The Wild Rose (17 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Jennie Wilcott was helping her father get ready for his weekly parish visits. “Do you have your scarf, Dad?” she asked him.

“I don’t need it, my dear. It’s a sunny day.”

“And a blustery one. You do need it. Here, put it on. And wear your other coat. It’s warmer.”

The Reverend Wilcott smiled. He took her face in his hands. “Ah, my darling Jennie. You take such good care of your old father. What will I do when you go?”

“Don’t, Dad. You’ll start me crying again,” she said.

He kissed her cheek. “Only tears of joy, I hope. You’ll make such a beautiful bride. I only hope I can get through the ceremony without crying myself. And speaking of the ceremony, did my best suit come back from the tailor’s? I’m worried they won’t get it back to me in time.”

“It’s in your wardrobe, Dad. A man from the shop brought it yesterday.”

“Good. Well, I’m off then.” He stopped in the doorway and turned around. “You’re not to do too much today. You must rest yourself. Promise me you will.”

“I promise,” Jennie said, smiling.

As soon as she closed the door behind him, she went to the parlor, where she’d begun to make a list of all the errands she needed to run and notes she needed to write and gifts she needed to buy before Sunday.

“Why is it that lists only get longer, never shorter?” she wondered aloud. The wedding, which would be held at Seamie’s sister’s home in Greenwich, was only five days away and there was still so much to do. After the reception, they would leave for Cornwall for a honeymoon—a short one only, as Seamie was due to begin at the RGS the following Monday. When they returned from Cornwall, they would take up residence in a lovely, spacious flat in Belsize Park. Seamie had found it for them, just as he’d said he would, but they had very little furniture in it and no carpets or curtains whatsoever.

Jennie had been to see a seamstress about the curtains, and had even selected fabric, but it would be weeks before they were finished. Whenever she fretted about all that they still needed, Seamie would kiss her and shush her and tell her not to worry herself or the baby. He had means and would provide whatever they needed.

And he did. All she had to do was mention something, and he was off to the shops and back a few hours later with cutlery, towels, a mop bucket—whatever she wanted. He didn’t mind doing these things one bit, he would tell her. He’d never gone shopping before—not for lamps and antimacassars, at least—and he found it all very interesting. He was always so good to her. So cheerful and willing. Excited about their wedding. He was always so happy. Too happy.

She thought now, as she looked out her parlor window, that he reminded her at times of the drunks who came to her father—men and women broken by alcohol. They’d lost everything—jobs, homes, their families. They shook and wept and promised to do anything, even swear off the demon drink forever, if only he would help them. He always did. He got them cleaned up, let them sleep on a cot in the sacristy, and tried to find them work. He prayed with them and made them take the pledge. And his efforts always succeeded—for a little while. They tried hard, all of them. They were eager, bright-eyed, and willing, full of good intentions. Happy to tell anyone and everyone that their drinking days were behind them. But deep inside, they struggled. They thought about drink constantly. Dreamed about it. Craved it. And many, unable to resist the ever-present temptation, went back to it.

Seamie was the same way. He wanted so much to embrace his new life. He talked excitedly about his new position at the RGS. He’d leased a flat, bought a bed, a set of sheets, cutlery, and a box of crockery. But Jennie knew that underneath the bluff good cheer, under all the protestations of happiness, he still dreamed about his old life.

She had seen him unpack a box of his belongings in their new flat one evening when he wasn’t aware she was watching him. He’d taken photographs out of the box. Field glasses, book, maps, an old, battered compass. He’d held the compass in his palm, then closed his fingers around it. And then he’d gone to the window and stood there, just stood there, gazing up at the night sky.

He was thinking about past adventures, Jennie was sure of it. And about Willa Alden. Looking at him, she had been convinced that if, at that very moment, the compass in his hands could have shown him the way back to Willa, he would have followed it.

Jennie’s hands went to her belly, as they did all the time now when she was nervous or worried. As always, she prayed for the tiny life inside to stay with her. A fortnight had passed since she’d told Seamie she was pregnant. She was two weeks closer to being the mother of his child. The love of a wife, of a child, these were good things, too, Jennie told herself, the very best things. And in time, as Seamie got older, as they had more children, he would grow to want them—and her—more than he wanted other things and other people.

A knock on the door startled her out of her thoughts.

“Dad? Is that you? What’ve you forgotten now?” Jennie shouted, trotting out of the parlor and down the hallway. “It’s your specs, isn’t it?” she said as she opened the door. “How many times . . .”

Her words died away. It wasn’t her father who was standing on the stoop. It was Josie Meadows, a young woman whom she used to teach. Josie had no coat on. The front of her dress was bloodied and torn. More blood dripped onto it from a cut on her cheek. Her eyes were bruised and swollen.

“Hello, duck,” Josie said.

“Josie?” Jennie whispered. “My God, is that you?”

“Aye. I’m afraid so. Can I come in?”

“Of course!” Jennie said, ushering her inside and closing the door. “I’m sorry, I . . . I just . . . Josie, what on earth happened to you?”

“Billy Madden happened to me,” the girl said, walking past Jennie, down the hallway to the kitchen. She went to the sink, stoppered it, and turned on the taps. “Can I clean myself up?” she asked. “Borrow a dress? I’ve got to get out of here before he twigs where I’ve gone. Bastard’s threatened to kill me.”

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?”