The Wild Rose (19 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Seamie stood stock still, emotions ripping through him like a howling arctic wind. He felt sorrow and anger for what she’d done to him, to them. Pity and guilt for what had happened to her. And love. Most of all, he felt love.

He loved her. Still. As much as he did when he’d first told her so, on top of Kilimanjaro. As much as he did when she’d told him good-bye.

“Hello, Willa,” he said quietly, unable to take his eyes off her.

Willa’s face worked as she looked at him; tears slipped down her cheeks. She took a few hesitant steps toward him, then stopped.

“The prodigal has returned,” Albie said acidly, breaking the silence.

Willa winced at that, stung. Albie looked like he didn’t care that he’d hurt her. Instead of embracing the sister he hadn’t seen for years, he stood apart from her.

Seamie remembered that last time they were all together, in the Pick. It felt like a lifetime ago. Seamie and Albie had been drinking there. Willa and George had come in unexpectedly. She’d been dressed in men’s clothes—tweed trousers and a bulky sweater. Her wavy brown hair had been cut short, setting off her long fawn’s neck and high cheekbones. Her eyes had been merry and challenging and full of life.

The Willa standing before him now looked very different from the girl in his memory. This Willa looked gaunt. Haunted. Her face was tanned and weathered. Her hair, under her cap, was no longer short but gathered into a long, thick braid. She was still beautiful, though. Her eyes had lost none of their challenging intensity. Looking into them now, Seamie saw what he had always seen inside them—the same restless, questing soul that lived inside him.

He opened his mouth, wanting to tell her what he was feeling, wanting to say something that would make things right, that would bridge the gulf between them, all three of them, but all that would come out was “Well, then. Shall we have a cup of tea?”

“No, we shall not,” Albie said, giving him a filthy look. “This isn’t bloody Epsom and I don’t want a bloody cup of tea on the bloody lawn!” And then he stormed out, slamming the door behind him, leaving Seamie and Willa alone.

Willa wiped the tears from her cheeks with her sleeve. “He’s so angry with me. He called me cruel,” she said in a choked voice. “I never meant to come so late. I didn’t even know my father was ill. The letters were delayed—the ones from Albie and my mother. I set out the day they arrived—six weeks ago—and got here as quickly as I could.” She shook her head. “It doesn’t matter to Albie, though. My mother’s already forgiven me, but he won’t.” She smiled sadly. “Well, at least I made the funeral,” she added. “It’s still a good-bye of sorts, isn’t it? Not the one I’d have wanted, but the one I’ve got, it seems.” She went silent for a long moment, gazing at the coffin, then said, “I never thought he’d die. Not him. He was so strong. So full of life.” And then she broke down, covering her face with her hands.

Seamie went to her, wanting to comfort her. The man in the coffin was her beloved father, this house was her home. And yet she seemed so utterly out of place here, so totally alone. He put a tentative hand on her back. “I’m sorry, Willa,” he said. “I’m so sorry.”

She turned to him, helpless and heartbroken. “Oh, Seamie, I wish I could have said a real good-bye,” she said, sobbing piteously. “I wish I could have told him what he meant to me and how much I loved him. If only I’d got here sooner!”

Her grief was so deep, so harrowing, that tears came to Seamie’s eyes for her. He forgot himself entirely, folded her into his arms, and held her close. Her sorrow came out of her in great, wrenching torrents. He could feel her chest heaving, her hands clutching bunches of his shirt. He held her as she wept agonizing tears, until she was spent and limp in his arms. And then he kept holding her, overwhelmed by their shared grief, overwhelmed by her nearness. Willa—whom he thought he’d never see again, whom he’d loved and sometimes hated.

“I miss him, Seamie. I miss him so much,” she whispered, when she could speak again.

“I know. I miss him, too.”

They both heard the door open at the same time, heard the voice, a woman’s, say “Seamie? Are you in here . . . Oh! Pardon me, I . . . Seamie?”

It was Jennie.

Bloody hell, Seamie thought. He released Willa immediately.

“Miss Alden?” Jennie said, uncertainly, looking first at him, then at Willa.

Seamie was mortified. He felt terrible. Jennie would be hurt when she found out that the woman he’d been holding was indeed Willa Alden. She’d be furious. He only hoped that she would not make a scene. Not here. He hoped that whatever she had to say to him could wait until they were in their carriage.

He cleared his throat, expecting the worst. “Jennie, this is Albie’s sister and my old friend, Willa Alden,” he said. “Willa, may I introduce Jennie Finnegan, my wife.”

He waited then, watching Jennie’s face, expecting fireworks and tears. But Jennie indulged in neither. Instead, she walked up to Willa, took her hand, and said, “My condolences, Miss Alden. My husband has told me something of the admiral, enough for me to know that he was a wonderful man. I cannot imagine your pain and am so very sorry for your loss.”

Willa nodded, unable to speak, and wiped her face on her sleeve again. Jennie opened her purse, took out a lace-edged handkerchief, and handed it to her.

“Thank you, Mrs. Finnegan,” Willa said. “Forgive me, please. I wish we were meeting under better circumstances.”

“I wish it, too,” Jennie said, “and there is nothing to forgive.” She looked at Seamie. “The hearse has arrived. We are expected to leave for the abbey in ten minutes’ time.”

“I’ll get our coats,” Seamie said.

Jennie shook her head. “Perhaps you should stay with Miss Alden for a few more minutes.” She turned to Willa. “Pardon me, Miss Alden, but you do not look to be in a fit state to travel. May I bring you a cup of tea? And perhaps a damp facecloth?”

Willa nodded gratefully. Jennie bustled out of the room, and Seamie watched her go, marveling at her goodness and compassion. Another woman might’ve shouted and carried on. Not Jennie. She saw the best in people always. The most noble explanation for what she’d just seen was that her husband was simply comforting a grieving friend, and that was the only explanation she could accept. Seamie was touched, and not for the first time, at her faith in him, and in most everyone else. And he resolved, then and there, to always be deserving of that faith. To never hurt the good woman he had married. Whatever he had felt moments ago belonged to the past, and that was where it would stay.

“She is very kind and very beautiful. You are lucky,” Willa said, sitting down tiredly on an overstuffed chair.

“Yes, I am,” Seamie replied.

Willa looked at her hands. “I’m happy for you. Happy you found such a wonderful person,” she said quietly.

“Are you?” he said. The words came out bitingly harsh. He hadn’t meant them to.

Willa looked up at him, a stricken expression on her face, and the promise Seamie had made to himself, only seconds ago, was lost in a rush of emotion. “Why?” he said. “Why did you—”

But then the undertaker’s men were suddenly in the parlor, excusing themselves and closing the coffin, and Jennie was right behind them.

“Here you are, Miss Alden,” she said, handing Willa a facecloth and putting a cup of tea down on the table beside her.

Seamie turned away from Willa and Jennie and feigned interest in an old sailing trophy. What am I doing? he wondered. I’m letting my feelings get the better of me. Stop it, he told himself. Now. It’s utter madness.

“Thank you,” he heard Willa say to Jennie. “I probably need more than a cat lick with a facecloth, though. I should change my clothes before we leave for the abbey. I’ve been in them for weeks.”

“Was the journey very arduous?” Jennie asked.

“Yes, and very long,” Willa said.

“Will you be going right back or staying in London for a while?” Jennie asked lightly.

Seamie closed his eyes, willing her to say she was going back east tomorrow. For his sake. For all of their sakes.

“I don’t know. I actually hadn’t thought about it,” Willa said, and Seamie could hear the weariness in her voice. “I left in such a hurry, you see. I’ll be here for a few weeks I should think. Perhaps a month or two. I shall have to do something to earn my fare back. I spent almost all I have getting here.”

“Perhaps we can help you,” Jennie said. “With the fare, I mean. Seamie, darling, could we?”

The realization of exactly what was occurring here hit him like a bolt of lightning. Oh, Jennie, he thought, you might be kind and good, but you’re no fool, are you? He’d thought that she saw only the best in everyone, and that’s why she behaved so generously to a rival. Well, he was wrong. She’d seen exactly what was going on between him and Willa, but had behaved generously anyway. He thought then that she was the most admirable human being he’d ever met, and told himself once more that he must never do anything that would hurt her.

“Of course, Jennie,” he said. He’d gladly pay Willa’s entire fare back. First class all the way if she liked. Anything. As long as she would go and leave him in peace and let him forget the feeling of her in his arms, the smell of her, the sound of her voice. As long as she’d leave him to the life he now had—a life with Jennie and their child.

“Thank you—you are both very kind—but that won’t be necessary,” Willa said. “I’m due to publish a book of photographs with the RGS. On Everest. I brought all the photos with me. I’m handing the materials all in a bit sooner than expected, and I’m hoping Sir Clements will pay up a bit earlier. I shall also speak at the RGS about Everest.” She smiled tiredly, then added, “For a fee, of course. I brought my maps with me. Couldn’t risk leaving them in Rongbuk. They might not be there when I returned.”

Albie stuck his head in the door. “The hearse is leaving,” he said. “Mother wants you to ride with us, Willa.” And then he was gone again.

“So much for changing my clothes,” Willa sighed. She stood up and looked from Seamie to Jennie. An uncomfortable silence descended, and Seamie found himself wishing to be at the abbey, where they would not have to talk. Where Willa would sit with her mother and brother, and he would sit with Jennie, far away from her.

“Well, thank you again, both of you, for your kindnesses to me,” Willa said awkwardly. “And you’ll come, won’t you? If I speak at the RGS? Please say you will.”

Jennie, smiling brightly, said they would make every effort to be there. Then she excused herself to fetch their things.

Willa started walking toward the door, and Seamie followed her. Before she reached it, she stopped, turned, and put a hand on his arm. “Seamie, wait. About before . . . I . . . I’m sorry. I never meant—” she began to say.

He smiled politely, the master of his emotions again. “Don’t, Willa. There’s no need to speak of it. Once again, my condolences. I’m so sorry for your loss.”

He paused slightly, then ruefully added, “And for mine.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

It was close to midnight. Joe Bristow had been working at his office in the House of Commons since three o’clock that afternoon. He was tired and wanted to go home, to his wife, to his bed. But he could not. Because George Burgess was sitting across from him, drinking his whiskey and talking about airplanes.

Most of London was asleep, but not Sir George. He’d been working late, too, going over facts and figures for a speech he was to deliver at the Commons tomorrow, on the need for the Royal Naval Air Service to be brought under the wing of the Admiralty as part of the Royal Navy’s military branch.

First Churchill and his boats, Joe thought. Now Sir George and his planes. Every day there was some new call for increased military spending, usually fueled by the latest petulant remark, naval acquisition, or military parade put on by the kaiser.

“You simply cannot imagine it, old man,” Burgess said. “The speed and maneuverability are unparalleled. And to be up in the clouds, safely able to see the exact position of an enemy encampment, the number of troops and cannon, well, the implications for reconnaissance are nothing less than staggering, to say nothing of the potential for the deployment of aerial munitions. I’ll take you up myself, Joe. I can witter on about it all day, but you must see a war plane’s capabilities for yourself.”

“I’m going to hold you to it, George,” Joe said. “We can fly right over Hackney. I’ll show you where I plan to build a new school.”

“I shall put it in my calendar,” Burgess said, ignoring the arch note in Joe’s tone. “We’ll go to Eastchurch during the August recess, to the navy’s flying school there. I’ll take you up in a Sopwith and you’ll be convinced. The Service is only in its infancy now,” he added, “and it must grow up quickly. It has only forty airplanes, fifty seaplanes, and a hundred or so pilots, and it must be enlarged. We’re being left behind. The Italians, the Greeks and Bulgarians, even the Americans are miles ahead of us with the development of combat planes, and—”

Burgess’s words were interrupted by a battering on Joe’s door.

“Does no one in this city sleep anymore?” Joe said. “Come in!” he bellowed.

“Sir George? Thank goodness I’ve found you. Hello, Mr. Bristow.” It was Albie Alden, breathless and disheveled. He’d clearly been running.

“What is it, man?” Burgess asked.

Albie struggled to catch his breath. “We’ve had a bit of bother at the SSB,” he said, glancing at Joe uncertainly.

“Speak plainly,” Burgess said impatiently. “This man’s as loyal to his country as the king.”

“Two German spies were nearly apprehended tonight.”

“Nearly? What do you mean by nearly?”

“Sit down, Albie,” Joe said, pouring another glass of whiskey and pushing it across his desk.

Albie took the empty chair next to Burgess. He knocked the drink back in one gulp, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then continued speaking.

“Four days ago, our code work, plus intelligence from a paid informant, revealed that a man named Bauer—Johann Bauer—has been working at Fairfields.”

Burgess, who’d been shaking his head as Albie spoke, suddenly swore. Joe knew why. Fairfields was a shipyard in Scotland. On the River Clyde. They built ships for the Royal Navy.

“Johann Bauer?” Burgess thundered. “That name’s as German as sauerkraut! How the hell did a man with a name like Johann Bauer get work on the Clyde?”

“By changing it to John Bowman,” Albie said. “He had all the documents. A forged birth certificate from an Edinburgh hospital. School leaving papers. A reference from an iron monger’s. Nobody suspected a thing.”

“But his voice,” Burgess said. “His voice would have given him away.”

Albie shook his head. “His accent’s impeccable.
Was
impeccable.”

“What happened?” Joe asked, pouring Albie another drink.

“As I said, we were on to Bauer, but we didn’t move right away. We wanted to watch him for a few days first, to see if he might lead us to anyone else. I think he figured out we were on to him, though, because he suddenly left Govan last night and took a train to London. He was followed, of course. By one of our men from the SSB. When he got off the train, he traveled to East London, to a pub called the Blind Beggar.”

“I know that pub. It’s in Whitechapel,” Joe said.

Albie nodded. “Bauer met another man there, Ernst Hoffman—he goes by the name of Sam Hutchins. They ate supper together, then left the pub and walked to Duffin’s, a boardinghouse. Our man slipped in after them and watched them go upstairs to one of the rooms—a room we later found out had been let to a man called Peter Stiles. That’s when our man—Hammond’s his name—decided he had to act. He went to the police to get help, then he and five constables moved in. Hammond banged on the door to the room where Bauer and Hoffman were. A man answered. He yelled ‘Who’s there?’ and when Hammond said it was the police, he said he’d be right there, he just had to put his trousers on.”

Albie took a swallow of his drink, then continued. “Immediately after that, two gunshots were heard. The constables broke the door down, but it was too late. When they got inside the room, they found Bauer and Hoffman dead on the floor and the dormer window wide open. The third man—Stiles—apparently shot both of them in the head, then climbed out of the window to the roof and escaped. Hammond immediately went to the fireplace. Papers were burning in it. Stiles must’ve been worried that he might be caught and didn’t want to be caught with the papers on him. Hammond managed to pull a few of them out before they were completely burned.”

“What were they?” Burgess asked, his voice somber.

“Blueprints.”

“Not the
Valiant,
” Burgess said.

“I’m afraid so,” Albie said.

Burgess picked up his own whiskey glass. For a few seconds, Joe thought he would fling it across the room, but he restrained himself.

“What’s the
Valiant
?” Joe asked.

“Our best hope,” Burgess replied. “A new and very advanced class of warship.”

“One of the dreadnoughts?” Joe asked.

“A super-dreadnought. Only four are being made, and they’re supposed to outdo anything the Germans have come up with.”

“We must look on the positive side,” Albie said.

“I didn’t realize there was one,” Burgess shot back.

“Two enemy spies are dead. Their plans to pass the blueprints to Berlin have failed.”

“We were lucky this time, damned lucky,” Burgess said. “The next time we might not be.” He stood up and started pacing the room. “We have to find the other man—Stiles. He’s the spymaster. I know it. I feel it in my bones.”

“We are working on it, sir. We’ve gone through the contents of the room, and we’re questioning the Duffin’s landlady, and each one of her tenants, trying to get descriptions of Stiles—his habits, his movements, everything we possibly can.”

“Good man,” Burgess said.

“Can you get him?” Joe asked, alarmed at the thought of this vicious man at large in East London.

Burgess didn’t reply at first. Big Ben’s chimes, loud and somber, were sounding the hour—midnight.

When the last echoing tone finally faded away, he spoke. “Oh, we’ll get him, the wily bird,” he said, his voice hard. “We shall stalk him, carefully and patiently. We shall flush him out, and when he tries to fly back to Berlin . . .
bang!
We shall send a bullet straight through his black and treacherous heart.”