The Tea Rose

by Jennifer Donnelly

  “Please don’t yell.”

  “I just don’t understand this,” he said, pacing the confines of his parlor. “You love this house. You fought so hard to get it. You convinced that batty old dear to sell it to you for a song, convinced the bank to lend you money, and you’ve been working like a dog for weeks to turn it into something beautiful. Now you’re almost there and you’re just going to abandon the whole thing? For God’s sake, why?”

  Fiona, pale and fragile-looking against the high back of a crimson wing chair, fidgeted with the clasp on her purse. “It’s just that I’m so busy with the wedding … and then there’s the honeymoon … we’ll be gone for two whole months and …”

  “Busy? Busy with what? Getting a dress fitted? Ordering a cake? That’s nothing! I’ve seen you juggle five hundred things at one time. As for the honeymoon … can’t you simply postpone opening the tearoom until you return?”

  “No, I can’t.” She looked down at her purse again. “Will wants to have children, Nick. Right away. He says he wants to be here to see them grow up.”

  “Yes, well, that’s usually what happens when people get married. So what?”

  “He wants to raise them upstate. In Hyde Park. He wants me to live up there. Permanently. He doesn’t want me to work anymore. He says women of my … of my future station don’t. It’s unheard of. It would reflect badly on him and he won’t allow it.”

  Nick nodded. It made sense now. What Will had found charming in Fiona when she was his sweetheart – her ambition, her devotion to her work – would not be so charming in a wife. After all, his wife should be devoted to him, not her own interests. To his home. His children.

  “I knew this would happen,” he said. “I’d hoped otherwise, but I was fooling myself. I knew it the second you told me you were engaged.”

  “It’s just an old tearoom, Nick,” she said, a pleading note in her voice. “And a little shop in Chelsea. What are they compared to Will’s businesses? Nothing, really.”

  “Listen to yourself! That’s rubbish and you know it. The Tea Rose … TasTea … they’re more than nothing. A lot more. They’re you. You made them.”

  “He’s not doing it to be mean, Nick. He says he wants me to stop working so hard. He wants to take care of me, to provide for me.”

  “But this was your dream, Fiona. Learning the business at your uncle’s. Having something of your own one day. Remember? Remember how we talked about it on the boat? How can you just turn your back on your dream?”

  “You don’t like Will. That’s why you’re saying these things.”

  “Of course I like Will. He’s a perfectly nice man. But a typical man. He wants to subdue the very thing that captivates him – your spirit, your fire. He’ll do it, too. He’s already begun. This isn’t you. This isn’t the Fiona I know. Giving up everything she’s worked for, everything she loves, simply because someone tells her to. Not at all.”

  “I don’t know why you’re being so mean to me,” she said sorrowfully.

  “And I don’t know why you’re lying. When I was sick, you made me promise never to lie to you again. About anything. And now you’re lying to me.”

  “Lying?” she cried. “Nick, I’m not. I never would.”

  “Yes, you are!” he shouted, making her flinch. “To yourself as well as me.”

  He walked over to the window and looked down at the street below. He was furious. He remembered what it was like to do what you had to do instead of what you wanted to do. He remembered Paris, and how it felt to see a new painter’s work – all the passion, the excitement. And then he remembered returning to London and working on his first project – a printing company’s public offering. He’d spent weeks and weeks in Albion’s offices, going through ledger after ledger, reviewing endless columns of figures, valuing assets, assessing revenues and liabilities … feeling as if he were slowly suffocating.

  Did she really think this would be enough? Marriage, a nice house, security? Enough to compensate her for all she was giving up? It wouldn’t be. Maybe for some women, but not for Fiona. He knew her. Knew that she needed to be in love – truly, deeply in love. And she wasn’t. No matter what she said, he knew she wasn’t. He waited until he was calmer, then he pulled an ottoman over to her and sat down. Their knees were touching.

  “Would you like to hear what I think?” he asked.

  She lifted her eyes to his. “Do I have a choice?”

  “I think you don’t love Will at all. You’ve just convinced yourself you do because you’re so bloody scared you’ll never fall in love again, that you’ll never love anyone the way you loved Joe. So you jump at the first man who falls in love with you. Oh, you like him a lot … what woman wouldn’t? He’s handsome and dashing and all that, but you don’t love him. Not really.”

  Fiona shook her head. “I can’t believe you’re saying these things. You’re the one who told me I would forget Joe. You told me I would fall in love again.”

  “And I still say you’re going to. I just don’t believe you have.”

  “Oh, is that what you believe? Well, you don’t know anything about it,” she said defensively. “You don’t know how he feels about me. Or how I feel about him. You don’t know how good he is to me. What we talk about. How he makes me laugh. You don’t know how nice it is when we’re alone together, how happy he makes me.”

  “Don’t mistake making love for being in love,” he said curtly.

  Fiona dropped her gaze. Her cheeks were blazing. He was being rude and cruel, he knew he was, but he couldn’t stop himself. He wanted to wound her. He wanted to get through to her and make her see the truth.

  “That’s not what I was talking about,” she said at length. “That’s not it at all.”

  “Then what is it? Is it money?” he asked harshly, raising her face to his. “Is it? If that’s what you’re after, I can give you money. My check arrived from my father’s bank. For nearly three thousand pounds. I’ll give it to you. All of it. You don’t have to do this.”

  Fiona sat motionless, a stricken look on her face, and Nick knew he’d gone too far.

  “I don’t want Will’s money,” she said quietly. “I want Will. I want a man who loves me. One who won’t break my heart.”

  Nick gave her an icy smile. “Of course he won’t. How can he? You haven’t given it to him.”

  He waited for a reply, but he didn’t get one. She held his gaze for a few more seconds, tears of anger and hurt in her eyes, then ran out of his flat, slamming the door behind her.

  Chapter 52

  Joe, his chin in his hand, his elbow on the table of a greasy Bowery chophouse, watched as his waitress, a frowzy, unsmiling woman in a grimy dress and stained apron, slammed two plates of the day’s special – pork chops, boiled potatoes, and green beans – onto the table.

  “That’ll be twenty-five cents apiece,” she said.

  Joe and Brendan each paid her a quarter. She pocketed the money without thanks, refilled their glasses with weak, foamy beer, then marched off to the kitchen, bawling orders at a hapless busboy. She was like most of the people Joe had encountered during his first week on New York’s teeming Lower East Side – harsh, hard-bitten, worn down by the constant struggle of making ends meet.

  Brendan sawed away at his pork chop. Joe picked at his halfheartedly.

  “What’s wrong with you? Why aren’t you eating?” Brendan asked, glancing at him.

  He shrugged. “Not ’ungry, I guess.”

  “You’ll find her. It’s only been a few days.”

  “It’s been a week,” he said, sighing. “A whole week and no luck. A copper I talked to said to knock on doors in the Sixth Ward, south of Walker Street. ’E said it was ’eavily Irish there. I’ve combed the whole damn area – nothing. A dozen Finnegans – and two Michaels – but neither of them the right Michael. Another cop I met told me to try the West Side, a neighborhood called Chelsea and one called ’Ell’s Kitchen. But ’e said it was rough and to watch myself above the thirti
es. I’m worried about ’er. I can’t ’elp it. What if it didn’t work out with ’er uncle? What if she’s on ’er own somewhere? She doesn’t know ’ow to cope in a big city. She’d never been out of Whitechapel before I took ’er to the West End. She’s just a lass with a young child to look after. Maybe living in some poxy room in a place with a name like ’Ell’s Kitchen. Christ, Brendan, they’ll eat ’er alive. And what if I’m dead wrong and she never came to New York at all?”

  “You’ve got your drawers in a twist over not’ing,” Brendan said. “Sure, she’s with her uncle and safe as can be. From what you told me, it’s the only t’ing she could’ve done. Keep looking. Don’t give up. All you’ve got to do is find the man and you’ve found her. Did you look in that directory? The one the porter on the boat told you about?”

  “I did, but it’s only for professionals. Doctors and lawyers and the like. But I wrote down all the Finnegans listed anyway. Even if they’re not Michael, they might know of ’im.”

  “What about the Irish missions? Or charitable societies? Me mam told me to go to the Sons of Saint Patrick if I got into trouble.”

  “Bloke I met at our boardinghouse told me about the Gaelic Society. Says ’e ’eard they’re gathering names and addresses of Irish people in New York so that new immigrants can find their relations. I’m going there this afternoon. Right after I check out a few names in the East Twenties. I figure I’ll keep on with the East Side before I ’ead west.”

  “That’s a good idea,” Brendan said, still sawing furiously at his chop. As he spoke, his knife snapped in two. The handle hit the edge of his plate and flipped it over, dumping his lunch on the table. “Feckin’ t’ing!” he swore. “It’s not a pork chop … it’s a feckin’ shingle!”

  Joe laughed, despite his poor mood. “You’re in New York now, you big Irish mug. It’s fuck, not feck.”

  “Oh yeah? Well, fuck you. And feck you, too!” Disgusted, he wiped his spilled lunch onto his plate with his napkin.

  “ ’Ere,” Joe said, pushing his plate across the table. “ ’Ave mine. ’Ow was your morning? You ’ave any luck?”

  “Maybe,” Brendan said through a mouthful of food. “Met a lad in a bar last night. He says some boyo by the name of McClane is building a subterranean railway. They’re hiring two hundred men to start. Another two hundred in a month’s time. Says they’re looking for men with mining experience to set the dynamite, brace the tunnels and such. I’ve never done any of that, but I can swing a pickax and hoist a shovel with the best of them.”

  “Think you’ll get it?”

  “I t’ink so. Foreman said he liked the look of me. Told me to come back tomorrow morning. I hope I do. Every building site I’ve gone to it’s, ‘We’ve not’ing for you, Paddy,’ or “Tis men we want, not donkeys, Mickey.’ Real feckin’ comedians.”

  “Mister, you need any errands run? Cigarettes fetched? Shoes shined?” A boy of about ten, wearing a tattered shirt, patched overalls, and no boots, had appeared at their table.

  Joe absently reached into his pocket for a nickel and held it out, hoping the boy would go away. Instead, he gave him a withering look. “I ain’t no bum. Ain’t ya got a job for me?”

  Joe was trying to think of something when Brendan said, “Why don’t you have him look for Fiona?”

  “Brendan, ’e’s only a kid. What’s ’e going to do? Comb the West Side by ’imself?”

  “I can find people, mister!” the boy piped up. “My old man runs off with the rent money every week no matter how well my ma hides it. I always find him. Tracked him across the river to Weehawken once. What’s her name? I’ll find her for you.”

  Joe looked at the lad. He was thin. Probably hungry. He reminded Joe of himself at that age. Eager to work, to prove himself. “All right, then –” he started to say. His words were cut off by the waitress.

  “Why, you little sewer rat!” she shrilled. “I told you not to come in here!” She took the boy by his ear. “I’m going to get the cook after you. He’ll beat you silly. Maybe that’ll teach you!”

  “ ’Old on a minute, missus,” Joe said, snatching the boy’s arm. “We’re negotiating a business transaction ’ere.”

  “The only people allowed in here is paying customers,” the woman said. “No loiterers. Cook’s orders.”

  “ ’E’s our guest,” Joe said. “We were just about to buy him a meal. Terms of the deal.”

  The waitress shook her head, much put out, but she released the boy and he quickly sat down. “Another special?” she asked.

  “No, t’anks,” Brendan said. “We want to hire him, not kill him. Bring him a sandwich. What kind do you want, laddie?”

  “I want a couple of Coney Islands. With mustard, onions, and sauerkraut,” the boy said. “And baked beans on the side.”

  “Jaysus, I’m glad I’m not sleeping next to you tonight,” Brendan said.

  “What do you want to drink?” the woman asked.

  “A pint of Schaefer’s in a frosty mug.”

  “Don’t push your luck, sonny.”

  “A lime rickey, then.”

  As they waited for the boy’s meal to appear, Joe and Brendan learned that his name was Eddie and he lived in one room on Delancey Street with his factory-worker mother, his unemployed father, and four siblings. Joe told him he needed to find a man named Michael Finnegan, a shopkeeper, and his niece, Fiona. He gave him a quarter and the boy promised he would find them. As soon as he was finished eating, he asked Joe where he was staying, then took off on his errand.

  “He might just surprise you,” Brendan said, looking after him.

  “ ’E couldn’t do any worse than I ’ave,” Joe said.

  Brendan leaned back in his chair and wiped his mouth. He belched, then said, “Well, I’m off, too. Have to buy meself a good pair of leather boots for me new job. And a new hat.”

  “What’s the ’at for?”

  Brendan smiled smugly. “I’m going to see the Ferraras tonight.”

  “You need a new ’at to visit Alfie and Fred?”

  “No, you daft bollocks, I’m only pretending to visit those two. It’s Angelina I’m really going to see.”

  “In your dreams, lad. Alfie and Fred lived with you, remember? They know what you’re like. They’ll never let you near their sister.”

  “We’ll see about that.”

  They bid each other good-bye, with Brendan heading downtown and Joe heading up. As he walked along, Joe’s mood improved. As the tenements of the Lower East Side gave way to the genteel brown-stones of Gramercy Park, he felt less worried, even a little optimistic. Some parts of the city were very pretty, and this was one of them. Yes, New York had its hard side, but it was also an exciting place. And one – seen through the eyes of Brendan, Alfie, and Fred – that was full of promise and hope. It was a place to start over, to carve out a whole new life. A place for second chances. Maybe even for him.

  As he walked up Irving Place, an altercation between some workmen and their foreman caught his attention. “What the hell is wrong with you two? Haven’t you got ears? I told you, take the first sign down, and put the other one – the one for the art gallery – in its place.”

  “I thought they was both supposed to be up, one under the other,” one of the men said.

  Joe looked at the cause of the argument. It was a pretty, hand-painted sign attached to the front of a brick town house. THE TEA ROSE, it said.

  “She’s upstairs,” the boss said. “She’ll be down in a minute. She told me to get the sign down right away. When she sees what you’ve done, she’s going to hand me my balls. And then I’m going to hand you yours. You know what she’s like. Fix it.”

  Joe shook his head, laughing. Whoever she was, the woman who owned the place must be a harridan. She’d certainly put the fear of God in those men. He moved off toward Twenty-third Street where, he hoped, one M. R. Finnegan, notions dealer, a man he’d heard about from his landlady, might be the very man he was looking for.

  Ch
apter 53

  Fiona stood in a plush mirrored dressing room, scowling at the corset she’d been laced into. “I don’t want one. I don’t like them. They pinch,” she said.

  Madame Eugénie, the city’s most exclusive couturier, paid her no attention. “It is not about what you want, but what the dress requires,” she declared. Lips pursed, she circled Fiona, appraising the corset’s effect, then shook her head unhappily. “Simone!” she barked.

  A harried young woman wearing a pin cushion on her wrist appeared. “Yes, madame?”

  “Pull it tighter. Stop when I say.”

  Fiona could feel the girl’s nimble fingers undoing the knot in the back, taking up the slack in the strings. Then she felt her dig her knee into her rump for leverage and pull. “Stop!” she protested. “It’s too tight! I won’t be able to sit, or eat … or even think!”

  Madame Eugénie was unmoved. “On your wedding day, you don’t sit or you’ll wrinkle the dress. You don’t eat or you’ll stain the dress. And you certainly don’t think! You’ll ruin your pretty face with wrinkles and frowns. You have only one job – to look beautiful. A little more, Simone …” she said, patting the sides of the corset.

  Simone gave one last mighty tug. As she did, Madame reached down the front of the garment, grabbed Fiona’s breasts and hiked them up. “Now!” she ordered. Simone knotted the laces and Fiona suddenly found herself with a full, high, molded blancmange of a bosom.

  “Blimey, it’s twice as big as when I came in!” she said, turning to Mary and Maddie, seated on slipper chairs behind her.

  “Look at you!” Maddie exclaimed. “It’s wonderful! I’m going to get one just like it.”

  Madame and Simone left to get the wedding gown. Fiona turned back to the mirror, frowning at herself. The damned corset was squeezing her to death, restricting her movements, confining her. She couldn’t breathe. With a cry of frustration, she untied the strings, ripped it off and threw it on the floor. She buried her face in her hands and tried to hold back her tears.