Winter Rose, The

by Jennifer Donnelly

  "Any chance of getting something to eat round here?"

  "Refreshments are being served in the garden, sir."

  Joe started toward the back of his house. He walked into his sun-dappled garden, thinking he might see twenty or so people there, and was surprised to find more than a hundred. Strangely, they were all quiet. He soon saw why. At the far end of the garden about forty girls aged ten to sixteen stood together, surrounded by a breathtaking flush of pink roses. They were scrubbed and combed, wearing hand-me-down skirts and blouses. One of them began to sing, sweet and clear, and the rest joined in, serenading their listeners with "Come into the Garden, Maud." Every single person had gone as still as stone and a few were dabbing at their eyes.

  "Fiona, lass, you are shameless," Joe whispered. He scanned the sea of people, searching for her. He didn't see her, not immediately, but he spotted many famous faces. Captains of industry, titled ladies, politicians--

  Fiona mixed them all. Merchants mingled with viscounts, actresses with cabinet ministers, socialists with socialites. The society pages called Joe and Fiona 'Arry and 'Arriet--a snide reference to their Cockney roots--and sniffed that 94 Grosvenor Square was the only house in Mayfair where the butler spoke better English than his employers. And yet all of society clamored for invitations to the parties Fiona gave, for they were nothing short of stellar.

  People enjoyed themselves at 94. They talked and laughed, gossiped and argued. They ate good food and drank the best wines, but what won even the snootiest critic over was Fiona herself. She was direct and disarming, equally at ease with charladies and duchesses. As head of an international tea empire--and as one of the wealthiest women in the world--she was an object of fascination. People talked about her constantly. How she'd come up from nothing. That her dockworker father had been murdered. Her mother, too. How she'd fled London and caught the eye of a robber baron in New York, but married a viscount instead. He had died, but she still wore his diamond. "There were no children, darling. He was that way, don't you know." Eyes grew even wider as her daring takeover of a rival's tea company was recounted. "She did it for revenge, my dear. The man killed her father. He tried to kill her! Can you imagine?"

  Sargent hounded her to sit for him. Escoffler named a dessert after her. When Worth christened a jacket and skirt ensemble the Fiona Suit, women flocked to their seamstresses to have it copied. It was whispered in drawing rooms over tea and cakes that she wore no corset. It was shouted in gentlemen's clubs over port and Stilton that she had no need of one for she was really a man--she must be--she had the biggest balls in London.

  Joe finally spotted his wife sitting off to one side of the garden. As the girls finished their song, she stood and addressed her guests.

  "Ladies and gentlemen," she began. "The beautiful voices you have just heard belong to the children of the Toynbee Mission Girls' Vocational School. Now I beg you to listen to a far less lovely voice ...my own." There was laughter and fond heckling, then Fiona continued. "These girls come from families whose incomes are less than one pound a week. Imag-ine a family of six existing for a week on what some of us spend on maga-zines or chocolates. Because of their exceptional intelligence, these girls have been chosen to attend a school which will train them into a trade and afford them a way out of poverty. When the Reverend and Mrs. Barnett told me that the children must huddle together to avoid the rain that pours in from a damaged roof, I knew each and every one of you would be as out-raged as I am." She paused again, this time for a volley of "Hear! Hear!"s.

  "A new roof is needed desperately, but the roof is only the beginning. Once we have it, we will need more desks. And blackboards. And books. We will need more teachers and the money to pay them. Most of all, we will need you. We will need your continued help, your kind generosity, in order to expand the number and type of courses we can offer. We have turned out housekeepers, governesses, and cooks. Now we must do more. We must turn out shop owners instead of shop girls, managers instead of secretaries, presidents of companies rather than the pieceworkers they employ. Per-haps even a woman tea merchant or two, eh, Sir Tom?" she said, winking at Thomas Lipton.

  "Good God, not another one!" Lipton cried.

  "Mathematics, economics, accounting es, those are unusual courses for girls, but what should we teach them? Why are we educating them? So that they can read Shakespeare in a cold room by candlelight when the sweatshop closes? No, if they are to break the cycle of deprivation, they need better jobs, better wages, better opportunities...."

  Joe looked at his wife as she spoke, and thought--as he had a million times before--that he had never seen a more captivating woman. He had known her since they were children, and it seemed to him that her beauty never diminished; it only grew richer. She was wearing a white blouse and a sky-blue silk jacket. Its matching skirt had been cleverly cut to hide her growing belly. She was three months pregnant with their second child, and radiant. Her black hair, thick and lustrous, had been swept up and secured with pearl combs. Her cheeks glowed pink with the warmth of the day and her incomparable sapphire eyes flashed with feeling. No one chatted or fidgeted as she spoke. Every eye was upon her.

  Pride surged in him as he watched her, but beneath the feelings of pride, worry gnawed. There were smudges under her blue eyes and her lovely face looked thin. She does too much, he thought. She kept a punishing work schedule, rising at five, working in her study until eight, breakfasting with Katie and himself, then departing for her Mincing Lane offices. She was almost always home in time for the nursery tea, and then it was back to work until nine, when she and Joe met to share supper, a few glasses of wine, and details of their day. And somehow she still found the time to work tirelessly on behalf of her charitable foundation--the East London Aid Society--and the schools, orphanages, and soup kitchens which it funded.

  He often told her that the problems of East London were far too huge for one woman to solve, and that she was only sticking her finger in a dike. He told her that real help had to come from above, from government. Programs had to be devised to help the poor and monies allotted by Parliament to fund them. Fiona would smile sweetly and tell him he was right, of course he was, but in the meantime, the such-and-such soup kitchen had a line down the street and around the corner, and if she sent a wagon to Covent Garden would he and his mates donate some fruit and vegetables? He would tell her yes and then he'd tell her to stop working so hard, or at least slow down, but she never listened.

  Fiona finished her speech--to a burst of applause--and was engulfed by people eager to contribute. Joe was still clapping loudly himself when he felt a hand on his back. "Old chap!"

  It was Freddie Lytton, Member of Parliament for Tower Hamlets, a district which included Whitechapel, where the girls' school was located. Joe wondered what he was doing here. He doubted Freddie was making a con-tribution. Fiona had met him many times in the hope of getting government funds for her various causes, but all she'd ever received for her trouble were a few vague promises.

  "Hello, Freddie," Joe said now. "Glad to see you here."

  "Fantastic do," Freddie said, swigging champagne. "Thought I heard someone say Fiona had raised two thousand. Splendid sum."

  Joe decided to put him on the spot. "It is a nice sum, isn't it?" he said. "Be even nicer if the government was to kick in. Any chance of that?"

  "As it happens, the Reverend and Mrs. Barnett came to see me, too. I put forth a request for funds in the Commons--five hundred quid--and made a damned good case for it, if I say so myself," Freddie said smoothly. "Been pushing hard. Should have an answer any day."

  Joe was not placated. In his opinion, his wife worked harder on behalf of the children of Whitechapel than Whitechapel's elected representative did, and it angered him.

  "The morning papers said Parliament just approved the sum of forty thousand pounds to refurbish the queen's stables," he said. "Surely it can find five hundred quid for a school. Are children less important than horses?"

  "Of course not." />
  Joe gave him a shrewd look. "No, not children per se. Poor children, well, that's another matter. Their fathers don't vote, do they? Can't vote. They don't make enough money. God help you all when they can. You'll all be out of a job."

  "It'll take another Reform Act to extend the vote to the entire working class. And that won't happen. Not on Salisbury's watch," Freddie said dis-missively.

  "The prime minister's knocking on. He won't be around forever and nei-ther will his old hat policies," Joe said, bristling at Freddie's patronizing tone. "Perhaps one day government will allow all of its citizens to have a voice. Poor as well as rich."

  "The policies of government should be determined by those who best understand them," Freddie said.

  "The policies of government should be determined by those who have to suffer them, mate."

  "So what you're saying is that any man--any shiftless know-nothing-- should have a voice in government?"

  "Why not? Plenty already do."

  "Oh, touch�old man. Touch� Freddie said. There was a smile on his mouth, but there was a sudden flash of something hard and menacing in his eyes. Then, as quickly as it had come, it was gone, and he was his pol-ished, affable self again. "Listen, Joe, we're on the same side, essentially."

  Joe snorted.

  "No, we are. We're both concerned about East London, its people, and its prospects, are we not?"

  "Yes, but..."

  "I knew we were. That's why I'm here, Joe. I've been wanting to talk to you. There's talk of a general election being called in September, you know..."

  Ah, that's it, Joe thought. He knew Freddie hadn't turned up to hear "Come into the Garden, Maud."

  "... and the Tories are certain to win it. I need your help. I need your support to keep Tower Hamlets a Liberal seat. We must all of us stand to-gether as a bulwark against the Tories."

  Joe raised an eyebrow. "Who's we?"

  "The upper class."

  "Don't count me in that group."

  "Don't count you in what group?" said a female voice. Fiona had joined him. She squeezed his hand and smiled at him, her eyes shining.

  "Your husband's being very modest, Fiona--lovely do, by the way--I was just telling him that he's a member of the upper class now. One of so-ciety's leaders."

  "Freddie, I'm not--" Joe began.

  "But you are," Freddie said, as if reading his mind. "You're from the working class, but no longer of it, Joe. You're a self-made man. Owner of the biggest chain store in the country and the biggest produce concern as well. And you've done it all under your own steam. By harnessing the forces of private enterprise."

  "Blimey, Freddie, hop off your soap box, will you?" Joe said. "What do you want?"

  "I want your endorsement. Yours and Fiona's."

  "Mine? But I can't even vote!" Fiona exclaimed.

  "But you wield influence," Freddie replied. "You have factories and warehouses in East London, both of you. You employ hundreds of men there, many of whom are eligible to vote. I need those votes. I won the seat as a Conservative then crossed the floor. The Tories want it back. Dickie Lambert's their man and he's damned aggressive. Means to give me a proper fight. He's already canvassing in the pubs on the mere rumor of an election."

  "What makes you think the working man won't vote Labour?" Fiona asked.

  Freddie laughed. "You must be joking! They're a bunch of potty Marx-ists! No one takes them seriously."

  "I think our workers can sort out the candidates for themselves," Joe said. "They don't need us to tell them how to vote."

  "Ah, but they do. You're an example to them. They look up to you. They want to be like you and they'll do as you do."

  "And what will you do for them?" Fiona asked.

  "Work with private enterprise to bring more capital into East London. More refineries. Breweries. Factories. We'll offer incentives to businessmen-- tax relief, for example--to get them to relocate."

  "All that's going to do is make the factory owners richer."

  "That's beside the point," Freddie said dismissively. "There'll be more factories and more factories mean more jobs."

  Joe shook his head, astonished. Freddie's lack of understanding about the lives of his own constituents was astonishing. Even offensive. "Yes, but what kind of jobs?" he asked, his voice rising. "The jam factory, the match works, the tannery, the docks--they pay nothing. The poor bastards taking those jobs work from dawn till dark six days a week and still have to decide between coal and food."

  Freddie gave Joe a pitying look, as if he were a backward child. "It cer-tainly isn't government's fault if a man can't manage his money," he said.

  "But there's no bloody money to manage!" Joe nearly bellowed.

  "There's money enough to keep the public houses busy. I know that for a fact," Freddie said. "I've overseen the closure of some of the worst. And that's another thing the Liberals will do for East London--enforce law and order. I'm personally going to oversee a crackdown on crime. I've already started. I've put more officers on the streets and started river patrols as well. I'm pushing for harsher sentences for offenders."

  "Every politician says that," Joe said.

  "Not every politician means it, though. I'm after Sid Malone, you know. Yes, Malone."

  Joe's heart lurched at the sound of that name. He stole a glance at Fiona. She caught his eye, warning him to say nothing. He looked away again quickly, not wanting Freddie to see what had passed between them. If Freddie had noticed, he gave no indication. He kept on talking.

  "I haven't got him yet," he said, "but I will. I'm going to make an exam-ple of him. He'll slip up. They all do. He'll maim someone in a robbery, or kill someone, and then I'll hang him. You have my word on that."

  Fiona was now so pale that Joe was afraid for her. He took her arm and was about to steer her toward a chair when Foster suddenly appeared at her elbow. Joe heard him quietly tell her that she had a visitor.

  "Please ask him to join us," she said.

  "I think not, madam," Foster replied. He inclined his head toward the glass-walled conservatory.

  Joe followed his gaze and saw an unfamiliar man standing there. He was wearing an ill-fitting suit and what looked like a sling on one arm. Joe took an instant dislike to him and was about to ask Fiona who he was, but she was already excusing herself.

  "A bit of business to attend to," she said briskly. "Won't be a minute."

  An uneasy feeling gripped Joe. He was protective of his wife--overly pro-tective, she always said. Though he had no idea why, he wanted to stop Fiona and almost went after her, but then Freddie said something to him and Joe saw Fiona shake the man's good hand. He told himself he was being silly.

  "I'm sorry, Freddie, what was that?" he said.

  "I said if Malone were hanged, it would send a strong message to the rest of East London's thieves and cutthroats."

  "Law and order's all well and good," Joe said, "but it's not the whole answer. Drunkenness, violence, crime ...they all come from the same thing--poverty. Fix that and you fix the other problems, too."

  Freddie laughed. "You know, old mole, you're sounding increasingly like one of those crackpot socialists. How exactly would you have the government fix poverty? Perhaps we should just open the doors to the Royal Mint and hand out guineas?"

  Joe's simmering irritation with Freddie flared into anger. He reminded himself that Freddie was a guest in his home, then he said, "How about this, mate? Offer working men and women decent wages for their work. Offer them compensation if they're hurt on the job so their families don't starve. Offer their children a proper education so they have something bet-ter to look forward to than a factory or the docks. You really want to win this election, Freddie? It's easy. Offer your voters some hope."

  He excused himself, glancing toward the conservatory again. Fiona and her visitor were nowhere to be seen. The uneasiness he'd felt became alarm. He went into the house and collared Foster. "Where's Mrs. Bristow?" he asked tersely.

  "In her stu
dy with her visitor, sir," Foster replied.

  "Who is this bloke? Why's he here?"

  "His name is Michael Bennett, sir. He would not state his business."

  Joe headed toward the staircase. He didn't like the sound of that. No respectable visitor would hesitate to state his business. He took the steps two at a time, wishing he'd followed his instincts instead of staying to argue with Freddie. The door to Fiona's study was closed. He knocked, then opened it without waiting for an answer. Fiona was at her desk. Her eyes were red; she was clutching a handkerchief. Michael Bennett was seated across from her.

  "Fiona, what's going on? Are you all right?" Joe asked. He looked at Ben-nett. "Who the hell are you?"

  "I'm fine, Joe," Fiona said. "This is Michael Bennett. He's a private detective."

  "A detective? Why do you need a detective?"