Jennie saw that Josie was shaking. The cut on her cheek was still dripping blood. Her nose had started to bleed, too. Most women in Josie’s shape would have been weeping. Not Josie. Josie Meadows was a Wapping girl, and Wapping girls did not cry. They were hard, loud, and tough as nails. Jennie had taught many of them and knew that the lives they led—the lives they endured—made them so. Josie would shake. She would drink, smoke, shout, and swear, but she would never, ever cry.
“Sit down,” Jennie said, turning the taps off.
“Can’t, luv. Haven’t the time.”
“Josie Meadows, you sit down. Right now.”
Josie smiled, though it made her wince. “Yes, miss,” she said. “You always get your way when you use your teacher voice, don’t you?”
“Let me help you, Josie. We’ll get everything sorted. Only sit down, please, before you fall down.”
Josie took a seat at the kitchen table and Jennie put the kettle on. Then she got a bowl of hot water, some clean rags, and a bottle of rubbing alcohol and set about cleaning Josie’s face. She tried not to let her emotions show on her own face—the shock she felt, the anger that a man could hurt a woman as badly as Billy Madden had hurt Josie. The kettle sang just as she was finishing up. She made the tea, then got two cups and saucers off a shelf and put them on the table. As she set a pitcher of milk and a sugar bowl down, she asked Josie what had happened.
“He put me up the spout, didn’t he?” Josie said bitterly. “Man’s bloody insatiable. Always got his cock out. Fucks me nine ways to Sunday—in bed, in the bath, up against the wall … Oh, sorry, luv! Forgot where I was. Well, anyway, he does me right and proper two, three, four times a day, and then he has the nerve to get angry at me—me!—when I tell him there’s a little Billy Junior on the way.” She reached into her dress pocket, pulled out a cigarette and a box of matches, and lit up. She took a drag, let out a long plume of smoke, then said, “Tells me I’m to get rid of it. Doesn’t want his wife to find out, you see. He’s scared to death of her. Doesn’t want his three sons to know, either. Thinks the world of them three. I tell him I’m not getting rid of it. Been down that road a few times already. First time, I had no money, so the doctor who did it took his payment in kind, if you know what I mean. Last time, I had a woman. She was old. Her hands shook. She cut me up so, I almost bled to death. I’m finished with those butchers. I’m having this baby, Jennie. I swear to God I am. I’ll give him up to a good home when he comes, but I’m damn well having him. I can’t go through that again.” She paused to take another drag, then continued. “So when I tell Billy all this, what does he do, the gobshite? He hits me. Hard. In the stomach. I bend over, like this,” she curled up, arms crossed over her stomach, “so he can’t get at my belly again, and I catch it in the face. He’s yelling at me. Hitting me. Trying to kick me. Telling me he’ll get rid of it himself. Well, I managed to get away from him. I had a few quid in my pocket and I ran out of the Bark, found a hackney, and paid the driver to bring me here. And here I am. I’m sorry to drag you into it. I didn’t know where else to go. If I can just borrow a dress, any old thing, I’ll be on me way.”
Jennie, too upset to speak, said nothing. Instead she poured the tea. Josie picked up a spoon and tried to shovel some sugar into her cup, but her hands were still shaking so badly, she got more on the table than she did in her tea.
Jennie looked at those small hands, at the pretty rings on them, and the bitten nails, and her heart ached. Josie was only nineteen. She was bright. She was lively and funny and pretty. She could have done so many things with her life, but instead of studying to be a nurse, or taking a secretarial course, she’d taken to the stage and fallen in with a fast lot—chorus girls on the make, prostitutes, wide boys, married men, and finally, Billy Madden. Billy had set her up with her own flat and carriage, with diamonds and clothing, but as Josie soon learned, Madden did no favors. People paid for what they got from him. One way or the other.
“Where are you going to go?” Jennie finally asked her.
“Paris. To the Moulin Rouge. I’ll get work there. I can sing and dance with the best of them.”
“Now you can, but what about when you’re seven months along?”
“Hadn’t thought of that.”
“And what about money?”
“I’ve got some squirreled away in a bank. My wages from the halls. Billy don’t know about it.”
“Is it enough to get you to Paris? To keep yourself until you find work?”
“I don’t know,” Josie said. “Probably not. I’ve got jewels. Plenty of them. But I can’t get them. They’re in my flat and Billy’ll have his lads watching it. I don’t know what I’m going to do, but I’ll figure something.”
“Stay here, Josie.”
“It’s good of you to offer, and I thank you for it,” Josie said, “but I can’t. I couldn’t go outside, you see. Wouldn’t dare risk being seen. So I’d have to stay inside. For months. I’d go mad.”
Jennie went quiet again. She racked her brains trying to think up the best way to help Josie. She had to help her. She could not let the girl go out on her own. From her description of the beating Madden had given her, Jennie was quite sure he’d finish the job if he found her. She thought of friends she had in the south, near Bristol. And others in Leeds and Liverpool. They would help her if she asked them to, but what if she ended up endangering them, too? She needed a hotel, a house, a cottage … someplace private and quiet, but neither Josie nor she had the money required to rent a house or cottage. And then, suddenly, she had the answer. “Binsey!” she said, quite loudly.
“What’s that?” Josie asked.
“You can go to Binsey.”
“Where the flippin’ hell is Binsey?”
“In Oxfordshire. Not too far, but far enough. I have a cottage there, Josie. It was my mother’s. I barely ever go there anymore. You can stay there as long as you need to. It’s not far from the village. You can buy everything you need. You can have the baby; then, when you’re recovered and strong again, you can go to Paris. I could help you with the boat fare.”
“Could you really? I’ll pay you back. Every bleedin’ penny. I swear I will.”
“I know you will, Josie. I’m not worried about that. What I’m worried about is getting you there. Quickly. Let me think for a minute.” She looked at the clock on the wall. “It’s still early. Not even ten.” She bit her lip. “We could do it, I think. In fact, I’m sure we could.”
“Do what?”
“Make it to Binsey.”
“Today?”
“Yes, today. We’d have to get you changed. And pack a few things for you. But if we could get to Paddington by eleven, and then get a train out by noon, we could be at the cottage by two at the latest. It’s only a short walk from the station. I could settle you there, then come right back.” She went quiet, then started thinking out loud again, almost unaware that she was talking. “My father will be home before I get home, and he’ll wonder where I’ve gone. I’ll have to leave a note. Say I went out to do some errands for the wedding. I’ll pick up some cards on my way back. Nip into the florist’s. So it’s not entirely a lie.”
“What wedding? Who’s getting married?”
“Oh … um … I am,” Jennie said.
“That’s wonderful news! When is it?”
“This Sunday,” Jennie said, hoping that the conversation would end. But it didn’t.
“This Sunday,” Josie echoed. Then she smiled cheekily. “That’s awfully sudden, isn’t it? I didn’t even know you were engaged.”
Jennie colored. “Yes, well, it is, but …” She stammered, at a loss for a convincing lie.
Josie gave her a close look, then said, “Oh, Jennie, you didn’t! Not you!”
“Well … um … yes. I’m rather afraid I did,” Jennie said.
Josie screeched laughter. “You little hussy,” she said. “Sitting here like butter wouldn’t melt in your mouth, and all the time you’ve a bun in the oven you
rself. Same as me.”
“Josie, we really have to get going if we’re to make the train.”
But Josie paid her no attention. “Is he nice?” she asked.
“Very nice.”
“Handsome? Strong?”
“Yes, both of those.”
“Is he a good kisser?”
“Josie Meadows,” Jennie scolded. Then she laughed. “Yes. Yes, he is.”
“Good,” Josie said. “I’m glad he’s nice. You deserve a nice one, miss. It’s nice when they’re nice, isn’t it? In bed, I mean. When they’ve washed and shaved and they’ve brought you flowers and champagne. When they say sweet things and take their time. Cor, I do like the feel of a man in my bed. Makes me half-mad sometimes, the wanting of them.” She dropped her voice to a whisper. “Does it make you feel that way, too?”
Jennie was about to tell her no, to tell her to hurry and change for they had a train to catch. But then she thought of that afternoon on the River Cam. And how it had felt to lie in Seamie’s arms. She thought of how much she loved him, and how that love had made her do things she never thought she would, and hope for things she never should have.
And so she didn’t tell Josie no. Instead she smiled and, with a rueful note in her voice, said, “Yes, Josie. It does.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
“There’s not enough champagne. We’ll run out. I just know it. I should’ve ordered more,” Fiona whispered tersely.
“Are you mad, lass?” Joe whispered back. “There’s enough champagne in the house to drown all of London.”
“And the ice creams, Joe. I should’ve ordered four flavors. Not three. Four. How could I have been so daft?”
Joe took her hand in his. “Stop now. There’s more than enough of everything. The luncheon will be beautiful. The house is beautiful. The day is beautiful.” He smiled and kissed her cheek. “Most of all, you’re beautiful.”
Fiona smiled and kissed him back. Then she frowned again. “You do think he’ll show up?” she said. “He won’t do a runner or some such thing?”
Joe laughed. “I’ve just seen him. He’s right inside the conservatory looking as happy as a sand boy.”
Fiona sighed with relief. “Good. Maybe this will all go off without a hitch after all.”
“Of course it will,” Joe said. “Stop worrying and enjoy the day.”
Fiona nodded. She turned her head and, smiling at this one and waving at that one, she looked at the people seated behind her in neat rows of white rattan chairs. The chairs had been divided into two groups and arranged with a little aisle between them. In ten minutes or so, at precisely one o’clock, her brother Seamus would walk down that aisle, to the bower the florists had made, turn around, and wait for his bride. It almost felt unreal to her. She couldn’t quite believe that this day had come, that wild and reckless Seamie had given up roaming, found himself a job in London and a wife, and was ready to settle down. For so long he had mourned the loss of Willa Alden. No woman had ever been able to replace her.
And then he’d met Jennie Wilcott, who was as different from Willa as chalk was from cheese. Perhaps that was what had been needed all along to break Willa’s spell. Jennie was blond and pink-cheeked, soft and feminine. She had a marvelous womanly figure and a quiet but determined way about her. Yet for all her sweetness and light, Jennie had tamed Seamie somehow. God knew how. Well, actually, they all did, Fiona thought, smiling—and the evidence would arrive in about eight months’ time. She didn’t think that Seamie was marrying Jennie because he had to, though. He wanted to marry her. So much. He’d told her so. Over and over again.
So many times that it unsettled her, if the truth were known. It made her uneasy, this sudden change on Seamie’s part. Had Seamie really changed? Was he really over Willa?
Fiona had confided her doubts to Joe just a few days ago. He’d thrown up his hands in frustration and said, “For years, all I’ve heard from you is how much you want Seamie to meet a good woman and settle down. Now he has. He’s met a very good woman. And you’re still worrying. There’s no pleasing you, Fiona!”
Maybe Joe was right. Maybe there was no pleasing her. And yet she could not quell the niggling little voice, deep down inside, the one that was always right, the one that was saying now that it had all happened so fast.
She looked at her watch—only ten more minutes to go—then felt an arm twine around her shoulders and lips upon her cheek. She looked up. It was Maud. Max von Brandt, tall, charming, and stylishly dressed, was with her. Fiona kissed Maud back, greeted Max, and then Maud and Max went to find chairs.
Fiona noticed that a few more late arrivals had seated themselves—the Shackletons, George Mallory and his fiancée, Ruth Turner, Mrs. Alden. She looked again at all the faces of her family and friends—Joe’s parents, Peter and Rose; his brothers and sisters; all their children. Her own beautiful children. The Rosens, the Moskowitzes, Harriet Hatcher and her parents, Mr. Foster, friends of Seamie’s—men whom he’d sailed with—and friends of Jennie’s, so fetching in their spring dresses and hats.
A soft breeze caressed Fiona’s cheek. She looked up, hoping it was not a harbinger of rain—it was May, but still early in the month, and the English weather could be so changeable—but no, the sun was still shining. The sky was blue. And all around them, buds were bursting into life. She was suddenly overcome by the beauty of it all and found herself wishing that she could stop time, that she could keep this perfect spring day forever. She saw suddenly, with a piercing clarity, that instead of worrying so much, instead of always looking for problems, she should feel deeply blessed, and deeply grateful, to be surrounded by so many dear people on such a joyous day. For joyous days were not always so plentiful.
She had lost loved ones years ago. Once, she had nearly lost Joe. Those losses, the terrible grief they had caused her, had made her ever fearful of losing another person she loved. It made her think dark thoughts too often, made her dwell on the bad—real and imagined—and blinded her to the good.
And today was good. Seamie had found someone wonderful. And if he was a little overexcited about marrying her, well, he had every right to be. She was the sort of woman any man would be excited to marry. Fiona told herself that she was being silly for worrying, and she resolved, once and for all, to stop it.
A few minutes later, the string quartet that she’d hired began to play the wedding processional. Everyone stood. Albie Alden, Seamie’s best man, came striding down the aisle, smiling. He was followed by Seamie, looking so handsome in a gray morning suit. Next came the ring bearer and the flower girl—Joe’s sister Ellen’s two youngest—a maid of honor, and then the bride herself, lovely and radiant on her father’s arm.
A moment in time, Fiona thought again, as she watched the Reverend Wilcott kiss his daughter and place her hand in Seamie’s.
“Let it last forever,” she murmured. “Please let it last.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
“I always wonder how the sun can shine on days like today,” Seamie said sadly.
“I wondered the same thing the day my mother died,” Jennie said, slipping her hand into his. “My father says it’s to remind us that brightness follows darkness, and that happiness will one day follow our grief.”
They were in the Aldens’ parlor, standing by a coffin. Admiral Alden had lost his battle with cancer two days ago, and Seamie was paying his last respects before the admiral’s body was taken to Westminster Abbey for a funeral service, and then to the cemetery for a small, private burial.
“He was one of the old breed,” Seamie said. “Duty and service above all. He was one of the finest men I have ever known.” He paused to master his emotion, then said, “I used to sail with him and his family. As a lad. He gave me my first lessons in navigation. He saw how much I loved the sea and loved to explore, and he encouraged that. He was like a father to me.”
Jennie leaned her head against his arm. “Would you like a few minutes alone with him?” she asked.
; Seamie nodded, unable to speak.
“Take all the time you need,” she said, kissing his cheek. “I’ll be with Fiona and Joe.”
Seamie took a handkerchief from his pocket. He wiped his eyes with it and blew his nose. He knew he should join the others, but he couldn’t. Not yet. His feelings were still too close to the surface. So he walked around the parlor instead, looking at the books on the shelves, at paintings and family mementoes.
Seamie remembered this house so well. He remembered sliding down its banister, chasing Albie through its halls, drinking hot chocolate and eating biscuits in its warm and cozy kitchen. But he remembered this parlor best of all. He and Albie had built teepees here out of Mrs. Alden’s sheets and blankets too many times to count. They’d sat by the fire at night as the admiral told them of his adventures on the high seas. Played draughts on the rug. Sung along to songs Mrs. Alden played on the piano.
He touched an ivory key now, listening as the sound it made faded. He looked at the photographs standing on top of the piano. Photos of ships the admiral had commanded, of boats he’d sailed and raced. There were family pictures, many taken on the water. Pictures of the Aldens, and Seamie with them, on the admiral’s yacht Tradewind. One from July of ’91, another from August of ’92, a third from June of ’93—all the endless summers of his youth.
There were pictures of Albie as a boy and as a young man. There was one of him receiving his doctoral degree at Cambridge. And there were pictures of Willa. As a toddler in braids and a pinafore. As a girl in trousers, standing on top of a boulder, or at Tradewind’s wheel. As a fetching young woman in an ivory dress and stockings.
Seamie picked that photo up and gazed at it. He remembered that dress, remembered that night. They’d been teenagers then. He’d been seventeen years old. The Aldens had had a party, that was why Willa was dressed up. They were in the backyard, the three of them, lying on a blanket and gazing up at the sky. He’d been about to leave, in just a few days, on his first expedition. It would be years before he saw his two friends again. Albie had gone inside to get them something to eat, and then Willa had kissed him, and told him to meet her one day again, under Orion.