The Wild Rose (18 page)

“Make it to Binsey.”

“Today?”

“Yes, today. We’d have to get you changed. And pack a few things for you. But if we could get to Paddington by eleven, and then get a train out by noon, we could be at the cottage by two at the latest. It’s only a short walk from the station. I could settle you there, then come right back.” She went quiet, then started thinking out loud again, almost unaware that she was talking. “My father will be home before I get home, and he’ll wonder where I’ve gone. I’ll have to leave a note. Say I went out to do some errands for the wedding. I’ll pick up some cards on my way back. Nip into the florist’s. So it’s not entirely a lie.”

“What wedding? Who’s getting married?”

“Oh . . . um . . . I am,” Jennie said.

“That’s wonderful news! When is it?”

“This Sunday,” Jennie said, hoping that the conversation would end. But it didn’t.

“This Sunday,” Josie echoed. Then she smiled cheekily. “That’s awfully sudden, isn’t it? I didn’t even know you were engaged.”

Jennie colored. “Yes, well, it is, but . . .” She stammered, at a loss for a convincing lie.

Josie gave her a close look, then said, “Oh, Jennie, you didn’t! Not you!”

“Well . . . um . . . yes. I’m rather afraid I did,” Jennie said.

Josie screeched laughter. “You little hussy,” she said. “Sitting here like butter wouldn’t melt in your mouth, and all the time you’ve a bun in the oven yourself. Same as me.”

“Josie, we really have to get going if we’re to make the train.”

But Josie paid her no attention. “Is he nice?” she asked.

“Very nice.”

“Handsome? Strong?”

“Yes, both of those.”

“Is he a good kisser?”

“Josie Meadows,” Jennie scolded. Then she laughed. “Yes. Yes, he is.”

“Good,” Josie said. “I’m glad he’s nice. You deserve a nice one, miss. It’s nice when they’re nice, isn’t it? In bed, I mean. When they’ve washed and shaved and they’ve brought you flowers and champagne. When they say sweet things and take their time. Cor, I do like the feel of a man in my bed. Makes me half-mad sometimes, the wanting of them.” She dropped her voice to a whisper. “Does it make you feel that way, too?”

Jennie was about to tell her no, to tell her to hurry and change for they had a train to catch. But then she thought of that afternoon on the River Cam. And how it had felt to lie in Seamie’s arms. She thought of how much she loved him, and how that love had made her do things she never thought she would, and hope for things she never should have.

And so she didn’t tell Josie no. Instead she smiled and, with a rueful note in her voice, said, “Yes, Josie. It does.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

“There’s not enough champagne. We’ll run out. I just know it. I should’ve ordered more,” Fiona whispered tersely.

“Are you mad, lass?” Joe whispered back. “There’s enough champagne in the house to drown all of London.”

“And the ice creams, Joe. I should’ve ordered four flavors. Not three. Four. How could I have been so daft?”

Joe took her hand in his. “Stop now. There’s more than enough of everything. The luncheon will be beautiful. The house is beautiful. The day is beautiful.” He smiled and kissed her cheek. “Most of all, you’re beautiful.”

Fiona smiled and kissed him back. Then she frowned again. “You do think he’ll show up?” she said. “He won’t do a runner or some such thing?”

Joe laughed. “I’ve just seen him. He’s right inside the conservatory looking as happy as a sand boy.”

Fiona sighed with relief. “Good. Maybe this will all go off without a hitch after all.”

“Of course it will,” Joe said. “Stop worrying and enjoy the day.”

Fiona nodded. She turned her head and, smiling at this one and waving at that one, she looked at the people seated behind her in neat rows of white rattan chairs. The chairs had been divided into two groups and arranged with a little aisle between them. In ten minutes or so, at precisely one o’clock, her brother Seamus would walk down that aisle, to the bower the florists had made, turn around, and wait for his bride. It almost felt unreal to her. She couldn’t quite believe that this day had come, that wild and reckless Seamie had given up roaming, found himself a job in London and a wife, and was ready to settle down. For so long he had mourned the loss of Willa Alden. No woman had ever been able to replace her.

And then he’d met Jennie Wilcott, who was as different from Willa as chalk was from cheese. Perhaps that was what had been needed all along to break Willa’s spell. Jennie was blond and pink-cheeked, soft and feminine. She had a marvelous womanly figure and a quiet but determined way about her. Yet for all her sweetness and light, Jennie had tamed Seamie somehow. God knew how. Well, actually, they all did, Fiona thought, smiling—and the evidence would arrive in about eight months’ time. She didn’t think that Seamie was marrying Jennie because he had to, though. He wanted to marry her. So much. He’d told her so. Over and over again.

So many times that it unsettled her, if the truth were known. It made her uneasy, this sudden change on Seamie’s part. Had Seamie really changed? Was he really over Willa?

Fiona had confided her doubts to Joe just a few days ago. He’d thrown up his hands in frustration and said, “For years, all I’ve heard from you is how much you want Seamie to meet a good woman and settle down. Now he has. He’s met a very good woman. And you’re still worrying. There’s no pleasing you, Fiona!”

Maybe Joe was right. Maybe there was no pleasing her. And yet she could not quell the niggling little voice, deep down inside, the one that was always right, the one that was saying now that it had all happened so fast.

She looked at her watch—only ten more minutes to go—then felt an arm twine around her shoulders and lips upon her cheek. She looked up. It was Maud. Max von Brandt, tall, charming, and stylishly dressed, was with her. Fiona kissed Maud back, greeted Max, and then Maud and Max went to find chairs.

Fiona noticed that a few more late arrivals had seated themselves—the Shackletons, George Mallory and his fiancée, Ruth Turner, Mrs. Alden. She looked again at all the faces of her family and friends—Joe’s parents, Peter and Rose; his brothers and sisters; all their children. Her own beautiful children. The Rosens, the Moskowitzes, Harriet Hatcher and her parents, Mr. Foster, friends of Seamie’s—men whom he’d sailed with—and friends of Jennie’s, so fetching in their spring dresses and hats.

A soft breeze caressed Fiona’s cheek. She looked up, hoping it was not a harbinger of rain—it was May, but still early in the month, and the English weather could be so changeable—but no, the sun was still shining. The sky was blue. And all around them, buds were bursting into life. She was suddenly overcome by the beauty of it all and found herself wishing that she could stop time, that she could keep this perfect spring day forever. She saw suddenly, with a piercing clarity, that instead of worrying so much, instead of always looking for problems, she should feel deeply blessed, and deeply grateful, to be surrounded by so many dear people on such a joyous day. For joyous days were not always so plentiful.

She had lost loved ones years ago. Once, she had nearly lost Joe. Those losses, the terrible grief they had caused her, had made her ever fearful of losing another person she loved. It made her think dark thoughts too often, made her dwell on the bad—real and imagined—and blinded her to the good.

And today was good. Seamie had found someone wonderful. And if he was a little overexcited about marrying her, well, he had every right to be. She was the sort of woman any man would be excited to marry. Fiona told herself that she was being silly for worrying, and she resolved, once and for all, to stop it.

A few minutes later, the string quartet that she’d hired began to play the wedding processional. Everyone stood. Albie Alden, Seamie’s best man, came striding down the aisle, smiling. He was followed by Seamie, looking so handsome in a gray morning suit. Next came the ring bearer and the flower girl—Joe’s sister Ellen’s two youngest—a maid of honor, and then the bride herself, lovely and radiant on her father’s arm.

A moment in time, Fiona thought again, as she watched the Reverend Wilcott kiss his daughter and place her hand in Seamie’s.

“Let it last forever,” she murmured. “Please let it last.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

“I always wonder how the sun can shine on days like today,” Seamie said sadly.

“I wondered the same thing the day my mother died,” Jennie said, slipping her hand into his. “My father says it’s to remind us that brightness follows darkness, and that happiness will one day follow our grief.”

They were in the Aldens’ parlor, standing by a coffin. Admiral Alden had lost his battle with cancer two days ago, and Seamie was paying his last respects before the admiral’s body was taken to Westminster Abbey for a funeral service, and then to the cemetery for a small, private burial.

“He was one of the old breed,” Seamie said. “Duty and service above all. He was one of the finest men I have ever known.” He paused to master his emotion, then said, “I used to sail with him and his family. As a lad. He gave me my first lessons in navigation. He saw how much I loved the sea and loved to explore, and he encouraged that. He was like a father to me.”

Jennie leaned her head against his arm. “Would you like a few minutes alone with him?” she asked.

Seamie nodded, unable to speak.

“Take all the time you need,” she said, kissing his cheek. “I’ll be with Fiona and Joe.”

Seamie took a handkerchief from his pocket. He wiped his eyes with it and blew his nose. He knew he should join the others, but he couldn’t. Not yet. His feelings were still too close to the surface. So he walked around the parlor instead, looking at the books on the shelves, at paintings and family mementoes.

Seamie remembered this house so well. He remembered sliding down its banister, chasing Albie through its halls, drinking hot chocolate and eating biscuits in its warm and cozy kitchen. But he remembered this parlor best of all. He and Albie had built teepees here out of Mrs. Alden’s sheets and blankets too many times to count. They’d sat by the fire at night as the admiral told them of his adventures on the high seas. Played draughts on the rug. Sung along to songs Mrs. Alden played on the piano.

He touched an ivory key now, listening as the sound it made faded. He looked at the photographs standing on top of the piano. Photos of ships the admiral had commanded, of boats he’d sailed and raced. There were family pictures, many taken on the water. Pictures of the Aldens, and Seamie with them, on the admiral’s yacht
Tradewind
. One from July of ’91, another from August of ’92, a third from June of ’93—all the endless summers of his youth.

There were pictures of Albie as a boy and as a young man. There was one of him receiving his doctoral degree at Cambridge. And there were pictures of Willa. As a toddler in braids and a pinafore. As a girl in trousers, standing on top of a boulder, or at
Tradewind
’s wheel. As a fetching young woman in an ivory dress and stockings.

Seamie picked that photo up and gazed at it. He remembered that dress, remembered that night. They’d been teenagers then. He’d been seventeen years old. The Aldens had had a party, that was why Willa was dressed up. They were in the backyard, the three of them, lying on a blanket and gazing up at the sky. He’d been about to leave, in just a few days, on his first expedition. It would be years before he saw his two friends again. Albie had gone inside to get them something to eat, and then Willa had kissed him, and told him to meet her one day again, under Orion.

He remembered how they’d met again. Years later in the Pickerel, a Cambridge pub. She’d challenged him to a climb—up the side of St. Botolph’s Church—and bet him he couldn’t beat her. If he won, she was to buy him a new pair of hiking boots. If she won, he was to accompany her to Africa, to Kilimanjaro. She’d won. She’d won the bet, the wager, the summit, and his heart.

And then he remembered coming home from Africa without her. He remembered standing here, in this very room, and telling her parents what had happened. He thought they would blame him for it—he blamed himself—but they didn’t. Instead, they’d guessed his feelings for their daughter and said they were sorry that things had ended up as they had. Both the admiral and Mrs. Alden had taken Willa’s decision to travel east instead of coming home very hard.

“How could you do it?” he asked the girl in the photograph now. “How could you not come home? Not once in all this time?”

The admiral had loved his daughter and she had loved him. She’d looked up to him and sought his respect and admiration in everything she did. How on earth could she have ignored her mother’s and brother’s many letters of the past few weeks begging her to return to London and see her father before it was too late? How could she be so cruel? She had certainly been cruel to him, true—but he was only her brokenhearted lover; Admiral Alden was her father.

Seamie put the photograph back, knowing he would never have an answer to that question. Willa should’ve come. She should’ve said good-bye to her father. She should’ve been here to help her mother mourn the loss of the man she’d been married to for more than forty years. She should’ve been here for Albie, her brother, who had struggled manfully to comfort his devastated mother, organize the wake and funeral service, the burial and the mourners’ luncheon, all while trying to cope with his own grief. Willa should’ve been here, but she was not.

Seamie walked back to the coffin. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a pebble, and placed it under the admiral’s folded hands. It was one of a handful he’d brought back from the icy shores of the Weddell Sea—a place he would never have got to if it hadn’t been for this man. He swallowed hard, snapped the admiral a smart salute, then left the parlor for the drawing room.

There, he found Jennie again, sitting on a settee. She was talking with Mrs. Alden, who was seated in the chair across from her. Seamie took the empty spot next to her on the settee. As he sat down, Jennie wordlessly reached for his hand, and her gentle touch made his grief a bit easier to bear. He thought, as he had so many times over the last few weeks, how very good to him she was and how glad he was that he had married her.

He smiled to himself now, though, as he recalled that he’d been something other than glad when she’d told him she was pregnant. He’d been shocked, actually. In fact, he’d seen his life flash before his eyes, as men sometimes said they did when they thought they were going to die. But he’d also immediately seen what he must do. Jennie was pregnant and he had made her so; he could not possibly take off to the Antarctic and leave her in London, alone and unmarried, to bear their child. Only an utter blackguard could have done that. And so he had done the right thing, the honorable thing, the only thing—he had proposed to her.

He’d felt afraid as he spoke the words to her, and painfully torn. By asking her to marry him, he knew he was finally saying good-bye to Willa, once and for all. But to his great surprise, Jennie’s acceptance had made him happy. The fear had left him as soon as she said yes, and in the days that followed, he’d felt only contentment and relief.

The thing was done, his decision made. In fact, all his decisions were made. He would stay in London. He would take the RGS job and leave exploring to other men—men who were younger, or crazier. Men who had nothing but themselves to lose. He’d been mistaken, he told himself, in his belief that Willa Alden was the only woman he could ever love, and he resolved to let go of the sad, destructive love he felt for her and to embrace the love Jennie offered. He took his memories of Willa—the sound of her laughter, the way she looked when she climbed, the taste of her lips—and locked them in a strongbox in the deepest recesses of his memory—a box that was never to be opened again.

For the first time in many years, he felt at peace with himself—calm, contented, light and easy. Not restless, not churned up. Not feeling as if he was always bleeding inside from a wound that never healed.

Yes, he told himself now, as he squeezed Jennie’s hand, I was mistaken all those years ago. He’d found love, at last, he knew he had. And happiness, too. With the woman sitting next to him. Willa Alden belonged to the past. And the past was where she would stay. His future was with Jennie Wilcott.

Mrs. Alden excused herself and rose to greet some distant cousins who’d just arrived, and Jennie asked Seamie if he’d like another cup of tea.

“No, thank you, my darling,” he said. “I’ve had three already and I’m bursting. I’m going to head to the loo. I’ll be right back.”

On his way there, he passed the parlor, where Admiral Alden lay, and as he did, he heard voices coming from it—a man’s and a woman’s. They sounded strained. They rose, then quickly fell again. He hurried past, thinking that whatever was being discussed, it was none of his business, and that whoever was doing the discussing would soon finish and leave.

But he was wrong. As he passed the parlor again on his way back from the loo, he discovered that the voices had only grown louder. Well, one of them had—the man’s. To his surprise, he realized he knew that voice—it belonged to Albie.

Worried for his friend, Seamie stuck his head in the doorway. He saw Albie pacing back and forth. There was another man with him—an odd-looking chap who was tall and thin and dressed in loose trousers and a red cotton jacket and had a scarf wound round his head. Seamie could only see the man’s back, but he looked dusty and rumpled, as if he’d traveled a long way. Seamie wondered where the woman was. He could’ve sworn that he’d heard a woman’s voice, too.

The discussion continued, only it sounded more like an argument now, and Albie was doing all the talking. Seamie could see that he was angry but trying to contain himself.

Why was this person bothering him? Now? In a time of such distress? Seamie stepped inside the room, very concerned now. As he did, the strange man took a few faltering steps toward the coffin and Seamie saw that he walked with a slight limp.

With a sharp, gut-wrenching suddenness, Seamie realized who the man was. He tried to back up quickly, to get out of the room before he was seen, but in his haste he backed into a pedestal with a heavy Chinese vase on it. The vase teetered and, before he could catch it, fell. It hit the floor and shattered. The man turned around. Her huge green eyes, swollen with tears, widened in recognition, and pain.

“Hello, Seamie,” Willa Alden said.