Rose Rivers Read online

  There was a long pause.

  ‘Yes, madam,’ Clover muttered.

  Nurse shook her head at her, and told her sharply to get back to the nursery. She wouldn’t let Clover carry baby Phoebe, but she couldn’t stop Sebastian and Algie and Clarrie hanging miserably onto her skirts.

  I followed too, and while Nurse was busy giving Phoebe another bath to warm her up, and the three young ones went to the schoolroom, I seized hold of Clover and pulled her out into the corridor where we wouldn’t be heard.

  She winced as I held her arm, and I wondered if Edie and Maggie had been unnecessarily forceful when they searched her.

  ‘It’s all right,’ I hissed. ‘I won’t tell, I swear I won’t. I don’t blame you in the slightest.’

  I expected her expression to soften, but she stared at me as if I were her enemy instead of her friend.

  ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ she said, her chin jutting.

  ‘Oh, Clover, I saw the wretched brooch there, in the middle of your bed! Why didn’t you hide it? They’d have found it straight away!’ I said.

  ‘I didn’t put it there. I never stole the brooch,’ she said through gritted teeth.

  ‘But – but surely—’ I stammered, flustered by her attitude. I thought she’d be so relieved, so grateful that I’d saved her from dismissal, maybe even from prison.

  ‘I’m not a thief,’ she said, her green eyes glittering. ‘I stole a torn picture book off a barrow once, but that was long ago. I’d never steal so much as a penny from your family!’

  ‘But I saw the brooch in your bed!’

  ‘I didn’t put it there,’ she said, tears starting to spill.

  ‘All right. I believe you,’ I said, to comfort her.

  ‘No, you don’t,’ said Clover, and she went back into the nursery and slammed the door on me.

  I heard Nurse telling her off, and warning her never to go near the mistress’s room ever again. Clover didn’t say a word. What was the matter with her? Why was she acting so strangely?

  I stared at the closed door, suddenly doubting. I knew that the brooch had been in Clover’s bed – but it had been left in such an obvious place, almost as if she wanted someone to find it. Why would she do that? Or could someone else have put it there?

  I opened the nursery door.

  ‘What is it now, Miss Rose?’ said Nurse.

  ‘I need to talk to Clover.’

  ‘Stop interfering, Miss Rose. Clover hasn’t got time to talk to you now. We’re all behind like the lamb’s tail after all the to-do. Run along,’ she said firmly.

  So I went up to the studio. Mama had the brooch pinned on her dress and was sitting talking to Paris, her eyes as blue and sparkling as the brooch. It seemed incredible to think that she’d been in such a fury ten minutes ago.

  She kept tossing her head and simpering, posing with one finger pressed into her plump cheek to make a dimple. Paris gazed at her intently, making little strokes on his canvas with his paintbrush. It seemed uncomfortably like stroking Mama herself.

  I hovered, not sure what to do. I was keen to be with Paris, but revolted by Mama’s pantomime. I feared that I might have acted in the same way when we were in such close proximity on the window seat. Dear heavens, had I sparkled and simpered too?

  I didn’t think Paris had even noticed me creep in, but as I backed towards the door he looked up.

  ‘Where’s your sketchbook, Rose? Half the morning’s gone already. Here, use my drawing pad,’ he said, offering it to me. ‘You’ll find pencils in my jacket pocket on the door hook.’

  ‘I think Rose is tired of drawing,’ said Mama. ‘And I’m not sure it’s a good thing for her to keep missing her lessons.’

  ‘Of course you know best, Mrs Rivers, but I wonder if she can learn much more from the dear old biddy I’ve seen with the other children,’ said Paris.

  ‘Oh, you’re so right!’ I said. ‘Miss Rayner tries hard, but she teaches us from those little Peter Parley books – lists of facts that we have to learn parrot fashion. I wish Mama would let me attend a proper school like my brother.’

  ‘Young girls don’t need serious schooling,’ said Mama. ‘If you’re going to be argumentative and distract us, then you’d better go away. Mr Walker is an artist and needs to concentrate.’

  I found a pencil and sat down at the side of the room, where they couldn’t see what I was doing. I flicked through the pages of Paris’s drawing pad as silently as I could, unable to help myself.

  I looked at his recent sketches – studies of Mama’s hands, her rings very tight on her fingers, and of her eyebrows, her nose and her little pursed mouth. It was strange seeing her dissected like that.

  There was also a sketch of me sitting on the window seat! I stared at it. Had Paris drawn me from life, looking up from the hall or down from the landing, while I was too absorbed in my book to notice? I couldn’t work it out from the angle of the drawing. Maybe he’d done it from memory. I was thrilled to think that he’d wanted to draw me – though it wasn’t a flattering portrait.

  In every sketch he had softened Mama considerably, but he seemed to have hardened me. I was frowning in a very intense way as I looked down at my book. There were two little pinched lines above my nose, and my eyes were narrowed. My hair was looped back untidily behind my ears and I’d kicked off my shoes and socks. The shading on my bare feet made them look grubby.

  I knew what I looked like, of course. I saw myself in the looking glass every day. But I hadn’t realized I was so fierce, so harsh, so untidy. I could understand why Mama was so impatient with me.

  Was it a good thing or a bad thing that Paris had drawn me with such accuracy? Had he not bothered to flatter me because I wasn’t his patron and wouldn’t be paying him? Or could he possibly like me the way I was?

  I couldn’t decide. Then I flicked back another page and saw a sketch of a stranger. She was a beautiful dark-haired woman wearing a long embroidered silky gown that was slipping off her shoulders. She stared straight out of the page, smiling.

  There were more sketches of her, page after page. I saw her in an evening dress with her hair up; in a demure white blouse and neat tie; in her corset and lace-edged drawers. There was even a drawing of her in her tin bath wearing nothing at all. It was a back view, but she was looking round at the artist, smiling again.

  I turned the pages gingerly, as if the paper were scorching hot. I saw a city scene with a wide, tree-lined river and a graceful bridge and little stalls selling old books. I didn’t need to see the medieval buildings in the background and the CAFÉ DE PARIS sign outside a restaurant to realize that this was France. Sitting at one of the little tables outside the restaurant was the dark-haired woman with a glass of wine in her hand.

  So she was the friend Paris had mentioned. I flipped through several more sketches, scowling at them all. Then I turned back to the first clean page and started my own drawing. It was a set of pictures that told a story, like a little child’s reading primer. At the top of the page I printed The Artist Tells a Story, and drew a little caricature of Paris. Here is the Artist. He is a nice man.

  Then I drew him painting Mama, making her look very fat and very silly. He paints pictures.

  I did another picture of Paris smiling at Mama while she simpered coquettishly. He tells the lady she is very pretty.

  I made Paris yawn behind his easel, his mouth wide. He finds this very tiring.

  The next little sketch showed Paris packing a bag, a long scarf wound round his neck. He needs a holiday.

  I’d filled up my page, so I started another. I drew him on a big boat looking out to sea. The dark woman was at his side. He takes a trip with his friend. I drew them strolling by the Seine. They have a lovely time; dancing in a bar. They have lots of lovely times; then in a restaurant with the waiter presenting a bill. Paris was patting his pockets, the woman peering into her purse. Oh dear, they ran out of money! I did another drawing of the pair on the boat going the other way. The Artist has