The Tea Rose

by Jennifer Donnelly

  “Fiona …”

  “Mmmm?” she said, engrossed by the stone.

  “I love you.”

  She looked up at him in amazement. He had never said that before. Their feelings for each other had been something understood between them, but never spoken aloud. It wasn’t the Cockney way to wear your heart on your sleeve, to speak of your deepest feelings. He loved her. She had always known it and never doubted it, and yet to hear those words from his own lips …

  “I love you,” he said again, fiercely this time. “So, take care of yourself, right? Because I won’t be around to. No shortcuts ’ome from Burton’s. No alleyways. You stay on Cannon Street and get across the ’ighway quick. No coming to the river unless it’s to meet your da. And you make sure you’re inside by dark with that bastard on the loose.”

  Suddenly, her sadness was unbearable. Tears stung behind her eyes again. He was only going across London, to the West End, and yet it might as well be China. She couldn’t go there; she had no money for bus fare. She couldn’t bear the thought of the days to come. Days without him in them, dragging by one after another, so dreary and lifeless without a glimpse of him in the morning trundling the barrow off to the market, or in the evening out on the step.

  “Joe,” she said quietly.

  “What?”

  She took his face in her hands and kissed him. “I love you, too.”

  “Of course you do,” he growled, flustered. “Good-looking lad like meself, ’ow could you ’elp it?”

  Looking at him, Fiona was suddenly overcome by a wild and desperate fear of losing him. She felt as if he were being taken from her. She kissed him again, more passionately than she ever had, her hands clutching bunches of his shirt. She was overwhelmed by a blind and powerful need for him. She wanted to pull him to her and keep him there forever. To mark him as hers, to claim him. These were dangerous feelings, she knew where they would lead, but she didn’t care. He would go, he would have to. But she would make sure he took a part of her with him and that she kept a part of him here.

  It was only a short distance from where they were standing to the shadows and shelter of the Orient Wharf. She took his hand and pulled him into the pilings that supported the jutting dock. It was dark and silent underneath, the only sound was of the river gently lapping. There was no one to see them there, no sailors or bargemen to whistle and hoot.

  She pulled him to her again, kissed his lips, his neck, his throat. When he moved his hand from her waist to her breast, she covered it with her own and pressed it tightly against herself. Her girlish fears had disappeared. She had always been eager for his lips, his touch, but also afraid. Now it seemed as if her body had a purpose of her own, fierce and urgent; the pounding of her heart, and the aching heat that had started in the pit of her belly and now surged in every vein drowned out the warning voices in her head. She could not get him close enough; kissing him, touching him, feeling his hands upon her did not satisfy this new and powerful craving, it only made it stronger. She felt unbearably hot and breathless and thought she would die if she did not fill up this empty, aching void within herself.

  Her hands pushed his jacket off his shoulders. He shrugged out of it and tossed it onto the ground. Her fingers sought the buttons of his shirt, and one by one, quickly undid them. She slipped her hands inside, running her palms over his chest and back. She touched her lips to his bare skin and inhaled the smell of him. It was as if her senses wished to know every inch of him and imprint the smell and taste and feel of him on her memory. And still it wasn’t enough.

  She unbuttoned her blouse, then undid her camisole, her fingers fumbling with the ribbons. The white cotton parted and slipped from her body to the ground, leaving her naked to the waist. She raised her eyes to his and saw the desire in them, but she couldn’t possibly know how deep, how strong that desire was. Joe had seen her nearly every day of his life, knew all her moods, her expressions and gestures, but he had never seen her like this – her hair tumbling down her shoulders, jet-black against her ivory skin. Her bare breasts, round and ripe and pretty. And her eyes, as deep and darkly blue as the ocean.

  “God, lass, but you’re beautiful,” he whispered.

  Gently, with infinite tenderness, he cupped her breasts with his hands and kissed them, and the place between, and finally, he kissed the place over her heart. Then he bent down, gathered her clothes, and handed them back to her.

  “Why?” she asked, wounded. “Don’t you want me?”

  He snorted laughter. “Don’t I?” He took her hand roughly and pressed it between his legs. “Does this feel like I don’t want you?”

  Fiona drew her hand back, blushing furiously.

  “I want you more than I’ve ever wanted anything in me whole life, Fiona. A second ago, I almost took you right there on the ground. And God only knows where I found the strength to stop.”

  “Why did you? I didn’t want you to stop.”

  “Because what if we did, and something ’appened? And then I’m in Covent Garden and you’re ’ere with a big belly and a father fit to kill us both.”

  Fiona bit her lip. It was no use telling him she’d wanted him so badly, she’d been ready to take that chance.

  “I’d marry you in a second if that ’appened, Fee. You know I would, but ’ow could we take on a baby right now? We can’t afford to. We’ve got to stick to our plan – the savings, and then the shop, and then we’ll get married. And that way, when the babies come, we’ll ’ave the money to give ’em what they need. Right?”

  “Right,” she said quietly. She slipped her camisole back on, then her blouse. Then she gathered her hair back into a neat plait and tried to affect a calm, collected manner. Her mind agreed with what Joe said, but her body did not. It was hot, uncomfortable, and deeply unsatisfied. It still ached for what it wanted, regardless of reason.

  “Come on, then,” he said, offering her his hand. He pulled her to him, and they stood that way for a long time before he led her out of the pilings. They walked back to the Old Stairs, climbed them, then paused briefly at the top, while he cast one last glance over the barges, the tea wharves, and the river. He wouldn’t be seeing them again for a while.

  As they walked home, Joe, as always, could not resist teasing her. He kept looking at her and grinning. And when she finally turned to him and demanded to know what he was looking at, he laughed and shook his head. “I never knew,” he said.

  “Never knew what?”

  “Never knew that my shy little violet, the lass who once was worried lest I go too far be’ind the brewery wall, is really as randy as a goat.”

  “Oh, Joe!” she cried, reddening. “Don’t you dare tease me!”

  “I think it’s grand. I do. And you better be at least that randy the day I marry you or I won’t ’ave you. I’ll take you back to your father’s. Return you like a crate of bad apples.”

  “Be quiet, will you? Somebody will ’ear!”

  A couple, an older man and woman, passed them on the sidewalk. Joe affected a serious, businesslike voice for their benefit. “Oh, well, even if I couldn’t close the deal today, at least I got a good look at the merchandise. And fine goods they are, lass.”

  He made her laugh so much all the way from Wapping to her home that she almost forgot he was leaving. But when they rounded the corner of Montague Street, it came back to her. He was going tomorrow. When she got back from Burton’s, he wouldn’t be here.

  As if sensing her feelings, he took her hand and said, “Remember what I told you. It’s not forever. I’ll be back to see you before you know it.”

  She nodded.

  “Take care of yourself,” he said, kissing her good-bye.

  “And you,” she murmured, watching him as he walked down the street, watching as he walked away from her.

  * * *

  Roddy O’Meara doubled over and groaned. With one great, wrenching heave, his stomach emptied itself of the beef-and-onion pie he’d eaten for supper. He leaned against the pit
ted brick wall in the yard behind 29 Hanbury Street and forced himself to breathe deeply, willing the nausea still gripping his gut to subside. As he passed a hand over his damp brow, he became aware that his helmet had fallen off.

  “Jaysus, I hope I haven’t puked on that.”

  He hawked a gob of spit, located his helmet, and after a quick inspection placed it back on his head, tightening the strap under his chin. Then he forced himself to walk back to the body. He wasn’t about to allow his weak stomach to keep him from doing his job.

  “Better?” George Phillips, the police surgeon, asked him.

  Roddy nodded, picking up the bull’s-eye lantern he’d left next to the body.

  “Good man,” Dr. Phillips said, crouching by the corpse. “Shine that over here.”

  He directed the beam to the woman’s head. As the doctor began to scribble in his notebook, trading questions and comments with the officer in charge, Inspector Joseph Chandler, and various detectives, Roddy’s eyes swept over the body. What had only hours ago been a living, breathing woman was now a gutted carcass. She lay before them on her back, her legs obscenely splayed, her abdomen yawning. Her killer had disemboweled her and deposited her glistening intestines beside her. He’d sliced into her thighs and hacked at the flesh between them. A gash lay across her throat like a garnet choker, the congealing blood glinting darkly in the lantern’s light.

  “Good Christ,” one of the detectives said. “Just wait until the papers get hold of this one, with her guts all over the place.”

  “There’s to be no press in here. None,” Chandler barked, looking up from the body. “Davidson,” he said to the detective. “Take a dozen men and position them in front of the building. No one’s to come in here unless they’re on police business.”

  It was the worst murder yet. In spite of all the extra officers on patrol after Polly Nichols was found cut up in Buck’s Row nine days ago, the murderer had hacked another streetwalker to death.

  Roddy had seen death before. Women beaten lifeless by their husbands. Children starved and neglected. Victims of fires and accidents. Nothing approached this. This was hatred – black and insane and staggering. Whoever had killed this woman, and the others, hated them with an incomprehensible fury.

  He now had another image of the killer’s work to store in his brain. But this time, he wouldn’t let it keep him up at night; this time he would channel the horror and anger into his casework. They’d catch the man; it was only a matter of time. And when they had him, he’d hang for what he’d done. Even now, as Dr. Phillips examined the body, scores of constables and detectives were fanning out through the area, searching for clues, knocking on doors, rousing residents to find out if they’d heard anything, seen anything.

  “Over here,” Dr. Phillips said, moving from the woman’s neck to her abdomen.

  Roddy followed, stepping over a puddle of blood. He shone the lantern into the cavity. His stomach twisted again, tightening itself to the size of a walnut. The sweet, coppery smell of her blood, the stench of human organs and their contents were overpowering.

  “Her throat was cut left to right. She’s only been dead a half hour, no rigor yet,” Phillips told the inspector, still scribbling as he talked. “Abdominal mutilation is worse than the last time. It appears as if –”

  Above their heads, a sticky window was forced open. Dr. Phillips looked up; Roddy and the others followed his gaze. Out of almost all the windows in the upper stories of the houses that bordered the tiny yard, heads protruded and fingers pointed.

  “Please go back inside!” the doctor shouted. “This is no sight for decent folk!”

  Some of the heads were withdrawn, most remained.

  “Did you hear the man? Go inside or I’ll have you brought up on charges of obstructing police inquiries!” Chandler bellowed.

  “You can’t do that, guv’nor!” came one indignant reply. “I paid the geezer what lives ’ere tuppence for a gander.”

  “Good God,” Phillips groaned. He turned back to the body, a scowl darkening his face. “Come on, let’s finish and then we’ll cover her. Give them less to gawk at, the bloody ghouls.”

  He finished his examination and dismissed Roddy, who joined the other constables in front of the building. While the inspector and his detectives searched the area around the body for evidence, Roddy and his fellow officers faced down an ugly crowd.

  A woman wearing a man’s greatcoat over her nightdress glared at him, a mixture of fear and anger in her eyes. “Constable!” she shouted, taking a few steps toward him. “It’s ’im, ain’t it? The Whitechapel Murderer. ’E’s struck again, ’asn’t ’e? Why don’t you coppers get ’im?”

  In keeping with official policy, Roddy made no reply. He trained his gaze on the house across the street.

  “You’re doing nothing!” the woman cried, her voice as shrill as a rook’s. “And it’s because it’s all poor women, ain’t it? Nobody cares about us. Just wait till ’e goes west and threatens the fine ladies there. Then you’ll catch ’im!”

  “Aw, missus,” a man shouted, “them peelers couldn’t catch clap in a whorehouse.”

  The crowd threw more taunts and jeers, growing larger – and surlier – by the minute. Inspector Chandler pushed his way through the officers to check on the source of all the noise. He looked at the crowd, then turned to his men and told them that the ambulance should arrive momentarily. “As soon as the body’s gone, the rabble will disperse,” he said.

  “ ’Ow many more will ’e get?” a woman screeched. “ ’Ow many?”

  Giving the crowd a filthy look, Chandler turned to rejoin his detectives. Before he could leave, however, a new voice piped up.

  “Yes, Inspector, how many more?”

  Roddy saw Chandler grimace.

  “How many more, sir? The public have a right to know!”

  Roddy’s eyes darted to the speaker. He knew that voice. Brisk, excited, almost cheerful in tone, it belonged to a wiry, rumpled figure hastily making its way toward Chandler.

  “I’ve nothing for you, Devlin,” the inspector growled.

  “Was her throat cut?”

  “No comment.”

  “Body slashed?”

  “I said no comment!” Chandler snapped. He shouted orders at his men to stand firm and rejoined Phillips.

  Undaunted, the reporter sized up the row of constables before him. “How about you men? Seems like our boy got another one, eh? And the police were nowhere in sight as usual. Heard she only just died. Might’ve lived if you lot had been faster. Too slow off the mark …”

  Devlin’s fishing expedition paid off. One young constable, offended by his words, took the bait. “We wasn’t too slow! She died right away from the wound to ’er throat. She –”

  Devlin pounced. “What time? Who found her?”

  A quick elbow in the ribs reminded the lad to close his mouth and left Devlin, pad in hand, to try his luck elsewhere.

  Roddy sighed. He felt edgy and restless. He didn’t want to stand here. He wanted to be out, pounding on doors. He needed to move, to be active; that was the only thing that would erase the sights that plagued his memory – her torn body, her splayed legs, the little red flower pinned to her jacket. Would he be able to sleep when this night was over? He closed his eyes and found that the images persisted behind his shuttered eyelids, and that Devlin’s voice, badgering, relentless, echoed in his head: “How many more will he get? How many more?”

  Chapter 7

  Hot water straight from the tap. Drains that never backed up. It was bloody amazing. Bloody wonderful! Joe dipped his razor into a basin of warm soapy water and marveled again at the miracle of modern conveniences. A sink. A bathtub. A flush toilet. All indoors! Eyeing himself in the bathroom mirror, he puffed out his cheek and scraped away the blond stubble covering it.

  When Peterson told him he’d be living in a room over the company offices, he expected a dark, drafty rathole with a dank privy in the backyard. He couldn’t have been more
wrong. The room – the top floor of a three-story brick building – had been used for storage, then as sleeping quarters for farmers in from the country. When his nephew Harry came up from Brighton to work for him, Peterson had had it renovated into serviceable bachelor’s quarters. It was sparsely furnished, but bright and clean. The walls were painted a warm cream. There was a cast-iron stove to warm the room and heat a dinner or water for tea. An old braided rug covered the floor in front of it and a pair of worn leather wing chairs – pulled from the attic of Peterson’s house – flanked it. Each lad had a bed and a narrow wardrobe to call his own, plus a fruit crate for a night table and an oil lamp.

  Tommy’s done right by me so far, Joe thought. The pay’s good and the quarters are first-rate. But Peterson had given him something more than a room and wages, something he valued greatly. He listened to him. The man was mind-bogglingly busy – he oversaw an entire army of workers: buyers, sellers, porters, drivers – yet he took the time to hear his employees’ ideas, from the lowliest porter to the head buyer. When Joe suggested that the pea-shellers might get more done if they had a boy to keep them stocked rather than getting up from their stools to get the pods themselves, a boy was hired. Output increased and the whole experiment earned him a “Good lad!” and a slap on the back. When he noticed that the chefs from the grand hotels and restaurants – a picky, impatient bunch – tended to move around from seller to seller, buying apples here and broccoli there, he asked if he could have tea available for them. Tommy agreed, and the chefs, grateful for a hot drink at four in the morning, lingered and bought.

  The money, the room – they both pleased him greatly, but the encouragement he got from Tommy – that made him happiest of all. His father had never been interested in his ideas; he’d resisted every one. Now Joe was seeing his good ideas confirmed, commended even.

  The first free moment he had, he wrote to Fiona and told her about his new life: “Hot baths whenever I want, a bed all to myself, and a warm room with buckets of coal,” he wrote. “We’ll have all this someday and more besides.” He told her about the job, his roommate, the farmers from Devon and Cornwall, and the incredible commotion of Covent Garden. It took four pages to tell her these things and a fifth to tell her that in a fortnight, when he had a full weekend off – Tommy only gave one full weekend off a month – he was going to take her to see the shops on Regent and Bond Streets. And this was just the beginning. He was able to put more money aside, just as he’d said. They would have their shop sooner than they thought, and when they were rich they would have a nice house with a modern bathroom. He closed the letter by saying that he hoped she missed him, for he missed her.