Ellis nodded. “How old did you say you were, Miss Finnegan?”
“I didn’t, but I’m eighteen.”
“And have you ever run a shop before?”
“Well… I… not exactly … no, sir, I haven’t.”
“I appreciate your efforts on behalf of your uncle, Miss Finnegan, but I’m afraid you’re a bit too young and inexperienced to take on the responsibility of a business. I’m sure you’ll understand that I have the bank’s interests to consider and I feel that the safest course of action in light of the present circumstances is still an auction.”
“Begging your pardon, sir, but that doesn’t make sense,” she argued. “You’re going to lose money on the auction. I’m offering to make up the back payments and continue to meet the terms of the loan. That’s a six-percent profit. Surely, you’d rather make money than lose it. …”
“Our interview is concluded, Miss Finnegan. Good day,” Ellis said icily, not pleased to have his business explained to him by an eighteen-year-old girl.
“But, Mr. Ellis –”
“Good day, Miss Finnegan.”
Fiona gathered her papers and put them back in her portfolio. With dignity befitting a queen instead of a crushed young woman, she rose and extended her hand again, waiting this time until Ellis took it. Then she left his office, hoping her tears wouldn’t fall until she was outside of it.
She was beaten. All her work of the last week was wasted. And the money she’d spent! Christ, she’d as good as thrown it away. How could she have been so stupid to think a bank would actually listen to her? She dreaded going home. She knew Mary would be waiting for her, hoping it had gone well. What would she tell her? She was counting on her. They all were. And after she broke the bad news, then she could begin what she’d dreaded the most – looking for a place to live, a job. Watching as the building was sold. Watching as her uncle became homeless, lost to the streets, a wild, muttering gutter drunk.
She fastened the clasp on her portfolio. Her head was down and she was unaware of the elegantly dressed man sitting in the leather chair just outside Ellis’s door, his ankle resting on his knee. Tall, fortyish, and remarkably good-looking, he eyed her with interest and appreciation. He stubbed out the cigar he was holding, rose, and walked over to her.
“Ellis turned you down?”
Fiona, still having difficulty holding her tears in, nodded quickly.
“He’s a bit of an old woman. Have a seat.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Sit. I overheard you. Your ideas are good. You’re on target with the differentiation.”
“The what?”
“Differentiation.” He smiled. “Like the word? I coined it myself. It means setting yourself apart from the competition. Offering things they don’t. I’ll see what I can do.”
He disappeared into Ellis’s office, slamming the door behind him. Fiona, stunned, continued to stand exactly where he’d left her until Miss Miles told her to sit down.
“Who is that?” Fiona asked her.
“William McClane,” she said reverently.
“Who?”
“McClane? Of McClane Mining and McClane Lumber and McClane Subterranean. Only one of the richest men in New York,” she replied, in a tone that suggested Fiona must be a bumpkin not to know such a thing. “He made his first fortune in silver,” she said in a hushed, girlish voice. “Then he went into logging. Now he’s working on plans for New York’s first underground railway. Rumor has it he’s going into electricity and telephones, too.”
Fiona had only the vaguest idea what a telephone was and no idea at all what electricity was, but she nodded, pretending she did.
“He owns First Merchants, too. And” – she leaned in closer to Fiona – “he’s a widower. His wife died two years ago. Every society lady in town is after him.”
Mr. Ellis’s door opened again, silencing their conversation. Mr. McClane came out.
“You’ve got your shop,” he briskly informed Fiona. “See Ellis about the details. And spend a little more on the advertising. Take a whole page if you can and run the ad on Saturdays, not Sundays, even if it costs more. That’s when most of the men in your neighborhood get paid. You want your name fresh in people’s minds when the money’s there, not after it’s gone.”
Before Fiona could get a word out, he had tipped his hat to her and Miss Miles and left, leaving her standing there in his wake, staring after him, whispering the words, “Thank you.”
Chapter 27
All of the large terraced limestone houses on Albemarle Street in newly fashionable Pimlico were flawlessly maintained, their shutters and doors painted an identical glossy black, brass postboxes polished to a gleam, and flowers allotted suitable space in terra-cotta planters or ceramic urns. Each dwelling had a black gas lamp in front of it that now, at nine o’clock on a drizzly April evening, glowed brightly.
The houses spoke of a solid, commendable sameness that, if some-what uninspired, was at least above reproach, a quality much desired by their occupants – newly minted members of a middle class keen to prove itself every bit as refined and respectable as its established old money neighbors in Belgravia and Knightsbridge. There was nothing brash, nothing out of place, nothing unseemly. There was no litter on the street, there were no vagrants or stray dogs. It was as quiet as a graveyard, as stifling as a coffin, and Joe Bristow despised the very sight of it.
He longed for the color and life of Montague Street. He missed coming home at night to the excited shrieks of his siblings, the taunting jokes of his mates, an impromptu football game played on the rough cobbles. Most of all, he missed walking up to number eight, to the black-haired girl who sat on her step playing with her brother or ignoring a pile of sewing. He missed calling her name, watching as she lifted her head, as her whole face broke into a smile. For him.
His carriage, a black caléche pulled by a handsome roan, both wedding gifts from his father-in-law, pulled up to the portico at the front of the house. His steps did not quicken as he neared his door, nor did his heart warm with anticipation at seeing his wife. His only hope was that she would already be asleep and the servants, too, whose presence in his home and his life he could not get used to. The sight of his agitated housekeeper pacing at the top of the steps told him this was not to be.
“Oh, Mr. Bristow! Thank God you’re finally home, sir!” she cried.
“What is it, Mrs. Parrish? What are you doing out ’ere? Where’s Mathison?”
“Gone to his pantry, sir, to look for a second key for your study.”
“Why would he –”
Joe’s words were cut off by the sound of glass shattering.
“It’s Mrs. Bristow, sir. She’s locked herself in your study and she won’t come out,” Mrs. Parrish said breathlessly. “I thought she was in bed. I had just gone up to my own room when I heard a crash. I ran back down … I… I don’t know what happened … she just went mad! She was throwing your papers and smashing things. I couldn’t stop her. I tried, but she pushed me out. Oh, please go up to her, sir! Hurry, before she does something to hurt the baby!”
Joe bolted up to the second floor. Millie was poorly and had been ever since they’d gotten back from their honeymoon over two months ago. Her pregnancy was a difficult one. She’d started to bleed last month and had nearly lost the baby. Her doctor had ordered her to stay in bed.
As he fumbled in his pocket for the key, he heard sobs coming from the other side of the door and a series of loud thumps, as if a pile of books had fallen over. He got the key in the door, opened it, and saw that his entire study had been ripped apart. Papers were all over the floor. A bookcase had gone over. The panes of his secretary were smashed. In the middle of the devastation stood Millie, her face streaked with tears, her blond hair loose, her belly protruding under her nightclothes. She held a sheaf of papers in her hand. He recognized them. They were reports from the private investigator he’d hired to find Fiona.
“Go back to bed, Millie. Y
ou know you’re not supposed to be up.”
“I couldn’t sleep,” she said tearfully, “so I got up and came in here to see if you were home. I found these. I saw them on your desk. You’re looking for her, aren’t you? She moved or … or left London or something and you’re trying to find her.”
Joe didn’t answer her. She hadn’t seen them on his desk because he’d locked them inside his secretary. He didn’t think it wise to argue that point now, though. He knew very well what she was like when she was angry. “Come on, Millie, you know what the doctor –”
“Answer me, damn you!” she shrieked, throwing the papers at him.
“I’m not going to talk about this now,” he said forcefully. “You’re too upset. You’ve got to calm down or you’ll ’urt the baby.”
“You’re sleeping with her, aren’t you? You must be, you don’t sleep with me. Not once in five months! All this time you’ve been telling me work’s the reason you’re home late every night, but it’s not, is it? It’s that filthy little whore!” She flew at Joe and beat her fists against his chest. “You stop it!” she cried. “You stop seeing her!”
Joe grabbed her by her wrists. “That’s enough!” he shouted.
She writhed and twisted, trying to break free of his grasp, cursing at him. Then, all of a sudden, she did stop. She winced, then stood perfectly still.
“What is it?” he asked her.
She looked at him with large, frightened eyes. Her hands went to her belly. A whimper rose from her throat and she doubled over. Joe put his arm around her. He tried to get her to straighten but she wouldn’t. She cried out twice, digging her nails into his arm.
“Shhh, it’s all right,” he said, trying to soothe her. “Just take a deep breath, there’s a girl. It’s going to be fine. It’s just a cramp. The doctor said you might get them, remember? ’E said not to worry about them.”
But it wasn’t just a cramp. As she took a few steps forward, still trying to straighten, he saw glistening ruby droplets soaking into the carpet beneath her feet.
“Millie, listen to me,” he said, trying to keep his voice calm. “I’m going to call the doctor. ’E’ll come see you and everything will be fine. Let’s get you back in bed now, all right?”
She nodded and started to walk toward the door. Another pain gripped her, bending her double again. It was then that she saw the crimson stains on the toes of her white slippers. “Oh, no,” she cried. “Oh, God … please, no …” Within seconds her cries had turned to shrieks.
Joe picked her up and carried her out of the study. A frightened Mrs. Parrish was standing in the corridor, a candle in her hand. “Get Dr. Lyons!” he barked at her. “ ’Urry!”
Joe sat on the wooden bench outside Millie’s hospital room, his head in his hands. He’d listened to her cries – and her screams – throughout the small dark hours until they’d finally, mercifully, stopped just as the dawn was breaking.
Dr. Lyons was with her now, and two nurses, and her father. She had not wanted him near her and he didn’t blame her. This was all his fault. He should have come home early yesterday, brought her flowers, had dinner with her. That’s what husbands were supposed to do. He never should have fought with her. And he never should have looked for Fiona.
The morning after their wedding night – when he’d walked out of their hotel suite to drink himself silly – he’d woken to a vicious hangover, a sobbing wife, and the knowledge that he could not live this way. He did not love Millie and could not bring himself to sleep with her, but he could at least behave in a kind and considerate manner toward her. They’d left for France that afternoon and he’d endured his endless honeymoon – Millie’s face, her voice, her mindless chatter, and her constant entreaties to make love – as best he could. He was polite and solicitous of her during the day, escorting her to shops, museums, cafés, the theater – wherever she wanted to go. But at night he would retreat to the separate room he’d insisted upon at every hotel in every city they visited, for peace, relief, and the space to grieve for what he’d done and all that he’d lost.
At first, she was merely wounded by his lack of attention. As time went on, she became incensed. His rejection hurt her vanity. She wanted him and she was not used to being denied. A week after they’d left London, they’d had the first of many horrible fights. At the Crillon in Paris, in the hallway outside their rooms. They were retiring for the night after dining at the Café de la Paix. Millie wanted him to come to her room. He refused. Again. She accused him of being cold to her. She stormed and wept and told him that this wasn’t how married people were with each other. He bore her tirade silently, keeping the truth of his feelings to himself, not wanting to be cruel. She raged on, reminding him that he had not been cold with her on Guy Fawkes night and demanded to know why he had changed.
“You didn’t mind my kisses then,” she’d said reproachfully. “And you couldn’t wait to put your hands on me. You told me you wanted me that night, Joe. You told me you loved me.”
“I never told you I loved you, Millie,” he’d quietly replied. “We both know that.”
By the time they’d returned home, relations between them had deteriorated into constant arguments. Joe left at dawn most mornings and came home after dark to avoid her, throwing himself into his work. Buckingham Palace had awarded Peterson’s a Royal Warrant. The business grew, nearly doubling its volume. Tommy was ecstatic. He was as happy with Joe as Millie was furious with him. But Joe found only distraction in his work, not solace.
His mother wrote him repeatedly after he returned home. She wanted him to come and see her, she needed to talk to him. There were things she had to tell him. But he would not go. He didn’t want to visit his family; they’d only see how miserable he was. He couldn’t bear the thought of going back to Montague Street, of seeing Fiona’s house and the places where they used to walk. Places where they’d talked of their dreams, their future. Places where he’d taken her in his arms and kissed her. His mum came to the house a few times, and to his office, but he was always out.
All he wanted was to see Fiona. Just see her. To look into her eyes again. To see himself there, no one else, and know she still loved him. To hear her say his name. But he knew he had no right and he’d promised her he would not, and for a long time he was able to honor that promise. Until one March evening when his need for her had overwhelmed him and he’d gone back to Whitechapel. His heart ached at the memory of it now. If only he’d known what happened, if only he’d known what she’d been through. He remembered it so clearly, the sickening shock of it…
“Joe, lad, are you still here? It’s four clock!” Tommy Peterson said. “I thought I told you to go home early. Spend some time with your wife.”
“I just wanted to finish up these accounts …” he began.
“They can wait. Go home and enjoy your evening. That’s an order.”
Joe forced a smile, thanked Tommy, and said he would. As soon as his father-in-law left, he let the smile drop. Going home was the last thing he wanted to do. He’d come home late last night to find Millie sitting at the dining room table with platters of cold, congealed food in front of her. He was supposed to have joined her for dinner. He’d said he would and he’d forgotten. She’d picked up a platter of salmon and heaved it at his head. God only knew what tonight would bring.
He gathered his papers and called for his carriage. As he was riding west, he envisioned the long evening in store for him. He slumped back in his seat, pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes. He felt like a prisoner in his own life. He couldn’t face Albemarle Street, that house, Millie. He groaned, wishing he could shout and yell until he was hoarse. Wishing he could kick the shit out of the carriage. Wishing he could run away and disappear into the streets of London. He opened his eyes, loosened his tie, and unbuttoned his collar. It was stuffy in the carriage, hard to breathe. He needed to get out. He needed to get some air. He needed Fiona.
Before he could talk himself out of it, he shouted at
his driver to pull over. When the man stopped, he said, “I’m getting out ’ere. Take my things ’ome. Tell Mrs. Bristow I’ll be late.”
“Very good, sir.”
He hailed a hackney, told the driver to take him to Whitechapel, and gave him the address of Burton’s. If he was lucky, he’d make it there before quitting time and he could catch her coming out. She would be angry with him – he had to be prepared for that – but maybe, just maybe, she’d talk to him.
He arrived at the factory just before six. He waited by the doors, pacing and fidgeting. Finally the whistle blew, the doors opened, and the tea girls came streaming out. He searched the faces, but hers wasn’t among them. He waited until the last girl had gone and then he waited some more, in case she was sweeping up or gathering her things. But then the foreman came out and locked the doors behind him and there was no more point in waiting.
He began to feel uneasy but decided there must be some explanation. He would try Jackson’s. Maybe she’d left Burton’s to work at the pub full-time. But she wasn’t there. And neither the man behind the bar nor the girl cleaning tables had heard of her. The girl told him the Jacksons were out right now visiting Mrs. Jackson’s poorly mum, but they’d be back in an hour or so if he cared to wait. He did not.
He was more than uneasy now. He knew Fiona had been sick on the day of his wedding. A fever, his mum had told him. What if she hadn’t recovered? What if she was poorly and unable to work? Panicking, he broke into a run and headed for Adams Court. Mrs. Finnegan would have at him and Charlie would want to kick his arse. They might not let him see her. He didn’t care. They’d tell him if she was all right. He had to know she was all right. She has the money, our savings, he told himself. It would’ve been enough to see her family through. Oh, please, please, let her be all right, he prayed. He shot through the brick passageway that led from Varden Street to Adams Court, down the narrow walkway, and was just about to knock on number twelve when the door opened and a startled young woman with a baby in her arms asked him what he wanted.
The Tea Rose Page 30