Rose Rivers

  ‘In a minute, Papa. You must look at this drawing. You too, Mr Walker!’

  Papa took the sketchbook from me and stared at Clover’s drawing. Then he looked up at me, his face a picture in itself. ‘Did you sketch this, Rose?’ he asked.

  ‘Of course not, Papa,’ I said impatiently. ‘You know full well I’m no good at drawing. Clover did it, just now, when the children were resting.’

  ‘I knew the child had ability. That was partly what drew me to her in the first place. It seemed so valiant, somehow, a little girl from the gutters chalking pictures and painting faces on dolls. But this is something else – look, Paris!’

  Paris stared too. He liked my comical drawings, he found them amusing – but my work didn’t make his eyes light up like this.

  ‘Which one’s Clover? The little moppet with all the dark hair? And she hasn’t had any training?’

  ‘None – but I’ll make sure she does now,’ said Papa. ‘I shall instruct her myself.’

  ‘That’s marvellous, Papa – but what about Mama? She surely won’t allow it,’ I said anxiously.

  ‘She won’t know. I’ll make sure of that. I’ll think of some ploy,’ said Papa. ‘I’ll go and find Clover right this minute.’

  ‘You won’t get her into trouble, you promise?’ I begged.

  ‘Don’t worry.’ He gave me an absent-minded pat on the shoulder and then hurried off.

  I was left alone with Paris. He was watching me intently.

  ‘Do you mind your father being so bowled over by the little maid’s work?’ he asked.

  ‘No, I’m truly pleased for Clover. She’s my friend. I just wish Papa could be as proud of me,’ I said, trying to be completely honest.

  ‘I’m proud of you and your work, Rose,’ said Paris.

  ‘But we both know I’m nowhere near as talented as Clover.’

  ‘You have a different talent, that’s all.’

  ‘Not good enough for Punch though.’

  ‘I think it’s simply the wrong journal to appreciate your work. It’s run by a brotherhood of self-satisfied men. They don’t want a slip of a girl showing them up,’ said Paris. ‘It was stupid of me to get your hopes up, Rose. I’m so sorry. Here, have a slice of cake.’

  ‘For goodness’ sake, you and Papa keep offering me cake! I’m not Clarrie,’ I said indignantly, but I took a slice all the same, and a chunk of cheese.

  ‘What do you think of Pennycuik?’ I asked.

  ‘Well, it’s very interesting,’ Paris said. ‘I’ve always wanted to go to Scotland – but perhaps I was thinking more of the Highlands.’

  ‘I don’t suppose it compares to France,’ I said.

  ‘It was very kind of your father to invite me. Well, your mother too.’ He paused. ‘I’m afraid I’ve offended her.’

  ‘In what way?’ I asked huskily.

  ‘She was clearly thinking I’d continue with her portrait while we were here. And then she wasn’t pleased when your papa whisked me off. How can I make it up to her?’ Paris asked.

  Did he really care about hurting her feelings? I wondered. Or was he simply worried she might not pay for the portrait?

  ‘I think if you dance with her tonight she will find it easy to forgive you,’ I said.

  ‘Oh dear Lord, do I have to dance? I have two left feet when it comes to the waltz,’ said Paris.

  ‘It’s not that sort of dancing, it’s Scottish reels,’ I said.

  ‘That’s worse!’

  ‘It can be quite good fun actually. It’s very fast, and you whirl round and round.’

  ‘Then you’ll have to take pity and show me what to do,’ said Paris.

  ‘Very well,’ I said, sighing as if it would be a chore. Secretly I was thrilled that he was actually asking me to dance with him.

  I took another slice of cake and munched it happily.

  Papa came back beaming, still clutching Clover’s drawing pad. ‘There, I’ve talked to your mama, Rose, and it’s all fixed! I shall be giving young Clover a drawing lesson every weekday morning,’ he said triumphantly.

  I stared at him in astonishment. ‘Mama’s never agreed to that, surely?’ I said.

  ‘Well, not exactly,’ he admitted. ‘I found Clover in the nursery reading a story to Sebastian and Clarrie, and showered her with praise. She nearly burst into tears, bless her. She’s clearly not used to praise. But then we heard a terrible roaring downstairs. Young Algie had sneaked off to slide down the banisters, and had fallen and bumped his head. It was only a little bump, but he wouldn’t stop crying until Clover caught him up in her arms and said she needed to mend his head with vinegar and brown paper, just like Jack’s crown in the nursery rhyme, and that cheered him up immensely.

  ‘Your mama was very put out and inclined to blame Clover for Algie’s naughtiness, but I did my best to defend her. I said that the Queen of England herself could not quell our number three son. Algie took offence at that and started roaring again, declaring it wasn’t fair, he wanted to be my number one son, bless him. He’s not a bad little chap, you know. I think he just needs more attention,’ said Papa indulgently.

  ‘I think he gets too much attention already,’ I said. ‘But I don’t see how Algie sliding down the banisters led to Mama letting you give Clover lessons.’

  ‘I said I’d rather like to do a portrait of him. Your mama said he would never be able to sit still, which was reasonable, but I said the sessions would only last a half hour, and Clover could sing him nursery rhymes or make up little stories to amuse him. Mama said Nurse wouldn’t be able to manage without Clover, but Nurse loved the idea of Algie being spirited away, even for half an hour. So it’s all settled. When we get home I shall start a portrait of Algie and, while I’m painting, Clover can be my little apprentice, learning how to mix paint and work out perspective and achieve special effects.’

  ‘While gabbling nursery rhymes?’ I said.

  ‘Oh, come along, Rose, I’m sure it will work splendidly,’ said Papa. He looked at me carefully. ‘You don’t mind, do you, darling? I thought you’d taken Clover under your wing.’

  ‘I have, I have. Of course I don’t mind, Papa, I’m happy for her,’ I said.

  ‘That’s all I want – for everyone to be happy,’ he said. He clapped Paris on the shoulder. ‘You’re happy too, aren’t you, my friend? You’ve certainly made me happy this New Year’s Eve. I don’t usually care for these trips to the frozen north. My in-laws can be a little forbidding, especially my father-in-law. I don’t think he’s ever forgiven me for enticing his precious daughter down south.’

  Grandpapa might ignore Papa, but he’s fond of us children, especially Rupert. Grandmama had several sons, but they all died in infancy, so their firstborn grandson has a special place in their hearts.

  Grandpapa and Rupert came back glowing from their ride, Grandpapa full of praise for Rupert’s natural horsemanship.

  ‘You’ll have to come and stay longer. You’ve got the makings of a fine horseman. I’ll take you out hunting,’ he said as they went upstairs to get changed for the party.

  ‘I’d love that, sir,’ said Rupert.

  ‘That’s the spirit,’ said Grandpapa. He saw me trailing after them. ‘I’d take you too, Rose, but I hear you don’t care for horses.’

  ‘That’s putting it mildly, Grandpapa,’ I said.

  He seemed tickled by my response. ‘So you’re determined to be an artist like your father, eh?’

  ‘No. I haven’t got the talent,’ I said, sighing.

  ‘So what do you like to do, lassie?’ he asked.

  I thought carefully. ‘I like to read, especially poetry and novels. I like to learn. I like to study.’

  Grandpapa peered down at my legs.

  ‘Grandpapa?’

  ‘Just checking the colour of your stockings. Seems to me you’re turning into a bluestocking,’ he said, chuckling.

  Rupert joined in the laughter. I was furious. Why was it so funny? I couldn’t stop Grandpapa, but I thumped Rupe
rt hard on the back.

  I spent a long time in my bath, moodily mulling things over, not wanting to go back to the amber room because of Nurse Budd. I let the bath get lukewarm, and when I tried to top it up the water ran cold because so many other people had taken baths too.

  By the time I trailed back to the bedroom in my dressing gown I was shivering. Beth was shivering too, standing in her underwear, refusing to put on her party frock. She was peering at the ropes of amber in the glass display case, intent on counting each round yellow bead. Every time Nurse Budd pulled at her she lost count and cried with frustration.

  ‘Now come along, Miss Beth dear, stop that silly counting and put on your lovely dress or Nurse Budd will start to get cross,’ said Nurse Budd.

  ‘Cross, cross, cross!’ said Beth, stamping her stockinged foot.

  ‘Hurry up, dear, do!’

  ‘Do, do, do!’ Beth parroted, and started counting all over again.

  ‘Look, Beth, I’m putting on my party frock,’ I said, fetching my white organdie. ‘We like wearing these dresses. Papa says we look like snowdrops.’

  Beth ignored me altogether, muttering, ‘Twenty-two, twenty-three, twenty-four …’

  ‘Just let her get to a hundred and then I’m sure she’ll stop,’ I suggested.

  ‘She’ll stop,’ Beth agreed. ‘Twenty-five, twenty-six …’

  The grandfather clock in the hall chimed the half hour.

  ‘We’re meant to be downstairs to meet everyone … Ninety-nine, a hundred – there, you’re finished now. Into your dress,’ said Nurse Budd, lowering the flimsy white material over Beth’s head.

  She screamed and struggled frantically, unable to see. Her fingers caught in the sleeve, and there was an ominous ripping sound.

  ‘You little devil,’ said Nurse Budd, and she smacked Beth hard.

  ‘Don’t hit her! It’s cruel and wicked!’ I cried, though I’d had more than my fair share of smacks from Nurse in the past.

  ‘I’m simply trying to calm her down,’ said Nurse Budd, panting. ‘That’s it, Miss Beth, stop struggling or you’ll tear your dress more. Keep still while I sort you out. Then you can have some medicine.’

  Beth was suddenly docile, letting Nurse Budd pull her head and arms free.

  ‘She already had some this morning,’ I protested.

  ‘Well, she needs some more now,’ said Nurse Budd, fetching the bottle and pouring out a big spoonful.

  ‘Surely that’s too much?’

  ‘Who’s the trained nurse, you or me?’ said Nurse Budd, ramming the spoon into Beth’s mouth.

  ‘Careful, she’ll choke!’ I warned.

  But Beth opened her mouth wide like a baby bird and then whined for more.

  ‘Just one more then, so long as you’re a good girl now,’ said Nurse Budd.

  ‘Good girl now,’ Beth said, sucking on the spoon.

  She had little crusts of black medicine at the corners of her mouth. Nurse Budd licked a handkerchief and wiped them away.

  ‘Now, let’s see the damage,’ she said, peering at Beth’s dress.

  There was a little tear along the seam that joined the sleeve to the bodice.

  ‘There’s no time for sewing now. You’ll just have to keep your arms down by your side, do you hear me?’ said Nurse Budd.

  Beth nodded, calm now, and co-operated as the tartan sash was wound about her chest.

  ‘There, just your shoes now. One foot first, then the other – that’s the way.’

  ‘That’s the way,’ said Beth dreamily.

  ‘Don’t just stand there gawping, Miss Rose. Get dressed,’ said Nurse Budd, putting on a clean apron.

  I struggled into my frock. I liked the light, silky feel, the skirts floating around my calves. I even liked the tight crossover, because it hid my flat chest and gave me more of a waist. I wanted to see myself in the looking glass, but I didn’t want Nurse Budd to mock me for being vain. She was busy brushing Beth’s hair and fixing a large white satin ribbon on one side. I hastily tied a matching ribbon in my own hair, hoping it didn’t make me look too childish. If Edie had come with us I’d have begged her to pin my hair up again, even if it made Mama angry.

  When I went downstairs Mama was worrying about her own hair. It had been styled differently, with loops on either side of her parting and little curls to set off her new sapphire earrings. There was a thin blue ribbon wound in and out of her bun at the back, with a bow right in the middle.

  ‘Does my hair look all right?’ she whispered to me. ‘The maid insisted it’s the new French style. What do you think, Rose?’

  I was surprised that she had asked my opinion. I thought she looked like an elaborately decorated parcel, but I knew she didn’t want me to be truthful. I murmured something about it looking very decorative. She kept fiddling with the curls, winding them round her fingers, and patting the bun to make sure that the ribbon was still in place. She fidgeted with her dress too. She was wearing an elaborate version of her daughters’ white organdie frocks, with a tartan sash, but the girlish outfit only made her look matronly.

  When Papa saw her he seemed surprised, but told her gallantly that she looked very charming. Paris was flatteringly inventive, saying she looked like a Botticelli maiden as he kissed her hand. She took him seriously and blushed.

  Grandmama was blunt.

  ‘Good Lord, Jeannie, you’re dressed up like the Queen of the May!’ she said, raising her thin eyebrows.

  Grandmama’s hair was in its usual severe knot. She was wearing a grey silk dress with a very high lace collar, a rabbit’s-foot brooch set with topaz pinned to her meagre bosom. Clarrie kept begging to stroke Grandmama’s little bunny, which made Algie snigger dreadfully.

  We all lined up in the hall to greet the guests as soon as they’d shed their coats and the ladies had visited the downstairs cloakroom. We stood in strict order of seniority: Grandpapa, Grandmama, Papa, Mama, Rupert, me, Beth, Sebastian, Algie and Clarrie. Nurse stood back several paces, holding Phoebe, who was dressed in her best lace christening gown. It was rather too tight for her now and she wriggled irritably, her face very red. Nurse Budd stood to attention in case Beth had one of her turns. Poor Clover had been told she wasn’t needed and sent up to the attic.

  I think Grandmama would have liked to send Paris there too, but he was placed beside the nurses and introduced to everyone in clipped tones as ‘Edward’s artist friend’. Only the most important people had been invited to dine with us before the ball began. Even Grandmama seemed a little overawed by the Lord and Lady Provost and their daughter, though the parents looked brown and plain and rather whiskery, like otters. The daughter had a smooth complexion but unfortunate teeth.

  ‘Welcome to Pennycuik,’ said Grandmama, as if it were Balmoral itself.

  There was a huge fire, and steaming hot punch served from a great silver cauldron. There were platters of tiny sausages, bite-sized game pies and smoked-fish patties.

  Grandmama encouraged us children to pass these around. Rupert was charming and self-assured and offered his dish to all the ladies with a flourish. I was shy and awkward, and mumbled whenever anyone spoke to me. Beth wasn’t trusted with a plate, though she was quiet because there was a vast Christmas tree in the corner. She stared up at the fairy and muttered, ‘Fairy, fairy, fairy,’ to herself. Sebastian handed his plate round carefully, looking earnest. Algie and Clarrie didn’t offer their plates to many guests. They hid behind the sofa and stuffed their faces.

  I wished I could hide too. The guests were eyeing us children up and down, commenting on how much we’d grown in the past year as if it were an extraordinary phenomenon. Rupert was especially admired for his height, his general bearing, his polished manners.

  ‘That laddie’s going to break so many hearts!’ was the general verdict.

  I was a disappointment by comparison. I heard one woman say, ‘Poor Rose. She’s getting plainer and plainer. It’s hard to believe she’s Rupert’s twin.’

  Last year Beth had th
rown a tantrum and had to be removed, but now her demeanour and beautiful hair drew praise.

  ‘That lassie’s come on by leaps and bounds. You’d never think she’s not right in the head. Look at her – quite the little lady,’ they pronounced.

  Nurse Budd glowed smugly in the corner while Mama burbled on about Lady Robson’s personal recommendation.

  Sebastian divided opinion. The Lady Provost and all the other women thought him charming, admiring his long fair hair and quaint manners. The men were less impressed. The Lord Provost said he needed to be fed more beef. Sebastian looked anxiously at Nurse, hoping she couldn’t hear. Sebastian dislikes meat because of the fat, and spits most of it out into his handkerchief.

  No one could say that Algie needed more meat. His pink cheeks and stocky build were admired, but his exuberance was overwhelming. Clarrie was considered a nice enough wee girl, although also inclined to be boisterous.

  Little Phoebe was thoroughly inspected too, all the ladies clucking at her like hens. Phoebe liked this sort of attention and smiled chirpily, so was pronounced a fine infant.

  ‘I dread to think how you’re going to portray this occasion,’ Paris whispered in my ear. ‘What will the title be? Does the Family Pass Muster?’

  I giggled. Mama frowned and beckoned me to her side.

  ‘Pass the plate round to all the guests, Rose. You mustn’t monopolize Mr Walker,’ she hissed.

  She seemed determined to monopolize him herself, making sure he sat next to her at dinner, though Grandmama had originally placed him down at the far end. Rupert and I were invited to dinner, but the children were led back to the nursery for their supper.

  ‘When the music starts you may come down and join in the fun for half an hour, my dears, but you must be in bed by nine,’ Grandmama said firmly.

  Algie and Clarrie complained bitterly, wanting to stay up till midnight, but after dancing the Gay Gordons they were both exhausted and Clover had to be summoned to help Nurse carry them off to bed.

  ‘Here, Clover, let me give you a hand with these little dumplings,’ said Papa.

  Clover looked dazed by the ballroom, with its great chandelier and pink Chinese wallpaper and potted palms and little gilt seats. She tried a little slide on the highly polished floor and stared into one great looking glass after another, glimpsing multiple ballrooms at every turn.