The Tea Rose Part 29

"That doesn't sound like' er. Why wouldn't she want you to know when' she'd gone?"

"At first I reckoned it was because she'd taken off to be with you and didn't want me to find out, knowing full well I'd stop her. But you sitting here puts paid to that theory."

"What do you think now?"

Roddy took a swallow of his beer and set the gla.s.s down. "I don't know.

None of it makes any b.l.o.o.d.y sense."

"Roddy, she's all alone somewhere," Joe said anxiously. "We've got to find 'er."

''I've tried! I've got all the men at my station looking. I managed to get a description of her and Seamie to practically every station in the city, but I've heard not'ing. n.o.body's seen hide nor hair of them."

"What about a private detective?"

"I t'ought about that but I haven't got the money."

"I do. Give me a name. I'll 'ire 'im tonight. She 'as to be in London. It's not like she would've taken a train somewhere, she wouldn't know where to go. She'd never even been on a bus before I took 'er to Covent Garden. She can't 'ave gone far."

Roddy wrote down a name and address on a slip of paper and handed it to Joe, telling him to make sure he told the man that P. C. O'Meara sent him. He told him to come see him the minute he heard anything. He walked Joe to the door and though he didn't take his hand, he wished him luck.

And for the briefest of seconds, Joe thought he saw something besides anger and worry in Roddy's brown eyes. He thought he saw an expression of sadness. For him.

AT TEN O'CLOCK AT NIGHT, the outlying stalls of the Covent Garden market were eerily silent. The round willow baskets the porters used to carry produce were piled high; a few carts stood empty. Here and there, broken flowers and crushed fruit littered the streets and the air was pungent with the smell of rotted vegetables. It always amazed Joe, who was walking back to his office after a late dinner with a client, that a place as h.e.l.lishly noisy as the market was in the morning could ever be so still, so deserted. As he crossed a narrow lane and walked through an open arcade into a large cobbled piazza, he could smell the scent of horses from a nearby stable. He heard one whinny and kick against its stall. A rat in its hay, he thought. Wynne, his father's horse, hated them.

".Joe. Joe Bristow," a voice suddenly called from the darkness. Joe stopped. He hadn't seen a soul when he entered the square. "Over 'ere."

He turned around and saw a man leaning against one of the arcade's iron columns. The figure pushed itself off and walked out of the shadows. Joe recognized him. It was Stan Christie. A lad from Whitechapel. They'd been in the same cla.s.s as youngsters until the day their teacher decided to discipline Stan with a cane, and Stan, at the tender age of twelve, had ripped it out of the man's hand and beaten him unconscious with it.

" 'Ow's things?" Stan asked, sauntering toward him. "Smashing. You're a little far afield tonight, aren't you?" "Aye. I came all this way just to see you."

''I'm touched, mate. I didn't know you cared."

Stan walked with his arms clasped behind his back like a professor or a priest. Since he was neither, Joe was certain he was concealing something. .A club. A knife. Explosives. One never knew with Stan.

"Making some inquiries, I am. For the guv'nor," he said. His right hand came out from behind his back. He touched his finger to the side of his nose and gave Joe a knowing look.

"Oh, aye? Which guv'nor would that be? The prime minister? The Prince of Wales?"

"You want to watch your mouth, lad. Mr. Sheehan don't take no gyp." Sheehan. Bowler Sheehan. Jesus. He had no idea Stan worked for him. "What does Sheehan want with me?" he asked, keeping his voice even.

" 'E wants to know where the Finnegan girl is. Everyone knows you were sweet on 'er before you put Peterson's daughter up the pole, so I was I thinking you might know."

"What's Fiona to 'im?" Joe asked angrily, his apprehension gone. He didn't like Sheehan's interest in Fiona. Not one bit. Stan was closer now and . Joe wished to G.o.d he had his clasp knife on him. Or the pry bar he used on fruit crates. A razor. A bunch of keys he could thread through his fingers. Christ, he'd take a f.u.c.king corkscrew.

"Mr. Sheehan asks the questions, Joe. 'E don't answer them."

"Oh aye? Well, 'ere's 'is answer: Tell 'im 'e can go s.h.i.t in 'is big black 'at. 'Ow's that?"

Stan chuckled, then, a split second later, swung the cosh he'd been hiding, behind his back.

Joe had been expecting it; he ducked the blow. The cosh, missed his head and clipped his shoulder.

Swearing at the pain, he drove his head into Stan's face and was gratified to hear a sickening crack as his nose shattered. Stan shrieked. His hands flew up to his nose, leaving his body open. Joe landed a savage kidney punch. Stan dropped the cosh. Joe picked it up, slid it under his throat, and jerked it hard.

"You move and I'll choke the life out of you, I swear I will ... "

"All right, all right ... " he rasped, holding up his bloodied hands.

"What does Sheehan want with Fiona?"

Stan didn't answer. Joe pulled the cosh tighter. Stan's hands scrabbled for it; he dropped to his knees. He was choking. Joe eased the pressure. This was a mistake; Stan had been faking. He grabbed Joe's arms and flipped him over his head Joe landed hard, smacking his head against a cobble. The bright lights in his eyes blinded him for a few seconds; he tried to get up but faltered.

Stan was standing over him now, threatening to cave his skull in if he didn't tell him where Fiona was. Joe, lying on his left side, still had that cosh in his hand. He knew he had about two seconds to make use of it or they'd find him here in the morning, his head crushed like a melon. With a yell, he sat up and slammed the club into Stan's kneecap, eliciting a blood curdling scream. Stan had had enough. Promising Joe he'd kill him the next time he saw him, he staggered off.

Joe got to his feet. He wanted to give chase, but his legs were too shaky.

His head was throbbing. He touched it, wincing as his fingers found a goose egg. He had to get to Roddy and tell him what happened. This was bad news. If Stan was ready to beat the life out of him on the mere suspicion that he knew where Fiona was, what would he do to her when he found her'! How the h.e.l.l had she gotten tangled up with Sheehan, of all people? And why? He'd have to get to Henry Benjamin, too, the private detective he'd hired, and tell him to speed up the search. He'd met with him two days ago. Benjamin said it was unlikely Fiona had gone far. He was confident he'd Ill' able to find her in a week or two. That was too long. Joe wanted her found tomorrow. Fiona was smart, she was tough; but Bowler Sheehan was a d.a.m.n sight tougher.

"THAT'S THE HARDEST THING, you know," Millie said. "Finding a good baby nurse. I've seen ten already and I wouldn't let any of them mind a cat, never mind a baby. You can't be too careful. I liked the last woman, but Mrs. Parrish saw her put biscuits in her pocket when I went out of the room. She didn't know she was watching. You can't have a sneaky nurse. G.o.d knows she'd do if my back was turned. Sally Ennis said she caught her nurse putting gin in her baby's milk. Can you imagine?"

Joe lifted his head from the balance sheet he was reading. "No, I can't," He said trying his best to sound interested.

"I don't know what I'm going to do," she said anxiously, putting her needlework down. "The agency said they'd send more women over, but what if I don't find someone in time? What if the baby comes and I haven't got a nurse?

"Millie, you'll find someone. You've got plenty of time. Your aunt will come and stay and she'll 'elp, too. She'll find you a nurse if need be. Don't fret over it. What you need to do is finish that christening gown. The baby can't be christened in 'is nappies, can 'e?" Joe tried to sound positive. He knew what was really bothering her and he didn't want her dwelling on it.

"You're right," she said. She smiled bravely and he was relieved to see it. Four days ago, after lifting a heavy vase down from a high shelf, she had suddenly started to bleed. Her doctor had been sent for. He managed to stanch. the bleeding and save the baby, but he said the risk of a miscarriage still existed. He d confined her to bed and instructed that she was to have no physical strain or emotional upsets whatsoever. Looking at her now, in the waning light of a Sunday afternoon, Joe saw how drawn she looked. There were dark circles under her eyes. She was far too pale. He felt sorry for her. It pained him to see her suffer.

She had felt uncomfortable earlier and had sent Olive, her maid, to his study to ask him if he might sit with her and keep her company until she fell asleep. He had agreed, bringing the ledgers he was working on with him and pulling up a chair next to her bed. He was trying hard to be a better husband to her, to be a comfort.

She chattered on about the christening gown and other clothing she was making for the baby.

He tried his best to pay attention and take part in the conversation, but it was hard. He was so distracted. Last night he'd met with Benjamin again. The man had walked into the pub where Joe was waiting.

"Recognise this?" He'd asked, dropping something into his hand. It was the blue stone from the river. The one he'd given Fiona.

Benjamin said he'd gotten it at a p.a.w.nshop near Roddy's flat. Not only had the p.a.w.nbroker remembered a girl matching Fiona's description, he remembered that she'd traded the stone for cash and a traveling bag, and that she'd had a young boy with her. He said she'd also p.a.w.ned a gold ring with a tiny sapphire, but he'd already sold that. Benjamin had to pay five quid to get the stone. The p.a.w.nbroker knew what he had - an ancient scarab, probably dropped from the ring of a conquering Roman n.o.ble as he brought his fleet up the Thames.

Joe had paid Benjamin for the stone. He'd closed his fingers around it as the detective finished speaking, knowing for certain then that Fiona was no longer in London. That she was truly gone. But where? Benjamin also felt she had left the city. He would, too, he said, if Sheehan were after him.

That was going to make it a lot harder to find her. She had no family, no friends outside of London, which meant there was no single, logical destination for her. She could be anywhere.

Benjamin told him not to give up hope. He was sure someone besides the p.a.w.nbroker had seen her leaving, Whitechapel. He was going to talk to the hackney drivers who plied the Commercial Road to see if one of them remembered her and, if they were really lucky, where he'd taken her.

Joe knew Benjamin was doing his best, but the waiting was killing him, The knowledge that the person he loved most was alone in the world, with no one to turn to, maybe in terrible trouble, occupied his every waking hour.

He looked at Millie, propped up in a confection of lacy pillows and bolsters, working her needle in and out of the white silk of the christening gown, and was once again seized by the unreality of his life. None of this was supposed to be happening. He wasn't supposed to be here in this house, married to this woman. He was supposed to be in Whitechapel, married to Fiona. They would have just opened their first shop and they'd be working every minute of every day to make it a success. It would be hard, a constant struggle, but it would be everything he'd ever wanted. Just to sit across the table from her at night as they talked about the day. To sleep in the same bed with her, make love to her in the dark, slowly and sweetly. To hear someone' call her Mrs. Bristow. To dandle their baby on his knee and listen to hi" mother and hers argue about whose side of the family the child favored.

"Joe, dear? Which do you like better? Annabelle or Lucy?"

Millie's voice shattered his lovely daydream and brought him back to reality. "What, Millie?

I'm sorry, I was thinking about work."

"I asked which name you like better if the baby's a girl. If it's a boy, I'd like to call him Thomas, after my father. Thomas Bristow. I think it has a nice ring to it. I'm sure it's a boy. I just have this feeling. I-" Millie stopped talking and pressed her hands to her belly.

Joe shot forward in his chair; the ledger slid off his lap. "Millie, what is it? Is something wrong? Should I get the doctor?' He asked, alarmed.

She looked at him. "No ... " she said slowly, a smile of wonder and joy breaking across her face. 'Tm fine. The baby kicked, Joe. I felt it. I felt it. She reached for his hand and pressed it against herself. He felt nothing. She was looking at him, but her gaze was inward. "There!" she whispered excitedly. "Did you feel it?" He hadn't. She pressed his hand in harder and suddenly he did feel it. An impossibly small elbow. Or a knee, or maybe a heel. A tiny, defiant flutter. The baby-his baby-was suddenly real.

Strong, roiling emotions ripped through him-fatherly feelings, fierce ""I protective, and feelings of utter desolation. He knew with an awful and ancient certainty that he would love this child. And he knew that he wished it had never come into being. His future-as this baby's father, as Millie's husband-rose up in front of him. Tears came to his eyes, tears of love and grief for this baby that was his, but not his and Fiona's, for this hopeless, empty life. He tried to blink them away. He heard Millie, her silk nightgown rustling, move toward him.

"Ssshhh," she whispered, kissing him. "It's all right. You'll love the baby, Joe". You will. And the baby will love you. He does already. And maybe, when he comes, you'll love me. And then we'll be a family and everything will be all right."

"MR. BRISTOW?".

The sound of the doctor's voice pulled Joe out of the past and into the present. His head snapped up. " 'Ow is she?" he asked.

"She's had a very hard time of it, but she'll be fine." He felt relief wash over him. "And the baby?"

''I'm afraid the baby was stillborn. We couldn't stop the contractions. It was a mercy he went as he did."

"It was a boy," Joe said dully.

The doctor nodded. He put a hand on Joe's shoulder. "It was too early in the term for an infant to survive outside the womb. He would only have suffered. There will be others for her. In time."

"Should I go in to 'er?" Joe asked. He started to get to his feet.

Dr. Lyons kept a steady pressure on his shoulder, forcing him to seated. "No, no," he said quickly. "That's not a good idea. Not just yet. Mr. Peterson will be out momentarily. He'll advise you." The doctor went off in ,search of some breakfast, saying he would be back to check on Millie in an hour or so .

Joe slumped back on the bench, too empty to weep. The baby was stillborn. Like everything else in his life, all his dreams, his hopes. Like everything he'd always wanted to be-good, kind, upstanding. A loving husband and father. Ever since he had felt the little thing kick, he had hoped to hold and care for it and love it. Its tiny, questing movements had seemed like a promise that something good would come out of all the misery. But now the baby was dead. Because of him.

The door to Millie's room opened and his father-in-law came out. Joe stood and faced him.

"Does she want to see me?" he asked.

Tommy stood motionless, his fists clenched at his side, his face frozen in an expression of cold fury. "The only reason I'm not going to kill you right here is because of Millie," he finally said.

"She told me everything. How it's been between you two. About the girl. Fiona. I don't know if she meant to. She was delirious from the pain and the chloroform. She told me about Guy Fawkes night ... and her part in it. A hard thing to hear." He looked at the floor, his jaw working, then at Joe again.

"I want you out of the house. Out of our lives. Take what's yours and go. There will be a divorce on grounds of adultery. Yours. If you contest it, I'll "

"I won't," Joe said. Divorce, he thought. He would have his freedom Should he feel glad of that? He didn't. He felt sorry and ashamed. No one got divorced. It was a drastic, ugly, scandalous thing and the fact that Tommy had demanded it only indicated how much he despised him. He, Tommy Peterson, the man whose approval had once meant the world to him. Joe picked up his jacket. He glanced at the door. ''I'd like to tell 'er I'm sorry," he said.

Tommy shook his head. "Leave her be."

As Joe walked down the corridor, Tommy shouted at him. "Why? Why. you stupid sod? You had it made. You had it all-everything you could ever want."

Joe turned and .gave him a sad, bitter smile. "Everything, Tommy, and nothing at all."

Chapter 28.

"And I want two lamb chops ... those there, the big ones, yes ... a pound of pearl onions, a bunch of parsley, and half a pound of sweet b.u.t.ter. You got the porridge oats, didn't you?"

"Yes, Mrs. Owens," Fiona said, scrambling after her customer as she moved through the crowded shop. "Seamie, luv, bring up some more apples," she shouted at her brother. He dumped the lemons he was carrying into a bin and hurried back down the cellar stairs.

She felt someone take her elbow. "I want some of your tea, luv. I have the coupon from your flyer ... the one for a quarter pound? You won't run out, will you?" It was Julie Reynolds, who lived across the street.

"Miss! Miss!" another voice called. "I want some of the Madeira cake before it's gone!"

"Right away, ma'am," Fiona shouted back. She turned back to Mrs. Reynolds. "Not to worry, Mrs. Reynolds. I've two more chests in the bas.e.m.e.nt. Just give me one minute."

Fiona heard a sharp rapping. "Young man, can you get me some flour, please!" It was an elderly woman knocking the handle of her cane against the counter.

"Right away, my lovely," Nick said, careening toward Fiona. He weighed a pound of apples as she dug in a basket for pearl onions. They traded quick harried smiles. "Lord, the place is crawling! I've a wad of coupons in my pocket from your flyer and reams more in the till. We're going to need another tea chest up from the bas.e.m.e.nt soon. How many ads did you run?"

"Just the one in the little neighborhood paper!"

"All this business from one little ad? Nate's right. Advertising ,does work!" He shot off to ring up the apples and Fiona blessed him for being here to help. She would've been lost without him.

He was so charming and chatty. The ladies loved him and he loved playing shopkeeper. It was another game, a prank, and Nick, an overgrown child, delighted in it.

She weighed and wrapped the lamb chops, the b.u.t.ter and the pearl onions, stacked them next to the bag of porridge oats, and tossed a bunch of Parsley on top of it all. "Have you tried our ginger biscuits?" she asked Mrs Owens, handing her one. "They're very nice. I can't keep Seamie out of the tin," she added, knowing from Mary that Mrs. Owens was a fond mother of her children, hoping to add a little more to her bill.

"Homemade, are they?" the woman asked, savoring the bite she'd taken. ".Just this morning.

Mary Munro did them. She made all the baked goods." "Oh, I know Mary! She's a wonderful baker.

Give me half a dozen. They'll keep the kiddies quiet. I need a quart of milk and two pounds of flour, too. And don't forget my tea, Fiona! Here's my coupon. It is good? I don't want any rubbish."

''It's an excellent tea, Mrs. Owens. It's T-G-F-O-P," she said, with a meaningful nod. "Tippy Golden Flowery Orange Pekoe." She'd seen Joe do that. Drop some rarefied term into the conversation. It implied a shared, superior understanding of the product, made a customer feel in the know.

"I saw that on the chest. What does it mean?"

"It's the tea's grade. It tells you you've got nice large leaves with lots of bud. It means it's all new growth, plucked from the top of the bush, not a lot of tough, old leaves from down the branches." She lowered her voice. "There's some who wouldn't know the difference," she said, glancing "round, "but those who do, insist on the better grade."

Mrs. Owens nodded knowingly. "Give us our quarter pound, la.s.s. Lord knows how long it's been since I had good tea years !"

Fiona smiled at Mrs. Owens's enthusiasm. She shared it. If there was one thing she could not abide, it was bad tea. Frustrated by the offerings of her uncle's supplier, she'd closed their account with him and trekked down to South Street, to Millard's, her friend Stuart's importing firm, and had him devise a custom blend of Indian tea. She told him what she wanted, and using a.s.sam leaves from three estates, Stuart had concocted a blend that was full-bodied and brisk, with a bright, malty character. He was glad to do it. He was having difficulty moving his Indian tea. His American customers only wanted to buy what they knew, which was China tea. His Indian tea was better, but he hadn't been able to sway them. Fiona, however, would have nothing else. She immediately recognized its quality. She'd known that her customers would like it, too. Thanks to Mary, she'd met many of them before today. Young workingwomen, or wives of dockers and factory men almost all immigrants - small were partial to good tea. It was the one small luxury their workaday lives afforded them.