The Wild Rose

by Jennifer Donnelly

  “I love you, Jennie. I do,” he’d said to her when he’d proposed. It had almost sounded desperate to her. As if he very much wanted to love her and was trying to convince himself that he did love her. Her, not Willa. If she lost the child she was carrying, if he ever found out the truth about her, he would leave her. She was certain of it.

  Tears threatened to overwhelm her again. Instinctively, her hands went to her belly. “Can you hear me?” she whispered. “Stay with me, little one. Please, please stay.”

  Footsteps came toward the parlor. Jennie quickly brushed her tears away. The door opened and her father stepped inside. He gave her a stormy look at first, then he crossed the room, took her by her shoulders, and quietly said, “I wish this had happened after the wedding, I must say, but I’m happy it’s happened at all. I’m glad for you, Jennie. Truly. There is no greater joy than a child. I know this, for I know what joy you’ve given me.”

  “Thank you, Dad,” she said, her voice breaking.

  “Yes. Well. Come in, lad!” the Reverend Wilcott bellowed. The door opened and Seamie walked into the parlor. “I’ve some sherry in the kitchen,” the Reverend said. “I’ll fetch it and some glasses, too. I think we could all use a nip.”

  As soon as he was gone, Seamie gathered Jennie into his arms. “He didn’t kill me!” he whispered to her. “He’ll post the bans this Sunday and marry us in three weeks.”

  “Oh, Seamie! That’s wonderful!” Jennie said.

  “It is. I’m so relieved. He was much better about it than I would have thought. Much better than I would have been in the circumstances.” He put his hand on Jennie’s belly. “If this baby is a girl, I’ll make sure to protect her from the likes of me.” He laughed, then said, “I can’t wait to become your husband. And our child’s father. It’s everything I want, Jennie. Truly.”

  Jennie smiled weakly. A feeling of dread gripped her as she looked at him. She tried to shake it off. Tried to tell herself to stop being silly and to be grateful instead for the tiny life growing inside her. For the miracle she’d been given.

  Nine months, she thought. That’s all I need. Nine months from now, he’ll be holding our child and he’ll be happy. Happy with the baby. Happy with his life. Happy with me.

  Chapter Twenty

  “Three million pounds. For boats,” Joe Bristow said. He was sitting behind his desk in the study of his Mayfair home. “How many do we get for that? Two? Three?”

  “Eight. And they’re ships not boats,” said the man sitting across from him. “The finest warships ever built.” He drained the glass of whiskey he was holding, stood up, and walked to the window.

  George Burgess never sat still for long, Joe thought as he watched him. Pale and freckled, his reddish-blond hair already receding, Burgess, at the tender age of twenty-nine, was a war hero, an acclaimed author, and had already held the offices of MP and secretary of state for the colonies. It was in his current role as second lord of the Admiralty that he’d paid a visit to Joe this evening, to harangue him into supporting Churchill’s call for more dreadnoughts.

  Joe was supposed to be downstairs at a family dinner. It was a lovely April evening, and Fiona had invited Joe’s parents; his brothers and their families; her brother Seamie, and his fiancée, Jennie Wilcott; and a dozen close friends to dine with them. Jennie and Seamie were to be married in two weeks’ time, and a great deal of planning was taking place tonight. Just as Joe had sat down, Burgess had arrived, saying he had urgent state business to discuss with him, and adding that another man from the Admiralty would be joining them shortly. Joe had excused himself and taken George upstairs in the elevator to his study, where the two men had engaged in a tense and heated discussion, for over an hour now, with George adamant on the need for Britain to acquire not one new dreadnought, as Churchill had originally asked of Parliament, but a whole new fleet of dreadnoughts, and Joe intransigent on the idea of government releasing three million pounds with which to do the acquiring.

  “I don’t care how fine they are, George,” he said now. “My constituents don’t need warships. They don’t want them. They want schools, hospitals, and parks. And jobs. Jobs would be very nice.”

  “Oh, they’ll get them,” Burgess retorted. “In the kaiser’s munition factories. He plans to build several on the Thames docks as soon as he invades England.”

  “This is war-mongering, pure and simple,” Joe said hotly. “You say you want to head off military aggression by making a show of strength, yet you take every opportunity to stir up feeling for the very war you wish to avoid!”

  “I do not need to stir up feeling. It is already there. Furthermore—”

  Burgess’s words were cut off by a knock at Joe’s door. “Come in!” Joe barked.

  The door opened, and then Albie Alden, Seamie’s friend from Cambridge, was suddenly standing in the room.

  “Hello, Albie lad,” Joe said. “The dinner’s downstairs. Seamie and Jennie—”

  Burgess cut him off. “He’s here to see us,” he said.

  “Hold on,” Joe said. “Albie’s your man from the Admiralty? Albie Alden?”

  “Finally, the other shoe drops,” Burgess replied. He motioned impatiently at Albie. “Do come in, old boy,” he said. “And lock the door, will you?”

  Albie did as he was asked, then crossed the room, opened his briefcase, and handed Burgess a thick dossier. Burgess opened it, paged through its contents, snorting and nodding and sometimes swearing, then slapped it down on Joe’s desk.

  “Read that,” he said. “Read it, then tell me we can’t have our ships.”

  Joe looked at Burgess, then at Albie, wondering what could possibly be in the dossier. He opened it. The documents it contained were all stamped with the seal of the Secret Service Bureau, a department within the Admiralty whose presence was known to very few.

  By the second or third page, Joe realized what he was reading: reports on various men and women, German nationals all, whom the SSB suspected of spying. One name in particular caught Joe’s eyes—Max von Brandt. Joe knew the man; he’d met him a few weeks ago, after a suffragists’ march at Holloway prison. He’d seen him several times since in the company of Maud Selwyn Jones.

  Joe was greatly relieved to read that while von Brandt’s name had been put forward as a possible spy, the author of the report had concluded that it was unlikely he was one. He had an independent income, family in England, and no ties to the German military other than carrying out his compulsory service.

  Furthermore, Max had had a public falling-out with his industrialist uncle—his father’s older brother—over the kaiser’s aggressiveness. The argument had occurred in a Berlin restaurant. Both men ended up shouting at each other. Max’s uncle had thrown a plate at him. The event was reported by three different, reliable eyewitnesses, and Max had left Germany for England a week later. Reportedly, his uncle was pleased about Max’s departure. He openly accused him of being an embarrassment to the family and of costing him, the uncle, business. Max von Brandt, the report concluded, was an accomplished alpinist, a playboy, and a philanderer, but he was not a spy. Others were, though. Dozens of them. Joe flipped past page after page of names and grainy gray photographs. When he’d gone through them all, he looked up.

  “How did you find all of these people?” he asked Albie.

  Burgess answered. “Albie here, together with Alfred Ewing, Dilly Knox, Oliver Strachey, and various other Cambridge geniuses, has been very busy cracking codes over the last year. They’ve confirmed the existence of a widespread and effective German espionage ring in the UK, and as you can see, they’ve identified many of its foot soldiers.”

  “Then why haven’t you arrested them?” Joe asked, alarmed.

  “Because we are hoping the foot soldiers will lead us to the spymaster himself,” Burgess said. “He’s the one we dearly want to catch. Our own agents in Germany tell us that he’s very effective. Frighteningly so. He’s already gathered and conveyed a great deal of very valuable informati
on to Berlin. Our agents also tell us that Germany will invade France at the first possible opportunity and that they will do it via Belgium.”

  “It’s nonsense, George,” Joe said. “It can’t be true. Even if the Germans wanted to invade France, they can’t do it by going through Belgium. It’s a treaty violation. Belgium’s a neutral country.”

  “Why don’t you ring up the kaiser and tell him so?” Burgess said. “Others—plenty of them—have already tried. To no avail.”

  He crossed the room now and sat down across from Joe. He poured himself another scotch, sat back in his chair, and said, “I am worried about Germany, Joe. Extremely so. I am also worried about the Middle East. About Germany’s growing friendship with Turkey and about England’s Persian oil fields and our ability to defend them should war be declared. We’ve got spies there, too. Some rather unlikely ones—a Mr. Thomas Lawrence among them. They’ve been mapping the whole bloody desert, forging bonds with many Arab leaders. Lawrence was debriefed only a fortnight ago.”

  “Lawrence? The young man who just gave a presentation at the RGS?”

  “The very same. It was an important presentation, that one. Not so much for the ruins and rocks and bits of pottery he was nattering on about, but to keep the impression going that he’s simply an impassioned archaeologist and nothing more.”

  Joe closed the dossier and pushed it across his desk. “Why are you doing all this?” he asked him. “Why all the cloak-and-dagger? Bringing Albie here? Showing me the dossier? Telling me about German spies in London and British spies in the desert?”

  Burgess put his glass down. He leaned forward. When he spoke, his voice was low and urgent. “In the desperate hope that by doing so, I can underscore for you the dire seriousness of the German military threat and the very pressing need for Britain to counteract it. Now.”

  Joe went silent. He knew George wanted an answer from him, but he could not give it. He knew George wanted his support in his bid to build up Britain’s military defenses. All efforts, all funds, George felt, should go to strengthening the navy, the army, and the nascent air force. He wanted Joe to stop fighting him, to stop calling for funds for social reform programs.

  As if reading his mind, Burgess spoke. “We in government must present a united front to the voters,” he said. “I, and many others in the Liberal Party, are very aware of your influence with the workingman, and frankly, we wish to harness it to our cause. We need the weight of public opinion with us, not against us. Help me in this, Joe, and I will help you. I will back your calls for social reform, and for funding for your schools and hospitals.”

  Joe raised an eyebrow. “When?” he asked.

  “After the war is over and won,” Burgess said.

  Joe knew what this request meant—that the things that mattered so dearly to him, and to his constituents, would be swept away in a mad burst of war fever. The suffrage question would be pushed aside. Monies for his projects—for the soup kitchens, the libraries, the orphanages—would dry up. And who would suffer when they did? Who would go hungry and cold? Not the children of the rich. Not the Asquiths and the Cecils and the Churchills, no. It would be the children of East London. As always. Men would go to war and would not come home. Women would lose their husbands, children their fathers.

  After some time, Joe finally spoke. “I do not want this war, George, and you must promise me that you will do everything in your power to keep us from it. Everything. Use our diplomats. Use trade sanctions. Embargoes. Buy your boats. Buy ten of them. Twenty. If having more of them makes the kaiser draw back, then it will have been worth the cost. It’s better to lose money than human lives.”

  Burgess nodded, then he said, “And if, even then, even after we have made every effort, war still cannot be avoided … then what is your choice?”

  “Then there is no choice, George,” Joe said. “And there never was.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Jennie Wilcott was helping her father get ready for his weekly parish visits. “Do you have your scarf, Dad?” she asked him.

  “I don’t need it, my dear. It’s a sunny day.”

  “And a blustery one. You do need it. Here, put it on. And wear your other coat. It’s warmer.”

  The Reverend Wilcott smiled. He took her face in his hands. “Ah, my darling Jennie. You take such good care of your old father. What will I do when you go?”

  “Don’t, Dad. You’ll start me crying again,” she said.

  He kissed her cheek. “Only tears of joy, I hope. You’ll make such a beautiful bride. I only hope I can get through the ceremony without crying myself. And speaking of the ceremony, did my best suit come back from the tailor’s? I’m worried they won’t get it back to me in time.”

  “It’s in your wardrobe, Dad. A man from the shop brought it yesterday.”

  “Good. Well, I’m off then.” He stopped in the doorway and turned around. “You’re not to do too much today. You must rest yourself. Promise me you will.”

  “I promise,” Jennie said, smiling.

  As soon as she closed the door behind him, she went to the parlor, where she’d begun to make a list of all the errands she needed to run and notes she needed to write and gifts she needed to buy before Sunday.

  “Why is it that lists only get longer, never shorter?” she wondered aloud. The wedding, which would be held at Seamie’s sister’s home in Greenwich, was only five days away and there was still so much to do. After the reception, they would leave for Cornwall for a honeymoon—a short one only, as Seamie was due to begin at the RGS the following Monday. When they returned from Cornwall, they would take up residence in a lovely, spacious flat in Belsize Park. Seamie had found it for them, just as he’d said he would, but they had very little furniture in it and no carpets or curtains whatsoever.

  Jennie had been to see a seamstress about the curtains, and had even selected fabric, but it would be weeks before they were finished. Whenever she fretted about all that they still needed, Seamie would kiss her and shush her and tell her not to worry herself or the baby. He had means and would provide whatever they needed.

  And he did. All she had to do was mention something, and he was off to the shops and back a few hours later with cutlery, towels, a mop bucket—whatever she wanted. He didn’t mind doing these things one bit, he would tell her. He’d never gone shopping before—not for lamps and antimacassars, at least—and he found it all very interesting. He was always so good to her. So cheerful and willing. Excited about their wedding. He was always so happy. Too happy.

  She thought now, as she looked out her parlor window, that he reminded her at times of the drunks who came to her father—men and women broken by alcohol. They’d lost everything—jobs, homes, their families. They shook and wept and promised to do anything, even swear off the demon drink forever, if only he would help them. He always did. He got them cleaned up, let them sleep on a cot in the sacristy, and tried to find them work. He prayed with them and made them take the pledge. And his efforts always succeeded—for a little while. They tried hard, all of them. They were eager, bright-eyed, and willing, full of good intentions. Happy to tell anyone and everyone that their drinking days were behind them. But deep inside, they struggled. They thought about drink constantly. Dreamed about it. Craved it. And many, unable to resist the ever-present temptation, went back to it.

  Seamie was the same way. He wanted so much to embrace his new life. He talked excitedly about his new position at the RGS. He’d leased a flat, bought a bed, a set of sheets, cutlery, and a box of crockery. But Jennie knew that underneath the bluff good cheer, under all the protestations of happiness, he still dreamed about his old life.

  She had seen him unpack a box of his belongings in their new flat one evening when he wasn’t aware she was watching him. He’d taken photographs out of the box. Field glasses, book, maps, an old, battered compass. He’d held the compass in his palm, then closed his fingers around it. And then he’d gone to the window and stood there, just stood there, ga
zing up at the night sky.

  He was thinking about past adventures, Jennie was sure of it. And about Willa Alden. Looking at him, she had been convinced that if, at that very moment, the compass in his hands could have shown him the way back to Willa, he would have followed it.

  Jennie’s hands went to her belly, as they did all the time now when she was nervous or worried. As always, she prayed for the tiny life inside to stay with her. A fortnight had passed since she’d told Seamie she was pregnant. She was two weeks closer to being the mother of his child. The love of a wife, of a child, these were good things, too, Jennie told herself, the very best things. And in time, as Seamie got older, as they had more children, he would grow to want them—and her—more than he wanted other things and other people.

  A knock on the door startled her out of her thoughts.

  “Dad? Is that you? What’ve you forgotten now?” Jennie shouted, trotting out of the parlor and down the hallway. “It’s your specs, isn’t it?” she said as she opened the door. “How many times …”

  Her words died away. It wasn’t her father who was standing on the stoop. It was Josie Meadows, a young woman whom she used to teach. Josie had no coat on. The front of her dress was bloodied and torn. More blood dripped onto it from a cut on her cheek. Her eyes were bruised and swollen.

  “Hello, duck,” Josie said.

  “Josie?” Jennie whispered. “My God, is that you?”

  “Aye. I’m afraid so. Can I come in?”

  “Of course!” Jennie said, ushering her inside and closing the door. “I’m sorry, I … I just … Josie, what on earth happened to you?”

  “Billy Madden happened to me,” the girl said, walking past Jennie, down the hallway to the kitchen. She went to the sink, stoppered it, and turned on the taps. “Can I clean myself up?” she asked. “Borrow a dress? I’ve got to get out of here before he twigs where I’ve gone. Bastard’s threatened to kill me.”