The Rose of Sebastopol (8 page)

And then a black-bordered letter arrived from Aunt Isabella, which put the disappointing war, the governesses, and even, for half an hour or so, Henry completely out of my head.

Here my aunt’s writing faded out altogether. Instead, in a much firmer, larger hand, Cousin Rosa had written:

 

Since Mother was preoccupied with the governesses, preparations for our visitors were left to me and the task was daunting. Rosa and her mother were used to the airy spaces of Stukeley Hall: marble floors, Turkish rugs, vistas of spreading lawns, gushing fountains, and walled gardens. Fosse House, Clapham, built by Father to accommodate the three of us and a handful of servants, couldn’t possibly live up to such splendor. Besides, unless Rosa had changed completely, she would want to explore every inch of the house from attic to cellar and expect me to know the history of each item of furniture.

Ruth, though inclined to drift about and break things, was useful if given clear instructions. She and I took up the carpets so that the scullery maid could beat them while we cleaned and polished the boards; we lifted down the books in the drawing room, wiped the leaves and spine of each volume, and dusted the shelves; we used stepladders to reach the pictures so we could clean the frames and wash the picture rails. We sent the table-covers, antimacassars, doilies, and runners down to be washed; we had vinegar and water brought up for the windows, which we cleaned in every room on all floors despite the sun blasting through and half blinding us; we swept under beds and aired the eiderdowns and we polished the cabinets and plumped the cushions. Then I rushed out to the garden and cut armfuls of white roses, columbines, and forget-me-nots, because unlike at Stukeley, we had neither hot-house nor conservatory and must therefore put up with seasonal flowers. I thought even Rosa and Aunt Isabella would be impressed by the perfume of beeswax and petals and by the new braiding on the cushions. But in the event, nobody noticed. In the event, the state of the house was the last thing on anybody’s mind.

Early on Friday evening Mother and I sat nervously in the drawing room waiting for Father to bring our visitors from the station. Despite our nerves we managed to discuss quite calmly, for perhaps the tenth time, how much mourning was appropriate for a brother-in-law and uncle-by-marriage visited only once a decade ago. As I didn’t have any black, I was wearing my midnight-blue taffeta but Mother had shaken her black satin out of mothballs. However, as a compromise, after consultation with Mrs. Hardcastle, she wore a white collar and a gray velvet ribbon threaded through the lace of her cap. “The last thing I want is to be too ostentatious. After all, I scarcely knew Sir Matthew and didn’t take to him that time we were there.” She paused: “Of course, he was fond of you, I always thought.”

I was embroidering a quilt with tendrils of ivy: the design, pricked out with a pin, required five different shades of green. “I don’t think he paid much attention to me.”

“Oh, but he did, surely you remember.” She watched me for a moment. “But he struck me as a very difficult man, I’m afraid. I hope he mellowed in later years and had been kind to Rosa.”

There was the sound of carriage wheels on gravel, the bell rang, then there were voices in the hall. We sprang to our feet and tucked our work out of sight, glancing at each other in a moment of rueful admission that everything was about to change. First to appear was Ruth, very self-important, then Aunt Isabella, bedecked from top to toe in black crepe, her eyes brimming and her face plumper than ever. Rosa stood on tiptoe, craning for a sight of me over her mother’s shoulder. She too wore black and the tucks in her bonnet framed a face grown even more beautiful than when she was a young girl. Her features were finely drawn, her dark blue eyes ardent, and her moist lips trembling.

She dodged round her mother, rushed to my side, fell to her knees, and flung her arms round my waist. From deep in my skirts I heard her muffled voice: “Now, I think, I shall begin to be happy again.”

For a moment I was bewildered by this sudden onslaught, then I bent down, took her by the elbows, and raised her up. We stared into each other’s faces, laughing and tearful, until she pulled me towards her and kissed me.

Meanwhile Father was in the doorway, shifting his gloves from one hand to another. “The traffic was atrocious. An hour and a half, it took us. Still, if you’re all settled I’ll get back to work. There are some plans I have to look at before dinner . . .”

Rosa sprang forward and seized his arm. “Uncle Philip, it is so, so kind of you to have us to stay. I don’t think you have any idea how grateful we are.”

Father flushed and held out his hands as if to ward her off. “There. It’s nothing. My wife and Mariella will love you being here though I must warn you, before you know it they’ll have you up to your eyes in some project or another. But look, we have empty rooms in this great house. It’s high time they were filled . . .” His eyes were dewy with sentiment as he strode away across the hall to his study.

After he’d gone, Ruth appeared with a tray of tea. She and I had agreed to use the best set, with gold trim and a rosebud pattern. But just as she had embarked on the perilous journey between the miniatures cabinet and the end of the chaise, my aunt gave a moaning sigh and fell back on the sofa. Her bosom heaved, her gloved hand fluttered feebly, and her complexion went livid. This so startled poor Ruth that the tray jerked in her hand, cups toppled over on their saucers and the sugar basin rolled off altogether and smashed against a table.

“Dearest,” cried my mother. “Dearest Bella.”

“Oh, good Lord,” said Rosa, springing across to the window, where she scooped back the lace curtain and flung the French door wide open. Then she hauled her mother’s feet, shoes and all, onto the sofa, untied her bonnet, dragged her cape from under her, and unfastened her blouse.

“A doctor?” said my mother. “Shall I call a doctor? Ruth, put down that tray for goodness’ sake.”

“Give her time,” said Rosa, “she’ll come round. It’s her heart.”

“Her
heart
.”

“Some condition that means she must have no sudden exertion, no excitement, no travel. The doctors warned us not to come.” Rosa took a bottle of salts from Mother and thrust it under Aunt’s nose. The result was a terrifying fit of gasps and splutters during which my aunt spread her legs and arms and, when she could speak, begged for water.

“Call for Nora,” said Rosa. “She knows what to do with her.”

Nora was a squarish woman with a thick Irish accent, dense skin the color of curds, and sparse hair. She and Mother half carried Aunt upstairs to the best guest room while Ruth, with a heart-broken glance at the tumbled porcelain on the tea tray, gathered up the pieces of sugar basin and Aunt’s discarded cape and bonnet; I swabbed the spilt milk with a napkin; and Rosa poured tea and cut herself a slice of fruit cake.

Once she and I were alone, I felt shy as when I was a child. She shared with her stepbrother Max the knack of concentrating all the energy of a room to herself. Yet, compared to the glamour of her shimmering hair and slender figure, her adult voice, deeper than I remembered, was almost shocking for the prosaic words it formed. “She’s always doing that,” she said.

“Is she very ill?”

“Lord knows. I’m so used to it I presume she’ll go on forever although we all act as if she may drop dead at any moment. Ironic, isn’t it, that in the end it was
he
who died? Mama never thought she’d outlive him. She was forever apologizing to him because she said he’d be a widower for the second time.” She finished the cake, brushed down her skirts, sprang to her feet, and began a tour of the room, picking up ornaments and picture frames, adjusting mats, flicking through a heap of piano music and playing a few trills and arpeggios. When she came to the war album she paused to turn the pages. “Is this yours? ”

“Father likes me to take an interest in world affairs.”

She peered a little more closely. “Are you
sure
about that Prussian border? I would have thought the Russian Empire extended further east than that... So, are you for or against the war? ”

“Against? Nobody is against the war.”

“I am. Of course I am. You surely can’t be for it. Nobody has yet given me a coherent reason why we are at war with the Russians.”

“In my album there’s a cutting from
The Times
that gives our reasons. The Russians treat their own people abominably and they threaten our very freedom.”

“How? ”

“They want a foothold in the Mediterranean.”

“How do you know? ”

“Well, it’s obvious. Father says they will break up Turkey and take everything. And then there’s the question of Jerusalem.”

“What about Jerusalem?”

“Well, I mean, we can’t allow the Holy Places to fall into the hands of Russia.”

“Why?”

“It’s to do with Christian . . .”

“The Russians are Christian.”

“No they’re not, they’re Orthodox.”

“Christian. The Turks, on the other hand, are Muslim.”

“I know. I know.”

“And to cap it all we are also siding with the French. Have you considered how odd that is?”

“Father says that is another excellent thing about the war; that for once we are not squabbling with our nearest neighbor.”

“But what do you think our real motives are? Have you considered? ”

“I’ve told you. Russia...”

“Politics. The government doesn’t have the wit or the will to stop it. And of course we are all supposed to be bored because we haven’t been at war for forty years. And everyone says our great and glorious country should strike a blow against oppressive Russia, never mind the fact that masses of our own population are half starved or slaving in factories sixteen hours a day.”

“The Russians have serfs. That’s different.”

“Mariella. Thousands of people will die in this war, including, incidentally, Max. You haven’t come up with anything that justifies that.” She stood at the window, held aside the lace curtain, and peered out.

How dreadful, I thought. She’s scarcely been in the room ten minutes and already we’ve argued. I was pierced by feelings I had not experienced for years: the sense of being absolutely in the spotlight, the desire to impress coupled with the fear of falling short of expectation.

She was still as a sculpture in her black gown, her hair loosely wound over a ribbon and tumbled down her back. Was it the fact that she came from the north, I wondered, that made her so indifferent to fashion? Though she certainly wasn’t poor, her dress had no petticoats to speak of, so the skirt fell in a straight line from a high waist and I could clearly see the shape of her figure. I had been rather contented with my own appearance, apart from the vexing question of whether or not to wear black, but suddenly I felt trussed like a chicken in my corset, full sleeves, and tight collar. My hair, even if allowed to fall loose, would never achieve those thick ringlets.

I picked up my sewing case, unfastened it, selected medium moss-green silk, and separated three strands.

“I didn’t realize it would feel so rural here,” she said. “I thought you were much closer to London.”

“We are quite near. Sometimes I walk to the river. Or we can take an omnibus, or the carriage.”

“Tomorrow, will you show me the sights?”

“I’m afraid I don’t know London that well.”

“You’ve lived here all your life.”

“Yes, but I don’t go to the city much.”

Her bright blue gaze was fixed on my face. “But why not?”

“I hardly need to.”

“But it’s there. London is
there
. I thought you must go all the time.”

“Oh, I’ve hardly any time. We’re so busy.”

“Why, what are you doing? How does your time get filled up?”

“There are so many things to do. Mother likes me to help in the garden, and I do all the household accounts. And then I am sewing for the Distressed Governesses.”

“The who? ” She stared at me in a mix of disbelief and amusement.

“We have raised money for a house in Bloomsbury. All that remains is for the house to be furnished.”