The Rose of Sebastopol (13 page)

“I haven’t seen it myself yet,” I cried. “She wouldn’t let me look.”

Rosa laughed and held the portrait at arm’s length. “Come and see.” But when I stood beside Henry I couldn’t say whether or not the sketch was like me. All I cared about was that our upper arms touched, that his breathing was rapid as if he had been walking fast, and that a quarter of an hour ago his tongue had played across mine. When I was able to pay more attention I saw that in Rosa’s portrait I had eyes like those of a fawn glancing nervously away from the painter, my face seemed small above my wide white collar, and my mouth a little peevish. “Is that really how I look? ” I asked.

“When you’re being pensive, yes,” said Rosa. “Or when you’re a bit afraid. Which is quite often.”

“I’ve never seen Ella afraid,” said Henry.

“That’s because you’ve not dragged her round London. I don’t believe there’s a sight we’ve missed in the past few days, including the new station at Kings Cross that Uncle Philip has helped to build.”

“Then you’re ahead of me,” said Henry. “You’ll have to show me some day.”

“And I’ve taken her to see all sorts of wild and wonderful people, haven’t I, Mariella? You’ll find that I’ve turned her into quite a radical since you’ve been away.”

“Which people are these?” demanded my aunt. “You haven’t told me about any wild people. Who do you mean?”

“Oh, I only mean the friends I’d been writing to. You know. Barbara Leigh Smith. Bessie Parkes.”

“The Leigh Smiths related to the Nightingales in Derbyshire? Didn’t I say you shouldn’t pursue that correspondence? I hope you are not doing yourself any harm, Rosa.”

“Hardly. We talk, that’s all.”

“Rosa is always so extreme,” said Aunt. “She wants to change everything.”

“Does she? ” said Father. “Does she want to change me?”

“Nobody would want to change you, Uncle Philip,” said Rosa, reaching over and grasping his hand. He smiled down at her and for a moment all eyes were on her slender throat, her delicate wrist exposed by the falling sleeve, and her rippling hair. The moment of danger, when she might have talked more about our visits to Blandford Square, was averted.

“Tell us about Hungary,” I asked Henry.

“Well, I met an astonishing doctor, Semmelweis, who has transformed practices in the obstetric wards. Now everyone must wash their hands before they go near an expectant mother.”

“But surely,” said Rosa, “that’s nothing new. Our local midwife says cleanliness is everything in childbirth.” She spoke with incredulous authority, as if her knowledge was equal—or better—than Henry’s.

“Yes, Miss Barr. You would hope that midwives and doctors did wash their hands frequently. But by no means all do, I regret, and in hospitals, when there is so much pressure of time, when it’s difficult enough even to have an adequate supply of clean water for drinking, let alone washing, cleanliness often gets overlooked.”

“I thought it was common knowledge by now. I read an article by Addison, who writes about the formation of pus and how a wound is unlikely to become infected if it is clean. In my work with the villagers . . .”

“Oh, don’t bring in those interminable villagers,” sighed Isabella.

“In any case,” said Henry, “I’ve been asked to give a lecture on my findings. You are very welcome to attend.”

“I should like that,” said Rosa, “and I was also wondering if I might see what happens in a London teaching hospital.”

“Well, of course you can visit anytime.”

“I don’t want to visit just the wards. I want to know what goes on in the laboratories and operating theaters. You see one day I want to work as a doctor, or a nurse, but preferably a doctor.”

“I’m sure those are very commendable ambitions, Miss Barr, but personally . . .”

My aunt sat bolt upright and swung her feet onto the floor. “No. No. Don’t listen to her, Dr. Thewell. I absolutely forbid it. She knows that.”

“You can’t forbid me visiting a hospital,” said Rosa, smiling calmly. “Good heavens, Aunt Maria is always visiting hospitals.”

“Because she is on the committee of visitors. She doesn’t want to
work
in one. Rosa, I don’t want you going near a hospital.”

“Hush,” said Mother. “I’m sure Rosa is only showing an interest because Henry is here. I’m afraid when he comes the conversation always gets out of hand. He does have this regrettable habit of bringing the wards with him into the drawing room.”

“And speaking of wards, I must be gone,” said Henry. “I promised I’d look in on a patient this evening.”

“Surely it’s far too late to be working tonight,” cried Mother.

“I performed an amputation on an elderly woman this morning. She’s very sick, I’m afraid. I must check on her.”

Rosa was transfixed with sudden admiration. When he said good-bye she didn’t get up but smiled into his eyes. The neck of her gown had a slight V and I saw his gaze flicker from her face to the hollow that was just visible at the base of her throat.

I took his arm and escorted him to the hall where he stood under the gas lamp and looked back to the drawing room. “How changed your life must be, Ella. What a difficult girl she must be to live with.”

“Difficult, yes. But don’t you think she’s amazing?”

“I find her exhausting.”

“Could you bear to show her the hospital if we can persuade Aunt Isabella? ”

“She can come and visit by all means. Why not? I’d like you to see where I work. And Ella,” he kissed my hands, then the palms, “I prefer this living, breathing girl to that portrait Rosa has drawn. Your cousin is undoubtedly very clever but even she cannot capture your dear, gentle soul.” He glanced towards the half-open drawing room door and for a breathless moment I wondered if he would dare to kiss my mouth again.

That night Rosa and I left the bedroom window open so the room smelt of grass and roses. In a glimmer of moonlight she lay beside me with her arms behind her head. “Shall we talk about Henry?” she whispered.

“What is there to say?”

“I can see why you love him, of course. He’s different from most people. More serious-minded. In fact very serious-minded. My only concern would be, does he ever laugh properly? ”

“Of course he laughs, he was laughing tonight.”

“He was laughing
at
me tonight. He thinks me ridiculous, I can tell, because I’m a woman who wants to know so much.”

“He found you extraordinary.”

“No. He could hardly be bothered to argue with me. But that’s all right as long as he’s kind to you. As long as he makes you laugh sometimes, like I do. I mean would he ever make you laugh like this? ” She lunged under the bedclothes, took hold of my bare foot, and pressed the sole with her fingertips so that I writhed. “Or this? ” and she clenched my thigh and tickled my stomach until I was howling with laughter and my legs were tangled with the sheets.

“Stop it. Stop. You’ll wake the house.”

After we’d recovered she stroked my hair and studied my face. “So do you think you’ll marry him soon?”

“I’ve never thought of it.”

“Don’t pretend with me, Ella. I knew you were on tenterhooks all evening until he came. You can’t hide from me and he spent ages staring at my picture of you. Of course he loves you. How could he not? You will be Mrs. Thewell and drift about in pastel silk with your hair smoothed over your ears and your voice never rising above a murmur. The pair of you will raise perfect children and you will forget all about your Rosa, grubbing about in the dirt, looking for something to do with her life.”

“I won’t forget you.”

“You will because I won’t fit. I’ll be an uncomfortable visitor frowning and fidgeting over the tea table. The pair of you will tolerate me as an eccentric poor relation, wheeled out to make up the numbers from time to time.”

“Stop, Rosa. You know I’ll never think of you like that.”

“Oh, don’t cry, Mariella.” She hugged me close and I wept against her shoulder. I couldn’t explain this sudden outburst of grief except that I was still shaken by Henry’s kiss. Rosa’s caresses reminded me of how he had traced the curve of my spine with his thumb. We were wearing summer nightgowns and our bodies, released from the daytime layers of fabric, were shockingly soft and pliable and I felt confused to be lying in her arms so soon after standing in Henry’s. “Why are you crying, silly girl?” she whispered.

“It’s all so complicated. Every time I see Henry I think he will actually propose and he never does. And now you say I’ll lose you if I marry him.”

“You won’t. I was teasing you.”

“I lost you once already, remember, when your stepfather sent us away. Rosa, why did Sir Matthew send Mother and me home so suddenly when we came to stay? Did you ever find out? ”

She ran a lock of my hair between her lips. “He was like that—full of moods and dislikes.”

“At the time you said he thought we were spongers.”

“Did I? Well, maybe that is what he thought.”

“But who would have put that idea into his head? Why did he turn on us? ”

“It’s surely not important now, after all these years.”

“I keep thinking about it. I’ve never forgotten.”

“Good heavens, Stepfather’s dead.” She extracted herself abruptly from my arms and went back to her own bed. “I don’t want even to think about him. I spent most of my life trying to avoid him and now I’ve finally escaped for good, I certainly don’t want to waste time talking about him. Really, does it matter now? ”

I lay in the half-light, wishing she would sleep in a different room for once so I could think clearly. Instead of being full of joy that Henry had nearly proposed I now felt sour and sad. The burden of words that had yet to be clearly spoken was very heavy. No wonder I had remembered being exiled so abruptly from Stukeley. That dread of being caught off guard had gone very deep.

DER BY SHIRE, 1844

 

 

 

O
nly once, apart from on the last day
when he stood over me in the white pavilion, was I alone with Max Stukeley. One evening—my last, as it turned out—I came out of the library, closed the door behind me, and found myself face to face with Max, who glanced first at me, then over my shoulder at the shut door. “Hello, little Mariella.”

I was about to run away but he held me by the arm.

“Hello, Maximilian,” I said.

“What have you been up to in there?”

“Nothing.”

“What’s that book under your arm?”

“Your father said I could borrow it.”

“Is Father in there?”

“Yes.”

“Why?” I tried to escape but he hauled me off to a tucked-away alcove under the stairs where I sat like a frightened rabbit, trying to steady my shaking lips and hands. I could feel Max’s wiry arm next to mine and smell his boyish breath. “Why were you in there with Father? ”

It was the first time I’d ever seen him close up. His eyes were chocolate-brown, almost black, and he had enviably dark lashes. Now that he was concentrating fully on me, it was like being caught in the beam of a lighthouse lamp. “I don’t know any Latin. Your father offered to teach me.”

He seized the little book. “Catullus. Which poems? ”

“Only a couple so far.”

He flicked through the pages then read a line aloud as if he knew exactly what it meant, even though, according to Rosa, he had attended school so little that it was a wonder any learning had gone in at all. “
‘Nulla potest mulier tantum se dicere amatam / vere
... ’ What does Father teach you about these poems?”

“Nothing. I’m learning how to translate them.”

He nodded several times, very fast. “Is he teaching Rosa too? ”

“Rosa already knows Latin. A bit.”

“Does my stepmother know about these lessons? Does your mother? Does Rosa even? ”

I didn’t reply.

Max peered into my face. “Father never gives me lessons.” He was scrutinizing my hair, face, and clothes. Every time his gaze fell on a part of my body I shivered. “I wonder what use you’ll make of this old Latin,” he said, slamming the book shut so hard that I jumped. He tucked it into my hands, leapt up, and gave me an elaborate bow, which involved swinging one hand behind his back, the other across his middle, and making a heel. But as he walked away he turned: “Are you all right, Mariella?”

“Of course.” I bit hard on the inside of my cheeks so that I wouldn’t cry, slid across the bench, ducked under the staircase, and scurried up to where Rosa was lying facedown on the bed, making sketches of her own hand. The book she’d been reading was tossed aside on the pillow.

“Where did you
go
? ” she said. “I’ve been waiting ages.”

“I’ve been talking to Max.”

“
Max
. Why?”

“Because he bumped into me. Because he was there.”

“What did you talk about? ”

“This and that.”