The Winter Rose

by Jennifer Donnelly

  "And how do you suggest we remedy this?"

  "First, we send an envoy from the new government to Africa."

  "Let me guess. That envoy would be you."

  "Yes, it would," Freddie said. He could see he had Campbell-Bannerman's attention. The old boy was interested. All he had to do now was convince him. "Someone must go to Africa in person and sort this out. I ask you to let me try."

  "How will you do it?"

  "I'll start by hearing out all factions. I'll meet Lord Delamere and the other men from the Colonists' Association. I'll meet the governor, the PCs, and the DCs. And then I'll do one better--I'll go out to the villages and farms and meet the settlers. When I return to London, I'll have not one side of the story, but all sides. A complete picture. When we know exactly what the problems are, and where, we can begin to address them."

  Freddie unfurled a map and spread it on the prime minister's desk. It depicted the result of the European scramble for African land over the past half century--a continent carved up into protectorates and territories by Britain, Belgium, Germany, France, and Italy.

  "We do know that a proper survey needs to be completed on the northern frontier," Freddie said, pointing to lands bordering Abyssinia, "so that the region may be properly parceled and leased. Also, the railway must be extended farther into Kenya Province and west to Lake Magadi." His fingers swept over plains and rivers. "Rights must be granted to trading companies and routes secured for them all the way from the Ugandan border to Mombasa. And finally"--he tapped the area to the west of Mount Kilimanjaro--"the relocation of the natives to reserves must be accelerated."

  "Such a trip would help address the problems of the existing settlers,"

  Campbell-Bannerman said, "but it won't bring new blood to the region, and that--according to your superior--is what is urgently needed."

  "I've anticipated that concern, and I believe I have a solution," Freddie said.

  "I thought you might."

  "I will bring my family with me on the trip."

  Campbell-Bannerman raised an eyebrow. "Taking your wife and daughter on holiday will cure the ills of British East Africa, will it?"

  "We'll travel through Africa together, and as we go, I'll file stories and photographs with The Times. I've friends at the paper who'd be delighted to publish such a series. I'll dispatch reports from Mombasa, Nairobi, the bush, the farms, the highlands--everywhere. I'll make the damned place sound like paradise. When John Bull sees how safe it is, even for women and children, when he hears about the acres of fertile land up for grabs, reads about the hunting to be had, there will be a stampede to the docks. I guarantee it."

  Campbell-Bannerman digested this. "Be nice to see one of our own on the front pages for a bit, eh, Elgin? Maybe knock Bristow out of the headlines." He turned to Freddie. "But your wife may not wish to go."

  Freddie thought, It does not matter what my wife wishes.

  He said, "India's adventuresome. Charlotte, too. They'll have the maids hauling out their trunks ten seconds after I tell them about the trip."

  He knew that India would do no such thing. She would be furious. She would plead with him to leave Charlotte at home, but he would not. His success in Africa depended upon her presence.

  "Are you quite certain it's wise?" Campbell-Bannerman asked. "Most settlers leave their children in England because of the dangers--malaria, dysentery, and all that. To say nothing of lions and leopards."

  "All exaggerated, from what I've been told," Freddie said.

  The prime minister steepled his fingers. His gaze traveled from Freddie to Elgin. "This has your blessing?" he said.

  "Of course."

  "Very well, then, Freddie. Go. As soon as possible."

  "I will, sir. Thank you for your confidence in me."

  Freddie gathered his map and his papers and departed. Elgin had further business with the prime minister, so he stayed.

  "Brilliant chap, that Lytton," he heard the prime minister say as he left. "Better watch out, old boy. He'll have your job one day."

  "Oh, no. Not my job, Henry," Elgin replied. "Yours."

  Outside in the hallway, Freddie permitted himself a smile. He couldn't wait to set off. He wished he could leave tonight. The sooner he sorted out Africa, the better. The PM was right, of course. The Uganda railway was a money sink. But it didn't have to be. Anyone with a modicum of vision could see how profitable it might become. The line had an enormous lake at one end and the Indian Ocean at the other--perfect for moving goods from farms and ranches to towns and ports. It traversed endless acres of fertile land, all just waiting to be exploited. There was a limitless amount of money to be made on crops and animals. Then there was tourism and hunting. And as more people came, either to visit or to settle, the building trades would flourish. And then the retail trades.

  All it would take was for one man to effect a truce between the warring factions, to get them all working together in pursuit of a common goal. It was a daunting challenge, but Freddie was confident. There would be laurels for the man who turned the money sink into a mint. The Liberals' recent success had done nothing to diminish Freddie's ambition; it had only sharpened it. But one did have to be careful. He well knew that it was social death to be seen as a climber. Ambition was permitted in London--as long as you called it duty. He would make Africa his duty. For king and country. And Africa, in turn, would make him prime minister.

  He strode out of number 10 and into the street, where his carriage was waiting. If he succeeded in his goals there--and he would succeed--it would make his ascent within the party ranks, already quick by anyone's standards, dizzyingly fast. He'd outpace Elgin, Churchill, Asquith, Grey, and a dozen others. And, most important, he'd outshine that damned Joe Bristow, darling of the press. The man made more of a nuisance of himself in a wheelchair than he'd ever done on his own two feet. He'd been so glad when he'd been shot, thinking he'd be out of the picture for good, but now he wished it had never happened. Plucky cripples always stole the spotlight. Who could compete with Tiny Fucking Tim?

  Freddie climbed into his carriage and barked at the driver to take him home to Berkeley Square. He had news to impart. He frowned at the thought. India would be difficult about this. He knew she would. She would be anxious about Charlotte, worried that the girl would catch some horrible tropical disease.

  If only, he thought. If only they both would.

  Nothing would serve him better than his so-called wife and so-called child dropping dead of malaria. Dengue fever. Plague. Whatever. He despised them, wished them gone. And yet he had to pretend otherwise every day of his life. At least in public.

  If only India would give him a son. The marriage would at least be tolerable then. The thought of all that he'd worked for--the money, the houses--going to Sid Malone's bastard instead of a member of the Lytton family was unbearable.

  They had been married for six years now. Plenty of time for her to have conceived again. And yet she hadn't. A year had gone by after Charlotte's birth, then two. He went to her bed frequently, though he hated to, but nothing ever happened. More than once he'd accused her of preventing a pregnancy. She'd been a doctor; she would certainly know how. He had torn her bedroom apart on more than a few occasions, pulling out drawers, ripping clothing from her armoire, in his hunt for devices. But he'd never found one, and she had vehemently denied his accusations. She had made a deal, she'd said. As long as he kept up his end, she would keep up hers.

  He did not believe her. She was taking revenge on him, he was certain of it. She blamed him for Sid Malone's death. For the ambush at Arden Street. This was her way of paying him back.

  If only I could start over, he thought now. With India's money, but without India. With a new wife. A new child. A son. My son.

  The carriage slowed. Freddie looked out of the window and saw he was in Berkeley Square. Number 45, his house, was beautiful, large and grand, a shining symbol of his immense wealth, but when he wasn't hosting dinner parties and garden par
ties, he spent as much time out of it as possible, wishing to avoid its other occupants. He planned to go in for only a few minutes now--long enough to tell India to prepare for their upcoming trip--and then it would be off to the Reform Club. If he got home late enough, and was sufficiently drunk, he supposed he would go to her bedroom and try yet again to beget a son.

  He sighed now, thinking bitterly of the effort that took, then told himself to buck up: "You married for money, old chap, and no one ever said you wouldn't have to earn it."

  Chapter 83

  "It's so good to see you, Seamie. I wondered sometimes if I ever would again," Albert Alden said, smiling at his old friend over a pint of bitter.

  "It's hard to keep up with people when they're always dashing off to Zurich," Seamie said.

  "Try keeping up with people who dash off to the South Pole."

  Seamie laughed. He had arrived in Cambridge by train two hours ago. Albie had collected him at the station and they'd made their way back to his rooms at Trinity College, dumped Seamie's bags, then headed out to the Pickerel, an ancient pub and one of Albie's favorites. They hadn't seen each other for nearly six years--since the day Seamie had left to take part in the Discovery Expedition. But as with all true friends, the years fell away quickly and after a bit of catching up it was almost as if they'd never parted.

  Albie was a graduate student now, working on his doctoral dissertation in theoretical physics. Seamie had asked him what, exactly, could be theoretical about physics, and Albie's explanation had made his head spin. He'd babbled on about Brownian motion and special relativity and the brilliant young physicist who'd proposed these theories, another Albert--Albert Einstein.

  And then it was Seamie's turn to talk. He told Albie about the expedition, and how close they'd come to the Pole--only 480 miles away--before illness and hunger forced them back. He'd returned to London in 1904, and had spent the next two years lecturing in Britain, Europe, and America on the expedition's findings.

  After they'd traded news about Seamie's family and Albie's parents, Seamie asked, "And what's Willa doing these days?" His voice was light and casual; his interest was anything but.

  "What isn't she doing?" Albie said. "Climbing in Scotland and Wales. Mount McKinley. The Alps."

  "Really?"

  "You're not surprised, are you? You know what she's like. She had some money left to her by a batty old aunt of ours, and she uses it to pay for her trips. I must admit, she's become a damned impressive climber. She set a record on the Matterhorn. Fastest women's ascent. Mont Velon, too. She wants to go to Africa next and take a crack at Kilimanjaro. She wants to climb without quite so much cold weather clobber. Less to haul in and out of the camps, she says."

  "Is she there now?"

  "No, she's here."

  "Is she?" Seamie asked, a bit too excitedly.

  "Didn't I tell you? I meant to. She's in town for a fortnight. She came up with some friends from London. The Stephens sisters--Virginia and Vanessa. They've lots of friends here. Their brother Thoby was at Trinity. Bookish girls, a very odd pair, but then so's Wills. Odd, I mean. So they all get on smashingly. Though, to be truthful, she's barely made time for any of us. Too busy hiking with Mallory."

  "Mallory? George Mallory?" Seamie asked, trying to ignore an annoying surge of jealousy. "Not the chap we met years ago at the Royal Geo?"

  "The very same. He's at Magdalene College now reading history. He's become something of a star in climbing circles. Cuts quite a figure. Gorgeous George, the ladies call him."

  "Where are they climbing? I don't recall many mountains in Cambridge."

  "St. Botolph's. The Town Hall. Great St. Mary's...."

  "What?"

  "Churches, municipal buildings, colleges ...they'll scale anything with a toehold. They make bets. First one to the top wins. Wills lost a locket to George and won it back twice. I think she's got his watch now. They call it buildering. Instead of bouldering. Funny, isn't it? Buildering... free-climbing buildings instead of free-climbing boulders."

  "Yes, Alb. I get it," Seamie said. He didn't think it was funny at all. He'd always known Mallory had an eye for Willa.

  "They were caught two days ago by a local constable and warned to stop. George, being a reasonable being, did, but Willa won't. Our mother will have fits if she gets herself arrested and it'll all be my fault, as always."

  "Are they an--" Seamie was about to say item, but he never got the chance. The pub door suddenly banged open. He heard laughter, merry and challenging. A woman's laughter. He knew it. He'd heard it in his head in the Antarctic. It had kept him warm in the bitter cold. Kept him sane in the driving snow and screaming winds.

  She stepped inside the pub, looking, as always, like Albie's younger brother. She wore an oversized jumper, moleskin trousers, and a pair of climbing boots. She was taller than he remembered. Slimmer, harder, and a hundred times more beautiful.

  God, but she's gorgeous, he thought. Her hair was cut impossibly short. On any other woman it would have looked awful. On Willa it was perfect. It showed off her fawn's neck, the strong angles of her face, her luminous moss-green eyes.

  Those eyes were trained on her companion now--a tall, strikingly handsome young man. She was joking with him, pushing him playfully. Seamie recognized him; he was George Mallory. Watching them together, he knew he had the answer to his question. They were an item. Of course they were. Had he really expected her to wait for him? He'd tried to see her, her and Albie, but they were always somewhere else when he'd called on them and he was always somewhere else when they called on him.

  Meet me out there... somewhere under Orion, she'd said to him, just before he'd left. Just after she'd kissed him. They had sustained him, those words. For years. He'd believed they'd meant something. He saw now that he was wrong.

  Willa turned and looked around the room, her eyes darting and searching until they fell upon her brother.

  "Albie! We've been looking everywhere for you!" she exclaimed. "Should have known you'd be in the Pick. We've been for a ramble over the fens. Damp's gone right through me! I feel as moldy as a Stilton. Thank God you've got a table by the fire. Move over, will you? Can I have that sandwich? Who's your friend? My God! Seamie! Is that you?"

  "Hello, Willa."

  She gave him a quick, hard hug. Her lips brushed his cheek. And then, as if remembering herself, she introduced him to George Mallory. They all sat down, talking excitedly. More pints were brought. The fire was stoked. Willa and George, though they'd both read about the Discovery Expedition, wanted to hear about it firsthand. Seamie had to tell them everything. About the long voyage out. The storms and blizzards and the unremitting cold. About the scientific studies they'd made. The trek inland with Scott and Shackleton. About the scurvy and snow-blindness that forced them back. They hadn't made the Pole, but they'd gotten close, exploring three hundred miles farther south than anyone ever had.

  "How beastly," Mallory said. "To be that close and have to turn back."

  Seamie nodded. "It was," he said. "But we're going again. Scott's trying to put something together. Shackleton, too. I'm signing up with whomever gets the funding first."

  Seamie had talked himself weary. He said he was parched and started to rise to get another round, but Mallory made him sit down and went to order it himself. Albie excused himself and headed off to the loo. Seamie and Willa were left by themselves--something Seamie had both longed for and dreaded.

  Willa sat back against the wall, crossed her arms over her chest, and looked at him. "So it was cold in the Antarctic, was it?" she asked.

  "Very."

  "I guess that explains it. I guess the ink froze in your pen. That or the wind blew your stamps overboard."

  "Post offices are few and far between at 82� 17South," Seamie replied testily.

  "How about 51� 30North? Any post offices there?" Willa fired back, citing London's coordinates.

  "What about you?" he asked. "No time to write in the Alps? Too busy drinking schnapp
s with Gorgeous George?" he said.

  "I don't care for schnapps and I didn't see much of George on our Alps trip. He fell ill. Altitude sickness. I didn't. I set a record."

  "There's nothing more important than that, is there?"

  "You tell me," Willa said, looking daggers at him.

  Seamie leaned in toward her. "Did it mean nothing?" he whispered angrily. "What you said about Orion? That kiss you gave me?"

  "Not to you, apparently."

  He was about to reply when George returned with a tray.