The Rose of Sebastopol (16 page)

I went down and sat with Mother and Aunt in the morning room, where the shades had been drawn to keep out the sun. Though a slight draught blew from door to window it was still very hot. Click-click went a fly on the glass. We were working on festive caps for the governesses, whose home at last had a definite opening date in late September.

Of course Aunt took a ghoulish interest in the hospital, so I told her that I had been impressed by its architecture and the dignified quiet of the chapel. Glimpses of a ward, I said, had confirmed my view that those who worked there must have strong constitutions. I explained Rosa’s absence by suggesting that she probably had a headache, due to the heat.

“I trust it won’t bring on one of your headaches, Mariella, you look very pale,” said Mother.

“Well, perhaps at least Rosa will be convinced now that a hospital is no place for a lady,” said Isabella. “What do you think, Mariella?”

I said nothing.

“Do you think she will want to go again? ”

“I don’t know, Aunt, though perhaps it would be unwise to go back. There was a rumor of cholera.”

Consternation. Even Mother laid aside her sewing while Aunt gave up all pretense of working and fanned herself furiously. “It’s the Indians,” she said. “We were never under threat until the Indians gave us this dreadful disease.”

“Philip was saying that our troops are also suffering from it in Varna,” said Mother. “I don’t understand how it got all the way to Bulgaria as well as here. Did the men take it with them? Is there no cure?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “I remember Henry once telling me that a colleague of his is convinced it’s to do with dirty water.” There, I had mentioned his name quite calmly and at that moment I really thought I could let him float away from me on the slow river of my new hopelessness.

“Nonsense. Bad food, bad air, dirty people—everyone knows that these are the causes of cholera. In fact, all the reasons I said you should not go near that hospital,” said Isabella. “Well, that’s it. From henceforth Rosa doesn’t leave my sight. I won’t listen to any more arguments. Dear heavens, if she died where would I be? ”

All the long afternoon, memories of the hospital surged through my mind however much I tried to keep them at bay by concentrating fiercely on the lace trim of a cap I was sewing, on the swaying shades at the window, and on the way Mother ground her teeth as she worked.

Father was out that evening at a meeting of the local society for the Encouragement of Arts, Manufacture, and Commerce, of which he was currently chairman. This was a pity because it meant that at dinner there was no topic of conversation other than the hospital. Rosa came down late, wearing her plainest black gown and her hair loosely tied in a ribbon. She looked ill, her lip trembled, she ate only a mouthful or two and couldn’t be persuaded to talk about what she had seen. All she said was that she had found the experience of visiting the sick every bit as moving as she had anticipated.

The result of this behavior was that all eyes were upon her. Aunt Isabella repeated several times that if only she’d been listened to in the first place the hospital visit would never have happened and that the chances were that Rosa would be dead from cholera within a week. “I’ve already been wrung raw this year by the death of my poor husband and now I am to lose a daughter. For the life of me I cannot see what I’ve done to deserve such bad luck.”

“Rosa isn’t dead yet, Sister,” said Mother.

“It’s a terrible thing to outlive one’s only child.”

Like Rosa, I had no appetite, but unlike her I couldn’t bear to draw unwelcome attention to myself so I had to swallow mouthful upon mouthful that might just as well have been dust in my mouth.

After dinner Aunt declared that she was too exhausted to think of working, so she dozed on the sofa while Mother wrote yet another letter begging a distant relative’s financial support for the replacement gas pipes in the home. Rosa sat at the piano and played the opening bars of Mozart’s “Sonata in A.” She rarely performed but when she did, it was with passion and clarity, though I had still never heard her play a piece all the way through. I took my sewing out onto the terrace, believing that I would be left alone.

Even late in the evening the air was still warm; low rays of sunshine shuddered on the lawn, perfume steamed from a cloud of roses, and birdsong fluted in the still air. I lifted one nightcap after another from a heap and attached white ribbons, but my mind would not be soothed; instead I replayed the scene in the chapel.

After a few minutes the music stopped and Rosa joined me. “Do you mind? I shan’t say a word.”

I gave a reluctant shake of the head, so she sat beside me, spent several minutes staring out into the garden, then began writing notes in a book I’d never seen her use before. Her silence was so unusual that it weighed in the air more heavily than if she’d bothered me with incessant talk. I was conscious of the slight sound of her hand brushing the page and the way her hair fell like a veil across the side of her face.

The moon rose, a sliver of pearly light over the poplar trees marking the boundary of our garden.

Then I realized that her attention, like mine, was elsewhere: we were both waiting for Henry. I was sure that he would come even though he never paid surprise visits. The knowledge that he was on his way grew and grew until I could not help but look up from my work every minute to see if he was there.

Faintly we heard the doorbell, then nothing more until Henry was standing in the open French windows wearing a summer waistcoat I’d never seen before, his hair damp on his forehead and his jacket slung over his shoulder. He was still very pale and the expression in his eyes was one I remembered from his first arrival in our house, fear of intrusion.

Rosa sprang to her feet, notebook clutched to her chest, and backed away a few paces while I gave Henry my hand. He squeezed it affectionately and smiled into my eyes. “Are you well again, Ella? Have you recovered?” Yes, he had forgiven me. It was over. I was so relieved that I had to sit down abruptly in order to hide my tears. Meanwhile he offered his hand to Rosa. “Miss Barr.”

She said nothing but let her hand slide through his, then sat at the greatest possible distance from us, half turned away, writing in her book.

Henry fanned himself with one of the nightcaps. “I thought you’d like to know that the operation was a success, as far as it went. The boy lives but I don’t know for how long. He’s very sick with a high fever. We can only hope now.” He seemed entirely his old self and I was amazed by his generosity, that he could treat us so kindly after we had invaded his world.

“Do you think he still might die, then?” I asked.

“I’m afraid it’s likely. In a child that young infection spreads rapidly. But then on the other hand if he’s healthy he may yet fight back. So much depends on state of mind.”

“It’s terrible that he should lose his life in so trivial an accident. Is there nothing that can be done for a broken limb except amputation?”

“Well now, this is where I differ from some of my colleagues who will whip off a limb if it’s so much as bruised. I have learnt from my travels abroad that it is possible to save a limb with careful setting and dressing of the wound, if only infection doesn’t set in. But where the flesh is broken and the bone protruding as in young Tom’s case there is no hope other than through amputation. But, Mariella, it’s a perfect evening and I’ve been cooped up in the hospital all day. Won’t you and Rosa walk with me as far as the wilderness? ”

I got up and we both waited for Rosa. I thought she would refuse, I willed her to go on with her writing but at last she sighed and tucked her pencil between the pages of her book. “I am keeping a note,” she told us, “of any activities that might be described as medical. It is my poor attempt at organized study.”

I took Henry’s arm while Rosa walked ahead of us, hands clasped behind her back and the trailing hem of her skirt sweeping the path. When we emerged from the shade her hair, which had tumbled from its ribbon and spilt to her waist, turned to gold. We ducked beneath the rose arch and crossed the lawn to the wilderness where the azaleas, long past their best, had left a scent of decay in the air. Rosa, still ahead, swayed as she walked and reached out to brush her hand over low branches. A loose flower twirled from a bush of mock orange and caught in her hair.

“Miss Barr,” Henry said. “I made enquiries. It seems that volunteers may indeed be required at the hospital if there is to be a cholera outbreak.”

She did not turn. “Surely I am not fit for such work, being so unskilled.”

“You could be trained. But I must warn you the work is dangerous.”

“Oh, then it can’t be suitable for a woman.”

She spoke so bitingly that I thought he had every right to be angry again but he said quietly: “For certain women, it is. I am partly on your side, Miss Barr, believe me. Although I happen to think that the study of medicine, being such a long, drawn-out business, should probably remain a male preserve, I have seen for myself that some women are natural nurses and that we could improve the care of patients considerably if there were more trained women in charge of the wards. For instance there is Mrs. Wardroper at St. Thomas’s Hospital who runs a marvelous team of nurses.”

“Well, in any case,” said Rosa, “there is no question of my taking the idea any further. My mother won’t hear of me working in a cholera, or indeed any other kind of ward.”

“It’s understandable. Given the possibility of contagion the work is perhaps best left to those without family ties.”

“Is it true,” she said bitterly, “that none of the doctors who look after these patients has family ties? Or do you think that those women who do nurse are of such low class that it scarcely matters if they become infected.”

“That’s not what I think, Miss Barr. I have the highest respect for women who nurse, as I’ve said.”

She turned on him suddenly. “But you can have no respect at all for me.”

“On the contrary ...”

Her voice was now full of tears. “You must think me selfish and impetuous.”

“No.”

“You were right. I was entirely to blame because I was thinking only of myself when I came to the hospital today. It’s just that I have waited so long. But that’s no excuse. How could I have behaved so badly?”

“It was a moment of great tension for us all. Nobody thinks clearly in such circumstances.”

Her head was drawn back, a tear brimmed on her lower eyelid, and her lips were pressed together to prevent her from breaking down entirely. “At any rate,” she said, “please don’t hold it against Mariella. I forced her to come with me.”

“As if I would ever hold anything against Mariella.” We all laughed and this time when we walked on, Rosa linked her arm through mine so that I was supported on both sides and we had to keep close together to negotiate the narrowness of the path until we emerged back onto the lawn.

“The truth is,” said Henry, “I have a great deal on my mind. There is the lecture next week, which I know will provoke a great deal of hostility. And then things are not going well with the army. The troops have been so long in Varna, in Bulgaria, that cholera has set in there as well. There may be an epidemic and of course we didn’t anticipate that.”

“How could you?” I said. “You were sent to consider the situation for wounded soldiers, not diseased men.”

“And yet there are precedents,” said Henry. “I have since looked them up. Soldiers often die of typhus and other diseases. We’ve seen it happen most recently in India. We know that cholera has been the scourge of our century and that wherever a great many people are gathered together sharing the same air, infection will spread. Yet I didn’t foresee the danger because I simply couldn’t imagine a situation where thousands of men would be encamped in hot weather at close quarters. Perhaps that’s why I was so angry today. It wasn’t your actions so much as anxiety and frustration with myself for not looking ahead. I deeply regret that you two innocent women should have suffered because I was angry with myself.”

“You are too generous,” said Rosa. Tears still shone in her eyes and she stood apart from us, chin high, face half averted. “The truth is that the one person above all others I would never want to hurt is Mariella and I deliberately put her through a dreadful ordeal.”

I was so unused to being annoyed with anyone, let alone her, that now it was over I felt as if heavy chains had dropped from my heart. My body filled with heat and light as she kissed my hand and held my palm to her wet cheek.

Henry’s eyes were fixed on our joined hands. “Well, perhaps we should progress with your medical education in easy stages, Miss Barr. My lecture on the experiments being performed in Pest by Dr. Semmelweis will be a start. I do hope you will come.”

“Of course. If I am allowed. If Ella will come too.”

“Oh, I’m sure she will. And I’m hoping Uncle Philip will attend. Public health is a subject that I think is of great interest to those whose work is to plan and build.”

By the time we reached the house he and Rosa were talking so animatedly about the spread of disease among the poor that it was as if the afternoon’s incident had never been. Or rather the incident, instead of driving us apart, had given us a shared understanding that had not existed before. When we returned to the drawing room, Henry sat next to me while Rosa curled up on the sofa and rested her head on her mother’s shoulder.

“I hope you didn’t catch a chill in that damp garden,” said Isabella.

Rosa kissed her. “It’s not damp. It’s a wonderful evening.”

“Go up and fetch a shawl, Rosa, your hand is very cold.”

“I’m not cold. It’s just that yours is very hot. But still, if it would reassure you, I’ll wear a shawl,” and she flew out of the room to collect some concoction of silk and lace which settled round her shoulders like cobweb and mingled with her curls.