The Blue Rose

THE BLUE ROSE

Esther Wyndham

Rose and Stephen had had a whirlwind romance—love at first sight, then marriage after a very brief engagement. It was only after the wedding that they began to get to know each other.
Would love and understanding deepen between them, or would they—as Rose sometimes feared—find that they had made a terrible mistake?

CHAPTER ONE

“FOR the first few months it will certainly be our entire lives,” Francie was saying. “After that we rather hope it will more or less run itself.”

“Don’t be silly, darling,” Derek replied. “As if anything ever did run itself.”

“Well, you know what I mean,” Francie retorted.

Rose was listening. She seemed to have done nothing but listen since she had arrived in London—and such fascinating listening it was too—conversations overheard on buses and in cafes and tea shops—but particularly the conversation between her cousin Francie Earle and Francie’s husband, Derek, with whom she was staying. Francie and Derek were in a state of seething excitement which they had communicated in large measure to Rose. They were about to open an
espresso
coffee bar and they wanted Rose to go in with them. It was a big adventure because it was taking the whole of their little capital, but they had no doubts about it. “We are not going into this with our eyes shut,” Derek had said a little grandly. “We know all the snags.”

By this time Rose knew as much about the running of a coffee bar as they did—which was not, as far as practical experience went, anything at all—but in theory they knew a great deal. For weeks they had toured the coffee bars of London studying their methods, prices and menus. Derek had made out that he was a journalist and in that capacity he had asked direct questions: Where do you get your pastries from? How much does your coffee machine cost? Where does your music come from?
...
In one bar he had asked the wholesale price of the coffee and in another how much coffee was used per dozen cups, and in that way they had done their pricing. Everywhere a
cappuccino
sold for tenpence, “And as it only costs threepence to produce, that’s where our profit is coming from,” Francie informed Rose.

The project was now far advanced. They had their premises in Chelsea (they had the whole house as a matter
of fact and Francie and Derek were going to live above the shop when it was finished); the alterations had been started; a four-handled coffee machine and other equipment had been ordered, and now they were looking round for staff. That’s where Rose came in. Rose wanted a job, and as she was not qualified for anything what could she do better than go in with the cousin she was so fond of? She had a little money of her own which she wanted to put into the project, but Francie wouldn’t hear of it. “I’m not going to let you risk a penny,” she had said firmly.

“But you’re risking everything,” Rose argued.

“It’s different for us—it’s our baby,” Francie replied. “Besides, we can always manage. Derek’s infinitely employable.” This was rather a double-edged remark. Derek had certainly been in innumerable jobs during the three years in which they had been married, but Francie did not mean it sarcastically. They were both young, high-spirited and happy-go-lucky. “We’ll manage” might well have been their motto.

Rose had found it a tonic to be with them after the life she had been leading for the past four years. When she had come to London she had wanted to get a room on her own, but Francie had insisted on her coming to stay with them in their flat, tiny as it was. Rose had not been able to stand out against such warmth and generosity but sometimes she found it a little overpowering. She was accustomed to spending a large part of her day alone and her life had been lived on a sombre key; all the excitements that had happened to her had come from her own soul and imagination
—
an illuminating line in a book; the flight of a bird; the formation of a cloud. To be with Francie and Derek was like being back in the old days—before “it” had happened. “It” had turned a rowdy, happy household into a desolation of pain and solitude. Rose had often wondered what had saved her from going with the others that day on their excursion to the seaside. She had been sixteen at the time and deeply immersed in her school work at the local grammar school she attended. At the end of that term she was to sit for her G.C.E., which she knew she would have no difficulty in passing, and it had been her ambition to win a scholarship to take her on to a university. She remembered how that Saturday morning her father had tried to coax her to go with them—with him and her mother and her two younger brothers—for their day’s excursion to the sea, and how she had refused, looking forward to having a whole day with the house to herself—the quiet and peace of the empty house so that she could devote herself to her books.

The empty house. Even now it made her shudder. It had been empty for so long until her mother returned from hospital—a cripple, but crippled in mind even more than in body—never free from the nightmare vision of her husband and two sons lying pinned under the car. She would say to Rose how thankful she was that she had been saved, for Rose’s sake—but Rose knew that in her secret heart she wished that she had gone with the others. Rose had taken the happiness of her parents for granted, as children of happy homes always do, until her father was killed, and then she understood for the first time what he had meant to her mother.

They had been left very badly off and had moved to a cottage on the outskirts of the country town where her father had been an auctioneer, but they had just been able to manage with Rose looking after her mother and doing everything in the house and attending to their small garden and vegetable patch. Of course it had meant the end of all scholastic ambition, and there was no money, let alone time, to train for any career. But Rose had not thought about herself. Her pity for her mother had been a continual pain in her heart and the only ambition left to her had been to try and make up to her a little for all she had lost; so that when her mother died after four years of crippled existence, the feeling uppermost in her had been: “She’s happy at last. She’s with him again at last,” and she had felt that her own sense of loss was selfish and unworthy. “The one thing Mother would mind now is my being unhappy,” she had told herself, “so now I’ve got to be happy for her sake—to make everything perfect for her again.”

Francie was her only living relative now and Francie lived in London. So it was for this reason that she had chosen London for her new home rather than for any possibilities in the city itself. She had arrived a week ago with a strange sense that life was just beginning for her
—
a sense of being bo
rn
anew. She had put the past behind her. At twenty she did not feel young; she felt different, like a butterfly that had emerged from its chrysalis. A butterfly is not young: it is metamorphosed. It has left behind the grub stage.

Rose would have been surprised if she had heard what Derek had said about her the night of her arrival when he and Francie had at last retired to their own room after hours and hours of talking. “My goodness, she’s got guts, that girl,” he had said. “You’d never think she’d been through all she has. She’s absolutely without self-pity.”

“I’m so glad you like her,” Francie had replied. “I can’t tell you what a relief it is to me. You don’t mind her staying here? I feel she’s got nobody now but me.”

“She’s not going to stay alone for long, though,” Derek had said. “She’ll be snapped up quickly enough. A girl as pretty as that, and as sweet. I can’t think why there isn’t someone already.”

“Oh, I believe there is. Some local boy who’s crazy about her. I saw it when I was down there for the funeral, but I could see she didn’t care at all for him.” Francie was not a bit jealous of Derek’s praise of Rose. She was delighted by it. They were too close and too sure of each other for jealousy. Jealousy only comes when there is insecurity.

II

Rose wanted to get a temporary job until the coffee bar was opened so that she could pay her way without having to dip into her tiny capital, but Francie put her foot down. She needed her, she said, for all sorts of things and it was no more expensive to feed three than two. Indeed Rose found that she was kept very busy with small errands and commissions, and she also discovered very soon that Francie was much too occupied with her new venture to pay much attention to housekeeping. Rose, therefore, quietly took charge of the household shopping and made a point of seeing that there was a good hot meal for Francie and Derek every evening.

What to call the coffee bar, that was the question which was worrying them at the moment. They had been wonderfully lucky in getting Clare Frenton to do the decorations for them, and the motif was to be Italian.

“Who is Clare Frenton?” Rose had wanted to know.

“Haven’t you ever heard of her? No, I suppose she isn’t as well known as a
l
l that.”

It seemed that Clare Frenton was a woman decorator, very clever indeed, who was well known in London. She was some relation by marriage of Derek’s, and because of this connection but “really more because I think she’s fond of us”, as Francie put it, she was going to do the decorations for them at cost. “It’s terribly lucky,” Francie said, “because it’s the decor that is really more important than anything—that and the lighting and the atmosphere. It’s
got
to have atmosphere and yet it mustn’t be too comfortable, because you don’t want people sitting on for hours and hours over just one cup of coffee. And it’s essential to have romantic lighting.”

“But not to have it so dark that you can’t see to read your paper if you happen to be alone,” rejoined Rose, who had suffered just that inconvenience in a coffee shop the day before.

“That’s quite a point,” Derek said. “You’ll meet Clare. She’s coming in this evening with her first drawings. We’ll discuss it then.”

“You’ll love her,” Francie said. “She’s a heavenly person.”

That was a good enough recommendation for Rose and she was prepared to like Clare Frenton because Francie liked her if for no other reason; but she realized almost the moment she came into the room that she would have liked her anyway. First, she was immensely taken with her appearance. She was one of those women with young faces and prematurely grey hair, but because she had been originally dark, her hair was beautifully white, and yet she could not have been a day over thirty-five. Her hair of course
was
the most striking thing about her, especially as she was not wearing a hat, but she also had a beautiful figure set off by a simple but perfectly cut grey dress. All her accessories were just right too—black crocodile court shoes and handbag; a single string of pearls (obviously real), pearl ear-rings and a diamond brooch in the shape of a leaf.

The nails of her long, delicate-looking hands were well cared for and tinted pink, and her make-up, which perfectly matched her nails, was unobtrusively subtle. Rose realized at once that here was a really well-dressed woman
—
a really soign
é
e woman
—
probably the first she had ever seen in the flesh. All her admiration went out to her, and when she made a special point of being charming to Rose, it was something very like hero-worship that Rose felt for her. Rose could not help comparing her to Francie, who looked a little flashy in comparison; and as for herself—a very feminine longing suddenly came over her to change herself from top to toe.

They had great fun looking at the plans and sketches which Mrs. Frenton had brought with her, and Rose’s admiration for her increased every minute; for here was not only a beautiful and charming woman but obviously an extraordinarily talented one as well. Rose was delighted when she heard Francie asking her to stay to supper, but to her disappointment Clare answered that she had to get home. “Clive doesn’t like being left alone,” she said. “He likes half an hour or so to himself when he first gets in, in order to recuperate, but after that he likes me to be there
...
Well, you approve of these drawings? Then I’ll go ahead with them
...
By the way, I’m having a few friends in for drinks to-morrow evening, and I’d be pleased if you’d come. You too, of course, Miss Woodhouse.”

“Please don’t call me that. I’m Rose,” Rose put in.

“Rose!” Mrs. Frenton said with her charming smile. “I’d love to call you that. It’s such a pretty name. But in that case you must call me Clare. I hate being called Mrs.
...
i
t sounds so old
...
Then I’ll expect all three? Any time after six. That will be lovely.”

Naturally they discussed her after she had gone. “What’s her husband like?” Rose wanted to know.

“He’s something rather grand in the City,” Francie replied, “but he’s nice. They’ve been married over fifteen years and they’re still terribly happy. In fact I think they’re one of the happiest married couples I know.”

“Not as happy as you two,” Rose said quickly.

Francie and Derek both laughed and looked at each other. “We’re different,” Derek said. “We’re unique. There’s never been anyone like us.”

“Besides, we’ve only been married a comparatively short time,” Francie said coquettishly, giving her husband a sideways glance.

“Has she got any children?” Rose asked, her mind still on Clare Frenton.

“No,” Francie replied, “and she doesn’t seem to want any either. I heard her saying once that the only really happily married people are those without children
...

“You don’t believe that, do you?” Rose asked a little indignantly.

“No, we don’t,” Francie said, a shadow passing over her face, and Rose suddenly realized that she was treading on delicate ground.

That night after she had gone to bed she lay awake thinking about marriage and happily married people. She would be very interested to see next day how the Frentons behaved towards each other. She tried to remember how her own mother and father had behaved, but she couldn’t. They had certainly been happy but she couldn’t think of anything special in their behaviour towards each other. Her father had always been very good at remembering anniversaries, she did recall that; and she could also remember very clearly how he had shouted “Coo-ee” as he came home in the evenings, and her mother answering immediately, “Here I am”. But of course one took one’s parents’ behaviour for granted. To a child, its parents’ behaviour was the “normal”, however strange it might be when compared to that of other people.

Rose found her mind turning to Francie and Derek and their relationship with each other. How marvellously friendly they were—like brother and sister almost, good companions. They ragged each other and had absolutely no reserves. Francie didn’t seem to mind what she looked like when Derek was there. She went about in the mornings in a rather tatty old dressing-gown with cold cream on her face and her hair in curlers—absolutely natural
...
But was that really very romantic? She couldn’t imagine Clare Frenton being quite as natural as that in front of
her
husband. No, she visualized Clare Frenton in the mornings in some lovely kind of neglige, with not a hair of her beautiful white head out of place, and certainly never without makeup. She was the most romantic person Rose had ever met
...
Then must complete naturalness always be
unromantic?
Francie’s naturalness was her most endearing quality
...
Rose was startled and disturbed by her own thoughts, which somehow she felt had a seed of disloyalty in them to Francie and Derek.