The Wild Rose

by Jennifer Donnelly

  “Willa, come inside. You can get out of those wet clothes. I’ll get you a glass of brandy.”

  Willa shook her head. Something wasn’t right. This wasn’t how Seamie should be acting. She wondered, for a second, if there was something wrong with him. Did he not understand the danger he and James were in?

  “There’s no time for brandy, Seamie,” she said tersely. “Have you got a car?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Where is it? I’ll start it up.”

  Seamie stared at her. His eyes traveled from her gaunt, mudsplattered face, to her thin body, to her hands, blue with cold. His eyes, already filled with sorrow, suddenly filled with tears.

  “Oh, Willa, what’s happened to you?” he asked her. “Come inside. Please. You need to rest.”

  “Seamie, for God’s sake! You and James are in danger. Very great danger.”

  “Willa … I know,” Seamie said.

  “You do?”

  “I know about the morphine and your addiction,” Seamie said. “Albie rang up the pub earlier tonight while James and I were having our supper. He told me about you, and Paris. About Oscar Carlyle and how you almost killed yourself one night. He told me everything.”

  Willa realized why Seamie looked so sad. Why James was asleep. Why no bags were packed. She realized what her brother had done. He’d told Seamie nothing about Madden, even though she’d begged him to. Instead he’d told Seamie that she was a morphine addict, out of her mind and raving about imaginary villains.

  “Albie told you everything, did he?” she said now, angrily. “What did he tell you? That I’m a drug fiend? Well, sod him. And sod you, too! I survived Mawenzi, and Everest, and Damascus. I survived losing you. Over and over again. But now, apparently, I’m such a fragile thing that a bit of morphine’s addled my brain and I’m making up stories about villains and switched children and I’m traveling from Paris to Binsey in the rain, in record time, for the sheer bloody hell of it.”

  “What? Willa, what are you saying? What villains? What children? Albie didn’t mention anything like that.”

  Willa opened the crate on the back of her motorbike and grabbed her satchel. She walked past Seamie into the cottage. It was small inside. There was no foyer. They were standing in an open room that served as both sitting room and kitchen.

  “I wanted this to be kinder, Seamie, I really did,” she said. “I wanted you to hear it from Albie or from me. But since I’m totally bloody crackers, you’ll have to find it out for yourself now.”

  She dug the letters out of the satchel and handed them to him. “Read fast,” she said. “As soon as you finish, we’re leaving.”

  Then she pulled a chair out from the kitchen table. “Take a seat,” she added. “You’re going to need it.”

  Chapter One Hundred Sixteen

  Seamie was dimly aware that Willa had found the brandy he’d mentioned. She opened it, poured two glasses, and placed them on the table. Then she sat down and waited for him to finish reading.

  About twenty minutes later, he looked up at her uncertainly. “Willa, I don’t understand,” he said. “Who is Josie Meadows? How did Jennie know her? How do you?”

  “I met Josie in Paris a few months ago. We became friends. She was raised in East London. She told me that she went to Jennie’s school. That’s how they knew each other. When Josie got older, she performed in the East End music halls. That’s how she met Billy Madden.”

  “But what do these letters mean?” Seamie asked, though deep inside himself he knew.

  Willa took a slug of her brandy. “They mean that James is not your son,” she said.

  “But how … Jennie had a baby … at Binsey … she—” he said, feeling as if someone had taken his legs out from under him.

  “Jennie lost the baby. Early on in the pregnancy. She couldn’t have children, Josie told me. There was some reason. An—”

  “An accident,” Seamie said dully. “She was hit by a carriage when she was a child. She was badly injured.”

  It was all making sickening sense to him now. All of it—Jennie’s unwillingness to sleep with him while she was pregnant, to even let him touch her. Her constant trips to Binsey. The telegram from her saying that she’d had the baby there and not to be alarmed, she was fine. They were both fine. God, how could he have been so blind? So stupid?

  “Josie said that Jennie only pretended she was still pregnant. Josie, who really was pregnant, had the child—had James—in Binsey. She told the doctor she was Jennie, so the right names would be on the birth certificate. Then she gave James to Jennie. He wasn’t Jennie’s and your son.” She shook her head. “No, I don’t mean to say that. He is your son. But not your flesh and blood. He was Josie Meadows’s—Josie’s and Billy Madden’s.”

  Seamie recognized that name. He knew Billy Madden was a villain and that he’d tried to kill Sid. “Did Madden know about James?” he asked Willa.

  “He didn’t know James had been born. Josie said he wanted her to get rid of the baby, and she didn’t want to, so she fled London. She went to Binsey and stayed here in the cottage until she’d had the baby. Then she left for Paris.”

  “But he knows now,” Seamie said.

  “Yes, he does. Somehow he’s found out that he fathered James. And he wants him back. Josie said that he’s gone mad. That he told her he lost his sons in the war and now he wants his other son—James.”

  Willa paused here. In a weary, broken voice she said, “He beat her almost to death, Seamie. I saw what he’d done. He beat her to get information on James, but she wouldn’t give it to him.”

  “So he doesn’t know who Josie gave James to. He doesn’t know about Binsey, doesn’t know that I have him now.”

  “I don’t know what Madden knows. Someone told him about James. I don’t know who. Josie didn’t know either. I’m worried that the same someone who told Madden about James knows about Jennie and Binsey and you as well. I’m worried that Madden went back to this person and got more information out of her. Or him. I’m worried—no, actually I’m scared to death—that he’ll find out where you both are. That’s why I want you both to leave the cottage. Right now.”

  “Willa, James is asleep. It’s late. I can’t just pile him into the car and show up on Eddie and Albie’s doorstep. Surely, Madden couldn’t find out any more information so fast. And even if he did, he wouldn’t come out here and just snatch James—”

  Willa stood up so quickly, so violently, that the chair she’d been sitting in went over. “For God’s sake, Seamie, that’s exactly what he would do! You didn’t see Josie. I did! I saw what he’d done to her. She’ll never be the same. She’ll never be on stage again,” she shouted. “That’s why I traveled all the way here from Paris. Not because I’m mad. Not because I’m drug-addled. Because I’ve seen what Billy Madden is capable of. You have to leave. I don’t care if it’s late. You have to go to Cambridge and you have to go now. Until Madden is found and stopped, you have to hide James.”

  “All right, Willa, I—” Seamie started to say. He was interrupted by a little voice.

  “Daddy? Daddy, are you all right? I heard voices.”

  A sleepy-eyed, pajama-clad James stumbled into the kitchen.

  “Hello, lad,” Seamie said. “I’m sorry we woke you. I’m fine. Everything’s fine. I was just having a chat with my friend. James, I would like you meet Miss Alden. Willa, this is my son, James.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Miss Alden,” James said. “Are you my father’s friend from the desert? The one who rode with Major Lawrence?”

  “I am, James. And I’m very pleased to meet you, too. Please pardon my appearance. I’ve been riding on a motorbike in the rain. Got myself rather soaked,” Willa said, smiling.

  Seamie looked at Willa as she spoke. She looked so haggard, so tired. She was soaking wet and trembling, from fear, or exhaustion, or the cold—he didn’t know. She was scared and sorrowing for her friend and in shock, and yet she had raced here. She had got herself to Cala
is and Dover and had somehow got hold of a motorbike and ridden for hours through the rain and the mud to get here. For him and for James. Now she looked like she was going to collapse any second, and yet she was smiling, speaking in a gentle voice, trying her best not to upset a small child.

  “James,” he suddenly said, “we’re going to take a ride together. You and I and Miss Alden. Can you be a good lad, go back into your room, and put some warm clothes on?”

  “Isn’t it a bit late to go motoring?” James asked.

  “It is, but I’ll make you a nice bed on the backseat and we’ll pack some biscuits and make an adventure out of it. Would you like that?”

  James nodded. He padded back to his bedroom.

  “Make sure you put a jumper on!” Seamie shouted after him.

  “He’s the spitting image of her, of Josie,” Willa said softly, as soon as the boy was out of earshot.

  “He’s my son, Willa. I don’t give a damn who fathered him, who carried him, who gave him up to whom. He’s my son.”

  “I know he is, Seamie. I know. That’s why I came,” Willa said, turning to him. “We need to go. Do you want to pack some things?”

  “Yes,” Seamie said. “I will.” He turned and walked stiffly down the hall.

  “What happened?” Willa asked, following him.

  “Burns. All down my right side. I got them when my ship was torpedoed.”

  “We make quite a pair, don’t we? Stitch us together and there might be enough working parts to make one good human being,” she said wryly.

  As Seamie packed his things, Willa went into James’s room, found a suitcase, and put clothes into it for him. When she was finished, she carried the suitcase to the front door.

  James and Seamie were already there. James was holding his stuffed bear. “Can Wellie come?” he asked.

  “Of course, he can,” Seamie said. “I wouldn’t dream of leaving Wellie behind.”

  “Don’t forget the biscuits.”

  “I won’t. We’ll take the whole tin.”

  “And tea? Can we have tea in a flask, Daddy? With lots of milk?”

  “We haven’t time to make it, James, but we’ll take some—”

  Seamie’s words were cut off by a small, scraping sound. They all heard it at the same time and they all turned toward its source—the front door. As Seamie watched, he saw the doorknob turn—first to the right, then to the left. Then whoever was standing on the other side, rattled it. He knew the door would not open; he had locked it after he and Willa came inside. He knew, too, that the door was old, and the hinges rusty, and that he probably had only seconds.

  Seamie grabbed James’s hand and pulled him down the short hallway into his bedroom. He quickly opened his window. “Listen to me, James, and do exactly as I say. Lock your door, crawl out the window, and run to the village. To the King’s Head. Tell Mr. Peters that your father needs help. That he’s to send the constable.”

  “But Daddy …”

  “Pretend I’m Major Lawrence. And you’re Auda and that you’re going to get help from Khalaf al Mor. The Turks are all around the fort. Don’t let them see you.”

  James’s little face brightened. He saluted.

  Seamie saluted back. “Hurry, James. Lock the door behind me!” he said. “Go now!”

  He closed the door, then listened as James shot the bolt. There was an old saber over the fireplace, if he could just get it down in time. He ran back to the sitting room and saw Willa desperately trying to lug the settee to the door, to block it. He lunged at the mantel and pulled the saber down off the wall. He was just raising it, his fingers tightening on the handle, when the door was kicked in.

  Chapter One Hundred Seventeen

  “Drop it. Now. Or I’ll shoot her,” Billy Madden said.

  He was quicker than any of them. He’d got into the house and across the room in seconds. Willa had had no time to run. He’d grabbed her hair with one hand and pressed the barrel of his pistol into her head with the other.

  Seamie lowered the saber, but he did not put it down.

  “Fucking drop it!” Madden yelled, yanking Willa’s head back cruelly. She cried out in pain. Seamie did as he was told. “Make one move, and she’s dead,” Madden said to Seamie. He turned to the man with him. “Bennie, get the boy,” he said.

  “No!” Seamie shouted.

  Willa couldn’t see what was happening, but she could hear scuffling. She heard the horrible crack of bone against bone, heard someone fall heavily to the floor, then heard Seamie groaning. Next, she heard Bennie’s footsteps going down the hallway. He tried the door, then kicked it open.

  “Stop this,” she said, in a strangled voice. “Please …”

  “Shut yer gob,” Madden growled, tightening his grip. He’d pulled Willa’s head so far back, it had become hard for her to breathe.

  Bennie came back into the room. “The boy’s not there, guv,” he said.

  “What?” Madden said.

  “He’s not there. He’s gone. The window’s open. He must’ve climbed out.”

  “Where is he?” Madden shouted at Willa. He let go of her hair and slammed her against the wall, pinning her there by her neck, squeezing so hard, Willa thought he would crush her windpipe. “Bennie, go after him!” he yelled, when Willa would not answer.

  Bennie lumbered out of the door, and Willa saw that he was also carrying a pistol. Madden turned back to her. “I’ll do for you, I swear I will. And then I’ll do for him,” he said, pointing his gun at Seamie. “Where’s the boy?” He was squeezing her throat so hard now that she was gasping for air. She scrabbled at his hand. Kicked at him. “Where’s the boy?” he said again, when she finally stopped struggling. He waited for what seemed like an eternity, slowly choking the life out of her. The minutes dragged by, but Willa would not answer him. “I’m going to ask you one more time,” he said. And then he raised his pistol again, pressed the barrel into her cheek, and cocked the trigger.

  “Easy, Billy, there’s no need for that,” a voice said—a voice from Willa’s nightmares. “We talked about this. There’s to be no blood. Not in the cottage and not outside of it, either. We can’t have the police suspecting foul play. It will ruin everything.”

  No, it isn’t him, Willa thought. It can’t be. It’s the DTs. Or a lack of oxygen. Or maybe Albie’s right. Maybe I am mad. Maybe my mind’s finally come apart.

  Madden relaxed his grip somewhat and Willa was able to breathe again. She looked to her left, toward the doorway, and saw him—a tall, blond man. He had a scar on the side of his face. She herself had put it there.

  “Namaste, Willa Alden,” Max von Brandt said, bowing slightly. “Once again.”

  Chapter One Hundred Eighteen

  “I killed you,” Willa said, stunned, unable to believe what her eyes were telling her. “In Damascus.”

  “Almost,” Max said. “But not quite. I’d tell you to be more thorough next time, but I’m afraid there won’t be a next time.”

  Madden, still holding Willa by her throat, swung his pistol toward Max. “What are you doing out of the car? Don’t you move! Don’t move a fucking muscle, von Brandt, or I’ll shoot you where you stand!”

  “Easy, Billy,” Max said again, as if he was trying to calm a wild animal. “You and Bennie are the ones with the guns, not me, right?” He slowly raised his hands, palms out, to show Madden he was carrying nothing.

  “Where’s Bennie?”

  “Bennie’s outside. He told me to come in after you. He’s got the boy. He’s got him tied up and in the car. He’s ready to go.”

  “No,” Seamie said groggily, trying to get off the floor. “You leave him alone. …” Blood dripped from a gash in his lip. Willa could see the terror in his eyes. She struggled against Madden. He banged her back into the wall.

  “Max, you bastard!” she screamed at him. “How can you do this? James is a child! An innocent child. And you’re delivering him to a criminal. A murderer!”

  Madden hit her across the fa
ce with the butt of his pistol. To Max he said, “You know her?”

  “Very well,” Max replied. He was carrying two lengths of rope.

  “I say we do them both right here. Right now. And be done,” Madden said.

  “No,” Max said.

  As Seamie, still dazed, tried again to get up, Max put a foot in the center of his back, grabbed his hands and tied them. He then tied Willa’s.

  “I’ve told you before, Billy,” he said when he’d finished, “it has to be clean and neat or else you’ll have every police officer in the country looking for the boy. Remember, Billy? Remember what I told you?”

  Billy nodded. Willa chanced a glance at him. His eyes were dark and empty. This is what madness looks like, she thought. He would have killed them both, without a second’s thought or remorse, if Max had not stopped him. But why had he stopped him? she wondered. She soon found out.

  “A coat on the riverbank—Commander Finnegan’s,” Max said to Billy. “A walking stick. Field glasses. Broken ice. It will look like Commander Finnegan and his son went for a winter ramble. James walked out too far on the ice. He fell through. His father tried to save him, but he could not; his injuries had left him too weak. They both drowned—”

  “No!” Willa shouted, cutting Max off. “It won’t work. My brother … my aunt … they know—”

  A vicious backhand from Max silenced her. Billy’s eyes flickered uncertainly between Willa and Max, but Max, unconcerned by what Willa had said, continued to talk, his voice calm and measured.

  “Pay no attention to her, Billy. She’s the cleverest little liar I’ve ever met, and I’ve met quite a few. It will work. It will look so tragic, Billy, especially given all that Commander Finnegan has been through. His body will be found downriver. In the spring. Poor little James’s never will. It’ll be said that he was swept away by the currents, but really, he’ll be living life with his new father. His real father. And I’ll be happily back in Berlin, because I held up my end of the bargain—I helped you get him.” Max paused. His eyes sought Billy’s. “That’s the plan, right, Billy? And we must stick to it. That’s how we make sure you not only get James, but you get to keep him.”