And he’d introduced Fiona to Caroline Astor, the imperious queen of New York society. Most women would’ve been quaking. Not Fiona. She’d merely grinned, shook Caroline’s hand, and said, “Smashing party, isn’t it?” Caroline had been curt and icy to her, but could not resist inquiring where she’d bought her lovely dress. “Paris?” she asked. “London?”
“No, Macy’s,” Fiona had replied.
Caroline’s eyes had widened, then she’d laughed warmly. Fiona had that effect on people. She was utterly unpretentious. She charmed frosty socialites and stuffy businessmen just by being her lovely, irreverent self. She’d even dazzled Morgan – the richest man in the country when Will introduced them – by meeting his imperious gaze, smiling, and shaking his hand just like a man. Later, Morgan had good-naturedly groused to Will that she was not intimidated by him in the least and should’ve had the good grace to show a bit of awe.
Will was head over heels in love with her and he wanted nothing more than to tell her. He’d almost done so once, in the carriage on the way back from a supper, but he’d felt a tension in her as he broached the topic. He thought perhaps she doubted his sincerity. Maybe she feared, as he once had, that things would not work out between them and was afraid to get her heart broken. He had a feeling someone had done that before. She had a passionate nature – he felt it in the way she touched him, the way she kissed him, but there was a wariness, too. He would introduce her to his family soon. That would show he was serious. He would do it for his children’s sake as well. Eventually he and Fiona would run into Will Junior or James at a restaurant, or someone would mention having seen him with her. Luckily none of them read “Peter’s Patter.” Hylton had taken quite a shine to Fiona. She was mentioned in his column nearly every week. He always described what she wore and noted that she was always on the arm of either the dashing young Englishman, Nick Soames, or Will, and that it was anyone’s guess who would win her. Obviously, Nick’s sexual orientation and his role as chaperon had escaped him, too.
“Dad?” Will Junior said. “I asked you a question. Didn’t you hear me?”
“No, sorry. I was miles away.” He saw Emily glance at him, then drop her eyes back to her needlework.
“I asked if the engineering reports on the Brooklyn line had come in yet.”
“Not yet. I expect them tomorrow.”
Silence fell again. James took a turn with the putter. Edmund tossed a golf ball into the air. Emily pulled her needle through her canvas. Will’s eyes lingered on his daughter’s hands. They were so delicate and white. Nothing like Fiona’s; her hands were always work-roughened. At Rector’s the other night, he noticed a scratch across the back of one as she’d reached for her wineglass. The sight of it – such a tough little fighter’s hand – had made his heart melt. Fiona’s were not pretty hands, not like Emily’s, but to him they were beautiful.
James coughed. Will looked up and was distinctly aware of tension in the air. He saw Will Junior give Emily a nod, and then she stood suddenly and asked Isabelle to come with her for a walk. Just a short one around the grounds, she said. It would do her good. Isabelle raised herself with her husband’s help and lumbered off after Emily. Will was left with his three sons and his son-in-law. Edmund had gotten hold of two more golf balls and was juggling them now, oblivious to the strained vibrations. Richard was skulking in the background. Will Junior and James were standing at the mantel, no longer playing with the putter. Something was going on. They’d asked him to come here today for a reason. He eyed Will Junior and James, making them squirm, then said, “Well, what is it?”
“What’s what?” Edmund said, catching the balls and regarding his father.
“Dad …” Will Junior began, “… we wanted to talk with you.”
“You couldn’t talk in New York?”
“No, it’s too personal,” Will Junior said. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, clearly uncomfortable.
“We’ve heard things,” James continued. “People have seen you out with a young woman.”
“It’s none of our business,” Will Junior said, “but there’s been quite a bit of talk. We just … we just think it’s not right to squire a mistress about so openly.”
Will smiled at his sons’ sense of propriety. “The woman you speak of is not my mistress. Her name is Fiona Finnegan. I’m courting her. In a very respectable fashion, I might add. I’m sorry, I should’ve realized you’d hear about it. I should have told you about her earlier.”
“Courting!” Will Junior echoed, a shocked expression on his face. “With an intent to marry?”
Will shrugged, becoming irritated by this inquisition. “It’s a bit soon for that, but since you ask, yes … it’s a possibility.”
“Dad!” Edmund exclaimed, smiling warmly. “That’s great! What’s she like? Is she pretty?”
Will laughed. “Very.”
Will Junior said nothing. He simply stared at his father in disbelief.
“I’ve met her family,” Will continued. “In due time, I’ll introduce her to all of you.”
“Dad, we don’t … you can’t … this won’t do,” James said coldly.
“I’ve heard she’s not even twenty years old. And a shopkeeper,” Will Junior said, spitting out the word as if it left a bad taste in his mouth. “Have you gone mad?”
“I beg your pardon?” Will said, affronted by both the question and his son’s tone.
“She’s no one we know,” James said. “And the age difference alone –”
“I’m forty-five, not eighty-five, thank you,” he snapped.
Will Junior paced the length of the room, then turned back to his father, visibly upset. “Think of how this will look to subway investors. We can’t afford a scandal now, we can’t afford any ill will whatsoever. Not with Belmont in the game. Not with all we’ve got riding on this.”
“A scandal?” Will repeated, looking at his son as if he were crazy. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
“I’m not being ridiculous!” Will Junior said, his voice rising. “Can’t you see –”
“I know what your real objection is,” Will said, cutting him off. “Why don’t you come out with it? It’s that she’s working-class and Irish, isn’t it?”
“My objection is that this … this fling of yours will ruin all we’ve worked for.”
“Will, leave Dad alone,” Edmund said, rushing to his father’s defense. “He knows what he’s doing. He’s allowed to date a girl if he wants to.”
“To date? Edmund, shut up, will you?” Will Junior shouted. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. What do you think this is? A college social? This is business, the real world, not school. We can’t allow ourselves to be compromised.”
“Son, that’s enough,” Will said sharply. He let a few seconds elapse, time enough for Will Junior to cool off, then, in a conciliatory tone, he said, “Wait until you meet her. You’ll see what a wonderful person she is. You’ll change your mind.”
“I have no intention of meeting her. Not now. Not ever,” Will Junior said angrily. He stormed out of the room, James and Richard trailing in his wake.
Edmund stayed behind. “Don’t mind them, Dad,” he said quietly.
Will sighed heavily. He’d gotten to his feet in the middle of the argument. Now he sat back down. “Maybe it’s too soon. Too close to your mother’s death.”
“Oh, please, Dad. It’s been two years since our mother died. His problem is that it’s too close to his run for Congress. He’s worried how your romance with a younger woman will sit with his conservative voters.”
“That’s uncharitable of you, Edmund. Will Junior’s ambitious, but he’s not that harsh.”
Edmund shrugged. “If you say so. I think he’s as harsh as sandpaper myself.”
“Maybe he really is worried about the subway deal. He’s put his heart into it and he’s done a very fine job. Maybe he really is nervous about the competition. If we could just nail that contract,” Will said. “Th
en I could prove to him he’s wrong. If I had the papers signed he couldn’t object anymore. He’d have nothing to object to.”
“So what if he objects, Dad? Let him! What can he do? Cut off your allowance?”
Will gave his son a weary smile. “No,” he said, “but he can create the sort of scene he just did. You all matter too much to me for that. I don’t want to see any of you angry or unhappy. I’m going to have to redouble my efforts on the subway. As soon as we get that contract, he’ll come around, Edmund. I know he will.”
Chapter 42
To Joe, the sight of eight Montague Street was like a knife in his heart. He stood in front of it, wishing to God that the door would open and she would be there, smiling, her blue eyes shining, just as she had been the day he took her to the West End. Last year at this time he still lived on this street, still sat out on the step at night with his mates, still dreamed of a shop, a life with Fiona. Only a year ago. It seemed like a lifetime.
He pulled himself away, walked to number four and knocked. His father answered it. “Well, well. The prodigal returns,” he said.
“Nice to see you, too, Dad.”
Peter Bristow looked at the bundle of pink carnations his son was holding and scowled. “Could ’ave at least sprung for roses. ’Ad ’er worried sick, you did. Didn’t know where you was. Neighbors whispering. Lads talking down the market, saying Peterson kicked your sorry arse out. All the crying and carrying on I ’ad to listen to on your account …”
“I’m sorry, Dad. I’m sorry. All right?”
Peter shook his head. “I’ll say you are. Come inside. I’m not in the ’abit of ’aving me Sunday dinner on the step.”
Joe rolled his eyes and followed his father in, glad he’d decided not to move back home. He was boisterously greeted by his brother Jimmy, who was sixteen; thirteen-year-old Ellen, who was taller and prettier than he remembered; and eight-year-old Cathy in pigtails and a pinafore. He kissed his mother, who was lifting a big leg of lamb out of the oven. He nearly scolded her when he saw it – he knew how dear lamb was – but she was proud of the joint, pleased it had turned out well, and so he said nothing. She saw the carnations in his hand, fussed over them, and had Ellen put them in a vase. Joe carried the lamb to the table while his sisters saw to the potatoes and Brussels sprouts. There was an awkward silence as they sat down to eat, then Cathy said, “Mum said Millie lost the baby, Joe. ’Ow did she lose it? Did it wander off? ’As she found it yet?”
“Be quiet, Cathy!” Ellen scolded.
Joe stopped cutting his lamb. “The baby’s not lost, luv,” he said quietly. “ ’E’s in ’eaven.”
“But why? Why is ’e there?”
“Oi! Eat your supper and mind your business, you,” her father barked. “We’ll ’ave no more talk of babies or Millie or any of it.”
“Stupid!” Ellen hissed, elbowing her.
“Am not!” Cathy said sulkily. “I only said –”
“Pass me the gravy, please, Cathy, there’s a good girl,” Rose said. “Tell us about your new job, then, Joe.”
Joe did, grateful to his mother for changing the subject. When he’d finished, his father said, “Seems to me you could do a bit better with all your experience.”
Rose shot her husband a look.
“I tried. Tommy’s blackballed me. I was lucky to get what I’ve got,” Joe said. He chewed a piece of lamb and swallowed it. “It’s not forever, though. I’m putting most of me money away.” He hesitated for a second, then said, “I’ve got an idea for a new business.”
“What is it, luv?” Rose asked excitedly.
“As soon as I’ve got enough saved up, I’m going to get me own barrow, fill it with the best produce, and take it door-to-door in one of the better neighbor’oods. Mayfair, maybe. If I make enough money, I’ll buy an ’orse and cart so I can go farther afield. To Knightsbridge, say, and I’ll ’ire another man to take the barrow on the Mayfair route. Then I’ll keep adding carts and routes till I ’ave a good deal of the West End covered.” He was animated now. A little of his old spirit was back. “This way, the cook or the ’ouse-keeper gets the finest produce brought right to ’er on a daily basis. She can pick and choose and not ’ave to go shopping ’erself or take whatever old rubbish the corner shop delivers, see? I’m thinking of calling it ’Montague’s – Where Quality and Convenience Meet.’ After the street, like. What do you think?”
“I think it’s a grand idea,” Rose said.
“I’d work for you,” Jimmy said. “I could ’elp you in the morning and get back in time to ’elp Dad in the afternoon.”
“I think it’s the daftest idea I ever ’eard,” his father said. “ ’Ow are you going to get the cooks to buy from you? They already ’ave their favorite shops …”
“Peter …” Rose said. He didn’t hear her.
“… and ’ow will you know what to put on the barrow? And ’ow much of it? You’ll be running out of one thing while you ’ave too much of another. You’d do well to stay in the job you’ve got and be thankful for it.”
“You just told me I could do better!” Joe said, frustrated by his father’s constant criticism, his refusal even to consider a new idea.
“Just keep your ’ead down for now and don’t make another cock-up of things,” Peter said.
Joe balled up his napkin. “I don’t know why I came back ’ere,” he said, standing up to go. “I’m sorry, Mum. Thanks for the dinner.”
“Sit down!” Rose snapped. “You’re not going anywhere. You’re going to finish the food I cooked for you!”
She turned to her husband angrily and Joe saw that his father, who had a good eighty pounds on his mother and stood a foot taller, flinched. “And you, Peter, you’d do well to get be’ind your son for once, instead of telling ’im ’e’s daft for coming up with a new idea. A good idea! If ’e’d gotten a little more encouragement round ’ere in the first place, ’e might never ’ave left for Covent Garden. And ’e wouldn’t ’ave gotten tangled up with the likes of bloody Tommy Peterson and ’is bloody daughter!”
The whole family was silent. Meekly, they all resumed eating. Ellen dished out more meat. Cathy ate her sprouts without a peep even though she hated them. Joe poured gravy on his potatoes. Peter stabbed at a piece of lamb, then grudgingly said he might know of a barrow for sale. Maybe he could put a deposit on it and Joe could pay the balance out of his weekly wages. Rose patted her husband’s hand and gave her eldest a hopeful look.
The rest of dinner proceeded uneventfully. When it was over, Peter sat in front of the hearth with his paper and pipe and dozed off. Jimmy went out to meet his friends, as did Ellen and Cathy after they’d helped their mother with the washing up. Rose asked Joe if he fancied a stroll before he headed back to Covent Garden. He said he did.
As they walked down Montague Street, his eyes were drawn back to Fiona’s house. His mother noticed. “There are two families in there now. One upstairs, one down. Lord, I miss them. Kate was like a sister to me,” she said.
Joe nodded. He missed them, too. So much that it hurt. He turned to his mother and asked, “Do you think she’d ever forgive me, Mum? Not that she’d ever love me again. I know that’s too much to ask, but maybe she could just forgive me.”
Rose hesitated. “I don’t know, luv. It’s amazing what the ’eart can bear. People say it breaks, but it doesn’t. It would be easier if it did. If it just stopped beating, stopped feeling.” They turned the corner. “I suppose she might. It ’appens. I once forgave your father.”
“For what? Being a miserable old sod?”
Rose shook her head and Joe noticed his mother suddenly looked faraway and sad.
“For what, Mum?”
“When you were only six and Jimmy three and Ellen just born, your dad left. ’E took up with a widow who worked at the Spitalfields market. She was no beauty, but ’er kids were grown and she ’ad a room all to ’erself.”
“Me own dad?” Joe said, floored.
Rose nodded.
“ ’E couldn’t cope with marriage and fatherhood and another new baby. We ’ad no money whatsoever. We lived with me parents. ’E worked for ’is father. It was an awful time.”
“But you coped, Mum.”
“Of course I did, my children needed me. I could cope. ’E couldn’t.”
Joe looked at her, still in a state of shock.
Rose laughed at his expression. “Men are the weak ones, luv. Didn’t you know? Oh, you make a lot of noise, but it’s the women who are strong. Where it counts. In ’ere,” she said, touching her fingers to her heart. Pain flickered across her face at the memories. “A brand-new baby. Colicky. Wouldn’t feed. Never let me sleep. Jimmy and you only sprogs. Barely enough money for food. And then me ’usband ups and leaves me.” She laughed bitterly. “And me dad asks me what I’d done to drive ’im out. Thank God I ’ad me mum. I wouldn’t ’ave made it without ’er.”
“What ’appened? ’E came back? You let ’im?”
“Aye. ’E was back within the month. Tail between ’is legs.”
“Why’d you take ’im back?”
“I needed me ’usband. You kids needed your dad. And I loved the blighter. It took a while, but I forgave ’im. ’E was sorry and ’e tried so ’ard afterward. And even though what ’e’d done ’urt, I could understand it. The way you lot cried and carried on, I wanted to leave meself.”
The Tea Rose Page 43
