The Wild Rose (24 page)

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

Seamie stared out of the hotel room’s window. The sun was in the western sky. It was probably five o’clock already. He looked at the light coming in the window, slanting across the bed, across Willa’s naked body as she lay next to him, dozing. He knew this light well now. It was the sad, gray light of unfaithfulness. Married people—well, the happy ones, at least—did not know it. They made love in the darkness, or in the clear and hopeful light of morning.

He pulled Willa close now and kissed the top of her head. She mumbled sleepily.

“I’ve got to go soon, my love,” he said.

Willa looked up at him. “Already?” she said.

He nodded. There was a dinner at the RGS tonight. For donors. He was expected to attend, and Jennie, too. He had told her he would be talking with possible donors all day long, and that he would meet her there, at the RGS. He wanted to get there before she did. He wanted to not give her any reason to suspect he was lying. He and Willa worried all the time that she would find out. Or that Albie would.

“Let me see your photos before I go,” he said to Willa now.

“Oh, yes. The photos. Forgot about those,” she said. “I forget everything when I’m with you.”

He did, too. He forgot so many things he shouldn’t have—that he was married, that his wife loved him, that she was carrying their child.

It can’t last, this, he thought, as he watched Willa get up and shrug into her shirt. He knew it couldn’t. They both did. But he couldn’t bear to let it go. Not yet.

She rummaged in a large satchel she’d brought with her, then got back into bed, carrying a pile of black-and-white photographs. They were of Everest. He hadn’t seen them because he hadn’t gone to her lecture at the RGS. But he wanted to. Very much. He wanted to see her work, to see Everest and Rongbuk, where she lived. He’d asked her to bring them with her today.

“I’m going to use this lot in my book,” she said, depositing the stack in his lap. “The text is finished. The RGS has put an editor onto the project. It should be ready to be printed in three months or so.”

“That’s wonderful, Willa. Congratulations,” Seamie said. “I’m sure it’ll be a smashing success. Let’s have a look.” He held up the first picture and immediately fell silent, stunned by the beauty and clarity of the photograph, by the unspeakable majesty of Everest.

“That’s the north face,” Willa explained. “Taken from on top of the glacier. I’d been camping there for two weeks. Trying to get a clear shot. But I couldn’t. There were always clouds. On the last day, in the morning as I was making tea, the clouds suddenly broke. I knew it wouldn’t last. Knew I had about thirty seconds. The camera was set up, thank God. I fumbled a plate into it, and just before the clouds closed again, I got the picture.”

“It’s incredible,” Seamie said.

He looked at the next shot. And the next. Of the mountain and the glacier and the clouds and Rongbuk and its people. Of Lhasa. Of Everest’s south face, shot from Nepal. He saw the streets of Kathmandu. Peddlers and priests. Traders coming over a treacherous pass. Imperious nobles in their tribal dress. Shy and bright-eyed children, peering out at the camera from tent doorways.

And all the while, Willa told him stories. Stories of how she got the shot. Or what the laughing priest in the photo was like. How beautiful the mayor’s wife was. And what an absolute bugger the Zar Gama Pass was.

He asked about Everest, and she told him that she was convinced the south face—in Nepal—was the easier way up, but the Nepalese were not at all amenable to Westerners messing about on their mountain. The Tibetans were slightly more welcoming. Any serious European climber would have to come into Tibet from Darjeeling and attempt the north face, if a climber were to attempt the mountain at all.

“Can you imagine it?” Seamie said. “To be the first up that mountain? The first up Everest? Everyone at the RGS wants that mountain for England.”

“England’s going to have to move fast, then,” Willa said. “Germany and France want Everest, too. Success is going to depend on preparation, not only on technical skill. Stamina, too. You’ve got to set up a good base camp, and then a string of camps after that. Half the party does the setting up and provisioning with the help of sherpas. Then they come down and rest, before the altitude kills them. Then the other half goes up—the best climbers. The best and the toughest. They have to get up incredibly fast, and get down just as fast. And the weather, the wind, and the temperature all have to be on their side.”

She pointed out the places on the north face that she thought would be best for the camps. Seamie listened, nodded, asked her question after question. He felt excited as he had not since his expedition with Amundsen, carried away by the very idea of climbing the world’s tallest mountain. For a few brief and happy moments, they were once again as they had been in Africa, when they’d traveled together, camped together, planned their assault on Kili together. They were one.

Seamie looked at her now, as she pointed out a dark spot below a col and said she couldn’t work out if it was a shadow from a passing cloud or a crevasse, and his heart ached with love for her. He craved her body, thought about making love to her all the time, but he craved this—this union of their souls—even more.

He looked away, unable to bear the intensity of his longing for her, and picked up the first photograph again. “It’s so beautiful,” he said.

Willa shook her head. “It’s beyond beautiful, Seamie. My pictures don’t do it justice. They don’t begin to capture the beauty of that mountain. Oh, if only you could see it. I wish I could show it to you. I wish I could see your face as you first glimpse it. I wish—”

She stopped talking suddenly.

“What? What’s wrong?” he asked her.

“We never will, though, will we? See Everest together.”

He looked away. The light from the window was fading. Evening was coming down. He would have to leave now. To go to the RGS, where he was expected. And then home, where he belonged.

As if sensing what he was feeling, what he was thinking, Willa leaned her head against his. “We have to stop this,” she said softly.

He laughed sadly. “I would, Willa,” he said. “If only I knew how.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

“This will prove to be the spark in the tinderbox,” Churchill said hotly. “There can be no denying it.”

A chorus of voices rose in enthusiastic support.

“And we can fan the spark or douse it,” Joe said, just as vehemently. “This is the twentieth century, not the tenth. We must solve our disputes in staterooms, not on battlefields.”

A volley of “Hear! Hear!”s went up in response.

Joe was sitting in a private room at the Reform Club, the political headquarters of the Liberal Party. He loved the venerable old building, with its marble and its mirrors, its palazzo-like gallery and impossible crystal roof, and he usually took time to admire it when he visited, lingering in its many rooms and corridors, gazing at portraits of past Whig leaders or perusing volumes in the vast library.

Tonight, however, he was in no mood to admire the architecture.

Only hours ago, Archduke Franz Ferdinand, heir to the Austro-Hungarian throne, had been assassinated, together with his wife, in Sarajevo. The royal couple’s killer was a young Serbian nationalist by the name of Gavrilo Princip.

News of the archduke’s death had sent shock waves of alarm through both the Commons and the Lords. The day had been dreadful, with the government publicly promising a calm and considered response to the calamitous event, and privately scrambling to head off an international disaster. Austria-Hungary had immediately demanded justice from Serbia, and Germany was raging, promising to rush to the defense of its wronged neighbor. Sir Edward Gray, Britain’s secretary for foreign and commonwealth affairs, had been quickly dispatched on a diplomatic mission of the utmost delicacy.

And now, at eleven o’clock, the prime minister had adjourned to the Reform Club with members of his cabinet and a small group of key frontbenchers from all parties to discuss further response to Austria-Hungary, Serbia, and Germany.

“Sarajevo is exactly what Germany has been looking for,” Churchill thundered, “and the kaiser will use it, by God. He’ll use it to march right into France and trample Belgium on the way. We must inform Germany immediately and in no uncertain terms that their interference will not be tolerated in this affair.”

“Can we not wait until they tell us they wish to interfere?” Joe asked, to jeers and laughter.

Winston waited until the noise died down, then he said, “The honorable member for Whitechapel is blind. He cannot see the consequences of hesitating.”

“No, I cannot,” Joe shot back. “I can, however, see the consequences of rushing. I can see the consequences of hotheaded, blundering responses when patience and forbearance are required. I can see the consequences of forcing Germany’s hand. I can the see the bodies of hundreds of thousands of dead Englishmen.”

“Can you? I cannot. I can only see the Hun defeated. Belgium spared. The women and children of France throwing flowers at our brave lads’ feet.”

Joe tried to respond, but his words were drowned out by cheers and calls for God to save the King. He gave up. He recognized war fever when he saw it. He turned to Asquith, who was seated at his right, and said, “Henry, you can see what’s coming, can’t you? You must do all that you can to hold out against the dogs of war.”

Asquith shook his head slowly. “I can control my own dogs, Joe—even that hothead Winston. What I cannot control is the pack across the channel.”

“You think it’s unavoidable, then?”

“I do. We will go to war. All of Europe will,” he said. “It’s no longer a case of if, but of when.”

“I don’t believe that, Henry. I can’t.”

Asquith sighed deeply. “Believe what you like, Joe. But be glad your sons are too young to fight and pray that it all ends quickly.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

Max stepped outside of the elevator into the Coburg’s sumptuous lobby. He thanked the operator, smiled at a woman waiting to enter the elevator, and made his way to the front desk. His tanned, handsome face looked smooth and untroubled.

Only because he wanted it to.

Inside, he was jittery and rattled. His nerves were frayed. Everything was going badly. Bauer, Hoffman, Maud . . . and now this new catastrophe—Sarajevo.

He had just received orders from Berlin, brought to his room hidden in a stack of freshly laundered shirts by a hotel maid on the kaiser’s payroll. They wanted as much information as he could possibly get them on British ships, planes, and cannon—and what could he get them? Not a bloody thing.

The chain was still broken, and until he could forge a link between Gladys Bigelow and John Harris—Billy Madden’s man—he had no way of fixing it. What had that lunatic in Sarajevo been thinking? What had he and his fellow anarchists hoped to do? Set the world on fire? If that was the goal, they might well succeed.

Lost in his thoughts, Max did not the see the woman walking toward him, her head down, until it was too late. He collided with her, knocking her hat and her purse to the ground.

“My goodness,” he said, horrified. “How incredibly clumsy of me. I’m so sorry. Please let me get your things.” He bent down, picked up the hat and purse, and handed them to her. “Again, please accept my . . .” He stopped talking, stunned. He took a step back, recovered himself, and said, “Willa Alden? Is that you?”

Willa looked up at him. “Max? Max von Brandt?”

“Yes!” he said excitedly. “What a pleasure it is to see you.” He embraced her, then released her and looked at her, shaking his head. “I hardly recognize you in your Western outfit,” he said.

Willa laughed. “I hardly recognize myself. You’re looking well, Max. What are you doing in London? The last time I saw you, you were headed to Lhasa.”

“Yes, I was. I got there, too. And was granted an audience with the Dalai Lama, thanks to your influence,” he said. He then explained the falling out he’d had with his uncle, and that he’d come to London to get away from his family for a bit. “You look well, too, Willa,” he said, when he’d finished. “What are you doing here? I didn’t think anything could tempt you away from your mountain.”

Willa told him about her father.

“I’m so sorry,” he said, taking her hand and squeezing it.

She squeezed back. “Thank you, Max. That’s very kind of you,” she said. “It’s still so hard for me to accept that he’s gone.”

They talked more, and as Max looked into her large, expressive eyes and listened to her voice, so full of life, everything he’d felt for her in the Himalayas came flooding back. His heart was full of emotion. He wanted to take her in his arms, right here in the lobby, to hold her close and tell her what he felt.

Stop it. Now. Before it goes too far, a voice inside him said. It’s too dangerous. You know that. This woman, these feelings . . . they’ll be the end of you.

He ignored the voice. As Willa started to say good-bye, as she told him she must be going, he pressed her to stay.

“But you haven’t even told me what you’re doing here,” he asked her. “What brings you to the Coburg?”

“I’m . . . um . . . I’m meeting an old friend,” she said. “For lunch.”

She was lying; he knew she was. She suddenly seemed agitated and nervous. Max was experienced in identifying the tells that betrayed liars—the too-quick laugh, the darting eyes, the rising voice—and Willa was exhibiting all of them.

“Join me for a drink first,” Max said. “You must. I insist. And your friend, too. Where is she?”

“I . . . I’m afraid I can’t. I’m meeting her in her room, you see, and I’m late as it is.”

“I understand,” he said. “But you must give me your address, and you must allow me to take you to supper while you’re in London.”

Willa looked at him, her green eyes frank and appraising. “I don’t know if that’s such a good idea, Max,” she said.

Max held his hands up, stopping her protests. “It will just be two old trekking companions catching up, that’s all. I promise you, I’ve no ulterior motives,” he said, smiling warmly.

Willa smiled back. “All right, then,” she said. “Supper it is. I look forward to it.”

“Tomorrow?”

“I can’t tomorrow, I’m afraid. I already have plans. I’m meeting Thomas Lawrence.”

“Ah, yes. The archaeologist. I’ve heard of him. Sounds like a fascinating chap. How about next week, then?”

They set a date—Monday—and a place—Simpson’s. Then he kissed her cheek and walked her to the elevator. The smell of her, the marble smoothness of her cheek thrilled him. How did she do this to him?

“Good-bye, Willa,” he said, working to keep his voice even. “Until Monday.”

“Until Monday,” she said, and then the elevator doors closed.

He stood there, watching the hand on the floor indicator until it stopped on five. Another elevator had just stopped next to this one. The doors opened. The occupants stepped out and Max quickly stepped in.

“Hold the door!” a man bellowed from across the lobby.

“Ignore him,” Max said, handing the operator a pound note. “Get me to five. Now.”

The man did as he was told, whisking Max to the fifth floor in seconds. He stepped out quietly, in case she was nearby, and the elevator doors closed silently behind him. He looked left, then right, and spotted Willa walking down a long corridor. Her back was to him. He pressed himself against the elevator doors in case she turned around. But she did not. She stopped halfway down the corridor, turned to her right, and knocked twice on a door. The door opened and she stepped inside. As soon as Max heard it close and lock behind her, he made his way down the corridor.

She had come here to be with a man. Max felt it in his bones. Why else would she have acted the way she did—so odd and skittish? Jealousy seared him. He knew it was a childish and stupid emotion, and he tried to damp it down, but he could not. He wanted her for himself and hated to think of her in the arms of another man, but at the same time, he had to know who the other man was. He reached the door that she’d entered, glanced quickly at the number, and kept on walking. To the end of the corridor and the fire stairs.

When he was back downstairs in the lobby, he collared a bellhop, a lad he’d tipped generously on many occasions. “I need you to do me a favor,” he said quietly.

“Anything, Mr. von Brandt.”

“Find out the name of the man in room 524. I’ll be over there.” He pointed to a group of plush chairs.

The bellhop nodded. A few minutes later, he was standing by Max’s chair, bending to his ear. “It’s a Mr. O. Ryan, sir,” he said. “But I think that’s a false name.”

“Is it?”

“Aye. Pete, my mate, gave the bloke his key. Said he knew him instantly and he wasn’t no Mr. Ryan.”

“Who is he, then?”

“He’s that famous explorer. The one who went to the South Pole. Finnegan’s his name. Seamus Finnegan.”