Rose Rivers Read online

  ‘It was stupid of me too, because obviously I can never be a fine lady,’ said Clover. ‘I can’t see a girl from Cripps Alley going to a ball like Cinderella and meeting a handsome prince.’

  ‘What sort of man would you like to meet, Clover?’ I asked.

  ‘I’ve met him. Mr Dolly is the sweetest man in all the world. When I’m older I’d like to set up a new shop with him – miles and miles away from Mildred. It’ll be just Mr Dolly and me, and all our dolls. They’ll stay still and silent, never needing to be fed or washed or changed,’ said Clover, chuckling.

  ‘But isn’t he an old man?’

  ‘Yes, he’s been just like a father to me.’

  ‘Wouldn’t you like to meet someone more romantic?’ I asked.

  ‘I don’t much care for romance,’ said Clover. I felt her wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. ‘Big boys used to grab me and kiss me, and I hated it.’

  ‘But you’re only a child!’

  ‘It’s different where I come from.’

  ‘So kisses don’t feel good?’ I asked shyly.

  ‘I suppose it depends. No one’s kissed you then, Rose?’

  ‘No! And I don’t want anyone to either,’ I declared, not quite truthfully. ‘Let’s go to sleep now. It must be very late and we have to be up before six.’

  Phoebe still woke at dawn for her early-morning feed, and Clover had to be up to prepare it. I scurried silently down to my room before the rest of the household stirred.

  I didn’t mind waking early. I stretched out in my comfortable bed, enjoying the soft pillows. The next night I decided to take one with me – and my thick pink quilt because it was so cold in the attic. I sorted out little gifts for Clover too: a spare bar of lavender soap, half a bottle of my rainbow shampoo, a tortoiseshell comb, two handkerchiefs and a little box of sugar plums.

  The sugar plums were actually Algie’s, a present from a sentimental old lady in the park, but he’d only have eaten them all at once and made himself sick. When he discovered they were missing he kicked up a terrible fuss, but everyone was sure he’d eaten them himself. I know it’s despicable to rob your little brother, even if he’s Algie, but I felt that Clover was more deserving.

  I gave her books too, though she’s got no time to read them. I’ve chosen A Little Princess and Jane Eyre, because they’re about girls with troubles and I felt that Clover might identify with them. I told her to read only the first ten chapters of Jane Eyre as she doesn’t care for romance. I don’t either.

  I’m never going to let a boy make an idiot of me like poor silly Pamela. I think falling in love is foolish. It doesn’t make you happy. It doesn’t last. Look at Mama and Papa. Mama has a daguerreotype that was taken on their honeymoon. She keeps it in an ornate frame on her dressing table. The couple standing together are barely recognizable as my parents. Mama is gazing up at Papa, a radiant smile on her face, and he is clasping her hand and looking down on her ardently. Now they cannot be in the same room together without snapping.

  I think Papa still longs for Louisa, while Mama languishes on her chaise longue thinking of Paris. They are so foolish. Especially Mama. Paris is half her age, and he is obviously never, ever coming back.

  I’m the foolish one! Paris has come back!

  He arrived at half past nine this morning, carrying his battered bag of paints and brushes in one hand, his palette in the other, whistling as he walked across the hall and up the stairs. I was sitting on the window seat, scarcely able to believe it was really him. He gave me a cheery smile.

  ‘Hello there, Rose,’ he said casually, as if he hadn’t been missing for four whole weeks.

  I gaped at him foolishly.

  ‘Whenever I pulled a face like that, my old nurse used to say the wind might change and then I’d be stuck with a mouth like a goldfish for ever,’ he said.

  ‘You had a nurse?’ I said.

  I’d imagined him being brought up in a romantic garret with glamorous artistic parents who didn’t give a fig for society and its rules. I was genuinely astonished.

  ‘Was your mother an artist too?’ I asked, thinking she probably scraped together a nurse’s wages so that she was free to paint.

  ‘My mother?’ said Paris. ‘Well, I think she did a little genteel watercolouring when she was a girl.’

  ‘What about your father?’

  He laughed. ‘He’s a stockbroker. I don’t think that’s a very artistic profession, do you?’

  ‘Well, maybe not.’ I took a deep breath. ‘Mr Walker, where have you been?’

  ‘I’ve had a little holiday abroad,’ he said. ‘But now I’m all set to get your mother’s portrait finished.’

  ‘Abroad?’ I repeated. ‘But you didn’t say you were going.’

  ‘I didn’t know I was until the opportunity arose. That’s what being an artist is all about, Rose – acting spontaneously!’ he said. Then he looked more serious. ‘Is your mother very cross with me?’

  ‘I don’t think she’s a very spontaneous person herself. I’m not sure she’d understand your going away on a whim,’ I said.

  ‘Mmm,’ said Paris thoughtfully. He moved closer. ‘Budge up a bit.’

  He sat down beside me on the window seat. I breathed in his distinctive smell of oil paint and tobacco and cologne.

  ‘Can you help me concoct a convincing story to appease Mama?’ he said. ‘I’d really like to continue with her portrait.’

  ‘And get paid,’ I added.

  ‘Absolutely,’ said Paris. ‘You’re very sharp, Miss Rivers.’

  ‘It would probably help if you told me where you really were,’ I said.

  ‘I told you. Abroad. In my namesake city, as a matter of fact. Have you ever been to Paris, Rose?’

  ‘Hmm,’ I said vaguely.

  ‘It’s such a beautiful city,’ he said, shaking his head.

  ‘Yes, isn’t it,’ I agreed, though apart from learning that Paris was the capital of France I knew nothing whatsoever about it.

  ‘What do you like most about Paris?’ he asked.

  I was stuck. ‘Just … the atmosphere,’ I said.

  He laughed. ‘You’ve never been there, have you?’

  ‘No, of course I haven’t.’

  ‘I loved it there – for the light, the pale creamy grey of all the beautiful buildings, the green of the Seine, the vibrant colours of the pretty girls in their fashionable clothes – and the art galleries most of all. I spent entire days in the Louvre, wandering around in awe. But the new painters are the most exciting – Monet, Renoir, Degas. How I would love to paint like them! I don’t suppose your mother would let me start her portrait all over again and paint in the new way? No tedious detail, no delicate little brush strokes, just big bold impressions that get right to the truth of the subject.’

  ‘I don’t think Mama would care for that approach,’ I said. ‘But I think it sounds very exciting.’

  ‘Perhaps I’ll paint your portrait then, Rose. Sitting on the window seat in your green dress, with the sun streaming in and highlighting your hair. Would you like that?’

  Would I? I wasn’t sure if Paris was joking or not. I knew that Mama would never pay for a portrait of me. I wasn’t sure she would even pay for her own portrait now. She’d feel that Paris had let her down badly by gadding off to France.

  ‘What made you suddenly decide to go to Paris?’ I asked.

  ‘French friends of mine,’ he said. ‘They were very persuasive.’

  ‘Are they artists too?’

  He nodded. ‘Mostly.’

  I thought of Paris with those other young men, wandering around the city, gazing at paintings, drinking wine in bars, singing under the stars.

  ‘You’re so lucky,’ I said enviously. ‘I’d give anything to be an artist.’

  ‘I think you’ll become a brilliant graphic artist, known for your sharp wit,’ said Paris.

  ‘I wish you wouldn’t tease me,’ I said.

  ‘I’m not teasing. Run and fetch your ske