The Wild Rose by Jennifer Donnelly

Seamie hopped off. Fiona had told him that the Reverend Wilcott’s church was on Watts Street, just north of the pub. He planned to say a quick hello to the Wilcotts, drop off the check, and be on his way.
    He’d just come from visiting the Aldens and would have to go all the way back west again to get to the dinner at the Royal Geographical Society. He was running late, too, for he’d stayed at the Aldens’ house longer than he’d planned.
    Seamie was no doctor, but he didn’t need to be to see that the admiral’s condition was worsening. His face was waxen and he was in a great deal of pain. He’d been happy to see Seamie and eager to hear about Ernest Shackleton’s plans for another trip to Antarctica, but he’d needed morphine twice in the scant hour that Seamie had been with him.
    “It’s cancer of the stomach,” Mrs. Alden had said tearfully, as he’d sat with her in the drawing room afterward. “We’ve known it for a while, but we haven’t talked about it much. I suppose we should have. But we’re not terribly good at talking about such things, Albie and I. Dogs and the weather, those are our preferred topics.”
    “Does Willa know?” he asked.
    Mrs. Alden shook her head. “If she does, she’s given us no word. I’ve written her. Albie has, too. Several times. But I’ve received nothing from her. Nothing at all.”
    “She’ll come,” Seamie said. “I know she will.”
    He’d promised Mrs. Alden to call again soon, given her Fiona’s and Joe’s regards, and then left for Wapping. It was too much for him, seeing the admiral suffering so, and seeing all the photographs of Willa in Mrs. Alden’s drawing room.
    He tried to shake the sadness off now, as the church of St. Nicholas came into sight. It was old and unlovely, as was most everything in Wapping. Seamie first tried the door to the rectory—a sooty stone building built cheek-by-jowl to the church, but it was locked. He then tried the church door. It was open. He went inside, hoping he might find the Reverend Wilcott in there, tidying the altar or some such thing. Instead, he found Jennie Wilcott and two dozen children.
    They weren’t in the classroom he passed, but were all seated—some on chairs, some on tea chests—around a small black stove in the sacristy, reading words chalked on a portable blackboard. Jennie looked up at the sound of his footsteps, startled. He was startled, too—startled to see how pretty she was. She looked so different from the last time he’d seen her. Her eye was no longer swollen; the bruising around it had faded some. Her blond hair was neatly combed and pinned up in a twist. Her clothes, a white cotton blouse and blue twill skirt, were clean and pressed and showed off her lovely curves and tiny waist.
    She’s more than pretty, he thought. She’s beautiful.
    “Hello, again, Miss Wilcott,” he said. “I’m Seamus Finnegan. Fiona Bristow’s brother. We met a few weeks ago. At the . . . um . . . well, at the prison.”
    Jennie Wilcott’s face lit up. “Yes, of course! What a pleasure it is to see you again, Mr. Finnegan!” she said.
    “Cor, miss, was you sent down again ?” a little boy asked.
    “It’s ‘ Were you sent down again?,’ Dennis. And yes, I was.”
    “You’re in the clink more than me dad, miss!” a girl said.
    “Do you think so? I’d say it’s pretty close. Luckily, I had Mr. Finnegan to help get me out last time. Boys and girls, do you know who Mr. Finnegan is?”
    “No, miss,” twenty-four voices said in unison.
    “Then I shall tell you. He is one of our country’s heroes—a real, live explorer!”
    There were cries of “Get out of it, miss!” and “Blimey!” and “Pull the other one, it’s got bells on.”
    “Yes, he is. He went with Mr. Amundsen to the South Pole in Antarctica, and he’s here now to tell you all about it. He promised me that he would come and here he is!”
    Jennie’s voice was excited. Her eyes, as she looked at the children seated