The Tea Rose

by Jennifer Donnelly

  “Come upstate next weekend,” Will said. “Bring Nick and Mary and a whole squad of policemen as chaperons if that’s what it takes to make your uncle happy.”

  “I’d love to, Will, but I’ve painters scheduled to start on Saturday. Maybe the following weekend?”

  “No, this weekend. I insist.” He took her hand in his, rubbed at the paint on it with his handkerchief. “You work too hard, Fiona. Far too hard. I don’t want you to. Not anymore. I don’t want you to ever have to work like this again. I want to take care of you and spoil you and take every worry, every care, away from you.”

  Fiona looked at him as if he were mad. “Will, what on earth are you going on about?”

  But instead of answering her, he took her in his arms and kissed her hard, so hard he took her breath away. “I’ve missed you so much. I never want to be apart from you for so long again.”

  “We won’t be, Will,” she said, touching his cheek, wondering if it was the drinks he had with his sons that were making him so strange. “You’ve got your contract now, and my tearoom is coming along. Before long it will open and I won’t be putting in such long hours. I’ll have my evenings free again and –”

  “I want more than your evenings, Fiona. I want to kiss you awake in the morning in our bed. I want to eat every meal with you and look at you across my table. I want to come home to you at the end of the day and see your pretty smile, see our children come running to me.”

  He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small box. And though the night was warm, Fiona suddenly felt very, very cold. He opened it, took out a magnificent diamond ring, slid it onto her finger, and said, “Fiona, will you marry me?”

  “Jaysus Christ! Look at the size of it! It’s as big as an egg!” Michael exclaimed.

  “Stop exaggerating,” Fiona said.

  He lifted the enormous emerald-cut diamond out of its box and showed it to Mary. “It’s beautiful, Fiona! Why are you keeping it in the box? Why aren’t you wearing it?” she asked.

  “I didn’t think I should.”

  “Why not?” Michael asked. “It’s yours, isn’t it?”

  “Not really. Not yet, anyway. I … I didn’t say yes.”

  Michael looked at her aghast. “You turned him down?”

  “No … ”

  “What did you do then?”

  “I told him I needed time to think.”

  “About what?”

  “About whether I want to spend the rest of my life as Mrs. William McClane,” she said testily. “I’m choosing a husband, not a new coat. It’s a marriage, you know. Vows, a commitment. I want to be sure. I want to know in my heart that he’s the one.”

  “If he isn’t, who is? The King of Siam? Sure, if you don’t marry Will McClane, I’ll marry him meself. He’ll keep you like a princess, he will. No more flogging tea and pork chops. You’ll be farting through silk the rest of your days.”

  “Michael, mind your language!” Mary scolded. “This is a delicate matter. Fiona’s right to take her time. It’s the biggest decision she’ll ever make.”

  “But he’s a good man and he’s mad about her! What more could she want?”

  Fiona sighed. Why couldn’t they have been asleep? She thought the whole house would be in bed when she came in, but Michael and Mary had been sitting in the parlor sipping sherry together. The late hour and her flushed face had told them that something was up. She wanted to keep Will’s proposal to herself, to mull it over in privacy, but they’d pressed her and she’d told them what had happened. Michael put the ring back in its box now and handed it to her.

  “My advice to you is get that ring on your finger and tell him yes before he has second t’oughts,” he said. “Before he realizes just how headstrong and ornery you are.”

  “Thank you very much.”

  “I’m only trying to look out for you. What’ll I tell me brother when I see him in heaven?”

  “What makes you think you’ll get in?” Fiona asked.

  Michael ignored the barb. “He’ll knock me head off, he will. ‘Michael,’ he’ll say to me, ‘why didn’t you look out for her? Why did you let her waste her life fooling with tearooms?’”

  “I’m not wasting my life! I love The Tea Rose! And TasTea and the grocery, too.”

  “Aw, lass, that’s not women’s work. Having babies and making a home, that’s women’s work. That’s what makes lasses happy and pleasant, not willful and shrewish like you. You’ve done it now, sure you have. If you lose McClane, you’ll not find another like him so soon.”

  “I’m going to bed,” Fiona declared, upset.

  Mary caught up to her in the hallway. “Don’t pay him any mind,” she said gently. “He just wants to see you happily settled, that’s all. Do what your heart tells you. It’s all that matters.” She gave her a motherly kiss and told her she ought to get some sleep. Fiona suddenly missed her own mother terribly. Her mam would have soothed her and said all the right things. How had she been able to do that? How had she known what the right things were?

  Mary was halfway down the hall when Fiona called to her.

  “What is it, luv?”

  “What did your heart tell you? When your husband asked you to marry him?”

  Mary smiled. “It told me that the sun rose and set because of him, the birds sang for him alone, that I couldn’t live a day without him. Do you know what that feels like?”

  “Yes,” Fiona said. “I do.”

  In her bedroom, she put the ring box on top of her bureau, lit her lamp, and pulled her shade. She was weary and looked forward to sleep. She unbuttoned her blouse, slipped her skirt off, and laid them over the back of her chair. As she finished, her eyes fell on the ring box again. She pressed the catch and slid the ring onto her finger. The diamond twinkled as if someone had caught a star and set it. It was perfect, absolutely flawless, and it looked so very out of place on her hand, with its cuts and scratches, its large, reddened knuckles. She took it off, placed it back in its box, and put the box in a bureau drawer to keep it safe.

  As she crossed the floor to get her nightgown, she caught sight of herself in her mirror. Standing before the glass in her camisole and petticoat, she unpinned her long, black hair and let it fall to her shoulders. Will had told her she was beautiful. Am I? she wondered.

  She looked at herself appraisingly, trying to see whatever it was he saw that made him want to kiss her, to make love to her. She circled her waist with her hands, then cupped her breasts, pushing them up and together. She stepped out of her knickers, unbuttoned her camisole, then shyly looked at her own naked body. Her skin was smooth and supple, kissed with the soft glow of youth. Her limbs were strong and slender. She ran a hand over her flat belly, trying to imagine it full and round. Will had said he wanted children with her. Right away. She would be nineteen next spring. Many girls were married by her age; some were mothers. If she married him, she herself soon would be. It would be nice to have a husband. A tiny baby to hold.

  She closed her eyes and tried to imagine being in bed with Will, tried to picture his face, to feel his hands and lips on her body, caressing her. But the brown eyes she tried to picture were sky-blue. The hair, tousled and too long, was blond. The lips whispering her name weren’t Will’s. “I love you, Fee,” they said. “I always will.” He was the one whom the sun rose and set for, whom the birds sang for. The one she couldn’t live without.

  “No,” she whispered frantically. “Go away. Please go away.”

  It had been weeks since she’d thought of him, since she’d allowed herself to remember his face, his voice. She tried to push them down now, these images, but she’d dammed them back too long. They burst their confinements and flooded out, unbidden and unwanted, a million memories of Joe: the way he looked at the river, squinting at her in the sunshine; the sound of his laughter; the smell of him, sweaty from the market or clean from his Sunday bath; the feeling of his heart beating under her hand. Their power, their force and clarity staggered her. It was
as if he were here in the room with her, as if she could reach, out and touch him. But she knew the minute she opened her eyes there would be nothing there, no one. She would be alone. Tears seeped out from under her dark lashes. She cried out softly with the pain of her longing.

  She made herself think of Will, of all his wonderful qualities, trying to convince herself that it was he, not Joe, she loved now. But her heart wasn’t listening. It was walled up and closed off. It had made its choice long ago and had been denied. And now it ached inside of her, broken and empty and as cold as a stone.

  She opened her eyes and looked at her reflection again. She saw a face that was tear-stained, riven by sadness and anger. She saw a body that was supple now, but would someday shrivel. She saw a young woman who would one day become an old one – stiff, brittle, and alone. And she knew that if she did not banish Joe once and for all from her heart, if she did not accept the love Will was offering her, she would end up just like Miss Nicholson – her life wasted, spent mourning for something that never was.

  She quickly put her clothes back on, then lifted the ring box out of her bureau drawer. She opened it and slid the ring onto her finger. She paused for a second at her bedroom door, listening. There was no sound. Mary had gone upstairs. Michael had gone to bed. She reached for her purse, then quietly left her room, and her home, determined to bury her past forever and embrace her future.

  “You can’t tunnel there, I’ve told you this already, Hugh,” Will said. He was standing in the sitting room off his bedroom, squeezing the neck of his tall black telephone as if he’d like to throttle it. “How are you going to blast? You’ll blow Grand Central right into the East River! We’re going to use the cut-and-cover method. Open a hole, lay the tracks, close the hole … what? I can’t hear you … hold on …”

  Will banged the earpiece on his desk, vowing that someday soon the newly formed McClane Communications would give American Bell a sound ass-kicking. When the line cleared, he resumed his conversation with the mayor, wondering why the man had nothing better than the subway to occupy his time at midnight on a Saturday. He himself was in his night robe and had been ready to retire with a glass of wine and a book when the phone rang.

  Now he was embroiled in a discussion on underground engineering when all he wanted to do was lie down and nurse his wounded pride. Earlier in the evening, he had asked Fiona to marry him. He had hoped she would leap into his arms and say yes. Instead, she had asked for time to think. She’d kissed him and told him how honored she was. She’d told him she loved him, and he believed her. But as he’d held her, he felt a stiffness in her, a guardedness he was very familiar with. She had drawn back from him as she always did when he got too close.

  “Can you hear me now? Good. Disruptive? Yes, of course it will be. Laying an entire railway under the city is bound to be disruptive.”

  The butler’s sudden appearance in the doorway startled him. He thought the man had gone to bed. “There’s someone here to see you, sir,” he whispered.

  “Who is it?” Will mouthed. First the mayor’s call and now a visitor. At this time of night? What was wrong with people?

  “Miss Finnegan, sir.”

  Will held a finger up, staying the man. Sometimes Bell’s lousy service came in handy. “Hugh?” he shouted. “Hugh, I’m losing you … the line’s going again. What? I can’t hear you …” He slammed the earpiece into its holder. “If it rings, don’t answer it,” he said, dashing out the door, down the hall and then down the stairway to the foyer. Fiona was standing there. She was disheveled. Her hair was unpinned. Her face was pink with perspiration.

  “What is it?” he asked, alarmed. “What’s wrong? You’re all out of breath!”

  “I … ran,” she said, her chest still heaving.

  “Ran? From where?”

  “Home.”

  “You what? All the way from Eighth Avenue? Fiona, are you crazy? There are all sorts of characters out at this hour. Something could’ve happened to you!”

  “Don’t scold me, Will; I couldn’t find a cab. I had to come … I …” She was so out of breath, she couldn’t finish her sentence. “Oh, Will …” she gasped. She buried her hands in his hair, pulled his face to hers, and kissed him. “… I wanted to tell you yes! Yes, I’ll marry you!”

  Will was surprised to see Fiona in his home and taken aback by this sudden turn of events. “Fiona, I … I don’t know what to say. I’m delighted … but are you certain? I thought you wanted some time.”

  “I don’t. I’ve made up my mind. I want to be your wife. If you still want me to.”

  “Of course I do. More than anything in the world.” He held her close, moved that she had run all the way here to tell him she wanted to be his. When she had asked him for time, he was certain she had wanted it only to figure out how to tell him good-bye gracefully. Now she was here, in his arms, making his fondest wish come true.

  “Come sit down,” he said, ashamed to find his voice a little hoarse suddenly. “You’re panting like a racehorse. Would you like a glass of wine? I just opened a bottle. It’s in my bedroom. Go sit in the study. I’ll bring it. Or maybe you’d like something cold?”

  “What I would like is a bath,” she said, ignoring Will’s invitation to wait for him in the study. She followed him up the stairs.

  “A bath?” He turned and looked at her on his way into his bedroom, wondering if all that running had addled her mind. “I was thinking I would get you a drink and then get you home. It’s terribly late.”

  “I’m not going home,” she said quietly. “I’m staying here tonight. With you.”

  Will, who’d picked up the wine bottle, put it back down with a thump. “I see,” he said. “Are you quite sure about this?”

  “Yes.” She crossed the room and kissed him again. Sweetly. Deeply. Then she unbuttoned her blouse and shrugged it off, stepped out of her skirt and boots and stood before him in her white under-things. Her camisole, moist with sweat, stuck to her skin. He could see the shape of her breasts through the fabric, the darker shade of her nipples. He wanted to carry her to his bed and make love to her. Now. This very second. Without even stopping to get out of his robe. But he wouldn’t. He’d take his time. Somehow he would find the self-control not to take her where she stood.

  “Will, I’ve just run for blocks and blocks. I’m sweaty as a navvy. Do you think I might have a bath? Does this palace of yours have bathtubs? Or do I need to get the washtub out and boil some water?”

  “No, of course not,” he said, laughing. “It’s in here.”

  He led her through his bedroom – a masculine affair – into his bathroom, an enormous room, all done in white Carrara marble, with an oriental carpet on the floor, two sinks, huge framed mirrors on the wall, and a large marble tub in the center.

  He turned the taps on, then rooted around in his cabinets for something to scent the water. All he had, besides lime and bay rum, was sandalwood. Nothing flowery or sweet. The sandalwood would have to do. He poured some into the water, watched it foam, then found some towels and left her to her devices. After a few minutes, worried he had forgotten something, he knocked on the door and said, “Are you all right in there? Do you need anything?”

  “I’m fine. Just a little lonely.”

  “Would you like company? I won’t look.”

  Fiona laughed. “You wouldn’t see anything anyway. There are so many bubbles, I feel like I’m sitting in a meringue. How much bath oil did you put in?”

  “Too much, I guess,” he said sheepishly, coming in. “Sorry, the valet usually does that sort of thing. Here, would you like a sip of wine?” He pulled a chair over to the side of the tub, sat, and handed her his glass.

  She took a sip, closed her eyes and sighed with pleasure. Will found a washcloth and scrubbed her neck and shoulders. “That feels good,” she said. He rubbed the cloth over her face, teasing her, telling her she cleaned up nicely.

  She took another sip of his wine, then said, “I feel like I’m in a cas
tle here, Will. Just like a princess. So safe from the world. And everyone in it.”

  “You’ll always be safe with me, Fiona. Nothing will ever hurt you. Ever. I swear it.” He leaned forward and kissed her wet mouth. She shivered as he did. The water was cooling.

  “You’re cold. I’ll get you a towel.”

  He walked to the back of the room where a wide walnut armoire ran the length of one wall. He opened and closed various doors, wondering where the hell the towels were kept.

  “Ah! Here they are,” he said. Fiona stood up, her back to him. Water sheeted off her skin. He saw the long, graceful line of her spine, the narrow curve of her waist, her round bottom, pink from the bath. “Control, Will,” he whispered to himself. “Control.”

  He came around to the other side of the tub and held the towel out for her. Her arms were crossed in front of her chest. Her wet hair was stuck to her skin. Water ran down her smooth belly, over her hips, and down her ivory thighs. It dripped from the patch of black hair between her legs. He tried not to stare, but he couldn’t help it. “My God, just look at you. You are so lovely, Fiona. So very lovely.”

  “Am I?” she asked in a voice that was so small, so vulnerable it made his heart bleed. He looked into her eyes; they were huge and liquid and heartbreakingly unsure.

  “Yes, you are. And I’m going to make love to you right in the tub if you don’t come out.”

  She laughed and stepped out and he folded a huge Turkish towel around her shoulders and sat her on his stool. He wrapped another around her hair and rubbed. When she was dry, she stood up. He held out a robe for her.

  “I don’t want it,” she said, shrugging her towels off. There was no uncertainty in her eyes anymore. She reached for his sash, undid it, and pushed the robe off his shoulders. He was naked underneath it. She pressed herself to him and the feeling of her bare flesh against his made him swiftly hard. She ran her fingers through the brush of curly hair on his chest. Kissed him there. “I want you, Will,” she whispered. “Make love to me.”