“Coo-eee! Joe! Joe Bristow, over here!”
Joe turned in the direction of the voice. It was Emma Hurley from number twenty, a kitchen maid, a girl of fourteen up from Devon to work in London and thinking the whole thing was one great adventure. She was standing by the gate to the servants’ entrance, wearing a gray dress with a white pinafore, cuffs, and collar. Joe smiled at her as he wheeled his barrow over. He liked Emma. She was rosy-cheeked and full of the devil. He’d only met her two weeks ago, and already he knew all the goings on in number twenty. His lordship was dotty, her ladyship was fierce, the cook and the butler fought constantly, and the new valet was ever so handsome. Emma prattled to everyone about everything – himself included. She’d told her friends – maids and nannies in the neighboring homes – about him and they’d told their cooks and now he had a dozen new customers on Bruton Street alone, thanks to her.
“The new girl’s just ruined Cook’s cauliflower gratin,” she told him, giggling. “Burned it to a crisp! Cook boxed her ears. You never heard such a carry-on, Joe. Give us two heads, would you? And a bunch of parsley. Oh, and some peaches. Five pounds, please. Her ladyship just informed us that she would like fresh peach ice cream after supper this evening. Good of her to tell us now, wasn’t it? Be a miracle if it freezes in time. Cook was livid about the cauliflower. Thought she’d have to send one of us down the shops. But I told her you’d be along any minute. Saved that poor girl’s life, you did!”
Joe assembled Emma’s order. After she paid him, and he gave her her change, he placed a generous bag of strawberries in her hand. “Those are for you, Em. Don’t tell Cook.” He grinned at her. “I was thinking you could share them with a certain valet.”
“I’m finished with him, Joe. Caught him snogging with the parlormaid. I’ll share them with Sarah, the new girl. Cook’s got her scrubbing the pantry floor for a penance. She’ll be in need of a treat by this evening, if she lives to see it!”
“Emma! Where are you, girl? Hurry up!” a voice shrilled from inside.
“I’d better get going. You too, Joe. There’s Elsie, from number twenty-two, waving for you. See you tomorrow. Ta-ra! And thanks for the berries!”
Joe shoved off. He made seven more stops on Bruton Street before turning off and heading for Berkeley Square. The piles of fruits and vegetables on his red barrow, with the words MONTAGUE’S – WHERE QUALITY AND CONVENIENCE MEET painted on the side, had diminished considerably. He was worried he might run out of stock before he finished the route. Sales had been good this morning.
It was starting to take off, this plan of his. He’d been discouraged at first; his idea hadn’t caught on right away. It had taken the cooks and their scullery maids a little while to understand that he wasn’t a delivery boy from some shop, that he was bringing the goods – the very best goods, mind you, no tired old lettuces the shop owner wanted to get shut of – directly to them. Saving them the trip. Helping them out if they were short of something.
Now he was expected at many places and often got impatient looks, foot-tapping, or the sharp edge of some harried woman’s tongue if he was late. His prices were slightly higher than the nearby shops – because he only bought first-rate stock – but none of his customers complained. They knew quality goods when they saw them.
At the top of Berkeley Square, he stopped the barrow for a few seconds to wipe his brow. It was a balky heavy thing, about five feet long and three feet wide, with two wheels in front, two in back, and a pair of handles jutting from the end. A brake kept it from rolling away on a hill. It was tricky to maneuver, especially when it was piled high with goods. A pony and cart would be such an improvement. He could carry more goods and move faster, too. He’d get a rig eventually, but not until he got back from America. And when he had it, he’d hire his brother Jimmy to push the barrow on a second route. He’d add carts and routes as he could afford to, and then, one day – a shop. The shop he’d always wanted. And maybe, just maybe, he’d be able to share it with the girl he’d always wanted.
The barrow felt even heavier as he resumed his route, but he didn’t mind. He felt hopeful for the first time in a long time. And that hope gave him strength. He felt as if he could push it all around Mayfair, all around London, for that matter, across the whole country, up to Scotland even, if that’s what it took to win Fiona back.
“Strawberries, sweet and red!” he cried. “Put ’em in a pudding, put ’em in a pie, see ’em for yourselves, ladies, don’t be shy!”
He had four pounds to his name. In a few more weeks, if he was lucky and business continued to be good, he would have the eighteen he needed to get to New York. He would find Fiona there. He would talk to her and he would make her listen to him. He would make her understand how deeply sorry he was for all that he’d done. He would tell her how he wanted to spend the rest of his life making it up to her, if only she’d let him. He would tell her how much he loved her and somehow, some way, he would make her love him again. He had to. She was the one thing he wanted most in all the world, the only thing that mattered to him. He’d lost sight of that once and he’d lost her. Maybe he would have a chance to get her back – a chance he knew he didn’t deserve, but one he’d reach for with both hands if only it would come his way.
Chapter 48
“Martin!” Will shouted to his driver from the steps of City Hall. “My office! As fast as you can! There’s a ten-dollar bill in it for you if you get me there before the hour!”
He jumped into his carriage and closed the door. Martin cracked the whip; he had ten minutes to go thirty blocks. As soon as he’d pulled away from the curb, Will pounded on the seat and let out a huge, exultant yell. It was his! He’d done it! He’d won the contract for New York City’s first subterranean railway.
After years of planning and months of trying to prove that his plan was better than August Belmont’s, he finally swayed the mayor. He’d just concluded a meeting with the mayor and his aldermen to finalize everything. He had the document – signed and sealed – in his breast pocket. Ground could be broken in as little as a month’s time. After all the time and effort he’d put into this project, all the money he’d spent, he finally had the go-ahead.
He couldn’t wait to tell his sons that the contract was theirs. They’d be ecstatic. Winning it meant the world to Will Junior. He’d worked so hard on it. Will imagined his expression, his shouts of delight when he told him the news. And right after he told them, he would tell Fiona. He hadn’t seen her in days. Two weeks, actually. Tying up the subway contract had taken every minute of every day. And she’d been so busy with her new purchase – that building down on Irving Place – that she’d had no free time either. He’d see her tonight, though. And he’d take her out for supper no matter how much she protested, no matter how busy she said she was. They would celebrate tonight. Just the two of them. Hopefully Nick would be available to chaperon her. He was easier to get rid of than Mary. He couldn’t wait to be with her, to sit across a table from her and gaze into those astonishing sapphire eyes, to take her in his arms later, even if she wouldn’t let him take her into his bed.
He leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes, remembering the night at his house when he wanted to make love to her. He thought of it constantly. He ached with desire at the mere memory of her soft lips, her bare skin, her beautiful body. Just picturing her as she’d looked then, half-naked, her hair coming down, made him feel weak. He had wanted her as he’d never wanted a woman in his entire life. And he’d come on too strong. He’d frightened her. What an oaf he was. Pawing her like a dog, asking her to sleep with him before he’d even told her how he felt about her, before he’d told her he loved her. She wasn’t one of his mistresses, a worldly, sophisticated woman embarking on an affair. She was a girl of eighteen. Inexperienced and uncertain of herself. Uncertain, no doubt, of him as well.
The thing that bothered him the most was that she had wanted him, too. He’d felt it in her kiss, in the way she’d clung to him. He had made her w
ant him and then he’d ruined everything by demonstrating all the finesse, all the sensitivity, of a rutting bull.
Christ! How many women had he slept with that he didn’t love. Now he was in love with one – head over heels in love – and she’d never sleep with him. Not after the way he’d behaved. Not until he married her, most likely. And that wouldn’t happen for a while because he still had to introduce her to his family. He still had to wait for Will Junior to come around to the idea of his courting a woman from a different class. The boy was overcautious, so worried about the possibility of a scandal, so worried about its effect on the subway contract …
… the subway contract.
Will, leaning back in his seat, sat up straight.
The subway contract was his now. He’d not only proved Belmont wrong, he’d proved his son wrong, too. Will Junior’s objections to Fiona were entirely unfounded. Their relationship hadn’t caused a scandal. It hadn’t shied the mayor or potential investors. Surely once he handed his son the contract, he would see that. And he would stop his truculent behavior and consent to meet Fiona. It had taken him forty-five years to find someone he loved. Who knew how much time he had left on this earth? He’d satisfied his family’s demands, won his sons the means for more income and greater prestige with the subway project; now it was time for him to have what he wanted.
He rapped on the window that separated him from his driver.
“Yes, sir? What is it?” Martin asked, after sliding the window open.
“I need to make a stop first, before we go to my office,” Will said. Martin scowled. “You’ll still get your ten dollars, Martin, don’t worry! Take me to Union Square!”
“Where, sir?”
“Union Square!”
“To what address, sir?”
“Tiffany’s, Martin. And hurry!”
“Peter Hylton thinks we’re a couple, you know,” Nick said to Fiona from atop a wooden ladder. He was trying different colors on a wall in the tearoom and he’d managed to get more paint on himself than on the plaster. “I read his column today. He wrote about us being business partners, your plans for a tearoom and mine for a gallery, and said we’d be partners in love before much longer. I hope Will’s jealous. Do you think he might be? Then we could have a duel over you, Fee! Pistols at dawn. Wouldn’t that be exciting?”
“Peter Hylton is a horse’s ass and so are you,” Fiona said, lifting a sterling wine cooler out of a crate. She was sweaty and dirty. Her sleeves were rolled up and her skirts were knotted behind her. Her feet were sore and swollen from being on them all day and she’d taken off her boots and stockings hours ago. The cooler was heavy and ornate, covered with repoussé flowers and animals, and sporting two Bacchus heads for handles. “What’s this doing here?” she asked Nick, putting it on the floor. “I thought we decided not to buy it.”
“We decided to buy it.”
“We? Or you? This is supposed to be a tearoom, Nick. I have no use for this.”
“But just imagine it on the gilt sideboard we found. Polished and piled high with fresh strawberries in the summer. Or at Christmastime, brimming with sugar-frosted grapes and pomegranates. It’ll be stunning, Fee. And besides, it’s not American and 1850s, as the antique dealer said. It’s English. George the Third and a steal at twice what we paid.”
Fiona sighed, put the wine cooler on the floor, and began digging in the bottom of the crate. The purchases they’d made in an East Side antique store had arrived earlier in the day. She was just unpacking them now. She pulled out a set of silver serving pieces that had been tucked underneath the cooler. Nick had insisted she buy them. They’d been poking around in the newly arrived contents of a Madison Avenue mansion whose owner had passed away. While Nick had piled up china and linen, she had gone through the silver. She’d found three partial sets of sterling and a full set of silverplate and decided she’d take the silverplate. It wasn’t as nice as the sterling, but at least it all matched. “Don’t be banal,” Nick had scolded. “Matching silver is for maitre d’s and the nouveau riche. Buy the sterling.”
Over the past two weeks, as builders worked on the house, Fiona and Nick had scoured antique and secondhand shops for the things they needed. They’d found gorgeous pieces of furniture – two ebony desks and matching chairs for Nick, and damask settees for his clients to rest themselves on. And for her a Louis Quinze-style gilt sideboard to hold cakes and pastries, ladies’ chairs with needle-pointed seats, Queen Anne tea tables, cast-iron furniture for the garden, Limoges china, Frette linens, and four pairs of almost new watered-silk curtains in a gorgeous shade of light green – all at a fraction of what she would’ve have paid for them new.
The work at thirty-two Irving Place was proceeding apace, though not without the occasional unforeseen disaster – like a rusted waste pipe, a roof that leaked, and joists that termites had destroyed. The house was rapidly eating through the money she’d borrowed from First Merchants, which made her anxious. Managing workmen – making them do exactly what she wanted done, and making them do it over sometimes, too – made her short-tempered. And running back and forth between Eighth Avenue and Irving Place exhausted her. But even so, she was incredibly happy. She fell asleep every night and woke up every morning excited, thinking about the tearoom, her Tea Rose, and how beautiful it would be. And when she arrived there each day, quickly walking through the rooms to see what had been accomplished since the previous day, her heart filled with pride and happiness. The Tea Rose was her baby. She had conceived of the idea, nurtured it, and soon she would watch it bloom. Unlike the grocery shop, it was hers, all hers.
“What do you think about this color, Fee?” Nick called from his perch. Earlier that day, they’d gone to the paint man and Nick had made him mix up batch after batch of color for her rooms and his. “I want a soft white for my gallery. And a fresh spring green for the trim,” he’d instructed the man. “Not too green and not too yellow. Light, but not so light it disappears. A celery color, really, but with some beige to tone it down. And for the tearoom I need a cream just tinged with pink. The color of a woman’s blush. Don’t make it too pink, and don’t make it orangy, either. I’m thinking of a rose petal, not an apricot.” Fiona thought the man would kill him.
She looked at the colors on the wall and picked the lightest of them, a warm beige with just a hint of pink in it. “That’s my favorite, too,” he said. She looked at him and saw that he had circles under his eyes. It was nearly nine o’clock. They’d been going at it for over twelve hours.
“Come down from there. Now. You’re going to bed.”
“But I’m not finished,” he protested.
“In the morning. You’re tired. I can see it in your face. I won’t have you exhausting yourself, Nick. I mean it. You know what happened the last time.”
“But I feel fine –”
“Nicholas Soames, you can’t open a gallery if you’re dead!” she said sharply.
He gave up and climbed down the ladder. He covered his paint pots and put his brushes in a jar of turpentine. “What about you? You need rest, too,” he said.
“I won’t be much longer. I want to do a bit more unpacking and then I’ll go home.”
Nick kissed her good night, getting paint on her as he did, then went upstairs to his flat. Fiona stretched her tired limbs after he’d gone, trying to ease the stiffness. She was about to resume her unpacking when a movement from the garden caught her eye. It was the roses. She could see them swaying in the night breeze through the new windows she’d had installed. Unable to resist them, she went outside. They were her creatures, these flowers, and she was theirs. As she walked into the garden, she fancied they were bobbing their lush heads in greeting.
The night sky was clear and filled with stars. The air was cool and the grass felt soft beneath her bare feet. The scent of a nearby rose drew her. She was nuzzling the pale yellow bloom, enjoying the feeling of its petals against her cheek, when she heard the footsteps crunching on the graveled path behind her
. She didn’t turn around. She knew who it was.
“I told you to go to bed and I meant it. What are you doing back down here?”
“That’s not a very nice greeting, is it?”
Fiona spun around. “Will!” she exclaimed. It had been days since she’d seen him.
“Nick let me in. I rang the wrong doorbell. Look at you!” he exclaimed, laughing, looking for a clean place on her face to kiss her. “You’re filthy! And I wanted to take you to dinner, too. To celebrate. But they’ll never let you in Del’s looking like that. I don’t even think they’d let you in a Bowery dive. What on earth have you been doing?”
“Working in here all day. It’s dusty. And Nick just smeared paint on me. What are we celebrating?”
Will grinned. “McClane Subterranean. We got the contract!”
Fiona whooped for joy, genuinely happy for him. She knew how hard he’d worked for this and what it meant to him. “Oh, Will, congratulations! I’m so excited for you!” He picked her up, over her protests that she’d get him dirty, and spun her around. When he put her down, she took his hand and led him to an iron settee she’d bought. “Tell me all about it. I want to hear everything!”
He described the last two weeks, all the work, all the meetings and arguing and cajoling. He told her about today, about how good it felt when the mayor had finally told him the project was his. And how elated his sons had been when he broke the news to them. How his eldest had insisted they all go out to the Union Club for drinks. And how they’d all gotten tipsy together, a little too tipsy. He was still a bit lightheaded. And how Will Junior had apologized for his bad behavior and told him that he wanted to meet Fiona and suggested he bring her to the country so she could meet the entire family.
Fiona was surprised and pleased to hear of his change of heart. It meant he had finally accepted their relationship. She knew that his refusal to meet her had pained his father greatly. It hadn’t made her feel very good, either.
The Tea Rose Page 47
