The Wild Rose (13 page)

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

“Are you cold?” Seamie asked Jennie, as he pushed the punt they were in up the River Cam.

“Not at all. It’s so warm today, it feels more like June than April. It’s glorious, isn’t it? After that dreary, endless winter,” she said, smiling at him from under the brim of her straw hat.

She was wearing a dress of robin’s egg blue faille. A sash of ivory silk set off her tiny waist. Her color was high and her eyes were sparkling. Fetching, he thought, as he looked at her. That’s the perfect word. That’s exactly what she is.

They’d come up to Cambridge together on a train last night, along with Albie Alden and Aunt Eddie, and were spending a long weekend at Eddie’s house. Eddie had taken to Jennie immediately and, in typical Eddie fashion, had made all sorts of inappropriate comments during the train ride, such as “You’d be stark raving mad to let this one go, old chap.” And “Best get a ring on her finger, before she finds out what you’re really like.” And Seamie couldn’t forget this one—delivered sotto voce, or Eddie’s best attempt at sotto voce, which meant only half the train heard it: “If you take my advice, you won’t trifle with this girl. She’s not a gin-swilling, gold-digging hussy like all the rest of them.”

By the time the train had pulled into the Cambridge station, Seamie had been utterly mortified, but he also knew deep down that Eddie was right. He’d been seeing Jennie for nearly two months now. They’d done something together every weekend—whether it was walking in Hyde Park, or seeing a show, eating fish and chips at Blackheath, or taking tea at the Coburg Hotel. Jennie was undoubtedly wondering what his intentions were. Her father, too. He would gladly tell them, if only he knew.

“I’m a bit worried about the clouds over there,” he said now, pointing ahead of them. “It was a bit of a mad idea, this. People don’t usually go punting until high summer.”

“Mad ideas are often the best ones,” Jennie said. “I love being here, Seamie. Truly. I love being on a river. My father used to take us punting on the Cherwell all the time when I was a girl. My mother’s father left her a cottage at Binsey. We would holiday there, and often go into Oxford and rent a punt at the Cherwell Boathouse. It’s mine now, the cottage. My mother left it to me. Though I don’t go there nearly enough.”

“You’ll have to show it to me someday,” Seamie said, expertly guiding the boat around a downed tree limb.

“I don’t know if you’d like it. It’s very small. Lots of antimacassars and teacups and pictures of the royal family.”

Seamie laughed.

“How did it go with Sir Clements?” Jennie asked him. “You never told me.”

Seamie had met with Clements Markham at the RGS yesterday morning to talk further about the position Markham was offering him.

“Well, there’s an office,” he said flatly.

“What’s wrong?” Jennie said. “Is it not a nice one?”

“It’s very nice, actually. Grand. Spacious. With a desk in it. And a chair. And filing cabinets and rugs. And views of the park from the window. And a secretary sitting outside waiting who’ll bring me tea and biscuits anytime I like.”

“It sounds rather splendid.”

“It is rather splendid. That’s the whole problem.”

“No icebergs or penguins,” Jennie said.

“No,” he said ruefully. “No icebergs or penguins.”

No sunrises that stop you dead with their unspeakable beauty, either, he thought. No whales breaching only yards from the ship, showering your awestruck self with a cold ocean rain. No songs and whiskey belowdecks at night while the wind plucks at the ship’s rigging and the ice beats against her hull.

He thought these things but didn’t say them, because he thought they might be hurtful to Jennie and he did not wish to distress her. She wanted him to stay here, to take the job at the RGS. He knew she did. She had never said so, had never once pressured him, but he’d felt it in her touch. In the kisses she gave him. He’d heard it in her words—how she would talk about wanting to visit Brighton with him over the summer, or the Lake District, or some such thing, then suddenly stop herself, realizing he would not be here over the summer if he signed on for Shackleton’s expedition.

She turned away from him now, feigning interest in a pair of ducks, but the unspoken words lay heavily between them. He had a choice to make: take the position Markham had offered him and stay here in London, or go on another Antarctic expedition with Shackleton, one that would take him away for years. Much depended on that choice and they both knew it.

“What do you think about that barn over there for our picnic?” Seamie said, nodding at a small tumbledown stone building at the edge of a field. “It’s looks a bit ramshackle, but I bet it’s dry inside. Drier than the bare ground, at least.”

“It looks perfect,” Jennie said.

Seamie poled the boat over to the bank, jumped out, and pulled it ashore. He helped Jennie out and then reached for their picnic basket and the tarpaulin.

They’d planned to go into town for Sunday lunch at a pub, but as they walked across the Silver Street bridge, Seamie had glimpsed Scudamore’s, which hired out punts—narrow, flat-bottomed boats that were not rowed, but rather pushed along the river by long, thin poles. Workmen had taken a few out to repair them, and Seamie, never able to resist the intoxicating combination of boats and water, asked Jennie if she’d like to go punting. She’d agreed immediately but the Scud’s proprietor had been a bit hesitant. The boats weren’t officially out yet, he said, and the Cam was high just now from all the spring rain. But then he’d recognized Seamie and said he reckoned if a man could get himself to the South Pole and back, he could get himself up the Cam.

Seamie had ducked into the nearby Anchor pub and arranged a picnic lunch. He’d placed the basket in the boat and asked the Scud’s proprietor for a tarp to put on what would surely be sodden ground. Then he handed Jennie into the punt, and they were off, poling through the ancient village, past the colleges, and into the countryside.

Jennie led the way now, up the riverbank toward the field. Seamie trailed behind her with their lunch. He nearly crashed into her when she stopped suddenly.

“Oh, Seamie! Snowbells!” she exclaimed. “Look at them all!”

His eyes followed where she was pointing. To the right of them, on the crest of the bank, were clumps of small white flowers, their tiny blooms dangling above slender green stalks.

“Oh, what a lovely sight,” Jennie said. She went closer to the flowers, taking great care not to step on any, and bent down to touch one of the blooms. “It’s been such a dreadful winter,” she went on, all in a rush. “So cold and long. And I’ve been so worried about so many things. About my father doing too much. About some of the children—a little boy in particular whose own father is far too handy with his belt. About a friend of mine, a lovely girl caught up with the wrong people.” She turned to him and he saw a shimmer of tears in her eyes. “I’m sorry. It’s daft, I know, but snowbells always make me cry. They’re so tiny and fragile, yet they push themselves through the cold, hard soil. They’re so brave. They give me hope.”

Seamie looked at her, at her beautiful face turned up to his, at the tears in her eyes, at the smile on her lips despite them. She was so good, this woman. So gentle and kind. She worried about others always, never herself. His heart clenched inside him, full of emotion. It wasn’t what he’d felt before—the blind, tearing, wild yearning he’d felt for Willa—but it must be love all the same, he thought. It must be.

Overcome by his feelings, he put the picnic things down, knelt beside her, and kissed her. Her lips were sweet and yielding and he would have kept on kissing them, but it started to rain. He looked up, saw that the dark clouds he’d spotted earlier were now directly over them, and knew there would soon be a downpour.

“Come on,” he said, picking up the basket and tarp. “We’ll have to make a run for it.”

They dashed across the field—Jennie pressing her hat to her head—and made it inside the barn just as the skies opened. The barn wasn’t much—only three of its walls were standing—but it still had most of its roof and would do to keep the rain off them.

“It must’ve been abandoned some time ago,” Jennie said, spreading the tarp over the earthen floor. “Seamie, would you hand me the basket? I’ll set the luncheon out and . . . Oh!”

Seamie didn’t give a toss about the lunch or the basket or any of it. He had taken Jennie into his arms and was kissing her again. He wanted to feel what he’d felt only moments ago. He wanted to savor that feeling and know it for love. He wanted that so much.

Jennie kissed him back. Shyly at first, then more passionately. And then she sank down onto the tarp, pulling him with her. “Make love to me, Seamie,” she whispered.

He had not expected that. “Jennie, I . . . ,” he started to say.

“Shh,” she whispered, taking off her jacket. “I want you to.” She unbuttoned her blouse and shrugged out of it. Seamie could see the shape of her breasts through her camisole, full and round, and before he knew what he was doing, he was unbuttoning it, and then fumbling with her skirts. She was beautiful and he wanted her. Very badly.

He put his jacket on the tarp and laid her down. He began to kiss her, his lips traveling over her neck, her breasts, down to her belly, and then he saw it—a long, jagged scar running from the bottom of her rib cage, across her belly to her opposite hip.

“My God, Jennie . . . what happened?”

He heard her take a deep breath, then let it out again. “An accident. When I was a child. I was hit by a carriage.”

“Were you in hospital?” he asked.

“For six months,” she said. “I don’t remember the accident. I was nine. I remember the recovery, though.”

“My poor girl,” he said, tracing the long jagged line with his fingers.

“Don’t look at it. Please,” Jennie said, stopping his hand. “It’s so ugly.”

He took her hand in his and kissed it. “Nothing about you is ugly, Jennie Wilcott. You’re beautiful. In every way. God, but you’re beautiful.” He lost himself then, in the sweet softness of her body. In the depth of her lovely eyes. In the taste and smell of her. In the sound of her voice, whispering his name.

It was over too fast. He hadn’t meant it to be, but he couldn’t help himself. “I’m sorry,” he said smiling sheepishly. “Couldn’t help myself. I’ll make it up to you. I swear,” he said, nibbling on her earlobe and making her giggle. “It’ll be wonderful. Simply fantastic. So good, you won’t be able to stand it. You’ll be begging me for mercy.” She was laughing now. He loved the sound of her laughter. Loved knowing that he was making her happy. He bit her shoulder gently, making her laugh even more, then kissed her throat, the place between her breasts, her hip. He put his hand between her legs, wanting to kiss her there, too, until he looked down and saw the blood on her thighs.

Oh, hell. Bugger. Damn it all, he thought.

“Jennie . . . are you . . . You’re not . . . ,” he started to say.

“A virgin?” She laughed. “Not anymore.”

A wave of remorse washed over him. He had wanted her so much, he hadn’t stopped to consider whether she might or might not have had a lover before him. He shouldn’t have done it. Not with her. He’d only ever bedded experienced women. He was a blackguard. A cad. An utter bounder. She was a reverend’s daughter, for God’s sake. Upright and upstanding, and all those sorts of things. Of course she was a virgin. How could he have been so thoughtless and stupid?

“I’m sorry, Jennie. I didn’t know or I wouldn’t have done it. Truly,” he said, expecting tears and remonstrance.

But Jennie surprised him. Just as she’d done that day at Holloway.

“Sorry? Why? I’m not,” she said, laughing. “I’ve wanted you since the day I first saw you, Seamus Finnegan.” And then she kissed his mouth and pressed her body against his, making him want her, too. Again.

He went slowly the second time, holding himself back until he heard her breath hitch, felt her twine her legs around his and shudder against him, and then he came again, hard and fast and calling her name. He was in thrall to her beauty. To her sweet face. To her body—so full and lush and achingly lovely. She looked like something the old masters had carved, a flawless Galatea come to life. The curve of her breast, so softly heavy in his hand now. Her tapered waist. The generous flare of her hips. The unspeakable softness of her thighs, and what lay between them.

Willa had not looked like this. She had not felt like this. She was muscular and thin, not lush. They had never made love, he and Willa, but he had held her close and kissed her. Right before her accident. He’d felt the bones of her hips pressed against him. The strong, thumping beat of her fearless heart. And after the accident, he’d set her hopelessly broken leg. Carried her injured body for miles, through African jungle and veldt, feeling her fever-racked cheek against his. He’d made her eat and drink. Held her when she vomited. Cleaned the blood and pus from her wounds. He knew her body. Better than he knew Jennie’s. He knew her soul. Her spirit. Her heart.