September sunlight glimmered on the pond. She jumped to her feet, ran to the gate in the wall. It was securely bolted, the bolts rusted in place. She could not budge them. The apple tree stood sturdy beside her. She remembered last year’s party – the game of Sardines when she had hidden for so long on top of the wall. She scrambled up the tree, swung herself on to the wall, sat with her feet dangling, watching the passing traffic. It was cool for the time of year despite the sun, and the wind gusted playfully. Dust flew, stinging her eyes. She wiped her nose with the back of her hand. No one to see her here.
In her pocket she had sixpence that her Grandmother had given her. She was supposed to have put it in her money box, but she’d forgotten. Nanny would slap her hard if she found out.
Not if she wasn’t here.
A gust of wind blew, plastering her skirt against her legs.
With a quick twist of her small body she jumped from the wall and landed like a little cat on her feet on the pavement.
* * *
There was still enough of the afternoon left for Kensington Gardens to be thronged with children, their parents, nannies and nursemaids. It was a familiar sight to Anna – a familiar sight made strange and somehow more exciting because for the first time she saw it alone. Upon the Round Pond little boys sailed their boats, fighting ships and merchantmen skimmed in the rising wind from bank to bank, swooping like birds upon the water. Anna scrambled to the edge of the pond – no one to call her back today – and watched. Not far from her two boats collided, masts and rigging tangling. Their young owners, calling in the wind, disentangled them with long hooked poles. One splendid craft dipped and flew across the rippling surface of the water, its sailor-suited master racing along the bank beside it. Anna, hastily removing herself from harm’s way, reflected not for the first time upon how much more fun it must be to be a boy than a girl: “Come back here, Anna – don’t do this – don’t do that.” Well, she’d do this and that now, just see if she wouldn’t. Except – she cleared her throat, which was feeling distinctly sore. When she had told Nanny Brown that she was not feeling well it had been the plain truth. Her cheeks burned in the wind. That was it, of course – the wind. That was what was making her nose run and her eyes feel so funny.
Nearby, a mother and her small children were feeding the ducks, to the intense excitement of a small Scottish terrier who strained at his lead in a frenzy of barking. A neat nursemaid, the wide white ribbon of her hat streaming jauntily in the wind, pushed a large, bouncing pram along the path, trailing a small procession of well-dressed children holding hands and walking in twos. Anna caught the eye of a girl of about her own age. The girl stuck her tongue out. Anna stuck her thumbs in her ears and waggled her fingers rudely, pulling a ferocious face. That made her feel considerably better.
A gust of wind buffeted her. Leaves skittered by her feet. Infected by the swirling movement, she picked up her skirts and ran, tangled hair streaming, into the wind. She ran until she was breathless and then leaned against a tree, panting. Not far away a boy flew a bright yellow kite with a long, snaking tail. She watched with rapt interest, admiring the skill with which he controlled the thing, tugging gently at the string, turning the kite like a bird in the windy sky. Anna considered for a moment asking him if she might try it, but something about him reminded her of Alex, and she thought better of it. She looked at the kite again. The sky was darkening behind it as the rain clouds built. The boy was reeling it in now, against the tug of a storm-wind. Anna shivered a little. Her nose was running again and the exertion of running had brought back her headache. Her sudden spurt of energy had deserted her. She wandered back towards the pond. People hurried by in the opposite direction, eyes cast up at the building clouds. An old woman was selling lollipops from a tray – “Two a penny – two a penny.” Anna bought two, pocketed her fivepence change. She licked one of the lollipops and grimaced. Something in her mouth made it taste strange. Oddly enough, though earlier she had felt quite hungry, now her appetite seemed entirely to have deserted her. The Gardens were emptying. She climbed up on to a bench and sat, legs swinging, watching the departing procession of prams, children, dogs and nursemaids.
Suddenly she felt very lonely.
She’d have to go back, of course. She hadn’t really meant to run away. Not – not for ever.
The wind had risen in earnest now, large spots of rain blowing in it. The pond, bereft of its proud flotilla, rippled emptily. The water, reflecting the sky, looked dark and cold.
They’d be having tea in the nursery now. They must have missed her. But – did anyone care? Were they just carrying on without her, as if she had never existed? She envisaged a familiar, florid face, “Good riddance to bad rubbish, I say. Eat up, young James, there’s more for everyone now she’s gone.” Tears welled. She felt awful: hot and cold at the same time, her head splitting, her bones aching.
“Well, well. What’s this, eh?”
She looked up. A figure loomed beside her, a man in tattered coat and muffler, his baggy trousers filthy, his boots laceless and unmatching. His dirty unshaven face looked to the sick child like a vision of the devil. Dumb with fright she stared at him. He seated himself beside her. His teeth were horribly discoloured and his breath smelled. “What’s this, little Miss? All alone, are we? Lost our Mummy?” He leaned to her, “Come, my pretty, tell Uncle—”
She scrambled from the bench, eluded the dirty, grasping hand and fled. Sobbing she flew along the path to the gate, not daring to look back to see if he were following, utterly convinced that he was. Once in the comparative safety of the street she did not stop her headlong flight but in a panic ran blindly on, following the way more by instinct than thought, cannoning into people, gasping for breath, crying with fright. The city streets seemed suddenly vast and horribly hostile. Whatever punishment awaited her at home could not be worse than this. She wanted her mother. Sobbing harder, she cried it aloud, “I want my mother.” Then she turned a corner into a blessedly familiar street and crashed full tilt into a slight figure whose hands caught her firmly to stop her from sprawling upon her face.
“No!” She struggled against the grip, “Leave me alone!” .
“Anna – Anna, in God’s name, what is it? Anna? It’s Joss—”
She stopped struggling, stood like a small statue for a moment, her reddened, streaming eyes fixed on his face in sheer disbelief.
“Anna – whatever is it? What are you doing here, alone?”
The world tilted and she staggered, would have fallen, but for his hands. Tears ran unchecked down her face. “I ran away,” she whispered between hiccoughing sobs. “I thought – I wanted—” the words became incoherent.
He remembered two small boys alone in an unfriendly world. Remembered the fear. He held her until the sobbing died a little. “Ssh.” Her cheek flamed against his. He drew back, frowning, touched her forehead. “You feel unwell?” He thought he had never seen a small creature look so pitiable.
She nodded. “And Mama and everyone is going to be so angry. I shall get into such trouble—”
Joss Anatov, for very good reasons, did not consider himself a softhearted man. But the misery in the flushed, tear-drenched little face touched him unexpectedly. He remembered again that child with no one to turn to, no one, ever, to help—
“I ran away—” Anna was still sobbing, but the words were clearer “—because no one loves me since the baby came. They just think I’m a wicked nuisance. And now – and now—” she could not go on.
“Anna.”
She sobbed still.
“Anna!” He shook her gently. She looked at him. “Listen to me. You are afraid that you will get into trouble for being out so long, and without permission?”
She nodded.
“No. For – we shall tell a small untruth.”
Her sobs had quietened. She watched him with wide, half-hopeful eyes. The rain was falling in earnest now, blowing down the darkening street in gusts. She shivered. He stood up, took
off his coat and wrapped her in it, scooped her lightly into his arms and started down the street, talking as he went. “We shall say this: that I, coming home early from the shop, found you playing in the garden and took you to the park, stupidly forgetting to tell Nanny where we were going. Then – we forgot the time – it started to rain – you felt unwell, and I had to carry you home.”
“But then you’ll get into trouble.” Her voice was muffled. It felt so good to be in his arms, so warm and safe. She just wished that she did not feel so frighteningly unwell.
“No matter,” he said, quietly. “Josef Anatov has talked his way out of worse trouble than this. So – remember – I took you to the park – you felt unwell, and it has taken me a long time to carry you home.”
“Will it be all right?” She dared not hope it.
“It will be all right. I promise. And – Anna?”
“Yes?”
“I want to hear no more of this nonsense of no one loving you. If the day comes when you are truly unloved, cry then. But now? Foolish one – watch your mother’s face when she sees you.”
She laid her hot cheek against the wet roughness of his jacket. A small happy thought had lodged in her fevered mind, and she smiled at it. Whatever the disasters and alarms of this afternoon’s adventure, like all good stories it had at least had a happy ending. Her handsome prince had rescued her and brought her home, to safety.
Chapter Six
Measles. The disease swept through the house like fire; first Anna, then her brothers and finally – fatally – the baby. Grace watched helplessly as the small flame of life that she had fought so hard to preserve flickered and died. Her calm acceptance of the tragedy amazed those who watched and worried over her. Only she knew that in her heart she had suspected all along that her weakling child would be unlikely to survive the first onslaught of infant illness. After the difficult birth she had been told that she would never be able to bear Josef another child – knowledge that had made the small scrap doubly precious. But no matter how hard she had tried, not even her fierce motherly instincts had been able entirely to overcome the clear-sighted common sense that was so much a part of her make up, and she had been unable truly to deceive herself. So, when, despite her own constant care and attention, the disease took its inevitable toll of the frail constitution she, with painful stoicism, bowed her head and accepted at last that for His own good reasons God had not willed the child to live. Acceptance, however, did not preclude grief, and she never forgot the ordeal of her child’s funeral. They followed the pitifully small white coffin through the October streets to the churchyard, the glory of autumnal red and gold a sharp contrast to the mourning black of the small cortege. The funeral plumes of the horses tossed in a chill wind that also stirred the white wreaths and flowers. Josef sat sombre beside her in the carriage, his hand clamped around hers in a hurtful grip. He had taken the loss of his little daughter very badly indeed – whilst beneath her black mourning veil Grace’s eyes, if reddened, were dry, he wept openly, in a man’s painfully silent way, for the new life extinguished before it had truly begun. She laid her free hand gently upon his arm. No love in her life, she knew, could ever equal that she felt for this man – old enough almost to be her father, uncommunicative in the extreme about his life before he met her, hardworking, emotional, indulgent – there was nothing about him that she would change. Grace Rose believed with utter and unquestioning faith in her God and in His designs – however obscure – and His benevolent omnipotence. She had no doubt at all that it had been His will that had sent Josef to her so strangely and so fortuitously, as it was His will that Margaret Jane had been taken from them. It worried her that she suspected that Josef had no such prop. As was right and proper he accompanied her, the household and the children, to church each Sunday morning and took his appointed place at the end of the pew; but she, who knew him so well, detected within him none of the joy and the certainty that her own communion with God brought her. On the contrary, though she would not dream of questioning him about it, she sometimes feared that she sensed a scepticism that concerned her always, but most of all now, when the sight of his contained but violent grief hurt her almost as much as her own loss.
Late that afternoon, back in the darkened house, he sat in the cluttered, shaded drawing room staring bleakly at the black mourning ring upon his hand within which was curled a small whisp of the baby’s hair. Grace laid a hand upon his shoulder. “Our little one is with God, Mr Rose. We must remember that and try not to grieve too much.” Her voice, despite the words, was not quite steady. “We are still blessed with the other children.”
Her husband lifted reddened eyes and seeing the intent and worried look upon her still-thin face did his best to smile. “You’re right, of course, my dear. It’s just that it seems so hard—” The words fell into a silence made deeper by the whispers of a house in mourning.
She nodded. “Yes. It’s hard.” With her customary neat movements she stood up and walked to where the tasselled bell pull hung by the draped mantelpiece. The low late October sun slanted through the crack of the drawn curtains, glinting upon a small table with a long, fringed tablecloth upon which stood a collection of glass and china knickknacks that gleamed, spotless in the light. “Now – a cup of tea, I think? And then we’ll visit Anna.”
The mention of their surviving daughter’s name had exactly the effect that she had hoped. Grief for the dead child was, for the moment at least, overcome by concern for the living. “She’s no better?”
“It would seem not. The last lot of medicine that Doctor Thompson gave her has done no more good that the first.”
He stood up suddenly, strode to the fireplace. “I don’t understand it. She was very ill, I know – but that was weeks ago. The boys have recovered long since. Yet there she lies – doing nothing, hardly speaking, eating nothing at all.”
“Doctor Thompson says she is quite cured of the measles. It is, he says, the after-effects—”
“After-effects? What’s that supposed to mean? After-effects?” The day’s emotions exploded into the relief of anger. “The man’s a charlatan. The child is ill. Fading to nothing. And he talks of – ‘after-effects’?”
He stopped as the door opened and a small, uniformed maid tripped into the room. “Yes, Ma’am?”
“Tea, please, Sally.”
“Yes, Ma’am.”
Josef waited until the door closed behind her. “I want a second opinion,” he said then, more quietly. “We’ve lost one child. We aren’t going to lose another.”
Grace nodded, seated herself, straight-backed upon a chair, her eyes upon her tightly-clasped hands, still sheathed in the black lace of mourning; and the tears that she had resisted all day, welled from her eyes and slid soundlessly down her cheeks.
* * *
The new doctor, however, did no better for Anna than the old. He examined her, tapped her chest, looked in her eyes, ears and down her throat and professed himself – in suitably professional language – mystified. As far as he could see there was no reason in the world why the child should decline so. Privately – for he had seen such apparently inexplicable cases before – he believed it likely that the girl would soon follow her small sister to the grave. Who knew why such things happened? God moved in a mysterious way. He took his fee, tipped his hat and left.
And Anna lay, bedevilled, slipping further into her nightmare world of guilt, contrition, terror and self-punishment.
In caring for her sick daughter Grace found at least some ease from grief. For while she believed absolutely in the will of God, she also believed – as she had demonstrated at and after Margaret Jane’s birth – that He was occasionally found to be open to persuasion. Here was a daughter she would not easily let go. That her own loving ministrations actually added to the child’s guilt-ridden distress never occurred to her, no more than did the fact that Anna, though ill, had been progressing perfectly satisfactorily until the baby had been taken ill and that her desperate decline
had begun from the moment of her small sister’s death.
Oddly, it was Joss who discovered the truth.
Trudy it was who begged Joss to visit the sick child. “Honest, Mr Joss – I wish you would. She thinks the world of you, you know. I’m sure it’d ’elp.” Trudy was truly fond of Anna. She was also not averse to the thought of a daily visit to the sick room by this quiet, rather intriguing young man whom she found a lot more attractive than his more flamboyant brother.
Joss felt himself to be an unlikely comfort in the sick room. Also he was busy: Josef, recognizing his remarkable business acumen, had begun to allow him more scope in his activities within the company, encouraging him more and more to take into his own hands the financial side of the business, which had never been Josef’s own forte. The thought of spending precious time with a sick child did not greatly appeal. “I think you exaggerate, Trudy.”
“No. As God’s my witness, Mr Joss, it’s true. Your visit the other day did ’er a lot more good than that there doctor does, I can tell you that.” Trudy crossed her fingers behind her back – it was, after all, in the best of causes – and added, “She’s always askin’ for you.” In fact Anna never asked for anyone.
In conscience, there was little Joss could do but accede, and so it was that he took to dropping in on Anna each evening. As much to Trudy’s surprise as her pleasure these visits did have a beneficial effect. The child came to look for the young man each evening. She even, at last, began to talk. It was a couple of weeks after the baby’s funeral that Joss asked, very politely, to talk to Grace alone.
Grace agreed to this unusual request with some surprise and not a little reluctance. She and Joss were not close – indeed, if pressed, she might have admitted to an actual antipathy for the young man. She was ill at ease with him, and had been from the first moment he had stepped into the house. His brother Boris – handsome, lighthearted, feckless as a child and good for nothing but laughter – had found an immediate corner in her heart: but Joss disturbed her strangely. She never could fathom the thoughts behind those coal-dark eyes, nor find any warmth in the harsh line of his mouth. She supposed that to some he might appear as attractive in his slight, tense way as was Boris in his, but for herself his habitually sombre expression and long, disconcerting silences made him a difficult companion. Although the older by nine or ten years, she felt awkward and uncomfortable in his presence, an experience she was not used to in her own house and which, not unnaturally, she found herself resenting intensely. Always, to her, he gave the impression of an intolerable superiority, of sitting in judgement on those about them and mostly finding them wanting. Her husband’s preference for him over his more extrovert brother puzzled her. She smiled now, a little coolly.
The Rose Stone Page 11