The Winter Rose (57 page)

Mrs. Moskowitz told him as India looked at the package in her hands.
Its plain brown wrapping gave no clue as to who'd sent it. She undid the
twine and pulled off the paper.

"What's Macanudo mean?" Solly asked.

"It's a kind of cigar," Yanki answered, worldly wise.

"India smokes cigars?" That was Posy.

"No, you wally. It's just a box."

"Solomon! Do not call your sister a willie!" Mrs. Moskowitz scolded.

The children screeched laughter. "Wally, Mama! Not willie!" Solly said.

"Don't say willie!"

"But I didn't, Mama! You said willie."

"Solomon Moskowitz! This is how you talk? Yanki, I blame you."

"Me? What did I do?"

Mrs. Moskowitz was about to tell him, but just then India lifted the
cover of the cigar box and gasped so loudly that she couldn't.

"Gott in Himmel!" Mrs. Moskowitz cried, peering into the box.

It contained thick stacks of bank notes.

"Count it!" Ella said.

India shook her head. She put the box down on the hall table. She knew who had sent it and she didn't want it. Not from him.

"I will, then," Ella said. She lifted the notes out and counted them
three times with her family counting along. When she finished, she had
to lean against one of the walls. "It's ten thousand pounds, India. Ten
thousand bloody pounds."

Mrs. Moskowitz, still in shock, didn't even scold her for the bloody. "To-night in Whitechapel, it is raining money," she said.

"Look! There's a letter inside," Solly said, pointing at the box.

Ella pulled it out. There was no salutation, no signature, just three
words: For your clinic. "India, we can buy the building outright," she
said. "And renovate it, too. And buy sheets and pay doctors..."

"No, we can't," India said flatly.

Ella looked at her. "Why not?"

"I know who sent this. Sid Malone. This is blood money and I want no part of it. I'm going to give it back."

"India, are you mad?"

"It's not a fruit basket this time, Ella! It's ten thousand pounds."

"Too bloody right it is!"

"Each one made from opium. Or smuggling. Or prostitution. Or
rob-bery. How can we start a clinic that's supposed to ameliorate human
suf-fering with money made by augmenting it?"

"Watch me."

India gathered the money together, put it back in the box, and closed the lid.

Ella closed her eyes. She shook her head. "You can't be this stubborn. Even you."

"I'm right, Ella. You know I am."

"No, not right. Righteous. There's a difference."

India flinched, but did not back down. "I'm sorry you feel that way,"
she said. Then she took the money and left the Moskowitzes' flat.

Sid was lying on his bed, eyes closed, waiting for sleep to come.
Insomnia had kept him up for three days straight. He was hollowed out by
exhaus-

tion and wanted to sleep now, but the voices wouldn't let him. He
heard them--coming up through the floorboards--one stubborn, one shrill,
both loud. Finally, unable to tolerate them a minute longer, he got out
of bed, stuffed his feet into his boots, and stomped downstairs. It was
early eve-ning. The Bark was nearly empty, and he was able to spot the
cause of the commotion almost immediately. It was India. She was
standing at the bar arguing with Lily.

"I know he's here. I need to see him. Will you at least give him my name?"

"Sorry, miss. Never heard of him."

"Never heard of him? You work for him!"

"Sorry, miss. Will you be ordering a drink?"

"Now see here, I insist that you stop this charade."

"It's all right, Lily," Sid finally said.

India turned.

"To what do I owe the pleasure, Dr. Jones?" he asked blearily.

India held up the cigar box. "I think you know."

"Ah. Why don't we go to my office?"

He led her up the stairs and into his room. When he'd closed the door
behind them, he said, "You came here again. After I told you not to.
And this time with ten thousand pounds in a cigar box. Are you out of
your bloody mind?"

"I took a cab. Almost all the way."

"I don't care if you fiew. Don't do it again."

India didn't reply. Instead, she looked around. At the iron bed with
its rumpled sheet. At the clothes on the floor. The whisky bottle on the
night-stand.

"See here," she said awkwardly, thrusting the box at him, "I can't
accept this. You have to take it back. You shouldn't have sent it. You
know how I feel about... about..."

"Blood money?"

"Yes. Blood money."

"Don't be so damned stubborn, India."

"It's nothing to do with stubbornness. For God's sake, Sid, we both know where this money came from!"

"Not another lecture. Please. I'm too tired to hear about people sunk deep in misery because they can't eat porridge."

India glared at him. "It's not their misery I'm thinking of. It's yours, Sid. Yours."

He turned away. Suddenly, he couldn't meet her eyes.

"You want to give me this money so you can feel better about what you
do. So you can stay in the life and ease your conscience at the same
time. I won't let you."

He spun around, furious. "I want to give you this money to help you! To help your patients!" he yelled.

They were shouting at each other again. And he wanted ...he wanted to
ask her to lie down with him. To put her arms around him and tell him
stories. About her childhood. About her patients. About anything at all.
Her touch, her voice ...they would soothe him. He could sleep, he knew
he could, if only she would lie down with him.

"Do what you like, India," he finally said. "Leave the money here.
I'll just send it again tomorrow. I'll address it to Ella. I've a
feeling she'll take it. She's nowhere near as pigheaded as you are."

India angrily tossed the box onto his bed.

Sid stared at it. "Great. You gave it back. What did that accomplish?
You want to teach me a lesson? Hurt my feelings? Well, here's a bit of
news for you. It doesn't hurt me. It only hurts the people who would use
the clinic. Refuse the money, and you can stay warm and dry on your
moral high ground. That's where you like to be, isn't it? Or take a
chance. Step down into the mud with the rest of us and save a few
lives."

India looked near tears. His exhaustion had made him brutal.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to..." he began.

"There is one life," she began brokenly. "One life I would like very
much to save. If I take this money I will be damning that life, not
saving it. You have to get out, Sid. You have to get away from all
this."

"Christ, you never give up, do you? The bloody clinic's not even open
yet and you're already trying to rehabilitate the hard cases." His eyes
met hers and held them. "Don't you know that some are past saving?"

"That's not true!" India said. He was surprised by the sudden
ferocity in her voice. And then, before he knew what was happening, she
had crossed the room, pulled his face to hers, and kissed him. Hard and
hungrily. He closed his eyes, as wave after wave of emotion washed over
him--shock, desire, love, sadness, and fear. Fear of her and of all she
would ask of him. Fear for her.

He wrapped his arms around her and crushed her to him. And then he
pulled away. She looked up at him, her eyes questioning. He shook his
head.

"Why?" she asked.

"Because you are good, India," he whispered fiercely. "So bloody good
that you make me believe in better things, even when I know damn well
there are none."

"You don't want me."

"I do want you. More than I've ever wanted any woman in me whole
life. But I can't do this. I won't. It would be a mistake. A bad one.
You know it would. You said as much yourself. You should go," Sid said
gently. "I'll have Oz take you. He'll get you back to Brick Lane safely
and--"

"I don't want to go."

"India..."

"I ...I love you, Sid."

It was quiet in the room. Sid heard a coal tumble in the grate, a dog barking in the night, and his own heart thumping.

"What did you say?" he finally asked.

"I said that I love you."

"You don't."

"Actually, I do." She looked down at her hands, overcome by emotion.

Sid tried to speak, but found he couldn't. No woman had ever meant
anything to him. This one did. She meant the world. Her love was
everything he wanted and everything he feared.

"It would be a disaster," he said at last. "You know that, don't you?"

She looked at him and he saw the pain in her eyes. "I can understand
if you don't love me and I will accept it," she said. "But if you do,
please don't make me beg you."

He pulled her to him again and held her tightly. "I do love you, India," he said. "God, how I love you."

They stayed that way for some time, and then he felt her lips on his
cheek, his mouth. Her kisses were passionate and fierce. His own were
bruising. He wanted her. He wanted her naked in his arms, so he could
feel her body next to his, feel the crashing of her heart. Here. Now.
Without preliminaries. It was darkness, this love, he knew it was. It
was sorrow and damnation, and it would crush them both. There was no
road back from it, but that was all right now. He no longer wanted one.

His hands went to her blouse. He pulled it off her, and then her
camisole. The firelight flickered and danced over her skin, casting
shad-ows. He kissed the graceful curve of her shoulder, the delicate
hollow below her throat. Her breasts were small and delicate, and barely
filled his hands.

"I'm not very good at this," she said. "Not without a drink, I'm afraid.

I'm...I'm cold."

"I'll warm you."

"Not that kind of cold. I mean..."

"I know what you mean. You're wrong."

He fumbled at the waistband of her skirt, pushed it down, and then
her petticoats. He unlaced her boots and pulled her stockings off. When
she was naked, he gazed at her, drinking her in. She colored under his
gaze and tried to cover herself with her skirt.

"Don't," he said, taking it from her. "I want to see you, India. You're beautiful. So beautiful. Don't you know that?"

He pulled her down to him on the bed. He kissed her lips, wanting the
sweet softness of her. Wanting only this night. This room. Her. He
moved his mouth to her breasts. He kissed her smooth, flat belly. He bit
the curve of her hipbone, found she was ticklish there, and did it
again until she laughed out loud and begged him to stop. He wanted that
so much, the sound of her laughter. The sound of her pleasure, her
happiness. He bit her again and again, and when she was helpless with
laughter he parted her legs and kissed the soft place between them,
lapping at her until she was breathless and wet.

"Make love to me, Sid," she whispered. "I want you."

He pushed himself inside her gently, caressing her until she opened
her-self to him. Then he gripped her bottom and rocked into her, aching
with his need of her. Her eyes met his, searching. And then she closed
them and moved with him. Slowly at first.

"Oh, that's lovely," she murmured. "So lovely..." She sought his
mouth, tangled her fingers in his hair. He felt her movements grow
stronger, more urgent, felt her body grow warm and slick with sweat.
Just as he thought he couldn't hold himself back another second, he felt
her shudder and cry his name. He closed his eyes and let himself come,
lost in the feel and sound and smell of her. When it was over, he did
not let go of her, but held her close.

"I love you, Sid. I love you so," she murmured, blinking up at him.

She closed her eyes and nestled against him, her head upon his arm.
He smoothed a damp curl off her cheek. After a few minutes, her
breathing slowed and evened, and she drifted off to sleep. Sid stared
into the firelight for some time. He would stay with her here through
the night and when morning broke, he would love her again and then take
her somewhere. Somewhere bright and beautiful. To the coast. To the sea.

India stirred in his arms, sighing softly. Sid looked down at her, at
her beautiful face, and wondered if he hadn't just committed the worst
crime of his entire sorry life.

London, September 1900

"Gentlemen, gentlemen! Is this Utopia? Or is this Whitechapel?"
Freddie Lytton shouted, addressing the men--dockers, factory workers,
builders--packed thickly into the smoky Ten Bells pub. "We may wish for
an ideal world, but we certainly don't live in one. We live in the real
world, where we must face real facts, make real choices. Vote for Labour
and you've thrown your vote away. The Labour Party does not stand a
chance. Any sane man can see this. We must all of us stand together and
defeat the real enemy--Salisbury's Tories!"

Men nodded gravely from their chairs or stood stroking their chins.
Scattered cheers went up. Before they had died down, Joe Bristow
attacked.

"They said the same to the matchgirls in eighty-eight," he called out
from across the room. "The politicians, the press, the factory
owners--all the powers that be: Labour doesn't stand a chance. They said
it right before the girls struck for safer working conditions--and won.
They said it to the dockers in eighty-nine. Right before they struck
for the docker's tanner-- and won. Don't hope, they told them. Don't
dare. Don't dream. I'm telling you not to listen to them. I'm telling
you that you can make a change. I'm telling you to send a message to
Westminster and to the world. I'm telling you to hope. To dare. To
believe. Believe in the Labour Party. Believe in me. But, more
important, believe in yourselves."

There were more cheers. Whistles. Shouts. Joe barely heard them. He was still talking, still haranguing Freddie.

Parliament had been dissolved a week ago and a general election had
been called for the twenty-fourth of October. Throughout the country,
candidates for Parliament were canvassing in the month allotted them,
making speeches, debating with rivals, jousting with hecklers. All of
Britain was in the grip of election fever, but no contest had captured
the public's interest quite like that for the Tower Hamlets seat.