Rose Rivers Read online

  Papa sighed, but then beckoned the waiter over. ‘We will have plum cake,’ he told him. ‘And what would you like to drink, Rose? Shall we share a pot of tea? And I think I would like a glass of champagne, even though it’s only mid-morning. My spirits need lifting.’

  ‘I wish I could have champagne,’ I said.

  ‘Well, why not? We’ll have two glasses of champagne, please.’

  ‘Papa! Really?’ I said, thrilled.

  I wasn’t sure if he was serious until the champagne arrived.

  ‘I wish you health and happiness, my darling,’ said Papa, raising his glass to me.

  I took a cautious sip. I wondered if the champagne would turn out to be syrupy and disgusting. I had once secretly tried a gulp of sherry from the decanter in the drawing room and disliked it intensely. Champagne was entirely different. It was light and bubbly, and so delicious that I took several mouthfuls and then choked.

  ‘Careful,’ said Papa, passing me his napkin. ‘Maybe you’d better stick to tea! But have a slice of cake. Mmm, it looks excellent.’

  I merely nibbled half-heartedly at first, but it was such a very fine plum cake that I ended up finishing my slice and eating half another. I wanted to save the other half for Beth, who never goes out for treats in case she has one of her turns. Papa had the waiter pack it up in a little white box for me. They even tied a ribbon round it.

  I couldn’t parcel up my champagne so I took a few more sips.

  ‘Careful now,’ said Papa. ‘Imagine what Mama would say if you came home tipsy.’

  ‘I rather wish I could get tipsy,’ I said. ‘Isn’t alcohol meant to drown your sorrows?’

  ‘Oh dear, do you really feel so sorrowful, Rose?’ asked Papa.

  ‘Well, the cake and champagne have helped a lot,’ I said gratefully. ‘But I still feel pretty wretched.’

  Papa put his hand over mine. ‘Still missing Rupert terribly?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, I am. I’m so miserable that he hasn’t written to me,’ I confessed.

  ‘But, darling, I’ve tried to explain what it’s like when you’re away at school. A chap doesn’t write to his sister, no matter how much he might secretly want to.’

  ‘The chap still writes to his sweetheart though,’ I said bitterly.

  ‘Rupert has a sweetheart?’ said Papa, choking on his champagne. ‘You can’t be serious, Rose!’

  ‘I am deadly serious,’ I said mournfully. ‘I read the letter, even though I know it’s very sneaky to read another person’s correspondence.’

  ‘So who is the young lady in question?’ Papa asked, all agog.

  ‘It’s Pamela Feynsham-Jones,’ I said, spitting the words out.

  ‘Oh goodness – Pamela?’

  ‘I just don’t understand it,’ I said. ‘Those Feynsham-Jones girls are so boring. Rupert and I have always joked about them. Yet now he seems to be positively yearning for her.’

  ‘Take comfort from the fact that thirteen-year-old boys are notoriously fickle. I dare say that by Christmas he’ll have stopped yearning after the redoubtable Pamela, and will probably declare himself passionately in love with some other young lady entirely,’ said Papa, chuckling.

  ‘It’s not funny, Papa! It’s ridiculous! Rupert has always despised all girls apart from me.’ I had such a lump in my throat I could barely swallow.

  I expected Papa to continue joking, but he squeezed my hand.

  ‘Poor Rose,’ he said softly.

  ‘I know I’m behaving like a fool,’ I said.

  ‘Not at all. You and Rupert have always been very close. You were so sweet when you were little. You insisted on doing everything together. You must feel very lonely without him – and now you’ve been betrayed into the bargain! But I promise you’ll find a special friend of your own soon, Rose.’

  ‘Please don’t let Mama inflict any more girls like the Feynsham-Joneses on me,’ I begged.

  ‘I’ll do my best,’ said Papa. ‘Right, my darling. Shall we go and have a stroll in the Gardens now?’

  I felt a little wobbly when I stood up, though Papa had ended up drinking most of my champagne. I needed to use the ladies’ cloakroom, so Papa escorted me there. On the way we went past the restaurant. The door was open and we peeped in. There, halfway up a ladder, was a young man in a smock, painting an elaborate picture on the wall. It was a Japanese scene, with lots of ladies hiding behind fans and sipping tea and painting scrolls in a very decorous manner.

  ‘I say, that looks splendid!’ said Papa.

  The young man turned round. He had a smear of black paint on one cheek and his long curly hair needed a good brush, but he still looked incredibly handsome.

  ‘Oh my goodness! Edward Rivers!’ he cried, and then he leaped down off his ladder and rushed to embrace Papa.

  ‘Paris!’ Papa declared, and hugged him back. Then he turned to me. ‘Rose, this is Mr Walker, my dear friend from art-school days.’

  I shook the artist’s hand. I discovered later that he’d left black paint on my palm. Mr Paris Walker had literally made an impression on me.

  I LONG TO go to Paris! Papa lived there for a while after leaving art school. I think it’s a wonderful name. I felt very shy when Papa introduced me. I grew up meeting artists, but they were always old Pre-Raphaelites, grey-haired and wrinkled. Mr Walker seemed extraordinarily young, perhaps half Papa’s age. I couldn’t understand how they could have been at art school together. It turned out that Mr Walker had been Papa’s pupil when he taught at the Academy.

  ‘Not that Paris needed any tuition. He’s so talented he started at the Academy when he was only fifteen,’ said Papa, clapping his friend on the back.

  ‘So talented that I can’t sell a single one of my paintings and have to earn my living decorating fancy hotels!’ said Mr Walker, laughing.

  ‘Well, you’re making a magnificent job of it, I must say,’ said Papa. ‘Don’t you think so, Rose? My daughter is rather artistic herself, Paris.’

  I felt myself blushing. ‘I’m not at all. Papa is obviously prejudiced,’ I mumbled.

  ‘I’m encouraging her to sketch from life,’ Papa said. ‘She has a head full of amusing fancies, but no idea whether horses’ legs should go backwards or forwards.’

  They both laughed and I felt very silly. I kept silent while they reminisced about their time at the Academy.

  ‘I’d have thought you’d be exhibiting there by now,’ said Papa.

  Mr Walker shrugged. ‘So did I!’ he said ruefully. ‘Still, I keep in touch and always attend the exhibitions.’

  ‘I dare say you find the art there stuffy and old-fashioned,’ said Papa.

  ‘No one could call your portrait of the lady in the black dress stuffy and old-fashioned,’ Mr Walker replied.

  I looked at Papa. Now he was the one who was blushing.

  ‘Of course, you had a stunning model,’ Mr Walker went on. ‘Is she still your special muse?’

  ‘Good heavens, no,’ Papa said, with false heartiness. ‘I believe she’s a married lady now, and is no doubt getting rather dull and stout.’

  I don’t think she’s any such thing. It was just Papa pretending. Adults tell just as many lies as children and are forever twisting the truth.

  ‘Marriage has obvious benefits for you, Edward,’ said Mr Walker, smiling at me.

  ‘Very much so,’ said Papa. ‘I have seven splendid children into the bargain. You must come to tea and meet them all!’

  ‘I should like that enormously,’ said Mr Walker.

  I decided that I should like it enormously too. I do hope he comes. When we said goodbye he shook my hand warmly and said that it was a delight to meet me.

  ‘It’s a delight to meet you too, Mr Walker,’ I said.

  He smiled and I hoped I was looking my best, but when I went to the ladies’ cloakroom I was mortified to see my reflection. My eyes were red with crying and there was a large crumb at the corner of my mouth. I hoped he hadn’t noticed.

  I didn’t feel like