The Tea Rose Part 28

Chapter 27.

All of the large terraced limestone houses on Albemarle Street in the newly fashionable Pimlico were flawlessly maintained, their shutters and doors painted an identical glossy black, bra.s.s postboxes polished to a gleam, and flowers allotted suitable s.p.a.ce in terra-cotta planters or ceramic urns. Each dwelling had a black gas lamp in front of it that now, at nine o'clock on a drizzly April evening, glowed brightly.

The houses spoke of a solid, commendable sameness that, if somewhat uninspired, was at least above reproach, a quality much desired by their occupants-newly minted members of a middle cla.s.s keen to prove itself every bit as refined and respectable as its established old money neighbors in Belgravia and Knightsbridge. There was nothing brash, nothing out of place, nothing unseemly.

There was no litter on the street, there were no vagrants or stray dogs. It was as quiet as a graveyard, as stifling as a coffin, and Joe Bristow despised the very sight of it.

He longed for the color and life of Montague Street. He missed coming home at night to the excited shrieks of his siblings, the taunting jokes of his mates, an impromptu football game played on the rough cobbles. Most of all, he missed walking up to number eight, to the black-haired girl who sat on her step playing with her brother or ignoring a pile of sewing. He missed calling her name, watching as she lifted her head, as her whole face broke into a smile. For him.

His carriage, a black caleche pulled by a handsome roan, both wedding gifts from his father-in-law, pulled up to the portico at the front of the house. His steps did not quicken as he neared his door, nor did his heart warm with antic.i.p.ation at seeing his wife. His only hope was that she would already be asleep and the servants, too, whose presence in his home and his life he could not get used to. The sight of his agitated housekeeper pacing at the top of the steps told him this was not to be.

"Oh, Mr. Bristow! Thank G.o.d you're finally home, sir!" she cried.

"What is it, Mrs. Parrish? What are you doing out 'ere? Where's Mathison?"

"Gone to his pantry, sir, to look for a second key for your study."

"Why would he -"

Joe's words were cut off by the sound of gla.s.s shattering.

"It's Mrs. Bristow, sir. She's locked herself in your study and she won't come out," Mrs.

Parrish said breathlessly. "I thought she was in bed. I had just gone up to my own room when I heard a crash. I ran back down ... I , .. I don't know what happened ... she just went mad! She was throwing your papers and smashing things. I couldn't stop her. I tried, but she pushed me out. Oh, please go up to her, sir! Hurry, before she does something to hurt the baby!"

Joe bolted up to the second floor. Millie was poorly and had been ever since they'd gotten back from their honeymoon over two months ago. Her pregnancy was a difficult one. She'd started to bleed last month and had nearly lost the baby. Her doctor had ordered her to stay in bed.

As he fumbled in his pocket for the key, he heard sobs coming from the other side of the door and a series of loud thumps, as if a pile of books had fallen over. He got the key in the door, opened it, and saw that his entire study had been ripped apart. Papers were all over the floor. A bookcase had gone over. The panes of his secretary were smashed. In the middle of the devastation stood Millie, her face streaked with tears, her blond hair loose, her belly protruding under her nightclothes. She held a sheaf of paper in her hand. He recognized them. They were reports from the private investigator he'd hired to find Fiona.

"Go back to bed, Millie. You know you're not supposed to be up."

"I couldn't sleep," she said tearfully, "so I got up and carne in here to "To if you were home. I found these. I saw them on your desk. You're looking for her, aren't you? She moved or ... or left London or something and you're trying to find her."

Joe didn't answer her. She hadn't seen them on his desk because he'd locked them inside his secretary. He didn't think it wise to argue that point now, though. He knew very well what she was like when she was angry, "Come on, Millie, you know what the doctor~"

"Answer me, d.a.m.n you!" she shrieked, throwing the papers at him.

''I'm not going to talk about this now," he said forcefully. "You're too upset. You've got to calm down or you'll 'urt the baby."

"You're sleeping with her, aren't you? You must be, you don't sleep with me. Not once in five months! All this time you've been telling me work's the reason you're home late every night, but it's not, is it? It's that filthy little wh.o.r.e!" She flew at Joe and beat her fists against his chest. "You stop it!" she cried. "You stop seeing her! "

Joe grabbed her by her wrists. "That's enough!" he shouted.

She writhed and twisted, trying to break free of his grasp, cursing at him.

Then, all of a sudden, she did stop. She winced, then stood perfectly still.

"What is it?" he asked her.

She looked at him with large, frightened eyes. Her hands went to her belly. A whimper rose from her throat and she doubled over. Joe put his arm around her. He tried to get her to straighten but she wouldn't. She cried out twice, digging her nails into his arm.

"Shhh, it's all right," he said, trying to soothe her. "Just take a deep breath, there's a girl. It's going to be fine. It's just a cramp. The doctor said you might get them, remember? 'E said not to worry about them."

But it wasn't just a cramp. As she took a few steps forward, still trying to straighten, he saw glistening ruby droplets soaking into the carpet beneath her feet.

"Millie, listen to me," he said, trying to keep his voice calm. ''I'm going to call the doctor. 'E'll come see you and everything will be fine. Let's get you back in bed now, all right?"

She nodded and started to walk toward the door. Another pain gripped her, bending her double again. It was then that she saw the crimson stains on the toes of her white slippers. "Oh, no,"

she cried. "Oh, G.o.d ... please, no ... " Within seconds her cries had turned to shrieks. Joe picked her up and carried her out of the study. A frightened Mrs. Parrish was standing in the corridor, a candle in her hand. "Get Dr. Lyons!" he barked at her. " 'Urry!"

JOE SAT on the wooden bench outside Millie's hospital room, his head in his hands. He'd listened to her cries - and her screams - throughout the small dark hours until they'd finally, mercifully, stopped just as the dawn was breaking.

Dr. Lyons was with her now, and two nurses, and her father. She had not wanted him near her and he didn't blame her. This was all his fault. He should have come home early yesterday, brought her flowers, had dinner with her. That's what husbands were supposed to do. He never should have fought with her. And he never should have looked for Fiona.

The morning after their wedding night - when he'd walked out of their hotel suite to drink himself silly - he'd woken to a vicious hangover, a sobbing wife, and the knowledge that he could not live this way. He did not love Millie and could not bring himself to sleep with her, but he could at least behave in a kind and considerate manner toward her. They'd left for France that afternoon and he'd endured his endless honeymoon - Millie's face, her voice, her mindless chatter, and her constant entreaties to make love - as best he could. He was polite and solicitous of her during the day, escorting her to shops, museums, cafes, the theatre - wherever she wanted to go. But at night he would retreat to the separate room he'd insisted upon at every hotel in every city they visited, for peace, relief, and the s.p.a.ce to grieve for what he'd done and all that he'd lost.

At first, she was merely wounded by his lack of attention. As time when on, she became incensed. His rejection hurt her vanity. She wanted him and she was not used to being denied. A week after they'd left London, they'd had the first of many horrible fights. At the Crillon in Paris, in the hallway outside their rooms. They were retiring for the night after dining at the Cafe de la Paix.

Millie wanted him to come to her room. He refused. Again. She accused him of being cold to her.

She stormed and wept and told him that this wasn't how married people were with each other. He bore her tirade silently, keeping the truth of his feelings to himself, not wanting to be cruel. She raged on, reminding him that he had not been cold with her on Guy Fawkes night and demanded to know why he had changed.

"You didn't mind my kisses then," she'd said reproachfully. "And you couldn't wait to put your hands on me. You told me you wanted me that night, Joe. You told me you loved me."

"I never told you I loved you, Millie," he'd quietly replied. "we both know that."

By the time they'd returned home, relations between them had deteriorated into constant arguments. Joe left at dawn most mornings and came home after dark to avoid her, throwing himself into his work. Buckingham Palace had awarded Peterson's a Royal Warrant. The business grew, nearly double its volume. Tommy was ecstatic. He was as happy with Joe as Millie was furious with him. But Joe found only distraction in his work, not solace.

His mother wrote him repeatedly after he returned home. She wanted him to come and see her, she needed to talk to him. There were things she had to tell him. But he would not go. He didn't want to visit his family; they'd only see how miserable he was. He couldn't bear the thought of going back to Montague Street, of seeing Fiona's house and the places where they used to walk. Places where they'd talked of their dreams, their future. Places where he'd taken her in his arms and kissed her. His mum came to the house a few times, and to his office, but he was always out.

All he wanted was to see Fiona. Just see her. To look into her eyes again, To see himself there, no one else, and know she still loved him. To hear her say his name. But he knew he had no right and he'd promised her he would not, and for a long time he was able to honor that promise.

Until one March evening when his need for her had overwhelmed him and he'd gone back to Whitechapel. His heart ached at the memory of it now. If only he'd known what happened, if only he'd known what she'd been through. He remembered it so clearly, the sickening shock of it ...

"JOE, LAD, ARE YOU still here? It's four clock!" Tommy Peterson said. "I thought I told you to go home early. Spend some time with your wife."

"I just wanted to finish up these accounts ... " he began.

"They can wait. Go home and enjoy your evening. That's an order."

Joe forced a smile, thanked Tommy, and said he would. As soon as his father-in-law left, he let the smile drop. Going home was the last thing he wanted to do. He'd come home late last night to find Millie sitting at the dining room table with platters of cold, congealed food in front of her. He was supposed to have joined her for dinner. He'd said he would and he'd forgotten. She'd picked up a platter of salmon and heaved it at his head. G.o.d only knew what tonight would bring.

He gathered his papers and called for his carriage. As he was riding west, he envisioned the long evening in store for him. He slumped back in his seat, pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes. He felt like a prisoner in his own life. He couldn't face Albemarle Street, that house, Millie. He groaned, wishing he could shout and yell until he was hoa.r.s.e. Wishing he could kick the s.h.i.t out of the carriage. Wishing he could run away and disappear into ,streets of London. He opened his eyes, loosened his tie, and unb.u.t.toned his collar. It was stuffy in the carriage, hard to breathe. He needed to get out. needed to get some air. He needed Fiona.

Before he could talk himself out of it, he shouted at his driver to pull over. When the man stopped, he said, ''I'm getting out 'ere. Take my things 'ome. Tell Mrs.Bristow I'll be late."

"Very good, sir."

He hailed a hackney, told the driver to take him to Whitechapel, and gave him the address of Burton's. If he was lucky, he'd make it there before quitting time and he could catch her coming out.

She would be angry with him he had to be prepared for that-but maybe, just maybe, she'd talk to him.

He arrived at the factory just before six. He waited by the doors, pacing and fidgeting. Finally the whistle blew, the doors opened, and the tea girls came streaming out. He searched the faces, but hers wasn't among them. He waited until the last girl had gone and then he waited some more, in case she was sweeping up or gathering her things. But then the foreman came out and locked the doors behind him and there was no more point in waiting.

He began to feel uneasy but decided there must be some explanation. He would try Jackson's.

Maybe she'd left Burton's to work at the pub full-time. But she wasn't there. And neither the man behind the bar nor the girl cleaning tables had heard of her. The girl told him the Jacksons were out right now visiting Mrs. Jackson's poorly mum, but they'd be back in an hour or so if he cared to wait. He did not.

He was more than uneasy now. He knew Fiona had been sick on the day of his wedding. A fever, his mum had told him. What if she hadn't recovered? What if she was poorly and unable to work? Panicking, he broke into a run and headed for Adams Court. Mrs. Finnegan would have at him and Charlie would want to kick his a.r.s.e. They might not let him see her. He didn't care. They'd tell him if she was all right. He had to know she was all right. She has the money, our savings, he told himself. It would've been enough to see her family through. Oh, please, please, let her be all right, he prayed. He shot through the brick pa.s.sageway that led from Varden Street to Adams Court, down the narrow walkway, and was just about to knock on number twelve when the door opened and a startled young woman with a baby in her arms asked him what he wanted.

"I need to see the Finnegans," he said, panting. "Fiona. Is she 'ome?" The woman looked at him as if he were mad. "The Finnegans?"

"Aye. Can you get Fiona for me, missus?"

"Who are you, lad?"

"My name's Joe Bristow. I'm Fiona's ... I'm a friend of 'ers."

"I ... I don't know 'ow to tell you this, but the Finnegans ... they don't live 'ere anymore."

Joe's heart filled with dread. "Where did they go? Did something 'appen? Something 'appened, didn't it? Is Fiona all right?"

"You'd better come inside."

"No, tell me what 'appened!" he shouted, wild-eyed with fear.

"It's better if you come in," the woman said. "Please." She grabbed his sleeve and led him down a short hallway to a room at the back of the house She bade him sit on the only chair in the room and she sat down on the bed, her baby on her lap. 'I'm Lucy Brady," she said. "I used to be Kate's neighbor, before-" She shook her head, upset. "I can't believe you didn't hear about it or read about it. It was in all the papers."

" 'Ear about what? You've got to tell me, Mrs. Brady, please."

Lucy swallowed. "There was a murder. It was the Ripper," she began. " 'E killed a woman at number ten, Frances Sawyer. It was very late at night, but the police think Kate saw 'im. She was on 'er way to the doctor's, the baby was ill. Jack ... 'e ... 'e killed 'er, too. Oh, Lord, I'm sorry to be the one telling you this."

Joe's whole body began to shake. He felt a terror like he had never known. One that turned his blood, his bones, his very heart, to sand. "Did 'e ... did Fiona ... "

"She was the one that found 'er mother." Lucy closed her eyes. "The poor la.s.s, I'll never forget that night as long as I live."

"Where is she now?" he asked, weak with relief.

"Last I 'eard, she went to live with a friend of the family. 'E's a police constable."

"Roddy, Roddy O'Meara."

"Aye, that sounds right. 'E was looking after 'er and 'er little brother."

"What about Charlie? And the baby?"

"Dead, both of them. The baby right after 'er mother. And the lad soon after. 'E came 'ome from a fight, saw 'is mother, and ran off. They found 'is body in the river."

Joe covered his face with his hands. "My G.o.d," he whispered. "What 'ave I done to 'er? I left 'er 'ere in this s.h.i.t'ole. Left 'er to this ... "

"Are you all right, Mr. Bristow?" Lucy asked.

Joe didn't hear her. He stood up, dazed, barely able to breathe. ''I've got to find 'er ... " he said.

He took a step toward the door. His vision faded. II i" legs buckled and he collapsed.

"YOU'VE A VISITOR, Mr. O'Meara. A lad. 'E's waiting for you upstairs."

From where he was sitting, two steps above the landing to Roddy's flat, Joe heard Roddy and his landlady talking in the downstairs hallway. He heard Roddy's heavy tramp on the steps and then the man was on the landing,. He was wearing his constable's uniform and carrying groceries. He seemed to have aged since Joe'd last seen him. The loss of Paddy and the loss of the Finnegans must have grieved him deeply. Joe knew that they had been more than friends to him. They were his family. The only one he had. Feelings of sorrow, guilt, and remorse, his constant companions now, rose up inside him. He hadn't eaten or slept since he'd seen Lucy Brady yesterday. This was all his fault. All of it.

" 'Ello, Roddy."

"Evening," Roddy said. His expression told Joe he was not pleased to see him. "You look like s.h.i.te, lad, I don't mind telling you," he said. "That wife of yours feed you?" He opened the door to his flat and ushered him in. He motioned for him to sit, but Joe remained standing.

"Roddy, I ... I need to see Fiona. Is she' ere?"

"No," Roddy replied, taking off his jacket and hanging it on the back of a chair.

"Do you know where she is?"

"No."

Joe didn't believe him. "Come on, Roddy."

"I said I don't b.l.o.o.d.y know where she is!"

"You don't know? You looked after 'er, took care of 'er."

Roddy turned, skewering him with the anger in his eyes. "Aye, I did. And it's more than I can say for some!"

Joe looked at the floor. "Look, Roddy ... I know I'm a b.a.s.t.a.r.d. I don't need you to tell me. I just need to know she's all right. I just want to see 'er. Tell me where she is. Please."

"Lad, I'm telling you the truth. I don't know where she is."

Joe was about to argue further when he saw that the anger had left Roddy's face and a worried look had taken its place. Something was wrong.

"What is it?" he asked. "What's going on?"

"I wish I knew." Roddy sat down at his table and poured himself a gla.s.s of ale from a stoneware jug. "I have to say, lad, I'm very disappointed to see you. And not only because I don't care for you." He tipped the jug toward him, but Joe shook his head. "You waiting for a bus? Sit down." Joe did as he was told and Roddy continued. "Fiona was here. She and Seamie both."

Joe nodded. "I saw Lucy Brady yesterday. She told me what 'appened." "She stayed with me after her mother was killed. It took a while till she was back on her feet, but after a few weeks she was managing again. She was talking about looking for work and a room of her own, and then I get home one night and there's a note on the table saying she's left. Right out of the blue. It said she got some money from Burton's-compensation money for Paddy's death-and that she wanted to leave quick-like, with no long good-byes. She didn't say where she was going."