The Tea Rose

by Jennifer Donnelly

  Joe managed a smile. That was his mum all over, thinking whatever ailed him could be fixed with pie and mash. He loved her for it.

  “Go find us something to drink like a good lad. Didn’t you say there was a tuckshop nearby?”

  “Aye, I did.”

  He took two cracked mugs he kept on the window ledge and went off after some hot tea. When he got back, Rose had piled a plate high for him. He dug into it, ravenous for good food.

  “Like that, do you?” she asked, smiling at him.

  He smiled back. “I do.”

  Chapter 39

  Fiona stepped out of William McClane’s carriage and stared up at the imposingly grand facade of Delmonico’s restaurant at Twenty-sixth Street and Fifth Avenue. A couple walked ahead of them, up the stairs, through the door, and into the darkly paneled foyer. The man was distinguished looking in a crisp dinner jacket, the woman elegant in a burgundy silk dress, a black aigrette in her hair.

  Those are Will’s people in there, not mine, she thought. Impossibly wealthy people who know the right things to do, how to pronounce the names of French wines and which damn fork is the fish fork. Nick had taught her some of these things on the ship, but she’d promptly forgotten them. Why did anyone need so many forks anyway? she fretted. You could only get one in your mouth at a time. She felt her confidence crumbling, and for a second she wanted nothing more than to get back into the carriage. Then Will took her arm and Mary’s and said, “You are both so stunning tonight, you’re going to make me the envy of every man in the place.” Then he leaned in close and whispered, “And that’s coming from me … the typical eejit with far too much money.”

  Fiona and Mary burst into laughter, and Will did too, and then he pulled them up the steps after him and Fiona was laughing so hard when they reached the door, she forgot to be nervous.

  “Oh, Will, I’m so sorry. He’s completely out of control. The worst-behaved child in all of New York,” she said, once they were inside.

  “You’re speaking of your uncle, I assume.”

  “No!” She giggled. “Well… yes! Him, too. But I meant Seamie.”

  “I think it’s the funniest thing I ever heard,” Mary said. “Did you see Michael’s face when Seamie said it? I thought he would choke.”

  “No, I was busy wondering if it’s illegal to sell children to the circus,” Fiona replied.

  Will’s reception at Fiona’s home had been an unmitigated disaster from the second he’d walked through the door. He’d shaken hands with a gruff Michael; then Mary; then Alec, whom he could barely understand because of his accent; then Nick, who’d been sitting on the settee in his crimson dressing gown, swathed in a paisley throw and propped up between two pillows like a pasha; then Ian; and finally Seamie – who’d taken his hand, pumped it heartily, and said, “Are you the typical eejit with far too much money?”

  Michael, mortified, told him to apologize, but Seamie defiantly reminded him he’d said it first. Mary ushered everyone into the parlor, hoping to salvage things, and reminded Michael to serve drinks. Ian, who’d been allowed a glass of sherry, swallowed too much at once and almost choked. Alec got tipsy and told an off-color joke. Finally Nick, always her savior, introduced the topic of the subterranean railway into the conversation and everyone warmed to it. Michael, who’d worked as a navvy when he first arrived, was curious about the engineering aspects. Mary wanted assurances it would be safe. Ian wanted to know how fast the trains would go. Then Fiona had looked at the clock, exclaimed that it was nearly eight already, and said they’d better be going. Luckily, she’d been able to talk her uncle into allowing Mary to chaperon her instead of himself.

  They were barely inside the restaurant before they were descended upon. One man took Will’s coat and hat; another, Fiona’s wrap. Patrons, coming and going, stopped to chat with Will. He seemed to know everyone. Within the space of a few minutes, Fiona and Mary had met the mayor, the diva Adelina Patti, Mark Twain, William Vanderbilt, the architect Stanford White, and the scandalous free-love advocate Victoria Woodhull. Delmonico’s was a melting pot where social pedigree meant nothing. Whether your money was earned two hundred years ago or two days ago made no difference. Politician, actor, showgirl, blueblood – as long as you could pay for your dinner, you were welcome. Fiona had begun to wonder if all of New York was in the restaurant when Will suddenly said, “You ladies know how to curtsy?”

  “Curtsy? Why? Is the Queen here?” Fiona asked jokingly.

  “No, but her son is.”

  Seconds later, he made a curt bow, then warmly took the hand of a portly, balding man with pale, protruding eyes and a pointed gray beard. As Fiona waited for Will to introduce her, she suddenly realized she was staring at the Prince of Wales, Albert Edward, and heir to England’s throne. She and Mary exchanged panicked glances. Mary made a passable curtsy and Fiona quickly mustered an approximation. It was neither graceful nor elegant, but the prince didn’t seem to notice. He took her hand and kissed it, and said he was sorry he’d already dined, he would’ve liked to invite them to his table. He drew closer to Fiona, said he detected London in her voice, and asked why such a lovely English rose had been transplanted. Fiona replied that she’d come to New York to make her fortune and was pursuing her own tea business.

  “Are you?” the prince asked. “How unusual! But young women get up to all sorts of things nowadays, don’t they? I hope you can teach the Yanks a thing or two about tea. I find the offerings in this country simply appalling.”

  “Only because you haven’t tried my tea, sir. I’ll send you some tomorrow. Along with a basket of currant scones and homemade raspberry jam and double cream and fruitcake that Mrs. Munro makes so you can have a proper afternoon tea and not the rubbish that passes for it here.”

  Although Fiona did not know it, her words were terribly bold. Merchants did not press their wares upon the future monarch. But she had no idea that such royal protocols even existed, much less an awareness that she was violating them. She was only being friendly. And the prince, not one to stand on ceremony where a pretty face was involved, was charmed.

  “I would like that very much, Miss Finnegan,” he replied. “I’m at the Fifth Avenue Hotel.”

  “It’s as good as done.”

  Then the prince took his leave, patting Will on the shoulder. “Keep an eye on that one, old boy,” he advised. “You just might learn something.”

  After the prince was gone, Will shook his head. “You’re unbelievable,” he said, laughing.

  “Am I? Why?”

  “I bet if I looked up ‘merchant’ in the dictionary, I would see your picture there.”

  “No, I think it’s under bold-as-brass,” Mary said.

  Fiona jutted her chin. “The prince needed some decent tea. It was the least I could do.”

  “I just hope you have a lot of it on hand,” Will said. “If it gets out that the Prince of Wales drinks TasTea, you’re going to be swamped with orders. And I do mean swamped.”

  “Get out to where? And how? Only you and Mary heard me.”

  “To the papers. At least two reporters – two that I know by sight, maybe more – were edging in to listen to your conversation. One of them was Peter Hylton – the city’s biggest gossipmonger. I’m just advising you to be prepared, that’s all.”

  “Your table is ready, Mr. McClane, if you care to be seated,” the maitre d’ said.

  Will motioned for Fiona and Mary to precede him. Once inside the dining room, Fiona tried to keep her eyes trained on the maitre d’s back to keep from gawking, but it was impossible. The room enveloped her the second she set foot in it, seducing her with its grandeur. It was opulently decorated with crystal chandeliers, hand-blocked crimson wallpaper, and voluminous silk curtains. Gaslight illuminated it, reflecting in the enormous gilt mirrors, glinting off a silver fork, a crystal wineglass, a circlet of diamonds adorning a pale neck. A warm thrum of conversation and laughter washed over her, punctuated by the sounds of cutlery against china, glasses
clinking.

  She felt eyes upon her – men’s admiring, women’s appraising – and was certain that her hair wasn’t correct, her dress wasn’t up to snuff. Modest, ignorant of her beauty and of its effect upon others, she imagined their interest could only be critical. She felt she was no match for these people in their expensive clothing, just as she’d been no match for Millie Peterson in hers. She stole shy glances at the women around her, women in yards of richly colored satins and taffetas that were ruched, pleated, beaded, embroidered, flounced, gathered, draped, wrapped, and tucked. Gems the size of coins dangled from dainty earlobes, and ropes of pearls cascaded down cream-cloud bosoms molded by fine French batiste and buttressed by whalebone.

  Her own ensemble, at Nick’s insistence, was simple and uncluttered. She wore a dress of ivory silk georgette with capped sleeves, an amethyst sash, and a cascade of purple lilacs embroidered on the skirt. The fluid material skimmed her body becomingly, making her look willowy and fey in contrast to many of the women in the room who looked positively upholstered.

  She wore no corset; she never had. Mary made her try one on in Macy’s lingerie department, after she’d bought her dress, but it dug and itched and squeezed the life out of her and she left it right where she’d found it. A good cotton camisole and drawers had served her well so far and would continue to do so. And besides, she liked her bosom where bosoms belonged, not jammed up under her chin.

  Her only jewels were a pair of pearl eardrops borrowed from her late aunt’s jewelry box. She wore no plumes or diamond sprays in her hair, just a cluster of mauve roses that Alec had clipped from one of his bushes. As she walked through the room, her stride alternately bold and coltish, her bright, curious face as fresh and open as a pansy, every head turned. She made women suddenly feel that they were wearing too many jewels, that their hair was overdone, their dresses too fussy. Men whispered to one another, “Who is that with McClane?” She was like a flawless diamond, one whose beauty would only have been diminished by an overwrought setting.

  Fiona’s interest in the room and its occupants was soon replaced by curiosity as to the maitre d’s intentions. The man was nearly across the room, and seemed, as yet, to have no inclination to seat them. Puzzled, she turned to Will.

  “I asked for a private room,” he explained. “This one’s a fish-bowl. I hope you don’t mind.” They continued to the end of the room and up a set of stairs, and then their escort stopped at a set of double doors, opened them and stepped back, to allow them to enter first. “After you,” Will said, his hand on the small of her back.

  Fiona gasped as she stepped into the room. “Oh, Will!” she whispered, walking into the center of the room, turning around and around in it.

  “My lord!” Mary exclaimed, too stunned to move out of the doorway.

  Will shrugged, trying for nonchalance, but too obviously pleased with Fiona’s reaction to pull if off. “You told me you liked roses,” he said.

  The room had been converted into a lush, bloom-filled bower. Roses were everywhere – hanging in garlands, standing in vases. Peonies and hydrangeas hid the fireplace. Ferns stood tall in the corners. Even the floor was hidden, carpeted with lush green grass. A table, set up in the middle of the room, was covered in white linen and decorated with more roses. They were twined into the branches of two tall silver candelabra. Across the room, two sets of French doors were open, letting in the warm summer air and the moonlight. Fiona could barely believe what she was seeing, couldn’t imagine how anyone had done this. She was seized by a sense of unreality so strong, it was dizzying. She had stepped out of her world – where people worked with their hands and drank beer and ate sausages – into Will’s, where they had gardens built in restaurants on a whim. For one night. It seemed like a dream, or the work of fairies, but it wasn’t. It was Will.

  She turned away and bent her head over a cluster of moss roses, inhaling their scent, not wanting him to see her emotion. Joe had given her a rose. On the Old Stairs. A single red rose. She had given him her heart, her dreams, her life. They hadn’t mattered to him. He’d crushed them all. She had given Will nothing of importance – a conversation, laughter, a pleasant hour together. And he had done this. For her. Just because she liked roses.

  “Do you like it, Fiona?” he asked softly.

  She turned to him smiling, her face luminous in the candlelight. “Like it? Will, it’s wonderful! I… I don’t even know what to say. I’ve never seen anything so beautiful.”

  “If you’ll excuse me,” Mary said tactfully, “I’m going to find the lounge.”

  Will waited until she had left the room, then he handed Fiona a rose. He was standing very close to her, and before she knew what was happening, he had folded her into his arms and kissed her. And the feeling of his lips, gentle yet insistent, erased all thoughts of Joe from her mind, took away all the sadness, all the longing. She had just begun to kiss him back, warming to the taste and feel of him, when a voice at the door said, “Some champagne before dinner, sir? Ah! Pardon me.”

  Will released her. Embarrassed, she moved away from him, smoothing her skirts for something to do. “A bottle of Heidsieck, please,” he said.

  “Very good, sir.”

  He left. Will was just about to pull her to him once more when they heard Mary’s footsteps.

  “Good God! I feel like I’m sixteen years old again,” he growled.

  After Mary returned, the waiter came with champagne and they sat down. As she had the evening they’d first walked together, Fiona found Will not at all intimidating, but incredibly easy to talk to. Mary was her sweet, merry self, and all three got along very well. They talked nonstop all through dinner, starting with the sweet blue-point oysters and progressing on to the terrapin soup, the poussins in a truffled cream sauce with duchesse potatoes and haricots verts, to the lobster Newburg and the baked Alaska, Delmonico’s signature dessert.

  And during the long, leisurely meal an entirely new feeling, one she’d never experienced, descended upon Fiona – a wonderful sense of being cared for, of being protected from the world and all its worries. She looked at Will now, as he was advising her on her tea shop, and thought how very handsome he was. He was the most graceful, elegant man she’d ever seen. Her eyes swept over him, taking in his thick shock of brown hair, his broad smile and strong jaw. He even sat beautifully, tall and straight-shouldered. His collar was snow-white and crisp, his tie expertly knotted. His black dinner jacket hung perfectly from his frame. She thought of her father in his patched secondhand jacket. And Charlie’s with the elbows gone, and Joe’s, a tweed with flecks of blue in it that matched his eyes …

  Joe again, damn him. She’d made a pact with herself not to think of him anymore, and now here he was, intruding on this perfect evening like a boorish, uninvited guest. It was as if he were sitting at the table in a fourth chair, watching, listening, smirking. She could all but see him smile cheekily as he turned and asked her how Will’s kiss tasted, if it felt as good as his.

  “It doesn’t, does it?” he asked her.

  “It does. Even better,” she silently shot back at him.

  He shook his head. “No, it’s all this” – he gestured at the garden, the lavish dinner. “That’s what feels good, not the kiss. Nobody kissed you like I did. Nobody ever will.”

  “I think a tearoom’s an excellent idea, Fiona,” Will said, breaking in upon her thoughts. “With the tea resource already in place and Mary’s baking talents, I’m sure it would be a success. Have you started thinking about a location?”

  “I have,” she said. “I’ve looked around Union Square, but the rents are too dear, and Madison Square as well…”

  Will nodded as she spoke, listening, questioning, encouraging her. She noticed how warm his eyes were, how they crinkled at the corners when he smiled. She decided brown eyes were much nicer than blue ones. Will’s mouth was nice, too. Thanks to the waiter, she’d barely had time to enjoy his kiss. But she might have another chance. The night was still you
ng.

  I’ll show you what feels good, Joe Bristow, she promised silently. Just you wait.

  “The park is beautiful in the moonlight, isn’t it? I’ve never been here this late,” Fiona said.

  “Nowhere near as beautiful as you are,” Will said, squeezing her hand.

  They were walking along Bethesda Terrace toward the lake, Will having suggested a stroll after their dinner. Mary had begged off, saying she was tired and would prefer to sit in the carriage. She had the driver for company if she got bored, she told them.

  “Thank you, Will, for everything,” Fiona said. “For the garden, the dinner … for putting up with my overbearing uncle. I had the most wonderful time.”

  “I’m glad, Fiona. I did, too. I’d like to see you again. Soon.”

  “I’d like that, too.”

  Will took a gold watch from his pocket and squinted at it in the darkness. “I think we should probably turn back now. It’s nearly eleven-thirty.”

  “Not yet,” Fiona said. She glanced behind herself, checking that there were no people nearby. She tugged on Will’s hand, leading him off the path into the shelter of some maple trees. Then she pulled him close and kissed him. He pulled away and looked at her, surprised.

  “I thought I’d been too forward in the restaurant,” he said. “I thought maybe you didn’t want me to –”

  “Kiss me back, Will. I do want you to,” she whispered. And she did. Desperately. She wanted his lips on her, his hands on her. She wanted the warmth and smell and feel of him to erase every kiss, every touch, every promise Joe Bristow had ever given her. She wanted to fill her senses with him, fill her memory with him, so that there was no room left for Joe inside her.

  Will took her in his arms, crushing her to him, and kissed her deeply. And then it was her turn to be surprised. This was a man, she realized, not a boy. She could feel the heat of his strong hands on her back, the warmth of his broad chest under her palms. He kissed her cheek, behind her ear, her throat. He cupped her breasts, kissed the tops of them. It felt good, so good that she closed her eyes and sighed. It’ll be all right, she thought. I’ll forget Joe. I will. And then he suddenly took her face in his hands and kissed her forehead. She opened her eyes, puzzled. He took a few steps away from her.