Grandmama had already finished her breakfast. Grandpapa was still leisurely sprinkling salt on his porridge, a strange Scottish habit that always astonished me. Mama wasn’t down yet, much to my relief.
‘Where’s Jeannie then, Edward?’ Grandmama demanded, dabbing her lips with her napkin.
‘Oh, she’s getting ready. I think she’s already changed her dress twice and torturing your little maid because she doesn’t care for the way she’s done her hair,’ said Papa jovially.
‘Wee Morag is my own maid and she’s extremely competent,’ said Grandmama. ‘It’s not her fault if Jeannie demands all those fussy ringlets.’
Grandmama’s hair is iron grey and straight as a ruler. She wears it scraped back so tightly it must make her scalp tingle. She sat bolt upright, drumming her fingers on the tablecloth.
‘Where is the girl?’ she demanded. ‘I need to discuss one hundred and one things about the party tonight.’
‘Now, dear, Jeannie is a guest in our house. You shouldn’t rope her in to help organize everything,’ said Grandpapa, munching. Pennycuik porridge is peculiarly thick. Rupert says the ingredients are oats, water, and a pound and a half of glue.
‘She’s my daughter,’ said Grandmama. ‘It’s her duty to help her mother!’
It seemed you were never excused daughterly duties, even when you had seven children yourself.
Mama came into the room when everyone else had breakfasted and the servants were shuffling their feet, waiting to clear the dishes. She was wearing her best blue silk, the dress she wore for her portrait. It seemed a strange choice, especially as Pennycuik was so cold. She was wearing her new sapphire earrings as well as the brooch, and she’d applied her cologne so liberally she overpowered the smell of bacon and eggs.
‘My Lord, Jeannie, you’re not dressed for the party already!’ said Grandmama.
‘Of course not, Mama,’ she said.
Paris stood up for her as she joined the table. ‘Your dress looks stunning as always – and, my goodness, your earrings are beautiful,’ he said. ‘I think I shall have to add them to your portrait, Mrs Rivers.’
‘By all means,’ said Mama, smiling at him. She let him settle her in the chair next to his.
‘Well, eat up, my dear, though there’s scarcely any porridge left,’ said Grandpapa.
‘Don’t dally, Jeannie. There’s so much we have to do,’ said Grandmama. ‘The Christmas greenery is looking very tired. I’ll ask the gardener and his boys to fetch some more, and I thought you might arrange it for me. You’ve always had the knack of making flowers look pretty. And then you can be in charge of wrapping the party favours. I need your help on the dietary front too. I only discovered yesterday that the wretched Lady Provost has such a delicate constitution she can’t consume animal products, so what on earth am I going to give her? Can you think of an equivalent to Arbroath smokies and good Angus beef? Apparently she can’t even eat Clootie Dumpling because of the suet! Did you ever!’
Grandmama droned on and on like a Scottish Mrs Beeton.
Mama was barely listening. ‘Perhaps a medley of vegetables, Mama? But I’m not sure I’ll have time to do any chores. Paris has brought his painting equipment, so I thought this would be an ideal opportunity for him to work on my portrait,’ she said. ‘Wait till you see it, Mama. It’s a work of art.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous, Jeannie, it’s a work of art by very definition,’ said Grandmama.
‘I would have loved to continue, Mrs Rivers, but I’ve failed to bring the portrait itself. I didn’t want to risk damaging it on the journey,’ Paris said quickly.
Mama didn’t seem perturbed. ‘Of course! But never mind – perhaps you’d care to start some preliminary sketches for the next portrait, in profile this time? I thought that would be a novel idea,’ she said, turning her head and demonstrating, her hand at her throat to hide her double chin.
‘It would be a great honour, but I’m not sure I can manage to make a start today,’ Paris said.
‘You’re not quick enough off the mark, Jeannie,’ said Papa, draining his cup of tea. ‘I’ve bagged Paris for myself. We’re going sketching. I thought I’d take him up the coast to Monifieth. Rose is coming too, aren’t you, my dear. She seems very keen.’
‘I dare say she is,’ said Mama icily. She looked at me for the first time that morning. ‘But you must stay and help Grandmama.’
‘Oh, Mama!’
‘Don’t spoil the lassie’s fun, Jeannie. Let her go off gallivanting if she wishes,’ said Grandpapa. ‘I’m taking Rupert riding, and I’ve ordered the carriage to take Nurse and the little ones to Balgay Park. Come on then – let’s be off and leave the womenfolk to their planning.’
I was off before Mama could think of another ploy to keep me there. I rushed up to the amber room to fetch my coat and hat and sketchbook and pencils. I found Beth back in her underwear, shivering and crying, while Nurse Budd wagged her finger at her.
‘What on earth are you doing?’ I asked. ‘You’re frightening her! What have you done with her dress?’
‘Miss Beth took it upon herself to spit her porridge all down her bodice,’ said Nurse Budd. ‘I’ve scrubbed hard, but it’s stained.’
‘Well, it isn’t very smooth porridge, and you know she hates to eat anything lumpy. You shouldn’t have forced her to eat it,’ I said fiercely.
‘What am I supposed to do, let the child starve to death? She’s skin and bone as it is,’ said Nurse Budd, taking hold of one of Beth’s thin arms and giving it a little shake.
Beth screamed and hit out at her.
‘Now now, that’s very naughty, isn’t it, Miss Beth. You don’t want to make Nurse Budd cross, do you?’
‘Don’t, Beth! Do calm down,’ I said. I tried to distract her the way Clover did. ‘Shall we see if we can find you another dress to put on? Then you can go on an outing with Nurse and the others to Balgay Park. It’s lovely there – do you remember? There’s that little bridge you like to run across, and the wooden summer house. When I was young I liked to pretend that it was my own little house. You and Clarrie could play house together,’ I said.
‘Play house together,’ said Beth, looking at me.
‘I’m afraid I can’t come to the park, Beth. I’ve got to go sketching with Papa and Mr Walker,’ I said, sighing as if it were a tiresome duty, and then bolted out of the room.
I bobbed into the nursery to find Clover. She was trying to get Algie and Clarrie into their warm Scottish outfits while Nurse fed Phoebe, grumbling that Cook had given her the wrong kind of milk.
‘I know this is far too creamy and rich and it’ll upset her,’ she kept muttering, though Phoebe was guzzling down her breakfast with evident relish.
‘I’m not wearing that stupid skirt again,’ Algie shrieked, running around in his drawers.
‘I’m not either,’ said Clarrie, copying him.
‘Don’t be silly, Miss Clarrie, you wear skirts every day,’ said Clover, catching her and swinging her up in the air to stop her pouting.
‘Yes, but the kilt is so stiff and it makes me itchy,’ said Clarrie. ‘And so does my jumper. And my under-things. ‘
‘Mine too,’ said Algie, pulling down his drawers and kicking them off. ‘We’re not wearing anything at all! We’ll be monkeys!’ He started making monkey noises and pulling faces.
Sebastian laughed. He was already dressed in his own kilt and sitting carefully in a nursery chair, his woollen socks pulled up neatly and his black shoes tied just so.
‘I’ll take you straight to the Zoological Gardens and put you in a cage,’ said Clover. ‘Though you haven’t a clue how to make real monkey noises. Listen, it’s like this.’ She demonstrated loudly, scratching under her arms for extra authenticity.
Algie and Clarrie were so impressed they let Clover pull their underwear back on and buckle up the dreaded kilts.
‘What a terrible row! Call yourself a nurserymaid. You’re worse than the whole pack of children rolled together,�
� Nurse grumbled.
‘Don’t be silly, Nurse, Clover’s magical,’ I said. ‘She can get the children to do anything she wants. Clover, I came to tell you. Papa’s organized a sketching party this morning, just for the three of us.’
Her green eyes shone. She thought I meant that Papa had invited her too! I felt terrible.
‘Papa and Mr Walker and me,’ I amended.
‘Oh,’ said Clover. ‘Yes. Of course.’
I couldn’t bear to see the way she drooped. ‘But perhaps – perhaps I could ask if you could come too,’ I said.
‘Have you taken leave of your senses, Miss Rose?’ said Nurse. ‘As if the master would take a little maid out sketching! And anyway, even if he were so soft, she couldn’t possibly go. She has to help me look after these four.’
‘You’re always protesting that you don’t need any help, Nurse,’ I said.
‘I’ll thank you not to be impertinent, Miss Rose. You might think yourself a little lady, but you’re not too old to go over my knee and be smacked with the hairbrush,’ said Nurse.
‘I’d like to see you try, Nurse!’ I replied.
She shook her head. ‘It doesn’t do to stir young Clover up and pretend there’s no difference between her and you. She has to know her place,’ she said quietly.
‘Why does she? Why do we have this ridiculous idea of class anyway? Why am I a lady and Clover a servant just because we happened to be born into different homes?’ I asked.
‘It’s only right and Christian,’ said Nurse.
‘Christ was a carpenter, which is a decent profession, but it doesn’t make him a gentleman,’ I declared.
‘Button your mouth, Miss Rose, and get out of my nursery. I’ll not listen to such wicked blaspheming,’ Nurse declared, shaking her head.
I felt guilty going off sketching with Papa and Paris, but I reasoned that it wouldn’t help Clover if I stayed behind. And it turned out to be the most tremendous fun. Papa and Paris joshed each other like schoolboys, striding out across the tufty grass and boggy glens while I bobbed along behind. Whenever we came to a big ditch they seized me by the hands and swung me across, and as soon as I started lagging they sang to cheer me along. Papa warbled Scottish laments while Paris sang ridiculous comic songs from the music hall. Papa joined in, word perfect, and said they took him back to his youth.
At last we reached Papa’s perfect spot, and he got the provisions out of his bulging knapsack – strips of home-cured ham and shortbread triangles. We devoured them eagerly, though we’d had breakfast less than two hours ago. Papa and Paris took sips of whisky from a flask, saying it kept out the cold. Papa only had ginger beer for me. I could have done with some of their whisky – it was even colder crouching above the beach, with the wind blowing straight off the sea.
I hoped that Papa and Paris would carry on singing and joking merrily, but after a few minutes each became absorbed in his work, and when I attempted conversation Paris gave short, abstracted answers and Papa simply grunted. I tried to concentrate on my own sketch, but I found it frustrating. I didn’t know how to draw the heaving sea or the heavy clouds or the vast expanse of sky.
‘Draw what you see, Rose,’ Papa said when I flicked my page over yet again. ‘Get the outline right – the line of the sea, the sand, the rocks. Look where the light is, the shade. Then start filling in the details.’
But I couldn’t get the outline right, and there weren’t any interesting details. I made them up, peopling the deserted beach with my siblings. I drew Rupert posing on a rock playing with his pocket watch in a languid manner, Beth staring at the waves, Sebastian sitting primly on a tartan rug so he wouldn’t get his kilt sandy, Algie tearing off his own kilt to go swimming, Clarrie building a sandcastle, with Phoebe crowing and kicking beside her.
When we were all completely frozen, we took a break and jumped up and down to get the blood circulating.
Paris looked at my sketch and laughed. ‘Well done, Rose! You’ve drawn each child splendidly! Look, Edward. See how talented your daughter is!’ he said enthusiastically.
I glowed, in spite of the cold, but Papa looked disappointed.
‘Oh, Rose! You’re back to your nonsense again. It’s wittily done, but you could have drawn it just as well at the house. I want you to learn to sketch from nature,’ he said.
‘Nature is just a little bit dull, Papa,’ I said, which made Paris laugh.
‘I have seven children, and yet none of them seems to have an artistic soul,’ said Papa, sighing.
‘You can hardly expect Phoebe to sit up in her cradle and start painting,’ said Paris. ‘I grant you that young Algie and merry little Clarrie don’t seem artistic – but Sebastian is a sensitive soul.’
‘I dare say he is, but he doesn’t care for painting any more,’ said Papa. ‘He says he doesn’t like the smell, yet he cleans out that mouse cage happily enough.’
‘I think he’ll end up being a zoologist, Papa,’ I said.
‘What career do you predict for Algie?’ he asked.
‘Oh, that’s easy – he’ll be a clown in the circus.’
‘And Rupert? He’s clearly not interested in being an artist. He’s far too worldly,’ said Papa. ‘I suppose he’ll inherit his grandfather’s fortune one day. Do you see him as a Jute King, Rose?’
‘No, I think he’ll hire a man to manage the mills while he spends the fortune,’ I said.
‘What about you, Rose?’ Paris asked. ‘What do you want to do when you grow up?’
‘So you see my girl as a New Woman, with a career?’ Papa asked with interest.
‘I don’t see how I can pursue any worthwhile career when I have no education to speak of,’ I said bitterly.
‘Don’t start, my dear. You know your mother doesn’t approve of schooling for girls.’
‘But you approve, don’t you, Papa?’
‘Possibly. But I don’t control the purse strings. I’m allowed to buy my wife expensive jewellery, but I can’t send my bright daughter to school,’ said Papa. I think he meant to say this lightly, but it sounded harsh.
There was a little silence. Both men sat down again and went back to sketching. I had lost heart. I tried to sketch properly, but my hands were now so cold that I had even less command of my pencil. I stared at the sea, the sand, the sky until they all blurred into each other. I tried sketching Papa and Paris crouched on their separate rocks, but I couldn’t get the shapes right. Papa ended up with a head much too big for his body, and Paris’s right arm was twice the length of his left. I wished I had an India rubber, but Papa didn’t approve of rubbings out.
‘Look hard until you see exactly how the line should go, and then you won’t need to rub out,’ he said.
I was looking so hard my eyes watered in the wind, yet my lines were all over the place. I gave up altogether and sat there daydreaming, wondering what my New Year’s resolution was going to be.
I WAS CHILLED to the bone when I got back to Pennycuik.
‘Did you have a good time sketching?’ Clover asked me when she’d settled the children for their afternoon nap.
‘It was so cold! I’m still freezing now, feel,’ I said, touching her with my icy hand.
She took hold of it and rubbed it briskly back to life. ‘Was it wonderful?’
I hesitated. ‘It was fun to be with Mr Walker and Papa,’ I said truthfully. ‘We sang all the way there and back.’
‘What’s the sea like? Is it very vast and wild?’ Clover asked eagerly.
I felt terrible when I realized she’d never seen the sea herself. She begged to see my sketches. I felt ashamed when I showed her. She seemed a little puzzled, but was very polite, and laughed at my caricature of the children on the beach.
‘You don’t have to be kind, Clover. I know I’m useless at art,’ I said.
‘Well, so am I. Your papa says I must try to find time to practise,’ she said, waving her right hand in the air to demonstrate drawing.
I saw she had coloured smudges on her
fingers. ‘Have you been sketching with your new pastels?’ I asked.
She flushed. ‘Just for a little while when the children were quiet and Nurse was feeding Phoebe. I kept an eye on them to make sure they weren’t getting into mischief,’ she said anxiously.
‘Oh, for goodness’ sake, you don’t have to justify yourself to me. You’re a wonderful nurserymaid. You must sketch at every opportunity!’ I assured her. ‘Let me see what you’ve done!’
‘You’ll laugh at me. I don’t know anything about drawing. In the past I just chalked silly pictures on the pavement. No, please, I can’t show you,’ she said, but I made her fetch the sketchbook from under the cushion where she’d hidden it.
I stared at her picture. She had sketched the view from the window – the garden with its dark trees, their branches bare and clipped, solitary shrubs in the flower beds, and orderly gravel paths crossing the grass in severely straight lines, a garden so formal and dull it made the heart ache. But behind the deep green rhododendron bushes that circled the grounds she’d added the tangle of forest and the distant purple hills and the great grey sky.
I was utterly silent.
‘Please give it back. I know it’s dreadful,’ said Clover.
‘It’s wonderful,’ I whispered.
I’d been brought up in an artistic home, given special tuition by my famous father, been taken to sketch for hours in a picturesque spot – and produced nothing worth keeping. Clover had snatched a half hour and had created a landscape so powerful it made me shiver.
‘I must show it to Papa,’ I said.
‘No! Please don’t! It’s not good enough. And if Nurse finds out, I’ll get a telling-off for wasting time when I should have been mending,’ Clover protested.
‘I have to show him,’ I said firmly, and marched off with her sketchbook.
Papa and Paris were in the billiard room, tucking into a plate of mutton pies, a cheeseboard, a fruit cake and two tankards of beer.
‘We filched these from Cook. Here, Rose, have some cake. You must have worked up a healthy appetite after that long walk,’ Papa said.
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