The Tea Rose

by Jennifer Donnelly

  “Make the transfer,’ Neville,” Fiona said.

  “What! But why? The shares are worthless!”

  David Lawton leaned forward in his chair. “But they’re not, Neville. Not to Mrs. Soames,” he said. “Did you know that your client already owns twenty-two percent of Burton Tea? Young Elgin’s shares will give her fifty-two percent. You’re looking at the new owner of Burton Tea. All she’s doing by giving us the banker’s draft is paying off the debt on her new company.”

  “Is this true?” Neville asked.

  “Yes,” Fiona said.

  “Because of your father?”

  “Yes.”

  He shook his head. It was his turn to look dazed. “Well then, gentlemen, let’s get started, shall we? David, you have the shares?”

  “I do.”

  David unbuckled his briefcase, pulled out a thick stack of stock certificates, and handed them to Neville, who examined them. “The duke has lost a fortune,” he observed.

  “The duke is a practical man,” David replied. “He realizes his own money is already gone. He doesn’t want to compound the mistake by losing Albion’s money, too.”

  “Where is the draft, Fiona?” Neville asked. “In the hotel safe?”

  Fiona shook her head. She reached into her skirt pocket and pulled out a crumpled piece of paper. “It’s right here,” she said.

  “In your pocket?” he asked, incredulous. “You could’ve been murdered in your sleep for that. Are you mad?”

  “After the last twenty-four hours, quite possibly,” she said. “Before I hand it over, I have a request.”

  “What is it?” David asked.

  “I would like you, David, and you, Giles, to accompany myself and Neville to Burton Tea. I’m going to confront him this morning. As soon as I’ve changed,” she said. “Your presence will strengthen my claim. He and his board of directors may not accept the facts from me or from Neville, but they’ll have to accept them from Elgin’s solicitor and the chairman of Albion.”

  “Out of the question,” Giles Bellamy sputtered. “This is nothing Albion should be associated with. It’s a dreadfully ugly business, taking a man’s company.”

  “Not nearly as ugly as taking a man’s life,” Fiona said quietly.

  David Lawton gave her a long look. The hardness in his eyes softened, just for a second, to something like admiration. “Finish your breakfast, Giles, we’re going,” he said.

  “What’s happening, man? Why aren’t we moving?” Neville Pearson shouted, leaning out of his carriage window. Rain, fierce and battering, forced him back inside.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” the driver yelled, his voice nearly drowned by the din of the storm. “The street’s jammed! It’s ’opeless! You’re better off walking from ’ere!”

  Umbrellas were located, briefcases gathered. Outside the hackney, Fiona surveyed the scene before her. The street was clogged with carriages. Scores of people, all pushing and jostling, were mobbing the Burton Tea building.

  “Who are all these people?” she wondered aloud.

  “Angry shareholders. That would be my guess,” David said.

  “And we’re about to make them angrier still,” Neville said grimly. “Come on. Let’s relieve William Burton of his company.” He turned to David and Giles. “You know the procedure. Mrs. Soames will do the talking. We are merely here to verify her claim.”

  Both men nodded. Their expressions were somber. Fiona’s was, too, but her companions couldn’t see it for her face was hidden under a black lace veil attached to a broad-brimmed hat. It matched the black silk suit she was wearing. A mourning ensemble.

  As the party proceeded up the street, Fiona was shoved and elbowed roughly. The rain was still sheeting down and it was all she could do to keep Neville in her sights.

  “Mrs. Soames? Where are you?” he shouted, turning to look for her.

  “Over here!”

  He was halfway up the steps already. She hurried to join him, wedging herself through the sea of shareholders – some shouting, some dumb with confusion – who clamored at the doors, imploring the beleaguered porter for answers. She suddenly felt desperately sorry for these people. Many of them were facing heavy losses, perhaps even the destruction of their life savings. Because of her. She vowed to herself that she would make it up to them by turning Burton Tea into a profitable company. They would get their money back and more besides.

  Interspersed among the investors were reporters, questioning anyone who would speak to them as to their views on whether William Burton was guilty or innocent. She saw Neville at the top of the steps now, gesticulating to the porter. Giles Bellamy was behind him. The plan had been for them to tell the porter that Giles wanted to see Burton. Burton was undoubtedly sequestered within his offices, but they felt certain he wouldn’t dare refuse a meeting with the chairman of Albion Bank. Just as she was about to join the two men, however, a new turn of events overtook them all.

  A harried clerk came out of the building, cleared his throat nervously, then bellowed at the crowd that Mr. Burton would give them all the information and assurances they required in half an hour’s time in a shareholder’s meeting. The meeting would take place in the company’s boardroom, which was big enough, the clerk said, to accommodate everyone if they would all proceed to it in an orderly fashion. Reporters were not welcome, he added, only shareholders. At that statement, notebooks were surreptitiously dropped into coat pockets.

  “Shall we still try to see Burton alone?” Neville asked as Fiona reached him.

  “No,” she said. “Let’s attend the meeting.” She felt a sudden deep relief that she would not be confronting the man in his office, the very room where she’d heard him laugh about her father’s death. There would be people in the boardroom, plenty of them, and there was safety in numbers.

  Slowly, the crowd filed into the boardroom. It was an impressive high-ceilinged affair with a dais at the front. Twenty large rectangular tables were arranged throughout it in rows of four across and five deep. There were chairs at the tables and more along the walls. Fiona and her companions seated themselves near the back. The room filled. Many stood. Anxious voices rose and fell trading hearsay. Ten minutes passed, twenty.

  Fiona felt William Burton enter the room before she saw him. In the same way a gazelle at a watering hole suddenly knows the lion is near, she was acutely aware of his presence. He had entered through a side door at the front of the room and now stood on the dais, behind the podium, hands folded behind his back, watching. She stiffened instinctively at the sight of him. A raw, uncontrollable terror gripped her. The last time she’d been in the same room with the man, she’d nearly lost her life. With effort, she fought her fear down. It was different now, she reminded herself. She was not a teenaged girl anymore, set upon by two murderers. She was a grown woman now and in control.

  He looked much as she remembered. Well-dressed, elegant, powerful. His face was older, but smooth, and completely expressionless. His eyes, even from a distance, looked as black and cold as a snake’s.

  “Good morning,” he said crisply.

  All talking ceased. Every eye was riveted upon him. He began to speak. His voice was calm and assured. Fiona was surprised at how well she remembered it, but then again, she’d heard it for ten years in her nightmares.

  “I have been accused, as you know, of complicity in the murder of a former employee of mine, a union leader named Patrick Finnegan. I assure you that the charges, brought against me by a Thomas Sheehan of Limehouse, a notorious extortionist, are entirely spurious. I have never harmed any of my workers, I have sought only to improve their lives through fair wages and decent working conditions.”

  Upon hearing his words, the vestiges of Fiona’s fear fell away and the old familiar rage, the one that had smoldered impotently for so many long years, caught fire.

  “I first had the misfortune of meeting Mr. Sheehan two years ago,” Burton continued, “after he informed my foreman at Oliver’s Wharf that he would b
urn the place to the ground if I did not pay him one hundred pounds a month as protection money. After I was told of his demand, I sought the man out and made it clear I would never submit to such extortion. He threatened to damage my property and harm my person. I increased security at Oliver’s, but, foolishly, never thought to do the same at a former tea factory of mine. Mr. Sheehan burned it down. How do I know this? The man himself told me so. And now, finding himself in trouble with the police, he has made these absurd accusations. Presumably in a bid for leniency in his role in the Quinn murder.”

  The smoking fires of Fiona’s anger had become a conflagration. She sat rigidly in her chair, her eyes closed, her hands clasped tightly together on top of the table, willing herself to remain seated, to remain quiet, to remain in control.

  Burton continued, acknowledging that his stock’s value had indeed fallen that morning, but assured his investors that he would win back his former customers’ goodwill as soon as his name was cleared, and asked them to hold their shares and keep faith in the company while he guided Burton Tea through what would be only a shortlived storm.

  Fiona looked around and saw how readily his explanations and promises were accepted by people desperate for reassurances that their money was safe. They would believe his denials and discount the charges against him if it meant that their investments would survive. Well, she wouldn’t let them. They would hear the truth.

  When he had finished speaking, Burton accepted questions. One query after another was fired at him. He fielded them expertly, giving succinct answers and throwing in little jokes here and there to provoke smiles from his inquisitors. After he’d answered twenty or so, he announced he would take his last one.

  “There’s a rumor that Albion Bank is demanding full and immediate repayment of your loans, Mr. Burton. Is this true?” a man asked.

  Burton laughed. “Where do you get your information, sir? From proper newspapers or penny dreadfuls? Albion has made no such demand. I spoke with them early this morning and they voiced their strong support. And now, if there’s no further business, I must leave you to attend to my firm and get your share values back up to where they should be.”

  In the heavy gloom of the gaslit boardroom, Fiona stood. A reporter for the Times would later write that she had looked like a modern-day Fury at that moment, a dark avenging angel.

  “There is one more piece of business, Mr. Burton,” she said. All heads turned toward her.

  “Are you a shareholder, madam?” he asked dismissively, pausing at the podium. “This meeting is open only to shareholders.”

  “I am, in fact, your largest shareholder.”

  “Are you? I thought I was,” Burton said, eliciting laughter from the crowd. “I don’t believe we are acquainted. What’s your name?”

  “Mrs. Nicholas Soames,” she said. “And I believe these good people should know that as of this morning, I possess fifty-two percent of Burton Tea. And as the new owner, I demand your resignation. Immediately.”

  Burton stared at her in disbelief. “A madwoman,” he said.

  “I am not mad, Mr. Burton. And I insist you step down.”

  “A lunatic’s prank. Remove her!” he barked at two of his clerks.

  Neville Pearson stood up and cleared his throat. Fiona heard his name pass through the crowd in whispers. An eminent man, he was recognized by many of the people present.

  “Mr. Burton, this is no prank,” he said loudly. “My client, Mrs. Soames, does indeed own Burton Tea. She holds fifty-two percent, as she said.” He placed his hands on two thick leather files on the table in front of him. “The documentation is all here.”

  Burton’s composure cracked. “That’s impossible!” he shouted. “I’ve kept a close eye on my shares, Mr. Pearson. I know for a fact that no single investor owns more than five percent.”

  “Munro Enterprises … twenty-five thousand shares. Chelsea Holdings Incorporated … fifteen thousand shares,” Fiona intoned. “Seamus Consolidated … forty thousand shares. The Thames Group … ten thousand shares.”

  Burton stared at her uncomprehendingly.

  “All subsidiaries of a parent company named TasTea Incorporated. Those and many more. My company, Mr. Burton.”

  “That may well be, Mrs. Soames, but I myself hold the majority share of my own damn company!”

  David Lawton stood. Fiona saw that Burton recognized him. “Not anymore, William,” he said. “You did own the majority share. Until you sold four hundred and fifty thousand shares to my client, Randolph Elgin, several years ago. That stock was kept in a fund for Elgin’s son, who passed away this spring. Nicholas Elgin, who used the name Soames, married unbeknownst to his family. He bequeathed all his property, including his investment fund, to his wife. It was transferred to her this morning.”

  “It’s true, William,” Giles Bellamy said quietly, as he rose from his chair. “Mrs. Soames now owns Burton Tea.”

  The room erupted. People leaped to their feet. Questions were shouted at Fiona and her colleagues. Burton leaped down from the dais and fought his way through the crowd, shoving aside the very people he’d sought to reassure only minutes ago.

  “Giles, what is the meaning of this?” he demanded.

  “The papers are all here, William. Read them,” Giles said. He opened a file and removed the certificates. These, Fiona had brought from New York. Then he opened the second file. It contained Nick’s shares. Now, her shares.

  Burton picked them up, one after another. When he had seen them all, he took a few steps backward, pressed his palms to his temples, and said, “This can’t be. It can’t be.” He squeezed his eyes shut, ignoring the shouts, the questions, the commotion all around him. Then he opened them again, looked at Fiona, and screamed, “Who are you?”

  The room fell silent. Fiona lifted her veil and met his black, hateful gaze. At first, his face registered only confusion, but as he continued to stare at her, recognition broke across it. “You!” he hissed. The room was as silent as a crypt.

  “You remember me, Mr. Burton?” she asked. “I’m flattered. I remember you. Very, very well. I remember standing in your office one night listening to you and Mr. Sheehan discuss my father’s murder. I had come to beg you for money, for compensation for my father’s so-called accident. So that my brother and I could buy food and rent a room. I got rather more than I came for. Do you remember that night? He was a union leader, my father. He wanted the dockers to have a penny more an hour. For a bit of extra food for their children, or a warm jacket to work in. One penny more. And you …” She paused, overcome. Her rage had filled her eyes with acid tears. She could taste its bitterness in her throat. “… you wouldn’t pay it. Mr. Sheehan was telling you how he’d arranged my father’s death. And you laughed. I still hear your laughter in my nightmares, Mr. Burton. I remember trying to get out of your office and stumbling. You heard me. You and Mr. Sheehan. And you came after me. Mr. Sheehan tried to kill me that night. But I was luckier than my father. I escaped. But I couldn’t escape the memories. I vowed you would pay for what you’d done. And you have. Burton Tea is mine.”

  Again, the room fell into chaos. People babbled and shouted. Some pressed handkerchiefs to sweaty brows. Others scrambled to have a look at the certificates. Reporters shouted Fiona’s name. She didn’t even hear them. Burton’s eyes were locked on hers. She gazed back at him, unflinching. A naked hatred – a black, roiling, tangible thing – moved between them.

  “You conniving bitch. I wish I’d killed you when I had the chance,” he said. “Then you’d be six feet under like your miserable father.”

  “William … dear God!” Giles Bellamy exclaimed. He stepped back from the table, ashen-faced.

  “Mrs. Soames!” a reporter shouted. “Mrs. Soames, over here!”

  There was a white flash, the smell of smoke. Someone had managed to sneak a camera in. Fiona blinked, blinded by the brightness. It was all Burton needed. In one quick, fluid movement, he pulled a knife from inside his jacket and lunged
at her.

  David Lawton saw it coming. He grabbed Fiona’s jacket and pulled her backward. The blade missed her throat by a whisper. It sliced through her jacket, across her collarbone, and into the soft flesh below.

  “Somebody stop him!” Neville shouted.

  Brandishing his knife, Burton ran to the front of the boardroom and disappeared behind the dais through the side door. A group of men ran after him, but found that he’d locked it. The call went up to hunt for him throughout the building. Some joined the chase, others crushed around Fiona.

  David had lowered her into a chair. He’d packed his handkerchief and Giles’s against her wound but the white cloths had already turned red under his hand. “I need more handkerchiefs … a shirt… anything!” he shouted. A score of handkerchiefs were handed to him. He wadded some together and pressed them against the gash. Fiona cried out as he did. The pain was excruciating.

  “We’ve got to get her to hospital now!” Neville ordered. “Giles, get the carriage –”

  “There’s no time,” David said. “The street’s jammed. It’ll take ages for the driver to get here. We’ll have to carry her. It’s the fastest way. Come on!”

  David hoisted her up and Neville led the way out of the boardroom, cutting a swath through the crowds of jabbering onlookers with his walking stick. Giles gathered up the certificates, now spattered with blood, and brought up the rear. He passed them on the sidewalk and ran ahead, shouting for the carriage. The driver spotted him and pulled into the top of Mincing Lane.

  “London Hospital, right away!” Giles shouted. He climbed in, followed by Neville. They reached for Fiona and eased her into the seat. Neville held her in the crook of his arm. She closed her eyes, struggling against a sickening dizziness. Her chest felt as if it were on fire. She could feel her blood, hot and wet, seeping into her clothing. She felt David climb in, felt the carriage lurch forward, then pick up speed.