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

cheeks.
    “You’ve got to pack your bags and go,” she said.
    I sat upright so suddenly that a headache began in my temple. “Why? ”
    “The stepfather says so. Evil man. Called you spongers. Mama’s too ill to speak.”
    “We’re not spongers.”
    “Of course not. We love you being here. We need you here. I can’t bear it, Mariella.”
    “I thought he liked us.”
    “Well, now he’s changed his mind. Typical of him. He’s ordered the carriage. We’ve got to pack your things straightaway. Your mother’s waiting for you.”
    “No, no, this isn’t right.” I ran towards the house, the word sponger pounding in my head. I had to see Mother and find out the truth. But Rosa caught up with me, seized my arm, and held me in a violent embrace. “I can’t bear it. I can’t live without you. Please say you’ll write every day, Mariella.” Her body shook as she cried into my hair while I stood very still and waited numbly for her to let me go.

Five

    LONDON, 1854
     
     
     
    M y next contribution to the Russian War was to make an album. Though this was originally Father’s idea, I took it up with enthusiasm, because I was an expert on collecting, arranging, and pasting. My last album, “The Great Exhibition,” had included a program, tickets, detailed plans of the glass structure, and sketches of exhibits. I had also made an album called “Our Railways,” and one coyly entitled “Miss Lingwood’s Guide to Stitchcraft.”
    But the front page, created on March 15, turned out to be the new album’s greatest triumph. First I cut red, white, and blue ribbons to make a collage of a Union Jack, on top of which I pasted the print from the Illustrated London News of the Scots Fusiliers waving their busbies to the queen. Round this masterpiece I worked a pen-and-ink border with symbols of the war: the Russian bear, the crucifix, a minié rifle (drawn by Father), the Union Jack, and the fleur-de-lis, all entwined with daffodils, crocuses, and roses (the latter unseasonable but one of my few areas of expertise as an artist). Next, on March 29, I cut out the thrilling headline: “Declaration of War.” After that I ran out of ideas because the war had stuttered to a halt.
    At the end of March Henry called to say good-bye before setting off on his trip to Pest. As he gave us no warning of his visit, Mother was out with Mrs. Hardcastle. A house for the governesses had been identified, a lease signed, and now the ladies were measuring windows so that a final decision could be made about lace (secondhand, because it so happened that Mrs. Hardcastle was replacing all hers) or muslin (new) for the curtains. I was at work in the morning room, restless because outside the sky was a riotous blue and white, trees tossed their budding branches, and women held on to their bonnets. When the maid brought Henry up I was taken unawares and stood foolishly with my sewing clutched against my skirts. We were both shocked, I think, by the suddenness with which we found ourselves alone together.
    He had brought an armful of daffodils. “I have just been at The Elms. The garden is full of these, going to waste because there’s no-one to see them. But the painting has begun and there’s a range in the kitchen, so things are moving forward.”
    He spilt the flowers into Ruth’s arms, took a seat on a distant chair, and accepted my offer of tea though he could stay barely a quarter of an hour. “Yet another commission,” he said. “This one about public health and hygiene. I’ll see if I can get your father a place on the board. He knows more about sewers and suchlike than anyone else. They have heard I’m going to Hungary and they want me to report back on the state of that nation’s public health. I’ve told them it is scarcely my field but it’s surprising how when one has become a known authority in one thing, one is expected to be an authority on everything.”
    “You must be very proud,” I said.
    “Proud? I don’t