Nick nodded. A few months after his courthouse wedding, when he was certain Fiona truly did not want a divorce, he insisted they marry in the Anglican faith – his family’s faith – to make certain his father could never question the legitimacy of their union.
“The documents for both ceremonies were duly recorded and filed. Everything’s fine. Are you certain your father doesn’t know you’re married?”
“I can’t imagine he does. I’m sure he would’ve made trouble by now if he did. I don’t believe he knows anything about me at all.”
“He never communicates with you?”
“No.”
“But surely he must inquire about you. Perhaps through other parties?”
“My father hates me, Teddy.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t know it was daggers drawn.”
Nick shrugged. “Don’t be. One can’t pick one’s relatives, unfortunately. Only one’s friends.” He leaned back into the cushions, tired from all the talking, and closed his eyes for a few seconds while Teddy organized his notes. When he opened them again, he looked at a portrait of Fiona and said, “Teddy, it’s as a friend that I need to ask you to do something else for me.”
Teddy looked at Nick over the top of his glasses. “Anything. You know that.”
“Take care of Fiona,” he said, his glibness gone, tears glistening in his eyes. “She needs people to look after her, you know. She may not look like she does, but she does. She rushes around all the time and she doesn’t eat properly and she works far too hard and …” His voice cracked. He couldn’t finish. He swore at himself under his breath, not wanting to get all damp and emotional in front of his smooth, unflappable friend.
Teddy gave him a minute to collect himself, then said, “You know you don’t need to worry on that score, either. I’ll take care of her. And so will Seamie and Michael and Mary and Alec and Maddie and Nate and Stuart and Peter and everyone who loves her.”
“I want her to marry again. She’s still young. She could have children, a proper family. It’s what I want most of all and it’s the one thing I can’t put in any will. I want you to be a matchmaker for her.”
“It’s not one of the firm’s specialties, but I’ll try,” Teddy said, trying for levity. “Who do you have in mind?”
“Who indeed? That’s just the problem. She’s richer than most of the men in this city and smarter than all of them.”
Teddy laughed and Nick did, too. But it was forced. Exhausted now, Nick said his good-byes and rang for Foster to help him back to his bed. As they heard the butler’s footsteps in the hallway, he turned to his friend and counselor, his Steady Teddy, one last time. “Look out for her,” he said. “Promise me.”
“I promise,” Teddy said, awkwardly wiping his eyes on his sleeve.
Chapter 63
Joe scooped up a handful of freshly shelled peas and inspected them. They were unblemished, smooth, a clutch of perfect, tiny green jewels. He held them to his nose and inhaled. They smelled so good – of rich Kentish dirt, of spring. He chewed a few. They were deliciously crisp.
Bristow’s of Covent Garden imported the finest fruits and vegetables from around the world year-long to satisfy the desires of its wealthy and demanding clientele. Joe had only to send a clerk from his office downstairs to the warehouse to enjoy the luxury of a ripe, sweet peach in the winter, but even with the bounty of the globe at his fingertips, he loved nothing better than the first gifts of spring from the good English soil.
As he continued to sample his produce, he suddenly heard a voice at his ear. “How do you expect to make a profit, monsieur, if you eat up all your wares?”
Joe laughed, pleased to see his friend and customer Olivier Reynaud, head chef at the Connaught. He took the man’s huge mitt of a hand, pink and thick-fingered, and trickled a stream of peas into it – all the while telling him how good they were, how fresh – the first crop! – how beautiful they’d look framing a salmon steak or pureed into a soup with mint and cream.
Olivier nibbled, nodded, and ordered six bushels of peas, one hundred pounds of new potatoes, two crates of asparagus, three of spinach, two dozen vanilla beans, four crates of oranges, and three crates each of mangoes, pineapples, and bananas. “Did they finally throw you out of your office?” he asked, eyeing Joe’s rolled-up shirtsleeves and his vest, already smudged with soil.
“Oh, I’m just pitching in,” he replied. “The ’ead seller came up at five to tell me two of ’is men were out sick today and could I send a clerk down to ’elp out. Only one lad was in and ’e was busy writing up orders, so I came down. Didn’t want to overwork the poor sod.”
“You mean you didn’t want him to have all the fun.”
Joe laughed, caught in a fib. “Aye, that, too. ’Ere, ’ave a look at these.” He pulled a length of cotton sacking off a small willow basket and Olivier smiled with delight. Inside, carefully nestled in a bed of white rice, were fresh truffles, coal-black and pungent.
“Dug from French soil two days ago,” Joe said proudly. “Look at that … feel it,” he urged, handing the man a particularly large specimen. “Firm, plump, and spotless. The very best the Perigord ’as to offer. Shall I put you down for two dozen?”
“Two dozen? Are you mad? Twelve! I have a budget.” Olivier lifted the truffle to his nose, then regarded it with a soft and dreamy expression. “The perfume … it’s indescribable, no? The very scent of fucking.”
Joe shook his head. “You frogs. Can’t keep the kitchen and bedroom separate, can you?”
“And why should we? Both are the stuff of life. But how can I expect a man who eats this … merde,” – he pointed to Joe’s half-finished sausage roll sitting in a wad of crumpled paper atop a crate – “to know it?”
“What’s wrong with it?” Joe asked. He loved to wind Olivier up. “It’s sturdy fare for a sturdy English belly!” Despite a weakness for sausage rolls, fish and chips, and various other foods of his childhood, Joe’s culinary tastes were as refined as his friend’s.
“Pah! You English have no belly! No tongue! I come to London not just to cook, my friend, but to educate. To teach you Saxon mules what is real food. And what do I get? Fillet returned because it’s too rare. No one to eat my calves’ brains. Requests for that damned Worcestershire sauce with everything! I could serve them rocks and they would never know the difference!”
“Rocks in onion gravy, maybe,” Joe admitted.
“Come to my kitchen tonight and I show you what real food is,” Olivier ordered, jabbing a finger into Joe’s chest. “And bring a woman, for God’s sake! You eat like a barbarian and live like a monk. Give me those.” He pointed at the truffles.
“Twelve, you said?”
“No! All of them!” Olivier shouted, in a lather now. “What? Shall I leave this treasure to be ignored? Or, worse yet, mistreated by some English bungler!”
“Would you like this delivered, Olivier?”
“All but the truffles. I take them now. And I see you tonight. Nine o’clock sharp!”
Joe smiled as his hotheaded friend marched off. He was pleased with himself. None of the young bucks he’d hired to sell could move a wagon load of fruits and vegetables, plus an entire basket of pricey truffles and get themselves a personal invitation from the finest chef in London. But whom to bring? Jimmy was busy with wedding plans these days. Maybe Cathy.
He picked up a grapefruit and smelled it. To him, its scent was sweeter than the most expensive French perfume. He turned to survey his huge warehouse, bustling with porters loading orders onto wagons, with sellers moving goods, with chefs from the best restaurants, hotels, and clubs making their selections, and felt a flush of pride. Then he looked at his watch – it was now seven o’clock – and felt a twinge of guilt. He wasn’t supposed to be down here in the warehouse. He was supposed to be upstairs making his way through a mountain of paperwork. He’d meant to. He’d even come in early to get a head start, but when the head seller had come upstairs saying he needed another pair
of hands, he hadn’t been able to resist. He had to go sell, just for a while. He promised himself he’d only stay an hour, and he’d already been here two. But how could he tear himself away? He never got to work the floor anymore; he was always going over numbers with accountants, or arguing over plans for new shops with architects and builders. He missed the warehouse. Nothing excited him like the challenge of selling.
“There he is!” he heard someone shout. He was caught.
He turned around, the grapefruit still in his hand, and smiled at his brother Jimmy, his second-in-command, and Cathy, his pretty, blond sister, who worked for him at his largest shop, the Chelsea branch of Montague’s.
“We pay blokes to do this, you know,” Jimmy said.
“Just keeping me ’and in,” Joe said defensively.
“We should get ’im a barrow, Jimmy. Put ’im back on the ’Igh Street flogging apples and oranges, that’s where ’e belongs,” Cathy teased. “If you can bring yourself to put that grapefruit down, maybe you could take me to see the new shop I’m supposed to run. We were supposed to meet there ’alf an hour ago.”
“Bloody ’ell! I completely forgot! Sorry, luv. I’ll just grab me coat and we’ll go.”
Joe placed the fruit back in its crate while Jimmy and Cathy headed upstairs. As he bounded up after them, he heard them excitedly discussing the Knightsbridge shop. All three siblings had huge hopes for what was going to become Montague’s new flagship. Cathy was going to manage it. She was a smart girl – all of eighteen now – quick, outspoken, a little brash. She could be a handful at times, but she was family and the only person Joe trusted with something as important as the flagship. Jimmy, twenty-six years old, and a fruit and veg man through and through, wanted to distinguish it as the premiere destination for the best, most exotic produce in London. It would have all the usual goods, of course, but it would have things many Londoners had never even seen before: blueberries, okra, and pumpkins from the States; giant gooseberries, litchis, and kumquats from China; guavas, papayas, and star fruit from the tropics; fiery hot peppers and giant watermelons from Mexico; tamarinds and coconuts from India. And Joe, he simply wanted it to be the best, most modern, most comprehensive grocer’s in the world – the very pinnacle of his ambitions.
“ … but lettuce and endive and spinach, those are delicate goods,” he heard his sister say. “If it’s too warm they wilt; too cold and they’ll be black in no time. ’Ow are you going to ’old them properly? From what you’ve described, you ’aven’t got enough space to –”
“Just listen, would you? You never let me get a bloody word in! We’ve got a misting system installed. Joe thought it up. It keeps all the delicate stuff crisp. Like you just picked it.”
“A misting system?” Cathy repeated, giving her brother a shove. “You’re ’aving me on!”
“I swear, Cat.”
“Crikey, Jimmy, really?” she asked, excited now instead of skeptical. “Do the blokes from ’Arrods know? They’ll be fit to be tied!”
“Nobody knows and you can’t tell anyone, either. It’s going to make ’Arrods –”
“It’s going to make ’Arrods look like a tatty ’ole-in-the-wall,” Joe said, twisting both their ears as he raced past them through the foyer. “Come see the plans!”
Inside his office, spread across a huge oak table, lay the blueprints for the flagship. Joe and Jimmy took Cathy through it. The first floor was open, its ceiling supported by large columns. It would contain all of the fresh foodstuff and produce. In the back a wide marble staircase led to the second floor, where the flower shop was located, as well as fine chocolates and candies, coffee and tea counters, a tobacco counter, and a section for fine wines. On the third floor there was a restaurant where shoppers could partake of a light meal or afternoon tea.
“Oh, Joe, it’s wonderful!” Cathy exclaimed. “What’s the decor like? What are the colors?”
“Well, it’s dramatic, I can say that much. London won’t ’ave seen anything like it.”
“Maud?” Cathy asked.
“Um … not entirely.”
“Joe, what ’ave you done?”
“Bought murals of the four seasons for each of the ground-floor walls. Thumping great paintings! Maud’s in agreement. She thinks they’re brilliant. They give the place a very distinctive look. Of luxury. Exclusivity.”
“Blimey, Joe, it’s a shop, not a museum.”
Joe held his hands up. “I know, I know … just don’t say anything until you see them, Cathy. They’re very spectacular and unexpected and just the thing to set us apart from the competition.”
“What about white? What’s wrong with white tiles on the walls?” Cathy asked.
“They’re awful. They’d make the place look like an abattoir.”
“And the floors?”
“All tile. Not white, though, blue and green. With hidden drains. You’ll be able to ’ave your girls wash things down. Slosh soap around and all,” Joe said. Cathy looked relieved. She was a stickler for cleanliness and was known to sack people on the spot over streaky windows or dirty floors.
“And for the second floor? And the restaurant?” she asked.
“Peacocks,” Jimmy said.
“Peacocks! Shitting all over the place? ’Ave you two gone mad?”
“Not real birds, just paintings,” Jimmy said hastily.
Cathy looked from Jimmy to Joe. “I can’t wait to see this place, I think. It is finished?”
“Nearly,” Joe said. “Maud’s working round the clock to get everything done before ’er trip. She goes to China next month.”
“I know. She stopped by the Chelsea shop last week to shout at the painters. They got the color wrong on the window trim.” She grabbed a pencil and held it like a cigarette. “Aubergine, darling,” she said in a dramatic voice. “I told them aubergine and they’ve given me bright fucking purple!” She touched the back of her hand to her forehead and sank to the floor in a pretend faint.
“Get up, you silly git. She’s nothing like that,” Joe said.
“She is! You should’ve seen ’er ’air! She cut it off!”
“I’ve seen ’er ’air. Are we ready?”
“Is that all you’ve seen?” Cathy asked, smiling cheekily at him from the floor.
Joe blinked at his sister. “I beg your pardon?”
Cathy shrugged. “Just wondering,” she said, hopping up. “Maud said she can’t wait to go to China. Seems she wants to get shut of a certain blue-eyed devil. Didn’t give any names. I was wondering if you might know who ’e is?” She looked directly at Joe.
“I wouldn’t,” he said brusquely, reaching for his jacket. “Come on, let’s go.”
“Good! I’m glad,” Cathy said, stopping her brother to straighten his tie. “Because I ’ave someone else in mind for you. She’s going to be at Jimmy’s wedding. A nice girl from Stepney –”
Joe took his sister by her chin. “Stop. Right now,” he said sternly. “I’m not looking for a wife. I’m married to my work and that’s the way I like it, all right?”
“All right, all right,” Cathy said, slapping his hand away. “I’ll keep quiet.”
“I doubt that,” Jimmy said.
“Just for now. Come on, ’urry up. I want to see the shop. Time is money and you two are wasting both.” She strode out of Joe’s office breaking into the first verse of “Bow Bells.”
Joe looked at Jimmy. Jimmy looked at Joe. He shrugged. “It was your idea to put ’er in charge of the flagship,” he said. “Good luck, old son.”
Chapter 64
Nick lay in his bed watching the moonlight stream in through the window. Agitated, unable to sleep, he felt as if a ten-ton weight were sitting on his chest. It was difficult to breathe. It was such work to pull the air in and push it out again. It tired him immensely.
He rolled over and propped himself up on his pillows, trying to alleviate the pressure on his straining lungs. It didn’t work. Instead, a paralyzing spasm of pain shot through h
is chest and down his left arm, making it go numb.
Nick knew he was dying and he was afraid.
All that he loved best was here in this world – Fiona, her family, all their friends. Paintings and music. Cold champagne. White roses. Who knew what the next world held, if there even was one. A stern God who would surely disapprove of him. Mopey angels like the ones Giotto painted. Pious saints. A lot of sanctimonious old farts floating around on clouds. That was no place for him and he didn’t want to go there.
Another pain gripped him. He moaned softly. The disease was torturing him. He wished for a release from it, and yet he was terrified to let go. He struggled to draw air, to bear the pain in his chest, to keep the fragile embers of his life burning.
The pain, softened its grip slightly and a comforting image came to him – the face of his old love. Seeing Henri soothed him. Wherever he was headed, maybe Henri would be there waiting for him. And maybe it wouldn’t be as awful as he imagined. Maybe it would be a wonderful place. A sunny Italian villa, perhaps, where he could meet Leonardo and ask him who his Mona Lisa was. Where he’d share a bottle of wine with Michelangelo and find out who that gorgeous David was. Or maybe it was Paris, where he’d have supper with Vincent in a café by the Seine and Vincent would be jolly and well-fed for a change because everyone in heaven bought his paintings. A place where it was always June and always warm and roses were always in bloom. A place were he could live happily with Henri.
He lay back against his pillows now, feeling more peaceful, less afraid. But then another troubling thought disturbed him. If he left now to be with Henri, what would happen to Fiona?
He turned his head and looked at her. She was asleep in the big armchair she’d had Foster pull close to the bed, a book open in her lap. For the past few nights, he’d been able to make her go to her own bed around midnight or so, but tonight she’d refused to leave him. She’d sat up as he drifted in and out of sleep until exhaustion had finally overtaken her.
The Tea Rose Page 59