The Rose of Sebastopol (25 page)

 

 

We couldn’t understand it. Our circle of friends, our governesses, the church ladies, and servants had been knitting furiously until our hands ached from turning out mittens, stockings, hats, and vests; I had donated my trousseau allowance to
The Times
fund; Mrs. Hardcastle’s nephew at Oxford had sent three waistcoats and an overcoat; and still soldiers were dying in their hundreds in the trenches above Sebastopol, because they were starving and their toes were dropping off.

“Surely,”
said Mrs. Hardcastle, whose European trip had now been postponed until late spring, “what with steamships and railways and telegraph and factories, it is not beyond the wit of man to get a few pairs of socks to Russia and then have them distributed through the proper channels. I’ve heard that the French soldiers have huts while all our British troops have to sleep in tents and most of those were torn to shreds or blown away in the hurricane.
Surely
anybody would know that you can’t go camping in December.”

Father went to numerous meetings in Westminster to get things put right. He said our factories were churning out hospital beds, nails for huts, frames for stretchers, tracks for the railway, and more and more shells and bullets (courtesy of Horatio Stukeley’s lead, presumably) at a rate unprecedented in history, so it was outrageous that our men hadn’t yet knocked the Russians into the sea.

But although our troops had thus far been singularly unsuccessful above Sebastopol, they had achieved one astonishing victory at home in that Aunt Isabella continued to make a miraculous recovery. She was dressed by nine thirty each morning in one of her boundless black silks and thereafter installed herself by the fire with the sewing circle, or set herself apart to write letters. It transpired that she had other acquaintances in London beside ourselves, connections of the grand Derbyshire families she had known through her round of dinners and afternoon teas, and she now roused herself to pick up every thread, however tenuous.

Before another week was over, calling cards began to arrive and Ruth was sent flouncing into the drawing room to announce an assortment of lady visitors. Within a fortnight Isabella was borrowing the carriage to return their calls, by the end of three weeks she had achieved a dinner invitation to a house in Fitzroy Square, and a couple of days after that we learnt that a gentleman had called to see Lady Stukeley.

LONDON, 1855

 

 

 

T
he Governesses’ Home was finally
to be opened at the end of January by Lady Furlong, a friend of Mrs. Hardcastle. Our cook made a celebratory layered sponge cake and Mother asked me to ice the top with a pattern of rosettes and to inscribe some suitable words of congratulation.

On the day before the opening I duly went down to the kitchen where the cook had left the rounds of cake on cooling trays while she took her afternoon nap. The trouble was that all I cared about was when next I would hear from Henry or Rosa. Every minute I yearned to know what they were doing and whether they were safe, and this life of speculation was much more vivid to me than anything in Fosse House. Normally I could rely on my hands to perform deftly any small domestic task but now icing sugar flew from the sieve and made me sneeze, and after I’d added glycerin and lemon juice I slopped in far too much beaten egg white, so that the icing was a puddle. The more sugar I poured in, the more it dissolved. In a mood of reckless despair I spooned the white syrup onto the cake and watched it slide across the top and down the sides. When I tried to scrape it back with a spatula I only succeeded in breaking the surface and mixing crumbs into the icing.

The cook woke up and found me weeping into the wet mixture. “Well, I’m not making another cake,” she said, “and there’s no serving that. End of story.”

The next afternoon at the Governesses’ Home, Lady Furlong cut a length of pink ribbon and shouted into the frail ears of the grateful inmates over tea and scones in the crowded parlor. There was no cake.

That same day
The Times
reported that Parliament had voted for a select committee to investigate the conduct of the war in the Crimea. The prime minister duly resigned and by early February Lord Palmerston had been invited to form a new government though he was the queen’s third choice and Mrs. Hardcastle didn’t approve: “What with the dear governesses, and poor one-armed Lord Raglan in the Crimea, and now Lord Palmerston as prime minister, I feel as if I never want to see another septuagenarian. I do wonder how these dear old people can go on so long, especially in such a bad winter . . .”

Father also had mixed views about Lord Palmerston, whom he called opportunistic (“Takes one to know one,” he added), but it was generally agreed that at least Palmerston would bang heads together. And in any case the newspapers reported that the newly opened railway line between Balaklava Harbor and the British camps above Sebastopol would mean efficient transportation of food, warm clothes, and fuel. Sheepskin coats had arrived, admittedly so late that the men sweated inside them, but night duty in the trenches surely must be much more bearable. And the weather was apparently so much better that the troops were being treated to sudden displays of wildflowers, including crocuses and hyacinths, just like in English cottage gardens, and it was said that the men were better fed than if they’d been at home and were growing fat and lazy.

Father’s business was now doing so well that we were able to employ a footman who took over Ruth’s more formal duties. His name was James Featherbridge. (“Probably christened plain Jim Bridges,” said Aunt Isabella. “I know that trick.”) Poor Ruth was in a sulk because she was no longer allowed to answer the door. We also had a proper vegetable gardener, who promised Mother we’d soon be eating strawberries and asparagus by the sackful, and the cook employed an additional kitchen maid to help with the dinners, which were now held regularly for Father’s important colleagues. He was rarely in the house except for these events and spent much of his time in the carriage hurtling from committee to building site. Henry’s colleague, Dr. Snow, had given evidence to Parliament that cholera was spread by dirty drinking water rather than by unsavory smells in the air, and if this idea caught on, said Father, it would have serious consequences for the building trade, because new regulations about waste pipes and water pumps would have to be rushed through. Although everyone wished to live in a more sanitary city, it was best to get on with the latest projects before any such costly laws came into force.

We received regular letters from Henry but only one more from Rosa, a scribbled note from Koulali Hospital, near Skutari, dated February 2: