The Wild Rose (60 page)

“Aye, that’s him. Billy’s two older boys were killed on the Somme, I heard. The one here with us was shot in the head. He has brain damage. Dr. Barnes says there’s no hope for him. He’ll never be right,” Mrs. Culver said.

“I know Peter,” James said. “He’s new. He’s very quiet.”

Watching the man, stoop-shouldered and broken-looking, walking past with his silent, shuffling son, Fiona almost felt sorry for him. Almost.

“I’ve heard such dreadful things about him,” Mrs. Culver said, looking out of the window, “but they’re hard to credit. I mean, look at him . . . he hardly looks like a fearsome villain, does he? He looks like he’s been gutted.”

“Who’s gutted? Who’s a villain?” James asked, looking out of the window, too.

Fiona, her eyes still on Madden, felt a shiver go up her spine.

“Auntie Fee? Who’s a villain?” James asked again. “That man out there? Is he Peter’s daddy? He doesn’t look like a villain. He just looks sad.”

“No one’s a villain, James,” Fiona said. “Eat your mince pie, love,” she said, still gazing at Madden.

Madden, who had his son’s arm, pointed at something, smiling. Fiona followed the direction of his finger. It was a huge hawk, circling a field.

Mrs. Culver thought Madden a broken man, a changed man, but Fiona wasn’t so sure. Men like Madden never really changed. She knew that well enough. The violence never left them. It stayed inside, coiled like a viper.

Fiona suddenly heard a door open and bang shut again, and the next she thing saw was James running across the lawn. Running to Billy Madden. He had something in his hands.

“James!” she shouted, banging the platter of mince pies down and running after him. “James, come back!” she shouted again, once she was outside.

But James was already at Billy Madden’s side. He tugged on Madden’s jacket. Madden turned around and James handed him something. As Fiona drew closer, she saw it was a mince pie. He gave one to Peter, too.

“Merry Christmas,” he said.

Madden, still holding his pie, knelt down to the boy. His face had gone white. As if he’d just seen a ghost. As Fiona watched, he reached out and took hold of James’s hand.

“William?” he said. “Son, is it you?”

His voice sounded tortured. His eyes, huge in his pale face, were boring into James. He was scaring him.

“Let go of me,” Fiona heard James say, as he tried to break free of his grasp.

Fiona, panting, finally reached them. “Let go of him,” she said, her voice low and hard. “Now.”

As if suddenly remembering himself, Madden released the boy. He looked up at Fiona. “I’m . . . I’m sorry, ma’am,” he said, sounding confused. “I didn’t mean to frighten the lad. Or you. It’s just . . . it’s just that he gave me a bit of a shock. You see, he looks exactly like my oldest son William did when he was a boy. Spitting image. It’s . . . it’s downright uncanny.” He swallowed hard, then said, “William was killed in France, ma’am. Last year.”

“I’m very sorry,” Fiona said. “I see you’re walking with Peter. We won’t disturb you. Come along, James.”

James took Fiona’s hand and together they walked back to the kitchen. Fiona could feel Madden’s eyes on them as they did.

“What was that about, Mum?” Katie asked, as Fiona stepped back inside, shepherding James before her.

“Run along into the common room and check on your cousin for me, will you, love?” Fiona said to James.

“I’m not sure what that was about,” Fiona said to Katie when he’d gone. “But I don’t want James near that man again. You’ll keep him inside, Mrs. Culver? If he comes in here again?” she asked, for suddenly, and quite inexplicably, she was afraid for the boy.

“I will, Mrs. Bristow. But you’ve nothing to fear from Billy Madden. He’s been here three times already, and he’s always the perfect gentleman.”

Fiona nodded. She picked up the platter of mince pies again. You’re being silly, she told herself. And yet, for some reason she could not explain, before she left for the common room she locked the kitchen door.

CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED ONE

“Are you trying to be funny, Mr. Simmonds?” Admiral Harris bellowed, from within the confines of his office. The door was open, and Seamie, who was sitting on a bench outside the admiral’s office, could hear everything. “Because I’m trying to relocate four warships, three gunboats, eight submarines, and two hundred sailors from the Mediterranean to the Atlantic at the moment and I haven’t the time for pranks.”

“I assure you sir, I am most definitely not being funny,” Mr. Simmonds, the admiral’s secretary, said.

Seamie, dressed in an army uniform loaned to him by the men of the unit who’d saved him and his fellow prisoners of war, had approached Mr. Simmonds only moments ago in his office at the Royal Navy’s headquarters in Haifa and told him his story.

He listened now as the admiral said, “What I would like to know, Mr. Simmonds, is
how
. How, exactly, did this happen?”

“I don’t know, sir. I gather the army had something to do with it. A unit stationed just west of Hama. Though I rather thought it might be best to allow Captain Finnegan to explain the details to you himself.”

“Where is he now?”

“Right outside, sir.”

“For God’s sake, man, bring him in!”

Mr. Simmonds popped his head out of the doorway and motioned for Seamie to join them. Seamie walked into Admiral Harris’s office, slowly and stiffly, and snapped him a sharp salute. The admiral stared, then blinked, then returned the salute.

“I’ll be damned,” he said softly. And then, much louder, “Sit down, lad! Where the devil have you been?”

“It’s rather a long story, sir. Before I tell it, I should like you to know that Quartermaster Ellis and Midshipman Benjamin are also alive, if not exactly well, and will be traveling from Hama to Damascus as soon as they are able. Might I ask you, sir, if you have word of any other survivors from the
Exeter
?”

“I’m afraid not. You, and now Ellis and Benjamin, are the only ones I know of.”

Seamie nodded sadly. He had hoped, foolishly, that more men had somehow survived. That they’d been missed by the Germans and taken by a British rescue boat, or that they’d washed up on the shores of Cyprus. Something. Anything.

“The
Brighton
received your distress call,” the admiral said. “She arrived at Famagusta about an hour after the
Exeter
went down. She searched as best she could. A storm had blown in and the seas had become rough. They could find no survivors and did not know that a German ship had picked any up.” The admiral paused, then said, “I imagine you are blaming yourself for what happened. You must not. You had no way of knowing about the U-boat.”

“And yet I do blame myself,” Seamie said.

The admiral sat back in his chair. “Of course you do, lad. Never had a captain under my command who didn’t. The pain of it lessens, though. In time.”

Seamie nodded. He didn’t believe that. He doubted the admiral believed it himself.

“Deserted the navy for the army have you?” the admiral said, nodding at Seamie’s uniform and trying to lighten the mood.

Seamie smiled. As Mr. Simmonds bustled in with a teapot and some biscuits, he told Admiral Harris what had happened aboard the
Exeter,
the injuries he’d sustained, and how he and the other survivors had been picked up by a German ship and handed off to the Turks, who’d thrown them into a terrible prison camp in the desert. He told the admiral how Ellis and the two other men had started out for Damascus, but had mistakenly veered east and ended up at Hama instead. It was an incredible piece of luck that they had, for they’d barely survived the trek to Hama and never would have made Damascus. They’d stumbled to the army barracks there and told the CO about the prison camp. He’d promptly dispatched twenty men on camels, each laden with food, water, and medicine, to the camp. They’d been too late to save some men, but they’d saved many of them.

“Incredible,” the admiral said. “Absolutely astonishing. And the burns . . . they’re healing?”

“They’ve begun to. I received good care at Hama, but I still can’t move as well as I’d like,” Seamie said.

“We’ll have a doctor here take a look at them. At the rest of you, too. We’ll wire your family to let them know the wonderful news.” He paused for a few seconds, then said, “Captain Finnegan . . . Seamus . . . before I do that, I’m afraid I’ve got some rather bad news for you.”

Seamie steeled himself. He’d heard about the terrible influenza epidemic and the havoc it had wreaked back home.

“Not my son,” he said. “Please.”

The admiral shook his head. “No, it’s not your son. I’m afraid it’s your wife. Mrs. Finnegan was stricken by the Spanish flu. She passed away last autumn.”

Seamie grabbed the front of the admiral’s desk to steady himself. He was reeling. He couldn’t believe that Jennie had been taken ill, that she was gone. For a few seconds, he panicked, wondering where James was. Then he reminded himself that his family was in London. James would be with Fiona and Joe. He was certain of it. The knowledge helped to calm the panic, but did nothing for the grief he felt. Or the guilt. He’d wanted to be a better husband to her. He’d promised himself that when he got back home, if he got back home, he
would
be better. He’d be the man she truly deserved. But it was too late now. He would never have the chance.

“I’m so sorry, Captain Finnegan. I’m sure you would appreciate a bit of privacy just now. Another officer just left for England two days ago. His rooms have been cleaned and readied for their next occupant. I will have Mr. Simmonds escort you to them. And I will do everything in my power to get you back to London as quickly as possible.”

“Thank you, sir,” Seamie said softly. “I almost don’t want to go. A part of me wishes I could stay here. If it wasn’t for my son, I would.”

“I think you’d have a good deal of company,” the admiral said. “Most every man in this building would like to stay here. Myself included. It’s easier, in many ways, than returning home to the graves and the grief. And yet we must do what we must do. Your son has lost his mother. He needs his father now as never before.”

The admiral stood. Seamie did, too. “It’s time we got you to your rooms now. You’ve had a terrible shock. You should rest. I’ll have proper clothing sent over to you, some food, and a good bottle of wine.”

“I appreciate it, sir. Very much,” Seamie said.

The admiral put a kind hand on Seamie’s shoulder. “It’s hard to lose those whom we love, lad. Especially a beloved wife. It’s the hardest bloody thing in the world.”

Seamie nodded. The admiral’s words, so well intentioned, caused him more pain than the man would ever know.

If only I
had
loved her, he thought. If only I had.

CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED TWO

“Come on, Wills, let’s go,” Josie Meadows said, pulling her fox stole around her shoulders. “I’m freezing my arse off. It’s bloody cold in here!”

“We can’t leave. We just got here,” Willa said, opening the back of her camera and pulling out a spent roll of film. “I’m getting good shots.”

“And I’m getting nervous,” Josie said, looking around herself unhappily.

“They won’t hurt you. If anything, they’re afraid you’re going to hurt them. Have another glass of wine, Jo. Relax,” Willa said, holding her camera closer to the candle on top of the tiny table in the corner of the tattered, garish tent in which they were sitting.

It was a gypsy tent. It had been set up in a wild and remote corner of Paris’s Bois de Boulogne. Willa had discovered it, and the people to whom it belonged, two weeks ago, as she was walking through the park, photographing prostitutes, vagrants, and other night people.

Willa had fallen for the gypsies instantly. Their hard beauty captivated her. Everything about them begged a photograph—the dark, haunted eyes of an old woman; the glint of an earring against black hair; the flash of a smile, sudden and unexpected and gone so quickly; the way a young man held a battered trumpet in his arms so tenderly, as if he were holding an infant; the wonder in the children’s faces when a stranger appeared, the fear in the faces of their elders.

Willa had tried to photograph them right away, but they were shy, superstitious, and wary—always wary—and they would not let her. They were afraid of the police. Afraid of soldiers. Afraid of ordinary people who did not like them and wanted them to move on, and sometimes came armed with clubs in the middle of the night to make sure they did.

Determined to win them over, Willa had visited them every day, bringing small gifts—loaves of bread, a basket of apples, coffee, warm jumpers for the children. She tried to make them see that she meant them no harm, that she would not tell the police about them, not rile up a band of citizens against them. And little by little, they had warmed to her. A few of the men talked with her. One of the women made her a strong cup of coffee. A few of the children asked to see her camera.

And then finally, they had invited her to their tent. It was separate from their caravans—farther into the woods. It was where they sang and danced. One could go there, if one was known to them. One could buy a bottle of wine, a bit of cheese and bread, and listen as they poured out their stories in music and song.

She had told Josie about them, told her that she was going to their tent tonight in the hopes of photographing them. Josie thought it sounded like a grand adventure and had begged to come along.

Now, though, she was jittery. “They scare me,” she said.

“I’ve already told you they won’t hurt you,” Willa replied impatiently, putting a new roll of film into her camera. It was hard going tonight. The gypsies had allowed her to photograph them, but they were still difficult, still shy about the camera. The light in the tent—from lanterns and candles—was horribly low. Now she had Josie’s nerves to contend with, too. “What do you think they’re going to do? Kidnap you? Sell you to their king?” she asked her.

“They’ve got magic. That one over there? With all the knives? He’s got the eye.”

“What on earth are you talking about?”

“He can see things. He can see right inside a person. I know it. I can always tell when someone has the eye. My mam had the eye. It’s nothing to trifle with. Let’s go.”

“I didn’t think
l’Ange de l’Amour,
the woman who shows
le tout Paris
almost everything God gave her every night but Monday, would be afraid of anything, never mind a few gypsies,” Willa teased.

“Yes, well,
l’Ange de l’Amour
translates to ‘the Angel of Love.’ Not ‘the Angel of Bloody Stupid Stunts That Will Surely Get Everyone Killed.’ ”

Willa took a small bottle from the pocket of her trousers. She shook out two white pills and washed them down with a slug of wine.

Josie saw her take the pills. “What are those?” she asked.

“Painkillers.”

“Do they work?”

“No.”

“Your leg still hurts?” Josie said, concerned.

“My leg’s fine,” Willa said.

Josie gave her a long look. “The dose you gave yourself in your darkroom, right before we left, that wasn’t enough? Oh, don’t look so surprised. I know what you do in there. Making pictures is only half of it.”

“All the morphine in the world’s not enough, Jo,” Willa said.

“Bloody right about that,” Josie said with a sigh. “Nor all the wine, men, money, jewels, and dresses. Go on, then, Wills. Go take your snaps. What’s the death of a chorus girl in the service of great art?”

Willa laughed. She kissed Josie’s cheek. Josie was the only one who understood. Even Oscar Carlyle, who’d recently become her lover, didn’t.

Morphine didn’t stop the pain, it only dulled it. For Willa, there was only one thing that stopped it—taking pictures. When she was behind a camera lens, concentrating on a shot, she forgot everything. Forgot she even existed.

As she advanced the film in her camera, the two musicians—a violinist and a singer—whom she’d been shooting left the small stage they’d been standing on. A girl, young, voluptuous, and scantily clad, took their place. She stood against the stage’s wooden backdrop, placed her hands on her hips and her legs wide apart in a V.

As Willa and Josie watched, the man—the one who Josie said had the eye—stepped forward. He had half a dozen daggers in his hand. A boy dropped a basket at his feet that contained even more. Another man, short and sprightly, jumped up on stage and announced that the Amazing Antoine, knife-thrower extraordinaire, would now take the stage. He jokingly advised any in the audience with an aversion to blood to leave now. Then he quickly jumped down.

Willa quickly reached into her pocket. She pulled out a few francs, walked up to Antoine, and offered them to him, hoping the money might persuade him to allow her to photograph him. Antoine looked at the money and then at her. He shook his head, and Willa’s heart sank, but then he pointed to her, and the stage.

Willa didn’t understand at first, but then, looking into his dark eyes, the eyes that Josie was sure could see inside someone, she did. “All right, then. Yes,” she said.

“What?” Josie said loudly. “What’s going on? What did he say? Willa . . . you’re not . . . you can’t be serious. Have you lost your bloody mind?”

Willa held a finger to her lips.

“Don’t, Willa! Please!” Josie said. “He’s been drinking! I saw him!”

But Willa was already on the stage.

“I’m not watching this,” Josie said. “I can’t.” She covered her face with her hands, then peeked through her fingers.

The man barked at the girl onstage and she quickly left it. Willa took her place. She positioned herself against the back drop, legs in a V, just as the girl had done, but instead of putting her hands on her hips, she raised her camera—a little Kodak Vest Pocket. She’d brought it with her tonight because it was small and unobtrusive, and had a quick shutter speed.

Willa steadied herself now, then gave the man a quick nod. Low, urgent murmurs rippled through the crowd. Willa ignored them. Every fiber of her being was focused on Antoine, waiting for the look or the movement that would signal the first throw. A drumroll was heard. Antoine paced. He spat on the ground. Then he took a deep breath and threw the first knife. It landed with a sharp
thuk
only inches from Willa’s right ankle. There was applause, and a few gasps. Willa didn’t even hear them. She’d got off a shot, but had she caught the throw? She wound her film forward and readied herself for the next one.

The man started throwing in earnest now. To Willa’s left. To her right. Josie was shouting, but Willa couldn’t make out her words. People were clapping, yelling, gasping. And the man kept throwing. Faster now. One knife pinned her trousers to the board. Josie screamed. Willa never moved. She never so much as flinched. She just kept clicking and winding as fast as she could, trying to capture the man’s face as he took aim, the knife as it came speeding toward her, and the crowd in the background, their faces lit by candlelight and hidden by shadow. She never stopped, never lowered the camera, never lost her nerve. The knives kept coming, traveling up her legs. To her torso. Her shoulders. Her neck. And finally, her head.

“Stop it! Stop it, you’ll kill her!” Josie shouted.

The gypsy threw the last of his knives rapid-fire. They made a halo around Willa’s head. He paused, then threw his very last one. It landed an inch away from her left ear. He bowed then, to wild applause and ringing bravos, then swept his arm toward Willa. She, too, took a bow, to even louder cheers.

Her cheeks were flushed, her heart was pounding. She was certain she’d got something on film. Maybe even something amazing. Everyone was excited and happy. Everyone, that is, except Josie, who was flushed and furious.

Josie stood up, now that it was over, walked to the knife-thrower, and gave him what for.

Her harangue lasted a good two minutes and made both the knife-thrower and the audience laugh. Willa tried to get down and go to her friend but found she was pinned in more than one place. The knife-thrower’s girl assistant came to her aid, pulling two knives out of the cloth of her trousers.

Willa jumped down off the stage. She trotted over to Josie just in time to see her poke a dainty, gloved finger into the knife-thrower’s chest and angrily say, “That was a very stupid thing to do! You could’ve killed her!”

And just in time to see the gypsy smile and say, “No. Never. How can I kill what is already dead?”