These questions hounded Seamie now; they tortured him. He wanted to get up, to get dressed, and go walking in the rain-soaked fields. He wanted to walk until the anger was out of him. Until the despair was gone. Until he had his answers.
But Jennie didn’t let him. She kissed him softly and pulled him down to her.
“It’s all right,” she said again.
And in her arms, for a few sweet hours, it was.
Chapter Seventeen
“Ah! there she is! My green-eyed heretic!”
Willa Alden smiled. She stood up and bowed to the man who’d just walked into Rongbuk’s one and only public house—a corner of an enterprising villager’s yak barn.
“Namaste, Rinpoche,” she said warmly, greeting him—an elder and a lama—first, as tradition demanded. She addressed him not by his name but by the honorific Rinpoche—“precious one.”
“Namaste, Willa Alden,” the lama replied. “I should’ve known to look for you in Jingpa’s. Have I not often told you that alcohol obscures the path to enlightenment?” His words were chiding, but his eyes were kind.
Willa lifted the bamboo cup she was holding. It was filled with chang, an ale-like drink made from barley. “Ah, Rinpoche, I am in error!” she said. “I thought Jingpa’s chang was the path to enlightenment.”
The lama laughed. He pulled up a low wooden stool and sat down at Willa’s table—a plank stretched across two tea chests, placed close to the fire. He pulled off his sheepskin hat and mittens and unbuttoned his coat. The night was brutally cold, and the wind was howling outside, but inside Jingpa’s stone barn it was warm, for his fire and his animals gave off a great deal of heat.
“Will you have a sip of something hot, Rinpoche?” Willa asked. “The night is cold and the body desires warmth.”
“My body desires little, Willa Alden. I have mastered my desires, for desire is the enemy of enlightenment.”
Willa suppressed a smile. It was a game they played, she and this wily old man. He was the village’s spiritual leader, head of the Rongbuk Buddhist monastery, and must not be seen to be enjoying himself in a public house. Tomorrow Jingpa, a gossip, would talk to the entire village of the lama’s visit. If he stayed to drink with her, he must be seen to be doing it for her sake only.
“Ah, Rinpoche, have pity on me. I am not as fortunate as you. Enlightenment eludes me. My desires control me. Even now, for I greatly desire the pleasure of your esteemed company. Will you deny a poor heretic the comfort of your light and knowledge?”
The lama sniffed. “Since you ask it, I will take a small cup of tea,” he said.
“Jingpa! Po cha, please,” Willa called out.
Jingpa nodded. He began whisking together the ingredients for the restorative drink—hot black tea, salt, yak milk, and butter. When he was finished, he poured the steaming mixture into a bamboo cup and brought it over. The lama held the hot cup in his hands, warming them, then took a sip and smiled. Jingpa bowed.
“What brings you here, Rinpoche?” Willa asked.
“A group of men, traders from Nepal, has just come through the pass on their way to Lhasa. They are staying overnight in the village. There is one among them—a Westerner—who is asking for you,” the lama said.
Willa felt her heart leap at his words. For a wild, hopeful second, she allowed herself to believe that it was him—Seamie Finnegan—here somehow and wanting to see her. Then she silently scolded herself for her foolishness. Seamie wanted nothing to do with her. Why would he? She had left him, told him to live his life without her.
“His name is Villiers. He is a Frenchman, I believe,” the lama continued. “A heretic like yourself. Determined to climb that which cannot be climbed, our holy mountain mother. He wishes to hire you as a guide. Shall I tell him where to find you? And endanger your soul? Or shall I say that there is no such person in Rongbuk and, by doing so, bring you closer to the Buddha?”
“I thank you for your concern, Rinpoche, and though my soul longs for transcendence, my body longs for sampa, po cha, and a warm fire at night. I must have the money I earn from guiding to buy these things, and so I will meet your Frenchman now, and the Buddha not quite yet, but soon.”
“Soon. Always soon. Never now,” the lama sighed. “As you wish, Willa Alden.”
The lama finished his drink quickly and readied himself to return to the monastery.
“Will you please tell the man to meet me at my hut, Rinpoche?” Willa asked him as he pulled his mittens on.
The lama said he would. Willa thanked him, then asked Jingpa to fill an earthen bowl with hot chang and cover it with a plate. She knew the Frenchman would need it after trekking over the pass. She put her outer things on, paid Jingpa, and took the pot from him. She walked home through the village holding the pot close to her body, warming it as it warmed her.
As she passed by the monastery, she could smell the incense, smoky and thick, wafting from under the door and through cracks in the shutters. Under the wind’s banshee howl, she could hear the monks chanting, their strong voices carrying through the monastery’s walls. She loved the deep-voiced chants and was greatly moved by them. They sounded older than time, like the mountain itself speaking.
Willa stopped for a minute to listen. She had been inside the temple often and knew the saffron-robed monks would be seated to either side of their Buddha, eyes closed, palms turned up. She knew the Buddha would be gazing down on them, his face radiant with kindness, acceptance, and serenity.
She remembered the lama’s words now and how he had wished to bring her closer to the Buddha. He wanted her to accept the Buddhist way. To detach herself from desire, to transcend it.
Willa knew the lama meant well for her, but what he was asking … well, it was like asking her to transcend the need to breathe. She simply could not do it. Her desire, her drive, they were what kept her going. They got her up and out in the morning when it was twenty below. They kept her working, photographing, trying to find a route up the mountain, even though she was hobbled by the loss of her leg. They kept her here year after year, though she was lonely and often longed for her family. She was her desire. To not want Everest, to not want to explore as much as she could of this magnificent mountain, was inconceivable to her. To stop desiring, to stop questing, was to die.
The lama called her, and all those who came to Rongbuk wishing to climb Everest, heretics. The mountain was holy, he said, and must be left undefiled by man. Yet he was kind, and though he tried his best to convert Willa and the other Westerners who made their way to Rongbuk, he also allowed them to stay in the village. He made sure they were provided for and prayed for their acceptance of the Buddha.
Willa walked on, certain the lama had worn out many beads praying for her, and certain he would wear out many more. She continued toward her home, more than a bit reluctant to meet the stranger who waited for her there. She needed his money—for food and drink and supplies, as she’d told the lama, and also for opium. Her leg was playing up something fierce. Her supply had dwindled and she would need to buy a fresh stock of the drug from the trading party that had stopped in Rongbuk, if they had any.
Willa always needed money, but solitude was what she wanted now, not visitors and their money, for she was finishing up her photographs and maps of her proposed route up Everest, and she needed to keep that route a secret. She didn’t want anyone—and certainly not this man Villiers—to go back to Europe and claim her findings as his own.
Hopefully he wouldn’t be too much trouble. He’d likely been trekking for weeks, and would need a few days to rest and recover from his exertions. That would give her the time she needed to do the climbing she wanted to do, finish taking notes, and write up her findings. Then she’d have to post them to Clements Markham at the RGS, which meant surrendering them to the first trading party heading to India and the British post office at Darjeeling.
As Willa neared her small, one-roomed hut at the eastern edge of the village, she spotted him, standing by her door, stamp
ing his feet and clapping his hands to keep warm. As she got closer to him, she saw that he was gaunt and trembling. His lips were puffy and blue. There were white patches on his nose and chin.
“Miss Alden?” he called out.
“Mr. Villiers, I presume,” she replied.
“Yes. M-M-Maurice Villiers. From France. I’m … I’m an alpinist, Miss Alden, and h-h-have heard of your f-f-familiarity with the north face of Everest. I w-w-wish to retain a guide and was w-w-wondering if you would consent—”
Willa laughed. The man was shivering so hard he could barely speak. “Stop talking and come inside,” she said. “Before you drop dead.”
She pushed her door open, then pushed him in, shaking her head as she did. She had begun to see Europeans as the Tibetans did. This man would insist on formalities and politenesses and the proper form of address even as he was freezing to death.
“Sit down. There,” she said, pointing to a chair by the hearth. He did as he was told, putting his pack down first, while Willa immediately set about warming the room. She built up the fire she’d banked earlier, then lit a lamp. Then she pulled off her guest’s hat, inspecting his ears, cheeks, and chin. Next she took off his mittens and turned his blue, swollen hands over in her own.
“They look worse than they are. You won’t lose any fingers,” she said. She poured a cup of Jinpa’s chang, still steaming, from the earthen bowl and handed it to him. He took it gratefully, drank it quickly, and asked for more.
“In a minute,” Willa said. “First let’s see about your toes.”
The fire had thawed his frozen laces. She untied them, opened his boots, and took them off. He made no protest. Not when his boots came off. And not when his socks wouldn’t—because they were frozen to his swollen, blackened toes. She waited until the socks had thawed, too, then carefully peeled them off.
“How bad is it?” he asked her, not looking.
“I don’t know. We’ll have to wait and see.”
“Am I going to lose my toes?”
“One or two.”
He swore and raged. Willa waited for him to stop, then gave him a bowl of sampa. He was still shivering convulsively even after he’d finished eating, which worried her greatly. She quickly took his coat off and then his clothing. His underwear was sodden. She took a pair of scissors and cut the legs of it so that she could ease it over his damaged feet. He didn’t want to take it off, but she made him.
“It’s wet,” she said. “You can’t get in my bed in wet underwear. Here, put these on. I won’t look,” she added, giving him a tunic and a pair of wide-leg trousers. She turned away. When he’d dressed himself, she wrapped him in a wool robe and helped him hobble to her bed. The bed was piled high with sheepskins and furs.
“Get in and turn on your side,” she said. He did. She got in next to him, pressed her body to his, and wrapped her arms around him.
He turned suddenly and kissed her violently, then grabbed her breast.
She slapped his hand away. “Do that again,” she said, “and I shall beat you with the poker.”
“But … but you touched me … you held me …,” Maurice said, through his blue lips.
“You’re hypothermic, you bloody fool,” Willa said. “I’m trying to save your life. Turn around now. Unless you want to be buried in Rongbuk.”
Maurice Villiers did as he was told, and Willa put her arms back around him, holding him tightly, giving him her warmth. The heavy pelts held the heat around them. After an hour or so, his shivering stopped. A little while later, he fell asleep. When Willa heard his breathing deepen and even out, and felt his chest rising and falling steadily, she got out of bed and stoked the fire. She hoped he would sleep until morning. He needed it. She knew that eventually the pain in his thawing feet would wake him, and when that happened, she would give him some of her opium.
Willa was tired herself. She quickly tidied up the room—hanging up her visitor’s wet things and opening up his boots so that they would dry properly. She was just about to douse the lamp and go to bed herself when Maurice Villiers rolled over in bed.
“The letters,” he said groggily. “I forgot them. …”
“Go to sleep, Mr. Villiers,” Willa said, not bothering to look at him, certain he was talking in his sleep.
“… letters … in my pack.”
Willa turned to look at him. “What letters?”
“For you. In my pack,” he said, blinking at her. “Postman in Darjeeling gave them to me. I told him I was coming here.” Then he rolled over again and went back to sleep.
Willa crossed the room, unbuckled his pack, and rooted through it. At the very bottom, bundled together with twine, was a thick stack of letters. The top one had a British stamp. She pulled the bundle out and flipped through the envelopes. Most were addressed in her mother’s hand. Some were in her brother’s. There were so many of them—too many of them. The post was dependent on traders and travelers coming and going, and was often delayed on its way north from Darjeeling, but even allowing for that, there were still too many letters here. Looking at them all, she was suddenly gripped by fear. Something was wrong, she knew it. Whatever news these letters contained, it was not good.
Willa pulled the top letter out of the stack. With trembling hands, she opened it and started to read.
Chapter Eighteen
“Maud?” The Prime minister said.
“Hmm?”
“It’s your turn.”
“My turn for what, darling?”
“Your turn to play! Ye gads, woman, where are you?” Asquith said petulantly.
“Here, Henry. Right here.” She quickly looked at her cards, couldn’t make heads or tails of them, and said, “No bid.”
The turn passed to Margot, Asquith’s wife, who made a whacking great bid, then Max.
Asquith oughtn’t to have asked me “Where are you?” Maud thought. But rather “Where were you?” Because in her head, she was back in the Coburg, in Max’s room. She was in Max’s bed, naked. He’d tied a silk cravat around her eyes, tied her wrists to the headboard.
“We’ll miss the train,” she’d said.
“I don’t care,” he’d said.
“Max, he’s the prime minister.”
“So what?”
He’d kissed her mouth, then proceeded to nibble his way down her body, slowly and gently, biting her earlobe, her neck, her breast, her hip. He pushed her legs apart and kissed the place between them.
“Now, Max,” she’d whispered throatily. “Now.”
“No,” he’d said, kissing her knee, biting her calf. “Not now.”
She’d moaned and twined against him, wishing she could get her hands free and pull him to her, pull him inside of her. “Bastard,” she’d hissed. But he’d only laughed and nibbled her toes. Her belly. Her shoulder.
He went on like that, teasing her with his lips and his tongue, until she was nearly mad with her need of him. And then suddenly he was inside of her, and her release, when it finally came, was so strong, so hot and violent, that it frightened her. She’d cried out, she remembered that. Actually, she’d screamed. It was amazing the manager hadn’t come knocking on the door. Or the police. Never had a man made her feel so good. She was addicted to Max von Brandt. Her body craved him like a drug. He was all she could think about.
They’d drunk champagne afterward, made love again, and missed the damned train. They had to take Max’s motorcar to Sutton Courtenay in Oxfordshire, where the Asquiths had their country home, and where the PM had invited them both for the weekend. Max had driven like a demon and they’d only been half an hour late.
Maud knew Asquith well. She was friends with his wife Margot and with his grown daughter, Violet. Violet’s mother had died when she and her brothers were young, and Asquith had later married Margot, one of the beautiful and vivacious Tennant sisters.
Maud and Max had had a spot of tea with Margot and Violet, and the Asquiths’ other weekend guests, when they arrived, then they’d bathe
d and changed for dinner. After they’d dined, Asquith suggested bridge. Maud and Max had been paired with the prime minister and his wife. The other guests played against one another at tables nearby. Maud was a good, competitive player and usually enjoyed the game, but memories of the afternoon’s activities had her so hot and bothered tonight, that she could barely keep her cards straight.
“It’s your turn again, Maud,” Asquith said, a note of irritation in his voice. “What’s distracting you? You usually go for your opponent’s throat at the bridge table.”
“Millicent Fawcett,” Maud said abruptly.
Millicent and the suffragists were actually the farthest thing from her mind, but she was the best Maud could come up with. She could hardly tell the PM what she’d really been thinking about.
“She’s making noises about going over to Labour. Doing her all to support and campaign for their candidates. She feels the Labour Party will be more sympathetic to the cause of women’s suffrage,” Maud said. “You’d best not ignore her, Henry. She may not have got us the vote—yet—but she does have clout, you know.”
“Are you trying to rattle me, old girl? If so, it’s very unsporting of you and it won’t work.”
“All’s fair in bridge and war,” Maud said. “Seriously though, you would be well advised not to underestimate Millicent. She is not altogether what she seems. She is polite and reserved, but she is also resolute, tough, and relentless.”
Asquith raised his eyes from his cards. “I would say that no one, and nothing, is as it seems,” he said, and Maud noticed it was not herself he was looking at as he spoke these words, but her partner, and that his expression had become most somber. “Wouldn’t you agree, Mr. von Brandt?” he added.
“I would, yes,” Max said, meeting Asquith’s steely gaze unwaveringly.
For the briefest second, Maud had the inexplicably unsettling feeling that the two men were not still talking about bridge, but about something else completely. Then Margot started chattily asking questions, and as quickly as it had come, the strange feeling was gone.
The Wild Rose Page 14