The Wild Rose (9 page)

“Oh, no. Not me. I can’t bear the cold. I wouldn’t last two seconds at the South Pole.”

“What about India then? Or Africa? The dark continent,” Seamie said, echoing an expression used by mapmakers about Africa, because so much of it was unknown and hence left dark on the maps.

Jennie laughed. “
England
is the dark continent. Take a walk in Whitechapel, down Flower and Dean Street, or Hanbury, or Brick Lane, if you need convincing. I’ve always felt that British politicians and missionaries should make certain their own house is in order before marching off to set the Africans to rights.” She paused, then looked up at him from under her hat brim. “I sound terribly righteous, don’t I?”

“Not at all.”

“Liar.”

It was Seamie’s turn to laugh.

“It’s just that I feel there are such important discoveries to be made right here, Mr. Finnegan.”

“Seamie.”

“Seamie. One doesn’t have to travel far. Watching the children who come to my school learn their letters and numbers, watching them read pages of Kipling or Dickens and thrilling at the worlds and the people those books contain, watching their small faces light up as they make their own discoveries . . . well, I know it’s not mountains or rivers, but there’s nothing more exciting. To me, at least.”

Seamie noticed the way Jennie’s own face lit up as she talked about the children. The sparkle in her eyes, the flush on her cheeks, made her look even prettier.

They arrived at Cable Street, where the bustling and noisy Saturday market was in full swing. Costers of all stripes sang their wares. A greengrocer juggled last autumn’s apples. Butchers hefted chops for their customers’ appreciation. Fishmongers cleaved the heads off salmon, plaice, and haddock. At a clothes stall, women tussled over secondhand shoes for their children.

“That’s an awful lot of potatoes for two people,” Seamie said, as Jennie bought five pounds from a greengrocer.

“Oh, it’s not just for my father and me, it’s for the children, too.”

Seamie felt puzzled. “The children?” he said, trying to keep the surprise from his voice.

“Oh, yes. I cook for them. Cornish pasties usually. They’re very partial to them.”

“I didn’t know you had children,” Seamie said.

“I don’t,” Jennie said. “I meant for the schoolchildren. They’re always hungry. There are times when the pasties are all they get to eat in a day.”

“Oh, right. Of course,” Seamie said. He’d felt an unwelcome twinge of jealousy at the thought of her with children—and a husband.

Jennie finished loading the potatoes into her basket, paid the coster, then struggled to lift the basket.

“Please, Miss Wil—Jennie. May I carry that for you?”

“You don’t mind? It would be a great help.”

“Not at all,” he said, taking the basket. He also took a loaf of bread from a baker, two pounds of lamb from a butcher, and nutmeg from a spice seller, and put them all in her basket. He noticed how expertly she negotiated with the costers, shaving pennies off prices at every stall. He wondered what sort of salary a minister made. It couldn’t be much. And he was willing to bet a good deal of it went on food and books for the children and coal for the church stove.

“I believe I’m finally finished,” Jennie said, after tucking a half pound of butter into the basket. She looked at her watch. “My goodness, I’d better be getting back. The reverend will be home shortly and expecting his tea. He’ll be tired, my dad. Today’s his day to visit the sick of his parish. There was a rumor of a cholera outbreak on Kennet Street. I hope it’s only a rumor.”

“
Cholera?
” Seamie said. “That must be very dangerous work.”

Jennie smiled sadly. “Very. It’s how my mother died. She caught typhoid on one of her visits to a parish family. That was ten years ago.”

“I’m sorry,” Seamie said.

“Thank you. You would think it might’ve stopped my father, wouldn’t you? Losing his wife and all. But it didn’t. He believes God is watching over him.” She shook her head. “His faith is so strong. So absolute. I wish I had it, but I don’t. I’m afraid I spend more time arguing with God than I do praising Him.”

Jennie took a deep breath, then blew it back out again. She looked as if she was trying to gather her composure. Seamie wondered what it was like to tend mortally ill people. To visit slum houses that most doctors were afraid to set foot in. To lose one’s mother to typhoid. To brave ignorance and poverty every day of one’s life. Looking at Jennie, Seamie realized that courage took many forms.

“I’m sure I’ve taken enough of your time,” she said. “Thank you again for talking to the children and for carrying my marketing. You’ve gone above and beyond the call of duty today.”

She reached for her basket, but Seamie didn’t give it to her. “Don’t be silly. It’s far too heavy,” he said. “I’ll carry it for you.”

“No, really. I couldn’t ask you to.”

“You didn’t,” Seamie said. “I offered.”

Twenty minutes later, they arrived at the rectory. The Reverend Wilcott was already home. “Come in! Come in!” he said, opening the door for them. “Why, Mr. Finnegan, is that you?”

“I’m afraid so, Reverend,” Seamie said, taking the man’s outstretched hand.

“It’s wonderful to see you again, my boy! Have you come to join us for tea?”

“No, sir, I haven’t. I was just helping Jen—Miss Wilcott with her marketing,” Seamie said, suddenly formal again in front of the reverend.

“Nonsense! Stay and have a bite of something with us. There’s plenty. Jennie’s had a hotpot simmering on the stove all day.”

“Won’t you stay?” Jennie said. “It’s the least I could do after all you’ve done for me today.”

Seamie knew he was supposed to be at the RGS. At a talk. And a dinner. And the interminable drinks session that was bound to follow. “All right, then. Yes. I’d love to,” he said.

Jennie led the way through a short, narrow hallway, into a brightly lit kitchen. The reverend took a seat by the hearth. Seamie put the heavy basket on a bench under a window, then stood around feeling foolish. He looked out of a window and saw a small yard.

“Our garden,” Jennie said, smiling. “Such as it is. It looks much nicer in summer.” She took his jacket and told him to sit down next to her father. The next thing he knew, she was handing him a cup of tea, hot and reviving.

He looked around the little kitchen as he sipped his tea. It was tidy and warm. White lace curtains hung in the window. Bright rag rugs dotted the floor. A little earthen pot, filled with purple crocuses, sat atop the table. The fire gave off a delicious heat, and whatever Jennie had in the oven gave off a delicious smell.

“Did you put the parsley in, Dad?” Jennie asked her father, laying a gentle hand on his shoulder.

“Hmm? What was that?” the Reverend said, taking her hand in his.

“Did you put any parsley into the hotpot? You were supposed to. To finish it off.”

“I’m sorry, my dear. I quite forgot.”

“Oh, you.” She scolded him fondly.

He patted her hand, bade her sit down beside him. “It will be a wonderful dish, parsley or no.” To Seamie he said, “Jennie is a marvelous cook.”

“I look forward to it,” Seamie said. “My bachelor existence doesn’t allow me home-cooked meals very often.”

“How were the children today?” the reverend asked Jennie.

“Just wonderful!” she said. “Mr. Finnegan came to talk to them. He told them all about his expeditions. Oh, you should have seen their faces, Dad. They were so excited!”

“Did you now, lad? That was very good of you,” the reverend said.

“How were your visits? Is it as bad as you feared?” Jennie asked.

The Reverend Wilcott shook his head. “Thankfully, the cholera scare was only that—a scare—and I pray to God it stays that way. Cholera moves like lightning through the slums, Mr. Finnegan. It’s the closeness that does it, of course. Too many people jammed into too little space. Sharing rooms and beds and privies. Water lines running close to the sewers. Bad air. All it takes is one person, and before you know it, the entire street’s down. But for today at least, we are spared.”

Jennie squeezed his hand, then went back to her stove.

“Can I help you with anything?” Seamie asked.

“No, thank you. I can manage,” Jennie said.

“I’m quite handy. I cooked onboard the
Discovery,
you know,” Seamie said.

“Did you?”

“Yes. For the sled dogs.”

Jennie narrowed her eyes. “Are you making comparisons, Mr. Finnegan?” she asked.

“What? No. No! Oh, blast. I just meant that I know my way around a kitchen. It was one of the most important jobs on the entire expedition. If the dogs hadn’t been well fed and healthy when we made land, we would have gone nowhere.”

“Well,
I
won’t be needing your help, but perhaps you can go with my father on his visits. You could feel his parishioners’ noses. See if they’re cold and wet,” Jennie said.

The reverend laughed out loud. “Did you say you’re a bachelor, lad? Can’t imagine why!”

“At least let me set the table,” Seamie said sheepishly, trying to make good.

“That would be helpful. The feed bowls are above the sink,” Jennie said.

She teased Seamie a bit more, then served the dinner—a Lancashire hotpot—a casserole of lamb chops, potatoes, and onions—with hunks of crusty brown bread and fresh, sweet butter. They all sat down, and the reverend gave the blessing. Seamie bowed his head. He knew he should close his eyes, but he didn’t. Instead he looked at Jennie. Her color was high from the heat of the stove. The light from the lamps picked out the threads of pure gold in her hair. When the blessing ended, she opened her eyes and saw him looking at her, and she did not look away.

“This is delicious,” he said as he tucked into his meal. “Truly.”

Jennie thanked him and didn’t make any more dog jokes, and Seamie realized as he ate that he was hungry—for something other than food. He was hungry for the warmth and ease he felt here, in Jennie Wilcott’s tiny kitchen.

There was something about her—something lovely and comfortable. He felt contented in her presence. Peaceful. Not stirred up. Not wild. Not angry and sad and desperate, the way he felt every time he thought of Willa Alden.

He liked the home she had made for herself and her father. He liked the ticking of the mantel clock, the smell of furniture polish and the freshly washed tablecloth. He found himself wishing, to his great surprise, that he had such a thing himself—a home, a real home.

After Seamie and the Wilcotts had finished their meal, and topped it off with a dish of apple crumble doused with cream, the reverend declared he would pour everyone a sherry, but Seamie said he was not to do it until he—Seamie—had done the washing up. He made Jennie take a seat by the fire, then he rolled up his sleeves and got busy. He didn’t sit down again until every plate, glass, and piece of cutlery was clean and dry.

He stayed with the Wilcotts, sipping his sherry, until the clock struck eight, and then he said he must be going. He knew tomorrow was Sunday and that both the reverend and Jennie would have an early start in the morning. He didn’t want to leave, though. He didn’t want to go out in the cold, dark night alone, always alone, and make his way across the river, to his sister’s house, to the empty room, and the empty bed, that awaited him there.

“Thank you,” he said to the Wilcotts as he took his leave. “For the supper and for your company. I enjoyed both immensely.”

Jennie and the reverend both walked him to the door. He had just put his hat on, and was buttoning his jacket, when something crinkled in his front pocket.

“Oh, the check!” he said, laughing. It was the only reason he’d come here, and he’d forgotten it completely. He gave it to Jennie and told her it was for her school. She thanked him and said she would thank Fiona in person.

“You’ll come back and see us again soon, won’t you, my boy?” the reverend said, seeing him to the steps.

And Seamie, who, earlier in the day, had found himself so annoyed that Fiona had asked him to come here at all, said, “Yes, Reverend Wilcott. I will. Very soon.”

CHAPTER NINE

Max von Brandt checked his watch: 8:05
P.M.
The bus he was waiting for would be here any minute now. He’d been standing under the awning of a tobacco shop on the Whitechapel Road for the last fifteen minutes to make certain he didn’t miss it.

A chill crept up his spine. He hunched his shoulders against the cold, damp night. He hated the filthy English weather, but he was glad it was raining. It served his purpose.

A few feet away from him, a hissing gas lamp cast its weak glow over the slick black cobbles, the dreary shop fronts, the sooty brick buildings. Nowhere was there a pot of flowers, a green park, a cheerful coffee shop. If ever he had a mind to commit suicide, he thought, he would do it here in Whitechapel. It was made for it.

Max was not wearing his usual uniform tonight—a beautifully tailored suit, crisp white shirt, and silk tie. Instead, he wore a navy sailor’s jacket, a cap, canvas trousers, heavy boots, and wire-rimmed spectacles with fake glass inserts.

Another minute passed. Two. And then he heard it, the sputter and pop of an omnibus engine. The sound grew louder as the bus rounded a bend. The engine grumbled as the driver stopped at a bus shelter across the street and waited for a handful of passengers to step off. Max watched them as they did, inspecting their faces.

There she is, he thought, watching as the last passenger—a young woman—stepped into the street. She had a plain, round face, framed by dark, wavy hair. Her eyes were small behind her glasses, her teeth large and rabbity. Looking at her, he knew his plan would succeed. In fact, it would be easy. The knowledge made him feel a deep and dreadful regret. He quickly quashed the feeling, though, for he could not afford to indulge it. There was work to be done, another link to be forged.

He waited. Until she was on the pavement, struggling with her umbrella. Until the conductor had rung his bell. Until the bus had pulled away from the curb, spewing black exhaust. And then he crossed the street and started walking toward her, hands in his pockets, head down against the rain.

He knew she would walk toward him. From a window high above the street he’d watched her take the exact same path for four nights in a row. He heard her steps coming closer and closer, his head still down. He waited until he could feel her. Smell her. Not yet, he told himself, not yet . . . hold on . . .
now
.

With a quick, fluid motion, he clipped her hard with his shoulder, knocking her satchel out of her arms and her glasses off her face.

“By gum, I’m sorry!” he exclaimed, in a flawless Yorkshire accent, quickly bending to pick up her things. “I didn’t see you. Are you all right?”

“I . . . I think so,” she said, squinting at him from under her umbrella. “Do you see my glasses anywhere?”

“Right here,” he said, giving them to her.

She put them on with shaking hands, then took her satchel back from him.

“I’m very sorry. What an oaf I am. I feel terrible about this,” he said.

“It’s all right, really,” the woman said.

“I’m afraid I’m a bit lost. I’m coming from Wapping. My ship just docked an hour ago. I’m looking for a lodging house by the name of Duffin’s.”

“Oh, I know Duffin’s,” the woman said. “It’s just that way,” she pointed east, “two streets down. On the left. But Duffin’s is dear, you know. You might’ve been better off finding a lodging house closer to the river. Wapping’s full of them.”

Max shook his head. “I can’t imagine you’ve ever stopped in one, miss. They’re terrible, no better than a doss-house. I have a few days until my ship sails again, and I want to be in a decent place. One near a church.”

He noticed the girl’s eyes widen a bit at that.

“I’d actually been looking up at the street signs. Just before I smacked into you. I still feel terrible about it. Could I make it up to you? Buy you a cup of tea in a nice tea shop? Is there one around here?”

“No, everything’s closed now,” the girl said. She bit her lip.

It started raining harder. Perfect, Max thought. He pulled his collar up around his neck and shivered visibly.

“Here . . . ,” she said, holding her umbrella so that it covered them both.

Max made a show of looking around. “There’s a pub,” he said. “The Blind Beggar. Would you accompany me there?”

The girl shook her head. “I don’t frequent pubs,” she said.

“There might be a ladies’ area in that one,” Max said hopefully.

The girl still hesitated, but her eyes looked hungry and sad. She was lonely, as he’d known she would be from the way Jennie Wilcott had described her when they’d all been waiting for cabs and carriages outside Holloway: a single woman with a poorly mother, a knitting group, suffrage work. She was desperate for a man’s company. He could see that. Anyone could.

“Right. Well, I won’t keep you,” he said, tugging on the brim of his cap. “Good night, miss.”

“Maybe just one drink,” she suddenly said. “A lemonade or some such. My mother waits up for me. But I don’t think she’ll miss me. Not just yet. I sometimes get home a bit late from my knitting circle.”

Max smiled. “That’s wonderful. I’m glad you changed your mind. Just one drink, then. It’s the least I could do after nearly knocking you down. I’m Peter, by the way. Peter Stiles,” Max said, offering her his arm.

The woman’s glasses had slid down her nose. She pushed them back up and gave him a shy smile.

“I didn’t get
your
name,” he said.

“Oh! Right. Silly me,” she said, with a nervous laugh. “It’s Gladys. Gladys Bigelow. Very pleased to meet you.”