“Joe? My God … is it you?”
Fiona stood mute. She heard nothing, not the drunken laughter from the Town of Ramsgate, nor the dipping oars of a passing wherry. She felt nothing, not the river lapping at her feet, nor the night breeze rustling her skirts. She saw nothing, nothing but Joe.
“Are you real?” she whispered, touching fingers smudged with river mud to his cheek.
That face, the one she knew by heart, was the same, but different. There were a few shallow lines, and the cheekbones were sharper beneath the skin. But his eyes were the same – so blue, so beautiful, but sad now. So much sadder than she remembered.
He touched her face, then cradled her cheek in his palm and the heat of his hand told her he was real. And then he pulled her to him and kissed her and there was a roaring in her ears, and a long, juddering crack, like ice breaking in a lake, from someplace deep inside her. The smell of his skin, the taste of his mouth, the feeling of his body pressed so close, overwhelmed her. It felt as if ten endless years – ten years of longing for him, of loving him despite her sorrow and her anger; ten years of aching loneliness, of a barrenness in her heart and body fell away in the space of mere seconds.
Powerful, conflicting emotions, dammed up for a decade, burst their confines, flooding forth in a dangerous torrent, pulling her under, threatening to drown her, to tear her apart. She tried to pull away from him, but he grabbed her wrists.
“No! I’m not letting go of you. Never again. Do you ’ear me? Do you?”
He was shouting at her. She struggled against him, desperate to break loose, furious that she couldn’t. And then she clutched at him, grabbing handfuls of his jacket, his shirt, the flesh underneath, not caring if she hurt him. She buried her face in his chest and sobbed his name over and over again.
He held her tightly, crushing her to him. “Don’t go, Fiona. Please, please don’t go,” he whispered.
She sought his lips, craving his kiss. She knew she shouldn’t do this. It was insane. It was wrong. He didn’t belong to her. But she could no longer help herself. She wanted him so much. His shirt had come untucked. She moved her hand inside it. The feeling of his heart beating under her palm brought tears to her eyes. This is all I ever wanted, she thought, his heart in my keeping. And mine in his.
An ancient desire, one buried in the very core of her, flared. She wanted to feel his skin against hers. Feel him inside her. She needed to touch his soul again, and know he’d touched hers, just as they’d done once upon a time in a narrow bed in a Covent Garden flat. He wanted it, too. She could see it in his eyes.
Without words or questions, he lifted her up and carried her into the pilings. When they were underneath the jutting dock, far out of sight, he lowered her to the ground on top of an old tarpaulin. He lay on his side next to her, fitting perfectly to her. Just as he always had. She could smell the river, muddy and low, and hear the water softly lapping as he opened her blouse and then her camisole. He touched her scar lightly, a mixture of anger and sadness on his face. She tried to pull her blouse back over it, but he pushed her hand away and kissed the livid skin. He kissed her shoulder, her throat, and then her breasts. He was gentle with her and she didn’t want him to be. She wanted the imprint of his hands, his lips, his teeth upon her skin. To remember this night by. Tomorrow and forever.
She pulled his face up to hers, twining her arms around his neck. She kissed him hard, wanting to devour him. She felt him fumbling with his trousers, felt him pushing her skirt up around her hips and tugging at her underthings, and then she felt him between her legs, and finally, finally inside her. Filling her. Making her whole.
“I love you, Fiona. Oh, God, how I love you …”
She shook her head. She didn’t want to hear those words. He loved her and she loved him and it was all bloody hopeless, just as it had always been.
“Make love to me, Joe. Please, just make love to me,” she whispered.
But he didn’t. He stayed perfectly still, gazing at her. Even in the darkness, the passion in his eyes was fierce and frightening. “Tell me you love me, Fee,” he said.
“Don’t ask that. It’s not fair.”
“Tell me. Say it, Fiona. Say it.”
She closed her eyes. “I love you, Joe,” she said, her voice breaking. “I’ve always loved you …”
And then he moved, pushing himself into her deeper and deeper, cradling her head in his arms, telling her over and over again how much he loved her, until she melted into him, skin and bones and everything inside her. She cried his name out, and when they were both still, she began to weep. Deep, shuddering sobs that shook her whole body.
“Sshhh,” he whispered to her. “It’s all right, luv, it’s all right. Don’t cry …” He moved off her, propped himself up on one elbow, and pulled her to him.
The loss of him, the sudden feeling of emptiness made it all worse. It wasn’t all right. She wanted him inside her again. She didn’t want this to be over. She didn’t want to see him stand up and walk away from her again. She wanted to stay like this, the two of them together. A breeze blew in off the river. She shivered. He pulled her closer.
“Stay with me tonight,” he said. “Come ’ome with me.”
Fiona wondered if she’d heard him right. “Come home with you?”
He kissed her forehead. “Yes, right now.”
“Are you mad?”
He looked at her, puzzled. “No. What’s wrong? Who’s to stop you?”
“Who’s to stop me?” she asked, hurt in her voice. “What about Millie, Joe? What about your wife?”
“Millie?” he echoed, still confused. Then his eyes widened. “Blimey, you don’t know. You don’t bloody know …”
“Know what?”
He sat up now, too. “Fiona, Millie and I divorced nearly ten years ago.”
“You what?”
“We divorced before our first anniversary. And then I tried to find you. I went to New York. I looked everywhere for you.”
“You went to New York,” she said hollowly.
“In ’89. Just before your wedding.”
She suddenly felt lightheaded. “Bloody hell,” she murmured.
“I think …” Joe said, pulling the edges of her blouse together, “I think maybe we should’ve talked first.”
Joe leaned back against a brick wall, part of Oliver’s Wharf that abutted the Old Stairs. He shook his head and laughed.
“What?” Fiona asked, biting into a salted, vinegar-soaked chip. She was sitting next to him, eating the fresh order of fish and chips he’d brought from the pub.
“You. This night. It’s all a bloody wonder.”
She smiled shyly. “A dream.”
“One I never want to wake up from.”
“Nor I.”
He looked away, picked at a crumbling brick, then suddenly pulled her to him and kissed her. She snorted laughter, unable to kiss him back, as her mouth was full of potato. He laughed too, then looked away again. They were strange with each other. Reaching for the other’s hand one minute, or staring, captivated, at the other’s face. Blushing and awkward the next. So familiar and yet so strange.
They’d been sitting on the Old Stairs, talking, for the better part of an hour. To think he’d been in New York. To think they could’ve been together years ago. It had made her heart ache to know it, but those years were gone. Swept away like leaves on the water. And nothing would bring them back. But they were here now. Together. Sitting by the river once again.
She had told him everything that had happened to her, from the day he’d left her to a few hours ago, when she’d visited her family’s graves and walked to the river. He had told her everything, too. All about the breakup of his marriage. Living in the stable at Covent Garden. Figuring out where she’d gone. Starting his business. Going to New York to find her, and all the dead, lonely years that came after. He told her how he’d never stopped thinking about her, never stopped loving her, and she told him the same thing. There had been some t
ears, some hard silences. It wasn’t easy to talk about these things. There was still sadness, still anger.
But there was joy, too. She could still barely believe that this was Joe sitting next to her. The man she loved, the man she desired, but also her oldest friend. The lad she’d grown up with, the one person who knew her better than anyone else in the whole world.
She looked at him now as he stared out over the water. His eyes were so dark suddenly. They’d lost the light they’d had in them only seconds ago.
“What is it?” she asked, suddenly fearful that he was regretting what they’d done. That he didn’t want her after all. That she’d only imagined the things he’d said to her under the pilings. “What’s wrong?”
He took her hand. “Nothing,” he said. “And everything.”
“You’re sorry about what happened, aren’t you?”
“Sorry! For making love to you? No, Fiona, I’m not sorry about that. I’m scared. Scared you don’t want me. Scared we’ll leave this place and I’ll never see you again. What I’m sorry for is what I did ten years ago, right ’ere –”
“Joe, you don’t have to –”
“I do ’ave to. I am so, so sorry. For everything. For all the pain I caused you.”
“It’s all right…”
“No, it’s not. It’s never been all right. Not since the day I walked up these stairs and walked away from you. I ’urt you that day, I know I did, but all you lost was me. I ’urt myself a million times worse because I lost you. I’ve wanted you, ached for you, every single day since. Living without you all these years …” He swallowed hard and Fiona saw a shimmer of tears in his eyes. “It’s been like living in a dungeon, without warmth, or light, or ’ope.” He took her hands in his again. “I’d give anything to be able to go back and undo it all if I could, but I can’t. But if you let me, I’ll try so bloody ’ard to make you ’appy. I meant what I said earlier. I love you, Fee. With all my ’eart. Do you think we could start over? Do you think you could forgive me?”
Fiona looked into the eyes she knew so well, the eyes she loved. They were full of sorrow, full of pain. She wanted so much to take that pain away. “I already have,” she said.
Joe took her in his arms and held her. They stayed that way for a long time, then he said, “Come ’ome with me.”
She was about to tell him she would when a pair of feet appeared at the very top of the Old Stairs and a voice bellowed, “There you are, you bloody stupid girl!”
It was Roddy and he was furious. “What the hell is wrong with you, Fiona? Don’t you have any sense at all? It’s nearly ten o’clock! Andrew came to the station hours ago to tell me you’d gone off by yourself. I’ve been waiting for you at the Mayfair house. And worried sick! T’ought William Burton got you. Where have you been!”
“Just here … I was … um … walking along the shore. Looking for stones.”
“She found a pair, too,” Joe said under his breath.
Fiona gasped, choked, then started coughing. She’d forgotten about his wicked sense of humor. His bawdy, teasing ways. When she finally got her wind back, she started laughing hysterically.
“It’s not bloody funny!” Roddy shouted. “I’ve told you five hundred times how dangerous it is for you to be out by yourself!”
“No, you’re right. It isn’t funny,” Fiona said, struggling to control herself. “I’m sorry, Uncle Roddy. I didn’t mean to scare you, but I’m fine. Nobody bothered me. I just walked here from Whitechapel, met up with Joe and lost track of the time.”
“Aye, I can see that,” he growled.
“Come and sit with us,” she said, patting the step above her. “I’ve been perfectly safe all evening. Really.”
“Depends on what you call safe,” he said, giving Joe a pointed look. Still grumbling, he trotted down the steps and sat with them. Fiona handed him what was left of her supper. He ate a chip, then another, then finished her haddock. “I’m bloody famished, I am. Didn’t have any supper. Spent the whole night looking for you. I was about to call out half the London police force.”
“I’ll get you a proper supper. Sit here. I’ll be right back,” she said, hopping up. She scrambled up the steps and headed for the pub, eager to escape Roddy’s wrath. Hopefully, by the time she got back, he’d have cooled off a bit.
Joe and Roddy watched her go. When she was out of sight, they looked at each other, then stared at the black water.
“Gone back to New York, eh?” Joe said.
“If I see one tear on account of you, just one, I swear to God …”
“You won’t.”
There was a minute or so of silence, then Roddy said, “She needs her head examined. You both do. If for no other reason than sitting here eating greasy chips by this ugly river when you’ve both got brass enough to eat at a decent place.”
Chapter 81
Roddy toed the lifeless, blood-covered body of Bowler Sheehan as it lay prone in the exercise yard of Newgate Prison. A straightedge, still open, lay on the ground nearby. “I don’t suppose anyone confessed to this?” he said to the guard.
The man snorted. “They’re all saying ’e did it ’imself, sir.”
Roddy raised an eyebrow. “He just took a razor that he surely didn’t have on him when he came in here and cut his own t’roat. Right in the middle of the yard?”
The guard looked uncomfortable. “We know one of them did it, but no one’s talking.”
“What about the other guards?”
“None of them saw anything, either.”
“That’s bloody great,” Roddy fumed. “As if I didn’t have enough on me plate. Now this mess.” He knelt down and gave the gash across Sheehan’s throat a cursory examination. Why? he wondered. Why kill him? Sure, some of the other prisoners undoubtedly had grievances against him, but bad blood between criminals was nothing unusual and no thug with half a brain would stick his own neck out so far over a grudge. There was only one thing that could make a man take a risk like that – a very large sum of money. Someone had bribed one of the prisoners, or one of the guards, to do for Bowler.
On the way out of the prison, Roddy stopped by the warden’s office to thank him for notifying him of Sheehan’s demise. He’d been summoned to Newgate because the warden knew he had a special interest in the case and would wish to be apprised of any developments concerning the prisoner – such as said prisoner getting himself topped. In the warden’s office, he met Alvin Donaldson. Donaldson had also been informed of Sheehan’s death because of Sheehan’s history with William Burton and its possible pertinence to his own case.
“You think it’s Burton, don’t you?” he asked Roddy as they walked out together.
“The t’ought had crossed my mind,” Roddy replied.
“What does it take to convince you, O’Meara? The bloke’s gone. We’re certain of it. We’re putting all our efforts toward working with the French. We’ve sent pictures. As soon as they see him, they’ll nab him.”
“Just because he didn’t put in an appearance at his house or Mincing Lane you t’ink he’s off holidaying on the continent?” Roddy asked. He didn’t like Donaldson. The man was too confident in his own opinions. Too cocky.
“No, I think he’s on the continent because he’s got nowhere else to go. There’s a reward out. You know that. Your own Mrs. Soames upped it to a thousand pounds,” Donaldson said. “Let’s just say for argument’s sake that he was lying low here in some lodging house … you think his fellow lodgers wouldn’t turn him in? For a thousand quid? They’d grab him so fast his head would spin.”
Roddy made no reply.
“You know I’m right. And if you ask me …”
“I didn’t.”
“… you should be looking at our friend across the river, Sid Malone. Word is he wanted to pay Sheehan back for topping Quinn.”
“Tell me somet’ing I don’t know.”
“I should also tell you that we’re removing the men we’ve had stationed at Mrs. Soames’s house.
”
“What? Why the divil are you doing that?” Roddy asked angrily.
“Top brass says Burton’s gone. And if he’s gone there’s no further need to protect Mrs. Soames from him. We can’t tie up men for no good reason.”
“I don’t t’ink that’s a good idea. Not at all. What if you’re wrong?”
Donaldson smiled. “We’re not.”
Then he left, and left Roddy fuming in the prison’s vestibule. He looked over the visitors’ log on his way out, but no names popped out at him. He hadn’t really expected any to. Anyone smart enough to get Sheehan killed was smart enough to put a fake name in the log.
As he walked back to the station house, he turned Donaldson’s words over and over in his mind. His intuition told him Burton had done for Sheehan, but intuition was only a feeling. Logic told him otherwise. Maybe Burton really was no longer in London. As he allowed this thought to sink in, Roddy realized how much he had wanted him to be. No matter how confident Donaldson sounded, if Burton was on the continent it would be very difficult, maybe impossible, to catch him.
He would visit Fiona later and tell her what had happened to Sheehan. She would want to know. He’d tell her Sid Malone was probably the one responsible.
It was a hard thing to face – the fact that Burton might never be apprehended, that he might never be brought to justice for what he’d done. But maybe it was time he accepted it. Maybe it was he himself, not Alvin Donaldson, who had too much confidence in his own opinions.
Chapter 82
Joe took a mouthful of wine, swallowed it, and looked at the naked woman drowsing peacefully next to him. She lay on her side. Her black hair was loose and spilling across his white pillow. A sheet covered most of her body, except her lovely arms and one long, perfect leg. She was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.
He had just made love to her. In his bed. With a fire casting its warm glow across her skin. She hadn’t cried afterward, as she had at the river, and he was glad of it. He never wanted her to cry again. She’d just nestled into his sheets, flushed and smiling, sighed prettily, and closed her eyes.
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