The Tea Rose

by Jennifer Donnelly

  How he loved that face with its determined chin, full mouth, and honest blue eyes. She could be such a hard, bossy piece of work when it came to her business, but with those she loved she was kind, generous, and utterly devoted. She had given him so much happiness. He smiled, thinking about the surprises life holds in store. When he’d left London, banished by his father, he’d been alone, with no friends, no one to care for him. And then he’d found her. He remembered how she looked on the train platform in Southampton as she picked up his things – her worried face, her shabby clothes, and that accent! He would never have imagined then that he’d marry this Cockney girl, live with her in a New York mansion, and be happy and loved.

  He wanted so much for her – success and security, but mostly he wanted her to find someone to whom she could give her heart completely. Someone who understood who she was and would never try to change her, someone like the boy she’d loved in London. That foolish lad had lost a jewel when he lost her.

  But would she? he wondered anxiously.

  And then he saw Henri again. He was walking away from him, toward a beautiful stone house set amid fields of lavender. He was wearing an old blue smock; his hands were covered with paint. He turned, beckoning, and suddenly Nick could smell the sweet summer air and feel the sunshine on his face. Arles, that’s where he was going. To their house in the south of France. Of course! Hadn’t Henri always said that’s where they should live?

  “I can’t,” he whispered tearfully. “I can’t leave her.”

  In the moon-washed darkness of his bedroom, he cocked his head as if listening to a distant voice. He nodded, then turned to the sleeping Fiona.

  “You’ll be all right, Fee,” he whispered. “I know you will.”

  Fiona jerked awake. “What’s wrong, Nick? Are you all right? Do you need Dr. Eckhardt?”

  “I’m fine.”

  She blinked at him groggily. “What is it, then?”

  “I just wanted to tell you that I love you.”

  She smiled with relief. “Oh, Nicholas, I love you, too,” she said, stroking his cheek. “Now go back to sleep. You need to sleep.”

  “All right,” he said, knowing he wouldn’t but closing his eyes anyway to make her happy.

  Fiona settled back in her chair and picked up her book. Within minutes, she had slipped back into sleep.

  Nick now felt as light and insubstantial as the night air. He had the oddest fancy that he was the air, and the night and all the green living things just outside his window. He felt one last, brief, agonizing pain as the weak and swollen artery at the base of his heart burst, filling his chest with blood. Taking quick, shallow breaths, he closed his eyes. The pain eased. A trace of a smile danced on his lips.

  A few seconds passed, then Nicholas Soames sighed softly. His large and generous heart faltered and was still.

  Chapter 65

  In the verdant, tranquil grounds of Trinity Church’s uptown cemetery at Broadway and 155th Street, the Reverend Walter Robbins committed Nick’s body to the ground and his soul to God.

  Fiona stood by the grave as she’d sat in the church, staring ahead, her expression blank, utterly detached from the service. The minister’s words were babble, his prayer book and cross, props. Nick was dead and nothing he had to say could give her comfort.

  “ … our brother Nicholas is in heaven now, at rest in the bosom of Abraham. He has joined our Savior Jesus Christ in the promise of life eternal …”

  Fiona wished she had the man’s smug confidence. How the hell did he know where Nick was? She wished she could put a stop to this pretense of knowledge and authority on his part, and to the farce of manners and decorum on the part of the mourners. She looked around now at the people, all in proper attire. Black gowns and suits; black kid gloves; jet stickpins and brooches. Sniffles here, a sob – quickly stifled – there. Dainty handkerchiefs pressed to moist eyes. No loud or unseemly displays.

  Fiona wanted to be both loud and unseemly; she wanted to howl. She wanted to push the lid off Nick’s coffin, pull him out, let him see the sky and the clouds and the new green leaves one last time before the lurking undertaker packed him into the sodden ground. She wanted to hold him tightly and kiss his cheek and ask him if he’d had any idea how happy he’d made her, how much she had loved him. She wanted to scream her grief to the skies and wail like an animal, but she couldn’t.

  This wasn’t a Whitechapel wake, it was a New York society funeral, and all of society was in attendance. People from the museum. Artists Nick had represented. Her own colleagues and clients from the tea trade. Many of her employees. Seamie. Her Uncle Michael and Aunt Mary. Ian, who was grown now and a banker. Ten-year-old Nell. Sean and Pat, the six-year-old twins. Baby Jenny, nestled in Mary’s arms. And Alec, still sprightly at seventy-five. Fiona knew she would have to keep herself in check in front of them all, to keep her emotions tightly contained, twisted up inside her in a neat, hard little knot. She stood perfectly still, her fists balled at her sides, alone with her sadness and anger, wishing that the minister would just shut up. That he would stop his fatuous pronouncements, slap his prayer book closed and admit that he didn’t have one damn clue where Nick was. And while he was at it, he could acknowledge that he, too, found God’s general level of incompetence absolutely intolerable.

  Fiona had decided long ago, after she’d lost her family and nearly lost her life, that God was little more than an absentee landlord. Careless, uninterested, busy elsewhere. Nothing had happened since then to cause her to reevaluate her conclusion. She found it hard to believe in a Supreme Being who allowed her mother and father to die cruel deaths, while permitting murderers to flourish. She had often heard priests and ministers, when flummoxed by a hard question, respond by saying, “God works in mysterious ways.” As if that explained everything. It didn’t. In fact, it made Him sound like some cheap magician. A banco tout, a sleight-of-hand man, a con.

  “… never doubt that God gives us the strength to bear our grief …” the minister continued.

  Fiona looked at him closely. He was little more than a boy. Blond, pink-cheeked, pudgy. Maybe twenty-two years old. Probably fresh out of divinity school. The apple of his mama’s eye, no doubt. His robes were new and of excellent quality. She looked at his feet. Family money, she thought. Hand-stitched calf was not purchased on a young minister’s salary. He wore a thick gold wedding band that was still shiny. Newly married. Maybe a baby on the way.

  What can you tell me of grief, reverend sir? she wondered, searching his benignly somber face. She herself was well acquainted with it and knew there was no bearing the unbearable. The best you could hope for was to survive it.

  She watched as Nick’s coffin was lowered into the ground. The minister sprinkled earth over it, reminding everyone present that they were but dust and to dust they would return. And then it was done. People started to leave the gravesite. Fiona stayed put. There would be a supper at Michael’s now. How on earth would she get through it? She felt a strong arm around her shoulders. It was Seamie. He kissed the top of her head. He could do that now. At fifteen, he was already two inches taller than she was and the very image of their brother Charlie. He was taller than Charlie had been at that age, and not as muscular, and he was a proper little American gentleman, not a swaggering East London lad, but his mischievous green eyes and ready laugh, his good heart and manly disposition were exactly the same as his older brother’s.

  Charlie would have been twenty-six now, she thought. A grown man. She wondered what he would have made of his rough London life had he been allowed to live it, the same as she wondered what Seamie, with private schooling, summer hiking trips, winter skiing trips, and so many other privileges and opportunities, would make of his.

  For years she had cherished hopes that Seamie would return to the city to share both her house and her business after he graduated. But as he’d gotten older, she’d begun to have doubts. The boy lived for the outdoors. He spent his school holidays hiking and canoeing in the Ca
tskills and the Adirondacks, and was burning to explore the Rockies and the Grand Canyon. Nothing excited him more than discovering a new plant, insect, or animal. His grades reflected his passions – he was at the top of his class in the natural sciences, mathematics, geography, and history. And at the bottom in English, Latin, and French.

  “That lad has the soul of a tinker,” Michael often said. “Same as your da before he met your mam. Sure, you’ll not get him to settle down and sell tea. He’ll be off for parts unknown.”

  Fiona knew her uncle was right. Seamie would travel the world. Nick’s legacy plus the trust fund she had established for him would enable him to do so. He’d write her from Cairo and Calcutta and Katmandu and descend upon her between adventures, but he would not work in the tea trade or live on Fifth Avenue. She would grow old in her large and beautiful house alone.

  “Come on, Fee,” Seamie whispered, giving her a squeeze. “It’s time to go.”

  She leaned her head on his shoulder, allowing herself to be led. He’d come home from his school, Groton, two days ago for the funeral and she was glad of it. His presence comforted her in a way no one else’s could. They’d come through the worst together, crossed an ocean, started life anew, and their bond was deep. Fiona knew how much she would need him in the days to come. After the drama of death was over, after all the commotion of a funeral – that’s when the hard part began. When you sat alone with your sorrow. Seamie always knew exactly what to say to her when she was at her lowest, always sensed when she needed to feel the warmth of his hand in hers.

  Teddy Sissons and his wife came up to her and asked her to please call on them for anything she needed. They were followed by other people saying variations of the same thing. Good, kind people. People who meant well, who loved her and whom she loved. Yet now, she couldn’t bear the sight of them. She went through the motions, nodding, thanking them, trying to smile, and was relieved as they drifted away from her toward their carriages.

  “You’re staying with us tonight, Fiona. You and Seamie,” Michael said from behind her. Fiona turned around. Her family was assembled, ready to depart.

  She shook her head. “I couldn’t, Uncle Michael, I –”

  “Don’t argue, Fiona,” Mary said. “This is one fight you won’t win. We’ve plenty of room and I won’t have you two rattling around in that big house all by yourselves.”

  She managed a smile. “Thank you,” she said, embracing her aunt.

  “I’m going to plant a white rose, a climber, right by the head-stone. He’d like that, would Nick,” Alec said. His chin quivered. He turned away, wiping at his eyes. “I’d best tell them diggers not to roll the sod right up to it,” he added, walking off toward the grave.

  “Seamie, Ian, go with him, would you?” Mary asked. “He doesn’t see as well as he used to. I’m afraid he’ll fall in.”

  Ian trotted after his grandfather, followed by Seamie. Mary shepherded her brood toward the family’s carriage. Michael told her he’d be along in a minute.

  “How are you holding up, lass?” he asked Fiona when they were alone.

  “I’m fine,” she said. “Really.”

  She looked at her uncle and saw that he did not believe her. “I miss him, Uncle Michael. I miss him so much.”

  “I know you do. We all do.” He took her hand and held it, awkward in his emotion. “It’ll be all right, Fiona, you’ll see. It’s only the body that’s gone. Only the body. There’s a part that doesn’t go in the ground, a part that stays inside you forever.”

  Fiona kissed her uncle’s cheek. She appreciated his kind words and only wished she could believe them. She didn’t feel Nick inside her. All she felt was a vast, aching emptiness.

  “It’s time we were going,” Michael said. “Do you want to ride with us?”

  “No, I need a few minutes to collect myself. I’ll go alone. Will you take Seamie?”

  Michael said he would and Fiona walked toward her carriage, desperate to be by herself, if only for a short while. As she neared it, she saw a tall man, expensively attired, standing by it, his back toward her. He turned at the sound of her steps and removed his hat. His hair was silver now, but he was still handsome, still elegant.

  “Will,” she said falteringly. She didn’t offer him her hand for fear he would not take it. She barely knew what to say. They hadn’t spoken to each other in any meaningful way since they’d parted company a decade ago.

  “Hello, Fiona,” he said. “I’m sorry … I wanted to … how are you?”

  “Not very well,” she replied, looking at the ground.

  “No, I can’t imagine you would be. What a stupid thing to ask.” He was silent for a few seconds, then said, “I heard that Nicholas … that he passed. I wanted to come to the funeral, but I didn’t know if you would want me there. I came here instead. To offer my condolences.”

  Fiona raised her eyes to his. “Why?”

  He smiled sadly. “Because I, of all people, know how much he meant to you.”

  Fiona dropped her gaze again. A sob shuddered through her body. And then another. Will’s words, his unspoken forgiveness, touched her deeply. The tight knot of emotion in her chest loosened, releasing all the sorrow and anger inside her.

  She started to cry. Will took her in his arms and let her.

  Chapter 66

  Fiona sat in her office, her elbows propped up on her desk, her fingers pressed to her temples, trying to massage away her splitting headache. In front of her was a memo from Stuart, a sales report on her newly launched Quick Cup. She had tried to read it four times already, but couldn’t get beyond the third sentence. Under it lay a pile of letters and invoices that needed her attention. Her secretary was waiting for them. She knew that if she didn’t make a start, a proper one, she’d never get through it all.

  A gust of May air blew in through an open window, rustling her papers and caressing her face. She shuddered. Spring mocked her. Outside, green things struggled to life. Tulips, freesia, and daffodils showed their bright faces to the sun. Dogwood, magnolia, and cherry trees burst into bloom. And children ran shrieking with delight through the park, arms outstretched, welcoming the world back to life.

  But spring’s beauty did not lighten her grieving heart, it only made it heavier. She shrank from the warm sunshine that fell on her shoulders and winced at the happy twittering of the birds. Everything and everyone was giddy with the promise of spring, and she? She felt dead inside. Nothing gave her joy – not the opening of a new tearoom, nor a successful ad campaign. Not even the flowering of her beloved tea roses. It was all she could do to drag herself to work every morning. She could barely muster the energy to harangue Peter Hurst for more Burton shares, or to try and learn if she’d sold ten tins of Quick Cup or ten thousand.

  Her wall clock chimed the hour. Two o’clock. She groaned. Teddy Sissons was due any minute to go over Nick’s will. She wasn’t looking forward to his visit. She couldn’t bear to be near anyone lately. Merely talking to people was a strain. Sighing, she returned her attention to Stuart’s memo, determined to make headway. When she was halfway through the first page, a knock on the door interrupted her.

  “Fiona?” a voice called.

  “Hello, Teddy,” she said, forcing a smile. “Come in. Can I get you a cup of tea?”

  “No, thanks,” he said, setting his briefcase down on her desk. “I’d prefer to get right down to it. I have to be at the courthouse by four.”

  Fiona cleared room for him. He pulled a sheaf of papers out of his case and sat down. As he sorted them into order, laying them neatly on the desk, his glasses slid down his nose. She leaned across the desk and pushed them back up.

  “Thanks,” he said absently. He looked up at her. “How are you doing?”

  “Fine. Better, much better.”

  “You’re a terrible liar.”

  She gave a weary laugh. “Bloody awful, then. How’s that?”

  “It’s truthful, at least. All right … here we are.” He handed her a c
opy of the will. “Most of it’s routine, but there are a few things I’m going to need your instructions on.”

  He began rattling off the points of the will, detailing all of Nick’s non-monetary bequests. He apologized for the lengthy, technical language, but explained that Nick had insisted everything be strictly by the book. Fiona tried her best to follow along, but the words swam in front of her eyes. By the time he got to Nick’s various bank accounts and how they were to be disposed of, her headache was excruciating. Just as she thought she couldn’t last another second, he turned the final page of the document.

  “That’s it, Fiona,” he said. “Except for one last thing.”

  “What?” she said, wincing from the pain.

  “As I’m sure you know, Nick had a private investment fund at Albion Bank in London. His father settled a sum of money upon him when he left England, a sum that was invested in various stocks and which, in turn, produced income.”

  She nodded.

  “This fund, too, was left to you. Its value currently stands at nearly seven hundred thousand pounds.”

  “Teddy, that can’t be right. That’s over three million dollars!”

  “Yes, I know. It was worth even more at one point. A lot more.”

  “But how? That account was only worth about a hundred thousand pounds when we married.”

  “There was an additional purchase of stock.”

  “By whom? Nick? He refused to go near a broker. Or a bank.”

  “No, by Lord Elgin. His father. Shortly before he died, Nick told me his father had added shares to the account. He also said that he didn’t expect him to relinquish the money without a fight. Although the fund clearly belongs to you, Randolph Elgin could try to block its transfer, and in my opinion, he will. I’ve yet to see someone turn over what amounts to more than three million dollars without a fight.”

  “So fight him, Teddy. Do whatever it takes. I’ll pay for it. Nick’s father is a horrible man. I’d be delighted to deprive him of the money. I rather relish the idea of using it for some positive end. Something Nick would approve of. Maybe scholarships for art students or a bequest to the Met.”