‘Are you scared of Nurse Budd, Rose?’
‘Not exactly. I’m wary of her.’
‘Do you think Beth is scared of her?’
It was so difficult to work out what was going on in Beth’s head. She seemed scared of everybody.
I shrugged my shoulders. ‘I don’t think so.’
‘Anyway, I’m not scared of her, so let us introduce Beth to her new doll right this minute,’ said Papa.
We went up the stairs to the second floor. There were whispers and giggles coming from the children’s night nursery, and the soft sound of Nurse soothing Phoebe. There was only silence coming from the green guest room.
Papa had said he wasn’t the slightest bit afraid of Nurse Budd, but he hesitated outside the door and took a deep breath before he knocked. There was a long pause and then we heard footsteps. The door opened a crack.
‘What is it now?’ Nurse Budd hissed at me – and then saw Papa by my side. ‘I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t realize you were there. Is it urgent? I don’t really want Miss Beth disturbed.’
‘Is she asleep?’ Papa asked.
‘Resting, sir,’ Nurse Budd said firmly.
We heard regular tapping noises behind her. Beth often rocked herself to and fro in bed, so that the headboard banged against the wall.
‘Beth?’ I called hopefully.
‘Ssh! Don’t agitate her, dear.’
‘Come, Nurse Budd, Beth enjoys seeing her sister. And we have a surprise for her,’ said Papa, indicating the doll.
‘I don’t think children like dear little Miss Beth cope well with surprises, sir,’ said Nurse Budd, but she let us in.
Beth was in bed, rocking, wide awake. She looked pale in the dim lamplight, but her eyes were bright and she made soft humming noises that sounded welcoming.
‘Hello, my little humming bird,’ said Papa. ‘Rose and I have brought you a new friend. Do you like her? I was told at the doll-maker’s that her name is Marigold. Say how do you do.’ He held Marigold out towards Beth. The doll’s arms were outstretched, as if she were greeting her. Beth hunched up small, looking uncertain, but when Papa balanced Marigold at the end of her bed she propped herself up on one elbow to look at her.
‘How do you do?’ she whispered.
‘That’s right, my darling. How very polite of you,’ Papa said.
I took Marigold and made her give Beth a little bob. ‘How do you do, Beth?’ I said, in a squeaky little doll voice. ‘I am delighted to make your acquaintance. May I come and live with you? I hear you’re missing Marianne.’
‘Marianne?’ said Beth.
‘I’ve taken poor Marianne to a special doll’s hospital. They’ve promised me they will make her as right as rain. Meanwhile you have Marigold to keep you company. I’m sure Marianne will get on splendidly with her when she comes home,’ said Papa.
‘Oh, sir, what a lovely dolly!’ said Nurse Budd.
‘What a lovely dolly,’ said Beth, and she took Marigold and hugged her hard.
‘Careful now. You don’t want to crush her pretty silk dress, do you, dear,’ said Nurse Budd.
‘She may crush it all she pleases,’ said Papa. ‘Marigold isn’t going to be one of those only-for-best dolls, and kept in a cupboard. Beth may play with her all she likes, and undress her and tangle her hair and let her paddle in the bathtub for all I care. She can sleep in Beth’s arms all night long and keep her company at all times. Is that clear?’ He said this pleasantly, but there was a firmness about his tone.
‘Yes, sir. Certainly, sir,’ said Nurse Budd.
‘Then we will leave you both in peace. Come along, Rose. Kiss your sister goodnight,’ said Papa.
I bent over Beth and very lightly kissed her soft cheek. She smelled of warm little girl and laundered nightgown.
‘Night, Beth,’ I whispered.
Beth held Marigold up so that I could kiss her too.
‘Goodnight, my darling,’ said Papa. ‘Goodnight, Nurse Budd.’
‘Goodnight, sir. Goodnight, Miss Rose,’ said Nurse Budd.
When we were out on the landing, Papa gave me a big hug. ‘There now! Marigold has worked wonders,’ he said. ‘I think she’s made Beth happy, don’t you?’
‘Definitely, Papa.’
‘So how can I make you happy, Rose?’
‘Promise you’ll thwart Mama’s plans for me to go riding with the Feynsham-Joneses?’
‘I’ll do my best,’ said Papa.
PAPA’S BEST WASN’T good enough. Mama called on Mrs Feynsham-Jones. I expect she said I was gauche and friendless and asked if her daughters might take pity on me. I burned at the thought. I imagined the Feynsham-Jones girls protesting:
‘Oh, Mama, do we have to take Rose riding with us?’
‘She’s pathetic, Mama, so strange, with no idea how to make proper conversation.’
‘She won’t be any good at riding, Mama. Imagine, she’s never even been on a horse. We’ve all been riding since we were tots.’
But it’s all fixed. I have a riding lesson at four on Saturday afternoon. Mr Hodgson was told to accompany me to the Feynsham-Joneses’ at half past three so that I could borrow a riding skirt.
I felt sick with dread after lunch. I sat on the window seat trying to distract myself by sketching the stuffed peacock perched on the newel post at the bottom of the staircase. I was aware of howling upstairs. Perhaps Nurse Budd’s training wasn’t quite as effective as she boasted.
Then Algie came charging down the stairs and snatched my sketchbook before I knew what was happening.
‘Silly old book! Silly old Rose. Silly old Nurse! Pooh to the lot of you!’ Algie yelled, and ran away before I could catch him.
Nurse came puffing down the stairs in pursuit, wielding a hairbrush. ‘That little varmint!’ she panted. ‘Just wait till I catch him! You should see what he’s done to poor Miss Clarrie! She said she wished she looked like Snow White, with hair as black as ebony, so Algie tipped a tin of black treacle over her head! Can you imagine! It will take me all day to wash it out. Poor Clarrie is in floods of tears in the bath but Algie isn’t the slightest bit sorry. He just doubled up laughing. I’ll give him a laugh!’ She brandished the hairbrush.
I’ve had several encounters with the bristle end in the past. No wonder Algie was running. He dived down the hall, along the passageway and through the green baize door to the servants’ quarters.
Nurse slowed down, panting, clutching her side. ‘I’ve got such a stitch!’ she said.
I knew she was reluctant to go barging into Cook’s territory. They’ve been working here since I was born and are officially great friends, but they are both hot-tempered women and have frequent fallings-out. Last week there was a very fierce argument after Nurse complained that the nursery blancmange was lumpy. They haven’t spoken since.
‘I’ll go and find him for you,’ I offered.
Nurse nodded gratefully. We could hear Phoebe starting to wail, accompanying Clarrie’s dismal bellowing. Nurse trudged back up the main stairs. Mama happened to be coming down in her afternoon frock and frowned. Nurse tried to flatten herself against the wall.
‘Really, Nurse!’ Mama scolded. ‘Please use the servants’ stairs unless you are accompanying the children.’
‘Yes, madam,’ Nurse murmured. ‘I’m sorry, madam.’
It was painful seeing Mama tick her off as if she were a chit of a girl instead of an old lady. I thought about trying to explain the circumstances to Mama, but I knew she wouldn’t listen. I sidled away because I knew that Nurse would hate to lose face in front of me.
I went into the servants’ quarters. Jack was squatting on the floor, his hands in a pair of boots, idly marching them up and down the stone flags. He jumped when he saw me and did his best to squeeze himself into a dark corner.
‘Mr Hodgson says I don’t have to let you do that sketching thing again, not if I don’t want to,’ he said huskily.
‘Don’t you be cheeky, lad,’ said Mr Hodgson, giving him a cuff,
though he’d probably said exactly that. ‘Please excuse him, Miss Rose. He wasn’t brought up well so he hasn’t any manners. But he’s learning as best he can.’
‘I think you’re doing a grand job with him, Mr Hodgson,’ I said.
‘So how can I help you, Miss Rose? It’s too early to set off for your riding lesson,’ he said.
‘That’s right, Mr Hodgson. But you don’t need to trouble yourself, not if you’re busy. I couldn’t possibly get lost simply going up the road and round the corner. Why, I walked all the way to Hyde Park the other day,’ I said.
‘I know you did, Miss Rose, and you caused quite a panic. Your mama has charged me with the responsibility of taking you and indeed collecting you too. But I shall do it as unobtrusively as possible if you object to my company,’ he said, a little huffily.
‘Oh no, Mr Hodgson, I don’t object to your company at all. It’s simply that I’d like some independence. It’s very frustrating having to be accompanied everywhere,’ I said. ‘You’ve no idea how tiresome it is being a girl.’
‘I dare say, Miss Rose. So how can we help you?’
‘I’ve come to collect Algie. I think he barged his way in here …’
‘Indeed he did, Miss Rose. I think he’s cosying up to Cook,’ said Mr Hodgson.
I found Algie sitting on the kitchen table, with Cook scrubbing at his treacly hands, distracting him by feeding him apple peelings and sultanas.
‘Oh, Cook, you shouldn’t spoil him so! He’s been very naughty,’ I said, glaring at Algie.
‘This little lamb?’ she said, giving Algie’s snub nose a gentle pinch. He gave her a cherubic smile.
‘He’s more of a black sheep than a little lamb,’ I said tartly, snatching my sketchbook from him and clutching it to my chest.
It’s so irritating. All the servants love Algie and let him get away with murder. They laugh at him and pet him and play with him. They’ve never been like that with me, even when I was his age.
He’s smudged my peacock sketch with treacle, so my bird resembles a very large crow with a trailing tail. I tore it out of my sketchbook and went up to the nursery, wondering it I might have more luck sketching my siblings. I tried Phoebe first but she was too wriggly, so I started drawing Clarrie. She was still woebegone, her hair sticky even after a good wash.
‘Don’t draw me, I’m too ugly,’ she protested, frowning at me. ‘Draw me Snow White.’
So I gave up sketching from life and drew Clarrie as a chubby Snow White with long black hair. Then I drew a Wicked Stepmother. She looked disconcertingly like Mama.
‘And now draw all the dwarfs!’ Clarrie demanded.
I started on them, but had only managed one (the spit of Algie) when Maggie came looking for me.
‘Mr Hodgson is waiting for you, Miss Rose,’ she said.
He foisted me upon the Feynsham-Joneses – and it was all just as terrible as I’d feared. There was a great to-do over the wretched riding skirt. I am nearest Lucinda-May in age, but she is shorter than me and her old riding skirt only reached my knees. I had to wear Pamela’s instead. The waistband dug into me so I could scarcely breathe. I am thinner than Pamela, but she wears a corset so her waist is minute, with embarrassing curves above and below. I am as straight as a ruler, and I intend to stay that way.
‘Don’t worry,’ said Pamela smugly, seeing me staring at myself in the looking glass. ‘I’m sure you will start developing soon.’
I felt like slapping her. She looked splendid in her new riding outfit. She’d tied her long curls back into a neat bun and seemed much older than fourteen. Her exposed neck looked very white and graceful against the black of her riding jacket. She sported a delightful top hat.
‘Do you think I could borrow a hat too?’ I asked hopefully, but she said she didn’t have a spare one.
Lucinda-May set hers off with a long plait which she tossed from side to side. Even chubby little Cecily looked stylish in her riding clothes, and marched up and down showing off her shiny riding boots.
They led me down the garden and through the gate to the stables in the mews. I thought there would be one pony for us all to take turns on, but Pamela and Lucinda-May and Cecily each had their own, and greeted them with great cries and kisses, as if they hadn’t seen them for weeks.
I looked warily at Blue Boy and Cocoa. Even Cecily’s Shetland pony, Jingle, looked alarming. There were several jolly grooms who helped the girls mount, but I was stuck with a terrifying little woman called Miss Havers, who looked like a whippet.
‘I am going to teach you to ride,’ she said. She frowned at my long hair, my blouse, my kid boots. ‘Why aren’t you dressed in proper riding clothes?’
‘I don’t think her mama realized she needed special clothes,’ said Lucinda-May pityingly.
Miss Havers sighed. ‘You must have been on a pony though,’ she said.
‘No, I’ve never done any riding,’ I told her.
‘Didn’t you have a Shetland when you were little?’ she asked.
I shook my head.
‘Well, you must have ridden donkeys at the seaside,’ she persisted.
The beaches I’d been to in Scotland were chilly places with no amusements, and certainly no donkeys. I shook my head again.
‘Good heavens,’ said Miss Havers. ‘How strange.’
Lucinda-May edged closer to her. She attempted a whisper but I heard every word. ‘Mama says we must make allowances because the Rivers family are bohemian.’ She said the last word as if it were very shameful.
I flushed. ‘My father is a famous artist,’ I said haughtily.
‘And Mr Rivers comes from a very distinguished family, so you’re talking rot, Lucinda-May,’ said Pamela. She raised her eyebrows to me. ‘Take no notice, Rose.’
I was amazed. Why on earth was stuck-up, simpering Pamela defending me? Lucinda-May looked astonished too.
‘Now then, girls, enough of the chit-chat,’ Miss Havers snapped. She glared at me. ‘I can see I’m going to have my work cut out! What sort of a girl are you?’
I stared at her. ‘I dare say you could call me a bohemian girl,’ I said, with a nod at Lucinda-May.
Miss Havers sighed impatiently. ‘Are you spirited and plucky – or a little timid mouse?’ she asked.
‘Spirited and plucky,’ I said at once.
It was the worst answer I could have given. If I’d said I was a mouse, she might have put me on a fat, meek little pony like Cecily’s Jingle. Instead she put me on huge cob called Marker. He had a contemptuous expression, and blew down his nostrils at me.
‘Isn’t he rather big?’ I asked, all my so-called spirit and pluck deserting me.
‘He’s on the small side for a cob, and as docile as they come. He’ll suit you down to the ground,’ said Miss Havers.
‘As long as he doesn’t throw me to the ground,’ I said.
Miss Havers frowned. She clearly had no sense of humour. ‘If you listen to my instructions you won’t fall off,’ she said coldly.
I listened for all I was worth, but I couldn’t make sense of anything she said. She gave me a long lecture about stirrups and girths and bits and martingales, but she might just as well have been talking Greek. Then she led Marker to the mounting block and told me to get on his back.
It seemed impossible. I felt as if I were climbing Everest. Pamela and Lucinda-May and Cecily tittered at my undignified efforts. Even the grooms were sniggering. Only Miss Havers stayed stern.
‘For pity’s sake, don’t haul yourself up by clutching the poor pony like that! He’s made of fine flesh and blood. Spring lightly! Lightly!’
When I was at last seated, damp with embarrassment, she twisted me about cruelly so that my right leg was hooked over the pommel and dangling down on Marker’s left side, without even a stirrup to support it. Girls cannot be mounted sensibly, a leg on either side of the horse – they have to ride side-saddle.
Marker sensed my terror and discomfort and whinnied irritably, dancing from side to sid
e. I clung onto the reins, sure I was about to be tipped off.
‘Hold them loosely! No clutching. Dear goodness, a babe in arms has more feel for riding than you, girl!’
Miss Havers continued abusing me while walking Marker and me round and round the small yard. I clenched my buttocks as hard as I could to stay in contact with the slippery leather of the saddle. Miss Havers told me to try to feel at one with the horse. I slumped low and tried to think horse thoughts, and she admonished me for looking like a sack of potatoes.
The other girls had trotted off to the grounds of Holland House, but Miss Havers didn’t feel I was safe to go out in public yet. Marker jiggled and fretted, clearly annoyed that he wasn’t getting any exercise. Then a flock of sparrows that had been pecking at a pile of something unmentionable suddenly flew up, straight towards us. Marker was startled and reared up on his hind legs.
‘Keep your seat!’ Miss Havers shouted.
I didn’t know how. I went flying and fell flat on the yard floor. It was a terrible shock. I hurt so much I lay still, my eyes shut.
‘Oh my Lord!’ Miss Havers gasped, slapping at my face.
‘You’ve done it now, miss,’ a stable lad muttered. ‘She looks like a goner to me.’
‘Shut your mouth, boy, and go and attend to the pony,’ Miss Havers said curtly.
I kept my eyes closed and lay limp and unresponsive, my heart pounding with shock and shame. Would Miss Havers make me get on again? I felt I would die if I had to go through the whole miserable business a second time. I stayed there until a couple of grooms hauled me up and started carrying me back through the garden. My borrowed riding skirt was caught up and I feared I was showing all my underwear. I opened my eyes and groaned a little, while surreptitiously trying to pull the skirt down.
‘Keep still, girl! How are you feeling? Which part of you hurts?’ Miss Havers demanded.
‘My right leg,’ I mumbled. It was cramping badly after being forced into such an unnatural position.
‘She’ll have crushed it,’ said the stable lad, running along beside us. ‘It’ll dangle uselessly for the rest of her life, poor soul.’
‘I’ll dangle you in a minute,’ said Miss Havers. ‘The leg will be fine. I expect it’s simply bruised. Girls fall off horses through their own stupid fault every day of the week.’
Rose Rivers Page 6
