The Rose of Sebastopol by Katharine McMahon Read Free Book Online Page A

to nurse him, but he has taken against her. There. You see, he’s simply not rational. But when he dies . . .” He had the grace to look embarrassed.
    “So what must we do?” asked Mother.
    “Wait for news. There is no need for urgent action, but I fear it won’t be long before your kindness will be called upon. I came to warn you, and I suppose to reassure myself that here at least Isabella and Rosa, and perhaps their maid, will be kindly received.”
    He glanced into our faces, tucked his hat under his arm, and looked so correct and handsome as he shook Mother’s hand that for a moment I thought I had underestimated him. But then he stepped across to me, clicked his heels, and kissed my hand so enthusiastically that I distinctly felt the brush of his ostentatious moustache, the pressure of his open lips, and, as the kiss became prolonged, the hardness of his teeth. When he raised his head he winked at me. “Wonderful bonnet, Miss Lingwood. It does my poor soldier’s heart good to see how you have blossomed. I shall carry the image of you in that hat when I march into battle.”
    Mother laughed but I was annoyed. Even when we were outside where the wind plucked at our skirts and blew our agitated conversation across the common, the audacity of that wink and the fervor of his kiss still rankled.

Four

    DER BY SHIRE, 1844
     
     
     
    R osa’s heroine was a young lady called Miss Florence Nightingale, who was ten years older than herself and had persuaded her father, a mill-owner in the next valley, to open a school for the children of the poor. While in Derbyshire—her family had two other homes, in Hampshire and London—Miss Nightingale spent her days nursing the sick and her evenings teaching mill girls how to read.
    “Everyone talks about her,” said Rosa, “and I hope to meet her this summer. I want to be like her. Imagine what I could do one day, if Stepfather would let me. I could become someone who really made a difference.”
    As a step towards this goal she lost no time in signing me up for a newly formed committee of the Society for the Improvement of the Conditions of the Sick, Needy, and Uneducated at Stukeley, of which she was the chairman and I was appointed secretary. Together we constituted the entire membership and we held our meetings in what was known as the Italian Garden, where paths radiated from a central sundial, fountains played in each corner, a peach tree grew against one wall, and there was a white pavilion.
    At the end of June, some six weeks into our visit, a meeting had been arranged to draw up a curriculum for the prospective school. Aunt Isabella was unwell that day and after breakfast Rosa was summoned to her mother’s room, so I went to the pavilion and waited for her. I felt very tired and low-spirited, the air was warm and breezy, and after half an hour or so I lay down on one of the cool stone benches and nearly fell asleep.
    When I became aware that someone was watching me I didn’t immediately open my eyes. But in the end I squinted up and saw Rosa’s black-haired stepbrother, Max, who was leaning against the pillar at my feet, hands behind his back, staring down at me. For a moment I lay still, dazzled by the combination of his intense dark eyes, the white pillar, and the blue sky. He had placed his feet on either side of my calves and the expression in his eyes, tender, pitying even, pinned me to the bench. Then he was gone.
    I turned my head and watched his progress across the garden. At one point he sprang onto the rim of a fountain, balanced for a moment, and jumped down. When he reached the door in the wall he didn’t look back but raised his left arm and let it fall to his side.
    Meanwhile Rosa had appeared at the top of the wide flight of steps on the opposite side of the garden and was walking down, very slowly. When she reached me I saw that she was crying. She swept the back of her hand across her nose and eyes but tears kept spilling down her