The Tea Rose

by Jennifer Donnelly

  “He was a wherry captain. He’d just taken passengers across the river,” she said quietly. “He saw the fire, heard me screaming, and stopped to help.”

  “I didn’t know wherry captains carried firearms.”

  “He said he was robbed once too many times.”

  “He never gave you his name?”

  “He didn’t. On purpose, I’m sure. He’d killed a man. To save myself and Joe, but nonetheless, he’d killed a man and he wanted no visits from the police. He saved our lives, Stuart.”

  “It’s like something out of an adventure story,” Stuart said, and for a moment Fiona felt as if a dark cloud had passed overhead, blotting out the sun.

  “There’s a happy ending, though, isn’t there?” Stuart asked. “You were married soon after, right?”

  “Yes,” she said, smiling. “At Joe’s house. In Greenwich. Where you’re going tonight.”

  “And this is a lad you knew when you were a girl?”

  “Yes.”

  “A good lad?”

  “A very good lad.”

  “I can tell. You’re simply blooming, Fiona. I’ve never seen you happier.”

  “Thank you, Stuart. I can’t wait for you to meet him.”

  He patted her hand. “Nick would be happy for you. You know that, don’t you?”

  Fiona nodded. She looked down at her hand, resting on Stuart’s arm. She had retired Nick’s wedding band to her jewelry box, where she would look at their initials engraved inside of it sometimes and remember her first husband and dearest friend. She wore Joe’s wedding ring now. And his beautiful blue scarab. But she still wore Nick’s diamond – on her right ring finger instead of her left. Joe didn’t mind. In fact, he often said he owed Nicholas Soames for taking such good care of her.

  “Now, when are we getting you back to New York?”

  “In a month’s time. Now that you’re here, I was hoping to get the London company back on track. I’ve only been able to hold it together these past few months, not make it as strong as I’d hoped. We’ve got so much to do, Stuart. But the resources are all there. We’ve even got our own estate! Can you imagine? But we’re going to have to completely start over. Everything’s in disarray. I was wondering … would you mind staying here for a while? Possibly a long while? There would, of course, be added compensation. A new title. President of TasTea, London. And a new salary.”

  “Mind? Fiona, from the moment I got your telegram asking me to come over, I hoped you’d ask me to run the new company. I miss old Blighty horribly. I think I’m getting soft in the head. Nearly cried when I got off the train. I’d love to come home.”

  “Oh, Stuart, that’s wonderful! This couldn’t have worked out better! I’m delighted!”

  “What about you, though? Won’t you mind leaving London?”

  “I’ll mind leaving Uncle Roddy and my in-laws, but I miss the rest of my family so much, Stuart. I can’t wait to see Seamie and Mary and the children.” She grinned mischievously. “Even Michael.” And she did miss them all. Horribly. When she left, back in July, she’d only planned to be gone a month at the most. Now it was nearly October. She missed TasTea, too. Stuart had handled everything beautifully in her absence, but she was eager to see her warehouse again, her freight cars and wagons.

  “What about your husband? Won’t he mind losing you to New York?”

  “Oh, I’m not leaving him!” she said, laughing. “He’s coming with me. We’re going to try spending three months in New York, then three in London, and so on and see how it goes.” She stopped him and pointed at the red brick building in front of them. “Here we are,” she said. “This is it. Oliver’s Wharf.”

  “Bloody hell! It’s enormous!” Stuart exclaimed, leaning back to get a better view.

  Fiona looked up at it, too, pleased to see that the work was progressing rapidly. Oliver’s was looking proud again. The black soot stains had been scrubbed off its exterior. The shattered wall had been reconstructed. Windows and loophole doors had been replaced. Inside, the support columns and joists had all been rebuilt and the builders were currently laying new plank floors. Already, tea was in the warehouse again. Assam leaves that she’d ordered for TasTea, London’s new signature blend were sitting in chests on the second floor. As she stood watching the workers winch boards up to the fourth story, she felt a fresh breeze blow in from the river.

  “Let’s go in,” Stuart said.

  “Go ahead, look all around. I’ll be right behind you,” she said.

  He disappeared and she headed for the Old Stairs – the new Old Stairs – to sit by the water for a bit. She needed to see her beloved river, to collect herself and calm the strong emotion stirred up by recounting what had happened the night Oliver’s burned. She walked to the top of the steps and took a seat in her usual spot, halfway down.

  She watched the gulls for a while, saw a mudlark digging for treasure. When she could bring herself to, she gazed across the water to Cole’s Wharf, a grain warehouse on the south side of the river, and the last place she had seen her brother.

  Tears came to her eyes, as they always did when she recalled hearing his voice, then seeing his face, and feeling his strong arms around her. She had wept and wept, undone by her emotion and exhaustion, her wounds, the terror she’d suffered, and finally, the joy.

  During their boat ride, Charlie told her how he’d read about her in all the papers after she’d taken Burton’s company from him. He told her what he’d felt upon learning that Burton had murdered their father – the shock and rage and grief. And he told her how happy he’d felt to know she was alive and well. He’d instructed his men to keep an eye on her, and to find Burton. But they couldn’t; he’d hidden himself too well. It was only when Tom and Dick had grabbed O’Neill, after tailing him to Fiona’s house and then Covent Garden, that they learned Burton had been living in a hidden room on the top floor of Oliver’s. By then, it was nearly too late. They’d had the foresight to telephone Charlie, and he’d gotten himself and some more of his men into a boat. By the time Tom and Dick had arrived at Oliver’s, having figured out what Burton meant to do, the wharf was in flames. They’d run down the New Stairs and slogged across the riverbank just in time to stop Burton from killing her.

  While Charlie talked, his men rowed south across the river. They’d disembarked at Cole’s Wharf and entered through a side door. Fiona had been astonished to find herself in a comfortable, well-lit room with tables and chairs, food and wine. Joe was carefully laid upon a settee and given laudanum for his pain. A doctor was speedily brought. His leg was straightened and set. He could have received no better care if he’d seen the Queen’s own surgeon. The doctor, Wallace was his name, cleaned Fiona’s wound, too, and stitched it closed. Burton’s blade hadn’t cut as deeply as it had the first time, and she hadn’t lost nearly as much blood.

  Then, while Joe was resting and Tom Smith and the others were eating, Charlie took Fiona into a smaller, more private, room. It contained a large desk, some club chairs, and a couple of settees. They’d embraced again, and she had wept again, clinging to her brother as he stroked her hair and shushed her sobs. He’d led her to a settee, bade her sit, and poured her a glass of port.

  “Fee, you’ve got to stop crying. Please. Your eyes are swelled shut. I’m ’ere, it’s all right,” he’d said.

  She’d nodded, but kept crying anyway. Between great, gulping sobs, she babbled a million questions at him. “Charlie, where were you? We thought you were dead. Where did you go? They pulled a body from the river. It had Da’s watch on it. Where have you been all this time? Why didn’t you try to find us?”

  He’d gulped down the contents of his own glass, then, with obvious difficulty, told her about the last ten years, beginning with the night of Jack’s final murder.

  He’d been on his way home from the Taj, where he was celebrating a win. It was late and dark and he’d been surprised to see a crowd gathered in Adams Court. He’d pushed his way through and saw his mother lying life
less on the cobblestones, her blood running into the cracks between them. He’d heard Fiona shrieking, heard the baby wailing. He remembered trying to hold his mother, to keep the constables from taking her away. And then he remembered running. Away from the horrible scene. Away from himself. He kept running until his legs were aching and his lungs were on fire and his heart was screaming for him to stop. Deep into the dark heart of East London. All the way to the Isle of Dogs. There, he crawled under a fence and found himself in a shipyard, where he holed up in the remains of an old trawler. How long he stayed there he didn’t know. Hours, maybe. Or days. When he crawled out of the hulk, cold and hungry, he didn’t know where he was or who he was. Something had happened to his mind – to this day, he didn’t know exactly what. Denny Quinn told him it was called amnesia.

  He wandered the shipyards and wharves. He slept rough, eating whatever he could dig out of rubbish bins. Then he moved west again, hugging the river. Bit by bit, his memory returned. He’d have an image now and again of his old street, his family, his friends. But as soon as it came, it was gone. And then, finally, it all came back, and he remembered that he had a brother and two sisters, that his mother had been murdered. His grief had overwhelmed him.

  He told Fiona how he’d gone back to Adams Court one night to look for them, but they had left. He realized then that he had no one, and nowhere to go, so he returned to the streets.

  “But why didn’t you try to find Roddy?” Fiona asked. “He would have been able to help you, to tell you where Seamie and I had gone.”

  “I did try,” he’d answered evasively. “I looked for ’im at his old flat, but ’e wasn’t there.”

  Fiona persisted. “But after you disappeared a body was found in the river. Roddy identified it. It had red hair and Da’s watch was in the jacket pocket. The watch he gave you. We thought it was you. Charlie, who on earth did we bury if it wasn’t you?”

  He had looked away.

  “Who, Charlie?”

  “Sid Malone.”

  Fiona had slumped against the settee, aghast. “How?”

  He told her in a rush. One night, when he’d first regained his memory, he’d found himself on the Wapping’s High Street. He was rooting through some pub rubbish when a lad grabbed him by the neck. It was his old antagonist, Sid Malone. “Well, well, if it ain’t you! Everyone’s wondering what ’appened to you. I ’eard you ran. Always knew you was a coward,” Sid had said. And then he’d punched him in the nose, breaking it. The pain blinded him for a few seconds, long enough for his attacker to gain the advantage. Sid went through his pockets. There was no money to be had, but there was his father’s watch. Sid pocketed it, then rained down punches on him. He said he was going to kill him and throw his body in the river. He would’ve too. His punches were vicious; they forced him to the ground. Charlie tried to stand up. As his fingers scrabbled for purchase against the cobbles, they found a loose one. He clawed it free and aimed blindly. There was a soft, wet crunch.

  He had hit Sid in the head. Stoved it in. He tried to bring him round, but it was useless. He was afraid that if anyone found out, they’d never believe he’d done it in self-defense. They’d hang him. Panicking, he did what Sid said he was going to do: he dragged the body to the river and heaved it off a dock – forgetting in his haste to take his watch back.

  “That’s the real reason I didn’t go to Roddy,” he admitted. “I was worried that someone ’ad seen me do for Sid. I didn’t want to involve ’im.”

  “Roddy would’ve believed you, Charlie,” Fiona said, bursting into fresh sobs. “He would’ve helped you.”

  “I went to Denny instead. It was ’is idea for me to take Sid’s name. Said the bloke ’ad no family. Said for me to lay low, to go south of the river where no one knew me. Den took care of me. ’E looked after me all these years. We was about to go into business together. The two of us. About to take on all of East London, north and south of the river. ’E taught me ’ow to survive, Fiona. ’E treated me like ’is son.”

  “And turned you into a criminal,” Fiona said softly.

  He turned away at that, then swiftly rounded on her again, pointing a finger at her. “I ’ad nothing! No one! I ’ad to survive, Fiona. And I did. Not your way, maybe, but my way. The East London way.”

  “By thieving, Charlie? By breaking heads? By doing the same things Bowler Sheehan did? Sheehan, remember? The man who killed our da?”

  Charlie’s jaw tightened. “I think it’s time I got you ’ome,” he said. “Tommy! Dick!” he barked.

  Fiona realized she had cut too deeply. “No, Charlie, not yet. Talk to me, please.”

  “Charlie who?” he’d said, a mixture of grief and defiance in his eyes, “My name is Sid. Sid Malone.”

  He’d kissed her good-bye and told her not to try and find him. Then his men ushered her out of his office over her tears and protests.

  The days that followed had been tremendously hard. She had called Roddy’s station as soon as Charlie’s men delivered her and Joe to Joe’s house. Roddy wasn’t there, but an officer found him and told him where they were. He was in Greenwich before daybreak, barely able to believe that they were alive. Fiona told him everything that had happened. And he, one of the hardest, toughest men she had ever known, cried like a child when she told him who Sid Malone really was. They had gone back to Cole’s Wharf one night – she, Joe, and Roddy. The watchman hadn’t wanted to let them in, but Roddy had persuaded him by flashing his badge. They searched the entire wharf – every floor – but found only cargo. All the furniture, all the food and drink, every sign that anyone had ever been there, was gone.

  There had been an inquest and many difficult questions. Fiona had refused to identify any of the men involved in their rescue and Joe followed suit. They didn’t remember much, they said. It was dark; they had both been suffering from shock.

  In her heart, Fiona knew the truth and did not flinch from it. Her beloved brother was a criminal. A thief. A smuggler. An extortionist. A handsome, deadly, emerald-eyed thug.

  And yet, she knew another truth, too – Charlie had saved her life. And Joe’s. She had no doubt whatsoever that without him, they would both be dead. And he had done what she, in ten years of trying, had failed to do – he had destroyed William Burton.

  She still shuddered when she thought about Burton’s final moments and how close he’d come to killing her. Or when she thought about the things he’d said before Tom had shot him. She’d told Joe and Roddy about his mad ravings. Roddy had had his house searched, but his men had turned up nothing incriminating. The knife Burton had planned to use on her had disappeared with him. Roddy’d had her describe it and concluded that the type and length could certainly have produced the injuries sustained by the women in ’88, and by the two streetwalkers whose bodies had recently been found.

  “It could be him,” Roddy had said. “I, for one, wouldn’t put it past the man, given the things we know he’s done. But without him here to answer questions, we’ll never know for sure, will we?”

  No, Uncle Roddy, she thought now as she gazed at the river, we never will.

  Sometimes she still imagined she saw him … Burton … Jack … the dark man. Walking along the riverbank in his black frock coat and top hat, hands clasped behind his back. He would turn to her, as if suddenly aware of her gaze, doff his hat, then disappear into the dark waters of Wapping Entrance or the shadows of the Orient Wharf. Roddy said he was dead; that no one could survive six gunshots at close range. She knew he was dead, too. And yet, he lived on. In the scars he’d left on her body. In the scars he’d left on her heart.

  In the weeks that followed the investigation, Roddy had put in for a transfer. He’d told his superiors that he’d had enough of the East End and wanted to take his family out of London. He was hoping for an assignment in Oxfordshire or Kent. He’d told Fiona that if he stayed, he and Charlie would certainly cross paths and that the prospect of arresting Paddy’s son was too much for him. He’d told her that the real
Charlie Finnegan was dead. He’d died back in ’88.

  “We all did, didn’t we?” she’d said ruefully. And in a way they had. Not one of them – not she herself, nor Roddy, Joe, or Charlie – were the same people they’d been ten years ago.

  Tears came again. What would she tell Michael? And Seamie, who had so adored his older brother? “Tell them nothing,” Joe had said. “Let Seamie keep his memories. At least give him that.” Fiona had accepted his counsel. But only for now. Only for today. She wouldn’t stop trying to find Charlie, no matter what he said, no matter what he did. She loved him. And she’d get him back one day. The real Charlie, not Sid Malone. She wouldn’t give up hope. She’d never do that.

  As the river’s breeze dried her tears, she heard footsteps on the stairs behind her. She turned, expecting Stuart, but saw a little red-haired girl, perhaps nine or ten years of age, instead. The girl smiled shyly at her. “I sit ’ere sometimes and watch the boats,” she said. “The air smells good today, don’t it? Like tea.”

  Fiona smiled back. “Yes, it does. It should. Oliver’s Wharf had fifty tons of the best Assam landed yesterday.”

  “I like tea,” the girl said, a little bolder now. “Tea comes from the East. From India, China, and Ceylon. I know where they are on a map.”

  “Do you?”

  “Aye,” she said excitedly. “I’m going to India someday. On a boat. And I’m going to ’ave my own tea plantation and be a grand lady like that woman in the papers, Mrs. Soames.”

  “I think it’s Mrs. Bristow now,” Fiona said, her eyes shining with delight at the spunky little thing in her worn cotton dress and threadbare jacket. “Are you really going to India?”

  “I want to,” the girl said, but doubt had crept into her large brown eyes. “But I don’t know …” She looked down at her boots, scuffing the toe of one against a step. “Miss says I’m silly. Says me ’ead’s full of dreams and cobwebs.”

  “Oh?” Fiona said, her eyes narrowing. “Who’s Miss?”

  “Me teacher.”

  “Well, she’s wrong. You’re not silly. People with dreams are smart.”