The Winter Rose

by Jennifer Donnelly

  Joe sat forward in his chair. There was an intensity to his voice now. "No, Fiona," he said, "I'm not sure he would. Your father was a sharp man. He started organizing the dockers' union in 1888. A dozen years on he would have seen the futility of strikes. He would have seen the writing on the wall."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Strikes are only battles, and this is a war. If things are to change for the working class, to really change, they have to learn that it's no use fighting on the factory floor or on the waterfront. They have to learn to fight where it matters--at Westminster."

  "Joe... how did we get from the Morocco Wharf to Westminster?" Fiona asked, puzzled.

  "Freddie Lytton came by this morning. Just as the fire brigade put the blaze out."

  "Offering his condolences, was he?"

  Joe laughed bitterly. "Oh, aye. For all of two seconds. Then he launched into a campaign speech. Told me for the tenth bloody time that a general election will be called this autumn, and that if he gets reelected, his first priority will be a crackdown on crime. Asked me for my endorsement..." His words trailed off.

  "And you said?" Fiona prompted.

  Joe didn't answer her. Instead he reached for the locket Fiona was wearing, opened it, and gazed at the photograph of their daughter inside. "Look at our Katie," he said. "She's the picture of health. Her little arms and legs are straight and strong because she eats good food. She's never known what it's like to cry in her bed at night from hunger. Or to shiver because she's got no coat."

  "Luv, where is all this coming from?" Fiona asked.

  "From everywhere. From everything. From watching Alf die. From riding home this morning and seeing kids with no shoes playing in a dirty gut-ter and thanking my lucky stars it's not our Katie."

  Fiona shook her head. "I don't follow you," she said. "You're all over the

  place." She paused, then said, "Joe, luv ...are you dr

  unk?"

  "A little, maybe. But I swear, I've never been more clear-headed in me life. Can't you see, Fee? It was the same when we were coming up. And when our parents were. And their parents, too. It's still going on. It doesn't change. You've got villains on the streets and villains in the counting houses and villains in Parliament--and in the last few hours, after everything that's happened, I can see something I've never seen before. That I'm as big a vil-lain as any of them. For standing back and letting it happen and not doing a bloody thing to stop it."

  "Joseph Bristow, that is not true!" Fiona said hotly. "We give a great deal of money to East London causes."

  "I know we do," he said impatiently. "And it's good, it's something, but it's not enough. Nowhere near enough. It's too big for us, Fiona. We could throw every penny we have at it and never change a thing."

  Fiona sighed with frustration. "What exactly are you trying to tell me?"

  Joe looked at her. He took a deep breath then said, "I want to run, Fee."

  "To run? Where?" she asked, completely confused now.

  "Not where. For. I want to run for Parliament. For the Tower Hamlets seat."

  Fiona blinked at him.

  "Against Freddie Lytton."

  Her mouth dropped open.

  "On the new Labour ticket."

  Chapter 18

  "India! For God's sake stop!" Freddie shouted.

  India didn't hear him. She dug her heels into her cantering mount. The

  mare, a dappled gray named Long's Lady, broke into a gallop, heading di-rectly for an impossibly tall hedge that Wish had dared her to jump.

  "Indy, I was joking!" Wish yelled. "Don't do it! It's too high!"

  "Bloody hell! India!" Freddie bellowed.

  His breath caught as Lady's front legs came off the ground. Wish, Bingham, and Maud gave a collective gasp as the animal sailed over the hedge and disappeared from sight. A whoop on the other side told them that both horse and rider had landed well.

  "God, but she's brave," Bingham said. "I'd never have dared it."

  "She's a damned fool, that's what she is!" Freddie said.

  "I say, Lytton, is that your heart showing? Didn't know you had one!"

  "Shut up, Wish!"

  "Why, old man, how positively touching."

  Freddie did not answer. He dug his heels into Boy, his own horse, and cantered toward the stables, fuming.

  Wish was right--he did care. Deeply. He cared about the Selwyn Jones fortune. In his mind's eye he'd just seen Lady's foreleg catch on the too high hedge. He'd seen India disappear under the animal's flailing hooves, and with her, all his cherished hopes.

  In the stable yard a groom came out to take the reins of Freddie's horse. A second came for India's.

  "Freddie? Why didn't you wait for me?" she asked, trotting up behind him.

  "That was a stupid stunt," he said angrily, swinging down out of his sad-dle. "Damned stupid." For once his emotion was genuine.

  "You're not angry with me, are you?"

  "I certainly am!" he snapped. "For God's sake, India, you're a doctor! You've seen enough broken necks and crushed bodies to know better."

  "I'm sorry I worried you, but I knew Lady could take the hedge."

  She was contrite. Good. He would use that. Maybe he could make her sorry enough to give him a wedding date. He'd been trying for the last twenty-four hours to get one out of her and had gotten nowhere. She was still putting him off, just as she'd done at her graduation, just as she'd done for the past two years.

  Freddie threw his crop at the groom and headed into the house. He strode through the enormous foyer up the main staircase to his bedroom on the second floor. Still angry, he tossed his jacket onto his desk, knocking to the floor a few pages of the speech he'd been writing. They'd all arrived at Longmarsh yesterday afternoon--himself, Wish, Maud, and India. It was now Saturday evening. Tomorrow they would return to London. Isabelle would be expecting good news. He'd promised her he'd have a date.

  He grabbed a decanter of gin, poured himself a drink, and banged the decanter back down. The force jarred an ebony box that was also on the desk. A few notes of music floated out of it: The "Raindrop Prelude." Freddie picked the box up. It was inlaid with malachite and silver. His grand-mother had given it to him before she died. He never went anywhere without it. Instinctively, his fingers felt for the indentation, nearly invisible to the eye, that was on the box's underside. He pressed it, and pressed one of the malachite panels on the back of the box at the same time. There was a soft click and a drawer slid out. In it was a woman's hair comb. A Tiffany dragonfly. One of a pair.

  As he stared at it, he heard footsteps in the hallway. A knock at his door. India had followed him--as he'd known she would. He slid the drawer back into the music box and placed the box on his desk. Then he downed his drink, fortifying himself for what was to come.

  "Freddie? Darling, are you in there?" India opened the door and came in. "Don't be angry," she said. "Come and walk outside with me. It's such a beautiful summer evening. And we're having the loveliest time, all of us."

  Freddie put his glass down and looked at her. "You don't care, do you?" he said.

  "I beg your pardon?"

  "It's perfectly plain, India. You don't care for me."

  "Freddie, how can you--"

  "You know full well that if anything ever happened to you it would ab-solutely destroy me, yet you take risks with your life with utter disregard for my feelings."

  India rushed to his side, explaining, trying to make him understand that her jump was only an impulsive bit of fun, and that far from disregarding his feelings, she held them in the highest possible esteem.

  Chatter, chatter, chatter, Freddie thought. He broke away and sat down on the ancient Chesterfield at the foot of his bed, brooding. The smell of roses and newly mown grass wafted in through his open windows. June was nearly over. Parliament would rise next month. The Liberal whip had told him it was all but certain that when they returned in September, Salis-bury would call an election. He needed to be married by then. His
funds were frighteningly low. Longmarsh's ancient roof required repairs, and Bingham had told him there would be little to give him until the winter. That wouldn't do. He needed money now. But he couldn't get it, because he couldn't get his bloody flanc�to give him a bloody wedding date.

  India was sitting next to him now, fixing him with that deadly earnest stare of hers, still assuring him of her feelings.

  "Tell me something, India," he said abruptly. "Are we ever going to marry? I have waited patiently for you for a long time. Your studies are over, yet still you refuse to decide upon a wedding date. There can be only one reason for this," he said, doing his best to look like a broken man. "If you don't want me anymore, if there's someone else, you must tell me and I shall step aside."

  "Freddie, what are you saying?" she asked, shocked. "Of course there's no one else! How can you even think such a thing? I am completely faith-ful to you."

  "What else can I think? What would you think? Why else would you possibly continue to put me off?"

  "Freddie, there is only you. You have my word. How can I prove it to you? Will marrying you convince you?"

  "You know it would. You know that is my fondest wish."

  "Very well, then. Will October do? I think it best to wait until after the election. You'll be so preoccupied until then."

  Freddie blinked at her, nearly speechless. "October would be wonderful," he said.

  "It would be the most practical choice," India said. "I could ask Dr. Gifford for a week's holiday, but I fear that with being so new to the job, that would be all I could ask for. Did you have your heart set on a long honeymoon?"

  "A trip of any length would be difficult right after the election."

  "Perhaps we could go to the west country for a few days," she said. "To Cornwall."

  "That would be so lovely. Just the two of us." He took her hand. "India, are you certain?"

  "I am," she said, leaning over to kiss his cheek.

  Freddie turned and caught the kiss on his mouth. His fingers stroked her cheek, her neck. "You have made me so happy. You are my life. My en-tire life. I would be lost without you."

  "And I without you. I'm so sorry I've caused you such pain, Freddie. I had no idea. I've been terribly selfish. Far too preoccupied with my work. Do forgive me."

  "Of course, my darling," he said, putting his arm around her. "And you must forgive my dreadful fit of temper," he said. "I know you didn't mean any harm. I'm overtired, I think. Long days at the House. I'm to give my speech on Home Rule next week and I still haven't finished it. It's jolly im-portant. Could make or break me."

  "Poor dear. I'm so sorry I worried you. It's the last thing you need. You've so much on your plate. You work far too hard."

  "I do it for my constituents. And my country."

  His pompous words almost made him laugh out loud, but they had the desired effect on India. She nestled closer to him and said, "You're a good man, Freddie Lytton."

  "You make me good." He lifted her face to his, then said, "Kiss me again, India. I ache for you."

  India shyly kissed his lips. He held her close, going slowly, being careful not to spook her. It might well end in tears this time just like all the other times, but if he succeeded, it would hardly matter. She had given him a date, finally, but he was taking no chances. He would make sure she could not change her mind as she'd done before. He would make love to her, and with a bit of luck he would make her pregnant.

  He kissed her again, softly and gently. When he felt her soften in his arms, he moved his hands to her riding jacket and quickly undid the buttons. He pushed it off her shoulders and started on her blouse, all the time murmuring endearments to her.

  "Freddie, I don't think--"

  "Shh, darling, I only want to look at you. You're lovely...so lovely...."

  There was a corset underneath the blouse, boned and stiff, hard enough to stop a bullet. He would leave it alone. Too much work. He opened the top of her camisole and fondled her small breasts. They barely filled his hands. He bent his head to them so she could not see his disap-pointment.

  "Freddie, don't..." she said, pulling away from him.

  "Please don't tell me no again, India. Don't be cold to me. You're always so cold to me, and I want you so."

  "But Freddie, this is how babies are made."

  "I have something. I'll use it." He grimaced, making a show of adjusting himself. "My God, the pain... you've no idea what it's like."

  She bit her lip. "Freddie, are you ...are you a..."

  "Of course I am. I saved myself for you."

  "Do you know what to do?"

  He smiled. "Silly girl, don't you? Didn't they cover this in medical school?"

  "I guess I do ...in theory. However, this is actual, not theoretical," India said, pulling her blouse together and looking around the room anxiously.

  "Darling, we're quite alone, I assure you," Freddie said. He stood up, locked the door, then returned to her. "There's no one here but us. Let me make love to you. Here. Now. I want us to belong to each other. Don't you want that, too?"

  India's eyes searched his. "Yes," she whispered. "Of course I do."

  Freddie took her hand, stood her up, and undressed her. He got her riding habit off, her awful corset, stockings, and boots, and even her bloomers, but when he tried to get her chemise off, she protested.

  "Wait," she said. "I'm sorry... too modest, I guess." She climbed into his bed, got underneath the covers, and took it off herself. Then she closed her eyes and leaned back against the pillows.

  Good God, Freddie thought. This is going to be work. He grabbed his glass of gin and offered her a swallow. She took one, grimacing as the alcohol went down. Then he peeled off his own clothes and got into bed beside her.

  He took her in his arms, murmuring endearments, telling her how much he loved her. He pulled the comb from her hair; kissed her face, her neck, her breasts; slipped his hand between her legs. He heard her breath catch as he pushed one finger inside her, then another. She was as dry as salt. He'd never known such a cold woman. There wasn't a spark of passion in her entire body, not an ounce of desire. He wondered how on earth he was ever going to perform. Then he thought of Gemma Dean, with her magnif-icent bosom and her round bottom, and he was hard in seconds. Relieved, he tried to slip inside India, but couldn't.

  "Darling, this is impossible. You've got to open your legs," he whispered.

  She opened them a little. Freddie pushed himself against her again. Her knees came up, her heels dug into the bed. He looked at her face. She was staring up at the ceiling, biting her lip. Patience, old boy, he told himself, pa-tience. Men have worked much harder than this for twenty thousand a year.

  "Shh, my darling. It's all right," he said. "Everything's all right."

  He kissed her lips again. He tugged at her breasts and told her that he loved her. Then he pushed himself against her again, impatient to have done with it. He felt her arch against him, heard her gasp. Not with plea-sure, he was sure of that, but with pain.

  He knew he had to finish this. Quickly.

  "I want you, India," he said. "So much..."

  And then he wrenched her knees apart and shoved himself inside her. Something inside her gave way and she cried out. "Shh, my love, it hurts for only a second," he whispered. "That's what the chaps all say." He thrust into her again and again, covering her mouth with his own, stopping her cries. He gave one final thrust, shuddered, and then lay still, panting, his head on her chest. After a minute or so he sat up. India sat up, too. Her limbs were stiff and shaky. Her face was pale.

  He took her hand and frowned with feigned concern. "Did I hurt you awfully?"

  "A bit."

  "My beautiful girl. Please don't be upset with me. I'm an oaf. Truly. I was mad with desire. I never meant to hurt you. Please say you're not angry with me." He took her face in his hands and kissed her. "Please?"

  "Of course I'm not," India said quietly, trying to smile.

  "The first time is hard.
It gets better." He took her in his arms again. "You've made me so happy, darling," he said.

  "I'm glad, Freddie."

  He smiled at her, then slowly let his smile fade. "Oh, no. Oh, blast," he said, panic in his voice.

  "What is it?"

  "I forgot."

  "Forgot what?"