A truce was called, bruised feelings soothed, order restored. By the time the tea tray arrived, the children were peaceable once more.
Sarah poured cups of coppery Assam tea for everyone and passed a plate of warm currant scones. Joe barely noticed.
"Must be something fascinating in that paper," Fiona said to him.
He looked up at her and grinned. "There is. Me."
Fiona threw a lump of sugar at him.
"Both The Times and the Gazette wrote about my call for an inquiry into abuses at the Hackney workhouses. I'm going to get two of them closed down. They're hellholes."
"What did you threaten poor Mr. Campbell-Bannerman with this time? Another march on Westminster?"
"No, something even better. Someone, rather. Jacob Riis."
"The photographer? Isn't he in New York?"
Fiona knew the name. Riis was an American social reformer whose ground-breaking book on the plight of New York City's poor, How the Other Half Lives, had so outraged the American public that they'd demanded their legislators take steps to improve tenement conditions.
Joe nodded. "I've written to him. Asked him to come and snap away in the East End. Said I'd pay his passage and put him up. I'm waiting for his answer. I've already got the Clarion signed up to run his stories and photos. Bloke at the Daily Mail says he'd be interested, too."
He went back to his article. Fiona's eyes lingered on him and her heart filled with emotion. Six years ago, she wouldn't have thought she could possibly love him more than she already did. But then the shooting happened and he'd nearly been taken from her, and she found that she could. She found that she loved him more than her own life, and would have given her life for his, had it been possible.
He'd spent weeks in a coma, not moving, not talking, just wasting away. His doctors had all but given up on him when he'd suddenly opened his eyes. His first raspy words were "Where's Fee? Where's Katie?" His next were "Where's that bleeding Frankie Betts?"
A few seconds later he'd realized that he could not feel his legs. She would never forget the look on his face. She'd seen him so frightened, so lost, only once before--the day he told her he was leaving her to marry Millie Peterson.
She'd taken his hand and kissed it. "It's all right, love, it's all right," she'd said.
"It's not, Fee. Not by a long shot. But it will be. I promise."
He remembered everything about the shooting, and he was able to tell Alvin Donaldson and Freddie Lytton that it was Betts, not Sid Malone, who had attacked him. It had taken Donaldson a while to find Betts, but he did. Frankie was arrested, tried, and convicted. He should have been hanged, but he claimed he'd only wanted to frighten Joe, not shoot him. He said the pistol had gone off in his hand accidentally and when he tried to drop it, it had fired again. The judge had sentenced him to life in prison.
Joe had survived his injuries, but his doctors told him he would be bedridden for the rest of his life, an invalid.
"You must understand, Mr. Bristow," one of them had said, "that there are always complications. The legs wither. The muscles atrophy. The blood can't circulate properly. Bedsores are common in paraplegics. They often infect and turn gangrenous. I must prepare you for the possibility that you will lose both of your legs."
Fiona had known Joe her entire life, had known him to be a good man, a brave man, but even she had never truly known what he was made of. Not until she'd watched him defy the fate his doctors had set before him.
Two days after he'd arrived home, he'd had a gymnasium installed in their house. He had parallel bars set up, had his legs braced, and made himself walk between them. The braces bit into his fiesh. His arms, weakened by months in a hospital bed, shook with the effort of supporting his body. After a few minutes, they gave out and he fell to the floor. Fiona had run to him then, tears in her eyes, begging him to stop, but he had pushed her away, furious.
"No, you stop!" he'd shouted. "Stop worrying. Stop hovering."
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean ...I...I...felt for you, that's all."
"I don't want your pity, Fiona. I can take the falls, I can take the pain, but I can't take pity. Not from you."
He kept going, exercising tirelessly, working his fragile body mercilessly day after day. He kept working his legs until the muscle regained its tone. He brought in masseurs to rub his numbed fiesh and keep the blood flowing. He accepted that he would never feel his legs again, but he was not prepared to lose them or his life. He became healthy again and strong. He had defied his doctors. Next he would defy the world.
Six months after he'd been shot, Joe announced he was going to run for Parliament again. He'd had to relinquish his Tower Hamlets seat because his injuries had made him incapable of fulfilling his duties, but now he was capable and a new seat had become available. The MP for Hackney had died and a by-election was about to be held.
Westminster thought his announcement was a joke. So did the press and the people in the street--until Joe, in the wheelchair he'd had fitted with a small engine, motored up to pub doors in Hackney, and factory gates, and union halls, and began campaigning with even more passion, more fire, than he had before.
Fiona, Katie, and baby Charlie were all with him the day he'd taken his oath and was sworn in as a Member of Parliament. It was the proudest day of their lives. When they'd walked out of Westminster they were nearly blinded by camera flashes. Joe, the fighter, the East End lad who never quit, had made the people of London fall in love with him from the moment he'd begun his campaign and the love affair had only grown.
And as if having her Joe back, well and happy in his new political role, wasn't enough, Fiona shortly found herself expecting another child. Joe had made it clear when he came home from the hospital that some things might have changed, but it would be business as usual in the bedroom, tumbling into bed with her--literally tumbling--the first chance he got.
"Two of me legs don't work anymore, lass," he'd said, "but me third one still does. I'd have finished Betts's work for him if it didn't."
They'd struggled a bit, but they'd finally found their way. She'd gotten pregnant with Peter a year after Charlie was born. And soon she would have their fourth.
Joe put his paper down now and asked for a scone. She slathered one with thick cream and strawberry jam and handed it to him. She looked at him again as he took it, and at their children, and thought that there was no woman on earth more blessed than she was. Charlie held his cup out to her, asking for more milky tea. His emerald-green eyes caught hers, he smiled his cheeky little boy's smile, and for a moment he looked so much like his namesake--his uncle Charlie--that her heart hurt and she had to look away.
Fiona still blamed herself for what had happened to Joe. She still felt that if she had not searched for her brother, had not meddled in his world,
Frankie Betts would not have come after Joe. She missed Charlie. She hoped he was safe wherever he was. She hoped he was loved. She wished desperately that he could be with them, around the fire, not out in the world alone. She grieved for him sometimes, but she did not speak of him anymore, and she never would. She had come close, so close, to becoming a widow. Katie and Charlie had come so close to growing up without their father. And now here they were, she and Joe, with their children. And that was enough. She knew that for the rest of her life, she would never ask for more than this.
"Uncle Seamie! Uncle Seamie!" Katie suddenly cried. Charlie and Peter joined in.
Fiona turned toward the door and saw her other brother walking into the room.
"How was Cambridge?" Katie asked. "Did you bring us something?"
"Katie, how rude!" Fiona said. "Hello, Seamie, luv."
"Hi, Fee. Hi, Joe," Seamie said. He turned to his niece and nephews and affected a remorseful look. "I'm afraid I was so busy visiting friends that I forgot to go shopping," he said.
Three little faces fell.
"I'm joking!" he quickly said. "Here, presents for all." He dug in his rucksack amid excited squeals and pulled out
an uncle's offering of totally unsuitable gifts: a compass for Katie, a clasp-knife for Charlie, and a slab of Kendal mint cake for little Peter. Fiona thanked him, then quickly removed the knife and mint cake from her sons' clutches, quieting their cries of outrage by redirecting their attention to the compass.
"How was your visit?" Joe asked, as Seamie swiped a scone from the tray.
"Fine, but it looks like I won't be able to make Easter dinner next Sunday."
"Oh, dear. Why not?" Fiona asked, disappointed.
"I'm off traveling again."
"Did Shackleton's rich uncle die?" Joe asked. "How did he get the money together for another trip so fast?"
Seamie sat down and shook his head. "I'm afraid I'm not going to the Antarctic. I'm going somewhere else. I made a really stupid bet and lost. And now I'm going to Africa. To climb Kilimanjaro."
"Africa!" said Katie excitedly. "Will you bring us a tiger, Uncle Seamie?"
"A zebra?" asked Charlie.
"An ellyfint?" said Peter.
"All those and more," Seamie said.
"Hurray!" the children cheered.
"For goodness' sake, Seamie, don't tell them that," Fiona scolded. "They'll think you mean it."
"Africa?" Joe said over the din. "Cor, lad, you must have had some hand to make a bet like that."
"We weren't playing cards. Wish we had been. I might have stood a better chance. We were climbing."
"With whom?"
"Remember Albie Alden?"
"Of course," Fiona said. "Is that who you're going with?"
"No, not with him. With his mad sister."
Fiona and Joe traded glances.
"Don't even start, you two. It's not like that."
Fiona, unconvinced, raised an eyebrow.
"Willa Alden's not my type. And besides, she's got a bloke."
"Why isn't he going with her?" Fiona asked.
"He can't. He's at university. He has exams."
"What does he say about you going off round the world with his girl?" Joe asked.
"Have you met Willa?"
Joe shook his head. "I don't think so."
"If you had, you'd know that it doesn't matter what George says. Or anyone else, for that matter. She wants to go, and she's going. She would've gone weeks ago, but she didn't have a climbing partner. Now she has. Me." He let out a sigh, then said, "If we do it, we'll set a record on one of Kili's peaks. Make a bit of a name for ourselves. It could turn out to be quite a good trip. For both of us."
"When do you leave?" Fiona asked.
"This Friday."
"That's so soon!"
"I know. I'll barely have time to get my kit together."
"Is it a tall mountain?" Fiona asked.
Seamie laughed. "Quite. The peak we're climbing is over sixteen thousand feet."
"You will be careful, won't you? You'll wear something warm?"
"You bet, Fee," he said. "I'll take my muffler and galoshes and a hot water bottle, too."
Fiona bit her lip. "I'm mothering you again, aren't I? I promised not to. You went all the way to the South Pole and back--"
"Almost all the way."
"And here I am telling you to bundle up. Sorry, luv. I can't seem to help myself."
Seamie smiled. He patted her hand. He was being a good sport. She knew he found her worrying irritating and imagined that she was driving him barmy. She vowed, yet again, to stop.
Fiona had no idea, none whatsoever, that he wasn't irritated with her. Not at all. He was looking at her--as she held a tired Peter in her lap, with Lipton tugging at Joe's blanket and Joe yelling at him and Charlie dripping jam on the floor and Katie sloshing tea--and wishing just for a second that he had what she had. A home. A family. A life. Someone who loved him. Wishing to God that he wasn't about to set off on a trek halfway around the world with a wild and beautiful girl who loved somebody else.
Chapter 86
India Lytton took off her eyeglasses and rubbed her temples, trying to massage away a headache. The house was unbearably noisy. They were to depart for Africa in five days' time, and though preparations had been under way for weeks, there was still much to do. She was sitting in her drawing room with Miss Lucinda Billingsley, her secretary, going over the itinerary and packing list for the Kenya trip.
"And on the following Thursday you go to Nairobi," Miss Billingsley said, "to the governor's mansion, where you'll stay for five days, during which time you'll--"
They were interrupted by the sound of the doorbell. Again. A few minutes later the butler appeared in the doorway, clearing his throat.
"Who is it, Edwards?" India asked.
"Lord Frederick's secretary, madam," the butler said.
"Show him to Lord Frederick's study, please," India said.
The doorbell sounded again. A few minutes later India saw Mary, her maid, scurry by laden with bolts of khaki twill. She remembered that Charlotte had gone upstairs for a fitting with Mrs. Pavlic, the dressmaker, at nine o'clock. It was now nearly eleven.
"Mary?" India called after her.
Mary stopped in the doorway. "Yes, Lady Lytton?"
"Where is Charlotte?"
"In her room, madam. Being fitted."
"Two hours is far too long for a child of her age to be kept standing still for a fitting. What is going on? Why hasn't Miss Gibson brought her down yet? They should have left for the park by now."
"Lord Frederick detained Miss Lytton in her room, madam. Along with Miss Gibson."
"What? Why?" India said, immediately getting to her feet.
"He said Miss Lytton had not made enough progress in her studies."
"Thank you, Mary. Excuse me, Lucinda. That will be all for now."
"But Lady Lytton, we haven't finished..."
India didn't hear what it was they hadn't finished and she didn't care. She was already out of the drawing room and heading for the stairs. She was frightened for her child. The wolf had gotten into the nursery. And it was her fault. All her fault. She should have been paying more attention.
Charlotte's door was ajar and India could hear Freddie's voice, stern and displeased, as she hurried down the hallway.
"Major exports?" he was saying.
And then Charlotte's small voice, nervous and hesitating, "Coffee, sisal, ox hides, wool, copra--"
"Again. In descending order of value, please."
There was a pause, then, "Ox hides, coffee, sisal, wool, copra--"
"Copra before wool. Haven't I already told you that? And you forgot beeswax."
"I'm sorry, Father, I--"
"See if you can do any better with imports."
"Flour, sugar, tea..."
India pushed the door open all the way. Charlotte was standing on a footstool in front of a cheval mirror. Her hands were clenched. Her face was pinched and weary. She raised her eyes to India's and India could see she was struggling to hold back tears. At her feet, Mrs. Pavlic, India's dressmaker, was pinning a hem, not daring to take her gaze off her work. Miss Gibson, Charlotte's governess, was standing nearby, a pained expression on her face.
"What is going on here?" India asked. "You're tiring her. Can't you see that? Is this really necessary?" Her voice, steady and calm, betrayed nothing, but she could have beaten Freddie bloody, and gladly.
"It's her fault," Freddie said. "I set her some lessons. She hasn't learned them."
"I tried, Father," Charlotte said weakly.
"Trying means nothing. Any fool can try. Are you a fool?"
"No, sir," she whispered.
"Then you must succeed. Now, imports."
"Freddie..." India began, hatred blazing in her eyes.
Freddie turned his own eyes on her. The look in them cautioned her. Not in front of the servants, it said. India knew better than to defy him. He had ways of getting even with her. Many ways.
"Your secretary is here. He's in your study," she said tightly, hoping to draw the beast off.
Freddie rose. "Miss Gibson, I'm disappointed,"
he said. "I specifically asked you to drill Charlotte on British East African imports and exports and on Kenya's topographical features. I will ask these same questions tomorrow and I expect to see an improvement."
"Yes, Lord Frederick," Miss Gibson replied.
When Freddie was in the hallway, India closed the door to Charlotte's room so that neither she nor the servants would hear her.
"How dare you! She is a child! Not a damned trained monkey!" she hissed.
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