And what was he doing? Sitting in his parked carriage on the godforsaken West Side across from a small grocery, waiting, hoping, for a glimpse of a young woman whose face he had not been able to put from his mind since he’d first seen her a week ago in the offices of his bank. A face that was full of contradictions – at once anxious and determined, open yet guarded, strong yet heartbreakingly vulnerable. A face that was the most compelling he had ever seen.
On an impulse, on the way up Fifth to dinner, he’d told Martin, his driver, to turn left. He said he wanted to make a stop before Del’s. Martin had raised an eyebrow at the location. “Are you sure of the address, sir?” he’d asked. When Will assured him that he was, Martin shook his head as if to say he didn’t understand him anymore. Will knew the feeling; he didn’t understand himself. He didn’t understand why he had risked his bank’s money on a girl with good ideas but no experience. Or why he’d made his secretary Jeanne go across town every day for four days running to search the newsstands until she found a copy of the Chelsea Crier with Fiona’s ad in it so he could run it in the World.
He didn’t understand why he thought about a girl he didn’t even know a hundred times a day. Or why – with a full life, with the demands of his business and the pleasures of friends and family – he should suddenly find himself feeling unbearably lonely.
Forty-five years old, William McClane had had a long time to live with himself, to know his own mind. He understood his motivations, knew his goals. He was a shrewd and rational man, one who had used his formidable intelligence and brilliant business sense to parlay a modest family fortune into a staggering sum of money. He was a highly disciplined man who prided himself on his adherence to fact and logic, and on his inability to be swayed by emotion or flights of fancy.
So what on earth was he doing here? Lurking like some masher?
On the way over, he’d told himself he was merely attending to business. Looking out for his bank’s assets. He was just making sure Miss Finnegan got off on the right foot. After all, a shop was a lot for a young woman to handle. But as the minutes ticked by, bringing the hour hand of his watch closer and closer to seven and still she did not emerge from the shop, the disconsolate feeling that suffused him forced him to admit that his visit had nothing to do with his assets and everything to do with the stricken look in her eyes after Ellis had turned her down, the touchingly brave way in which she’d held her head up and her tears back as he addressed her, and the relief in her face, real and palpable, when he’d told her she could have the shop.
He had to know that she was all right. That things had gone well for her. And if they hadn’t, he wanted to be the one to put them right. She had sparked feelings in him. Feelings of concern and protectiveness, and deeper, unfamiliar ones, too. Feelings he did not understand and could not name.
Will checked his watch. It was exactly seven o’clock; he really should be leaving. Not only was he late for Del’s; he was attracting attention. His brougham, custom-made in England, easily cost twice what any of the surrounding buildings did, and people were stopping to stare at it. And, to his horror, at him in his evening attire. At Del’s or the opera house, no one would’ve glanced twice, but there, in this working-class neighborhood, he was making a spectacle of himself. And that was something a man of his background and breeding did not do.
He was about to rap for Martin to drive off when the door to the shop opened and a young woman wearing a long white apron came out. His heart leaped at the sight of her. Fiona. She slipped the hooked end of the long pole she was carrying into a metal eye over the doorway and began to roll up the awning. And then, before he even knew what he was doing, he was out of his carriage and striding across the street. As he stepped onto the sidewalk, the shop door opened again and a young man came out. He took the pole from her, finished rolling up the awning, then suddenly picked her up and twirled her around, both of them whooping and laughing. When he put her down, she kissed his cheek.
Will stopped in his tracks. The man was her husband, of course. For some reason, he hadn’t pictured her married. She’d seemed so alone to him that day at the bank, as if she had no one to fight her battles, no one in her corner. Watching the two of them, he marveled at their excitement, their giddy emotion. They must’ve had a good day, made some money. That a few dollars could make anyone so happy amazed him. Anna, his late wife, had never embraced him like that, not even when he’d made his first million. He suddenly wished he were back in his carriage. He was an interloper barging in upon their happy scene. He felt awkward and, to his bewilderment, achingly disappointed. He turned to go, hoping he hadn’t been noticed, but in that instant Fiona saw him. Her face, already glowing with happiness, became incandescent.
“Mr. McClane! Look, Nick, it’s Mr. McClane, the man I told you about! The one from the bank! Oh, Mr. McClane, you wouldn’t believe the day we had! There were so many people! Rivers of them! Oceans! We’re out of everything! We’ve nothing left to sell, nothing at all! And it’s all because of you!”
And then she flew across the few feet between them, flung her arms around his neck, and hugged him so hard she nearly choked him. He was so shocked, and so delighted, that he was absolutely lost for words. His hands came up to her back. He could feel the heat of her body through her blouse. Her hair tickled the side of his face and her cheek felt like satin against his own. She smelled like butter and tea and apples and a warm, sweetly sweaty woman.
And then, as if remembering herself, she pulled away and took a flustered step backward and his whole body keenly felt the loss of her touch. “You’ve done so much for us! First saving the shop for me and then the ad!” she said. “How did you get it into the World? Did I leave a copy with Mr. Ellis?” She didn’t wait for an answer, but kept talking breathlessly, sparing him an explanation. “You don’t know what this means for us … for my family.” She was smiling still, but he saw a bright film of tears in her eyes. “We won’t have to move and I won’t have to find work and the Munros can stay and … oh, no! Oh, look what I’ve done!” Will followed her horrified gaze to the front of his jacket and saw that it was covered in flour. “I’m so sorry! Let me get a cloth!” She disappeared into the shop, leaving him standing next to her companion.
“Excitable old thing, isn’t she?” he said, looking after her and laughing. He extended his hand. “I’m Nicholas Soames, a friend of Fiona’s. I’m very pleased to meet you.”
Only a friend? Will brightened and shook his hand. “The pleasure is mine, sir.”
Fiona came out and fussed with his jacket, rubbing at the flour and generally making things worse, until he assured her it was fine and would surely come out with a good shake. Privately, he was glad that Charlie Delmonico kept spare jackets and trousers closeted away for his best customers in case of spills or splashes. As she gave up, stuffing the cloth into her pocket, Nick turned out the gas lamps, locked the shop’s door, and handed her the key.
“I’m going to go upstairs and see if Mary needs help with the supper, Fee. What should I do with this?” He held out the Tiffany box Will had sent her earlier in the day.
“Let’s have another look!” she said eagerly. Nick opened it. The box was stuffed with bills and coins. They looked at the money, then at each other, then burst into laughter like two children with a box of candy. Will couldn’t recall ever having had so much fun making money. Maybe he ought to give up mining and lumber and subterranean railways and try shopkeeping.
“Hide it somewhere, Nick. Put it under my bed. That’s next month’s mortgage payment. If Michael finds it, he’ll drink every saloon in the city dry.” She looked at Will. “My uncle has a bit of a problem with whiskey. I’m sure Mr. Ellis told you.”
Will nodded. Ellis had, using some very choice words. He was a bit taken aback by Fiona’s directness. No one talked openly about such things in his circle. They went on all right – drinking and gambling and worse. But the rule was what you didn’t talk about didn’t exist.
“
Nice to have met you, Mr. McClane,” Nick said, heading inside.
“And you, Mr. Soames.”
“Can you join us for supper, Mr. McClane? Or is it dinner? I get mixed up. I’d love to have you. We all would. It’s meant to be a bit of a celebration. At least it is now! This morning I was so worried, I thought no one would come. Do join us! Nick brought champagne.”
“It’s Will, I insist. And I’d love to join you, but I’m due at a business supper shortly.”
Fiona nodded. She looked at the ground, then up at him again, her lovely smile gone. “Probably a nice quiet supper, I imagine. You’ll have to forgive me. I don’t usually rattle on so. I’m too wound up. I don’t know how I’ll ever get to sleep tonight.”
Will realized she thought he was declining her offer because she’d put him off with her boisterous behavior. Nothing could be further from the truth. “Miss Finnegan, you didn’t… please don’t think … I like that you’re excited about your shop. I’m the same way. Give me half a chance and I’ll talk your ears off about my subway. Look, I still have a little while before I need to be uptown. I find a walk often helps greatly when I’m wound up. Shall we take a short stroll?”
“I’d love to! Mary won’t have the supper ready for a while, not with Nick up there meddling. But I’m not keeping you, am I?”
He flapped a hand at her. “Not at all. I have plenty of time,” he said. He didn’t. He was good and goddamned late. And he didn’t care.
She smiled again – a broad, generous smile that was genuine and unselfconscious and utterly disarming. He had put the smile there and the realization of it made him happy. She took off her apron and laid it on a step inside the doorway to her flat. “I’m ready,” she said. “Let’s go.”
“Hold on,” he said, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket. He gently rubbed at her cheek with it. “Cinnamon. A long streak of it. Looks like you’re leading a war party.” She laughed. Her skin was as silken as a rose petal. He kept rubbing even though the cinnamon was gone, then stopped before she thought he was only trying to touch her. Which he was.
They set off and she told him if she was to call him Will, then he must call her Fiona. He agreed, suppressing a smile at her appearance. Strands of hair had sprung loose from her twist and her clothes were grubby and rumpled. But her face was flushed with color and her magnificent cobalt eyes were sparkling. Will thought she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.
As they headed east on Eighteenth Street, he asked her about the shop, what her customers had bought, and where she’d gotten her good ideas. Her answers were smart and insightful. And then she started asking him questions. Peppering him, really. On how wealthy New Yorkers had made their fortunes. What did they make? What did they sell?
“Well, Carnegie made his fortune in steel,” he began. “And Rockefeller in oil. Morgan in railroads and finance and … why do you want to know all this anyway, Fiona?”
“Because I want to be rich. I want to be a millionaire, Will.”
“Do you?” he asked, smiling at yet another taboo broken. Another social rule blithely tossed over her shoulder and smashed like an old milk bottle. She obviously didn’t know that women weren’t supposed to talk about money. At least the women of his class. He had a feeling she wouldn’t have given a damn if she did know.
“Yes, I do. How do you go about it? How did you do it?”
Smash went another milk bottle. Never inquire too closely about a friend’s finances, he’d been taught. But he found her directness refreshing and her appeals for advice flattering and he had no hesitation in answering her. “With a small family fortune to prime the pump, timber lands I’d inherited in Colorado, and the foresight to buy more land there with plenty of silver in it.”
Her brow wrinkled as she frowned. “I haven’t got any of those things,” she said. “But I was thinking – if the shop does well, I could take out another loan and open a second. Maybe ten or fifteen streets north of the current one …”
“In Hell’s Kitchen? I think not.”
“Well, south then,” she ventured. “Or a few blocks east. Maybe in Union Square. I’ve been there, it’s very busy. And then I could open another and before long I’d have my own chain …”
Will gave her a long look. “Don’t you think it might be wise to walk for a bit before you run? You’ve been open one day. And a very good day it was, but you still need to learn a few things before you open a second shop.”
“Like what?”
“Like the nature of your clientele. Open a shop like yours in Hell’s Kitchen and your window will go in in ten seconds flat. They’ll rob you blind. It’s a rough neighborhood. And yes, you’re right – Union Square is very busy, but it caters to a well-heeled crowd looking for luxury goods, not groceries. Take some advice my father gave me when I was starting out, Fiona: Use what you know to grow. Right now, you don’t know enough about the city’s neighborhoods to make major investments in any of them. Don’t get ahead of yourself. Start small.”
“How? With what?”
Will thought for a few seconds. “You said that all your cakes and biscuits sold out, right?” Fiona nodded.
“You know sweet pastries sell, so now try savories. Meat pies … chicken pies … those sorts of things. It’s a risk – you may not sell them – but it’s a calculated one. Odds are you will. Try a selection of good candy. If people are buying biscuits, chances are they’ll buy chocolate. What else? The asparagus sold out, right? I had the most delicious braised lettuces at Rector’s the other night. They were new, not full-grown. Maybe people who like fresh vegetables would buy those, too. Maybe not, but you should investigate every possibility. Anticipate every need. Be the first to give your customers what they want, even if they don’t yet know they want it.”
A window opened above their heads. A woman leaned her thick forearms on the sill and in a heavy Irish brogue shouted, “Sean! Jimmy! Where the divil are yehs, yeh bollocks? Yer pork chops are gettin’ cold. Get in here now or I’ll whale yeh both!”
“Pork chops, Will,” Fiona said wryly, gesturing up at the window. “That’s what my customers want. I’m not going to get rich selling those.”
Will laughed. “Maybe not. At least, not right away. But you’ll learn. You’ll find out what sells and what doesn’t and why. And you’ll build on that knowledge. You’ll get smart, Fiona. And that’s the first step to getting rich.”
“Is it?”
“Yes. I never would’ve known to buy my silver mines if I hadn’t been in Colorado already because of my lumber interests there. I wouldn’t be trying to sell the city on my subway plan if I didn’t have a thorough knowledge of underground engineering from my mines. Trust me on this. Use what you know to grow.”
They continued to walk and talk, heedless of time passing, and not once was there an awkward silence, a second when one of them couldn’t think of anything to say. Will was utterly enchanted by Fiona; he’d never met anyone like her – a woman so passionate, so direct and honest, so completely without guile. She fascinated and intrigued him and he wanted to know more about her. He asked about her family, and when she told him what had happened to them he stopped dead in the middle of the sidewalk on Eighteenth between Fifth and Broadway, unable to believe what she had endured. It explained everything about her, answered all his questions. Why she was here. Why she was struggling to make the shop successful, why she was determined to make herself wealthy. He admired her courage, her fortitude, but his heart ached for her, too. Without thinking, he took her hands in his and told her to come to him if she ever needed anything – help, advice, anything at all. He hadn’t meant to do it; it was a forward gesture, but the impulse overtook him. She simply squeezed his hands back, thanked him, and said she would.
When they reached Union Square, Fiona exclaimed at how far they’d walked and said she would have to get back. Supper was bound to be ready. Before they did, however, she spotted a flower seller – a thin, grubby girl of no more than twelve – ha
wking her wares. The girl had crimson roses. Fiona looked at them longingly, then suddenly said she would have some even though they were dear. As a treat for a good opening day. He tried to buy them for her, but she wouldn’t allow it. He noticed that she gave the little girl more than the price of the flowers. She loved red roses, she told him, and gave him one for his buttonhole.
When they finally arrived back at the shop, a little redheaded boy – her brother, he learned – was hanging out of the window. He bellowed at her to hurry up. Everyone was starving, he said. Will kissed her hand, held it for longer than he should have, then finally told her good-bye. He looked back once as his carriage pulled away and saw her standing on the sidewalk holding her roses, looking after him. And never in his life was he sorrier at the imminent prospect of a bottle of Chateau Lafite and a seven-course meal.
Chapter 29
Stan Christie and Reg Smith were only yards from Roddy O’Meara’s back. He couldn’t see them, but he heard their footsteps, heard one slap a cosh against his palm.
“Go ahead, Bowler, give the word,” Roddy said, sitting himself down at Sheehan’s table. “Just be bloody certain they can get to me before I get to you.”
Sheehan leaned back in his chair. He worked a bit of food from his teeth with his tongue, then nodded curtly. Reg and Stan fell back to their places at the Taj Mahal’s bar. Bowler pushed his plate, with most of a thick, juicy steak still left on it, toward Roddy. “ ’Ere. I was going to give it to my bitch, Vicky …” – he nodded at the ugly, fearsome terrier lying at his feet – “… but on your wages, you probably need it more.”
The Tea Rose Page 33