The Tea Rose Part 19

"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 f.u.c.k '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.

"n.o.body 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 s.h.i.+rk 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 f.u.c.k. What an obscenely high price. And Harry thought his wh.o.r.es were expensive. Hysterical laughter burbled up inside him, he had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep it in.

"Not going to pa.s.s 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 a.s.sumed 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 bl.u.s.ter. 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, I hey were happy for the handsome couple, pleased that Tommy's daughter and his protege 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 carne 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 d.i.c.kens, 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 t hem. 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 gla.s.s 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. G.o.d, how would he keep this up?

What would he say when the getting-same-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 gla.s.s, 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 eve~ night of this G.o.d forsaken 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 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 pa.s.sed 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 talk 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 turned 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 s.h.i.+rtsleeves bent over her. She had a client; he was just finis.h.i.+ng his business from the look of things. 'Kate was too desperate to be embarra.s.sed.

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 G.o.d! 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 s.h.i.+rtfront and ran in a rivulet down his cheek.

"It's blood," she whispered. "Oh, my G.o.d, 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 un-weathered. Her brother Charlie's.

Roddy had come from work three days ago with the news. River police had pulled a body from the Thames -the corpse of a young man, about sixteen years old. He'd gone to the morgue to identify the body-a task he'd said was nearly impossible in light of the time it had spent in the river.

The face was gone. What hair remained was red. A search of the corpse's clothing confirmed the ident.i.ty. In one of the pockets was a battered silver watch with the inscription: "Sean Joseph Finnegan, Cork, 1850." Her grandfather's name. Her brother's watch. She'd known immediately what it meant when Roddy placed it in her hands.

She closed her eyes now, despair descending, and wished herself in the ground with them.

Day after day after day, the black, suffocating grief engulfed her and her longing for her family, and Joe-always Joe-was unbearable. Mornings, she would sit and stare into s.p.a.ce and wonder how she would make it through the day. She had wanted to end her life the night .Joe told her he was going to marry Millie. And again, right after her mother's death, unable to face the loss of her mam and the horrible manner in which she died, she wished herself dead. There were moments now, even as she tried to pull herself together for Seamie's sake, that she still contemplated taking her life, for there was never any relief from her pain.

To comfort herself, she tried to picture her mam's face as she wanted to remember her-smiling and laughing. But she couldn't. Those images were gone. All that came was the memory of her mother lying in the street, struggling to live as the blood poured from her side. Fiona had heard her cries and had come stumbling out of their room after her. She'd dropped to her knees beside her, pressed her hands over the wound and screamed for someone to help them. People had come, they'd done what they could, but Jack had pierced her mother's heart. The end had come quickly at least.

Her mother had touched her face with trembling fingers, smearing blood across her cheek, and then her body had gone slack, and her eyes had turned dull and empty.

Fiona didn't want to remember that night, but it kept playing in her head over and over and over again. She kept seeing her mother's body in the street, kept hearing the baby wailing and Seamie shrieking from a policeman's arms.

And Charlie ... she kept seeing him as he ran into Adams Court, shouting, and pus.h.i.+ng people aside. She saw his face, uncomprehending, as he gazed upon their mother. She'd called to him and he turned to her, but his eyes went wild and he seemed not to know her. He had picked their mother's body up off the street and held her tightly, moaning and keening. He refused to let the officers take her away from him and fought them off until three of them finally overpowered him. When they released him, he tried to pull the body out of the coroner's wagon. "Stop it, Charlie!" Fiona had screamed at him "Stop it, please!" But he'd didn't stop. He dashed himself against the wagon as it drove off, and then he ran. Out of Adams Court and into the night. No one knew where he'd gone.

Roddy had searched for him for days, then weeks. And then the body had been found. There was no money on it and the skull had been fractured. Roddy guessed that in his shock and grief: Charlie had wandered down a dangerous street and become the victim of thieves coshed, robbed, and pushed into the river. Fiona was thankful they'd missed his watch, thankful she had something with which to remember her brother.

Up until the day Charlie's body was found, Fiona had clung tightly to the hope that he was still alive. She grieved for him deeply. She missed his c.o.c.ky swagger, his grin, all his daft jokes. She missed his strength and wished to G.o.d she had him there to lean on. It was just she and Seamie now.

Poor little Eileen had survived her mother by a mere five days before the infection in her chest killed her.

Fiona doubted that she or Seamie would have survived at all if it hadn't been for their Uncle Roddy. He'd taken them in right after the murder. He'd lied to the parish authorities, telling them that he was a blood relative, their mother's cousin, and demanding they all be released into his care. Fiona had been in no condition to look after Seamie and Eileen and he feared that the authorities would put them all in the workhouse.

He had given them a home, fed them, cared for them, tried his best to ease their sorrow. On days when Fiona found it difficult even to get out of bed, he would take her hand and tell her, "One foot in front of the other, la.s.s, that's the only way." And that was how she existed, numbly plodding along, unable to tell from one minute to the next if she wanted to live or die.

For most of her seventeen years, Fiona had embraced life. Despite all of its struggles, there had always been something to look forward to-evenings by the fire with her family, walks with Joe, the life they'd planned together. But now her love of life and the hope with which she greeted her future were gone. Now she lived in a drab netherworld, adrift in a limbo. Unable to walk away from life because of her little brother's dependence on her, but unable to engage in it because of the crus.h.i.+ng losses that weighed so heavily upon her, she merely endured.

She no longer found any purpose in her life, no longer carried any dreams in her heart. Her father's words, words that had kept her going through many a hard time, held no meaning for her now. "Got to have your dreams, la.s.s. Day you lose them, you might as well take yourself down to the undertaker's, for you're as good as dead." She looked around herself now at all the graves, thought about her stillborn dreams, and knew she was as good as dead.

A chill wind whipped through the cemetery, rattling the bare-branched trees. Fall had given way to winter. Christmas and New Year's had come and gone; she'd been oblivious to them. It was already the middle of January, 1889. The papers all had a new story now -Jack the Ripper was dead, they said. He'd committed suicide. A body had been pulled from the river at the end of December.

His name was Montague Druitt, a young London barrister. Druitt had a family history of mental instability and those close to him said they'd seen signs of erratic behavior. He'd left a note saying it would be better for him to die. His landlady had told police he kept strange hours, that he was often absent at night, only coming home after dawn. The press speculated that Druitt, plagued by horror and remorse after the Adams Court murders, drowned himself. His death gave Fiona no joy. She only wished he'd taken his life before he killed her mother.

The winter wind brought snowflakes with it. She stood up. The air was turning bitter. A thaw had enabled the undertakers to bury her brother. She thought about him, so full of mischief, now buried in the hard ground, and felt tears threaten again. She searched her mind for some small comfort, some reason why she had lost her family, Joe, everything she had, as she did it hundred times a day, every day. As always, she found none. She walked out of the graveyard and headed for Roddy's flat, a sad, pale figure against the bleak winter sky.

Chapter 20.

During the early months of 1889, Seamie Finnegan: shot up like a weed. His legs grew long and stalky and his body lost some of its puppy fat. He'd turned five in December and was fast leaving babyhood behind. He had the astonis.h.i.+ng resilience of the very young and this, coupled with Fiona's loving presence, helped him cope with the loss of his mother, his beloved brother, and his baby sister. He was a bright, sensitive child, almost always cheerful, and he was devoted to his sister, very finely tuned to her moods. When he sensed she was slipping away from him into that dark, quiet place inside herself where she sometimes went, he would clown for her, until he got her to smile, or, if she was beyond smiling, he would climb into her lap and let her wrap her arms around him until she was better.

And Fiona was every bit as devoted to him. He was all she had and she was fiercely protective of him, unwilling to let him out of her sight, only surrendering him to Roddy or Roddy's fiancee, Grace Emmett. His freckled face, his sweet, childish voice, were her only comforts.

She looked at him now as she prepared his tea. He sat at the table, a fork, in his fist, eager for his meal. She put his food before him and he tucked into it hungrily. Bread, boiled potatoes, and a small kipper. It's not enough for a growing child, she thought; he should have milk and meat and green vegetables. But it was all Roddy could do. He was supporting the two of them and his wages were stretched thin. He'd bought Seamie a warm sweater just the other day to protect him against the cold March weather, and he'd even made her a birthday present of a new shawl last week, when she'd turned eighteen.

Fiona felt grateful to him for all he'd done for them. She also felt guilty. She saw the way he and Grace looked at each other. She knew they would be married by now and living under the same roof if it weren't for her and Seamie. They'd been living with him since November. In recent weeks, she'd gained a bit of weight and lost the sunken, hollow-eyed look she'd had. She could manage the marketing, the cleaning, and the laundry now. It was time for her to go back to work and find a room for herself and Seamie. Roddy couldn't take care of them forever.

But the very idea of finding her own place overwhelmed her. She had no money. What was left of the twenty pounds from Joe had gone to pay for caskets and funerals. The landlord had sold the contents of their flat-their few bits of furniture,' their dishes, her mother's clothing, even the navy gloves Charlie had brought for her, and kept the proceeds in lieu of the rent that was owed him.

Roddy had managed to salvage one thing from the sale ~a cigar box with her parents' wedding rings, photos, and doc.u.ments in it. She had no job, either. She'd seen a friend from Burton Tea on the street who told her that her place there had been filled. Ralph Jackson had found someone new, too. She could start hunting, but it might take weeks to find something, and even when she did, it would be another month before she would have enough money to rent a room.

She had hoped for help from her Uncle Michael. Her mother had written him after her father's funeral, but received no reply. Maybe he hadn't gotten the letter. Mail often went astray from one end of London to the other, never mind from London to New York. She would write again.

A shout from downstairs took her out of her worries. It was Mrs. Norman, the landlady. She went to the landing. Mrs. Norman was standing at t he bottom of the stairs, a letter in her hand. "For you, luv. Just came," she said, waving the envelope impatiently.

Fiona went downstairs for the letter, thanked her, then disappointed her by returning to Roddy's flat to read it in privacy. The letter was from Burton Tea It was addressed to her mother. She could see from the crossed-out writing on the front that it had been sent to Montague Street, then Adams Court, and now here. She opened it. Meticulous copperplate regretfully informed Mrs.

Patrick Finnegan that her application to the Burton Tea Company for compensatory monies had been denied. Because her husband's Death was due to the negligence of a fellow worker, David O'Neill, and not the Burton Tea Company per se, no award would be made. She was advised to contact a Mr.

J. Dawson, Labor Clerk, with any further inquiries.