to take his watch back.
Little by little he'd recovered his mind, eventually remembering who
he was and where he lived, but when he went to look for his family, they
were gone. Alone, terrifled he would be found out for Malone's murder,
he went to the only person he could trust--Denny Quinn, a minor
underworld fig-ure. Denny had advised him to lay low and to take Sid
Malone's name. Malone had been a loner, and with his red hair he'd
looked like Charlie. If the police ever grew suspicious and started
asking questions, Quinn rea-soned, Malone was alive and well and could
answer them.
Fiona had been undone by meeting the brother she'd thought was dead.
She'd hugged him and wept, overjoyed to see him, but she'd been upset to
discover who and what he'd become, and pleaded with him to leave the
villain's life behind. Hurt and angered, he'd told her he'd done what
he'd needed to do to survive, and had refused to see her again. Her
uncle Roddy, a police officer, had looked for him, combing the river's
north and south banks, but hadn't been able to find him. "Let him go,
Fee," Joe had urged, and she'd reluctantly agreed, deciding never to
tell Seamie what had really become of the older brother he'd loved and
admired. That he'd become a criminal, vicious and brutal.
"Mrs. Bristow! What are you doing, ma'am? You should be sitting down."
It was Mel. He'd returned with the tea. Fiona hadn't even heard him come up the stairs.
"You still don't look well," he said, placing a steaming mug on top
of a tea chest. "I think you should go home. I'm going to fetch your
driver now, and I don't want any arguments. Sit there and drink your tea
while I get him."
Fiona nodded gratefully. He was right. She should go home. As she
sipped her tea, she saw something glinting at her from the floor. It was
the sixpence she'd won from Mel. She'd had it in her hand when she came
up here, and she must have dropped it when she'd collapsed. She picked
it up. Sixpence was nothing to her now, but once it would have meant the
difference between eating and starving.
She looked at it, but saw other coins. Pennies, tanners, shillings.
Char-lie was pulling them from his pocket and putting them on the
rickety table in the damp, dingy room where they lived. There was a
pound note, too-- crumpled and bloodstained--his winnings from a
dreadful bare-knuckle brawl he'd fought. "Take it," he'd said. "All of
it." She hadn't wanted to, but she did. It had bought milk for the baby.
Meat for their supper. Coal for the grate. Boots for Seamie. It had
paid their rent.
"Charlie," she whispered brokenly, curling her fingers closed over the coin.
She had needed him then, desperately. They all had. And he had been
there for them, giving up his own dreams--dreams of going to America--
to take care of them.
Now he needed her.
"And I will be there," she said.
She would search for him herself. He wouldn't listen to
strangers--he'd made that clear--but he'd listen to her, she would make
him. If only she could get to him.
But how? She had no idea where to even begin searching. She knew he
moved about in the East End, but didn't know where he lived. Bennett
told her he'd met him at a riverside pub, but he hadn't told her which
pub, and Joe had shown him the door before he could. Joe. Fiona felt
guilt prick her at the thought of her husband. He would be furious if he
knew what she was planning to do. She heard his voice in her head,
cautioning her. He was only trying to protect her. To keep her safe. He
wanted her to let go of the thing she couldn't have, and concentrate on
all the things she did have. She was so fortunate, so blessed. She had
everything money could buy and everything it couldn't. She was happy,
truly happy. And yet, alongside her happiness lived a deep and aching
sadness for the one who was missing. The one who never came to Sunday
dinners. The uncle whose name the
Little by little he'd recovered his mind, eventually remembering who
he was and where he lived, but when he went to look for his family, they
were gone. Alone, terrifled he would be found out for Malone's murder,
he went to the only person he could trust--Denny Quinn, a minor
underworld fig-ure. Denny had advised him to lay low and to take Sid
Malone's name. Malone had been a loner, and with his red hair he'd
looked like Charlie. If the police ever grew suspicious and started
asking questions, Quinn rea-soned, Malone was alive and well and could
answer them.
Fiona had been undone by meeting the brother she'd thought was dead.
She'd hugged him and wept, overjoyed to see him, but she'd been upset to
discover who and what he'd become, and pleaded with him to leave the
villain's life behind. Hurt and angered, he'd told her he'd done what
he'd needed to do to survive, and had refused to see her again. Her
uncle Roddy, a police officer, had looked for him, combing the river's
north and south banks, but hadn't been able to find him. "Let him go,
Fee," Joe had urged, and she'd reluctantly agreed, deciding never to
tell Seamie what had really become of the older brother he'd loved and
admired. That he'd become a criminal, vicious and brutal.
"Mrs. Bristow! What are you doing, ma'am? You should be sitting down."
It was Mel. He'd returned with the tea. Fiona hadn't even heard him come up the stairs.
"You still don't look well," he said, placing a steaming mug on top
of a tea chest. "I think you should go home. I'm going to fetch your
driver now, and I don't want any arguments. Sit there and drink your tea
while I get him."
Fiona nodded gratefully. He was right. She should go home. As she
sipped her tea, she saw something glinting at her from the floor. It was
the sixpence she'd won from Mel. She'd had it in her hand when she came
up here, and she must have dropped it when she'd collapsed. She picked
it up. Sixpence was nothing to her now, but once it would have meant the
difference between eating and starving.
She looked at it, but saw other coins. Pennies, tanners, shillings.
Char-lie was pulling them from his pocket and putting them on the
rickety table in the damp, dingy room where they lived. There was a
pound note, too-- crumpled and bloodstained--his winnings from a
dreadful bare-knuckle brawl he'd fought. "Take it," he'd said. "All of
it." She hadn't wanted to, but she did. It had bought milk for the baby.
Meat for their supper. Coal for the grate. Boots for Seamie. It had
paid their rent.
"Charlie," she whispered brokenly, curling her fingers closed over the coin.
She had needed him then, desperately. They all had. And he had been
there for them, giving up his own dreams--dreams of going to America--
to take care of them.
Now he needed her.
"And I will be there," she said.
She would search for him herself. He wouldn't listen to
strangers--he'd made that clear--but he'd listen to her, she would make
him. If only she could get to him.
But how? She had no idea where to even begin searching. She knew he
moved about in the East End, but didn't know where he lived. Bennett
told her he'd met him at a riverside pub, but he hadn't told her which
pub, and Joe had shown him the door before he could. Joe. Fiona felt
guilt prick her at the thought of her husband. He would be furious if he
knew what she was planning to do. She heard his voice in her head,
cautioning her. He was only trying to protect her. To keep her safe. He
wanted her to let go of the thing she couldn't have, and concentrate on
all the things she did have. She was so fortunate, so blessed. She had
everything money could buy and everything it couldn't. She was happy,
truly happy. And yet, alongside her happiness lived a deep and aching
sadness for the one who was missing. The one who never came to Sunday
dinners. The uncle whose name the
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