The Wild Rose (51 page)

CHAPTER EIGHTY-SIX

“He’s dead, I know he is,” India said, dully. “That’s the only explanation. He wouldn’t not come home for days for the sheer hell of it. Something’s happened to him. Something terrible.”

It was a Sunday morning. Fiona was sitting with India and Jennie in the Brambles kitchen. She’d just cooked everyone breakfast and had sent the children outside to play. Charlotte and Rose had Wish, Elizabeth, and little James with them, as well as Fiona’s younger children. Fiona and Jennie had brought their children with them expressly to keep India’s children occupied, and to keep their minds off their missing father. India kept telling them that their dad had business in London, and that’s why he wasn’t home, but it had been a week since he’d left for London, and she couldn’t go on saying that forever.

Fiona reached across the table and took India’s hand. She’d been doing her best over the last few days to keep India’s spirits up, and her own, but it was getting harder by the minute. India was right, of course, Sid would never simply take off on a jaunt, or a drinking binge, or some sort of mad spree. He would never have worried India that way. Fiona was frightened, though she refused to let on, that something terrible had indeed happened to him. And someone from his past was involved. She felt it in her bones.

“Joe will be here any minute now,” she said. “He’ll tell us what he’s found out. He hired one of the best private investigators in London. The man’s bound to have turned up something.”

India picked her head up and looked at Fiona. “Yes, but what?” she said, her eyes filling with tears. “I’m sure he’ll have found out something, but I’m not sure I’ll want to hear what it is.”

A few minutes later, there was a knock at the front door. Fiona ran to answer it. It was Joe, assisted in his wheelchair by Mr. Foster.

“Hello, love,” Fiona said, kissing her husband. She greeted Mr. Foster. “What news?” she asked them.

Joe shook his head. “It’s not good, Fee.”

Fiona’s heart sank. Not Sid, she thought. Please. “Come inside. Into the kitchen,” she said in a hollow voice. “That’s were India and Jennie are. It’ll save you telling it twice.”

Joe greeted both women. As Jennie poured tea for Joe and Mr. Foster, Joe asked India how she was holding up.

“Not very well, I’m afraid,” she said.

The fear in her eyes was so great that it hurt Fiona to look at her. Sid was Fiona’s brother, and she loved him, but he was India’s whole life. They’d been through so much already. It wasn’t fair that he should be taken from her now.

“What’s happened to him, Joe? What did the investigator find out?” Fiona asked.

“We don’t know what’s happened,” Joe said. “The investigator—Kevin McDowell’s his name—managed to find out that Sid was last seen going into Teddy Ko’s offices in Limehouse last Sunday. Ko’s an importer. Does his trade with China.”

India remembered the little Buddha she’d found in Sid’s pocket. “Teddy Ko . . . ,” she said slowly. “I know that name. He’s also an opium peddler. I once tried to get his place shut down.”

“He still is an opium peddler. The biggest in London,” Joe said.

“Why was Sid there?” India asked. “What on earth could he have wanted with Teddy Ko?”

“I don’t know. All I know is that he was seen going into Ko’s, but was not seen coming out,” Joe said. He hesitated before continuing. It was the briefest of pauses, but Fiona felt it and so did India.

“What, Joe?” India said, in an anguished voice. “What are you not telling me?”

Joe took a deep breath, then said, “Billy Madden and two of his heavies were also seen going into Ko’s. About five minutes after Sid went in.”

India shook her head. She knew that name, too. They all did. “Why, Joe? Why did he go there?” she said, her voice breaking. She started to weep.

Jennie went to her side. She put her arms around her.

Fiona looked at Joe. “Billy Madden?” she said, tears starting in her own eyes. “What was Sid doing mixing with the likes of Billy Madden? Years ago, yes. But why now? He must’ve been mad, Joe. I don’t understand it. I don’t—”

Her voice was cut off by the sound of a door slamming. “Peter, is that you?” she sharply called to her son. “Go back outside, will you? And don’t slam the door! I’ve told you a thousand times not to!”

“Sorry,” a voice said.

It wasn’t Peter.

“Bloody hell!” Joe said as Sid walked into the kitchen. “Look at your face! What happened to you?”

India’s head snapped up. She leapt out of her chair, ran to Sid, and threw her arms around his neck. “I thought you were dead!” she sobbed. “I thought I’d never see you again!” She let go of his neck, grabbed fistfuls of his jacket, and shook him. “Why did you go to see Teddy Ko? And Billy Madden? Why did you do it?” she shrilled at him. “They could’ve killed you. It looks like they almost did!”

“India, how do you know all this?” Sid asked, looking stunned.

“We hired an investigator,” Joe said.

“Mummy!” Charlotte said loudly. She was suddenly in the kitchen with Wish and the other children. “Was that Daddy who just came in?” Her excited smile fell when her father turned to her. “Daddy? What happened to you?” she asked, ashen-faced. Little Wish burst into tears. Sid’s face was still a swollen mess of cuts and bruises.

“Excuse me, ma’am,” Mr. Foster quietly said to Fiona. “But could you tell me where the brandy is kept?”

“In the cabinet above the sink, Mr. Foster,” Fiona said, taking a semi-hysterical India by the arm and leading her to a chair.

While Sid comforted his children—telling him he’d been in a bit of an accident, that’s all, and that’s why he looked so terrible and hadn’t come home to them right away, but now he was here, home again, and Mummy would take care of his hurts—Jennie herded James and the other children back outside into the garden. Foster poured brandy for the adults, then made some hot chocolate. He poured it into mugs, put some biscuits on a plate, and asked Charlotte, who was still in the kitchen, if she could help him carry the treats out into the garden.

“Thank you very much, Mr. Foster,” Charlotte said politely. “But I do not require cocoa and biscuits. I require a proper explanation.”

“It’s all right, Mr. Foster,” Sid said. “She’s old enough to know what’s going on now. She can stay.” To his daughter, he said, “You were going to have to find out the truth about me and my past sometime. Might as well be now.”

By the time Mr. Foster had gone outside, India had emptied her brandy glass and stopped sobbing. Fiona, Joe, and Jennie had drunk theirs, too. Sid sat down at the table and emptied his in one swallow.

“You can usually be counted on to turn up,” Joe said. “Even when all the odds are against you. This time, though, you had even me worried. What the devil happened to you?”

Sid picked up the bottle and refilled everyone’s glass.

“I’ll tell you everything,” he said. “Every last thing. But get that down yourselves first. Otherwise, you’re never going to believe me.”

CHAPTER EIGHTY-SEVEN

“Do you remember it, Willa? Mombasa? Do you remember the turquoise sea? And the pink fort? And the white houses? Do you remember the hotel where we spent our first night? They didn’t have two rooms for us. We had to share a bed. I don’t think I slept at all. I stayed up all night, just listening to you breathe. You didn’t. Stay up, I mean. You fell asleep and snored.”

Seamie was talking fast.

I sound like a madman, he thought. No, a salesman, rather.

For that’s what he was doing—trying to sell Willa on the idea of staying. Here. In this world. He was trying to sell her on the idea of life. Her life. He talked to her of their childhood. Of sails with her, Albie, and her parents. Of climbs on Snowdon and Ben Nevis. Of rambles in the Lake District. He talked to her of Kilimanjaro and their time together in Africa. He reminded her of the animals moving across the veldt, the sunrises, the impossibly vast sky. He told her how much he loved her photographs of Everest. And how he dreamed, still, of going there with her one day. He tried to bring back her best memories, tried to create images for her fevered mind of the things she loved most in this world. He tried to make her hold on, to stay with him.

She was sick. God, she was so horribly sick. He’d given her aconite and opium. He’d tried quinine. Nothing worked. Nothing broke her fever, nothing stopped the spasms that racked her body. No food stayed in her. No water, either. It was as if her body, battered and broken from the years of punishment she’d meted out to it, was trying to expel the fierce and terrible spark that animated her—her will, her drive, her very soul.

He told her of the search for the South Pole, and how the howling of the Antarctic wind and the ceaseless groaning of the sea ice could drive a man mad. He told her about existing in a world devoid of all color, a world of white, and of the infinite ocean of stars at night.

He ran out of adventures to talk about, and so he told her about the rest of his life. About James, the son he loved beyond all reason. He told her about the small cottage in Binsey, where the boy was born. He told her about the mistakes he’d made, the things he regretted, and the things he refused to regret. He told her about Haifa and the ship that waited for him there, and that he had to go, but didn’t want to leave her.

And then he stopped talking suddenly and rested his head in his hands. For two whole days he’d nursed her, watching over her, bathing her blazing skin, holding her as she shivered and retched and arched against the pain inside her. He had barely slept since he’d first arrived at Lawrence’s camp, and was so exhausted now, he was nearly delirious himself. He had searched for her by plane but hadn’t been able to spot her from the air, so he had ridden out from Lawrence’s camp and during his second day of riding, had found her.

“Please don’t die, Willa. Don’t go,” he said. “Don’t leave me here in this world without you. Just knowing you’re somewhere on this planet, doing something brave and amazing, makes me happy. I love you, Willa. I’ve never stopped loving you. I never will.”

He raised his head and looked at her, at the ruined wraith of a woman lying on the ground in a tent in the middle of this godforsaken desert, in the middle of this godforsaken war. Yes, he loved her, and she loved him, and their love had brought them only grief. Was it love at all? he wondered now. Or was it merely madness?

“I love you, too, Seamie,” Willa said, her eyes suddenly open.

“Willa!” Seamie said, reaching for her hand and squeezing it. “You’re awake!

She swallowed, grimacing, then motioned for water. Seamie got her some, and sat her up to drink it. When she finished, he gently eased her back down on her pillow. Sweat had broken out across her brow, and her breathing was shallow and labored. He could see the effort it had cost her merely to drink.

“Lawrence?” she said, her voice raspy.

“On his way to Damascus with Auda and an army. They’re heading well west of Jabad al Duruz, and the traps set for them there. Because of you.”

Willa smiled. She gazed at him for a while, gathering her strength, then said, “You have to go now.”

“How, Willa? I can’t leave you here . . . you’ll die . . . I can’t . . .”

“I’m finished, Seamie,” she said. “I’m so tired . . . so ill . . . I’m played out.”

“No, Willa, don’t say that,” Seamie said, his voice breaking.

“I . . . I heard you . . . talking,” she said. “About us. James. Your ship. Go, or you’ll be court-martialed and shot.” She swallowed again. Her eyes were filled with pain. “Is that what you want for your son?” she finished softly.

“No, but—”

She cut him off. “We have to let go, Seamie. Once and for all. We’ve hurt each other long enough. Hurt too many others.” There were tears in her eyes now. “Go to Haifa,” she said. “Stay alive. Please. Survive this damn war and go home again. Jennie . . . and James . . . they need you—”

Willa abruptly stopped talking. She leaned over and vomited into the brass urn at the side of her bed. Seamie held her head, then wiped her face. As he settled her down on her pillow once more, he felt her body go limp in his hands.

“No!” he shouted, terrified that he’d lost her. “Willa, no!”

He quickly checked her breathing and her pulse. She was still alive, but unconscious again. Her skin was horribly hot to the touch. Grabbing a rag, he dipped it into a bowl of water, and sponged her face and body.

“Don’t go, Willa,” he whispered. “Please don’t go.”

As he sat in the tent, in the stench and heat of Willa’s sickness, trying desperately to cool her, he suddenly heard bells in the desert and the sound of camels bawling. He wondered who was coming. The camp was nearly deserted. Lawrence, Auda, and Khalaf, together with four thousand troops, had left this morning. They were going to ride east, not north, turn west again to meet Faisal at Sheik Saad and then march to Damascus, avoiding certain slaughter at Jabal ad Duruz. Because of Willa. If it hadn’t been for her, for her courage, her luck, her refusal to quit, they would have ridden into a trap, one they could not possibly have fought their way out of.

Only a few men remained behind to guard Seamie and Willa. Seamie stood up now, stepped outside of the tent, and shaded his eyes against the sun. What now? he wondered, too spent to be afraid. What the hell is happening now?

He quickly saw that it was not the Turks. That’s something, he thought. It was a group of Bedouin, some fifty strong. Men were in the lead, followed by a litter. More men brought up the rear. When they got close to him, the lead man, tall and angry-looking, dismounted from his camel, walked up to Seamie, and bowed.

“I bring Fatima, first wife of Khalaf al Mor, and her women. She has heard that the woman Willa Alden is here and in need of help. You will take her to see Willa Alden. You will do this now.”

Fatima and her women, all heavily veiled, came forth. When she saw Seamie, Fatima removed the veil from her eyes.

“You found her, Seamus Finnegan,” she said.

Seamie bowed. “I did. With your help.”

“Not with my help. With Allah’s help,” she said. “Take me to her.”

“She is very sick, Fatima,” he said brokenly. “I’ve tried everything. For two days, I’ve tried everything I can think of.”

“I have remedies. Desert herbs. They may help,” Fatima said. “And I have her necklace. The one I gave her to keep evil spirits away. She will need it now.”

Seamie led Fatima to Willa’s tent. He went inside with her. Fatima tried to hide her shock at the sight of Willa’s emaciated body, but failed.

“She’s very bad, isn’t she?” Seamie said.

“You will go to another tent now and sleep or I will be nursing two sick people, not one,” she said sternly, fastening the necklace around Willa’s neck.

“I can’t. I have to leave. I have to get to Haifa.”

“You will sleep first. If only for a few hours, or you will never make it to Haifa,” Fatima said.

Seamie was too tired to argue. “Thank you for coming,” he said. “Please save her.”

“I will do all that I can for her, but it is in Allah’s hands, Seamus Finnegan, not mine.”

Seamie nodded. “Talk to Him, Fatima. He listens to you. Tell Him if He wants a life, He can have mine. A life for a life. Mine, not hers. Tell Him, Fatima. Tell Him to please let Willa Alden live.”