Chapter 61
“Nothing, Peter? Nothing at all?” Fiona said, staring at her stockbroker. “That’s impossible!”
“No, not impossible,” Peter Hurst said, leaning back in his chair. “Just unusual. They’ve been getting harder to find, as you know. I was only able to get you two thousand last week. Five hundred a fortnight ago. This week they’ve dried up completely.”
“Why?”
“Because no one’s selling! Everyone who was willing to sell has done so – to you. Because of you, Burton Tea has become an extremely illiquid stock.”
Fiona, who’d been pacing her office as Peter was speaking, found herself by the riverside windows. The gray sky, sodden with spring rain, cast a pall over her. She looked out at the broad river below, but didn’t see the Hudson. She saw another river. Another wharf. She saw gray fog swirling around it, and a dark figure waiting there. For her. She closed her eyes against the image, against the rage and pain the sight of the dark man stirred in her. Still.
Once a week for the last ten years, she had met with Peter to buy shares of Burton Tea. At first, when the stock was trading between fifteen and twenty dollars a share, she’d struggled to buy even minuscule amounts – ten shares one week, twenty the next. As her fortune had grown, she doggedly acquired as many as she could. Now, owing to the company’s troubles in India and America, the stock – when it could be found – could be bought for around five dollars a share. But price wasn’t the issue for Fiona; it was finding a seller.
To date, she’d accumulated twenty-two percent of Burton Tea under a score of different corporate names, not one of which – thanks to the shrewdness of her attorney, Teddy Sissons – was traceable to her.
Her stake in Burton Tea was huge, but it wasn’t enough. She would not stop buying shares until she had fifty-one percent – and the company. Ten years had done nothing to diminish her hatred of William Burton, and no matter what it cost, she would ruin him. It wasn’t justice – she knew she would never have that – but it was retribution. The only flaw in her plan, as ever, was that it made no provision for Bowler Sheehan. She had spent entire nights pacing her bedroom by candlelight, racking her brain for a way to ensure that he, too, paid for what he’d done. But she’d never been able to figure out how. The only way was to make Burton name him as a co-conspirator in her father’s murder. But to do so, Burton would first have to confess his own guilt – something he would never do. No matter how many times she gnawed at the problem, she could not find a solution. She’d lived with the terrible knowledge of what Burton and Sheehan had done to her father – to her whole family – for a decade. And here she was, still waiting. Still impotent. Hobbled by her broker’s inability to find more shares and by her own inability to conceive of a way to destroy Sheehan. How much longer would she have to wait?
Hurst shuffled his papers together on his lap. “I’ll do my best, Fiona, but I doubt I’ll get more shares before the month’s end.”
She turned on her heel. “Peter, I need them now, not next month! Send someone to London. Find the shareholders and shake the stock out of them!”
“I understand your frustration,” he said, taken aback by the sharpness in her voice, “but you have to realize that you own twenty-two percent and the owner himself retains fifty-one percent. That doesn’t leave a great deal in circulation.”
“I can’t believe he still holds fifty-one percent. He’ll have to sell some soon.”
“He’s held them this long, Fiona, he’s not going to sell now.”
“But he’s up to his neck in debt,” Fiona said, sitting on the corner of her desk. “He’s borrowed nearly three hundred thousand pounds from Albion Bank. His Indian estate went bust and his venture into the American market failed miserably.” She smiled grimly at the memory. She herself had single-handedly engineered that disaster by undercutting his prices fiercely – even at a loss to her own bottom line. Burton’s agents had set up shop on Water Street in June of ’94. They were closed by January of the following year. “He needs to raise cash, Peter. He’s going to sell some of his own shares. He has to.”
Hurst shook his head. “Fiona, I must tell you – not just as your broker, but as your friend – that I don’t understand your obsession with this stock. I never have. The company, as you pointed out, is not financially sound. You’re right about the debt. It’s too heavy. One more disaster and his ability to meet his loan repayments could be jeopardized. You have an astronomical amount of money invested in Burton Tea. These stocks are nothing but liabilities. You don’t need any more of them. What you need is –”
“Peter, you don’t know what I need!” Fiona shouted. “Just get me the goddamned shares!”
Peter blanched. Not once, in all the years they’d known each other, had she ever spoken to him so harshly. He stood up, tucked his papers into his briefcase, and said he hoped to have something for her next week.
Ashamed of herself, Fiona laid a hand on his arm. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to snap at you. I just … I’m not myself today …”
He looked up from his bulging briefcase, concern mixing with the hurt in his eyes. “I knew something was wrong the minute I walked in here. You look terrible.”
And she did. She wore a charcoal waistcoat with black passementerie closures, a crisp white blouse with a gray-and-black-striped silk cravat tucked into the collar, and a slim black skirt. The dark colors emphasized the newly deepened hollows of her face and the fact that she’d lost a good deal of weight. Her irrepressible vitality was diminished. She seemed small somehow. Fragile.
“It’s Nick, isn’t it?” he asked, his eyes darting to the photograph she kept on the credenza behind her desk.
“Yes,” she admitted, angry at herself for losing control, for letting fear and emotion get the better of her. This was something she didn’t want to talk about. Talking about it made it real.
“I thought it had to be family. The only other time I’ve ever seen you as upset as you are now was when Seamie had appendicitis. Is Nick’s health not good?”
Fiona shook her head. Her face crumpled. She swore, then covered her eyes with her hands, as if trying to press her tears back in.
“Fiona, what happened? Is he all right?”
She was unable to answer. She felt his arm around her, heard him awkwardly murmuring comforts. When she finally lowered her hands, he pulled a crisp white handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to her.
“How bad is he?”
She took a deep breath. “I’m making more out of it than it deserves,” she said. “He’s weak, mainly. And he doesn’t have much appetite. He has to stay in bed most of the day, but just yesterday, he walked around the garden. He told me so when I got home.”
“How long has he been like this?”
“Since February.”
Peter’s eyes widened at that. Fiona saw them and wished she hadn’t told him. She wished he would leave. Now. She didn’t want to see his fear. She didn’t want to have to reassure him. It was all she could do to keep reassuring herself.
Two months ago – the very day her new machinery had arrived at the factory – she had come home from work eager to have supper with Nick, only to learn that he’d had a “spell,” as Foster had put it. She’d raced upstairs to see him and found him tucked up in bed, white and frail and working to draw breath. She’d kissed him and pressed his face between her hands, nearly hysterical with worry, until Eckhardt, who’d been sitting by his side, led her away. He explained that Nick had overtaxed his heart and needed to rest.
“He’ll be all right, though, won’t he? Won’t he, Dr. Eckhardt?” she’d asked, her voice breaking, her fingers digging into the doctor’s forearm.
“He is resting comfortably, Mrs. Soames. Look at him … see? A little difficulty with the breath, a little weakness. It will ease.”
Fiona had nodded then and let the doctor’s calm voice soothe her. She briefly wondered if he might be withholding the truth, but dismissed the thought. An unf
linching realist in most areas of her life, she continued to remain willfully blind to the truth where Nick was concerned. She wanted him to get better, and therefore he would. Signs to the contrary frightened her, but she refused to see them as a pattern of decline and explained them away as mere potholes on the road to recovery.
“What does Eckhardt say?” Peter asked.
“That his symptoms will ease,” she replied. A voice inside reminded her that Eckhardt had said that two months ago, and since then Nick had shown little improvement. She silenced it.
“It’s just a setback, then. A temporary condition.”
Fiona nodded. “That’s right. He’ll be up and about again shortly.”
Peter smiled. “I’m glad to hear it.” He gave her a peck on the cheek and told her to call on him if she needed anything.
After he left, Fiona looked at the clock. It was six. She thought about packing up her things and going home early. She could catch up on her unfinished work in her study, after supper.
She’d always loved coming home at night to windows lit up against the darkness and Nick waiting for her in the drawing room, eager to hear about her day, but now she found herself feeling anxious as evening approached. There was only Foster to welcome her. Nick was always upstairs in bed. Sometimes he was awake, and sometimes he wasn’t. She would stand outside his bedroom door when he wasn’t, wishing she could go in to him, sit on his bed, and talk to him. Needing to lay eyes on him, to see for herself that he hadn’t lost any ground during the day. She tried to be optimistic. Maybe tonight he’d feel like coming downstairs and sitting in the drawing room. They could share a bottle of claret and chat in front of the fire, just as they’d always done.
The Fifth Avenue mansion was stolid and imposing from the outside, but warm and welcoming inside. They’d built it when Nick had first begun to slow down. He’d wanted to be able to get to the Park and the Met without traveling. He’d decorated the place beautifully – all four floors of it, with its grand entrance, huge dining room, library, study, double parlor, conservatory, huge kitchens, and countless bedrooms. No fusty antiques were allowed, only pieces commissioned from the new guard. Windows, mirrors, and lamps from Louis Comfort Tiffany. Silver from Archibald Knox. Furniture and chandeliers from Emile Galle. Paintings from Nick’s beloved French artists and from the new cadre of American painters he championed.
Fiona smiled now, thinking about the wonderful times they’d had there. So many parties and dances. She was rarely there during the day, but at night she often returned to find an impromptu dinner for friends in full swing. Or maybe an anniversary celebration for Michael and Mary, who’d married back in ’91, or a birthday party for one of their children. In the summer there were always picnics in the backyard complete with lanterns in the trees, music, an assortment of starving artists, plus Seamie home from boarding school, sneaking champagne and dancing with pretty art students. Nick loved to entertain, loved an evening filled with friends, food and wine, noise and laughter, gossip and drama.
Fiona’s smile faded. It had been weeks and weeks since laughter had filled the house. Friends had come to see Nick, of course, but Eckhardt permitted no long visits, no boisterous behavior, nothing that would tire his patient. She felt a small tremor shake the foundation of her hope, her insistent optimism, and a sadness, thick and choking, move from her throat to her eyes. Tears brimmed again. She wiped them away angrily. “Stop. Just stop it,” she told herself. “Right now.”
She gathered her papers and shoved them into her briefcase, then grabbed her coat and hurried out, not even stopping to wish her secretary a good evening. She wanted to go home. To her house with its massive marble walls, it solid front door, its iron gate. It was a fortress, that house. It had kept her and Nick and Seamie warm and safe all these years. They’d wanted for nothing inside it, feared nothing. Until now. Now a dark thing stalked, circling, sniffing the air, waiting for its chance.
She knew this beast; it had visited her before. But she had learned to be vigilant. She would lock the doors against it. She would stand guard. And this time, it would not get in.
Chapter 62
“God, Nick, I can hear your teeth chattering from here,” Teddy Sissons said. “I’m going to put another log on the fire.”
“Thank you, Teddy,” Nick said, drawing a cashmere throw around his shoulders. Since his collapse he was always cold. He leaned forward, refreshed his and Teddy’s teacups, then sat back again, tired from even so small an effort. His condition was grave. Eckhardt had told him that he didn’t have long, and he was eager to put his affairs in order. He knew he should be in his bed, not in the drawing room, but his bedroom, with all of Eckhardt’s medicines and liniments lined up on his night table, felt oppressive.
Out of all the rooms in his house, he loved this one best. It wasn’t the most fashionable, but it was the most comfortable. It was filled with squashy, down-filled settees and armchairs, fat silk cushions, and ottomans, and it had a huge fireplace, perfect for roasting oneself. Most of all he loved this room because it contained so many memories of happy times with Fiona. They had spent countless nights and lazy Sunday afternoons here, curled up on the settee in their stocking feet, Seamie between them, planning and scheming and dreaming.
“There!” Teddy said, clapping soot off his hands. “Now that’s a fire!”
“Fire? It’s a blast furnace! Could you have stuffed any more wood in there?”
“You need the warmth, your hands are blue.” Teddy seated himself again, pushed his glasses up on his nose, and returned his attention to the thick document on the table before him, Nick’s will. “As I was saying, I think you’re overly concerned. Even without a will, state law mandates that all your possessions, all your holdings and assets, go directly to your spouse. No one can contest that.”
“You don’t know my father. The second I’ve departed this vale of tears, I know for a fact that the odious man will – at the very least – try to prevent my trust fund from passing to Fiona. It’s worth a great deal of money. Well over a million pounds the last time I checked.”
“A million pounds? Your Albion fund?” Teddy asked, jotting down notes.
“Yes.”
“When you and Fiona were married, that fund was only worth about a hundred thousand pounds. What on earth did you invest in?”
Nick waved a hand. “God knows.”
“You don’t keep tabs on your own trust fund?”
“Not really. I know that the original stocks my father bought appreciated in value over the last ten years. And that he bought a very large block of shares from some company or other three or four years ago and plunked them in my account. I have no idea why he did this. They don’t produce income. In fact, they’ve lost a good deal of their value.”
“Does your estimate of a million pounds reflect those losses?”
“Oh, Teddy, I don’t bloody know,” Nick sighed. “Ask Hermione. She keeps track of the statements and deposits the checks. I haven’t touched a penny of my father’s money for years. As soon as the gallery started to make money, I gave all the income generated from the trust away.”
“All of it?”
Nick nodded. “My father has been supporting New York’s artists for years. He also helped fund the Met’s expansion and provided them with a comprehensive collection of work from new American painters.” He grinned. “Wasn’t that generous of him? When I’m gone, I want Fiona to have the fund. Every penny. She’ll put it to good use.”
“Have you discussed this with her?”
“I’ve tried. She refuses to talk about it.”
“Is she here? We should apprise her of your wishes and your father’s likely reaction to them.”
“No, she’s not. She’s been hovering for days. Bringing me all my meals and every pot of tea herself.” He laughed. “I can’t even go to the 100 without her following me. She hasn’t gone to work for over a week, but the minute she heard you were coming over she found a reason to go out. She’s af
raid, I guess. I’ve tried my best to keep the truth from her and I succeeded for quite a while. But it’s rather undeniable these days. I mean, look at me, I’m a ghost.”
“Not yet, you aren’t. And don’t get any ideas while I’m sitting here, either.”
Nick smiled. “Undertaking not in your line of work?”
“No, it damn well isn’t.” He started writing again. “All right, what else besides the fund? Go slowly, one thing at a time. We need to be specific.”
Nick proceeded to itemize his assets and possessions for Teddy and his instructions for how they were to be apportioned. Nick’s share of the house would go to Fiona, as would all of its furnishings, his art gallery and all his paintings, and his personal possessions. In addition, he specified a generous legacy for Seamie, whom he’d always thought of as his son, and who, in fact, still called him Father, not Nick. He also made monetary bequests to Ian Munro and Nell Finnegan, and Sean, Pat, and Jenny Finnegan – Michael’s and Mary’s children – and Stephen Foster, his butler.
“Spell it out clearly, Teddy,” Nick said. “Make it airtight. I don’t put it past the man to try and take everything from Fiona, from the house right down to my cuff links.”
“Nick, don’t worry about it. I want you to rest –”
“ … in peace?” Nick smiled wickedly. He couldn’t say such things in front of Fiona, they upset her, but he could in front of Teddy and he was glad. Steady Teddy, he and Fiona called him. Always smooth and unruffled, always capable. He’d saved them both from a scandal when Nick was arrested at The Slide, and he’d guided them through the minefields of rules and regulations involved with the growth of their businesses. Teddy was a counselor in every sense of the word, a rock. He never got emotional or teary and Nick needed that now. He needed someone tough and unsentimental whom he could joke with, for he was determined to face death the same way he’d faced life, with a healthy measure of flippant disregard.
“I was going to say easy. I assure you, as long as your marriage is legal – and yours is – your father cannot claim your legacy. You were married in a court of law, and again at Trinity Church …”
The Tea Rose Page 58