The Wild Rose (15 page)

“For you. In my pack,” he said, blinking at her. “Postman in Darjeeling gave them to me. I told him I was coming here.” Then he rolled over again and went back to sleep.

Willa crossed the room, unbuckled his pack, and rooted through it. At the very bottom, bundled together with twine, was a thick stack of letters. The top one had a British stamp. She pulled the bundle out and flipped through the envelopes. Most were addressed in her mother’s hand. Some were in her brother’s. There were so many of them—too many of them. The post was dependent on traders and travelers coming and going, and was often delayed on its way north from Darjeeling, but even allowing for that, there were still too many letters here. Looking at them all, she was suddenly gripped by fear. Something was wrong, she knew it. Whatever news these letters contained, it was not good.

Willa pulled the top letter out of the stack. With trembling hands, she opened it and started to read.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

“Maud?” the prime minister said.

“Hmm?”

“It’s your turn.”

“My turn for what, darling?”

“Your turn to play! Ye gads, woman, where are you?” Asquith said petulantly.

“Here, Henry. Right here.” She quickly looked at her cards, couldn’t make heads or tails of them, and said, “No bid.”

The turn passed to Margot, Asquith’s wife, who made a whacking great bid, then Max.

Asquith oughtn’t to have asked me “Where are you?” Maud thought. But rather “Where were you?” Because in her head, she was back in the Coburg, in Max’s room. She was in Max’s bed, naked. He’d tied a silk cravat around her eyes, tied her wrists to the headboard.

“We’ll miss the train,” she’d said.

“I don’t care,” he’d said.

“Max, he’s the prime minister.”

“So what?”

He’d kissed her mouth, then proceeded to nibble his way down her body, slowly and gently, biting her earlobe, her neck, her breast, her hip. He pushed her legs apart and kissed the place between them.

“Now, Max,” she’d whispered throatily. “Now.”

“No,” he’d said, kissing her knee, biting her calf. “Not now.”

She’d moaned and twined against him, wishing she could get her hands free and pull him to her, pull him inside of her. “Bastard,” she’d hissed. But he’d only laughed and nibbled her toes. Her belly. Her shoulder.

He went on like that, teasing her with his lips and his tongue, until she was nearly mad with her need of him. And then suddenly he was inside of her, and her release, when it finally came, was so strong, so hot and violent, that it frightened her. She’d cried out, she remembered that. Actually, she’d screamed. It was amazing the manager hadn’t come knocking on the door. Or the police. Never had a man made her feel so good. She was addicted to Max von Brandt. Her body craved him like a drug. He was all she could think about.

They’d drunk champagne afterward, made love again, and missed the damned train. They had to take Max’s motorcar to Sutton Courtenay in Oxfordshire, where the Asquiths had their country home, and where the PM had invited them both for the weekend. Max had driven like a demon and they’d only been half an hour late.

Maud knew Asquith well. She was friends with his wife Margot and with his grown daughter, Violet. Violet’s mother had died when she and her brothers were young, and Asquith had later married Margot, one of the beautiful and vivacious Tennant sisters.

Maud and Max had had a spot of tea with Margot and Violet, and the Asquiths’ other weekend guests, when they arrived, then they’d bathed and changed for dinner. After they’d dined, Asquith suggested bridge. Maud and Max had been paired with the prime minister and his wife. The other guests played against one another at tables nearby. Maud was a good, competitive player and usually enjoyed the game, but memories of the afternoon’s activities had her so hot and bothered tonight, that she could barely keep her cards straight.

“It’s your turn
again,
Maud,” Asquith said, a note of irritation in his voice. “What’s distracting you? You usually go for your opponent’s throat at the bridge table.”

“Millicent Fawcett,” Maud said abruptly.

Millicent and the suffragists were actually the farthest thing from her mind, but she was the best Maud could come up with. She could hardly tell the PM what she’d really been thinking about.

“She’s making noises about going over to Labour. Doing her all to support and campaign for their candidates. She feels the Labour Party will be more sympathetic to the cause of women’s suffrage,” Maud said. “You’d best not ignore her, Henry. She may not have got us the vote—
yet
—but she does have clout, you know.”

“Are you trying to rattle me, old girl? If so, it’s very unsporting of you and it won’t work.”

“All’s fair in bridge and war,” Maud said. “Seriously though, you would be well advised not to underestimate Millicent. She is not altogether what she seems. She is polite and reserved, but she is also resolute, tough, and relentless.”

Asquith raised his eyes from his cards. “I would say that no one, and nothing, is as it seems,” he said, and Maud noticed it was not herself he was looking at as he spoke these words, but her partner, and that his expression had become most somber. “Wouldn’t you agree, Mr. von Brandt?” he added.

“I would, yes,” Max said, meeting Asquith’s steely gaze unwaveringly.

For the briefest second, Maud had the inexplicably unsettling feeling that the two men were not still talking about bridge, but about something else completely. Then Margot started chattily asking questions, and as quickly as it had come, the strange feeling was gone.

“Maud tells me you’ve been to Everest, Mr. von Brandt,” Margot said.

“I have, yes. I spent most of last year in Nepal and Tibet,” Max replied.

Margot was about to say more, when the door to the drawing room opened.

“Excuse me, sir. . . .” It was Asquith’s secretary.

“Mmm? What is it, man?”

“A telephone call, sir. From Cambridge.”

Asquith was silent for a few seconds, then he turned in his chair. “Cambridge, you say?”

“Yes, sir.”

The prime minister nodded. He turned back to the table and looked at Max, and Maud noticed, again, that the look in his eyes had become a hard one.

“I believe it’s your turn now, Mr. von Brandt. I wonder . . . how will you play your hand this time? A bold move, perhaps?”

Max shook his head and smiled tightly. “With so many seasoned players about me, I must be cautious,” he said. “I think I will play it safe for the present.”

Asquith nodded. He rose from his chair.

“Will you take the call in your study, sir?” his secretary asked.

“I suppose I shall have to, to spare everyone my wittering,” Asquith said, placing his cards facedown on the table. “Wish the blasted study wasn’t so far away, but I shan’t be a moment.” He stood up, wagging a finger at Maud as he did. “No peeking, old girl. Margot, see that she doesn’t.”

It felt to Maud as if Asquith had suddenly remembered he had guests and must be genial toward them. She found the man’s mood odd and hard to follow, but she chalked it up to the pressures of his office and the bother of having to take what were very likely difficult phone calls at all hours.

“Is the study so far?” Max asked.

“No, it’s upstairs. Right above us. Henry’s just being cross,” Margot said.

Max nodded, then stood. “Would anyone like a top-up?” he asked.

“I would, darling,” Maud said. “Claret, please.”

Max took her glass. He smiled at her seductively, and Maud found herself wondering what sort of excuse she could come up with to get herself out of this beastly card game. She didn’t want to be sitting here in the drawing room, concentrating on suits and trumps and tricks. She wanted to be lying in bed, reveling in Max’s glorious body.

Margot had seen Max’s smile, too. As he crossed the room to a cabinet containing decanters of spirits and wines, she gave Maud a mischievous look. “Is it just me? Or is it warm in here?” she whispered, fanning herself with her cards. Maud swatted her.

As they whispered and laughed together, neither woman saw Max glance up at the ceiling, his smile gone, a grim, determined look in his eyes.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

“You want to break it off. That’s it, isn’t it?” Seamie said quietly, a stricken expression on his face. “That’s why you wrote me.” He was sitting on a blue silk settee in the Wilcotts’ parlor.

Jennie, who’d been pacing back and forth, stopped and turned to him. “No!” she quickly said. “That’s not it at all, Seamie. Would you let me finish, please?”

“Well, what is it, then? Something must be wrong. I can’t imagine you asked me to come here in such a big fat hurry for a cup of tea.”

“No, I didn’t,” Jennie said. She opened the parlor door, glanced down the hallway to make sure her father was nowhere near, then shut it again. Seamie was right—there was something wrong. She’d written to him last night, at his sister’s Mayfair address, asking him to come this morning because she had something she needed to tell him, something urgent. It had been worrying at her for days. Ever since she’d been to see Harriet Hatcher. He was here now, and she had to tell him. She couldn’t keep it to herself any longer.

“Seamie,” she said quietly, “I’m pregnant.”

Seamie’s eyebrows shot up. “Pregnant? You mean you’re going to have a baby?”

“Yes. That’s what pregnant means—that one is going to have a baby.”

Seamie, ashen-faced, slowly stood up.

Jennie looked down at her clasped hands. “I know it’s a shock,” she said. “And I know you have many plans, some of which do not include me. I’ve looked into homes for unwed mothers. Places where I could go to have the baby. Places that would find a good home for the child—”

“Never,” Seamie said swiftly and harshly, cutting her words off. “Don’t speak of it, Jennie. Don’t even think of it.” He crossed the room to where she stood, took her hand in his, and went down on one knee. “Marry me, Jennie,” he said.

Jennie stopped speaking. She looked down at him, her eyes wide and searching.

“Marry me,” he said again. “I want a life with you. A home. I want this child, and many more children. Lots of them. Three or four. Six. Ten. I want you to be my wife.”

“But, Seamie,” she said softly, “what about Ernest Shackleton and the expedition?”

“Shackleton will just have to trek off across Antarctica without me. My place is here now. With you and with our child. Marry me, Jennie. Say yes.”

Jennie shook her head. In a small, anguished voice she said, “Seamie, I . . . I need to tell you . . .”

“What? Need to tell me what? Do you not want me? Is there someone else?” he asked, a mixture of hurt and surprise in his voice.

She raised her head. “
Someone else?
” she said, wounded. “No, there isn’t. How could you say such a thing? There’s only you, Seamie. And yes . . . yes, I
do
want you. So very much. That’s what I wanted to tell you. Only that.” She took a deep breath, then said, “Yes, Seamie. I
will
marry you. Yes. Oh, yes.” And then she burst into tears.

Seamie brought her over to the settee, pulled her onto his lap, and kissed her. “I’m so happy about this, Jennie. Really. This is what I want—you, me, our children. I love you, Jennie. I do. I told you that in Cambridge and nothing’s changed. I love you as much this very second as I did then.”

Jennie let out a long, deep breath that it felt like she’d been holding for days. “You’re not upset, then?” she said.

“Upset? I’m delighted! Why? Are you?”

“Well, no, not exactly. But, well, you see . . . I’m only a few weeks along. That’s what Harriet—Dr. Hatcher—says. So for now, everything’s well and good. But in a few months it won’t be.”

Seamie grinned at her mischievously. “You’re worried about waddling down the aisle with a big fat belly and everyone in the church knowing we had it off long before our wedding night?”

“Yes,” Jennie said, coloring. “I am.”

“It’s nothing to worry about,” Seamie said.

“It isn’t?”

“No. If anyone says anything, I’ll just tell them that we
did
have it off . . .”

“Seamie!”

“. . . in an old cow barn by the Cam.” He kissed her mouth. “I’ll tell them how you lured me inside in a rainstorm and took advantage of me,” he said, undoing the top buttons of her blouse. “I’ll tell them I was completely helpless and . . . ,” he hooked a finger in her camisole and peeked down it, “. . . and good God, woman, if they could see these, they’d believe me, too.”

“For goodness’ sake!” Jennie said, pulling her camisole closed.

“They get bigger, don’t they? When you’re pregnant, I mean. That’s what I’ve heard. I hope so. I love too much of a good thing.”

“Seamie, don’t joke!”

“Why not?” he said, looking up at her. “What’s the matter?”

“What’s the matter? Have you not been listening to me? I can’t walk down the aisle of a church with a huge belly!”

“I have been listening. I’ve heard every word. Let’s get married tomorrow.”

“
Tomorrow?
”

“Yes, tomorrow. We can take a train to Scotland. To Gretna Green. Spend the night there. Get married in the morning.”

Jennie knew she should feel relieved. Even grateful to him for suggesting such a quick solution. Instead she began to cry again.

“Jennie . . . darling, what’s wrong now?”

“I can’t go to Gretna Green, Seamie. I can’t get married without my father there.”

“No worries, then. We’ll have our wedding here. We’ll post the bans this Sunday, all right? How long do we have to post them before we can have the actual ceremony?”

“For three weeks.”

“Then we’ll have our wedding three weeks from this coming Sunday. Your father can do the honors and I’m sure my sister will want to do something, too—a breakfast, a luncheon, something.” Seamie was excited. He was speaking quickly. “I’m going to go to an estate agent’s as soon as I leave here. I’ll find us a nice flat. Near Hyde Park. And then I’m going to a furniture shop and find a bed. With a big cushy mattress. So I can throw you in it and make love to you again the very second we’re married,” he said.

He undid more buttons on her blouse as he spoke, then pulled open her camisole and cupped her breasts. He kissed them, and then her throat, her mouth, and the soft hollow beneath her ear. Jennie surrendered to his hands and his lips. She wanted him, too. So much. She couldn’t wait until they were married and in a home of their own, in a bed of their own. She wanted to feel him reach for her in the darkness, to hear him whispering her name, and know he was hers, truly hers.

Seamie suddenly broke the kiss. “Oh, no,” he said. “Oh, bloody hell.”

“What is it?” Jennie asked him, pulling the sides of her camisole together.

“It’s just dawned on me that I’m going to have to go and tell your father that you’re pregnant. After I promised him I’d take good care of you in Cambridge.”

“Don’t worry . . . ,” Jennie started to say, buttoning her blouse.

“Don’t worry? I
am
worried. I’m flipping terrified!” he said. “Icebergs, leopard seals, blizzards—none of those things ever scared me. Telling the Reverend Wilcott that I’ve put his daughter up the spout—now, that scares me.”

“Let’s not tell him. Not right away,” Jennie said, biting her lip.

“No, we have to.
I
have to. It’s the right thing to do.” He stood up, and Jennie did, too, smoothing her skirts and her hair. “No, you stay here,” he told her. “This is a conversation between your father and me. I’ll be back. Sit down.”

Jennie smiled at him as he left the room, but as soon as the door closed behind him, her face crumpled. She put her head in her hands. She was happy, she was, but she was also sick with worry. This pregnancy—it was more than she could have hoped for. It was nothing short of a miracle, actually, and Seamie had no idea. Because she hadn’t told him the truth. Not about the scar running down the right side of her body. And not about the accident that caused it.

They’d been playing, she and her friends. Their ball had gone into the street and she’d run after it. She never saw the carriage, and thankfully, she didn’t remember it striking her, didn’t remember her body going under the front wheel. It had nearly crushed her. After a long, risky surgery, the doctor—Dr. Addison—told her parents that the carriage had broken five of her ribs, ruptured her spleen, collapsed a lung, destroyed an ovary, and punctured her uterus. He also told them that he had done his very best for her, but that they must prepare themselves for the likelihood of losing her. If the trauma her body had suffered did not kill her, infection probably would.

“We put stock in his opinion, of course,” her mother had told her, months after she’d recovered, “but we put our faith in God.”

Jennie was in the hospital for six long months, and though she didn’t remember the accident, she remembered the recovery. It was an agony to her—the pain of the injuries, the infections and raging fevers, the bedsores and boredom, and the endless process of healing.

When she finally left the hospital, she was weak, pale, and horribly gaunt, but she was alive. It took another six months for her to put on a few pounds, and even longer for her to regain her strength, but with her parents’ help she did it. The doctor came to visit her several times over the course of her convalescence. The last time he saw her, he brought her a beautiful china baby doll. A consolation prize, she’d thought as she grew older, for the real baby she would never have. The doctor had said good-bye to her in the parlor, then he’d taken her mother out in the hallway to speak privately. Jennie wasn’t supposed to hear what he said, but she listened at the door.

“Her uterus is still inside her, Mrs. Wilcott, but it was badly damaged. She may have her menses, but she will never carry a child. I’m sorry. It’s a blow to you now, and it will be a cross for Jennie later, but not all women need husbands to be happy. Jennie is a very bright girl. She would do well to enter the teaching profession or indeed my own. There is always a need for good nurses.”

She’d hadn’t understood his words then, for she was nine years old and innocent and could not imagine ever needing a husband for anything, never mind happiness. But when she was thirteen, and her menses started, and her mother sat her down and explained the facts of life and how they no longer applied to her, she then understood what Dr. Addison had been trying to say: that no man would ever want her, for she would not be able to bear children.

As she grew older, she told herself it did not matter. If she could not marry, she would find satisfaction in her work. If she could not have children of her own, she would love the little ones she taught at her school. Once, a young man, a deacon in her father’s church, wanted to court her. He was fair and slender and kind. She did not love him, but she could have liked him well. Because she did not love him, she was honest with him, and when he learned that she could not give him a family, he thanked her for her frankness and promptly transferred his affections to a cloth merchant’s daughter.

There had been two others—a teacher like herself and a young minister. She had been honest with them, too, and had lost them both. It had hurt a little, but not too terribly much, for she had not been in love with them, either.

And then she’d met Seamie Finnegan and had fallen in love, deeply and passionately.

That afternoon, in the cow barn on the River Cam, she had asked him to make love to her and she had not been worried about any repercussions, for she knew there could be none. She knew, too, that once she told him the truth about her scar, he would leave her, just as the others had, for she was damaged and could not give him what a normal woman could. And so she had not told him the truth.

I’ll tell him afterward, she’d silently promised God before she gave herself to Seamie, but let me have him first. Let me have love, just this once, she’d prayed, and I’ll never ask for anything more.

And when it was over, and she was lying there, happy and sated, loving the smell of him on her skin, the taste of him on her lips, she had remembered her promise and begun to frame the words, to think of the right thing to say, when out of the blue, he’d told her that he loved her. And she found she could not say the words she knew she ought to. Because she could not bear to lose him. The others, yes—but not him.