Rose Rivers Read online

Mama has thick carpets, but nearly all the Meissen broke beyond repair. She was devastated, though Papa didn’t seem to mind: he said he’d always thought the Meissen repellent, and joked that Beth was simply expressing her artistic contempt for them. Mama grew angrier than ever, and they had such a serious row that Papa went to stay at his club that night.

  Mama permits Beth to come down to the drawing room nowadays, but has Edie remove the best china, just in case.

  Beth is better behaved now. She is at her best in the afternoon, quiet and docile, and can sometimes be persuaded to sing. She’s always repeated snatches of songs – nursery ditties like ‘Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star’, and music-hall favourites like ‘The Boy I Love Is Up in the Gallery’, which Maggie sings while she dusts. But Nurse Budd has been teaching her hymns, and Beth looks like an angel when she clasps her hands and sings about Jesus.

  ‘I certainly am kept very busy running the house and bringing up my seven children,’ Mama said now. ‘But I’m sure I could make time to sit for my portrait, Mr Walker.’

  MR WALKER COMES every weekday morning and works in Papa’s studio. Mama sits like Patience on a monument, a little smile on her face, her pretty hands clasped, while he dabs at his canvas and keeps up a stream of chatter.

  I sit nearby, acting as a child chaperone, because Papa is mostly out sketching street children to illustrate a new children’s book written by his writer friend, Miss Sarah Smith. Papa says it is a perfect opportunity for me to practise drawing. I am supposed to be drawing Mama. I have made several cursory attempts, but most of the time I am secretly sketching Mr Walker! I can’t get his features right. I shall keep on trying until I get a true likeness.

  I’ve never spent so much time with Mama. She is so very tedious. While Mr Walker works, she prattles on and on. When she starts gesturing, her bracelets tinkle. Sometimes he gently reminds her not to move, but mostly he simply murmurs responses. I don’t think he actually listens to her. He just says yes and no at the appropriate places.

  She talks and talks and talks, yet she doesn’t say anything. It’s all society gossip. She mentions Lord and Lady this and that as if she actually knows them. She talks of their balls and parties as if she’s attended every one. She confides details of their family births and marriages and deaths, and asks Mr Walker if he’s acquainted with any of the younger men. Mr Walker says no.

  She chatters about the latest fashions, discussing the merits of ruching and lace trimming, wondering whether a certain colour would be right for her complexion. Mr Walker says yes.

  She fusses about the servants, complaining that Edie isn’t respectful enough and Mr Hodgson is becoming doddery and Jack Boots too clumsy. She asks Mr Walker his opinion, and he murmurs that the house seems very well run all the same.

  She talks about us children, saying what a happy little soul Phoebe is, and isn’t Clarrie a special sweetheart, and Algie such a lively youngster, and Sebastian remarkably sensitive, and Mr Walker says yes and yes and yes and yes. She barely mentions Beth, briefly referring to the ‘poor dear child’, and he murmurs another sympathetic yes.

  Of course, she sighs over me and wishes I were more ladylike and less wayward, and you’ll never, ever guess what happened today! Mr Walker didn’t answer with a monosyllable. He said, ‘I think Rose is splendid just as she is. Edward says she has promising artistic talent!’

  Mama sniffed. ‘I’m not so sure about that. Artistic talent is wasted on a girl anyway. You don’t get lady artists.’

  ‘Oh yes you do, Mama! What about Lady Butler, who paints all those military scenes!’ I said.

  ‘Hardly a ladylike subject!’

  ‘And the French artist Rosa Bonheur.’

  ‘Do stop interrupting, child. And anyway, she’s French,’ said Mama, as if this meant she couldn’t possibly be respectable.

  ‘I think Rosa Bonheur’s very good at painting horses,’ said Mr Walker.

  ‘Well, I hardly think horses are Rose’s ideal subject matter. She fell off the very first time she went riding and now won’t go back to the stables,’ said Mama. ‘And the Feynsham-Joneses have been so kind too, offering us the use of their ponies. Perhaps Rupert will care to go riding when he comes home for his half-term break. He gets on so well with those sweet Feynsham-Jones girls.’

  That shut me up. I sat silently while Mama boasted endlessly about dear Rupert – top of his form, excelling at sport, the most popular boy in his year.

  Mr Walker didn’t comment.

  ‘Where did you go to school, Mr Walker?’ Mama asked.

  ‘I’m afraid I attended several schools and detested them all,’ he said.

  ‘Why didn’t you like school?’ I burst out. ‘I’d give anything to be able to go! I’d love to learn Latin and Greek and find out about the world.’

  ‘Oh, the lessons weren’t too bad, though I wasn’t really interested in anything but painting,’ said Mr Walker. ‘It was the rest of it I couldn’t bear – the rules, the heartiness, the cruelty, the tedium.’

  ‘Papa didn’t like school either,’ I said. ‘So did you break the rules, Mr Walker?’

  ‘Rose, I don’t think poor Mr Walker wants to be plagued with all your questions,’ Mama said.

  ‘I don’t mind a bit, Mrs Rivers. I’m afraid I did break the rules, Miss Rivers, and consequently had to leave some of the schools prematurely.’

  ‘You mean you were expelled?’ I asked.

  ‘Rose! Hold your tongue!’ said Mama sharply. ‘Of course Mr Walker meant no such thing.’

  He kept quiet, but when I glanced at him he nodded and winked. I longed to ask what he’d done, but I knew Mama would send me away if I continued. I pressed my lips together and drew her, though I found myself digging the point of my pencil into each of her curves and her little pursed mouth. Then I turned the page and drew Mr Walker instead – but not a sketch from life.

  I tried to imagine what he might have done to get expelled from school. I drew comical alternatives: he played tricks on teachers, painted on walls, climbed the topmost tower.

  At the end of the morning Mama looked at her portrait as usual and beamed. ‘Yes, it’s really coming on now. Excellent! Would you like to stay for luncheon, Mr Walker?’ She’d invited him before but he’d always said no. However, today he agreed and said it would be lovely. Mama went bustling off to confer with Cook, wanting to serve something special.

  I went to peer at Mr Walker’s half-finished portrait myself.

  ‘What do you think?’ he asked.

  ‘I think it’s a very fine painting,’ I said.

  ‘But I sense a little hesitation?’

  ‘No, I think it’s wonderful – the colour, the brushwork, the whole composition. I think you’re a marvellous painter, Mr Walker, even better than Papa,’ I told him.

  ‘You’re still not sure though, are you?’ he said, looking amused. ‘Don’t you think I’ve captured a good likeness of your mother?’

  I took a deep breath. ‘Not exactly,’ I said. ‘Your portrait looks remarkably like Mama, but somehow she’s too pretty. And young.’

  Mr Walker smiled at me. ‘Don’t you think that’s the way your mother would like to be seen?’

  ‘Oh yes. So I suppose that makes you a very artful artist.’

  ‘You’re a very perceptive girl, Rose.’

  Is Mr Walker painting such a flattering portrait because he simply likes to please? Or is it because Mama is a wealthy woman and will pay him handsomely, and introduce him to the Feynsham-Joneses and Lady Robson. I’m sure they’d all appreciate flattering portraits too. Years ago Mama persuaded Papa to offer a portrait as a prize for the Christmas Charity Bazaar in aid of Orphan Girls, and the Honourable Mrs Helmsley drew the winning ticket.

  Mrs Helmsley is enormous. Even the strongest whalebone corset can’t control her rolls of fat. Once, when she was taking tea with us, she leaned forward to grab the biggest slice of cake and split her seams. Rupert and I didn’t dare glance at each other because we knew we’d start