The trip to Pearson’s offices was the first outing Fiona had taken since she’d arrived at the Savoy Hotel yesterday. In the last twenty-four hours, she’d seen a city of wealth and refinement – a London she’d never known. Her suite was sumptuous and she was waited on hand and foot. The streets her carriage had traveled to the Inns of Court were airy and graceful, the houses and shops upon them elegant.
She knew, however, that this was not all there was of London. Eastward was another city, one of poverty, struggle, hunger, and hardship. It was the very Janus face of this London and it was waiting for her. She would venture there soon, not to its heart – Whitechapel was a place she could not yet bear to go, but to Bow. To see Roddy. It was a reunion she both longed for and dreaded. She was happy at the thought of seeing him again, but she knew she would have to tell him what really happened to her father, and she knew it would break his heart.
“Here we are!” Pearson suddenly exclaimed, stopping a few feet ahead of her. He pushed a door open, then said, “Oh, my! Terribly sorry, Lazenby! Good day to you. And to you, too, sir. My apologies.” He quickly pulled the door closed, and as he did, Fiona heard a man she assumed to be Lazenby tell Pearson that he thought Phillips’s office was empty. And then she heard another voice, Mr. Lazenby’s client, no doubt, tell Pearson his apology was unnecessary.
Something about that voice made her stop dead. It was a man’s voice. A warm voice. Lively and humorous, and very East London. She took a few steps forward and grasped the doorknob, entranced by the sound of it.
“This way, Mrs.… ah … Mrs.… oh, blast!”
“Soames,” Fiona said, removing her hand from the knob. What on earth was she doing? She couldn’t just barge in on a barrister and his client.
“Yes, of course. Soames,” Pearson said, leading her toward a staircase. “Let’s try the next floor. That office is occupied. Very important client. See him here all the time, but I can’t remember his name. I’m terrible with names. Barton? Barston? Something like that. Owns a huge chain of high-end shops. What are they called? Montague’s! That’s it!” He turned to Fiona on the staircase and knocked on his pate. “Gears still work after all,” he said, pleased.
Fiona wondered, not for the first time, exactly what Teddy had been thinking when he recommended this man.
“Very successful chap, that Barton,” Pearson continued. “Pulled himself up from nothing. You’re in the same line, aren’t you? In addition to the tea business? I think I remember Teddy mentioning a chain of shops in his letter. You must make a point of visiting a Montague’s. Very superior establishments.” He stopped again at the top of the stairs. “I say – he’s opening a flagship in Knightsbridge next week. Having a big do to celebrate. The whole firm is invited. Why don’t you join myself and my wife? We could have supper somewhere first, then go on to the party.”
Fiona politely declined the invitation – she had more important things to think about than parties – but Pearson persisted. It seemed as if the man would not budge until she agreed, and so, eager to discuss her claim, she did. Pleased by her acceptance, he ushered her into an unoccupied office, barked at a passing clerk to bring them tea, then settled down to business.
He reread the papers Teddy had sent, then asked her myriad questions. As he did, his absentminded air fell away and Fiona discovered that Teddy had indeed put her in the hands of an astute and experienced counselor.
“Your claim is most assuredly legitimate, Mrs. Soames,” he finally said, still perusing the documents. “And it will certainly stand up in court.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” Fiona said, relieved.
“But, as Teddy surely told you, it will be a lengthy and expensive process.”
Her heart sank. “Isn’t there something you can do to hurry this, Mr. Pearson? Are there no corners you can cut? No way to push a claim through the courts quickly?”
Pearson looked at her over the top of his glasses. “One cannot hurry the law, Mrs. Soames.”
She nodded, chastened. “How long do you think it will take?”
“I’ll need a few days to study the documents in detail and make some inquiries. Then I’ll be able to make an estimate. I feel I must caution you against being overly optimistic. I know Elgin’s lawyers. I am confident we will win in the long run, but they won’t make it an easy victory. Or a pleasant one. Do you take my meaning?”
“I do, Mr. Pearson, and I am prepared for the unpleasantries.”
Pearson gave her a long look, gauging her sincerity, then said, “Very well.”
He said he would contact her in a week’s time, then stood to walk her to her carriage. On the way out they again passed Lazenby’s office. And again Fiona heard the voice that had captivated her. It was slightly raised this time, yet muffled by the heavy door. It was foreign to her – she was certain she had never heard these measured, authoritative tones – yet it was so compelling. Again her hand went to the knob.
“No, no, this way, Mrs. Soames,” Pearson said, motioning her to him.
For the second time that day, Fiona wondered what had come over her. She followed Pearson to the foyer and took her leave.
Chapter 71
Roddy O’Meara stole a sideways glance at the elegant woman on his arm. She was so polished and had such a commanding presence, it was hard to believe she was once a barefoot girl in a patched dress and pinafore, listening wide-eyed by the fire to his stories of fairies and leprechauns.
Until she turned those remarkable blue eyes on him. And then it wasn’t hard at all. The girl was still there, in her eyes. The face was a woman’s now, fine-boned and faintly etched at the brow by life’s cares and concerns, but the eyes … they were still as excited, as lively as a child’s. Warm, but full of steel, too. Defiance, even.
She has those eyes from her father, Roddy thought. The defiance as well. It was what had led Paddy to take up his union work, and what had led his girl to escape Whitechapel and make such an extraordinary success of herself.
He suddenly felt sad, thinking of his old friend, but did his best to hide it. He didn’t want to depress Fiona by dwelling on painful memories and spoil their wonderful reunion. She had come to the house for dinner and Grace had cooked a proper English meal – roast beef and Yorkshire pudding with all the trimmings. There were tears and laughter all around when he’d opened the door to greet her. Neither he nor Grace could believe how much she’d changed. And Fiona, for her part, hadn’t wanted to let go of either of them. She wouldn’t allow him to take her hat or Grace to pour her a cup of tea until she’d hugged them and kissed them over and over again. Her driver had followed her in with parcel after parcel, each sporting the name of some elegant New York shop. There was a beautiful hat for Grace and a pair of ruby earrings, and for him a smart cashmere jacket and a set of gold cuff links. For the children – Patrick, the eldest at nine; Emily, who was seven; Roddy Junior, who was four; and Stephen, who’d just turned one – there were toys and games and sweets.
Over tea in the parlor, and then dinner in the dining room, they’d talked of the last ten years. He and Grace had told her of their lives, of his advancement in the force, and Fiona had told them of hers. When she’d finished, she paused for a few seconds, then said, “There’s one thing I haven’t told you about. The reason for my and Seamie’s abrupt departure. I apologize for that. To both of you.” Roddy could tell the words were difficult for her. He had started to shush her, but she persisted. “No, Uncle Roddy. I want to say this. It’s bothered me for ten years. I’m deeply, deeply sorry to have run off without telling you where I was going, without thanking you face-to-face for all that you’d done for me. But there was a reason for it. A reason I can tell you about now … that I need to tell you about.” Her eyes traveled from Roddy and Grace to the faces of their children. “But I don’t think it’s appropriate here.”
“Why don’t you and Roddy take a walk, Fiona?” Grace suggested. “That’ll give me a chance to clear up the dishes and give you a chance to ta
lk together. We’ll ’ave dessert when you get back.”
They had set off then, he and Fiona, to stroll in a nearby park. The July day was lengthening, but the sun was still warm and the sky cloudless.
“There’s nothing quite as beautiful as summertime in England, is there?” Fiona said now, admiring a clutch of lupines. “I never noticed before. Whitechapel was dismal no matter what the season. But I rode through Hyde Park today and thought I’d never seen anything so lovely.”
Roddy agreed. He listened to her chatter about the weather and flowers and London and wondered why she was talking about everything except what they’d come out here to discuss. Was it something to do with Joe? He purposely hadn’t mentioned the lad, thinking she would bring him up herself if she wanted to. Or was it something to do with the money Sheehan once claimed she’d stolen from Burton? Whatever it was, her hesitancy to broach the subject told him it was still painful for her. He himself thought it was better to get such things over with. Like pulling a bandage off a wound. Best done quickly and all at once. “Is there something you wanted to tell me, lass?” he finally asked.
Fiona nodded. She was gazing straight ahead and he could see her jaw working. She turned to face him and he saw that a new expression had crept into her eyes. It was an unsettling mixture of sorrow and anger – no, not anger, rage – and it was new to him. He’d seen a harrowing grief in her eyes when she’d lived with him. He’d seen hopelessness there, too. But he’d never seen this.
“There is, Uncle Roddy. I’ve been wondering how to say it. Trying to find the courage.”
“Fiona, lass, you don’t have to bring up past ghosts –”
“I do. I wish I didn’t.” She gestured at a nearby bench. “Let’s sit down.” Once they were seated, she began to speak. Her story, confined deep within her for so long, burst forth. She told him everything and by the time she finished, Roddy was slumped against the bench in shock, feeling as if he’d just been kicked in the stomach. “I’m sorry, Uncle Roddy. I’m so sorry,” she said, taking his hand.
It was some time before he could find his voice. “Why didn’t you tell me this before?” he finally asked. “Why didn’t you come to me instead of running away? We could’ve had them arrested.”
Fiona shook her head. “No, Uncle Roddy. Think about it. There were no witnesses besides me. No one would’ve taken my word against Burton’s. And I knew I was in danger.”
“I would’ve protected you. I would’ve kept you safe.”
“How?” she asked gently. “You would have had to stay with me every minute of every day. The minute you went to work, or out to the pub, or to see Grace, Sheehan would’ve made his move. I was already in danger and I didn’t want to put you and Grace in danger, too. I had to get away. I did the best thing – the only thing – I could think of.”
Roddy nodded. He could only imagine how frightened she must have been, and how devastated. Paddy. Murdered. Sorrow overcame him. He lowered his head and wept. All these years he thought he’d lost him to an accident – and that was hard enough. But this! Losing the best friend he’d ever had to a man’s greed … it was incomprehensible. He cried for a long time, and even when there were no more tears left in him, he sat motionless. After a while, he heard Fiona ask if he was all right.
He lifted his head and wiped his eyes. “I was just … t’inking about it all,” he said. “About the injustice of it. It happened ten years ago, and I know you said there were no witnesses besides yourself, but still … there’s got to be some way to make Burton and Sheehan pay for what they did. I keep chasing it round and round in me mind, but I can’t come up with one bloody way to get at them. Either one of them.”
“I can. I think. I can get at one of them, at least.”
“How?”
Fiona explained her plan to take over Burton Tea and her upcoming suit against Randolph Elgin. Roddy didn’t entirely understand the workings of the stock market, but he knew enough to know that anyone who owned fifty-two percent of a company’s shares owned the company.
“So,” he said, “as soon as you get your shares, Burton Tea is yours, right? What does Pearson say? How long does he t’ink it’ll take to get them?”
“He doesn’t know. My attorney in New York thought it could take years.”
“Years? Jaysus.”
“And not only is this going to be a slow process, it may become an ugly one.”
“What do you mean?”
Fiona had glossed over the truth about her marriage to Nick earlier; now she told him the whole story. She explained that Randolph Elgin would use Nick’s homosexuality to argue that their marriage was a sham. The resulting scandal could damage – even destroy – her business.
“Could it really?” Roddy asked.
“Yes,” Fiona said. She told him about the New York press and its insatiable appetite for gossip. “I got myself a husband by trying to avoid a scandal,” she said, “but the truth is, Uncle Roddy, I don’t give a damn about a scandal now. I’d willingly lose my business to obtain those shares, but even if I’m successful in ruining Burton, what about Sheehan?”
Roddy picked up a stick and fiddled with it, digesting all Fiona had told him. Then he said, “What we’ve got to do is pit one rat against the other. But I don’t know how. At least, not yet. I do know one t’ing, though. I’ve never seen lawyers do anyt’ing quickly. There has to be a way to speed this up and nail Sheehan in the bargain. I’m just not seeing it yet.”
Fiona sighed. “Nor I.”
They were both silent, looking straight ahead in the gathering dusk, when the tolling of a nearby church bell told Roddy they should be getting back to Grace and the children. They stood up. Fiona looked so pale and broken to him now. He realized that she had carried this secret alone for ten years. And that he was the first person – the only person – she’d told. Standing there, watching her, his heart ached for her. For the grief and terror she’d suffered. For the fact that despite everything that had happened, she had not let bitterness and anger overwhelm her. Yes, there was a darkness in her eyes now, but there was light, too. The same strong, clear light that had shone when she was a girl.
Wordlessly, he pulled her to him. She had no father, no mother, this girl. Even the husband she’d loved was dead. But she had him. He loved her like one of his own and would do everything in his power to help her. They couldn’t undo the past, but maybe they could change the future. “You’re not in this alone anymore, lass,” he whispered fiercely. “We’re going to get them. The two of us together.”
Chapter 72
Fiona frowned, trying to remember the address of the advertising agency where she was supposed to be in ten minutes’ time. “Number twenty-three Tavistock Street, right?” she said aloud, standing on the sidewalk at the intersection of Savoy Street and the Strand. “And Tavistock is off Southampton, which is off the Strand. Or was it number thirty-two Tavistock?” She sighed. “You do realize you’re talking to yourself, don’t you?” she whispered, digging in her purse for the address. She pulled out a scrap of paper. “Number thirty-two. Right then. Let’s go. And no more muttering.”
She continued west down the Strand, her lips clamped together. She would not talk to herself again. She hated the habit; it frightened her. It seemed like the first step on the road to insanity. Start doing it and before you knew where you were, you’d be one of those poor souls who shuffled down sidewalks ranting at invisible companions. Usually she controlled the impulse, but today she was so distracted, she’d slipped.
One whole week had elapsed since she’d met with Neville Pearson and he still hadn’t gotten back to her. She took this as a bad sign. Things must be worse than he expected. What tactics were Elgin’s lawyers cooking up? What on earth was going to happen to those shares? And when?
She hadn’t heard from Roddy, either. Two days had passed since their reunion and she’d received no note, no visit, nothing to indicate that he’d thought of a way to go after Sheehan.
If she
could only get her hands on those shares, if Roddy could only figure out a way to nail Sheehan. If only, if only.
Fiona made a right off the Strand onto Southampton Street, heading toward Covent Garden. She looked at her watch – nearly four – and hastened her steps. She wanted to launch Quick Cup in England one day and knew it would serve her well to gain an understanding of how English advertising firms worked. She was meeting with Anthony Bekins himself, head of the firm and recommended to her by Nate Feldman, to see examples of his work and discuss costs and placement strategies. She knew that if she could get her mind focused on business, she would forget her other concerns. At least for a little while.
Lost in her thoughts at the corner of Southampton and Tavistock, Fiona never saw the market porter heading toward her, his dolly loaded high with crates of lettuce, until it was too late. Scrambling to get out of his way, she stumbled and fell against the wall of a brick building. The man whizzed by, missing her by a hair’s breadth.
“Look where yer going, missus!” he shouted.
“Me?” Fiona sputtered, dazed by her fall. “You look where you’re going, you bleeder!”
The man blew her a kiss and disappeared around the corner.
“Diabolical, they are,” a voice said. Fiona turned and saw a woman carrying a basket of posies on her hip. “You all right, duck?” she asked, helping her up.
“I think so. Thank you.”
“You want to mind yourself round ’ere. They’ll run you down soon as look at you. Ta-ra, then.”
“Ta-ra,” Fiona said, turning to look for her purse. She spotted it on the sidewalk and bent to pick it up. As she did, a pain shot through her shoulder. Must’ve banged it when I fell, she thought. She straightened, pausing to rub it, and saw the cause of her discomfort. A hard brass plaque. It was polished to a sheen and read: BRISTOW’S OF COVENT GARDEN WHOLESALE PRODUCE, JOS. AND JAS. BRISTOW, PROPRIETORS. She stared at it for a full minute, reading the words over and over again, then whispered, “It can’t be.”
The Tea Rose Page 63
