100. A Rose In Jeopardy Page 9

  Sarah, the sister-in-law of Thomas, the gardener’s boy, had been delighted to take Rosella in.

  Her husband, a sailor, was away on a long voyage and with two small children and a new baby, she was very glad of the money that Rosella could give her.

  But the cottage where they lived was very crowded and Pickle was nervous of the children.

  And he nipped their fingers when they tried to push their little hands through the bars of his cage to stroke him.

  And so Rosella had to keep him in the garret, which was so small and cramped that she could only just stand up right in the very middle of the one room.

  If she left him on his own, he would scream loudly and call for her, which was most unpleasant for Sarah and her family, so whenever Rosella went out from the cottage, he had to go with her.

  She sighed as she thought about the many hours she had spent walking along the streets of London, carrying the heavy parrot cage, as she tried to find someone who would offer her employment.

  Several agencies, which found positions for young ladies, had produced introductions for her, in spite of the fact that she had no experience of being a Governess or a lady’s companion.

  Rosella’s charming manners and well-spoken voice meant that many of the potential employers she had visited would have been happy to take her on.

  But Pickle, alas, did not have these assets and there was no one at all who would be prepared to offer the noisy bird a home alongside his Mistress.

  “What shall we do?” Rosella asked him, as the bird reluctantly began to nibble on a piece of dry bread. “Sarah is very kind, but we cannot stay here for ever.”

  Downstairs Sarah’s children had also woken up and were shouting for their breakfast.

  Rosella got up from her mattress and washed her face and hands in the cracked bowl Sarah had given her.

  Then she put on her favourite blue dress and began to comb her hair.

  ‘I must not be despondent,’ she now told herself. ‘I must carry on, bravely and smiling.’

  She thought with longing of the picture she had left behind hanging on her bedroom wall.

  If only she could see that young man’s happy smile this morning. Surely he would give her the strength and courage to set off again and find her way forward.

  But she would never see him again, as she could never go back to New Hall.

  Sadly Rosella picked up the old coat that Thomas had given her from where she had laid it on the floor last night, as there was no place to hang clothes in the garret.

  She was just folding it and laying it on the mattress, when she recalled what had happened when she walked down to the river last night.

  She had met a young man with a handsome face not so very different from the man in the painting, except that, in spite of the outlandish cloak and big hat – which would not have looked at all out of place in a painting – this was a very real person with black hair and brown eyes.

  Because of his eyes and his strange clothes, Rosella had assumed that he was a foreigner and she smiled, as she remembered how surprised she was when he spoke to her in perfect English.

  Then she recalled what he had given her.

  Rosella fumbled in the pocket of the coat and found the small rectangle of cardboard – the calling card of a Contessa from Italy.

  Rosella’s heart sank a little at the thought of having to face yet another interview and another rejection.

  It was kind of the young man to give her this, but surely a Contessa, who lived in a Palazzo, would have no time for a very young English girl, who had no experience and a very noisy parrot she would not be parted from.

  When Rosella went down the stairs to help Sarah give the two small children their breakfast, the sailor’s wife told her to be cheerful and not to give up.

  “You go and see this Contessa, whoever she is,” she said, spooning bread and milk into the mouth of young Kate. “Keep tryin’, that’s the only way. Not that I don’t like to have you here in spite of that dreadful old bird. But you’ll never get anythin’ if you don’t keep tryin’.”

  Rosella was watching over little Johnny, who was only just old enough to be responsible for his own bowl and spoon at mealtimes, but who sometimes forgot himself and threw the whole lot on the floor.

  She looked around at the crowded kitchen, where Sarah spent most of every day, cooking and washing and looking after the young ones and then, when they had gone to sleep, working at the sewing she took in to make a little extra money.

  There were no parlourmaids or housekeepers here. And no money unless you worked for it.

  And all over the East End of London, there were thousands upon thousands of similar houses where families worked and struggled to make a living.

  Rosella might have her little bag of gold sovereigns now, but it would not last for ever. She must do as Sarah advised and keep going to try to find some paid work.

  Johnny was pushing his bowl towards the edge of the table, a broad smile on his little face and with his thick fringe of fair hair, he reminded her very much of Thomas, back at New Hall.

  “Careful,” she said, rescuing the bowl. “Have you finished, Johnny?”

  “Yes!” he told her and he jumped down from the chair and began running round the kitchen, shouting, “you naughty, naughty boy!” in a good imitation of Pickle.

  Rosella and his mother could not help laughing at him, until the noise of his shouting became unbearable and they let him out to play in the back yard.

  “I’m sorry,” Rosella said. “It’s usually the other way round. Pickle hears things and copies them!”

  “Your bird is just like a child,” Sarah replied, “only one that never grows up. You will never be able to send him off to school and he will never leave home to earn his own living.”

  Little Katie had finished her bread and milk now, and her mother sat back and took a long drink from her cup of tea.

  But Sarah’s relaxation was interrupted by the loud wails of a crying baby from upstairs.

  “What’s that?” Sarah asked, looking very puzzled. “I can hear Peter crying, but he’s lying over there as happy as can be?”

  “I am afraid it’s Pickle again!” Rosella laughed. “He’s fed up with waiting for me and he’s trying out a new imitation to see if will bring me running to him. I expect he has seen how we rush to pick up Guy when he cries.”

  “Well I never,” sighed Sarah. “You should put that bird in a circus.”

  Rosella smiled to herself. Of course, if you wanted Pickle to say or do something on demand, he never would.

  He would just sit silently and glare at the circus-goers and they would all demand their money back.

  “I will get him out of your way,” she said to Sarah, “and take him with me to see the Contessa.”

  “Good luck,” Sarah said. “P’raps the old lady has a sense of humour. You might be lucky, this time.”

  *

  Rosella did not feel as if luck was on her side, as she stood by the marble reception desk in the lobby of The Palace Hotel in Bayswater.

  The clerk at the desk looked at her disapprovingly through his pince-nez.

  “I cannot allow you to remain in this hotel, miss,” he said. “You must remove yourself and that – creature – immediately!”

  “Good afternoon!” Pickle squawked and several of the well-dressed ladies and gentlemen passing through the lobby laughed and pointed at the bird.

  The clerk was not impressed and continued to glare at Rosella.

  “I must see the Contessa Allegrini,” she explained. “I have come a long way, especially to speak to her.”

  She thought of the very long journey across London from Limehouse on the omnibus, carrying Pickle’s heavy cage on her knee and knew that she could not face going back to Sarah’s cottage without at least having spoken to the Contessa.

  “Is the lady expecting you?” the clerk asked with a sniff. “Do you have an appointment?”

  “No,” Rosella rep
lied and held out the Contessa’s card. “But an acquaintance of hers recommended I should call on her and he gave me this.”

  The clerk shook his head, looking crossly at Pickle, who was now muttering to himself and preening his wings.

  “I am afraid I must ask you to leave. We cannot have this kind of thing at The Palace Hotel.”

  Several of the passers-by had stopped by Pickle’s cage and were peering at him. A gentleman reached down to poke a finger through the bars and before Rosella could warn him, Pickle had bitten his finger.

  The gentleman shook his hand and laughed good-humouredly, but the clerk was furious.

  He came bustling round to the front of the desk and confronted Rosella.

  “Out!” he hissed. “You are causing a disturbance and inconveniencing our guests. Out!”

  He picked up Pickle’s cage and made as if to fling it across the lobby and out of the front door of the hotel.

  Rosella quickly pulled the parrot’s cage out of his hands before he could do so. It was clearly no use trying to persuade him to let her see the Contessa.

  She would just have to go back to Limehouse.

  She was about to make her way out of the hotel, pursued by the infuriated clerk, when there was a jangling, rattling noise and a hubbub of women’s voices from the other side of the lobby.

  The hotel lift was descending to the ground floor packed with a full load of passengers.

  The gilded gates crashed open and a small woman dressed in black, surrounded by three white-capped maids, emerged.

  Rosella put down the birdcage and then watched in amazement as this woman, who was clearly very old and frail and carried a stick with a gold handle, marched up to the reception desk and began to ring the bell.

  She was shouting loudly in a foreign language that Rosella could not understand and she seemed very angry indeed about something.

  All the other guests in the lobby were staring at her with their mouths open, but no one made any attempt to speak to the woman.

  The clerk scurried back to his post behind the desk, looking harassed.

  “Contessa,” he began, struggling to get a word in edgeways. “What is the matter now?”

  “Limone! Mi piace il te con limone, stupido!” the woman shrilled at the top of her voice and then launched into another torrent of words, as her white-capped maids stood around looking helpless.

  Rosella could not help but think that all of this was far more of a disturbance than she and Pickle had caused.

  At last the clerk seemed to have understood what the woman was trying to say.

  “I am so sorry, Contessa,” he said, “we will send up some lemon for your tea at once. How regrettable that it should have been forgotten – again.”

  “Vergogna! You are a disgrace!” the woman said with an imperious nod of her grey head and she turned to go back to the lift, followed by her attendants.

  ‘Contessa?’ Rosella caught her breath. ‘Surely this little woman must be the Contessa Allegrini.’

  But it was too late to speak to her as they were all inside the lift and the porter was pulling the gates closed.

  Just before the gilded gates had rattled shut, a small creature shot out of the lift and bounded across the lobby towards Rosella.

  The Contessa gave a loud shriek.

  “Aiuta! Auita!”

  Pickle gave a loud squeal and flapped his wings.

  “Goodness me!” he cawed, his round eyes bulging with alarm.

  A small monkey, dressed in a red silk coat, had run up to the cage and was now peering through the bars and chattering at Pickle.

  Much to Rosella’s surprise, Pickle did not scream or try to bite the monkey. Instead, he nodded his head as if in greeting and then squawked,

  “Hello!”

  The monkey jumped up and down in excitement as Pickle ran along his perch, saying “can I have a nut?” – his favourite phrase, which he had uttered in vain many times over the last few days, for there were no nuts to be had at Sarah’s cottage.

  Rosella watched in amazement as the little monkey reached into a pocket at the side of its coat and produced a peanut, which it passed through the bars of the cage.

  Pickle seized the peanut with his beak and then held it in his foot, as he did with all his treats, while he nibbled on it with great enjoyment.

  The monkey crouched down and watched him with its mournful brown eyes.

  Something tapped Rosella on the shoulder and she jumped in alarm.

  It was the old woman’s walking stick.

  “Who are you?” she then demanded in a harsh thick accent, her black eyes blazing fiercely. “And what are you doing with my Pepe?”

  “Nothing, ma’am,” Rosella began, but before she could explain what had happened, the old woman poked at her with her stick, pushing her away from the monkey.

  “Oh – you little vagabond! You would steal him – is that it?”

  “No, no, not at all – I was just – ”

  “Oh yes, you may have the face of an angel, but I know your kind!”

  She smacked Rosella’s legs with her stick, trying to drive her out of the lobby.

  One of the Contessa’s maids caught Pepe and was holding him tightly in her arms.

  Rosella was almost out of the hotel door and on the street when cries of a very unhappy baby filled the lobby.

  Everyone looked around in surprise and the maids bustled about, searching for the unfortunate child.

  Even the Contessa stopped hounding Rosella and turned around to see what was going on.

  “Waaaa – aaaah!” Pickle cried, standing on tiptoe on his perch and straining to see where Rosella had gone.

  “It’s all right!” she called to him. “I won’t leave you!”

  “Oh, meravigliosa!” One of the maids had spotted the birdcage. “Un papagallo!”

  She pointed at Pickle, one hand held to her mouth in amazement.

  The clerk came from behind his desk again.

  “This is not a menagerie!” he shouted out, running towards Rosella. “I have asked you to leave several times, miss! Now go!”

  The Contessa held out her stick to block his path.

  “Momento!” she said to him and then she looked at Rosella. “It’s your bird, yes, that makes this crying?”

  Rosella nodded.

  “Incredible,” the old woman shook her head. “Tell me – how you teach him this?”

  “Oh – I don’t,” Rosella replied. “He just does it, he copies whatever he hears.”

  “And what else does he say?” the Contessa asked.

  “All kinds of things, but – ”

  Rosella was about to explain that Pickle sometimes went very quiet if strangers stared at him and expected him to speak to them, when he interrupted her.

  “Is it time for tea?” he asked in Aunt Beatrice’s voice.

  The Countess stared at him with her bright black eyes and then she threw back her head and laughed.

  “Si, si! Ha ragione, Signore Papagallo! It is indeed time for tea.”

  She rapped her stick on the marble floor and called to the clerk.

  “Please bring Signore Papagallo to my room,” she ordered him. “He is my honoured guest. And you, girl, I suppose you had better come too.”

  Her heart beating fast, Rosella followed the clerk as he carried Pickle up the wide staircase to the Contessa’s luxurious suite.

  Rosella almost wept when she saw the tea that had been laid out for the Contessa and her attendants.

  There were cucumber sandwiches and little cakes iced with pink and violet sugar, there were thick slices of rich fruitcake and a Victoria sponge as light as those that Mrs. Dawkins used to make.

  She hardly dared to taste any of it, as the memories that came flooding back to her of happy teatimes at New Hall, were very painful.

  Pickle, on the other hand, accepted many crumbs of cake and a whole ginger biscuit from the Contessa’s own hand.

  But he seemed to prefer peanuts
and almonds, for as soon as the monkey’s tiny fingers held one of these out to him, Pickle let all the other delicacies fall to the bottom of his cage.

  He so entranced the Contessa that she completely ignored Rosella until tea was almost over.

  But she was happy to just sit and look around at all the beautiful objects that filled the elegant hotel room.

  There were exquisite lace clothes laid out over the tables that matched the delicate edging of the maid’s caps and aprons.

  The tall glass vases, which held great bouquets of roses and lilies, were made of swirls and twists of bright colours, red and purple and gold.

  Rosella had never seen anything like them before.

  And everywhere, from the dangling gems that hung from the Contessa’s ears to the great embroidered cloth that was draped over the sofa, there was gold.

  “You don’t like your food, miss?” the Contessa’s harsh voice spoke next to Rosella.

  “Oh – it’s quite lovely, thank you, but I have little appetite,” Rosella replied.

  The old woman frowned at her.

  “Who are you?” she asked. “What is your name?”

  “My name is – Jane,” Rosella replied.

  The Contessa shook her head.

  “Ja-ane! I don’t like your English names, but you seem like a well-bred girl. So why are you dressed like a poverina, a poor little one with nothing and nobody?”

  Rosella looked down at her dark cotton dress.

  It was certainly looking distinctly shabby from the long journey from Hampshire and from all the time she had spent caring for Sarah’s children and tramping around the City looking for work.

  “I came to find you, ma’am,” she said and pulled out the card the young man had given her. “I am looking for work and a – friend told me that you might be able to help me.”

  The Contessa took the card and spoke at length in Italian as she saw the writing on it and then she turned to Rosella,

  “Where did you get this?” she demanded.

  Rosella explained about the charming young man she had spoken to on the banks of the Thames and, as she described his face and his strange clothes, she remembered how he had looked at her with his dark eyes and she had felt her cheeks grow a little warm.

  The Contessa shook her head.