Rose Rivers Read online

  The guests looked like figures from a fairy tale, the ladies in their white dresses, the men sporting their tartan. Clover was startled by the wheeze and wail of the bagpipes and put her hands over her ears. I hate the noise they make too, though I can’t admit it to my fervently Scottish grandparents.

  Clover gave a timid smile when she saw me watching her. I wondered what she was thinking. Was she wishing she could swap places with me? Was she contrasting this ostentatious display of twinkling glass and over-bright gilt with her hovel in Cripps Alley? Was she planning the picture she’d draw tomorrow? Would Papa contrive to send her to art school when she was older? Might she be a serious painter, with her work exhibited at the Academy?

  ‘You’re looking very earnest, Rose,’ said Paris, sitting down beside me. ‘What are you thinking?’

  ‘I’m just daydreaming about Clover. She’s really talented, isn’t she?’ I said.

  ‘Yes, she is. Much better than I was at her age,’ he agreed. ‘My, this is an amazing room, isn’t it?’

  ‘I used to be dazzled by it, but now I find it too ornate and bright. I wish Grandmama would commission you to redecorate it. I know you’d make it much more simple and elegant,’ I said, remembering the rooms he’d designed at the Palace Hotel.

  ‘I don’t think my decorative style would please your grandmama at all. She certainly doesn’t care for my personal style,’ said Paris, smiling ruefully.

  He was the only man in the room not wearing the kilt. He wore his smartest suit, which wasn’t very smart at all. It was well cut, the cloth good, but it was terribly worn at the cuffs. His white shirt was clean but crumpled, and he wore a crimson knotted scarf instead of a tie.

  ‘I rather think she’d prefer it if I didn’t appear on the dance floor – but would you be my partner if we lurked in a distant corner?’ Paris asked.

  ‘I would love to dance with you,’ I said.

  ‘You will have to teach me the steps.’

  ‘I’m not sure of them myself. I’m pretty hopeless at dancing,’ I admitted.

  ‘That’s very comforting. We’ll encourage each other. Come on, let’s have a go,’ said Paris, offering me his arm.

  I hoped he wouldn’t feel me trembling. I’d never danced with anyone who wasn’t a relation. I generally danced with Rupert, though Papa occasionally took me up for a reel. I’d danced with Sebastian, who was a surprisingly good dancer. But I’d never danced with a strange man – though of course Paris wasn’t strange at all.

  I didn’t dare look in Mama’s direction.

  The floor was very crowded and we had to struggle round the edge. The Lord Provost and his wife lacked one couple for their set. Perhaps people were too overawed to join them. The wife beckoned to Paris, clearly not minding his bohemian dress.

  ‘You’re very kind, madam, but I’m afraid neither Rose nor I are accomplished dancers. We are going to caper by ourselves in a corner,’ he said, bowing to her.

  She gave a squeaky giggle of regret, her nose very pink.

  ‘Who was that eager lady with the hairy husband?’ Paris murmured when we were out of earshot.

  ‘They’re the Lord and Lady Provost. They’re very grand. Grandmama is thrilled that they’re attending,’ I explained.

  ‘Goodness,’ he said, pretending to be impressed. He looked around the crowded room. ‘Do you know all these people, Rose?’

  ‘Hardly any of them. They’re not just from Dundee – there’s a whole contingent from Perth, and Lord Mackay from Forfar has a large party from London staying with him. Grandmama’s so excited to have real lords and ladies at her ball!’

  ‘And one dissolute impoverished artist,’ Paris said.

  ‘I think you’re a very distinguished guest,’ I said. ‘Wait till you’ve had a painting hung in the Academy. Mama is right, people will flock to your side. I remember what it was like when Papa did his famous portrait of the Honourable Louisa Mayhorne.’

  ‘So you think people will be agog to see my portrait of the very worthy Jeannie Rivers?’ Paris asked, eyebrows raised.

  I felt a delicious thrill when he mocked Mama – yet I was also uncomfortable, because she was still my mother. I was free to mock her, but somehow it didn’t feel right when Paris did.

  ‘Perhaps,’ I said. ‘Right, we’ve reached the corner. Let’s dance!’

  I showed him the steps, pointing my feet alternately, and then we whirled around, doing our own independent reel. The floor was so crowded that no one could see us. Paris proved to be a good dancer – better than Papa, who often started with the wrong foot or set off in the wrong direction. It wasn’t quite like dancing with Rupert either.

  I craned my neck to see if he was dancing. Yes, with a real beauty, an older girl with flaming red hair and a green tartan sash, the most striking young woman in the whole room. Trust Rupert! She looked a little like Hetty the foundling girl, though much better fed.

  Paris saw me staring at her. ‘My word, Rupert’s very bold! She seems charmed by him too. Is he really only thirteen?’

  ‘Well, he’s my twin, so of course he is,’ I said. ‘Though I know I look much younger.’

  ‘You seem older than your age in many ways, Rose,’ said Paris.

  ‘But I don’t look it, do I? It’s so unfair. I agree, Rupert looks years older than me.’

  ‘I think you look perfect just the way you are. I really do want to paint your portrait. Perhaps it will be your portrait that will set those crowds flocking!’

  ‘They will flock to mock!’ I said. It was difficult to talk and dance at the same time, so I stopped and leaned against the wall, and Paris did too. We were continuing our companionable chat when Mama suddenly came bursting through the dancers.

  ‘There you are! Rose, what are you thinking of, skulking in a corner with Mr Walker,’ she demanded.

  ‘She’s been teaching me to dance, Mrs Rivers. We’ve had to find a discreet corner so that I don’t feel a laughing stock,’ he said.

  ‘Rose shouldn’t keep demanding your attention! It’s very naughty of her. You must come and mingle, dear boy. This is your opportunity to make the right contacts. I will introduce you to lots of wealthy, influential people. Apparently there are titled folk from London here too. My father hunts with Lord Mackay, so it shouldn’t be too hard to gain an introduction,’ Mama burbled.

  She took Paris’s arm and started steering him away. He looked over his shoulder at me, pulling a comical face. I followed in their wake, realizing that my sash had twisted and my hair ribbon had come undone.

  Grandmama seized hold of me this time.

  ‘Really, Rose, do tidy yourself up! Your mama is insisting on meeting Lord Mackay and his party, and you will have to be introduced too. Rupert is already a big hit with one of the London lassies, bless him.’ She nodded at the flame-haired girl, who was dancing in a very lively manner. Her sash had stayed in place and her flying curls still looked decorative.

  ‘Don’t scowl like that, Rose!’ Grandmama said sharply.

  Grandpapa was talking to Lord Mackay, who started introducing Mama and Paris to his house party.

  ‘May I introduce Lord and Lady Marchpane,’ he said, presenting the most senior couple. Lord Marchpane was pale yellow, and damp from energetic dancing. I had to wipe my hand on my dress after I’d shaken his hand. Lady Marchpane was thin and white and brittle as chalk, looking as if she might snap at any moment. Then there was another older couple, Sir Edmund and Lady Fanshawe. Sir Edmund made a great to-do of repeating his name, with the emphasis on the Sir. Perhaps he was newly knighted. They were clearly very rich because red-cheeked Lady Fanshawe was glittering with diamonds: earrings, bracelets on both wrists, a necklace and a huge diamond ring. They made Mama’s sapphires look very insignificant.

  The last gentleman from London was Scottish, but he was presently living in Lord Mackay’s townhouse near Regent’s Park. He was a lord too – Lord Hirst, Lord Mackay’s nephew by marriage. He was fair and square-chinned and broad-shouldered,