The Wild Rose (25 page)

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

“I could eat every berry in Binsey, me,” Josie said, plucking another strawberry from her basket and popping it into her mouth. “Blimey, but they’re good.”

“If you don’t stop, we’ll have nothing for our tea,” Jennie said, laughing. “We haven’t even got ourselves outside of the village yet. Wait until we get back to the cottage before you eat any more.”

They had just come from the village square, where a market was held every Monday. They’d bought strawberries freshly picked that morning, a pint of clotted cream, rich and crumbly scones, a wedge of sharp cheddar, another of Caerphilly, a loaf of brown bread, some smoked trout, and a pound of pale yellow butter.

Jennie knew she would only pick at the feast, for her stomach was upset most of the time now. Josie, on the other hand, would devour it. She had not been troubled by nausea in the least and was hungry all the time.

Jennie looked at her as they walked along. Josie was the picture of health. Her cheeks were pink and her eyes were sparkling. Her belly had already begun to pop out. Jennie, whose due date was three weeks later than Josie’s, had not begun to show. She couldn’t wait until she did. It would make it more real. It would show her—and Seamie, too—that the baby was healthy and growing. She had just seen Harriet Hatcher last week and was due to see her again in a few days’ time. Harriet said that she’d heard a heartbeat and that so far all seemed well, but she’d still reminded Jennie of the delicate nature of her pregnancy and cautioned her against too much hope.

“What shall we do today?” Josie asked, swinging her basket. “Pick flowers? Make jam? God knows we bought enough berries. I know! Let’s go to the river and dip our toes in. It’s already beastly hot and it’s only nine o’clock.”

“The river . . . that sounds like a wonderful idea,” Jennie said. It
was
hot, far too hot for June. Jennie was perspiring heavily. Her cheeks were flushed. A wade in the river would be just the thing to cool them both off. “Let’s just put the marketing away, and then we’ll go.”

Jennie had come up from London the day before. It was her third trip to Binsey in two months. She’d told Seamie, yet again, that she needed some quiet time—time to rest and relax. He had been agreeable to the trip and had not questioned her or protested.

But then again, why would he? Her absence meant he could spend more time with Willa Alden.

Jennie didn’t know where he was seeing her, or when, because he was always home at night, but she knew in her heart that he was.

He was always preoccupied now. He spent more time in his study. And even when he was in the very same room with her, he was miles away. He was still kind to her, though—solicitous of her health, concerned about the baby, anxious that she was overtaxing herself. But he didn’t kiss her much anymore. Not like he used to. And at night, in their bed, he would turn out the light, roll on his side, and go right to sleep. They hadn’t made love in weeks. She had tried to interest him a few times, but he had said they shouldn’t. He didn’t want to do anything to hurt the baby.

She thought of them together sometimes, Seamie and Willa—she couldn’t help it. In her mind’s eye, she saw him in bed with her, saw him kissing her and caressing her, and the images made her feel sick. There were days when she was so distraught that she vowed she would confront him. She would ask him about Willa. Ask him if they’d been together, if he was still in love with her.

But what would she do if he said,
Yes, Jennie, I am
?

And so she pretended. She pretended to him that she didn’t know. Pretended to herself that she didn’t care. That it didn’t matter. And she hoped and prayed that one day it wouldn’t. That one day soon, Willa would leave London and go back to the East. And that Seamie would come back to her, Jennie. To their home. Their life. Their bed.

“We could go fishing,” Josie said suddenly, as they passed a small sporting goods shop. “I saw fishing rods in the coat closet.”

Jennie laughed, grateful for Josie’s companionship, for her cheerfulness, and for the distraction Josie provided from her own dark thoughts.

“Yes, we could,” she said. “If either one of us knew the first thing about fishing.”

“All we would need are some worms,” Josie said. “And hooks. We could get the hooks here. Right inside this shop.”

“And line. I think we need some sort of fishing line. I think we need . . .” Jennie gasped suddenly, as a pain—dark and horrible—gripped her deep inside.

“Jennie? What is it?” Josie asked.

“Nothing, I . . .” She stopped talking as another cramp, stronger than the one before, shuddered through her.

She took a few more steps, and then she felt something warm and wet between her legs. It was coming out of her, seeping into her underthings. She didn’t have to see it to know what it was—blood.

“Oh, no,” she said, in a small, scared voice. “Please, no.”

“Jennie,” Josie said, her eyes large and worried. “What’s wrong?”

“I think it’s the baby . . . I . . . I’m bleeding,” Jennie said. She started to cry.

“Come on,” Josie said, taking her arm. “There’s a surgery at the edge of the village. It’s not far. Dr. Cobb’s the man’s name. I saw the shingle once. When I first got here. I made a point to remember it. Just in case something happened and I needed someone. It’s not far.”

“No!” Jennie said, shaking Josie off. “I’m not going to any doctor.”

“Are you mad? You need help. The baby needs help.”

“I won’t go,” Jennie said. “He can’t know. Nobody can know.”

“Who can’t know?” Josie asked. “The doctor?”

“Seamie. My husband. He can’t know,” Jennie said, her voice rising. She was becoming hysterical, she couldn’t help it. “If the cramps don’t stop, if I keep bleeding,” she said wildly, “I’ll lose the baby, and him, too.”

Josie looked at her with pity and understanding. “That’s how it is between you, eh?” she said softly.

“Yes, that’s how it is,” Jennie said miserably. She didn’t want to be telling Josie these things, but she couldn’t seem to stop herself. “He’s got someone . . . another woman. And all I’ve got is this baby. It’s the only thing keeping him with me. I’m sure of it.”

Josie nodded. “All right, luv. Calm down. Nobody’s losing anybody,” she said. Her voice was soothing, but her eyes were hard and determined. “We won’t tell Seamie about this, right? Because they’ll be nothing to tell. But we are going to see Dr. Cobb now. If you want those cramps to stop, we’ve got to see him. We’ll just nip in, you and I. He’ll check you over and give you something, and half an hour from now, you’ll be right as rain again. Here we go now, you and me . . . just a few more steps . . . come on now, duck.”

Josie took her arm once more and Jennie started walking again, desperately hoping that her friend was right, that there was something Dr. Cobb could do to stop the bleeding and the pain, but then another cramp gripped her.

“Oh, God,” she sobbed. “It’s no use, Josie. I’m going to lose this baby.”

“Now, you listen to me,” Josie said fiercely. “I’ll sort it for you, Jennie, don’t you worry. I’ll take care of you. I’ll take care of everything.”

“How, Josie?” Jennie sobbed. “How? You can’t! No one can!”

“Oh, but I can. You’d have to be a right git to have spent as much time around villains as I have and not pick up a trick or two,” she said.

“I . . . I don’t understand,” Jennie said.

“You don’t have to. All you have to do is remember something when we get to Dr. Cobb’s. Just one small thing. Can you do that for me, Jennie? Jennie, luv, can you do that?”

“Yes,” Jennie said. “What is it?”

“That my name is Jennie Finnegan,” Josie said. “And that yours is Josie. Josie Meadows.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

“Harriet, my dear,” Max said, as he entered her office.

“My, goodness, Max. Is it noon already?” Harriet Hatcher asked, looking up from a patient’s file. She closed the file. Her expression was troubled. “Sit down, won’t you? Just clear the things off that chair.”

Max did so, shifting a copy of the
Battle Cry
and a
VOTES FOR WOMEN
banner from the chair to a credenza. “How goes the struggle?” he asked.

“Well, and not so well,” Harriet said. “You heard about the by-election in Cumbria, I’m sure. Labour won a seat that had long been held by the Liberals. So there’s another MP sympathetic to our cause, which is wonderful, of course. . . .”

“But . . .” Max prompted.

“There’s always a but, isn’t there?” Harriet said wryly. “In this case, the but is the sudden bout of war fever that’s gripped government. We in the movement fear that the push for women’s suffrage will take a backseat to military concerns.”

“Even if it does,” Max said, “you must keep fighting.”

Harriet nodded, a determined smile on her face now. “Oh, we will. Millicent Fawcett is like a glacier—slow but implacable. There is no stopping her. She will not give up and neither will the rest of us.”

“Then you must be well fortified for the fight,” Max said. “Where shall we dine tonight? I was thinking of the Eastern.”

“It’s a bit far and I don’t have long today. I’ve lots of appointments to get through this afternoon. What about something closer? There’s a nice pub only a street away.”

Max feigned interest in her suggestions, pretending he was game for anything, but really, the very last thing he wanted to be doing right now was swanning off to lunch.

A war of words was heating up between Austria-Hungary and Serbia. The kaiser had signaled his readiness to jump into the fray. Berlin was waiting on Max for crucial information, and yet he could get nothing to them, for he still could not come up with a way to get the documents from Gladys Bigelow to the North Sea.

He had risked one meeting with her, on her bus, to tell her to keep bringing carbons out of Burgess’s office, but to hold them in her home for now, until she received further instructions. There were times when he’d felt so desperate, he’d nearly decided to put on his old disguise, the one he’d used to seduce Gladys, and get the papers from her himself. But he knew that would be foolish. He must not be seen in those clothes anywhere near Duffin’s again.

Max knew he had to be patient, as hard as that was. He had always dined with Harriet on Thursdays, and so he must continue to dine with Harriet on Thursdays. He must appear to be as predictable as the English rain after the disaster with Bauer and Hoffman, and the one with Maud, in case he was now being watched.

“And there’s always the Moskowitzes’ cafe, of course,” Harriet said. “What do you think of that? Max? Max?”

“I think it’s a fine idea,” he said quickly, hoping she hadn’t noticed that he’d been miles away.

“Good,” Harriet said. She closed the file she’d been reading and put it on top of a stack of folders on her desk. He glanced at the name on the file—Jennie Finnegan. “Suzanne!” she called out.

A few seconds later, Harriet’s receptionist stuck her head in. Harriet handed her the stack of folders. “After you go to lunch, could you file these, please?” she asked. “But don’t file the three on top—Mrs. Finnegan’s, Mrs. Erikson’s, and Mrs. O’Rourke’s. Put those in my briefcase. They’re all coming in for appointments tomorrow, and I want to study my notes at home tonight.” Suzanne nodded, took the stack of folders, and returned to her office.

Max had seen the slight frown on Harriet’s face as she’d read Jennie Finnegan’s file. Her reaction piqued his interest, accustomed as he was to reading people’s facial cues. Something in Jennie Finnegan’s file was especially bothering her. He remembered seeing Willa at the Coburg—how could he forget?—and discovering that it was Seamus Finnegan—Jennie’s husband—whom she’d gone there to see. He wondered what it was that was troubling Harriet about Jennie, and he wondered if it had any connection to what was going on at the Coburg. He decided to press Harriet, ever so subtly, to see if he could find out more. Other people’s private matters often proved useful.

“Mrs. Finnegan . . . ,” he said now. “Would that be the former Jennie Wilcott? I haven’t seen her, or her husband, since their wedding. What a lovely bride she was. What a perfect day that was. Blue skies. Flowers. All of us together. Who would think that only weeks later . . .” He let his voice trail off, swallowed hard, then picked up a wooden rattle that was lying on Harriet’s desk and fiddled with it.

Harriet reached across her desk and covered his hand with her own. “It’s not your fault, Max. You know that. Everyone knows that.”

He nodded, then said, “We should talk of happier things.” He held up the rattle, shook it, and smiled. “Like babies. What could be happier than a baby? Jennie and her husband must be very excited to have a little one due soon. How is she? Is she well?”

“As far as I know, yes,” Harriet said, a bit distractedly.

What an odd answer, Max thought, but he decided to push it no further. He knew Harriet was a stickler for doctor-patient confidentiality. He didn’t want to make her uncomfortable. Or suspicious.

“Perhaps we should get going,” he said. “Before Moskowitzes’ gets crowded.”

“Yes, I think we should. Let’s have a glass of wine while we’re there, Max, shall we? Let’s forget about struggles and sadnesses for an hour. Excuse me for a moment. I’m just going to go freshen up,” Harriet said, disappearing down the hall.

As soon as he heard the door to the loo open and close, Max rushed out of Harriet’s office and into her receptionist’s, hoping that the woman had already gone to lunch. Luckily, she had—and she’d left all the folders Harriet had given her on her desk. Jennie Finnegan’s was on top. Max flipped it open and began to read its contents.

He learned that Jennie Wilcott Finnegan’s due date was a bit less than eight months after her wedding. Eight, not the usual nine. Furthermore, he learned that she had been horribly injured in an accident as a child, an accident that had damaged several of her organs, including her uterus. There were diagrams of Jennie’s scars, sketches of what looked to him like a misshapen womb. There was a note that Jennie was taking time to rest quietly at her cottage in Binsey, Oxfordshire.

And finally, Max learned that his cousin, Dr. Harriet Hatcher, did not expect Jennie’s due date to be reached. She had written in her notes that she did not believe the pregnancy would advance to full-term and that she had counseled Jennie on this very concern, telling her that she should prepare herself for the very real possibility of a miscarriage.

As Max put the folder back exactly as he’d found it and hurried back into Harriet’s office, he found himself feeling newly optimistic.

He’d learned so many valuable things in the past few days—and they all centered on Jennie Finnegan, the Reverend Wilcott’s daughter. He’d learned that she was pregnant before she was married, that she would likely never have the child she was carrying, and that her husband was making secret trips to the Coburg, where he was meeting Willa Alden. It was true—people’s private matters
did
prove useful.

“Are you ready?” Harriet asked, as she walked back into her office.

“I am,” he said, rising from the chair.

He helped Harriet into her coat—a linen duster—and complimented her on her hat, a pretty straw affair trimmed with silk flowers. When they got outside, they discovered that it had started to drizzle. Max quickly put his umbrella up and took Harriet’s arm.

“Of course,” she sighed. “How perfect. Dreary skies to match our dreary moods. I think we should cheer up, Max. What do you say? I think we should endeavor to enjoy our afternoon despite the gray clouds.”

“Ah, my dear, Harriet,” Max said, smiling, “I’m enjoying it already.”