The Tea Rose Part 42

"But you coped, Mum."

"Of course I did, my children needed me. I could cope. 'E couldn't." Joe looked at her, still in a state of shock.

Rose laughed at his expression. "Men are the weak ones, luv. Didn't you know? Oh, you make a lot of noise, but it's the women who are strong. Where it counts. In 'ere," she said, touching her fingers to her heart. Pain flickered across her face at the memories. "A brand-new baby. Colicky.

Wouldn't feed. Never let me sleep. Jimmy and you only sprogs. Barely enough money for food. And then me 'usband ups and leaves me." She laughed bitterly. "And me dad asks me what I'd done to drive 'im out. Thank G.o.d I 'ad me mum. I wouldn't 'ave made it without 'er."

"What 'appened? 'E came back? You let 'im?"

"Aye. 'E was back within the month. Tail between 'is legs."

"Why'd you take 'im back?"

"I needed me 'usband. You kids needed your dad. And I loved the blighter. It took a while, but I forgave 'im. 'E was sorry and 'e tried so 'ard afterward. And even though what 'e'd done 'urt, I could understand it. The way you lot cried and carried on, I wanted to leave meself."

"Blimey, me own dad," Joe said. "I never knew."

"Maybe that explains your father, luv. Why 'e is like' e is. So careful and cautious. Afraid to put a foot wrong and mess things up again. Maybe that's why 'e's angry with you. You made the same mistake 'e did." Joe nodded. "What all this means is, I don't know if Fiona can forgive you. It's not for me to say. But I do know 'ow much she loved you, and 'ow much you loved her. And you shouldn't go through the rest of your life without at least trying to see if she will."

"I want to, Mum. I would. If only I could find 'er."

Rose frowned. "You weren't able to find out anything? Not even with that detective?"

"Only that she'd p.a.w.ned some things in a shop near Roddy's flat. That's it."

"Fiona's a capable girl, I'm sure she's all right wherever she is. And I'm sure she 'ad 'er reasons for leaving the way she did, but still, it's very strange."

Joe said it worried him too. He told his mother something he hadn't told her before because he hadn't wanted to alarm her-he told her about his run-in with Stan Christie.

"Oh, Joe, I don't like the sound of that at all," she said anxiously. "What on earth does Bowler Sheehan want with Fiona?"

"According to Roddy, Sheehan says she stole some money and 'e wants it back."

"What? That makes no sense! Nothing about this does. Fiona wouldn't steal. And it's so unlike 'er not to tell Roddy where she went. Of all people! 'E was like a father to 'er. More family than 'er own uncle, who didn't even write to Kate or send money after Paddy died."

Joe stopped walking. He took his mother by the shoulders. "'Er uncle ... " he said slowly.

"Aye. 'E lives in New York City. 'E's a shopkeeper, I think. I remember Kate telling me that Charlie wanted to go there and work for 'im."

"Mum, that's it!" he shouted. "That's where she is, I'm sure of it! Where else would she 'ave gone? Especially with Seamie to look after. Do you know 'is name? 'Is address?"

"I don't. It would be Finnegan, of course, but I don't know 'is first name. Roddy would, though. Maybe 'e knows the address, too."

"Mum, I'm going to go," Joe said excitedly. "To New York. She's there, I just know it. As soon as I can get the money together. I'll need quite a bit, I would think. Enough to get over there and to pay for room and board while I look for' er. I've got to get my business going. I can make more working for meself than I can working for Ed."

"Let's go back and ask your dad about the barrow 'e mentioned. I've got a bit of pin money put aside, I could' elp with the deposit," Rose said.

Joe kissed her. "Thanks, Mum. Let's go to Roddy's first, though, before we go 'orne. See if'e knows the address. If 'e does, I could write 'er right away."

"All right," Rose said. "Let's go." She started off in the wrong direction. "No, it's this way,"

Joe said, tugging on her arm. "Come on, Mum, 'urry!"

Chapter 43.

Fiona thumbed the pages of the leather-bound book she was holding. "What have you got there?" Will asked her.

"The Collected Poems of Alfred, Lord Tennyson."

He glanced over at it. "A first edition. Very rare. Printed in Venice," he said, wiping dust off a bottle of wine he was holding. "Do you like Tennyson?"

"I might if I hadn't been forced to memorize him in school." she replied.

She closed her eyes, hugged the book to her chest, and recited "Crossing the Bar" perfectly, opening her eyes again on the very last line.

"Well done!" Will remarked, putting the bottle down to applaud. He'd taken off his jacket and tie and had draped them over a leather settee. He was wearing a crisp white shirt-its cuffs held together with monogrammed gold rectangles-a silk vest, and trousers of fine, light wool.

Fiona flushed at his praise. She returned the book to its place at the bottom of an oak bookshelf that was at least twenty feet high. Dozens more lined the walls of Will's enormous library.

Ladders positioned on rails allowed access to the upper shelves. The library was twice as big as Michael's entire flat, but it was only one room in a mansion that took up an entire city block-the corner of Fifth Avenue at Sixty-second Street. This was her first visit to Will's home. He'd taken her to dinner at Delmonico's, accompanied by Nick. As soon as they were done, they journeyed uptown and Nick headed downtown where, he said, he was going to meet a painter friend. They would all rendezvous back at Del's just before midnight, then continue on to Eighth Avenue and Michael would never be the wiser. They'd done this twice before and he hadn't caught on yet. It was the only way she could ever have any time alone with Will. The first time they'd gone walking in the Park, and the second time riding in the carriage. They'd been able to talk to each other without a third person always listening, and steal a few kisses, too.

When they'd arrived at the house-just over an hour ago-he'd given her the grand tour. It had taken that long just to walk through it. It was impossibly huge and stupefying opulent. It had a receiving room, two drawing rooms, three parlors, a dining room, endless hallways, a sitting room, a games room, several studies, a gallery, a conservatory, huge kitchens, a ballroom that could hold three hundred, several rooms that appeared to serve no purpose whatsoever, and Will's enormous library, plus various bedrooms, bathrooms, and quarters for the servants. Fiona thought it more a palace than a house and nearly tripped several times trying to take in all the carved marble, the gilding, the painted panels, the tapestries, silk curtains, crystal chandeliers, the paintings and sculpture. Overwhelmed, she was glad when they finally reached the library, with its spare decor.

Just the orderly shelves, two desks, and two leather bergeres and a settee grouped in front of the fireplace. It was a chilly night, even though it was summer, and the butler had built a fire for them.

Its light, plus the glow from several candelabra, illuminated the room.

"Will ... " she said now, turning in a slow circle to take in the thousands of t.i.tles before her.

"Just how many books do you have?"

He thought for a few seconds as he struggled with an uncooperative corkscrew. "About a hundred thousand, give or take a few."

"Blimey!" she whispered, walking the length of one wall, her boot heels clicking on the polished stone floor. She heard a cork pop.

"Ah! There we go. Do you like Margaux, Fiona? This is a '69. Older than you are."

Fiona shrugged. "I don't know. I've never had it. I never had wine at all until you took me to Delmonico's. Only champagne. It was all Nick would drink on the ship, so I drank it, too."

Will blinked at her. "Really? What did you drink in London?"

"Tea."

"I mean with your luncheon. And your dinner."

Fiona tapped her chin. "Hmmm ... with my luncheon. And my dinner. Let me think. Ah, yes, I remember now ... tea. And then there was tea. Oh, and we also had tea. A rather run-of-the-mill a.s.sam from the corner shop most days, but occasionally a divine" - she fluttered her lashes on the word "Darjeeling if a crate broke at the docks and my father and his mates could get to it before the foreman found out."

Will gave her a look. "Making fun of me?"

She grinned. "What do you think we drank on a docker's wages?"

"What were they?"

"Twenty-odd shillings. About five dollars."

Will grimaced. "I guess you wouldn't be drinking wine on that, would you? But you are now.

Here, come and try this."

He had settled himself on the settee. Fiona joined him. She liked it here in his library. She felt safe sitting close to him. She always felt safe with him, wherever they went. Safe and cared for.

Those were good feelings. Not as good as the breathless, desperate, longing feelings of being in love.

Those feelings still eluded her no matter how much she wished they would come. But they would come. In time. She was certain of it. It was still too soon. She barely knew Will, after all. She hadn't been seeing him long enough to be in love yet. She was still falling in love. And that was a different thing entirely.

He poured two gla.s.ses of wine. She reached for one but he drew it away. "Not so fast. A lesson first, before you drink one of the best wines the world has to offer."

"Do I spit it out? They had a wine-appreciation lesson on the ship. watched them. They swirled it in their mouths then spat it in a bucket. guess they weren't too appreciative."

"You spit this out, my girl, and I'll string you up."

"Is it good, then?"

"Very. Close your eyes."

She did. "Now what do I do?"

"Close your mouth. Just for a few seconds. Can you manage that?" Fiona giggled. "Inhale it first," Will said, holding the gla.s.s under her nose. "Take a nice deep breath." Fiona did as she was told. She could feel him near her, feel his warmth, the resonance of his voice. "What do you smell?"

"Urn ... grapes?"

"What else?"

She inhaled again. "Currants, I think. Yes, currants. And ... and pepper? And a bit of something else ... I know-vanilla!" She opened her eyes.

"Very good. You've an excellent nose. I'm impressed."

He handed her the gla.s.s. It was lead crystal, as heavy as a brick. She took a mouthful and swallowed it. It was like drinking velvet. She took another mouthful and felt its warmth spread through her body. She noticed that Will was sitting very close to her. She could see the flecks of copper in his warm brown eyes, a small freckle above his top lip, a lick of gray in his hair. He smelled of starched laundry and leather and clean skin. It was wonderful, his scent, much nicer than an old gla.s.s of wine. It brought blood to her cheeks and made them glow. She held his gaze for a few seconds, certain he was going to kiss her, wanting him to. And then he did.

"You've got an excellent mouth, too," he said, taking the winegla.s.s from her hand and placing it on the table. He kissed her neck, and behind her ear, making her shiver. He stroked her breast through the fabric of her dress firmly but gently, making her sigh. He was sure of himself. Confident in the way he touched her, and she was reminded again that he was no boy. He'd had a wife once, and if her uncle was to be believed, mistresses, too. He knew what he was doing, which was more than she could say. As she felt his hands on her back, undoing the b.u.t.tons there, felt him sliding her camisole straps over her shoulders, she suddenly knew why he had brought her here tonight, why they had come to his home instead of walking in the park.

"Will, don't ... " she said breathlessly, not ready for this.

But he didn't stop. As the candles flickered, casting a warm glow over the shelves of books, the wine, the leather settee, her skin, he kept on stroking her bare b.r.e.a.s.t.s, kissing her lips, moving his fingers in just the right way under her skirts. He was skilled. He knew just where to touch her and how. His hands and lips made her feel weak, made the place between her legs ache, made her feel as if she wanted to peel his clothes off and pull him down to her. Entranced by desire, she no longer wanted him to stop. She wanted to feel the heat of his skin against hers, to feel him inside of her.

He kissed her again, then said, "Come to bed with me, Fiona. I want you ... I want to make love to you."

She froze. Only seconds ago, there had been fire in her veins, now there was ice. She broke their embrace. "No, Will," she said sharply. "I don't want to ... I ... I can't."

Will sat back against the settee and closed his eyes. "What is it? What's wrong?" he asked.

"I ... I could get pregnant."

He opened one eye and looked at her. "There are devices, you know. I would've taken precautions."

"Well ... it's not just that ... I can't ... I'm not ... "

"It's all right, Fiona," he said, taking her hand. "You're not ready. That's all I need to know.

You don't have to explain. I understand. I was too pushy."

"No, Will, you weren't," she started to say, "I ... I want you, too, I do ... I just ... "

"Shhh," he said, stopping her mouth with a kiss. He pulled her camisole together. "At least put those away, will you? There's only so much a man can stand."

Fiona b.u.t.toned herself up. Her cheeks were burning, but not from modesty.

She had lied. To Will. To herself. She let him believe her reticence was due to a fear of pregnancy when she knew the real reason, knew it and refused to admit it. His words, I want you!... I want to make Love to you - they were Joe's words, the very words he'd said to her that afternoon in Covent Garden when he'd made love to her in his narrow bed, when he told her he loved her and he always would. The second Will had uttered them, images of Joe had filled her mind. The way he'd looked when he'd dumped out their cocoa tin in her lap, when he'd given her the tiny sapphire ring, when he'd scooped her up in his arms. She remembered his touch, the way he'd opened her up to him, opened himself to her, until they'd become one - one body, one heart, one soul.

These images tortured her. She wanted to be with Will, to think only of him, to be in love with him. She wanted to move on, to put Joe behind her. So very much. And she'd been trying, but it never worked. He always came back. She might hear a voice that sounded like his, or glimpse a pair of eyes nearly as blue as his, or see a lad walk with the same c.o.c.ky swagger, and suddenly he was with her again-in her mind, her heart.

"Fiona?" Will said gently. "Are those tears?"

She quickly brushed her cheeks, embarra.s.sed. She didn't know she'd been crying. He pulled out his handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes. "I've upset you, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have been so demanding. I'm a clod. Truly. Don't cry, darling. It breaks my heart." He held her close, whispering to her. ''I'd never take advantage of you. Never. I'd rather die than hurt you. I just got carried away, that's all. My feelings for you are that strong." He released her, looked into her eyes, and said, ''I'm bad at these things, Fiona. I can talk your ears off about business, as I'm sure you know by now, but I'm at a loss when it comes to matters of the heart. Always have been." He paused for a second, then said, ''I've never told you this before ... "

Her hands clenched. No, Will, she thought. Not now. Please, please, not now.

" ... I've wanted to say it to you for a long time, but I've been, well ... afraid to, I guess. In case you didn't return my feelings. I ... I love you, Fiona."

Why had he said it? Why now? Why not on some perfect night when they were walking arm in arm from a dinner and laughing and thoughts of Joe were a million miles away. They'd had such nights. They'd given her hope, made her believe that she could forget him.

Will kissed her lips tenderly, lovingly. He looked into her eyes, waiting for her answer.

She would tell him that this wasn't going to work. She would say she loved another man and always would. That she'd tried to get him out of her heart, but couldn't. That she'd grow old loving him. That she hated herself for loving him.

Instead she said, "Oh, Will ... I ... I love you, too."