The Tea Rose

by Jennifer Donnelly

  He led her to his large four-poster bed. The bedspread and curtains were made of a thick midnight-blue silk and she looked like a Venus carved from alabaster against them.

  Her hands were tentative and shy at first. She brushed her fingers over his chest, his back, down to his bottom. It was more than he could stand. He took her hands away, sat up, and rustled in his night table. He stretched out beside her again, held her, and kissed her, stroking her body for as long as he could bear it. Her desire for him, the smell and taste of her made him crazy. He couldn’t control himself any longer. He tried to hold back, tried to be gentle, but the feeling of being inside her overwhelmed him and it was over all too quickly.

  “Will,” she said after a few seconds. “Didn’t you take it out?”

  “Take what out?”

  “What do you think?” Her voice was panicky in the darkness.

  “It’s all right, Fiona,” he said soothingly. “I took care of it.” She obviously wasn’t a virgin, but she wasn’t experienced, either. He wondered who had made love to her before – some dumb kid? He’d show her what real lovemaking was.

  “Took care of it? How?” she asked.

  “A French letter,” he said, sitting up to remove the spent condom. He dug a fresh one out of his drawer and explained how it worked. Then he said, “I’m sorry about that, darling. I couldn’t hold back, I tried.” He put the new condom on. “It was just a practice run anyway. It’ll be better the second time. I promise.” He took her face in his hands, kissed her, then moved his hand between her legs.

  “We’re going to do it again?”

  “Mmm-hmm. And again and again. Until I have you begging for mercy.”

  She laughed, and her laughter soon became sweet, surprised sighs as he gently pushed one finger and then another inside her – stroking her until he felt her breath quicken, felt her start to writhe against him. And then he took his hand away.

  “Oh, Will, no …” she murmured. “Don’t stop, please …”

  “Ssshh,” he said, quieting her protests with kisses. Already hard again, he slipped inside her. He moved slowly, luxuriously, with no urgency this time, as if he had a hundred years to kiss her and touch her and be inside of her. He kissed her mouth, then whispered to her how beautiful she was. He cupped her breasts and used his teeth and lips on them, sucking them, flicking his tongue over them. Then he put his hand under the small of her back and pressed her hips tightly against his own and thrust himself deeper inside of her. She gasped. He felt a change come over her as her body responded to his in a way she clearly hadn’t expected. She stiffened, twisted against him as if she wanted to push him away, then moved with him, surrendering to him. Her eyes locked on his, and for an instant he thought he glimpsed something unsettling in them, something wild and bereft. And then as quickly as it had come, it was gone – and her eyelids fluttered closed and her whole body arched against his and shuddered. She came in quick, hard little spasms and he knew that he’d taught her this intimate new knowledge. It thrilled him and excited him beyond belief. He wanted to come, but he held back, wanting her pleasure more than his own. Wanting to love her over and over again. To make her his own.

  Chapter 49

  “You know a Joe Bristow?” Roddy asked a man who was loading apples onto his barrow.

  The man eyed his uniform. “Never ’eard of ’im, mate.”

  Roddy asked another man who was adjusting the blinders on his donkey. “Who wants to know?” he said, suspicious. “Is ’e in trouble?” Like most costers, he harbored a deep mistrust of police and a fierce protectiveness of his own.

  “He’s not in any trouble,” Roddy said. “I’m a friend of his. I need to see him.”

  “Try Fynmore’s pitch. Fynmore’s ’igh Quality Produce, see it? Just down the street on the left? ’E buys ’is goods there.”

  Roddy thanked the man and hurried off. He hoped he wasn’t too late. It was only four-thirty. The gas lamps were still lit and the sun wouldn’t be up for another hour, but costers started their days with the larks. Roddy had knocked off half an hour early from his shift in order to catch a bus and get to Covent Garden early. He wanted to catch Joe before he set off on his morning rounds. He’d been mulling over an idea ever since Joe and his mother had come to his flat a few weeks ago to tell him they knew where Fiona was. He’d needed Grace’s consent to implement it, however, and he’d been hesitant to ask her. She was a patient woman, but patience had its limits. Then, last night – right out of the blue – she’d come to him with the same idea. He’d kissed her and told her she was a woman in a million.

  Roddy was certain that Joe was right about Fiona’s whereabouts and he was furious with himself for not thinking of it. He had been so sure she hadn’t gone far; he’d never dreamed she might’ve gone to America. Joe and Rose had been sorely disappointed when he told them he didn’t have Michael’s address, but Fiona had taken her family’s belongings, including the letters from her uncle. He was certain Michael lived in New York, though, and that he was a shopkeeper of some sort.

  He was also certain that Joe should get himself to America as soon as possible. He’ had a feeling about it. He didn’t know why exactly – the feeling made no sense at all. Joe had hurt her and she had made it very plain that she never wanted to see him again. But deep in his gut, Roddy felt she needed him. Right now. He put a lot of stock in gut feelings; he always had. People said police officers – the good ones – had a sixth sense about things. As to who was telling the truth and who wasn’t. What a fugitive’s next move might be. Roddy’s sixth sense had never let him down. As he neared Fynmore’s, he spotted Joe. He was just pushing off. He had another lad with him.

  “Joe!” he yelled. “Joe Bristow!”

  Joe turned around and set the barrow down. “What are you doing ’ere, Roddy?” he asked. “Got the Covent Garden beat now?”

  “No, I’m here to see you.”

  “Something wrong?” he asked, suddenly worried. “It’s not me mum, is it?”

  “No, lad. Calm down. Not’ing’s wrong. I bumped into your mother yesterday. She told me you were out on your own now and putting aside money to go after Fiona.”

  “Aye.”

  “How much will you need?”

  “About eighteen quid, I think. For the fare, plus room and board and –”

  Roddy cut him off. “How much have you got?”

  “About six quid. Give or take a few shillings.”

  “Here …” Roddy reached into his trouser pocket and pulled out a wad of bills. “It’s me savings. Grace’s, too. There’s fifteen quid there.”

  Joe looked at the money in his hand and shook his head. “Roddy, I can’t take this.”

  “Grace wants you to have it as much as I do. We want you to find Fiona. Go on, lad, take it. Get your arse on the boat.”

  Joe nodded decisively, then pocketed the bills. “Thank you, Roddy. I’ll pay you back every penny. I swear it.”

  “Bloody right you will!”

  Joe took his brother by the shoulders. “Jimmy, you’re in charge now,” he told him. “For the next few weeks, till I get back, you’re the guv’nor.”

  “Jaysus! Are you going right now?” Roddy asked.

  “I am,” Joe said.

  “What? Going where? Wait a minute! It’s only me second day, Joe!” Jimmy protested.

  “You’re a smart lad, Jimmy. You’ll do fine. Just follow the route I showed you. Tell our mum I went to find Fiona. Tell ’er I’ll write as soon as I get there. Do a good job, Jimmy. You ’ear me? A good job. Don’t bollix it up!” He took off trotting.

  “Wait a minute! Joe, wait! Aw, fuck!” Jimmy cried, watching his brother disappear down the street. He cupped his hands around his mouth. Joe!” he yelled after him. “Where the ’ell are you going?”

  “America, Jimmy!” he shouted over his shoulder. “New York!”

  Chapter 50

  “Have a seat, Mr. McClane. Relax,” Kevin Burdick said in his most soothing voice. />
  “Don’t tell me to relax, goddammit!” Will Junior shouted, pacing the confines of the tiny airless office. “He’s going to marry the girl in a month’s time!”

  “You’re kidding me.”

  “I wish I were. He’s proposed to her. She’s walking around with a diamond the size of a baseball on her hand. It cost a fucking fortune. My fucking fortune! Whatever you’ve got on her, it better be good. What have you got?”

  Burdick cleared his throat. “Nothing.”

  Will stopped pacing. “What?”

  Burdick squirmed in his chair. “I tried to dig up something, but she’s the straightest arrow I’ve ever seen. There’s no man on the side. She doesn’t frequent saloons or opium dens or sell orphans on the black market. The worst thing I’ve seen her do is gamble on the ring toss at Coney Island. She does nothing but work, sleep, and see your father.”

  Will was white with anger. “What are you telling me? That I can’t stop this wedding? Is that what I paid you for?”

  “Let me finish, Mr. McClane. I think I can still help you. Though I haven’t been able to find anything on Miss Finnegan, I have got something on her friend, Nicholas Soames. It seems he has a habit of frequenting queer bars. He’s become a regular at The Slide on Bleecker Street.”

  “So what?” Will shouted. “My father isn’t marrying Nicholas Soames!”

  “I realize that. What I hope to do is to use Mr. Soames’s sexual preferences to engineer a scandal. It’s a long shot, but I think it could work.”

  “How does that help me? I don’t give a shit what happens to Soames.”

  Burdick leaned forward. “You’re going to have to wise up before you get to Washington, Mr. McClane, or the folks there will eat you alive. There’s going to be a raid. We’re going to enlist the help of your good friend the judge.”

  Understanding broke across Will Junior’s face. “Eames,” he said.

  Burdick nodded. “Hizzoner hisself. Take a seat, Mr. McClane. Take a load off. Here’s what we’re going to do …”

  Chapter 51

  Joe blinked against the bright light of the sunny New York morning. He put his duffel bag down by his feet. “Blimey, Brendan, we made it! I thought when that doctor started poking around, you were done for,” he said, laughing. “You should’ve seen ’im, Bren. Looking in your ear and squinting. Probably blinded by the light coming in the other side.”

  “Very feckin’ funny, ya English gobshite, ya. I saw him looking down your drawers and squinting. Speaking of gobshites, where’s Alfie? And Fred? They make it t’rough?”

  Joe and Brendan looked around anxiously for their cabin mates, Alphonse and Frederico Ferrara. The four of them had traveled steerage together from Southampton to New York. Joe spotted them – two black-haired, almond-eyed lads – fighting their way toward them through the throng of people getting off the boat. “There they are,” he said, waving them over, relieved that they, too, had made it through Castle Garden Immigration unscathed. “Just look at all these people,” he added, taking in the crowds. “The ’ackneys can’t even move. I think we’re better off walking. Any idea which way it is from ’ere?”

  “North, definitely. And east, I t’ink,” Brendan said. “We’ll have to ask someone.”

  Joe and Brendan had decided to take a room together. Brendan, a big, bluff redheaded Irishman of twenty-one, had come from a farm outside of Connemara to seek his fortune. He planned to navvy in New York until he had enough money for his fare out west, then prospect for gold in California. He’d heard that the Bowery was the place to go for cheap lodging houses. Joe’d grown close to him in the weeks they’d spent together. He’d told him about Fiona and how he hoped to find her.

  Alfie and Fred, who’d emigrated from a poor village in Sicily to London, where they’d worked for a cousin who had an ice cream business until they’d made enough money for the fare to New York, would join their mother, father, and extended family in a tenement one of their uncles owned on Mulberry Street. Joe would be sorry to say good-bye to the Ferraras. They’d had a lot of fun together, the four of them – playing cards, drinking beer, and dancing at the impromptu parties on the steerage deck. Teaching one another some choice phrases in Italian and English. Teasing Brendan about his country brogue and the way he said “feck” for “fuck.” Laughing and joking and talking on into the night from their bunks.

  “Which way do you go?” Alfie asked, as he and his brother joined Joe and Brendan.

  “We’re not sure,” Brendan began. “We were going to head up toward –” His words were cut off by a bloodcurdling shriek. He jumped back in terror, pulling Joe with him as a plump, dark-haired woman came hurtling toward them.

  “I miei bambini, i miei bambini!” she wailed, throwing herself at Alfie and Fred, showering them with kisses. “Oh, Dio mio, grazie, grazie!”

  She was followed by half a dozen children and then a tiny wizened old lady who was kissing her rosary. A few younger women, some holding babies, crowded around. Half a dozen men, old and young, stood well away from the melee, grinning and slapping each other.

  “Jaysus, what a racket,” Brendan said to Joe. “If that’s how they carry on when they’re happy, I’d hate to see them at a wake.”

  Joe laughed, watching as Alfie and Fred hugged the sobbing woman. Then they went to the old woman, who took each of their faces in her gnarled hands and kissed them in turn. They hugged and were hugged – violently – by everyone else present, and then the introductions began. Joe and Brendan met Mr. and Mrs. Ferrara, the grandmother, both grandfathers, Uncle Franco, Aunt Rosa, brothers, sisters, cousins, nieces and nephews. Still teary, the boys’ mother kissed Joe and Brendan, too, and then she started rattling at her sons in Italian, smacking their chests with the back of her hand.

  “Sì, Mamma, sì… i nostri amici …” Alfie said. He turned to his shipmates. “My mother want you to come. To our house. To eat.” Under his breath he added, “Bloody hell, say yes! She cook for a week!”

  Joe and Brendan said they’d be happy to, which earned them another shower of kisses. They hoisted their bags up onto their shoulders and set off, following the chattering gaggle of Ferraras, taking in the sights as they walked. Joe could hardly believe the size and noise of the place. He was so taken with all the buildings, with the loud, boisterous people, that he forgot to look where he was going and collided with a lad wearing a sandwich board.

  “Sorry, mate,” he apologized.

  The boy smiled at him. TASTEA – A QUALITEA, AN HONESTEA, A MOST REFRESHING SPECIALTEA! his board read. “Think nothing of it, sir. Here, enjoy a free sample,” he said, handing him a small box of tea.

  Joe thanked him and turned to show his gift to Brendan, but Brendan had moved off ahead and was busy winking at a pretty doe-eyed blonde waiting for a trolley.

  “Be’ave yourself,” Joe said. “You’ll get us arrested and we’ve only just got ’ere.”

  “Aye, and I’ll be staying, too, if all the lasses look like that one. Just look at this place, will you? A big blue sky. Not one feckin’ rain cloud in sight. Warm, too. No potato fields far as I can see. Maybe no potatoes if I’m really lucky. Not here two seconds and we’ve already got ourselves invited to dinner. I like this place, Joe. Bet a man could do well for himself here.”

  “It’s huge, Bren. Bloody enormous! You could get lost ’ere and never find yourself again,” he said, peering down a bustling street.

  Brendan gave him a long look. “Worried about your lass, are you?”

  “Aye.”

  “Don’t be. You’ll find her. I know you will. From all that you told me, she’s bound to be here somewhere. You’ve only got one problem that I can see.”

  “What’s that?”

  “If she’s as pretty as you say, you’d sure as shite better hope I don’t find her first.”

  Joe rolled his eyes. Brendan shifted his heavy duffel from his right shoulder to his left. As they crossed Broadway, they saw an elegant carriage roll by. “I’m going to
have one just like that when I’m rich,” he said. “And I’ll have an Englishman to drive it. Maybe you, if you’re lucky.”

  “Kiss my arse, Brendan,” Joe said absently, still looking around, searching the sidewalks, the shopfronts, the faces of the people who passed him, hoping against hope for a glimpse of Fiona.

  Brendan, in high spirits, started to whistle. He soon tired of that and began to sing.

  “Good-bye, Mrs. Durkin, I’m sick and tired of workin’, No more I’ll dig the praties, no longer I’ll be poor. As sure as me name is Barney, I’m off to Californey, Instead of diggin’ praties, I’ll be diggin’ lumps of gold …”

  A few of the young Italian women looked back at him, giggling. He grinned, doffed his cap, and launched into the next verse.

  “In the days that I was courtin’, I was never tired resortin’ to the alehouse and the playhouse and the other house besides …”

  “Brendan, they’re Alfie and Fred’s sisters,” Joe warned.

  “Aw, they don’t even know what I’m saying.”

  “But I told me brother Seamus, I’ll be off now and grow famous, and before that I return again, I’ll roam the whole world wide …”

  Joe laughed at his irrepressible friend. His high spirits were contagious. And he was right. Fiona was here. Somewhere in this city. All he had to do was find her.

  Nick stared at Fiona as if she were mad. He shook his head as if he wanted to clear his ears, as if he hadn’t heard her correctly. He could not believe what she had just said.

  “Nick?” she said hesitantly. “What’s wrong? I thought you’d like the idea. I thought you’d be happy. It’ll mean so much more space for you and –”

  “What’s wrong?” he finally said. “What’s wrong? Fiona, you’ve just told me you’re giving me the whole building! You’ve just told me you’re not going to open The Tea Rose. That’s what’s bloody wrong!”