The Tea Rose Part 37

Over the course of the next hour, with pauses for water or a rest, Nick told Fiona all about Henri. He told her how they met and how much Henri had meant to him. So much, in fact, that he'd turned his back on his family to stay in Paris with him. He had been happy, he told her, and he hadn't regretted his choice, but one September evening his happiness was taken away.

He and Henri were walking by the Seine, he explained. Henri hadn't felt well. He had chills and aches. Nick felt his head, then put a comforting arm around him. Normally, he didn't touch Henri in public-it was too dangerous-but he was so concerned, he'd done it without thinking. The gesture was seen by a group of louts walking behind them. They were set upon and thrown into the river.

Henri went under, but Nick was able to pull him out. "He was conscious when I got him to the street," he said. "But by the time help arrived, he'd pa.s.sed out."

He himself had been roughed up; he'd suffered cuts and bruises, a black eye, nothing too serious. Henri, however, had a fractured skull. He never regained consciousness and died two days later.

"I was devastated," Nick said. "I couldn't eat or sleep. I didn't show up for work for over a month and lost my job."

The hospital notified Henri's parents-a proper bourgeois couple who lived outside Paris. They hadn't approved of their son's painting, or his companions, and refused to allow any of them to attend his funeral.

"I grieved alone," Nick said. "I thought I would go mad with sorrow. I couldn't bear the sight of our flat, the streets we'd walked down, the cafes where we'd eaten."

Then, two weeks later, he'd received a letter from his mother, begging him one last to time to reconsider, to come home. Her words caught him at a weak moment. Distraught, in need of the comfort of his family - even though he knew he could never tell them about Henri - he decided to go back. There was nothing left in Paris for him.

When he arrived home his mother and sisters were happy to see him, but his father was hateful; he berated him constantly for ignoring his responsibilities. Nick tried his best to please the man. He took up his duties, worked hard, oversaw the opening of new bank branches, even undertook the grinding preparatory work on a string of public offerings that Albion was underwriting by poring over countless balance sheets, deeds, and payrolls; by visiting factories and dockyards, mines and mills - but nothing he did was good enough. He became severely depressed, started to drink, and even contemplated suicide. He went out every night just to avoid his father. Sorrowing, bitter, desperate for distraction from his pain, he allowed himself to fall in with a group of upper-cla.s.s wastrels ~ spoiled, decadent young men, most of whom were of the same persuasion as he was.

One drunken, out of control evening, they ended up at a male brothel in Cleveland Street and he slept with one of the rent boys. It was human contact, a way to lose himself. He'd regretted it the next morning, but he'd done it again, many times. He continued to drink and woke up many mornings unable to remember where he'd been the night before or how he'd gotten home.

His health began to suffer. He felt weak, lethargic. His mother noticed and made him see the family physician, Dr. Hadley. He a.s.sumed the man would treat his case with discretion, but he was wrong. Dr. Hadley diagnosed syphilis and promptly reported it to his father, who beat him b.l.o.o.d.y.

He threw him against a wall in his study, called him an abomination, and cursed G.o.d for giving him such a son. He told him to get out of his house. He gave him a choice: Go to America and die there quietly and he'd establish an investment fund for him, one that would provide a generous income. Or stay in London and die penniless in the streets.

"I was lying on the floor, Fee, trying to catch my breath. My father was walking out of his study when he suddenly came back, leaned over me, and told me he knew what I was. He said he knew about Paris and Aries, and Henri, too. I felt my blood go cold. He told me what the house I lived in looked like and the names of the cafes I frequented. 'If you know all that, then you know about Henri's death, don't you?' I said to him. And as I said it, hatred flooded me. I'd always known he was a monster, but to think he'd known of my loss and said nothing! And then, Fiona, he smiled and said, 'Knew about it? Nicholas, I paid for it!' "

Fiona was weeping as Nick finished his story. Her heart was breaking for him. That a father could do to a child what his father had done to Nick was inconceivable to her. To have his son's lover murdered. To throw his own flesh and blood into the streets like a dog.

Nick wiped his eyes. The small reserve of strength he'd built up after Eckhardt's visit was ebbing away again. Fiona realized she had to get him home fast, before it was gone completely.

As she was hunting for clean clothes to put on him, he said, "At least now it won't be long before I join Henri."

"Don't you talk that way," she told him, her voice fierce. "Henri is just going to have to wait.

You're in my hands now. And you're going to get better. I'm going to make you."

Chapter 35.

"Their numbers are growing," Davey O'Neill said. "Scores more are joining every week.

They're not afraid. They're b.l.o.o.d.y angry and they're not going to back down. They'll strike before the year is out. My guess is autumn at the latest."

O'Neill watched as William Burton's face darkened. He saw him slide his hand into his pocket, saw his fingers curl around something inside of it.

"Careful now, guv. Cut the other one off and we'll 'ave to get someone else to do your earwigging," Bowler Sheehan said, snickering.

Davey didn't flinch. He didn't budge. It was better not to. Burton reminded him of a savage animal-a wolf or a jackal-the sort of animal that watched and waited and never chased until you ran.

Burton had cut him once, here on Oliver's Wharf, and Davey did not want to feel his knife again, though the physical pain, as bad as it was, had been short-lived. It was the other kind, the kind that came from inside, from the scabbed place where his soul used to be, that drove him mad. A pain that made him want to cut his own throat every time he sat in a union meeting, memorizing names and dates and plans. Or listened to one of his fellow dockers wonder aloud how it was that the owners and foremen always seemed to know the union's next meeting before they themselves did. He would have topped himself, too, if it wasn't for his wife and children. They would be dest.i.tute without him.

As it was, Burton's money had given them the only security they'd ever known. He could afford doctor for Lizzie now and the right medicine. Seeing the color come back into her cheeks and watching her frail matchstick limbs fill out were the only things that brought him any joy.

Sarah, his wife, had never questioned the story he'd told her about his ear or the sudden change in their fortunes. She just took the extra money he handed her every week without comment, grateful to have it. There was meat for everyone at teatime now. There were warm woolen underthings and new boots for the children. She'd asked for a new jacket and skirt for herself, too, but he'd said no. And she'd wanted to move the family to a better house a few streets over but he would not allow that, either. She'd protested and he'd told her she was to mind what he said and not question him for he had good reasons.

But one day, fed up with his tightfistedness, she'd bought herself a new hat-a pretty straw boater with red cherries on it. She'd come home wearing it, pleased and proud of the only new thing she'd ever had. He'd ripped it off her head and thrown it into the fire. Then he'd slapped her so hard he knocked her down. He'd never hit her before. Never. She'd cowered and cried and he'd felt sick to his stomach, but he'd warned her that if she ever disobeyed him again, she'd get far worse.

Dockers weren't stupid. If a man's wife suddenly flaunted a flashy hat, if his kids had new clothes, it was noticed and remarked upon. Though Tillet and the other leaders expressly forbade violence, Davey knew there were rank-and-file members who would rip him limb from limb if they ever found out he was spying.

Sarah hadn't bought herself anything new after that. She didn't smile much anymore, either.

She turned away from him when he came to bed, and her eyes, when she could bring herself to look at him, were cold. He'd overheard her once talking to her mother, telling her she thought the money had come from thieving. Oh, Sarah, he'd thought, if only it were that n.o.ble!

Burton took his hand out of his pocket and cracked his knuckles. "What are the exact numbers? What have they got in their war chest?"

"Impossible to say exactly," Davey replied, hoping he could bluff.

"Try, Mr. O'Neill, try. Or my colleague here will walk into your flat and snap your daughter's neck as if she were nothing more than an unwanted kitten."

Sickened yet again by his utter powerlessness, Davey talked. "The Tea Operatives and General Laborers' 'ave about eight hundred members," he said.

"And the money?"

"Nothing to speak of."

Sheehan laughed at that and asked Burton what he was worrying about. But then Davey told them that the stevedores' union was nearly five thousand strong and had three thousand pounds in their coffers. And they had pledged their support. If the dockers walked off the river, the stevedores would be right behind them. So would the lightermen and watermen. Burton raised an eyebrow at that, but Sheehan flapped a hand at Davey's words.

"The more the merrier, they'll all starve," he said. "Three thousand quid won't feed the whole riverside. Not for long. Even if they do call a strike they'll come crawling back in two, maybe three days. Soon as their beer money runs out."

"I hope you're right, Mr. Sheehan," Burton said quietly. His calm, low tone unnerved Davey.

"I can't afford a strike. Not now. My capital's spread far too thin."

"It'll never 'appen," Sheehan said. "You're worrying over nothing guv'nor. Just like that Finnegan girl. I told you she'd disappear and she has. Probably dead by now."

Burton reached into his breast pocket and handed Davey an envelope Their gaze locked for a few seconds as he took it from him, and Davey saw that Burton's eyes were as flat and impa.s.sive as a shark's. They were devoid of fury and that should've comforted him, but it did not. He would've preferred anger to what he saw in them now-a black, yawning emptiness. Bottomless and terrifying.

"There are river rats below us. I can hear them scrabbling," Burton said.

Davey didn't hear anything. "I ... I beg your pardon, sir?"

"Rats will eat anything if they're hungry. Even human flesh. Did you know that?"

"N-no, sir. I didn't."

"Go home, O'Neill," he said. "Go home and keep the rats away." Then he turned and walked to the edge of the dock.

Confused, Davey looked at Sheehan, but Sheehan only shrugged. Davy left then. He went back through the dark warehouse, just as he always did walking at first, then suddenly he broke into a panicked run, stumbling once, righting himself, and running even faster until he reached the street door. As he grasped the handle, he looked back over his shoulder, expecting to see Burton right behind him, his knife raised, his awful dead eyes boring into him. He hurriedly let himself out and ran down the Wapping High Street, more afraid than he'd been the night Burton cut him, more afraid than he'd ever been in his life.

Chapter 36.

Keep them up for one more second, duck, whilst I get this on you. Just one more second ...

there!" Mary said, threading Nick's arms through the sleeves of a fresh pajama top. She tugged the opening over his head, b.u.t.toned the neck, then leaned him back against his pillows. "That was very good! You couldn't do that last week; I had to hold your arms up for you."

"I'll be running the hundred-yard dash in a week," Nick said, smiling. "Just you wait."

"I doubt that, but you are making progress. Your color's improved and you've more strength than you had. If only we could get some meat on those bones. All right, now for the bottom half."

Mary slid his pants off, dipped her sponge in warm water, and washed him down.

Nick had been mortified the first time she bathed him. No one had ever done that except his Nanny Allen and he'd been a child then. He'd protested, saying he could take a proper bath, in a tub, by himself, but Mary paid him no attention. She'd bustled him out of his clothes, kidding him until he got over his modesty. "I've seen one before, you know," she'd said. "Mr. Munro, G.o.d rest him, had some fine equipment on him. How do you think I got Ian?"

Nick had laughed despite himself. ''I'm sure mine will be a disappointment to you, Mary. I can't compete with a strapping Scotsman. They build their men big over there."

-"Indeed they do, lad," she'd said, with such a note of l.u.s.ty desire in her voice, she made him laugh even more.

He looked at his night table as Mary dipped her sponge and wrung it out again. There was a vase of roses on it from Alec, a book of verse by Walt Whitman from Nate and Maddie, and a self-portrait that Seamie had made. They had all been so good to him. He was astonished by their kindness. He felt Mary's gentle hands kneading his calves, chafing his ankles. To keep the blood moving, she'd explained. His own mother had never touched him so.

And Fiona ... a lump rose in his throat at the thought of her. She'd saved him. He was only alive because of her, his lionheart. She'd begged and bullied him into pulling through. Her devotion amazed and humbled him. She'd given up her bed and had been sleeping on the floor next to him on a mattress. The first few nights, when he'd been afraid, she'd talked to him in the dark. When the pain got very bad, she'd reached up and taken hold hand. The strength in that hand ... he knew it was a mad notion now, but then he'd felt as if her fierceness, her formidable will, flowed out of her into him, giving him courage.

He was still not fully recovered, but because of Fiona and her family the Munros, he was better than he had a right to be, and had even been thinking that he might soon be up and about.

Eckhardt, that angel of darkness, was supposed to visit him that afternoon and tell him when he could get out of bed.

Mary finished his sponge bath, slid fresh bottoms on him, and pulled sheets up to his chest.

He tried to thank her, but she shushed him. She left to dump the bathwater, then came back with the baby in her arms. She had to get the supper started," she said. "Could I leave Nell with you for a bit?

Are you up to it?"

Nick said he was. She tucked the baby into the crook of his arm, giving him a rusk for her, and bustled off to the kitchen, humming as she went the baby gummed her biscuit, Seamie came bounding into his room, crawled up on the bed, and demanded a story.

"Where have you been? You're black as a sweep!" Nick said to him, "Trapping slugs. They're eating the flowers."

"Did you dig a bunker to do it? Look at your ears!"

"There you are!" Michael said, striding into the room. "Come on. It's time for a bath."

"Noooo!" Seamie howled, carrying on as if his uncle had threatened him with the guillotine instead of the tub.

"Mary said you're to have one. You're too dirty to sit at the table."

"But, I don't want one!"

"It's very simple, laddie-no bath, no supper."

Seamie looked to Nick for a reprieve. He shook his head sorrowfully ''I'm afraid there's no help for it, old man. She made me have one, too."

Seamie capitulated. He followed his uncle out of Nick's room, his head hanging down, a condemned man. Nick was trying to stop Nell from mushing the soggy rusk into her dress when he heard a soft knock at the door.

"Signora!" he exclaimed, delighted to see Maddie standing there. " Ciao mia bella!"

" Ciao, bello. Do you have a moment? I want to show you the drawing for Fiona's tea boxes.

It's almost complete, but I think the background needswork. See where it folds to make the lid? What do you think?"

"Bring it closer, Maddie ... here, why don't you pull up a chair?"

She sat down near the bed and held the ill.u.s.tration up. "I see what you mean," Nick said.

"Once the box is cut and folded, the bungalow's going to disappear. Get rid of it. You don't need it.

The parade's busy enough. Just extend greenery over the top and ... "

As they were talking, a terrible caterwauling started in the bathroom.

"I'm a rambler. I'm a gambler. I'm a long way from home.

And if you don't like me, then leave me alone.

I'll eat when I'm hungry, I'll drink when I'm dry.

And if whiskey don't kill me, I'll live till I die...."

"What is that?" Maddie asked, alarmed.

"Seamie and Michael singing," Nick said, laughing. "Isn't it awful?"

He was about to resume his critique of Maddie's work when they both heard the door to the flat bang open, then slam shut. 'Sharp, determined footsteps came down the hallway.

"Michael!" Fiona bellowed, stalking by Nick's door with a large metal scoop in her hand.

Nick and Maddie made uh-oh faces at each other. "What do you want? I'm busy!" he shouted back.