The Rose of Sebastopol Read Online Free PDF Page A

Then, just after Christmas, in yet another sign of his growing status, Henry was asked to join a group of military doctors and advisers who were to travel to Turkey and ensure that all was in place for the treatment of wounded soldiers should there be a skirmish with Russia. It seemed that “The Eastern Question,” a recurring theme in extracts from The Times read to us by Father after dinner, was after all likely to be settled through war rather than diplomacy.
    Henry was away nearly a month and on his return wrote that he’d inspected the progress of the new house in Highgate only to find that there was a problem with the drains and the garden was a swamp. Could Father give him a spot of advice? And as the windows had at last been glazed and a hearth installed in the drawing room, perhaps the ladies would like to come too.
    Mother and I drove from Clapham to Highgate through a ferociously wet February afternoon. She was dressed in brown silk bought against my advice; in my judgment the glossy fabric made her skin sallow and diminished her features. Having to sit still for so long and do nothing was torture for her and she kept a notebook and pencil at the ready in case of ideas. She was currently secretary of a committee of ladies whose mission was to open a home for retired or distressed governesses, an enterprise thought up by Mrs. Hardcastle, whose strong-minded daughters had worn out a succession of teachers, one of whom, a quarter of a century later, inconveniently came begging in frail old age to the Hardcastles.
    After half an hour or so of stop-start travel we had still barely crossed the river and Mother drew out her watch. “Surely the omnibus would have been quicker.”
    “We’ll be glad of the carriage on the way home.”
    “I told your father that a carriage in London was a dreadful extravagance. I’ve never minded walking. Or a cab.”
    “Father will enjoy riding about.”
    “He knows nothing of horses. He should have taken more advice. I hope this one doesn’t go lame. It has stumbled three times already, I’ve been counting.”
    Beyond the murky glass, Hyde Park was a green blur and the pavement bobbed with black umbrellas. My breathing was restricted, because the bodice of my afternoon gown measured seventeen inches at the waist, one and a half inches less than usual, and the triple bow of my blue bonnet meant I had to keep my chin abnormally high.
    “Are you nervous? ” Mother said suddenly.
    This was so unexpectedly prescient that I was irritated: “Of course not. Whyever would I be nervous?”
    “This is your first glimpse of the house. You’ve not seen Henry for a while. I just thought . . .”
    Heat rushed up my neck and face. “As if I’d be nervous of Henry. And after all we’re just going to look at his new house. It doesn’t mean anything.”
    “ I am sometimes nervous of Henry, as I am even of your father sometimes. I always think there is so much more to men than we realize.”
    By now both of us were gazing studiously out of opposite windows. She said: “I never imagined when I took Henry in what he would become. He seemed such a shy boy then.”
    “He was in mourning. We couldn’t tell at first what he was really like.”
    “And yet who would have thought he had it in him? Of course your father suspected it, after all he has an eye for quality and talent. But you must not think that Henry is the only possible one for you. That’s my worry, Mariella. There are other men, equally suitable, I’m sure. You have been very fixed in your ideas.”
    “There’s no question of being fixed, as you put it. Henry is like a brother to me.”
    Her brown-gloved hand pressed my fingers. “Something more than a brother, I think.”
    Henry’s new house, called The Elms, was built on the site of an ancient farmhouse. We drove at last between two high gate-posts set in an old wall, relics of the past. When I pulled down the window to take a better look, rain dashed into my face.