The Wild Rose

by Jennifer Donnelly

  She pushed her breakfast aside and grabbed the bottle of pills on her table. She’d run out of injectable morphine. The pills weren’t as strong, but they were all she had left.

  As she swallowed three, she heard a knock on her door. “Who is it?” she called out.

  “It’s your aunt Edwina! Let me in!”

  “Aunt Eddie?” Willa said, in disbelief. She hurried to the door and opened it. Her aunt stood there in a traveling coat and hat, a valise in her hand.

  “Oh, dear,” she said in a dismayed voice, her eyes traveling over Willa. “That man was right. You do look a wreck. May I come in?”

  “Of course, Aunt Eddie,” Willa said, taking her aunt’s valise. “What man? What did he say? Why are you here?”

  “What a lovely greeting,” Eddie sniffed. “And after I’ve come all this way.”

  “I’m sorry, Eddie,” Willa said, hugging her aunt. “I’m glad you’ve come, of course I am. I’m just confused, that’s all. About this man you mentioned.”

  “Some man wrote to Albie,” Eddie explained, as she took her coat off and laid it over a chair. “Said he got Albie’s address from a stack of old letters he found in your flat. He said you were in an awfully bad way and that he—Albie—should come and collect you. Since Albie already tried that once—with no luck—I decided to come. I’m here to bring you home, Willa.”

  “Wait a minute, Aunt Eddie … what’s the man’s name?” Willa asked, still puzzled.

  “Oscar Something-or-Other. I can’t remember. He said he knew you and cared for you but couldn’t seem to do anything for you. He didn’t think you should be alone. Is that coffee I smell?”

  “Yes, it is,” Willa said. “Let me get you some.” So Oscar was behind this. He’d written to her family out of concern for her. That he would do that, after what she’d done, touched her so deeply she felt like crying again.

  “Willa, I came because of Oscar’s letter, because I was worried about you, but there’s also another reason for my visit,” Eddie said.

  Willa, who’d been stirring milk into her aunt’s coffee, turned around, alarmed.

  “Don’t look so worried. Your mother and brother are both fine. I have some news for you. It’s good news, but rather shocking. I think you should sit down. Come,” she said, patting the empty space next to her on the settee.

  Willa sat. She handed her aunt a hot cup of coffee. “I must say that this is all very strange, Aunt Eddie. What news? What is it? Couldn’t you have just written instead of making the trip all the way from Cambridge to Paris?” she asked her.

  Eddie didn’t reply. She leaned over to her valise, drew a newspaper out of it, and handed it to Willa. Willa saw that it was a copy of the London Times and that it was several weeks out of date.

  “Read it,” Eddie said.

  The headlines talked of the transfer of Alsace from Germany to France, of reconstruction projects in the Marne area, and of the Belgian king’s visit to Paris. Willa quickly scanned the articles, sipping her coffee as she did. “What is it I’m supposed to be looking for?” she asked.

  Then she saw the photograph at the bottom right of the page, and the coffee bowl slipped out of her hand, bounced off the table, and smashed on the floor. Willa didn’t hear it smash. She didn’t see the mess on the floor. All she saw was Seamie’s face.

  “My God, Eddie … it can’t be,” she whispered. But it was.

  BRITISH SEA COMMANDER RETURNS FROM THE DEAD, the headline said. “Seamus Finnegan, commander of the Exeter,” the caption read.

  Willa touched the image with trembling fingers. She started to read the article and learned what had really happened to Seamie after his ship had been attacked. She started to laugh, then burst into tears, and then laughed again. She kept reading and learned that he’d arrived in London a month ago and planned to stay with his sister and her husband. At their home, he would be reunited with his young son, James, who’d been staying with his relatives. Willa was stricken to find out that the reason the boy was not with his mother was because he had lost her to influenza. Commander Finnegan had told the press that he would eventually be relocating with his son to a family cottage in the Cotswolds.

  “I can’t believe it. I simply cannot believe it,” Willa said. “He’s alive, Eddie.”

  “I know. Wonderful, isn’t it? I wanted you to hear it from me. I hoped I would reach Paris before any of the London papers did. Oscar said you were in such a fragile state, I wasn’t sure how you’d react.”

  Willa stood up, elated. She was crying again, but this time her tears were tears of joy. Seamie was alive. He was in this world still, not the next.

  “Do you know where Seamie is in the Cotswolds?” Eddie asked.

  “The paper said he was moving to a family cottage. I think it’s in Binsey. He mentioned a cottage in Binsey once. It belonged to his wife. Perhaps you can go see him there. After we return home,” Eddie said.

  The smile on Willa’s face faded. She shook her head. “No, Aunt Eddie, I can’t,” she said.

  “Why not?”

  Willa was silent for a moment, then she said, “Because back in the desert, after Seamie found me and brought me back to Lawrence’s camp, I told him we had to let go of one another. To stop hurting ourselves and the people around us. It’s not good, what we had. Or what we did. Before the war.” She looked down at her hands. “Perhaps you don’t know about that. Or perhaps you do.”

  Eddie nodded. “I didn’t. I do now.”

  “Yes, well,” Willa continued, “it’s a hard, destructive thing to love someone you shouldn’t, and it’s caused nothing but grief.”

  “His wife’s passed away, Willa,” Eddie said gently. “He’s a widower now.”

  “So what should I do, Aunt Eddie?” Willa said bitterly. “Run to him like some she-vulture? I won’t. Too many mistakes were made, too many sins committed. Jennie deserved better. Albie did. Seamie himself did. No, I’m staying here. We ended it for a reason, and that reason remains—we’re no good for each other. We weren’t in Africa. We weren’t in London back in 1914. And we wouldn’t be now, either. I know that.” Eddie let out a long, heavy sigh. Willa took her aunt’s hands in hers and said, “I appreciate you coming here. I know you did it out of concern for me and I love you for it, Aunt Eddie, but I can’t go back. I can’t. It’s far too painful.”

  Eddie nodded. “I understand, Willa. God knows what I’ll tell your mother, but I do understand.”

  Willa kissed her. “Thank you. You won’t go back right away, will you? Stay with me for a bit.”

  “Yes, I think I shall stay,” Eddie said. “I quite fancy a bit of a holiday and some good French food.” She frowned, then said, “Your hands are trembling, Willa, I can feel them. You were already in a state when I arrived and I fear I’ve made things worse.”

  Willa shook her head. “You’ve done no such thing. I’m happy, so deeply happy, to know he’s alive,” she said. “He is my heart, and my soul, and to know that he didn’t die, that he …” Her voice trailed off as tears threatened to overtake her again. She struggled to gain control over her emotions, and when she had, she said, “I believe I’m in need of some air, a walk, something.”

  “That sounds like a good idea. A walk will clear your head. I’ll help myself to more coffee while you’re gone, and when you get back, perhaps you can show me around Montparnasse,” Eddie said.

  Willa kissed her aunt again then she grabbed her coat and got down the stairs from her flat to the street as fast as she could, forgetting her scarf, forgetting her hat, forgetting everything but the amazing, impossible news that Seamus Finnegan was alive.

  Chapter One Hundred Twelve

  “Josie!” Willa shouted, knocking on the door to her friend’s flat. “Jo, it’s me, Willa! Open up, will you?”

  She’d been knocking for a whole minute already, but Josie had not answered. Willa knew she was there. There was no way she would have left the flat this early. Not Josie. She usually slept until noon.

/>   Willa wanted to see her. Josie was her closest friend and she wanted to tell her about Seamie. She wanted to have a good long talk. And a good long cry, too.

  “Come on, Josie, you lazy wench! Wake up and open the door!” Willa shouted, banging on the door again.

  But still there was no answer. “That’s odd,” Willa said. She tried the doorknob; it turned in her hand. That was odd, too. She pushed the door open. “Jo?” she called again, uncertainly.

  It was dark inside the foyer. Willa’s eyes took a few minutes to adjust. As soon as they did, and as soon as Willa walked into the flat proper, she saw that something was terribly wrong. The place looked as if it had been upended. Pictures were off the wall. Vases and statues lay on the floor in pieces. The draperies had been shredded. Cushions had been torn apart. The fine silk upholstery on Josie’s furniture had been cut open. Stuffing spilled out of chairs and settees.

  “Josie?” she called out, suddenly afraid. She heard a sound, like a moan, coming from the bedroom and hurried toward it.

  The sight that greeted her as she entered the room made her scream.

  Josie lay on her bed. Her face had been battered so badly that she was nearly unrecognizable. Blood had dripped down the front of her dress and all over her bedding.

  “Josie … my God …,” Willa cried, running to her friend.

  Josie reached for her. “I didn’t tell, Willa,” she sobbed. “I didn’t tell him.”

  “Tell who? Who did this to you?” Willa said, taking her bloodied hand. She knelt down on the floor. “No, don’t speak. Don’t move. Don’t do anything. I’m going to run for help.”

  “No!” Josie moaned.

  “You need a doctor!” Willa said.

  “There’s no time. Listen, Willa, please. … I have a son,” Josie said, with effort.

  “What?”

  “A little boy. Back in England. James. I used to go round with a villain … Billy Madden. He put me up the spout, then wanted me to get rid of it. I couldn’t. I had the baby. Gave it to my friend Jennie. She used to be my teacher. She’d lost her baby. Her husband didn’t love her and she thought he would, if she could give him a child, but she couldn’t. She’d had an accident. I left London and hid in her cottage. In the Cotwolds. …” Josie stopped speaking for a minute. She closed her eyes, breathing heavily.

  Willa felt her whole body go cold. Seamie’s late wife’s name was Jennie. She’d had a cottage in the Cotswolds. Their son’s name was James. James was four years old. No, she thought, it can’t be. It’s a coincidence, that’s all.

  Josie opened her blackened, swollen eyes again. Willa could see the pain in them.

  “Josie, don’t talk,” she said. “Save your strength. Let me go for a doctor. Please.”

  “There’s no time,” Josie said. She gave a small groan, stiffening against something that hurt her terribly. “I told the doctor who delivered my baby that I was Jennie, so the right names would be on the birth certificate,” she said. “I gave James to Jennie the day after he was born and then I left for Paris. Jennie lied to her husband … she pretended to be pregnant, then told him she’d had the baby herself. I asked her would she write me now and again … send me a picture … oh, God …” Josie’s words became a whimper of pain.

  “Josie, please … you must let me go for help.”

  Josie shook her head. “Somebody told Billy about the child, and now Billy wants him. He’s gone mad, Willa. I thought he would kill me. He said he lost his sons in the war and now he’s going to take James. He tried to get Jennie’s name from me, and her husband’s, but I wouldn’t give them to him … I wouldn’t … so he did this to me. He’s going back to England. He’s going to find James somehow and take him,” Josie sobbed. Tears leaked out of her eyes. “Don’t let him, Willa. Don’t let him take James. …”

  “Shh, Josie, shh …”

  “I hid the letters,” she said, hysterical now. “The ones Jennie sent me. Billy pulled the place apart, but he didn’t find them. They’re in my jewelry box. Take them. They have Jennie’s address on them. Tell her what happened. There’s money in there, too. Take it, Willa. Go to her. Warn her. Hurry.”

  “Where, Josie? Where’s the jewelry box?” Willa said. She would find it. That would calm Josie down.

  “In the sitting room.”

  Willa ran into the other room and searched through the wreckage for Josie’s jewelry box. She found it near the window, but it was empty. The jewels it had contained had been dumped onto the floor. There were no letters inside it, no money, nothing.

  “Damn it!” Willa hissed. “Where are they?” She knelt down again and start ripping the box apart. She ripped out the lining, tore out the drawers and shelves, but still she found nothing. She raised the box over her head and slammed it against the floor. Once, twice. On the third time the bottom splintered. Willa pulled the pieces apart, and there they were—a stack of letters, neatly tied with a ribbon, and a small leather pouch containing franc notes and pound notes, rolled up together.

  Willa pulled a letter out of the stack and turned it over, dreading what she might find. “Oh, no. Oh, God,” she said. The return address was in London. Willa recognized it. It used to be Seamie’s. She recognized the name above it, too: Finnegan. J. Finnegan. Jennie had died, and Josie hadn’t known it. And Jennie had been married to Seamie. And her son … James … he was the boy Billy Madden was after. And Seamie had no idea about any of this.

  “Did you find them?” Josie asked weakly when Willa returned to her bedroom.

  “I did,” Willa said, putting the letters and the money on Josie’s night table.

  “You’ve got to tell her. Promise me!” Josie said fiercely.

  Willa couldn’t bear to tell Josie that her friend was dead. “I promise you, Jo. I swear. I’ll do something … ring her … or … or send a telegram. Soon. Very soon. But right now, I’m going to see to you.”

  There was a lot of blood on Josie’s clothing, and in the bed. Too much blood.

  “What am I going to do? What the hell am I going to do?” Willa whispered to herself. An image flashed in her mind—of her pill bottle. She’d taken three morphine pills. No wonder she couldn’t think straight. “Come on, Willa, shake it off,” she told herself. “You’ve got to think!”

  Two seconds later, she was out on the landing, battering on the neighbor’s door. A man answered it. She quickly told him that her friend had been attacked and that she was badly injured and needed a doctor. The man said a doctor lived on the top floor of the building and then ran upstairs to fetch him. A few minutes later, the doctor was at Josie’s side. Her attacker had split a vein in her chin, he told Willa, that’s where most of the blood was coming from. He said he would cauterize it and then stitch up the worst of the wounds on Josie’s face.

  “She’s going to be all right,” he told Willa. “She might’ve bled to death if I hadn’t got here when I did, though.”

  As the doctor set to work on Josie, Willa raced back into Josie’s sitting room. The telephone was on the floor. Willa prayed that it still worked. She set the base upright and put the receiver in its cradle. After waiting for a few seconds, she picked the receiver up again and dialed for the operator. Almost instantly, she heard a woman’s voice. She asked to be put through to the address on the envelope. No luck. Service to that address had been terminated, the operator informed her. She asked to be connected to the home of Miss Edwina Alden, at Highgate House, Carlton Way, Cambridge.

  After a few minutes, a male voice, crackly and faraway-sounding, said, “Highgate House. Hello?”

  “Albie?” Willa shouted. “Oh, thank God!”

  There was a pause, then “Willa? Is that you?”

  “Yes, it’s me. Albie, I need your help. You’ve got to get hold of Seamie. His son, James, is in terrible danger. He’s not really his son. The boy was given to Jennie by another woman—Josie Meadows. His real father is Billy Madden, a villain. From London. He’s coming after the boy, Albie. He’s just been here
in Paris and he’s beaten Josie very badly—”

  “Willa,” Albie said, cutting her off.

  “Albie, don’t talk. Just listen to me.”

  “No, I’m not listening. Not anymore. You’re obviously off your head, Willa. And we both know why.”

  “Albie, I’m not off my head. This is real. You’ve got to call Seamie and tell him. Now!”

  “Aunt Eddie’s supposed to be there with you. Is she? Put her on the phone.”

  “I can’t. She’s at my flat. I’m at my friend’s flat. Albie, you’ve got to listen to me.” Willa’s voice was shaking badly. She tried to keep it steady, but she couldn’t.

  “This is pathetic,” Albie said. “I can’t bear to listen to you. Don’t ring me again, Willa. Not in this state. Not until you’ve quit the drugs.”

  “Albie, no! Wait! Don’t hang up!”

  “Just answer me this: Did you take anything today?”

  She did not want to answer him. “Yes, but Albie, I—” she finally said.

  “I thought so.” There was a loud click and then a dull, dead tone.

  “He thinks I’m a raving lunatic. Because of the morphine,” Willa said out loud.

  Of course he did. When he’d come to Paris to fetch her home, he’d been able to tell just by looking at her that she was addicted. And now she’d called him out of the blue with this outlandish story.

  She started to panic. If she couldn’t get hold of Seamie, and if Albie wouldn’t help her, who would?

  “Think, Willa, think,” she told herself. She got an operator again and asked to be connected to Westminster, hoping to talk with Joe Bristow. This time it was the operator who hung up on her.

  Willa was frantic, then she remembered the cottage—at Binsey. In the newspaper article, Seamie had said he was going to relocate to a family cottage in the Cotswolds. It had to be the Binsey place. It just had to be. A few seconds later, she was on the line again, asking the operator to see if she could connect her with a Seamus Finnegan in Binsey, but again she had no luck. The woman said she had no such listing.