddy had had no luck, either – though he had warned Sheehan to stay away from her. Joe prayed that wherever she was, she was safe and out of harm’s way. He wondered if she ever thought about him, if she ever missed him. He mocked himself for even harboring such hopes. After what he’d done to her? He was certain she hated him, as Millie hated him and Tommy hated him. As he hated himself.
He closed his eyes, sick with loneliness and grief, longing for the black abyss of unconsciousness. Finally, after he’d tossed and turned for the better part of an hour, he fell into a fitful, shallow sleep, one full of demons and frights that made him flail and cry out. Shortly after one such cry, there came a soft padding of feet on the steps and an avid lapping at the milk bowl. After the tom finished drinking, he circled Joe. He paused once, baring his teeth at something in the darkness, then settled himself into the hay. The cat’s presence did not disturb Joe. Instead, it gentled him. His breathing evened out and deepened. He surrendered to sleep. And all night long, the tom stayed up. Blinking its yellow eyes in the darkness. Awake. Abiding. Keeping watch.
Chapter 33
“Oh, you should see it, Fee! It’s absolutely perfect! The window runs the whole length of the front wall. The place is filled with light. And it’s huge. Did I tell you that? I can easily get thirty canvases on the walls and another ten on easels in the middle of the room. I’m going to have the floor refinished, and then I’ll have the walls repainted and then …”
Nick was striding around the shop as he talked, too excited to stand still. He’d just rented a shopfront in Gramercy Park, which he was going to turn into a gallery, and the flat above it, where he was going to live. It was a pretty four-story building with another tenant above him and the landlady and her two sons on the top floor. He’d given the woman a security deposit and the first month’s rent, then dashed over to Eighth Avenue to tell Fiona.
She’d been polishing the counter as he burst into the shop and she’d been alarmed at the sight of him – he was thinner than ever and as pale as milk – but he wouldn’t stop talking long enough for her to ask him if he was all right.
“… and the ceiling is so high, Fiona! Fifteen feet! Oh, it’s going to be the most wonderful gallery in New York!” He leaned over the counter and kissed her smack on the lips.
“Mind yourself!” she scolded, laughing. “You’ll get wax all over your jacket.”
“You’ll come see it, won’t you, Fee?”
“Of course I will. As soon as you like. Nick, are you feeling –”
He cut her off. “Can you come tonight?” He held up his hands like a traffic cop. “No, not tonight, not yet! Not till it’s all fixed up and the paintings are here and” – he paused to cough, covering his mouth – “I’ve got them all hung and everything’s pretty and” – he coughed again, even harder. Then he reached for his handkerchief and turned away until the harsh, racking spasm stopped. When he turned back to her, his eyes watery, she was no longer smiling.
“You didn’t go to the doctor’s like you promised, did you?” she asked.
“I did.”
She crossed her arms. “Really? What did he say it was, then?”
“He said … uh … that it was … um … some kind of … chesty thing.”
“A chesty thing? Oh, that sounds like something a doctor would say, you lying little –”
“I did go, Fiona! I swear it! Dr. Werner Eckhardt. On Park Avenue. He even gave me medicine. I’ve been taking it and I feel much better, I do.”
Fiona’s tone softened. “But you don’t look well,” she fretted, her brow knit with worry. “You’re too pale and thin and you’ve got shadows under your eyes. Are you eating properly, Nick?” She ran her finger around the inside of his shirt collar. “You’re swimming in your clothes. And now you’ve got a cough. I’m worried about you.”
Nick groaned. “Oh, don’t be such a badger, old mole. I’m fine, really I am. I’ll admit I’m a bit tired, but it’s only the gallery. I’ve been working dreadfully hard trying to locate a good place. I’ve been seeing ten, twelve shopfronts a day at least. And now I’ve found it! Did I tell you how beautiful the neighborhood is? And that there’s a wisteria vine in front that hangs above the window? Did I tell you about the window? How huge it is?”
“Three times at least. You’re trying to change the subject.”
“Am I?”
“Promise me you’ll eat properly, Nick. Not just champagne and those horrible fish eggs.”
“All right, I promise. Now tell me what’s new with you, Fee. I’ve been blathering away and haven’t even asked how you’ve been.”
There wasn’t much to tell. She’d had a busy week at the shop. Michael still hadn’t returned to Whelan’s and she and Mary were starting to think that maybe he wouldn’t. He’d been pulling his weight in the shop and was talking about fixing up Mary’s kitchen. She’d taken Seamie shopping for new clothes because he’d shot up again and Nell had started teething.
“Mmm-hmm,” Nick said impatiently when she’d finished. “What else?”
“What do you mean, what else?”
He smiled knowingly. “Has William McClane come calling again?”
Fiona colored. “Of course not.”
“I still can’t believe it. Only in New York for a few months and already you’ve hooked yourself a millionaire.”
“Will you stop? We took a stroll together, that’s all. I’m sure I’ll never see him again.”
“He’s beastly wealthy, you know. I remember my father mentioning him. I think they dined together once or twice. I saw how he looked at you. I’m sure he fancies you.”
“Don’t be ridiculous! I’m half his age and I’m not wealthy like he is or from the right circles.”
“Fiona, you’re a beautiful, captivating young woman. What man wouldn’t be after you? Admit it… you fancy him, don’t you? You can tell me.”
Fiona gave him a sidelong glance. “A little, maybe,” she allowed. “He’s a wonderful man. He’s charming and kind. Incredibly smart. He knows everything. And he’s a gentleman, but…”
“But what? How can there possibly be a ‘but’ at the end of all that?”
Fiona shrugged.
“Fee?”
She frowned, rubbed her polishing rag over an imaginary dull spot.
“Ahh, I think I know. It’s that chap from London you told me about, isn’t it? Joe.”
She polished harder.
“Still?”
She put the rag down. “Still,” she admitted. “It’s daft, I know. I try to forget him, but I can’t.” She raised her eyes to Nick’s. “I once heard a docker, a man who’d lost his hand in an accident, tell my father that he still felt the hand. He said he felt the joints ache in the damp or the skin prickle in the heat. That’s what it’s like with Joe. He’s gone, but he isn’t. He’s still inside me. I can see him. Hear him. I still talk to him in my head. When will these feelings stop, Nick?”
“When you fall in love again.”
“But what if I don’t?”
“Of course you will. You’re just not over him yet. My advice is to spend m
ore time with McClane. An Astor or a Vanderbilt would make a nice companion, too. That’s just what you need, Fee. A nice New York millionaire. That’ll make you forget that barrow boy of yours. What did you and McClane talk about during your stroll anyway? You never told me.”
“The shop. And subterranean railways.”
Nick made a face. “How romantic.”
“He’s trying to help me, Nick. I told him I wanted to become a millionaire. I told him I needed to find the thing that would make me rich.”
“And what did he say? Did he give you the secret behind all his millions?”
“He said to be patient, to watch and learn and see what sold and figure out ways to build on my sales. And if I did that, something would come of it. Small things at first. And then bigger things, like offering prepared foods, or maybe even opening a second shop. He had a funny way of putting it; he said to use what I know to grow.”
“Did it work? Have you made your fortune yet?”
Fiona frowned. “No. We’re making more than we were, though. Mary’s savories are selling out every day and we’re going to start offering prepared salads, too. We’re actually going to have to get a new cooler to accommodate it all. But I’m not a millionaire yet. Not even close.”
“Not to worry, Fee,” Nick said, patting her hand. “I’ll tell you how to become a millionaire.”
“How?”
“Marry one.”
She took a swipe at him, but he ducked. “I’m not marrying anyone. Ever. Men are far too much trouble.”
“Not me.”
“Especially you.”
The shop door opened. Michael came in frowning. He was holding a piece of paper.
“Speaking of trouble …” Fiona said under her breath.
“Fiona, this invoice can’t be right,” he said.
“Which invoice, and why not?”
“The one from the tea supplier. Millard’s. What did they bill you for the last time?”
“There wasn’t a last time. This is the first bill. What’s wrong?”
“It says we’ve had nineteen chests from them since you opened the shop again.”
“That sounds right. I can check the delivery receipts to confirm it, but I’m sure Stuart wouldn’t cheat us.”
“This is the Indian tea?” Michael asked, setting the invoice down on the counter.
“Yes.”
He shook his head. “I’ll be damned. I was lucky if I moved a chest of the old stuff.”
“A week?”
“A month!”
Fiona looked at the invoice, her eyes following her finger down the column. Nineteen chests had been sold to Finnegan’s in a two-month period. She was down to her last two. That meant she’d been selling just over two chests a week, against her uncle’s one chest a month. She got to the bottom of the invoice, mentally checking Millard’s arithmetic, and found that the total corresponded to the number of chests sold, plus the two in the shop’s basement.
And then she saw it.
Embossed at the bottom of the invoice was the name “R. T. Millard” over a drawing of three species of fauna identified as a coffee bush, a cacao tree … and a tea plant.
As Fiona stared at the tea plant, a slender little stalk with bladelike leaves, the fine downy hairs on her neck began to prickle. She didn’t hear her uncle anymore, though he was still talking. She recognized the plant. She’d seen one before. In a nightmare. Her father had given it to her, passed it to her through the bars of a cemetery gate. “What is it, Da?” she’d asked him. His answer echoed in her head now. “It’s what you know.”
It had been right there in front of her all along. Bloody tea, of all things! “Use what you know,” Will had said. Blimey, if there was one thing she knew, it was tea! She could tell a Keemun from a Sichuan, a Dooars from an Assam by the smell alone. She’d known that her Indian tea sold, but she hadn’t known how well. That little plant, so delicate, so fragile was the very thing she’d been searching for. It would be her oil… and steel… and lumber. Her fortune!
“Fiona, lass? Did you hear me?” Michael said, snapping his fingers in her face.
She hadn’t. A humming had started in her blood. It surged through her, taking hold of her, making her heart pound. She was on fire with the power, the possibilities, of her new idea – an exclusive blend, wholesale accounts, an expanded selection of teas in the grocery shop, maybe even a tearoom. A beautiful, enchanted place like the one in Fortnum & Mason’s.
“I said we’ve got to reorder. We’re down to two chests. We’ll be through them by next Wednesday at the rate we’re going. I’m guessing we’ll need at least eight more to get us t’rough the coming month,” Michael said.
“No.”
“No? Why not?”
“Because we’re going to order more than eight. We’re going to buy up every chest of Indian tea Millard’s has and swear them to secrecy on the blend! No one else must have it!”
Michael looked from Fiona to Nick, as if he might know what his crazy niece was on about, but Nick just shrugged. “Why would we do that?” Michael asked. “It’s mad! No shopkeeper orders more than he can sell.”
Fiona cut him off. “We’re not just shopkeepers anymore.”
“No?” Michael said, raising an eyebrow. “What are we then?”
“Tea merchants.”
“The usual, Mr. McClane?”
“Yes, Henry. Have Mr. Carnegie and Mr. Frick arrived yet?”
“I haven’t seen them, sir. Here you are.”
“Thank you, Henry.”
“My pleasure, sir.”
Will took a healthy swallow of his Scotch, then scanned the Union Club’s bar for signs of his guests. Andrew Carnegie and Henry Frick, partners in the largest steel concern in the country, were dining with him tonight to discuss his plans for the subterranean railway. They were interested in supplying him with steel and he was interested in wooing them as investors. Their support, and the support of other leading industrialists, was more crucial than ever now, for there was a new obstacle to his goal to build the city’s first subway – one that threatened to derail all his careful planning and politicking.
The door to the bar room opened. Will turned, hoping to see at least one of his guests, but instead saw a petite brunette in a blue plaid jacket and skirt. She clutched a pad and pencil in one hand, her purse in the other. Her sharp, quick eyes fastened on his; she made a beeline for him.
“Hello, Will,” she said.
He smiled at her. “Always a pleasure, Nellie. What are you drinking?”
“Scotch. Rocks. Make it quick, will you?” she said, glancing at the bartender. “I figure I’ve got five, maybe ten minutes before the gargoyle catches me.”
The bartender hesitated. “Mr. McClane … I can’t, sir. The rules say –”
“I know what the rules say. I say give Miss Bly a glass of Scotch with ice. Now.” Will didn’t raise his voice, he didn’t have to.
“Right away, sir.”
Will handed Nellie her drink. She knocked back half of it in one gulp, wiped her lips with the back of her hand, and went for the jugular. “I hear August Belmont’s thrown his hat in the ring. My source at City Hall says he submitted his own plan for the subterranean railway.”
“Why don’t you ask him yourself? He’s sitting in the corner with John Rockefeller. Disparaging my plan, I’m sure.”
“Because he’s a stiff and he never tells me anything. Come on, Will. I’ve got a nine-o’clock deadline.”
Will drained his glass and motioned for another. “It’s true,” he said. “He’s got his own team of engineers. They mapped out a completely different route from mine and gave the plans to the mayor two days ago. They’re telling him their plan is more economical.”
Nellie put her glass down and started writing. “Is it?”
“On paper. In reality, their plan would cost the city more. A lot more.”
“Why?”
“Belmont’s route runs through ground that
’s swampy in some places, pure shale in others. In some locations, he’s put down lines that go right through underground streams. His routes are more direct than mine – that’s how he’s selling the mayor on his economics – but because of the natural obstacles, the whole operation will cost more – in time, man-hours, and material.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Tell the mayor to get his head out of his ass and go with my plan.”
“You know I can’t use that. Much as I’d like to. Give me a real quote.”
Will pondered, then said, “I have every confidence that our esteemed mayor and his learned councilors will consider Manhattan’s topography, geography, and transportation requirements when weighing the merits of each plan. And I am equally confident that when they do, they will not fail to see the egregious flaws, errors, miscalculations, and outright misrepresentations of the Belmont plan. Not only would such a scheme bankrupt the city, but the faulty engineering principles used to implement it would jeopardize the very integrity of Manhattan’s streets and structures – not to mention the safety of its citizens … how’s that?”
“Perfect,” she said, scribbling furiously. “Thanks, Will, you’re a peach.” She finished writing, closed her notebook, and took another swallow of whiskey, emptying her glass. Will got her another. She looked at him closely as he handed it to her.
“You all right? You look a little peaky.”
“Me? I’m fine.”
“You sure?”
He nodded, shrinking a bit under her gaze. He liked Nellie – very much, in fact – but he was always mindful of her profession. Giving a reporter business information was a good thing if you played it right, giving her personal information could be downright dangerous. He saw she was still looking at him, expecting an answer. He decided to admit to fatigue in hopes it would throw her off. “Maybe it’s the work,” he said. “I have been a bit tired these last few days.”
“I’m not buying that. You thrive on competition. Something’s wrong. Are you ill?”
The Tea Rose Page 36
