100. A Rose In Jeopardy (11 page)

“And how is your search going?” he asked her in a polite tone.

“Oh, I have had several offers,” she replied with a little sigh. “There are plenty of posts for Governesses and companions.”

“That’s good!”

“But the trouble is that no one wants to take a noisy and unruly parrot as well as myself!”

“No, I suppose not.”

Lyndon noticed that the parrot was still looking at him menacingly.

“And I will not go without Pickle,” she continued, “as he is all the family that is left to me in the world.”

“Of course. I absolutely understand.”

He did not, but he could tell by the determined look in her blue eyes and the way that she held her pointed chin high on her slender neck that she meant what she said.

And then the image of a little monkey in a red coat, being cosseted and caressed by an aristocratic old woman, came to him.

He had felt guilty about not visiting the Contessa at her hotel. Had she waited for him there? Perhaps she had forgotten all about him and found other English people to befriend her.

But this glorious girl might be able to help her and the old Contessa, who loved her monkey so much, might even understand this girl’s attachment to her parrot.

He dug in his pocket and pulled out the Contessa’s card.

“I don’t know if this will be any use,” he said. “but I believe this person may be seeking a companion.”

“You are too kind, Mr. Jones!”

The girl’s face lit up as she took the card from him.

“Not at all.”

Lyndon could now hear heavy footsteps hurrying along the wharf behind him towards
The Grace Darling
.

For all the time he had been talking to this girl, he had forgotten all about Venice.

If he was not careful, he would miss the departure he had been so impatiently waiting for.

“I have to go,” he blurted out. “It has been such a pleasure to meet you.”

“Yes. Thank you, again.”

The girl reached out her hand, but he was already on his way.

There was a strange feeling in Lyndon’s heart as he climbed back on board
The Grace Darling
.

Something about this lovely girl touched his heart and he did not know if he could bear it.

He did not dare look back at the wharf in case she was still there, standing by the water with the last light of the evening gleaming on her golden hair.

“
Let me out! Let me out!
” a small voice cried.

It was very early, but Pickle was already awake.

Last night Rosella had been feeling so tired that she had forgotten to pull the blanket over his cage and the rays of the rising sun had shone through the tiny window of the garret where they were staying and awakened him.

She rolled over on the lumpy mattress that lay on the floorboards and gave him a piece of bread from her last night’s supper.

“
Can I have a nut
?” he asked, looking at the bread with his head on one side.

“Shh, now Pickle!” Rosella whispered. “We must not wake the baby!”

But it was too late. From downstairs she could hear that young Peter was already starting to cry.

Sarah, the sister-in-law of Thomas, the gardener’s boy, had been delighted to take Rosella in.

Her husband, a sailor, was away on a long voyage and with two small children and a new baby, she was very glad of the money that Rosella could give her.

But the cottage where they lived was very crowded and Pickle was nervous of the children.

And he nipped their fingers when they tried to push their little hands through the bars of his cage to stroke him.

And so Rosella had to keep him in the garret, which was so small and cramped that she could only just stand up right in the very middle of the one room.

If she left him on his own, he would scream loudly and call for her, which was most unpleasant for Sarah and her family, so whenever Rosella went out from the cottage, he had to go with her.

She sighed as she thought about the many hours she had spent walking along the streets of London, carrying the heavy parrot cage, as she tried to find someone who would offer her employment.

Several agencies, which found positions for young ladies, had produced introductions for her, in spite of the fact that she had no experience of being a Governess or a lady’s companion.

Rosella’s charming manners and well-spoken voice meant that many of the potential employers she had visited would have been happy to take her on.

But Pickle, alas, did not have these assets and there was no one at all who would be prepared to offer the noisy bird a home alongside his Mistress.

“What shall we do?” Rosella asked him, as the bird reluctantly began to nibble on a piece of dry bread. “Sarah is very kind, but we cannot stay here for ever.”

Downstairs Sarah’s children had also woken up and were shouting for their breakfast.

Rosella got up from her mattress and washed her face and hands in the cracked bowl Sarah had given her.

Then she put on her favourite blue dress and began to comb her hair.

‘I must not be despondent,’ she now told herself. ‘I must carry on, bravely and smiling.’

She thought with longing of the picture she had left behind hanging on her bedroom wall.

If only she could see that young man’s happy smile this morning. Surely he would give her the strength and courage to set off again and find her way forward.

But she would never see him again, as she could never go back to New Hall.

Sadly Rosella picked up the old coat that Thomas had given her from where she had laid it on the floor last night, as there was no place to hang clothes in the garret.

She was just folding it and laying it on the mattress, when she recalled what had happened when she walked down to the river last night.

She had met a young man with a handsome face not so very different from the man in the painting, except that, in spite of the outlandish cloak and big hat – which would not have looked at all out of place in a painting – this was a very real person with black hair and brown eyes.

Because of his eyes and his strange clothes, Rosella had assumed that he was a foreigner and she smiled, as she remembered how surprised she was when he spoke to her in perfect English.

Then she recalled what he had given her.

Rosella fumbled in the pocket of the coat and found the small rectangle of cardboard – the calling card of a Contessa from Italy.

Rosella’s heart sank a little at the thought of having to face yet another interview and another rejection.

It was kind of the young man to give her this, but surely a Contessa, who lived in a Palazzo, would have no time for a very young English girl, who had no experience and a very noisy parrot she would not be parted from.

When Rosella went down the stairs to help Sarah give the two small children their breakfast, the sailor’s wife told her to be cheerful and not to give up.

“You go and see this Contessa, whoever she is,” she said, spooning bread and milk into the mouth of young Kate. “Keep tryin’, that’s the only way. Not that I don’t like to have you here in spite of that dreadful old bird. But you’ll never get anythin’ if you don’t keep tryin’.”

Rosella was watching over little Johnny, who was only just old enough to be responsible for his own bowl and spoon at mealtimes, but who sometimes forgot himself and threw the whole lot on the floor.

She looked around at the crowded kitchen, where Sarah spent most of every day, cooking and washing and looking after the young ones and then, when they had gone to sleep, working at the sewing she took in to make a little extra money.

There were no parlourmaids or housekeepers here. And no money unless you worked for it.

And all over the East End of London, there were thousands upon thousands of similar houses where families worked and struggled to make a living.

Rosella might have her little bag of gold sovereigns now, but it would not last for ever. She must do as Sarah advised and keep going to try to find some paid work.

Johnny was pushing his bowl towards the edge of the table, a broad smile on his little face and with his thick fringe of fair hair, he reminded her very much of Thomas, back at New Hall.

“Careful,” she said, rescuing the bowl. “Have you finished, Johnny?”

“Yes!” he told her and he jumped down from the chair and began running round the kitchen, shouting, “you naughty, naughty boy!” in a good imitation of Pickle.

Rosella and his mother could not help laughing at him, until the noise of his shouting became unbearable and they let him out to play in the back yard.

“I’m sorry,” Rosella said. “It’s usually the other way round. Pickle hears things and copies them!”

“Your bird is just like a child,” Sarah replied, “only one that never grows up. You will never be able to send him off to school and he will never leave home to earn his own living.”

Little Katie had finished her bread and milk now, and her mother sat back and took a long drink from her cup of tea.

But Sarah’s relaxation was interrupted by the loud wails of a crying baby from upstairs.

“What’s that?” Sarah asked, looking very puzzled. “I can hear Peter crying, but he’s lying over there as happy as can be?”

“I am afraid it’s Pickle again!” Rosella laughed. “He’s fed up with waiting for me and he’s trying out a new imitation to see if will bring me running to him. I expect he has seen how we rush to pick up Guy when he cries.”

“Well I never,” sighed Sarah. “You should put that bird in a circus.”

Rosella smiled to herself. Of course, if you wanted Pickle to say or do something on demand, he never would.

He would just sit silently and glare at the circus-goers and they would all demand their money back.

“I will get him out of your way,” she said to Sarah, “and take him with me to see the Contessa.”

“Good luck,” Sarah said. “P’raps the old lady has a sense of humour. You might be lucky, this time.”

*

Rosella did not feel as if luck was on her side, as she stood by the marble reception desk in the lobby of
The Palace Hotel
in Bayswater.

The clerk at the desk looked at her disapprovingly through his
pince-nez
.

“I cannot allow you to remain in this hotel, miss,” he said. “You must remove yourself and that – creature – immediately!”

“
Good afternoon
!” Pickle squawked and several of the well-dressed ladies and gentlemen passing through the lobby laughed and pointed at the bird.

The clerk was not impressed and continued to glare at Rosella.

“I
must
see the Contessa Allegrini,” she explained. “I have come a long way, especially to speak to her.”

She thought of the very long journey across London from Limehouse on the omnibus, carrying Pickle’s heavy cage on her knee and knew that she could not face going back to Sarah’s cottage without at least having spoken to the Contessa.

“Is the lady expecting you?” the clerk asked with a sniff. “Do you have an appointment?”

“No,” Rosella replied and held out the Contessa’s card. “But an acquaintance of hers recommended I should call on her and he gave me this.”

The clerk shook his head, looking crossly at Pickle, who was now muttering to himself and preening his wings.

“I am afraid I must ask you to leave. We cannot have this kind of thing at
The Palace Hotel
.”

Several of the passers-by had stopped by Pickle’s cage and were peering at him. A gentleman reached down to poke a finger through the bars and before Rosella could warn him, Pickle had bitten his finger.

The gentleman shook his hand and laughed good-humouredly, but the clerk was furious.

He came bustling round to the front of the desk and confronted Rosella.

“Out!” he hissed. “You are causing a disturbance and inconveniencing our guests. Out!”

He picked up Pickle’s cage and made as if to fling it across the lobby and out of the front door of the hotel.

Rosella quickly pulled the parrot’s cage out of his hands before he could do so. It was clearly no use trying to persuade him to let her see the Contessa.

She would just have to go back to Limehouse.

She was about to make her way out of the hotel, pursued by the infuriated clerk, when there was a jangling, rattling noise and a hubbub of women’s voices from the other side of the lobby.

The hotel lift was descending to the ground floor packed with a full load of passengers.

The gilded gates crashed open and a small woman dressed in black, surrounded by three white-capped maids, emerged.

Rosella put down the birdcage and then watched in amazement as this woman, who was clearly very old and frail and carried a stick with a gold handle, marched up to the reception desk and began to ring the bell.

She was shouting loudly in a foreign language that Rosella could not understand and she seemed very angry indeed about something.

All the other guests in the lobby were staring at her with their mouths open, but no one made any attempt to speak to the woman.

The clerk scurried back to his post behind the desk, looking harassed.

“Contessa,” he began, struggling to get a word in edgeways. “What is the matter now?”

“
Limone
!
Mi piace il te con limone, stupido
!” the woman shrilled at the top of her voice and then launched into another torrent of words, as her white-capped maids stood around looking helpless.

Rosella could not help but think that all of this was far more of a disturbance than she and Pickle had caused.

At last the clerk seemed to have understood what the woman was trying to say.

“I am so sorry, Contessa,” he said, “we will send up some lemon for your tea at once. How regrettable that it should have been forgotten – again.”

“
Vergogna
! You are a disgrace!” the woman said with an imperious nod of her grey head and she turned to go back to the lift, followed by her attendants.

‘
Contessa
?’ Rosella caught her breath. ‘Surely this little woman must be the Contessa Allegrini.’