Rose Rivers Read online

  Beth and Clover were having their lunch with Nurse and the children in the nursery. I had the room to myself. I lay down on the truckle bed and put my hands over my ears, trying to shut out the sound of Paris’s voice waxing lyrical about Miss Wentworth.

  He wasn’t being deliberately cruel. He had no idea how much he was hurting me. None of them seemed to feel the way I did. They didn’t seem to understand what it was to love someone. Grandmama and Grandpapa had been married for forty years and were considered a perfect couple, but I’d never seen them share a single affectionate gesture. Mama and Papa might once have been in love, but they’d seemed on the brink of a shameful separation. Rupert was already carelessly toying with the feelings of every girl he came across. And Paris was just as bad – worse, really, because for all his fancy ways Rupert was still a child, whereas Paris was a grown man and knew what he was doing.

  I heard footsteps coming along the corridor, steady masculine steps. I thought it must be Papa, and sat up quickly, trying to tidy my hair, hoping I didn’t look too dreadful. Poor Papa – first a distraught wife, and now a despairing daughter.

  There was a knock on the door.

  ‘Rose? Is this your room?’

  It wasn’t Papa, it was Paris! I sat still, not knowing whether to answer or not. I didn’t want to talk to him, not now. But when I heard the footsteps start up again, I found myself rushing to the door.

  ‘Yes?’ I said, flinging it open.

  ‘There you are! Are you all right?’ he asked anxiously.

  ‘Yes, I just felt a little faint,’ I said, not wanting to admit I’d been sick because it sounded so childish.

  ‘Perhaps you were drinking wine last night?’ Paris said. ‘I know Rupert had several glasses.’

  ‘Well, I didn’t!’ I said. ‘Rupert might be my twin, but we behave very differently.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I was only teasing you,’ said Paris. ‘Don’t be cross with me, Rose. I’ve got something exciting to tell you!’

  I turned away and went over to the window, staring out at the garden.

  ‘Don’t you want to hear what it is?’ said Paris, coming into the room.

  ‘Not particularly,’ I said, resting my forehead on the cold windowpane.

  ‘It’s about Miss Wentworth, one of Lord Mackay’s guests,’ said Paris.

  ‘I know who she is,’ I mumbled.

  ‘Rose? Are you still feeling faint?’

  ‘Not at all,’ I said, though the garden was a blur.

  ‘Miss Wentworth was telling me all about her life at the Royal Holloway. It sounds as if she’s having a marvellous time,’ said Paris.

  ‘Good for her,’ I said flatly.

  ‘She’s started editing a student paper with a feminine perspective,’ he went on. ‘She showed me the latest issue this morning. You would love it, Rose.’

  ‘I doubt it. I’m not the least bit interested in fashion or crochet patterns or romantic stories,’ I said.

  ‘Not that sort of women’s paper, silly. Miss Wentworth’s paper is satirical, very humorous and political. She’s called it Judy – and she’s had the wit to send a copy to the editor of Punch. Half of literary London is reading it now. Of course, it helps that her father is a well-known newspaper proprietor, and assists her with the distribution, but she’s still done remarkably well to make such a mark,’ Paris said enthusiastically. ‘Rose? Aren’t you interested now?’

  ‘Not really,’ I said, still with my back to him. I tried to sound bored, but I was struggling not to burst into jealous tears.

  ‘Well, I was interested – because I thought it would be a splendid showcase for your work. I had your Christmas card in my pocket, so I showed it to her.’

  I turned round and stared at Paris. ‘You did what?’ I gasped.

  ‘I didn’t think you’d mind. I thought you’d be pleased! Miss Wentworth was tremendously impressed by your wit and style. She wanted to reproduce your card in Judy, but I thought that it was perhaps a little too personal. I didn’t want to get you into trouble with your family! But, anyway, she’d love to see more of your work. Here’s her address.’ He put a scrap of paper on the empty amber cabinet. ‘You will send her some drawings, won’t you, Rose? Promise? I think this is your big chance!’

  How could I have doubted him? He really did care about me after all!

  ‘Oh, Paris!’ I ran towards him, threw my arms round his neck and kissed him.

  He laughed and hugged me back.

  ‘What on earth are you doing?’ Mama was standing in the doorway.

  Paris let go of me, actually pushing me away from him. ‘My dear Mrs Rivers, don’t look so appalled! Rose is just very excited because I am the bearer of good news,’ he said hastily.

  Mama put her hand to her throat, shaking her head. She stared at us, blinking as if she couldn’t quite believe what she’d seen.

  ‘Tell your mama, Rose,’ said Paris. ‘Explain about your drawings!’

  ‘Mama—’ I began, but she wasn’t listening.

  ‘How could you?’ she gasped.

  I didn’t know if she was addressing me or Paris or both of us. She turned and ran off down the corridor, her new navy dress billowing behind her.

  ‘Oh my Lord,’ Paris breathed. ‘I’d better go after her and explain properly.’

  I was left in the amber room, my heart thudding. I couldn’t quite take it in. Everything had happened so quickly. I paced to and fro, my thoughts in a whirl. I stayed there for a long time. I heard the distant hum of voices, Mama’s urgent and high-pitched, but I couldn’t hear what she was saying. Then I heard Papa – and at last he came along the corridor and stood in the doorway. He looked incredibly weary now, and leaned against the door frame for support.

  ‘Oh, Papa, please sit down, you look so dreadful,’ I said, taking his hands and leading him to a chair.

  He kept holding my hands. ‘Dear goodness, I feel dreadful,’ he said. ‘So much has happened. There have been so many shocks. But this last is the worst. I simply can’t believe it. Your mama is in a very nervous state, though she’s made a heroic effort to gain control of herself. She’s exhausted after her sleepless night. I think she must be deluded – but she says she came across you and Paris here in your room. Surely this can’t be true!’

  ‘You must let me explain, Papa. Mr Walker is helping me to get my drawing published! It’s going to be in a college publication. The editor is that red-haired girl at the ball last night, Miss Wentworth. She likes my work, Papa, my comical style.’

  I hoped that he would be impressed, but he was hardly listening.

  ‘Rose, look at me. Please tell me the absolute truth.’ He clasped my hands even more tightly, crushing my fingers. ‘Did you actually invite Paris into your room?’

  ‘No. Well, yes. You see, I suppose I was sulking at first, but when I heard him walking away I called him back,’ I said.

  ‘Surely you have enough sense to realize that a young girl should never invite a strange man into her bedroom!’ Papa said.

  ‘But he’s not strange, he’s Mr Walker, our friend. And this isn’t really my bedroom, it’s just a guest room. I don’t see what all the fuss is about. The door was wide open anyway,’ I said hurriedly.

  ‘Yes. Your mama came up because she was concerned when you left the lunch table so abruptly – she says she saw you and Paris together,’ Papa said. He lowered his voice to a whisper. ‘She says she saw you embracing. Can that be true?’

  ‘Well, yes, I hugged him because I was so happy about my drawing. He showed Miss Wentworth my Christmas card and—’

  ‘Never mind your wretched drawing, Rose,’ Papa said sharply.

  I was so hurt. ‘You don’t care about it, do you, Papa? Just because you think it’s silly scribbling you don’t see that other people might find it amusing and interesting. But wait until it’s published in Judy – do you see, it’s a satirical feminist reply to Punch—’

  ‘Did you kiss, you and Paris?’

  I flinc