The Tea Rose

by Jennifer Donnelly

  “I tried,” she said dully. “I was on my way when Mr. Jackson, the publican, sent for me. I’d asked about a job there and ’e told me I could ’ave it, but I ’ad to start right away. I was going to write you, but we needed the money you sent to buy Eileen medicine. I’m sorry,” she said. Fresh tears coursed down her face. “If only I’d come.” Sobs racked her entire body. She could not speak. When she could finally get the words out, she asked, “Do you … do you love ’er?”

  “No! God, no!” he shouted. “I love you, Fiona. I made a mistake, a stupid fucking ’orrible mistake and I’d give anything to be able to go back and undo it. Anything! I love you, Fee. I want to be with you, I want things to be like they were before everything went wrong. I can’t… I can’t go through with this … I can’t … oh, God …” He turned away from her and his words were lost in his weeping.

  But you will, Fiona thought. You have to. There’s a baby coming. Your baby. She watched him as he cried like a child and into the maelstrom of emotion engulfing her – sorrow, rage, fear – came a new feeling, one of pity. She didn’t want to feel it. She wanted to hate him, because if she could just hate him, she could walk away from him. But it was impossible. Instinctively, her hand went out and stroked his back. He felt it, turned to her, and pulled her to him. He wrapped his arms around her and buried his face in her neck. She felt sick and quaking in her very soul. “Do you know what you’ve done?” she whispered. “Do you know what you’ve thrown away? Our dreams. Our lives, past and future. Everything we were, everything we ’oped for. The love we ’ad for each other …”

  “No, Fee,” Joe said, taking her face in his hands. “Don’t say that. Please don’t say you don’t love me anymore. I’ve no right, I know it, but please, please still love me.”

  Fiona looked at the man she’d loved her entire life, the man she needed more than anything or anybody. “Aye, I love you, Joe,” she said. “I love you and you’re going to marry Millie Peterson.”

  As the sun went down over London, darkening the sky and chilling the air, Joe and Fiona remained by the river’s edge, holding each other as if they would never let go. Fiona knew it was for the last time. When they left the river, it would be over. She’d never know the feel of him, the smell of him again. She’d never sit at the Old Stairs with him again, hear his voice call her name, see his quick blue eyes crinkle with laughter. They’d never have their shop, a home, children, a life. Her dreams were gone forever, stillborn. Out of the blue, her best friend was leaving; her hope, her love, her very life was leaving her.

  She couldn’t bear it. It hurt too much. Without Joe in it, her life was no longer worth living. It was nothing to her. With sudden clarity, she knew what she would do. She would tell him to go, and when he had, she would walk into the Thames and let it swallow her. It would be quick. It was nearly December and the water was cold. She wanted an end to this blinding, tearing pain.

  “When is your … your wedding?” she asked, not believing that these words were coming from her mouth.

  “A week from today.”

  So soon. My God, it’s so soon, she thought. “I need something from you,” she said.

  “Anything.”

  “I need the money. My part of our savings.”

  “You can ’ave it all. I’ll bring it round.”

  “Give it to me mam if I’m not… if I’m not there.” She looked at him one last time, then trained her gaze on the river. “Go now. Please.”

  “Don’t send me away, Fiona. Let me ’old you while I can,” he pleaded.

  “Go. Please, Joe. I’m begging you.”

  And then he was standing, looking at her and sobbing. And then he was gone and she was alone. Suicide was a sin, a small voice told her, but she didn’t care. She thought of her grandfather, her father’s father, who’d jumped from a cliff when his wife died. People said time healed anything. Maybe those people had never loved anyone. Time wouldn’t have healed her grandfather, she was sure. And it wouldn’t heal her.

  She walked to the water’s edge and took a last look at the river she loved, at the wharves and the barges and the stars coming out in the dark London sky. She was in the water up to her ankles before she heard the shouting from the top of the stairs.

  “There you are, you sorry little cow!”

  She spun around. It was Charlie. He was standing at the top of the steps and he was furious. “Where the fuck ’ave you been?” he shouted, walking down them. “I’ve been looking for you since seven o’clock and it’s just gone nine. ’Ave you lost your bleeding mind? Mam’s out of ’er ’ead with worry. We thought you was murdered. Thought the Ripper ’ad got you. I missed me fight at the Taj because of you. Quinn’s going to kill me …” He stopped and looked at her pale face, saw her eyes swollen with crying, her hair all wild. “What ’appened to you?” His expression changed from anger to frantic concern. “It wasn’t a bloke interfering with you, was it, Fee?” He took her by the shoulders. “Nobody touched you, did they? Did Sid Malone …”

  Fiona shook her head.

  “Well, what’s going on, then?”

  “Oh, Charlie,” she cried, collapsing into her brother’s arms. “I’ve lost my Joe.”

  Chapter 18

  Joe stood at the altar, handsome in a dark gray suit. He faced the entrance to the church, awaiting his bride. Harry Eaton stood at his side.

  “All right, old man?” Harry whispered, eyeing his green complexion.

  He nodded, but he was far from all right. He felt numb, as if he were in a nightmare, the kind where he couldn’t scream or run away. He was trapped, utterly and absolutely. His father hadn’t raised him to shirk his responsibilities. He was an adult and he had to face them. He had made one fatally stupid mistake and now he would spend the rest of his life paying for it. The rest of his life for one fuck. What an obscenely high price. And Harry thought his whores were expensive. Hysterical laughter burbled up inside him, he had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep it in.

  “Not going to pass out, are you?” Harry asked, concerned.

  He shook his head.

  “Don’t worry. It’s not a death sentence. You can always play around.”

  Joe smiled ruefully. Harry assumed he shared his own fear of monogamy. Oh, Harry, he thought, if it were only that simple. He knew that with his new position at Peterson’s and the money Tommy had settled on them, he could have plenty of women. It didn’t matter. He couldn’t have the one woman he wanted.

  His eyes took in the rows of faces before him. He saw his parents, his brother Jimmy, his sisters, Ellen and Cathy, all dressed in the new clothes he’d bought them. His father was tight-lipped; his mother was crying off and on, just as she had been doing ever since he’d broken the news to her. He saw people he knew from work, important customers of Tommy’s, friends and relatives of Millie’s. It was a small crowd by Tommy’s standards, only about a hundred people. But it was a rushed affair and there hadn’t been time to organize anything larger.

  Tommy had been angry when he first found out, but he calmed down when he learned that Joe intended to marry his daughter. Millie later said it was all bluster. He was thrilled to be getting Joe for a son-in-law, but wanted to play the outraged father for the sake of appearances.

  Her pregnancy became an open secret. Men elbowed each other, joking that that devil of a Bristow just couldn’t wait. Women smiled among themselves, smugly talking about an early arrival. No one was overly scandalized, they were happy for the handsome couple, pleased that Tommy’s daughter and his protégé were marrying. Soon there’d be a third-generation son with selling in his blood. It was a brilliant match, people said.

  Joe became aware of organ music. The guests stood up and looked toward the entrance. He followed their gaze. A flower girl came out, followed by Millie’s maid of honor, followed by Millie herself, escorted by her father. His eyes held no joy in them as he looked at her, only dread. He might have been watching his executioner walk toward him. She wore an ivory taffeta
dress with leg-o’-mutton sleeves, a long train, and a full veil, and carried an enormous bouquet of white lilies. He thought she looked like a ghost, shrouded in white from head to toe. Like the ghost in that Christmas story by Charles Dickens, the ghost of Christmas Future, of all his days to come.

  He was barely aware of himself during the ceremony. He got through his vows, exchanged rings, kissed his new wife on her cheek, then led her down the aisle to receive their guests as Mr. and Mrs. Joseph Bristow. He managed a hollow smile now and again. It was all unreal, he was still moving in a nightmare. Surely, he would wake up any minute now, sweating, twisted up in his sheets, so relieved it was over.

  But it wasn’t. He rode with Millie in a carriage to their reception at Claridge’s. He suffered through dance after dance with her, drank toasts, ate his supper, kissed her perfunctorily, smiled at people he didn’t know. He escaped once, for a few minutes, to have a drink with Harry on a balcony. Harry told him that he’d be leaving in a week’s time. He tried to be happy for his friend, but he didn’t want to see him go, he’d miss him. And he envied him.

  Finally it was time to leave. Amid bawdy jokes and raucous laughter, Joe and Millie were bundled off to the sumptuous suite Tommy had rented for them. They were to spend the night there before setting off for Paris the following morning for a two-month honeymoon. Millie wanted to go for three, but Tommy said he needed Joe back at work, and Joe had quickly agreed. He had no idea how he was going to get through two months with Millie; two hours seemed unbearable.

  Once inside their suite, she disappeared to change. Joe shrugged off his jacket, loosened his tie and poured himself a glass of whiskey. He stepped through a set of French doors onto the balcony and looked out at the London skyline. Eastward. Where she was.

  Attired in a frothy negligee, Millie rejoined him. “Come to bed,” she whispered, putting her arms around him.

  He stiffened. “I’m fine where I am.”

  “Is something wrong?” she asked, her eyes seeking his.

  “No. Nothing. I’m tired. It’s been a long day.”

  “I can wake you up,” she said, pressing herself against him.

  Joe closed his eyes lest she see the loathing in them. “I need a bit of air, Millie. Why don’t you go in and lie down? You must be tired. I’ll be in shortly.”

  “Promise?”

  “Yes.”

  The first night in a lifetime of lies. God, how would he keep this up? What would he say when the getting-some-air excuse wore thin? That he couldn’t bear the sight of her? That her voice, her smile, everything about her sickened him? That he didn’t love her and never would? He looked into his whiskey glass, but it had no answers for him. He reminded himself that it was his fault she was pregnant. She would soon be the mother of his child; he mustn’t be cruel to her. If only he could take it all back; if he could just go back to that night and walk out of her bedroom before anything happened.

  This should have been his wedding night with Fiona. His soul cried out for her. The wedding, the fact that Millie was now his wife, changed nothing. In his heart, Fiona still belonged to him and he belonged to her even though he would never again look at the face that he loved. Or see her eyes light up, hear her excited voice, touch her, love her. What would become of her? He knew the answer. In time she would get over him and find another man. And then he, whoever he was, would be the one to see her smile, to share her days, to reach for her in the dark. The thought made him feel physically ill.

  He had to get out of here, out of this room, away from Millie. The hotel had a bar. He would drink himself silly tonight and every night of this godforsaken honeymoon. Soon she’d be too big to want him anyway. And after the baby came, he’d find some new excuse. He’d travel for Tommy, work twenty-four hours a day. He knew he could never bear to touch her again. He stepped inside the sitting room and closed the balcony doors. He rummaged around for his jacket, fixed his tie, and pocketed the room keys.

  “Joe?” he heard her call sleepily from the bedroom. Her only answer was the sound of the door slamming.

  Eileen’s breathing sounded thick and wet. Kate listened intently, waiting for the sudden catch that signaled a fit of coughing, but it didn’t come. Maybe the poor little thing will actually sleep through the night, she hoped. It was ten o’clock now; if Eileen remained peaceful for another half hour, she would turn in. Sitting in her rocker, she sipped from a cup of tea, keeping her eyes on the baby. The last few months had not been kind to her. There were dark circles under her eyes and lines where there had been none. She had been racked with worry for weeks over the health of her baby daughter, and now Eileen was not the only child she worried about. She raised her eyes to the bed. Fiona had cried herself to sleep again. A week had passed since Charlie had brought her home from the river and she was no better. Her temperature remained high despite every attempt to bring it down. Her color was poor. She refused to eat. It was all Kate could do to get her to take some broth.

  The fever worried Kate, but what worried her more was Fiona’s emotional state. She wasn’t fighting her illness; she was making no effort at all. Her bright, cheerful girl was gone and a dead-eyed stranger had taken her place. It broke her heart to see it. She’d always fretted over her high spirits, her determination to open a shop. Now she longed to hear her daughter speak of a shop, or anything at all, with just a little of her old enthusiasm.

  Kate had nursed her children through many illnesses, but she’d never seen anything like Fiona’s ailment. There was no reason for the fever; she had no cough, there was nothing wrong with her chest. She had no stomach pains, no vomiting. Her boots and stockings had been soaked when Charlie brought her home, but Kate didn’t think her fever came from taking a chill. No doctor would agree with her, but she was certain it came from a broken heart.

  When she’d found out what had happened, she’d wanted to wring Joe Bristow’s neck. Eventually, her anger had given way to sorrow. Mainly for her daughter, but also for Joe. Rose Bristow had come to see them. She’d brought nearly twenty pounds from her son. Money that would have financed Fiona’s dream. Now it would go toward doctor bills, medicine, food, a new place to live. Fiona insisted they use it. Kate had argued with her, telling her to hang on to it, but she was adamant.

  Rose had dissolved into tears at the sight of Fiona. She didn’t want her son to marry Millie, not when she knew how much he loved Fiona. “The stupid, stupid sod,” she’d said bitterly. “ ’E’s ruined ’is life. You’re luckier than ’e is, Fiona. You’re still free to find someone to love and in time you will. ’E never will.”

  Kate leaned her head against the rocker’s high back and closed her eyes. She would give anything to be able to take away her child’s grief. She knew her daughter had adored Joe ever since they were little. Her whole life had been Joe and the dreams they shared. Maybe there was no getting over a loss like that. Maybe the wound healed, but the scar ached forever. She had not gotten over Paddy’s death and did not expect to. How did you get over losing the one man you loved body and soul? You went on, moving numbly through a gray world. That was all you could do.

  She heard the faint sound of singing coming through the wall. Frances must be home, she thought. The walls between the houses were so thin that she often heard her singing or clattering pots, or, worse, entertaining a paying gentleman. She was glad to know that Frances was in, however. Charlie was never around these days and Lucy Brady had gone to the lying-in hospital to have her baby. She liked knowing there was someone close by she could call on to sit with Seamie and Fiona in case she needed to fetch Eileen’s doctor.

  She yawned. Lord, I’m tired, she thought, I’ll get myself to bed now. Instead she drifted off. She stirred once, a few hours later, thinking she’d heard somebody scream, then dropped off again, convinced she’d dreamed it. A few minutes later, she snapped awake. The baby was wheezing; her face was red. Kate picked her up, trying to comfort her, trying not to panic. She decided to go for the doctor now before the wheeze tu
rned into a gasp. Moving quickly, she laid Eileen back in her basket and grabbed her shawl.

  “What is it, Mam? What’s wrong?” Fiona asked groggily.

  “It’s Eileen. I’m going to the doctor’s.”

  “I’ll fetch ’im ’ere,” she said. She stood up, keeping one hand on the bed to steady herself.

  “Get back in bed. Right now. I’m going to get Frances to sit with you.”

  Kate picked up the baby’s basket and ran to Frances’s. She banged on the door. There was no response. Frantic, she peered into the small, grimy window next to it, wiping a pane clean with her sleeve. In the glow of a small fire, she saw Frances on the bed and a man in his shirtsleeves bent over her. She had a client; he was just finishing his business from the look of things. Kate was too desperate to be embarrassed. She put the basket down and yelled for her friend, rapping on the window. Frances did not move, but the man straightened. He’s heard me, thank God! she thought.

  Slowly, as if in a trance, the man moved toward the door and Kate’s relief turned to horror as she saw he was holding a knife. Its blade was dark and slick. The same substance that was on it covered his hands and his shirtfront and ran in a rivulet down his cheek.

  “It’s blood,” she whispered. “Oh, my God, look at it all!”

  Shrieking, she stumbled away from the window, caught her boot heel in the hem of her skirt and fell to the ground. The door was wrenched open and the man was on her. She held her hands up, trying to save herself, but it was no use. In the instant before he slid his knife between her ribs, she glimpsed his mad, inhuman eyes and knew him. He was Jack.

  Chapter 19

  Fiona stared at the stark wooden markers sticking out of the snow-dusted ground. On the left, her father’s, already weathered by the elements. Next to his, her mother’s and the baby’s, just starting to darken. And next to theirs, a brand-new one, the wooden cross still pale and unweathered. Her brother Charlie’s.