The Rose of Sebastopol (21 page)

Only Rosa was missing from the circle. Her sewing was hopeless, and because Isabella was for once both healthy and occupied, her daughter was free to leave the house more often than usual.

In fact Rosa was obsessed by the war. Since she had always opposed it, she seemed to feel responsible for not making her protests more widely heard, and turned her bedroom into an office so that she could mount a one-woman campaign against the iniquitous government that had first engaged our troops in a spurious conflict, then murdered them by cholera or neglected battle wounds. Out went the cushions, the lace cloths, and the potpourris I had arranged in preparation for her arrival. In came an upright chair and deal table borrowed from an unoccupied bedroom in the attic. By her bed she kept a collection of cuttings from
The Times
, far more business-like than anything I had managed, each one annotated and referenced with pages of notes alongside
.
Night after night she scribbled letters to officials, protesting about the conditions of the troops and the fact that women and children were among those trapped within Sebastopol.
“And what is the reason for all this misery? War should surely have been the very last resort, not an activity we tumbled into for want of any better idea . . .”
During the day she met with Miss Leigh Smith and her friends in the hope of gaining allies who would protest against the war.

Late that Monday afternoon she burst in on our sewing circle just as we had broken for tea, took one look at Mrs. Hardcastle, and ducked away, leaving a tantalizing perfume of fallen leaves and a flashing memory of her tousled hair and dark blue gown.

When it was time to leave, the ladies spent several minutes in the hall adjusting their rustling skirts, re-tying their bonnets in front of the mirror, and arranging the date for the next meeting during which we were to pack the sheets and bandages ready for transportation. Mrs. Hardcastle, I noticed, kept glancing up the stairs, as if expecting Rosa to appear and apologize for her rudeness. After they had all gone at last, Aunt Isabella announced that she was exhausted and would go upstairs to lie down, so Mother and I were left alone.

I was working on a cut-stitch-trimmed blouse for Mother to wear at the home’s gala opening, now scheduled for the third of January. Mother, worn out with the labor of organizing the ladies of the sewing circle, a task that required a precarious mix of deference and authority, sat over her writing desk with her head in her hand. After a few minutes, Rosa came in quietly, closed the door, and knelt by the hearth. She had discarded her shawl, brushed her hair, and knotted it at the nape of her neck although one strand had already unwound and was dangling down her back.

She turned her hands in the heat and spoke in a low, urgent voice. “They are looking for nurses to go out to the Crimea; I heard it from Barbara. They are to leave in three days’ time. Her cousin, Miss Nightingale, will lead the party. Interviews are being held at a house in Belgrave Square.” Mother lifted her head. I thrust my needle into a layer of cambric and took off my thimble. “It feels as if I’ve been preparing for this moment all my life. I cannot bear the thought of leaving you all, I know it is a great deal to ask, but I have to go.”

The gas popped in the lamp. Rosa caught hold of the loose strand of hair and twisted it round her finger.

After a long silence Mother said, “I really don’t understand what you are talking about.”

“The war. Our troops are dying of neglected wounds. Women are needed to nurse them.”

Mother spoke in the tight voice that used to frighten me as a child, because it was the nearest she ever came to anger: “But this is out of the question. I wonder you have even allowed yourself to think that you might go, Rosa. Are you sure you heard correctly? It seems very unlikely that ladies will suddenly be required in the Crimea, of all places. And then, I wonder how you could possibly consider yourself in any way qualified. You are very young and inexperienced.” She paused. “And in any case, there is the question of your mother.”

I replaced the thimble and held my work to the light. Meticulous counting of threads was required for cut-work and I wished I had been working on something less complicated.

Rosa so rarely met with opposition, least of all from Mother, that for a moment she had no words. “It wouldn’t be for very long,” she said at last. “I was hoping that you and Mariella could take care of Mother. Given the cause.” Her voice wavered on the last phrase.

“But you are due to move out next month. I thought you had as good as signed the lease on a house in Battersea.”

“Yes. Indeed. Certainly if I were to go to Russia I wouldn’t be able to take on that particular lease. But there will be other houses, I’m sure. A home for Mother and me is perhaps not as urgent as our sick soldiers in Russia. Don’t you remember, I read out the article from
The Times
that said:
‘The manner in which the sick and wounded are treated is worthy only of the savages of Dahomey
...’? Aunt, I’m so sorry to ask this of you but I have no choice. It’s
meant
that I should go. This is more than just a wish, it’s a calling. When I look at my life so far it seems to me that it has all been a preparation for this moment. Year after year, when I could, I visited the cottages at Stukeley to help with the sick. Then, when Stepfather was ill, nobody else could stand being in the room with him; I can’t describe to you the degraded state he was in sometimes, but I never minded because I am not afraid of anything to do with illness. I must be as qualified as any other woman in Britain, as Miss Nightingale herself, in fact. I know her, remember, I met her in Derbyshire. Do you understand? This is not my choice. I was born for this moment. Oh, I don’t really believe in destiny but now I
know
this is what I must do. I can’t resist this.”

All the time she was speaking I rotated my engagement ring, conscious of the heat of the fire on my knees and the awful weight of Isabella in bed on the floor above.

Rosa suddenly scrambled to her feet and stood with her hands on her hips, gazing into the flames. “But if it’s a matter of my mother, yes, I see, it’s an impossible burden for you. Yes. Of course. Well, perhaps I’ll sign the lease on the Battersea house after all. There’s Nora, between them they could manage ...” But even Rosa knew that Nora and her mother could not be consigned to an unfurnished house in Battersea. She dropped her head in her hands and began to cry.

Rosa often cried in a passionate burst of joy or sorrow but I had never known her despair. She cried beautifully, of course, her hair shifting from its pins, her nose dainty as ever, the tears dropping through her fingers. “Aunt, I am utterly selfish, I know it. And yet how can it be selfish to want to relieve suffering? I know my mother is ill but does she really need me as badly as those hundreds of soldiers?”

“Isabella is your first responsibility and you are her only daughter. It’s always easier to help those whom we’re not related to, in my experience. On the other hand there must be thousands of unfortunate women with no family or ties, who are able to go to Russia.”

“But if there’s a choice. If she could be left here. If you could look after her, aren’t we all doing our duty? I could use Mother’s annuity to hire another nurse to help Nora. Neither you nor Mariella need concern yourselves much with her.”

“Henry has gone,” I said, and they were both startled that I had spoken at last. “We have already given Henry. Isn’t that enough? ”

“I know, Mariella. You are being asked to sacrifice too much. I’ve thought of that. But Henry has gone for his own reasons. I have nothing to do with Henry. I simply want to get down on my knees and scrub floors and give our men a warm bed and clean water. There is nothing noble in what I can do. And yet I must do it. To leave you will be like leaving half of myself. But I have no choice.”

Rosa, the unstoppable, went up to tell her mother that if arrangements could be made she planned to go to Turkey and an hour later Aunt Isabella came down to dinner with disheveled hair and a dead-white face. She managed two mouthfuls of soup before dissolving in tears. “I have told her that I shall die while she is in Turkey but she is still determined to go. I swear it will break my heart.” And she flung down her napkin, pushed back her chair, and sat the rest of the evening on the sofa refusing tea and gulping back tears.

Even Father was miserable. He deplored the fact that Rosa would be putting herself in a dangerous and sordid situation, he thought nursing was probably best left to older, less refined women, but after all he was a patriot and his opinion was that as Miss Nightingale was from one of the highest families in the land, Rosa could only gain from association with her. And it never occurred to him that we should mind about Isabella, whose presence in the house made little impact on him.

As for me, I was numb with shock. That Rosa would think of leaving me at all, let alone abandoning me with her mother, seemed like a betrayal more terrible than the time that we had been banished from Stukeley. How could she do it? And without consulting me.

That night we lay flat on our backs side by side, like a knight and his lady on a tomb.

“You think I’m being very selfish don’t you? ” she said at last.

I didn’t reply.

“I know you do. I know I am. The point is, I have no choice. It’s as if suddenly the purpose of my life has been made clear. I was blundering along on a journey and now at last I see the direction I was traveling in. I cannot bear to think that any human being should suffer if I can do something about it. And now I can, and so can you. Can’t you see? If it wasn’t for the fact that I know you will be here to help look after Mother I would have no choice. You have given me a choice.”

“But you didn’t ask me first. You didn’t give me a chance to say no.”

“That would have put you in an impossible position. You’d have been forced to agree to let me go because you’d have had to take the burden all on yourself. At least this way it is your mother who has to decide. But yes, I am selfish, I know it. But I can’t not be. This chance will never come again. Never.” She raised herself on her elbow and turned my chin so that I was forced to look at her. “Say something. Anything. Please.”

“All right. I’m thinking . . . it was bad enough when Henry went. How will I bear it if you go too?”

“But can’t you see? You have Henry. He is your first priority. You will marry him the minute he comes home. And what will I be left with then? Oh please, Mariella, please try to understand.”

Something broke inside me. I knew I would have to let her go and with the end of resistance came a kind of relief. “Go. Go. Just go,” and we lay cheek to cheek, locked together.

In the morning I went down to breakfast, unfolded my napkin, and placed it neatly across my lap. “I am happy to look after Isabella, if she will let me,” I told Mother. “I think Rosa should apply to be one of Miss Nightingale’s nurses. Today she and I will put her name forward.”

R
osa borrowed a small round bonnet,
a plain collar, and my new horse-hair petticoat to puff out her skirts. The pleated lining of her hat was a perfect foil to her luminous complexion and I had never seen her look so subdued and ladylike. Before we left we paid a visit to Isabella’s room, where I drew back the curtain and Rosa stood in a shaft of light to be scrutinized by her mother and Nora.

“You look dreadful,” said Isabella. “Like a nun. I suppose the next thing is that you will cut off your hair and become a Roman Catholic.”

“Why would I do that, Mother?”

“Because you seem intent on doing everything you can to displease me.”

“What do you think, Nora?” asked Rosa.

Nora shrugged. “I think that the silk, in whatever color, is hardly suitable for the nursing.”

The house in Belgrave Square, home of Mr. Sidney Herbert, secretary of state for war, was very grand, with white marble steps and a high-ceilinged entrance hall complete with impressive chandelier. A disdainful footman showed us to a line of chairs where two women were already waiting, one clutching a voluminous carpet bag, the other barely sixteen, with the red hands of a laundry maid.

“I thought there would be hundreds of ladies here,” said Rosa loudly and introduced herself to the others, who answered in monosyllables. Rosa, of course, persisted; I knew that she was viewing them as future companions and as such was determined to find possibilities in each.

A door opened and out came a blowsy-looking woman with untidy hair and a bright red spot on each cheek, who had obviously not been given an encouraging reception. The woman with the carpet bag was shown in, the doorbell again rang, and two frail-looking elderly ladies with crucifixes prominently displayed on their bosoms took seats beside us.

Rosa said in a low voice: “I think it would be better if you came in with me, Mariella. I shall explain that you are here to support my application in case there are questions about my family situation.” One of the religious spinsters took out a small black prayer book. The laundry maid picked at a bit of dead skin on her index finger.