Read Online The Rose of Sebastopol by Katharine McMahon - Free Book Online
Authors: Katharine McMahon
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to work. There are some plans I have to look at before dinner . . .”
Rosa sprang forward and seized his arm. “Uncle Philip, it is so, so kind of you to have us to stay. I don’t think you have any idea how grateful we are.”
Father flushed and held out his hands as if to ward her off. “There. It’s nothing. My wife and Mariella will love you being here though I must warn you, before you know it they’ll have you up to your eyes in some project or another. But look, we have empty rooms in this great house. It’s high time they were filled . . .” His eyes were dewy with sentiment as he strode away across the hall to his study.
After he’d gone, Ruth appeared with a tray of tea. She and I had agreed to use the best set, with gold trim and a rosebud pattern. But just as she had embarked on the perilous journey between the miniatures cabinet and the end of the chaise, my aunt gave a moaning sigh and fell back on the sofa. Her bosom heaved, her gloved hand fluttered feebly, and her complexion went livid. This so startled poor Ruth that the tray jerked in her hand, cups toppled over on their saucers and the sugar basin rolled off altogether and smashed against a table.
“Dearest,” cried my mother. “Dearest Bella.”
“Oh, good Lord,” said Rosa, springing across to the window, where she scooped back the lace curtain and flung the French door wide open. Then she hauled her mother’s feet, shoes and all, onto the sofa, untied her bonnet, dragged her cape from under her, and unfastened her blouse.
“A doctor?” said my mother. “Shall I call a doctor? Ruth, put down that tray for goodness’ sake.”
“Give her time,” said Rosa, “she’ll come round. It’s her heart.”
“Her heart .”
“Some condition that means she must have no sudden exertion, no excitement, no travel. The doctors warned us not to come.” Rosa took a bottle of salts from Mother and thrust it under Aunt’s nose. The result was a terrifying fit of gasps and splutters during which my aunt spread her legs and arms and, when she could speak, begged for water.
“Call for Nora,” said Rosa. “She knows what to do with her.”
Nora was a squarish woman with a thick Irish accent, dense skin the color of curds, and sparse hair. She and Mother half carried Aunt upstairs to the best guest room while Ruth, with a heart-broken glance at the tumbled porcelain on the tea tray, gathered up the pieces of sugar basin and Aunt’s discarded cape and bonnet; I swabbed the spilt milk with a napkin; and Rosa poured tea and cut herself a slice of fruit cake.
Once she and I were alone, I felt shy as when I was a child. She shared with her stepbrother Max the knack of concentrating all the energy of a room to herself. Yet, compared to the glamour of her shimmering hair and slender figure, her adult voice, deeper than I remembered, was almost shocking for the prosaic words it formed. “She’s always doing that,” she said.
“Is she very ill?”
“Lord knows. I’m so used to it I presume she’ll go on forever although we all act as if she may drop dead at any moment. Ironic, isn’t it, that in the end it was he who died? Mama never thought she’d outlive him. She was forever apologizing to him because she said he’d be a widower for the second time.” She finished the cake, brushed down her skirts, sprang to her feet, and began a tour of the room, picking up ornaments and picture frames, adjusting mats, flicking through a heap of piano music and playing a few trills and arpeggios. When she came to the war album she paused to turn the pages. “Is this yours? ”
“Father likes me to take an interest in world affairs.”
She peered a little more closely. “Are you sure about that Prussian border? I would have thought the Russian Empire extended further east than that... So, are you for or against the war? ”
“Against? Nobody is against the war.”
“I am. Of course I am. You surely can’t be for it. Nobody has yet given
Rosa sprang forward and seized his arm. “Uncle Philip, it is so, so kind of you to have us to stay. I don’t think you have any idea how grateful we are.”
Father flushed and held out his hands as if to ward her off. “There. It’s nothing. My wife and Mariella will love you being here though I must warn you, before you know it they’ll have you up to your eyes in some project or another. But look, we have empty rooms in this great house. It’s high time they were filled . . .” His eyes were dewy with sentiment as he strode away across the hall to his study.
After he’d gone, Ruth appeared with a tray of tea. She and I had agreed to use the best set, with gold trim and a rosebud pattern. But just as she had embarked on the perilous journey between the miniatures cabinet and the end of the chaise, my aunt gave a moaning sigh and fell back on the sofa. Her bosom heaved, her gloved hand fluttered feebly, and her complexion went livid. This so startled poor Ruth that the tray jerked in her hand, cups toppled over on their saucers and the sugar basin rolled off altogether and smashed against a table.
“Dearest,” cried my mother. “Dearest Bella.”
“Oh, good Lord,” said Rosa, springing across to the window, where she scooped back the lace curtain and flung the French door wide open. Then she hauled her mother’s feet, shoes and all, onto the sofa, untied her bonnet, dragged her cape from under her, and unfastened her blouse.
“A doctor?” said my mother. “Shall I call a doctor? Ruth, put down that tray for goodness’ sake.”
“Give her time,” said Rosa, “she’ll come round. It’s her heart.”
“Her heart .”
“Some condition that means she must have no sudden exertion, no excitement, no travel. The doctors warned us not to come.” Rosa took a bottle of salts from Mother and thrust it under Aunt’s nose. The result was a terrifying fit of gasps and splutters during which my aunt spread her legs and arms and, when she could speak, begged for water.
“Call for Nora,” said Rosa. “She knows what to do with her.”
Nora was a squarish woman with a thick Irish accent, dense skin the color of curds, and sparse hair. She and Mother half carried Aunt upstairs to the best guest room while Ruth, with a heart-broken glance at the tumbled porcelain on the tea tray, gathered up the pieces of sugar basin and Aunt’s discarded cape and bonnet; I swabbed the spilt milk with a napkin; and Rosa poured tea and cut herself a slice of fruit cake.
Once she and I were alone, I felt shy as when I was a child. She shared with her stepbrother Max the knack of concentrating all the energy of a room to herself. Yet, compared to the glamour of her shimmering hair and slender figure, her adult voice, deeper than I remembered, was almost shocking for the prosaic words it formed. “She’s always doing that,” she said.
“Is she very ill?”
“Lord knows. I’m so used to it I presume she’ll go on forever although we all act as if she may drop dead at any moment. Ironic, isn’t it, that in the end it was he who died? Mama never thought she’d outlive him. She was forever apologizing to him because she said he’d be a widower for the second time.” She finished the cake, brushed down her skirts, sprang to her feet, and began a tour of the room, picking up ornaments and picture frames, adjusting mats, flicking through a heap of piano music and playing a few trills and arpeggios. When she came to the war album she paused to turn the pages. “Is this yours? ”
“Father likes me to take an interest in world affairs.”
She peered a little more closely. “Are you sure about that Prussian border? I would have thought the Russian Empire extended further east than that... So, are you for or against the war? ”
“Against? Nobody is against the war.”
“I am. Of course I am. You surely can’t be for it. Nobody has yet given
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