The Rose of Sebastopol (19 page)

I turned my head a little aside and smiled at Henry, hoping he would understand that I was disassociating myself from Rosa’s implied blame. Once his back was turned the pain in my face became so intense that I put my hand to my forehead and staggered. Rosa was full of concern. “What is it, Mariella? Come outside. It’s too close in here.”

She found me a chair in the lobby, where I sank down and closed my eyes. “You are so hard on Henry. Why do you speak to him so fiercely? ”

“Was I hard? I don’t think so. Mariella, you mustn’t mind so much. There’s no need to protect him. His whole professional life is based on argument and discussion. That’s how doctors learn.”

“But tonight, at least, we should have supported him.”

“We are supporting him, by being here. We show him respect by taking him seriously but we don’t have to agree with him.”

“We should be on his side.”

“Mariella, I am always on your side but that doesn’t mean I think you’re always right. Can’t you see? The more we overcome our differences, the stronger our love.”

A
t the beginning of September
the weather became so cool and unsettled that we took the summer curtains down early. Meanwhile, news from the war was very exciting, because our troops had embarked at last, were crossing the Black Sea and about to seize Sebastopol, the port where the Russian navy was based. For the past ten days I had been confined to bed following my attack of migraine and was still too frail even to undertake plain sewing. Work with paper, glue, and scissors was less of a strain, so I added another page to my album. I drew a map to show the relative positions of Varna in Bulgaria, and Sebastopol, at the tip of the Crimean Peninsula. My depiction of the Black Sea was of a ragged lozenge with Turkey in the south, Bulgaria in the west, and the Crimean Peninsula, a squashed little diamond shape stuck at the bottom of Russia, on the northern side. The voyage from Varna to Sebastopol would be relatively quick under steam, perhaps two or three days, and I drew firm black arrows pointing from one to the other. It all looked so straightforward that I couldn’t think why the generals had waited so long.

Down came Rosa wearing a dark green woolen gown, a thick shawl, and her heaviest boots, ready for house-hunting in Battersea, which Father said was an excellent location due to the new park and proximity to the river. Rosa would be gone the entire day, because in the evening she was meeting Barbara Leigh Smith in the Hanover Square Rooms for a performance of Beethoven’s “Moonlight Sonata.” The carriage had duly been ordered to collect her at ten. I was glad that my recent illness gave me an excuse not to join them, because Barbara worried me to death with her persistent requests for me to offer myself as a teacher.

Rosa leant over the map and traced the route across the sea from Varna to Sebastopol. “If the Russian navy is based at Sebastopol, it won’t be that easy to take, surely.”

“Their navy is very inferior to ours, Father says. The allies have steamships armed with rockets. And the Russians may not be expecting an invasion after all this time.”

“Of course they’ll be expecting it. The whole world has been expecting it. That’s why it’s so ridiculous that there’s been all this dithering. By now the Russians will have their defenses ready.”

“Our generals must have thought of that.”

“Don’t you believe it. Your father says they have no respect for the Russians, and he’s worried that they won’t have planned for what will happen if there is real resistance. Max used to tell me stories of how Napoleon’s army was devastated by its invasion of Russia in 1812, because even he, a magnificent general who would have run rings round our poor old Lord Raglan, underestimated the sheer size and obstinacy of the Russian army, and on top of that had no idea how to survive the Russian winter.”

“What a pity the War Office never thought to consult Max.”

“The War Office, he says, consults only men who have been in the system for decades and therefore have no idea what’s really going on. But wish me luck, Mariella, I have a list of half a dozen houses to look at, none of which will suit Mother. I only wish you were well enough to come with me—you have such a knack of making a room into something more than itself.”

I kissed her. “Don’t look too hard. Stay in Fosse House at least until the spring. And if you must go out, take an umbrella. Father thinks it will rain again later.”

After she’d gone I worked on the Crimean map and then went to the window and pulled back the lace curtain. The air was liquid clear and the pavements glittered with sunshine on wet stone but I was fretful and cold. Perhaps I should have made an effort and gone with Rosa; it was unkind of me to let her face such a weary trek alone. I would definitely go tomorrow. Though I put more coal on the fire the flames were sluggish and when the sun went in, the room was gloomy.

I felt should go up and see if Isabella needed me but the thought of climbing the stairs, of easing open the door and peeping in, of finding her awake and perhaps demanding a game of backgammon was too dismal to contemplate.

When the doorbell rang I didn’t stir, because Ruth had been told that while I was convalescent I was not at home to callers. But then I heard hurried footsteps on the stairs, the door was flung open, and there was Henry, hair tousled by the wind, smelling of autumn.

My eyes were heavy, because I’d been indoors for so long, my hair, though neat, had not been washed for over a week, and I was wearing an old gown with a wide collar which, according to Rosa, made me look no more than sixteen. When I got to my feet and held out my hand, the ghost of headache murmured in my temple.

Henry refused to sit down although he did say he would drink a cup of tea. His manner was altogether so strange that I grew nervous. As we waited for Ruth I sat with my hands folded, wishing I had a bit of sewing to occupy me, while he went to the window and looked out into the street. We talked about the lecture and how it had provoked much discussion but little change amidst doctors and students at Guy’s and when Ruth at last came in we both watched with excessive interest as she placed the tray on the table, dropped a little curtsey, and departed, though not without first giving me a significant stare.

I poured the tea but everything made too much noise: the liquid trickling into the cup, the clink of the spoon, the sudden rattle of the window as a strong gust beat against it. And then when I held out the cup Henry seemed not to notice but looked away as he suddenly enquired after the whereabouts of each member of the family.

“Mother is sifting through applicants for the post of matron at the home, and Rosa is house-hunting. Then she’s off to a concert.”

“A concert. On her own? ”

“With her friend, Miss Leigh Smith.”

“Ah yes, the radical friend, as I recall. But house-hunting, you say?”

“In Battersea.”

“Battersea. Do you know, I cannot for the life of me imagine Miss Barr in Battersea. She seems to me to be a woman who needs a great deal of space, who mustn’t be confined.” He started forward, took the cup and saucer from me, but then immediately set them down and returned to the window. “So, she has gone out for the entire day. I see.” He and I were now separated by the tea table, Father’s armchair, and a plant-stand holding a ceramic pot decorated in the Chinese style with a dragon and temple, from which sprouted a thriving maidenhair fern. I took a sip of tea.

“Don’t you find it hard to imagine that a war is being fought for our sake halfway round the world?” he said suddenly. “I do, especially when I’m in this room with you.”

These last words were spoken with such shaky tenderness that it was as if he had reached out and stroked my breast. But his hands were actually clenched on the sill and he turned his face away so that I could see only his profile: chin held very high, slightly hooked nose, deep forehead. “Mariella, I have decided to travel out to Turkey again. As you know, there is a plan to lay siege to Sebastopol. There are bound to be casualties and the main army hospital is near Constantinople, three hundred miles across the Black Sea. When I was last there, as I’ve said, I didn’t envisage that the war would be fought this late in the year, so we didn’t take account of how stormy the Black Sea might be in autumn and winter, or how unreliable the steamships. As both these factors will affect the care of the wounded I should like to be there to help.”

“Surely the army has its own doctors.”

“So it has, and more have volunteered. But it’s impossible to estimate how many doctors will be needed. So much depends on information we don’t have. How long, for instance, will the war last? How many battles will there be? How far superior to the enemy are we in terms of weaponry and manpower? At any rate, as you know, I have some skill as a surgeon. I can’t help feeling, I am arrogant enough, I’m afraid, that I might be of particular use.”

“Father says that the Russian Army is primitive and ill-disciplined, so there will only be a few casualties on our side.”

“Let us hope that he is right. At any rate, I came to tell you that I’ll be leaving in the next couple of days and I shall be gone a few months, perhaps until Christmas.”

I looked at my hands and thought: He doesn’t realize that my entire life is in suspense every second that I am not with him.

After a few more moments I became aware that we had both been silent for so long that it would soon be impossible to speak. Then he said: “There are five, six, seven rabbits on the front lawn. What will your mother say if they get into her vegetable garden?”

At first I couldn’t understand why we were to waste time talking about rabbits. Then I realized that in fact he was inviting me to join him at the window, so I got up and maneuvered my petticoats between the table and the plant-stand, and past the back of the armchair. For a moment we looked at the rabbits, then he suddenly clasped my hand.

My first thought was: So he really is going to propose. Then I registered that my fingers were actually aching, because he was squeezing them so hard, and I shivered as heat passed from my warm hand to his cold one. He brought my hand to his lips, kissed my knuckle, and spoke very decidedly, as if making a well-rehearsed speech. “Mariella. I’m sure you know what I am going to ask you. My sweetest memories, since Mother’s death, are of the times I have spent with you. I made my decision early in the summer, as you know. I thought then that I could foresee a period of stability in my life. Now, however, I am going away again and even though I am probably being very selfish, it seemed impossible to leave without saying, without telling you, that I hope you will agree to be my wife.”

I said at last: “It sounds as if you are only proposing to me because you are going away.”

“I am asking you to marry me because there suddenly seems to be great uncertainty in my life. In fact, for the past few weeks I have been in turmoil. I mean . . . prior to this summer I had felt very clear about the progress of my career but when I gave that lecture I realized suddenly that my path was not necessarily going to be a smooth one. And who knows what I shall have to face with our troops in Russia? I feel as if I need to secure you as the one constant in my life, to make sure that you will be here when I get back. Is that very selfish of me?”

“I have always been here waiting for you and always will, whether you wish to marry me or not.”

He nodded but the tension didn’t leave his face. “Yes. I know. My dear Mariella.” When the wind gusted again, the rabbits kicked up their heels and bolted for cover. I shivered. Henry and I seemed fixed in our stiff positions and my heart was aching. Love.
Love
was the missing word. Why didn’t he say the one thing that would make me happy forever?

I leant forward so that a huff of breath passed from his mouth to mine. He put his hand on the back of my head and pressed me against his neck. “My dear,” he said. “My dear one.” Then he put his lips to my forehead, almost as if he were blessing me, and at last kissed my mouth.

I heard the clunk of the mechanism in the clock as it prepared to strike the quarter. There was restraint in every muscle of his body and I told myself that it must be because we were in the morning room at Fosse House, where he and I had once been children together. In the end I leant further forward and opened my lips under his but instead of prolonging the kiss he gave a deep sigh and crushed me fiercely against his chest. “Is that a yes? May I speak to your father tonight?”

“Yes.”

“But you’re trembling, my dearest girl, what have I done to you?” He led me to the sofa, poured me more tea though my hand shook so much it spilt into the saucer, and we sat side by side and laughed about how we had never imagined this, fourteen years ago. Except that I, of course, had always imagined it.

As promised, he came back that evening after dinner to ask Father for my hand in marriage. While they were in the study I sat in the drawing room with Mother and Aunt, missing Rosa dreadfully. I felt as if I was playing the role of young-lady-awaiting-betrothal; I simply could not connect those minutes of suspense with the fulfillment of a lifetime’s dream. The drawing room was the same as it had always been: the tassels and swags of the winter curtains, Richmond’s portrait of my father looking benign with a pen in his hand and a plan spread before him, my mother under a lamp, apparently engrossed in writing responses to the candidates not selected for interview, although from time to time she glanced up and smiled sympathetically at me. The one difference was that Aunt stared at me jealously: Henry, though by no means a perfect match due to his being a member of the medical profession and having a consumptive mother, was at least
something
, he apparently had prospects, and most important of all, after tonight I would be spoken for. Isabella’s own old age, by contrast, depended on Rosa, who was making herself ever more ineligible by flitting about London with the outcast Miss Leigh Smith.