The Wild Rose (61 page)

CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED THREE

“Captain Finnegan! Captain Finnegan, over here, please!” the photographer shouted.

Seamie, walking to the door of his sister and brother-in-law’s house, turned around. A dozen flashes went off, nearly blinding him.

“Captain Finnegan! How does it feel to be home?”

“Wonderful, thank you,” Seamie said, dazed. “I’m very happy to be back in London.”

Seamie had not expected this. He had expected an uneventful ride to Mayfair and a quiet arrival, but reporters and photographers had swarmed him the second he’d stepped out of the carriage. He’d quickly forded his way through them and made his way up the steps. He was about to knock on the door when it suddenly opened.

Joe was there, in his wheelchair. “Come inside, lad. Hurry. Before the piranhas eat you alive.”

Seamie did as he was told, grateful to be out of the scrum of shouting, jostling men. Questions, shouted loudly, followed him.

“Captain Finnegan! Tell us about the attack on your ship!”

“Captain Finnegan! When did you find out your wife died?”

“Captain Finnegan! Is it true you married an Arabian girl?”

“That’s all for today, lads,” Joe shouted. “Captain Finnegan’s very weary from his long voyage.”

“Mr. Bristow! When did you learn that your brother-in-law was alive?”

“Has Captain Finnegan seen his son yet?”

“What was Mrs. Bristow’s reaction?”

“Diabolical, that lot,” Joe said as he wheeled himself back inside the house and slammed the door behind him.

In the foyer, Fiona, weeping, had already thrown her arms around her brother.

“We thought you were dead, Seamie. I can’t believe you’ve come back to us,” she said through her tears.

“It’s all right, Fee. It’s all right . . . ,” Seamie said, holding her tightly. Admiral Harris had telegraphed Fiona and Joe back in January. It was nearly the end of March now. The doctors in Damascus hadn’t wanted him to travel until his burns had healed further. That had taken a month. And then the boat had taken another six weeks to get to England. The separation had been hard on them all.

When Fiona could bear to let go of him, Peter hugged him. Then Katie, and the twins. Everyone was there to greet him but Rose and James.

“How is James?” Seamie asked, when they finally released him.

“He’s a little nervous,” Fiona said.

“I would think so,” Seamie said.

James was bound to be nervous, if not downright frightened. He had recently lost his mother. And his father—or so he’d been told. But now his father—a man he didn’t even know very well—was coming back into his life. Seamie had only seen James a handful of times, when he was just a baby. He doubted very much that James, who was four now, remembered any of them. He knew he would be a stranger to the boy.

“Does he want to see me?” Seamie asked.

“Yes, he does. He’s upstairs with Rose right now. I thought it might be better to bring him down after we’d all calmed ourselves a bit. Me especially. We’ve told him all about you. He’s quite impressed. He wants to hear all about the
Exeter
. And how you survived the attack. Shall I get him?”

“Yes,” Seamie said.

Fiona sent a maid upstairs to fetch Rose, then suggested everyone follow her into the parlor. When they’d all sat down, Rose came in, holding hands with a little boy.

Seamie’s heart melted at the sight of his son. Seamie had teased Jennie that he was the milkman’s son, for he had nothing of the Finnegans in him. He was fair-haired, with hazel eyes, like his mother. And, like her, he was beautiful.

James left Rose and went to stand by Fiona.

“Is he really my daddy, Auntie Fee?” Seamie heard him whisper.

“He really is, James,” Fiona said. “Would you like to say hello?”

James nodded. He approached Seamie shyly and manfully offered him his hand. Seamie could see James was being very brave, and his son’s courage touched him. He took the small hand in his and shook it.

“Hello, James,” he said.

“Hello, sir,” James said. He looked Seamie over uncertainly, then added, “My uncle Joe is a member of Parliament.”

“Is he now? Then I shall have to be very careful how I tread around here,” Seamie said.

“Are you a bloody Tory?” James asked cautiously. “The bloody Tories make him very angry.”

Fiona gave Joe a look. “I told you not to bellow so! I told you the children could hear you!” she whispered scoldingly. Joe looked at the ceiling.

“I see,” Seamie said, biting back his laughter. “Well, I’m a Labour man myself, so I don’t think I’ll have any trouble there.”

“Have you come to take me away?” James asked suddenly, plaintively.

Seamie could see the worry in his eyes. The poor little blighter, he thought. He’s been through so much.

“No, James,” he said gently. “In fact, I was wondering if you would let me stay here for a bit. With you and your aunt Fiona and your uncle Joe. I’d like very much to stay. But only if you want me to.”

James’s little face brightened. He turned to Fiona. “Can he, Auntie Fee? Can he stay with us?”

“He certainly can,” Fiona said. “We’ll make up a bed for him.”

James smiled. “I got a train set for Christmas,” he said to Seamie. “Would you like to see it?”

“I would like that very much,” Seamie said.

“Come on, then,” James said, offering Seamie his hand.

Seamie took it. He followed James. For the first time in months, ever since the
Exeter
had gone down, he felt glad.

Glad he’d survived.

Glad to be home.

Glad for the one thing he’d managed to do right in his life. Glad for little James.

CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED FOUR

Willa stretched languidly in her bed, then sat up. It was three
A.M.
She would get up soon. Make some prints. She was wide awake and full of energy. Making love had always had that effect on her.

She looked over at Oscar Carlyle, her handsome American lover. He was lying sprawled out on his back in a tangle of sheets, eyes closed.

Lover, she thought now, as she turned away from him and gazed at the night sky out of her huge windows. What a strange word for what he is to me.

Willa didn’t love Oscar, or any of the men she’d been with since she came to Paris. She wished she did. She wished she could.

“I love you, Willa.”

She’d only ever loved one man, and she knew, deep inside, that she would give her body now and again, but she would never, ever give her heart. She could not. It was gone. She had given it to Seamie, and Seamie was dead.

“I love you, Willa.”

Grief filled her—thick, black, and choking. She couldn’t bear that he was gone. She didn’t know how to go on in a world that didn’t have him in it. In her head and in her heart, she still talked to him. Still marveled at sunsets with him. Told him about her work. Shared her wishes to return to Everest one day. And in her head and her heart, she heard him answer her. How could he be gone?

Willa felt a hand on her back. She jumped, startled. “Where are you, Willa? Where’d you go?” Oscar said.

Willa turned to him and smiled. “Nowhere. I’m right here.”

“I said I love you. Fifteen times.”

Willa leaned over. She kissed his mouth. And said nothing in return.

“I’m starving,” Oscar said. “You have any food in this joint?”

“Some chocolate, I think. And oranges,” Willa said.

Oscar got out of bed. He was young—only twenty-seven. He had a glorious body, all bronzed, rippling muscle. They’d gone out on the town, more than three months ago, after she’d photographed him for
Life,
and had had a good time. That same night, they’d ended up in bed. He was kind and smart and funny. He was something warm to reach for in the middle of the night. He would have to return to his home in Rome in a fortnight. She would miss him when he left.

He grabbed a silk kimono of hers now and shrugged into it.

“You look very fetching, Madame Butterfly,” she said.

He picked up a magazine and held it in front of his face, like a fan, then walked daintily across the room like a geisha, to fetch the bowl of oranges, which made her laugh.

He put the oranges on the bed. He found half a bar of chocolate, wrapped in silver foil, and another bottle of wine—they’d already emptied one—and brought them to her, too.

“It’s cold in here!” he said, belting the kimono around himself. He padded over to the small iron stove, on the far side of the room near the windows, opened its door, and tossed in a few lumps of coal. As he was making his way back to the bed, he stopped suddenly, to look at a row of prints spread out on a long worktable.

He was silent for a few minutes as he looked at them. Picking some up. Shaking his head. Saying, “Damn, Willa.”

Willa knew what he was looking at it—it was a series she’d taken two days ago, at a brothel. The photographs portrayed the prostitutes during the day, when they were off-duty. It showed them washing their sheets, their underthings. It showed them cooking, eating, and laughing. Taking care of their children. It showed them as human beings.

“These are astonishing,” Oscar said quietly. “Totally amazing. The critics are going to go nuts.”

“Good nuts or bad nuts?” Willa asked, smiling at his Brooklyn voice.

“Both,” he said, getting back in bed. “You’re fearless, Willa. But it’s not because you’re brave. It’s because you don’t give a damn what happens to you. You don’t care if the tarts beat you up, or the gypsies, or the cops, or the critics.” He looked at the oranges and frowned, then took a big bite of the chocolate. “You got anything else to eat here?”

“I don’t think so.”

“No wonder you’re so thin,” he said, breaking off a piece of chocolate and popping it into her mouth. “Come to my place tonight. I’ll make you steak frites.”

“That sounds delicious. I think I will,” she said.

As Oscar poured them both more wine, Willa reached over to her night table, for the bottle of pills that was there. She tried to take two, discreetly, to help her cope with the sorrow she was still feeling over her memories of Seamie. Oscar saw her, though, and said, “More pills? Again?”

“I need them. For the pain,” she said.

“What pain? Where?” he asked her.

“My leg,” she said.

Oscar shook his head. “No,” he said. “The pain’s not there.” He slid his hand under her breast, pressing his palm against her heart. “It’s here,” he said.

Willa looked away. She didn’t want to talk about it.

Gently, tenderly, Oscar took her chin in his hand and turned her face to his. “Look at me, Willa. Why are you so sad, huh? Always so sad? Thin and sad.” He took her arm, stretched it out, kissed the inner bend of her elbow. “Why do your arms look like pincushions? Why do you gobble all those pills?”

“Oscar, don’t . . . ,” Willa said.

“Because you lost someone? In the war? Yeah, I know. I’ve seen the picture you took of him. The one on your wall. But hey, here’s some news: Everybody lost someone.” He went quiet for a bit, then he said, “But you found me and I found you, and that should count for something. It could, too, if you would let it.”

Oscar popped the last piece of chocolate into his mouth, then he took the silver foil that had covered it and twisted it into the shape of a ring, complete with a knobby diamond. He took Willa’s hand in his, slipped the ring onto her finger, and said, “Marry me, Willa.”

“Stop it, you fool.”

“I’m dead serious. Never been more serious. Marry me.”

Willa shook her head.

“Come on, Willa. Be my wife. I’ll get you out of this dump. Take you back to Rome with me. Get you a nice house somewhere pretty. One with radiators. You can have a garden. And a kitchen. I’ll buy you an apron. And a set of china . . .”

Willa burst out laughing.

“. . . and a vacuum cleaner, too.” Oscar’s voice dropped. “I’m serious. We can have kids. And toast in the morning. And dinners at night. Real ones. Just like normal people.”

“That sounds nice, Oscar. It really does,” Willa says softly. The thought that he cared enough to want these things for her, these good and real things, touched her deeply.

“It
is
nice. It will be. Do it. Leave your ghost in the graveyard where he belongs and do it, Willa.”

Willa knew he was a good man. A talented musician. And as handsome as a god. Most women would have killed to have a man like that propose to them.

“Come on, Willa. Marry me,” he said, pulling her close. “I love you like mad. Whaddya say? I’m throwing you a lifeline here. Don’t be a jerk. Take it.”

Maybe he was right and she was wrong. Maybe there was a chance for her. For them. Nothing she’d done had ever been able to make her forget Seamie, but then again, she’d never done anything this mad or this foolish. Maybe she could be happy married. In a house. With a vacuum cleaner. Maybe she could. At the very least, she owed him for that. For caring enough to try.

“All right, then, Oscar,” she said. “Why not? Yes. I’ll marry you.”