The Tea Rose

by Jennifer Donnelly

  “And your trip. You were looking forward to it and now you can’t get on that boat and sail off to France next week.”

  “No,” she said, smiling up at him joyously as she realized what she could do instead. “But I can go to my beautiful Tea Rose, Nick! I can put my apron on and get to work.” She laughed. “I won’t have to give it up! How could I have ever even imagined it? You know something? I can’t wait! I can’t wait to be back there, to see my roses and open the place and be up to my neck in tea and scones.”

  Nick took her hand. “I’ll take you on a honeymoon, Fee.”

  “Will you? Where?”

  “Coney Island.”

  Fiona laughed. “With Seamie and Michael and the Munros tagging along. Now that would be romantic!”

  Fiona and Nick sat on the bench holding hands and talking until the clock struck one, and Fiona realized how late it was, and realized, too, how anxious everyone at home would be. She had run out of the house last night as fast as she could, only taking a few seconds to tell Alec that something had happened to Nick.

  “We’d better go home, don’t you think?” she said. “They’ll be beside themselves with worry. We’ve got to tell Michael what happened.”

  Nick groaned. “I think I’d rather be deported.”

  They stood to go and Fiona noticed that the cut on his cheek was bleeding again. She dabbed at it with Teddy’s handkerchief, which was still balled up in her hand. “By the way,” she said, “that was a daft stunt you tried to pull. Passing yourself off as a viscount – have you no shame?”

  He caught her hand. “Fiona, that was no stunt,” he said quietly.

  She looked at him, assessing his expression. “You … you’re not joking, are you?”

  He shook his head. Then he took her hand, kissed it, and, with a rueful smile, said, “Let me be the first to congratulate you on your nuptials, Viscountess.”

  Chapter 56

  Joe, freshly washed from a morning bath, the one bath he was allowed per week by his landlady, pulled a clean shirt over his head and tucked it into his trousers. He looked at his face in the small square of a mirror hanging over the one bureau in his room, then ran a comb through his hair. Today he would start hunting in Chelsea. He’d been in the city for three weeks already and had found no sign of Fiona. It was getting harder and harder to maintain his optimism.

  Michael Charles Finnegan had turned out to be another dead end. He had a niece, all right – her name was Frances and she was ten years old. Eddie’s luck had been no better. He’d found the address on Eighth Avenue – it was a grocery shop – and knocked on the door. An old man had answered and said that a Michael Finnegan did indeed live there, but that he was out for the evening. He told Eddie to come back in the morning. Eddie tried to ask whether Michael had a niece, but the man cut him off, saying there had been enough commotion for one night and that he wasn’t going to answer any more questions from street urchins. Then he slammed the door on him.

  That had been the day before yesterday. Eddie had gotten work handing out flyers yesterday and couldn’t return to Eighth Avenue, but he’d given Joe the address. He would go there himself this morning. He needed to find Fiona. Soon. He was being extremely careful with his money, but it was dwindling nonetheless. “Where are you, lass?” he sighed aloud to the empty bedroom. “Where the devil are you?” A crushing feeling of despair overtook him. He sat down on his bed for a few minutes, his elbows on his knees, convinced that he would never find her, that all his hopes, all his efforts, would be for nothing.

  He shook the feeling off, determined to keep hunting. He couldn’t allow himself to give up now. She was here. He felt it; he knew it. All he had to do was find the right Finnegan. As he reached for his boots, there was a sudden pounding on his door that was so loud it made him jump.

  “Mister!” a small voice piped through the door, “open up! I found her! This time I really found her!”

  Joe was across the room in two quick strides. He yanked open the door. Eddie was standing on the threshold with a newspaper in his hands. “Look! It’s her, ain’t it? Fiona Finnegan! She’s the one, ain’t she?”

  He took the paper. And there, on the second page, was a picture of Fiona, but not the Fiona he’d known. This Fiona was smiling. She wore a stylish suit and a pretty hat. She looked beautiful. Absolutely radiant. A man was kissing her cheek. The headline said, “New York’s Most Glamorous Couple Wed in Courthouse Ceremony.” The article, written by a Mr. Peter Hylton, read:

  No column in this edition, dear readers. There’s only one story worth reporting today – and that’s the dramatic courthouse wedding of the handsome young art dealer, Nicholas Soames, to Fiona Finnegan, the lovely proprietress of TasTea and the soon-to-be-open Tea Rose salon. Hearts are breaking all over the city this morning at the news and a certain well-known millionaire-about-town, Mr. Soames’s rival for Miss Finnegan’s hand, has retreated to the country. All’s fair in love and war, darlings, but I digress! Back to Tuesday night and the wrongful arrest that led to a wedding …

  The article detailed Nicholas Soames’s arrest, his lawyer’s defense, Hylton’s own heroic testimony on Mr. Soames’s behalf, and Miss Finnegan’s tearful plea to the judge. In addition to the article, there were sidebars on Nicholas Soames’s gallery and on Fiona’s burgeoning tea business.

  Joe was stunned. This wasn’t real. It couldn’t be. He kept reading. Fiona lived in Chelsea, the article said. Above her uncle’s – Michael Finnegan’s – grocery shop. The very place Eddie had visited. If only he’d gone there, to Eighth Avenue, instead of to Duane Street. Oh, God, if only he had …

  “Mister? Are you all right? You don’t look so good,” Eddie said. “You want a cup of coffee? Some whiskey? Maybe you should sit down.”

  “I’m fine,” Joe said woodenly. He reached into his pocket, pulled out the first thing he touched, and handed it to Eddie.

  “A whole dollar? Gee, thanks!”

  Joe ushered him out. He picked up the paper again and stared at the picture, hoping that somehow it wasn’t Fiona. But it was. Her face, her smile, they were unmistakable. He felt empty. Hollowed out. There was nothing inside him anymore. No heart, no hope, no life. They were gone. Ripped out in an instant.

  As he looked at her, a bitter laugh escaped him. What a fool he was. She was hardly the poor, bereft figure he imagined she would be. She wasn’t in trouble, she wasn’t lost or frightened, either. How presumptuous he’d been to assume she was miserable and alone without him. She was a beautiful, successful woman, no longer the girl whose heart he’d shattered on the Old Stairs. She’d moved on and made an entirely new life for herself. A good life. She looked as happy as a new bride should with her dashing groom – a man who, from all appearances, was a bit of a step up from a Whitechapel costermonger.

  Joe looked at him – roughed up, but still handsome – kissing her cheek, and felt sick with jealousy at the thought of her in his arms. What did you expect? he asked himself angrily. You left her and she found someone new. Just as she should’ve done.

  For a split second, he considered going to see her. Just to lay eyes on her one last time. But he knew it would be selfish and unfair and would only upset her. This was all his fault, not hers. It was a fitting turn of events, really. A just punishment for what he’d done to her. He heard his grandmum’s voice again, “We’re not punished for our sins, but by them.”

  He would not go to see her. He would let her get on with her life. As he would get on with his. Without her. She was not coming back to him. She was not coming back to London. He felt a pain rise up in him, a deep crushing feeling of loss that terrified him. He needed to stay ahead of it; he couldn’t let it catch up to him. If he did, it would break him into pieces.

  He pulled his duffel bag out from under his bed. He would leave today. He had his return ticket. He’d go find Brendan on his work site, say good-bye, then head over to the piers to see if there was a White Star boat leaving tonight and if it had any berths left.
He opened the top drawer of the bureau, grabbed his things and shoved them into his bag. His map of New York was in there, too. It lay folded open to the West Side of the city. To Chelsea. Where she lived. Where he’d planned to go today. He’d missed her by a day. One bloody day.

  Without warning, the pain slammed into him. It pulled him down into its fathomless depths, engulfing him, drowning him. Filling him with its suffocating grief, its sorrow, its madness. And he knew that this was how it would be for him. Now and forever more.

  Part Three

  Chapter 57

  London, January 1898

  “’Ere, Stan, use more kerosene,” Bowler Sheehan ordered. “Fucker’s got to burn, not fizzle.”

  “All right, all right,” Stan Christie grumbled. “Give us a mo’, would you? Christ, you’ve got your knickers in a twist.”

  Bowler would’ve gobsmacked Stan for that if only he could see him. But it was so bloody dark in William Burton’s old tea-packing factory, he could barely see his hand in front of his face. The only light came from a pale crescent moon. Its weak rays struggled in through high, paneless windows, illuminating rotted tea chests and snaking gas lines. Everything else – doorknobs, hinges, gas lamps, and sconces – was long gone. Carried off by scavengers.

  There was a thud. “Oh, me shin! Fuck this! I can’t see a fucking thing!” Reg Smith yelled.

  There was a snort of laughter. “Light a match,” Stan said.

  “You’re a real fucking comedian, Stan, you are.”

  “Oi! Shut it. Want someone to ’ear us?” Bowler growled.

  “I ’ate this, guv,” Reg complained. “I’ve splashed kerosene all over me shoes. It’ll stink for days. Why are we doing this dogsbody job anyway?”

  “Burton wants to collect on ’is insurance policy,” Bowler replied. “ ’E’s ’ad this place on the market for years. Can’t find any takers. If it burns down, the blokes at the insurance company ’ave to pay ’im. Long as it looks like an accident.”

  “What’s ’e need with insurance money? ’E’s richer than Midas,” Stan said.

  “Not anymore. Burton’s fortunes have taken a turn, lads,” Bowler said. “Got ’is arse ’anded to ’im when ’e tried to break into the American tea market a few years back. And ’is estate in India went bust just last year. Bloke ’e ’ired to manage it ran off with the money. ’E’s got big debts to pay and needs a bit of cash to pay them.”

  “It’s arson what we’re doing,” Stan said knowledgeably. “We’ve never done arson before.”

  “Put it on your curriculum vitae, lads,” Bowler said sarcastically. His tone was lost on them.

  “We could, you know,” Stan said thoughtfully. “It’s not every bloke ’as as much experience as we do, Reg. Pickpocketing, robbing, breaking and entering, extortion …”

  “Fixing sporting events …” Reg said.

  “Breaking arms, kneecapping …”

  “Topping blokes, don’t forget that. That’s a big one.”

  “We could teach a course, us. For lads coming up in the business.”

  “Aye, we could!” Reg said excitedly. “But what would we call it?”

  “The Stan Christie and Reg Smith School of Mayhem and Murder,” Bowler said.

  “ ’As a nice ring to it, don’t it?” Reg said. Stan agreed.

  As they tossed ideas for classes back and forth, Bowler sat down on a tea chest and rubbed his face. That it should come to this. A man of his stature mucking about in a shithole at midnight with the likes of these two. And for a madman like Burton, who’d only become more unpredictable and violent over the years as his money troubles increased. He’d seen him attack his own foreman, and he’d even gone for Stan once when the lad had laughed inappropriately. Once he wouldn’t have considered doing a job like this. He’d have left it for the small fish, the amateurs. But paying jobs were harder and harder to come by.

  It was all different now. Not like the good old days – 1888 B. J., Bowler liked to call them – Before Jack. That grandstanding bastard had ruined it for everyone. In the wake of the murders, the legal and moral authorities of London had made the East End their top priority. They had assigned more constables to the streets. There were more preachers. More missions and do-gooders. And that flipping Roddy O’Meara, good to the promise he’d made, had stuck to his arse all these years. Tailing him, talking to him in public as if he were some filthy informer, raiding the gaming dens and whorehouses he controlled. A bit of relief had come three years ago, after O’Meara made sergeant and had to spend most of his time behind a desk, but if his duties now kept the man from harassing him personally, he made certain his officers took up the slack.

  And while the forces of right were pressing down on him, his own marks were growing more and more lawless. Some had stopped paying him altogether, like Denny Quinn down the Taj. Quinn was always pleading poverty, but he’d made pots of money out of the Taj. Bowler knew the real reason he wasn’t paying – that bloody Sid Malone.

  Bowler spat, feeling bilious at the mere thought of his rival. Malone was young. An upstart. He’d come out of nowhere. A few years ago, he’d been just another wide boy – breaking heads, doing the odd robbery, moving stolen goods. There were hundreds of them. Minor criminals who thieved to eat or pay for a bed in some poxy lodging house. Malone hadn’t remained in the ranks for long, though. Brains and balls, combined with a reputation for ruthlessness, had ensured a swift rise to the top.

  Like Bowler himself, Sid Malone controlled scores of illicit establishments and collected protection money. Unlike Bowler, he operated south of the river, in Lambeth, Southwark, Bermondsey, and Rotherhithe. Live and let live, had been Bowler’s policy. As long as Malone stayed put on his side of the river, he would stay on his. Only Malone wasn’t staying put. Over the last few months, he’d used his influence with wharfingers and shipowners to further some very bold, and very lucrative, activities – running guns to Dublin, opium to New York, high-end swag to Paris. His success with these pursuits had sharpened his ambition. Rumors had been circulating that he was about to make a play for the north bank of the river – Bowler’s own backyard. And yesterday, they’d been confirmed. Malone had made an appearance at the Taj. Reg and Stan had seen him. He’d had a meal, bet on a fight, and fucked one of Quinn’s whores.

  The cheek. The bloody cheek, Bowler thought. He didn’t know whose neck he wanted to break more: Malone’s for pissing in his territory or Quinn’s for letting him.

  Bowler would’ve killed Malone without a second’s regret if only he could get the chance, but the man was well protected. To get to him, you’d have to plow through half a dozen lads first, each of whom was built like a brick shithouse. But Bowler knew what to do – he’d get to Denny Quinn instead. A message was going to be sent. A warning. It was too bad – he quite liked Denny – but if he permitted that sort of behavior, where would he be? Floating arse-up in the Thames, that’s where. Malone’s Thames.

  Kerosene fumes hit him, making him cough. “Are you two finished yet?”

  “Aye, guv. We are,” Stan said.

  “ ’Ow’s our vagabond friend?”

  “A bit cold at the moment, but we’ll soon warm ’im up.”

  Bowler’s eyes had adjusted to the darkness and he had no trouble picking out the lifeless body on the floor or the tobacco tin sticking out of its pocket. They’d found him dozing in an alley. He’d put up quite a fight. A shame, really, but there was no help for it – the old gent would hardly have consented to being burned alive. When the flames were put out, it would look like a dosser had had himself a smoke and accidentally set the place on fire. “Got the bottle?” he asked.

  “Right ’ere,” Reg said, holding up an empty gin bottle.

  “Matches?”

  “Aye.”

  They quietly left the building the way they’d come in, through a side door, locking it with the key Burton had provided, leaving everything just as they’d found it. Outside, Reg poured kerosene into the bottle, then soake
d a length of sacking, twisted it, and stuffed it into the neck, leaving a few inches at the top for a fuse. Then he lit a match and touched it to the rag. It caught, flaring violently.

  “Now, lad!” Bowler hissed.

  Reg sent the bottle whizzing through an empty window. Already running, Bowler glanced back to make sure his lads were following. Stan was right behind him, but Reg was standing still, waiting to see if the flames took. Bowler heard an enormous, sucking whoosh, followed by an ear-splitting explosion. The gas lines are still live, he thought before the force of the blast knocked him arse over tit. Windows in the neighboring factories and houses shattered. Shards of glass rained down around him. As he struggled to his feet, he felt Stan at his elbow. “Let’s go!” he shouted.

  “What about Reggie?”

  “Forget ’im! ’E’s done for!”

  In the space of mere seconds, flames had engulfed the building. The street had filled with smoke. Just then, Reg came loping out of the thick gray billows. His face was streaked black, there were cuts on his cheeks. “ ’Ard way to make a living, this,” he said wearily. “From ’ere on out, guv, let’s stick to the rackets.”

  Chapter 58

  “Put the bottle down, Lizzie!” Roddy O’Meara thundered. “Right now! You put one mark on her and it’s t’ree months in the nick. Hear me, lass! I said put it down!”

  “Stinking little bitch tried to steal me punter!” the woman shouted. “I’ll cut ’er face off! Like to see ’er steal anyone then!”

  Lizzie Lydon, a prostitute, had knocked another streetwalker named Maggie Riggs to the ground in front of a pub called The Bells. She was, now sitting astride her, attempting to jam a broken bottle into her cheek. Maggie’s hands were wrapped around Lizzie’s wrist, desperately trying to stay it. Roddy was only five yards away from them and could easily overpower Lizzie if he got to her in time. If he didn’t, Maggie would pay the price.