Rose by Holly Webb Read Free Book Online Page A

fascinated her at the same time.
    â€œI’ve finished, miss,” she told Miss Bridges, trying to look bright and keen and not like a person who talked to bears. Or rather, a person that bears talked to. That was what made it so unfair. She’d never talked to a bear in her life. She’d never asked to talk to bears!
    Behind Miss Bridges, Bill sat at the table, his hair more like a doormat than ever. He was eating a huge slice of bread and dripping, but he still managed to smirk around it, and simper, in a way that made it quite clear he thought Rose was sucking up. She shot him a just you wait look. Somehow the knowledge that he was from St. Bartholomew’s made him feel almost brotherly, in the sense that she could imagine pulling his hair (if it weren’t so short) or stealing his sweets.
    â€œGood girl,” Miss Bridges said approvingly. And without even glancing around, she added, “And you, Bill, stop pulling faces. The master’s boots aren’t done yet. Off you go.”
    Rose was very impressed. She eyed Miss Bridges cautiously. She’d been fairly sure that the orphanage story about Miss Lockwood’s glass eye had been false, but in this house, she wasn’t so sure. She wouldn’t put it past Miss Bridges to have something clever concealed in that smooth knot of hair at the back of her neck.
    â€œCommon sense, Rose, that’s all.” Miss Bridges sounded amused. “I’ve never known Bill not to be pulling faces. Come along, dear, work to do.” And she sailed off, her black frock rustling importantly, with Rose pattering after her.
    Miss Bridges was what the girls at the orphanage would probably have called a right tyrant, but all that really meant was that she liked things to be done properly, and she didn’t like to see people sitting about doing nothing. As the housekeeper, Miss Bridges had her own room, along the corridor from the kitchen. It was a sort of sitting room, but there was a desk too, for her to do the household accounts and write the orders for the tradesmen. There was also an enormous cupboard, full of odds and ends and treasures. Rose’s new boots had come out of it—nice black buttoned ones which had belonged to some maidservant long ago, but which fit Rose so well that she kept wriggling her toes in admiration. Miss Bridges went to it now and burrowed about at the back, emerging at last with a small basket, neatly lined in blue gingham. “Here you are, Rose. I don’t like my maids to be idle, so when you’ve a spare moment, you can be at some mending.”
    Rose gazed at it speechlessly. A needle case—just a scrap of felt, to be sure, but with two bright needles in it—a spool of black darning wool, a battered thimble, and her own darning mushroom! Her eyes pricked with tears at such richness.
    â€œThough do remember, Rose,” Miss Bridges reminded her sternly, “that although you may do your sewing in the kitchen, you must darn your stockings in the privacy of your own room. It would never do to let Bill or, heaven forbid, the butcher’s boy catch a glimpse of your stockings.”
    Rose shook her head, appalled at the very idea.
    â€œI shan’t, miss,” she promised fervently.
    â€œGood. Now, I have some errands for you to run, and I should think Mrs. Jones will have some things for you to get as well.”
    â€œYou mean, shopping, miss? On my own?”
    Miss Bridges nodded. “Running errands is an important part of your job, Rose. Don’t worry, you’ll have a list and directions.” A tiny frown creased her forehead for a moment. “Rose, you can read?”
    Rose tried not to sound indignant. “Of course, miss! They were very enlightened at the orphanage. I can write too.”
    â€œGood. Good.” Miss Bridges started to write on a scrap of paper in elegant sloping handwriting. “Now, most of the housekeeping supplies are sent over by the