Rose Rivers Read online

  ‘In a minute, Papa. You must look at this drawing. You too, Mr Walker!’

  Papa took the sketchbook from me and stared at Clover’s drawing. Then he looked up at me, his face a picture in itself. ‘Did you sketch this, Rose?’ he asked.

  ‘Of course not, Papa,’ I said impatiently. ‘You know full well I’m no good at drawing. Clover did it, just now, when the children were resting.’

  ‘I knew the child had ability. That was partly what drew me to her in the first place. It seemed so valiant, somehow, a little girl from the gutters chalking pictures and painting faces on dolls. But this is something else – look, Paris!’

  Paris stared too. He liked my comical drawings, he found them amusing – but my work didn’t make his eyes light up like this.

  ‘Which one’s Clover? The little moppet with all the dark hair? And she hasn’t had any training?’

  ‘None – but I’ll make sure she does now,’ said Papa. ‘I shall instruct her myself.’

  ‘That’s marvellous, Papa – but what about Mama? She surely won’t allow it,’ I said anxiously.

  ‘She won’t know. I’ll make sure of that. I’ll think of some ploy,’ said Papa. ‘I’ll go and find Clover right this minute.’

  ‘You won’t get her into trouble, you promise?’ I begged.

  ‘Don’t worry.’ He gave me an absent-minded pat on the shoulder and then hurried off.

  I was left alone with Paris. He was watching me intently.

  ‘Do you mind your father being so bowled over by the little maid’s work?’ he asked.

  ‘No, I’m truly pleased for Clover. She’s my friend. I just wish Papa could be as proud of me,’ I said, trying to be completely honest.

  ‘I’m proud of you and your work, Rose,’ said Paris.

  ‘But we both know I’m nowhere near as talented as Clover.’

  ‘You have a different talent, that’s all.’

  ‘Not good enough for Punch though.’

  ‘I think it’s simply the wrong journal to appreciate your work. It’s run by a brotherhood of self-satisfied men. They don’t want a slip of a girl showing them up,’ said Paris. ‘It was stupid of me to get your hopes up, Rose. I’m so sorry. Here, have a slice of cake.’

  ‘For goodness’ sake, you and Papa keep offering me cake! I’m not Clarrie,’ I said indignantly, but I took a slice all the same, and a chunk of cheese.

  ‘What do you think of Pennycuik?’ I asked.

  ‘Well, it’s very interesting,’ Paris said. ‘I’ve always wanted to go to Scotland – but perhaps I was thinking more of the Highlands.’

  ‘I don’t suppose it compares to France,’ I said.

  ‘It was very kind of your father to invite me. Well, your mother too.’ He paused. ‘I’m afraid I’ve offended her.’

  ‘In what way?’ I asked huskily.

  ‘She was clearly thinking I’d continue with her portrait while we were here. And then she wasn’t pleased when your papa whisked me off. How can I make it up to her?’ Paris asked.

  Did he really care about hurting her feelings? I wondered. Or was he simply worried she might not pay for the portrait?

  ‘I think if you dance with her tonight she will find it easy to forgive you,’ I said.

  ‘Oh dear Lord, do I have to dance? I have two left feet when it comes to the waltz,’ said Paris.

  ‘It’s not that sort of dancing, it’s Scottish reels,’ I said.

  ‘That’s worse!’

  ‘It can be quite good fun actually. It’s very fast, and you whirl round and round.’

  ‘Then you’ll have to take pity and show me what to do,’ said Paris.

  ‘Very well,’ I said, sighing as if it would be a chore. Secretly I was thrilled that he was actually asking me to dance with him.

  I took another slice of cake and munched it happily.

  Papa came back beaming, still clutching Clover’s drawing pad. ‘There, I’ve talked to your mama, Rose, and it’s all fixed! I shall be giving young Clover a drawing lesson every weekday morning,’ he said triumphantly.

  I stared at him in astonishment. ‘Mama’s never agreed to that, surely?’ I said.

  ‘Well, not exactly,’ he admitted. ‘I found Clover in the nursery reading a story to Sebastian and Clarrie, and showered her with praise. She nearly burst into tears, bless her. She’s clearly not used to praise. But then we heard a terrible roaring downstairs. Young Algie had sneaked off to slide down the banisters, and had fallen and bumped his head. It was only a little bump, but he wouldn’t stop crying until Clover caught him up in her arms and said she needed to mend his head with vinegar and brown paper, just like Jack’s crown in the nursery rhyme, and that cheered him up immensely.

  ‘Your mama was very put out and inclined to blame Clover for Algie’s naughtiness, but I did my best to defend her. I said that the Queen of England herself could not quell our number three son. Algie took offence at that and started roaring again, declaring it wasn’t fair, he wanted to be my number one son, bless him. He’s not a bad little chap, you know. I think he just needs more attention,’ said Papa indulgently.

  ‘I think he gets too much attention already,’ I said. ‘But I don’t see how Algie sliding down the banisters led to Mama letting you give Clover lessons.’

  ‘I said I’d rather like to do a portrait of him. Your mama said he would never be able to sit still, which was reasonable, but I said the sessions would only last a half hour, and Clover could sing him nursery rhymes or make up little stories to amuse him. Mama said Nurse wouldn’t be able to manage without Clover, but Nurse loved the idea of Algie being spirited away, even for half an hour. So it’s all settled. When we get home I shall start a portrait of Algie and, while I’m painting, Clover can be my little apprentice, learning how to mix paint and work out perspective and achieve special effects.’

  ‘While gabbling nursery rhymes?’ I said.

  ‘Oh, come along, Rose, I’m sure it will work splendidly,’ said Papa. He looked at me carefully. ‘You don’t mind, do you, darling? I thought you’d taken Clover under your wing.’

  ‘I have, I have. Of course I don’t mind, Papa, I’m happy for her,’ I said.

  ‘That’s all I want – for everyone to be happy,’ he said. He clapped Paris on the shoulder. ‘You’re happy too, aren’t you, my friend? You’ve certainly made me happy this New Year’s Eve. I don’t usually care for these trips to the frozen north. My in-laws can be a little forbidding, especially my father-in-law. I don’t think he’s ever forgiven me for enticing his precious daughter down south.’

  Grandpapa might ignore Papa, but he’s fond of us children, especially Rupert. Grandmama had several sons, but they all died in infancy, so their firstborn grandson has a special place in their hearts.

  Grandpapa and Rupert came back glowing from their ride, Grandpapa full of praise for Rupert’s natural horsemanship.

  ‘You’ll have to come and stay longer. You’ve got the makings of a fine horseman. I’ll take you out hunting,’ he said as they went upstairs to get changed for the party.

  ‘I’d love that, sir,’ said Rupert.

  ‘That’s the spirit,’ said Grandpapa. He saw me trailing after them. ‘I’d take you too, Rose, but I hear you don’t care for horses.’

  ‘That’s putting it mildly, Grandpapa,’ I said.

  He seemed tickled by my response. ‘So you’re determined to be an artist like your father, eh?’

  ‘No. I haven’t got the talent,’ I said, sighing.

  ‘So what do you like to do, lassie?’ he asked.

  I thought carefully. ‘I like to read, especially poetry and novels. I like to learn. I like to study.’

  Grandpapa peered down at my legs.

  ‘Grandpapa?’

  ‘Just checking the colour of your stockings. Seems to me you’re turning into a bluestocking,’ he said, chuckling.

  Rupert joined in the laughter. I was furious. Why was it so funny? I couldn’t stop Grandpapa, but I thumped Rupe