“You’re mad, you know that?” Michael said, suddenly appearing from behind Millard’s wagon. “That’s fifty bloody chests of tea! Fifty! Where the devil are you going to put it all?”
“In one sixty-six. Right next door. It’s clean and dry in there. There’s nothing to scent the tea, since it was only a fabric shop, not a stable or some other smelly thing. You know all this. I told you I spoke with Mr. Simmons and that he gave me a good deal on the rent,” she added impatiently.
“I thought it was just talk! I didn’t think you were serious.”
“Could you help the men move it inside, do you think? Instead of standing here carrying on?” She glimpsed her brother scrambling up the chests. “Seamie! Come down before you fall!”
“Aw, Fee!”
“Fiona, that’s five thousand pounds of tea sitting there,” Michael said, following her as she went to yank her brother off the chests. “Five thousand pounds! You’ve spent a bleeding fortune! Who do you think you are? An Astor? A Vanderbilt? Well, you’re not –”
“Not yet,” she corrected him. “Seamie! I said come down!”
“Catch me, Uncle Michael!” Seamie yelled, launching himself straight at his uncle.
“Who the hell… ooof!” he grunted, stumbling backward with an armful of five-year-old. “Jaysus, lad! Almost knocked me straight on me arse, you did!”
“Might’ve shut you up for five minutes,” Fiona said under her breath. To her brother she said, “Go inside and wash up for supper.”
Brushing dust from his shirt, Michael resumed his rant. “What I want to know is who is going to pay for all of this?”
“We are. Millard’s gave us ninety days instead of thirty. That’s plenty of time.”
Michael shook his head. “Hardly! Why did you have to buy fifty crates all at once?”
“I wanted to buy out Millard’s entire stock of Indian tea. So no one else could get their hands on it. I told you that already, too. You don’t listen to me.”
“Two months from now we’ll still be sitting on this, owing Millard’s hundreds of dollars –”
Fiona cut him off. “No, we won’t! Between the shop and my tearoom and the wholesale accounts –”
“What tearoom?”
“The one I’m going to have. I’ve already started hunting for a location.”
“And what wholesale accounts?”
“Macy’s. Crawford’s. Child’s Restaurants …”
“They’ve ordered from you?”
“Well, not yet.” Michael rolled his eyes. “But they will!” she insisted. “I’ve got appointments with their buyers next week. I know they’ll buy the tea as soon as they taste it. I just need a name for it. And some packaging I can show them. If you’d just help with the chests and let me go in to Nate and Maddie …”
“Too many bloody big ideas,” Michael groused, pulling a pair of work gloves from his pocket. “It’s that William McClane who put them in your head. Next thing you’ll go and buy us a whole bleeding tea plantation.”
Fiona ignored the comment. She wished he hadn’t mentioned Will. She had enjoyed his company so much and the fact that he hadn’t called on her again saddened her, though she scolded herself for even having expectations. She told herself it was daft to think someone of his stature would be interested in her; she wasn’t even good enough for a Whitechapel costermonger. Losing Joe had done more than break her heart – it had shattered her confidence, making her feel unattractive and unworthy. Feelings that Will’s apparent lack of interest only served to confirm.
Michael, finally tired of haranguing her, grabbed a dolly from the delivery wagon and wheeled it over to the tea chests. Fiona returned to the shop, where her friends were waiting. Nate was chewing on the end of a pencil, his brow furrowed, as he contemplated the drawing Maddie had spread out on top of the oak counter.
Fiona took a look at it. “Oh, Maddie!” she cried, delighted. “It’s beautiful!”
“Do you like it?” Maddie asked, flushing with pleasure.
“I love it!”
“I’m so glad. I was uncertain about the background. I wanted to ask Nick his opinion. He has such a good eye. He’s coming soon, no? For supper, you said?”
“Yes, he is,” she replied, turning around to look at the clock. She frowned when she saw it was already six-thirty. “He was supposed to be here by now. I wonder what’s keeping him,” she said. She was worried. He hadn’t looked good the last time she saw him, but he’d said he felt fine. He’d told her not to fuss. She fretted too much, she knew she did. About Nick, Seamie, everyone. It drove them mad, but she couldn’t help it. She’d lost too many people not to worry about coughs and colds and little brothers climbing too high.
“Maybe it’s the painters,” Maddie said. “He said he was having them in this week. To do the walls. Remember? Maybe they’re keeping him.”
“You’re right. He did say that. He’ll probably be along any minute.” Relieved, Fiona turned her attention back to her friend’s illustration.
Maddie had created a captivating scene of an Indian procession. Bejeweled maharajas on white elephants led the parade, followed by sari-clad women bearing baskets of tea leaves and children cavorting with parrots and monkeys. The maharajas held a banner aloft. It was blank.
“Will something go here?” Fiona asked, pointing to it.
“The tea’s name,” Nate said. “We need to give it one. We need to create a brand.”
“A brand?”
“Yes. We have to teach the public to ask for your tea the same way they ask for a root beer, say, by ordering a Hires, or for soap by asking for a bar of Ivory. We have to convince them that your tea is better than the stuff sitting in a crate at their grocer’s.”
“How do we do that?”
“By brainstorming, to start with. Here, take some paper, and here’s a pencil. Here, Mad, here’s one for you. Let’s start by writing down everything good about your tea, all of its qualities, to see if there’s something there that would make a good name or a catchy slogan.”
The three started scribbling, tossing words and descriptions at each other.
“Brisk … malty … biscuity …” Fiona said. “Biscuity?” Nate echoed.
“It means a good aroma from a properly fired leaf.”
“Too specialized. Keep going.”
“Um … soothing … invigorating …” Fiona said.
“Well… which one?” Nate asked.
“Both.”
“How can it be both?”
“I don’t know, but it is.”
“Coppery … strong … bold …” Maddie said.
“Refreshing … restorative …” Nate said.
The three friends kept on this way for a while, calling out anything they thought might be good, until they’d filled up their sheets of paper with words, but they still didn’t have anything they liked. Stumped, Nate sighed, tapping his pencil against the counter. His eyes roved over Maddie’s paper, looking for something they’d missed, then he looked at Fiona’s notes.
“Hey!” he said. “What’s this you’ve written, Fee?”
“Nothing, just scribbles.”
“No, it’s good. As a matter of fact, it’s great! Look, Maddie.”
In the lower left corner, she had written the words “delicious” and “tasty.” Then she’d scribbled out “tasty” and had written “tasty tea,” then “tastea,” then she’d played around substituting the “tea” for “ty” on a few other words, like “raritea” and “qualitea.”
“I think we’ve got something here,” he said excitedly. “How about this … TasTea – a qualitea … with great affordabilitea … no, that’s wrong, the last part. Um … what else could we do? Propertea, subtletea, personalitea, honestea, hostilitea …”
“Hostilitea?” Fiona said. “Oh, that’s appealing, Nate.”
“No … no, specialtea!” Maddie shouted.
“That’s it, cara!” Nate yelled, kissing his wife. “Let’s see … TasTea �
� TasTea … a qualitea …”
“… an honestea, a most refreshing specialtea!” Fiona shouted.
“Yes! Yes! Perfect! Can you fit it all in the banner, Mad?”
“Sì, sì, I have room for it,” Maddie said.
“There, Fiona, you have your ad! You can put it in newspapers, on billboards and buses, and you can use the design for your packaging, too.”
“Thank you both! This is so exciting!” Fiona exclaimed, squeezing Nate’s arm. “Imagine, my own brand of tea! Oh, blimey, I hope it sells! It has to, I have five thousand pounds of it sitting outside the door and an uncle who’s ready to string me up.”
“Of course it will,” Nate said. “With an agency like Brandolini Feldman behind it, it can’t fail. And the thing is, Fiona,” he added eagerly. “A brand’s just the beginning, only the tip of the iceberg. There are more kinds of tea than this one blend, right?”
“Yes. Dozens of different kinds.”
“Well, just imagine a score of teas all sold under the TasTea name. Imagine the little tearoom you want to open turning into a fashionable destination, then growing into a chain! Imagine tearooms throughout New York and Brooklyn and Boston and Philadelphia …”
“… up and down the whole East Coast, throughout the whole country!” Fiona exclaimed.
“And you’ll have wholesale accounts with hotels,” Nate said.
“And department stores,” Fiona crowed.
“And railways and passenger ships,” Maddie added.
“And you two will be doing nothing but TasTea ads and campaigns and packaging and …”
“It will be a huge success,” Maddie said, beaming. “For all of us!”
Laughing, Fiona took her friend’s hands and started to waltz around the store with her, whirling giddily until they were both so dizzy that Nate had to steady them. The three of them were making so much noise that no one saw the boy step into the doorway, his cap in his hands. He was about ten years old. He stood for a while, watching them anxiously, hoping he’d be noticed, then finally came up behind Nate and tugged on his jacket.
“Excuse me, sir,” he said.
“I’m sorry, son,” Nate said. “I didn’t see you there. What can I do for you?”
“Is this where Fiona Finnegan lives?”
“Yes, that’s me,” Fiona said, leaning on the counter, trying to catch her breath.
“You have to come with me, miss. Quick. You have to,” he said, starting for the door.
“I’m Stevie Mackie. My ma said to get you. She says our lodger, Mr. Soames, is dying.”
Fiona took the stairs at 24 Sixteenth Street two at a time. All thoughts of tea and tearooms were gone from her mind. She had only one thought now, only one fear – that she was going to lose her best friend in all the world.
In the cab they’d taken, Stevie told her that his mother had learned of Nick’s illness just this afternoon. The rent was past due and she’d gone to see him about it. When no one answered the door, she’d let herself in. She’d found him in his bedroom. He was very sick.
“With what, Stevie?” Fiona had asked, terrified of his answer.
“I don’t know. My ma didn’t say. She wouldn’t let me go into his rooms. She’s awful scared of the cholera. She found a notebook on his table, though. Your address was in it and his doctor’s. She sent me after you and my brother after the doctor.”
I should never have listened to him, Fiona thought, racing up the last few steps. He wasn’t well. I knew he wasn’t. I should never have believed his rubbishy explanations. She got to the door, Stevie on her heels, and tried the knob. It didn’t budge, the door was locked. “The key, Stevie,” she said, her voice trembling. “Where’s the key?”
“Ma!” he shouted up the stairwell. “Ma, I’ve got Miss Finnegan. She needs the key.”
Fiona heard footsteps on the landing above her, and then a tall woman in her forties, plain and rawboned and wearing a faded calico dress, came down the stairs toward her.
“Have you got the key?” Fiona asked her urgently.
“You’re Miss Finnegan?”
“Yes.”
“I’m Mrs. Mackie …”
“I need the key,” Fiona said, her voice rising.
“Yes, yes, of course,” Mrs. Mackie said, flustered. She dug in one pocket, then the other. “He was calling for you. I don’t know how long he’s been like this. Some days, I think –”
“The key!” Fiona shouted.
“Here,” she said, holding it out. Fiona snatched it, then jammed it into the lock. “He’s very bad, miss.” Mrs. Mackie said, agitated. “I wouldn’t go in there if I were you. It’s not a sight for a young lady and God only knows what it is he has.”
Fiona opened the door and ran inside, leaving Mrs. Mackie in the hallway. The flat was dark, the curtains were drawn, but she knew the way. She’d been there before. “Nick?” she shouted, running through the foyer, down the hallway, past the kitchen, into a double parlor and out again, down another hallway past a bathroom to his bedroom. “Nick?” she called again, but there was still no answer. “Please, God, please let him be all right,” she whispered. “Please.”
A powerful, wrenching stench hit her as she opened the door to his room – the smell of sweat and sickness and something else, something low and black and fearfully familiar – the smell of despair. “Nick?” she whispered, rushing to him. “It’s me, Fiona.”
He was lying in his bed, a large ebony four-poster, wearing only his trousers, which were wet with urine. He was still and looked as white and bloodless as the sweat-soaked sheets underneath him. The beautiful man she had met in Southampton was gone; an emaciated wraith had taken his place. She pressed her palms against his cheeks, found that he was clammy but warm, and sobbed with relief. She pushed a lock of damp hair off his forehead and kissed him. “Nick, it’s me, Fiona,” she said. “Can you hear me? Answer me, Nick, please answer me.”
His eyelids fluttered. He swallowed. “Fee,” he croaked, “go away.” His lips were cracked; his mouth was dry. She ran into the bathroom, found a glass, and filled it with water. Back at his side, she held his head up and pressed the glass to his lips. He clutched at it, gulping the water greedily. He coughed, then vomited a good deal of it back up. Fiona turned him over on his side until he was done retching so he wouldn’t choke, then helped him to drink more, a bit at a time. “Easy,” she said. “There’s plenty here. Go slowly … that’s it.”
When he’d drained the glass, she laid his head gently down on his pillows.
“Please go, Fiona,” he whispered. “I don’t want you here … can take care of myself.” He began to shiver. His hands scrabbled futilely at the sheets. Fiona grabbed the quilt he’d kicked down to the bottom of his bed and covered him with it.
“Yes, I can see that. You’ve done a bang-up job of it so far,” she said. His teeth started to chatter. She got in the bed next to him, put her arms around him, and held him, trying to warm him. “I swear, Nick, as soon as you’re better, I’m going to kill you for this.”
“Not going to get better.”
“Yes, you are! Tell me what’s wrong!”
He shook his head. She was about to badger him when a loud, booming “Hallo?” was heard from the hallway.
“In here!” she shouted.
A bald, bespectacled man with a silver beard entered the room. “Dr. Werner Eckhardt, ja?” he said. “Excuse me, please.” He shooed Fiona away and began to examine Nick.
Fiona watched anxiously from the bottom of the bed, her elbows cupped in her palms as the doctor questioned Nick, stared into his eyes, massaged his neck, and listened to his chest. “What’s that for?” she asked, when he produced a syringe.
“To steady the heartbeat,” he replied. “How long has he been like this?”
“I… I don’t know. I saw him last Sunday. It’s Saturday now …”
The doctor uttered an expression of disgust. “I told him this would happen. I instructed rest and a proper diet.” H
e produced a second syringe. “To undo the dehydration,” he said. “I need a basin of hot water and some soap. Washcloths and towels, too. He will have bedsores from lying in the damp. They must be cleaned before they become septic.”
Fiona did as she was told. She collected everything the doctor required and then, over Nick’s feeble protests, helped Eckhardt strip off his clothes, wash him, change his dirty bedding, and put him into clean pajamas. She prided herself on a strong stomach and did not flinch at the raw, angry sores that mottled his thighs and backside, but the sight of his hipbones jutting through his flesh, his bony kneecaps, and the hollows between his ribs made her chin quiver. She’d seen that he’d lost weight. She’d known he was unwell on the ship. Something had been wrong all along. Why, oh why hadn’t she pressed him?
“There, that’s better. We let him lie still for a few minutes, no? Give the drugs time to take effect. We talk outside. Come.”
As soon as they were out of Nick’s earshot, Fiona grabbed the doctor’s arm. “Is he all right? He’s not going to die, is he?”
“Are you related to Mr. Soames?” Eckhardt asked.
“Yes. I’m … I’m his cousin,” she lied. “He’s dying, isn’t he?” she asked tearfully.
The doctor shook his head. “No, but he is very ill. He will make it through this, but if he doesn’t begin to take care of himself, he will deteriorate. Rapidly. I will tell you, as I have told him, that the spirochete is an opportunist. Good diet and plenty of rest are essential to forestalling it. As far as treatment goes –”
“Please, Dr. Eckhardt,” Fiona said, worried to death about Nicholas and confused by the man’s long-winded explanation. “What’s wrong with him? What does he have?”
Eckhardt peered at her over the top of his spectacles with an expression of surprise. “Why, syphilis, of course. Forgive me, I thought you knew.”
“Miss Finnegan, you take him out of here right now!” Mrs. Mackie shrilled. “It’s shameful! A disgrace! I won’t have the likes of him under my roof!”
The Tea Rose Page 38
