Rose
Authors: Holly Webb
Copyright © 2013 by Holly Webb
Cover and internal design © 2013 by Sourcebooks, Inc.
Cover design by Jane Archer
Cover illustration © Kevin Keele
Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks, Inc.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systemsâexcept in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviewsâwithout permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks, Inc.
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
Published by Sourcebooks Jabberwocky, an imprint of Sourcebooks, Inc.
P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567-4410
(630) 961-3900
Fax: (630) 961-2168
Originally published in Great Britain by Orchard Books.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication data is on file with the publisher.
Source of Production: Versa Press, East Peoria, Illinois, USA
Date of Production: July 2013
Run Number: 20781
For Jon
Rose peered out the corner of the window at the street below, watching interestedly as two little girls walked past with their nursemaid. They were beautifully dressed in matching pale pink coats, and she found them fascinating. How could anyone keep a pink coat clean? She supposed they just weren't allowed to see dirt, ever. The little girls strolled sedately down the street, and Rose stretched up on tiptoe to get one last look as they turned the corner. The bucket she was standing on rocked and clattered alarmingly, and she jumped down in a hurry, hoping no one had heard. The tiny, leaded windows at St. Bridget's Home for Abandoned Girls were all very high up, so that the girls were not tempted to look out of them. If any of the matrons realized that Rose had discovered a way to see out, they would do their utmost to stop herâin case her virtue was put at risk by the view of the street. Perhaps they would even outlaw buckets, just in case.
Rose straightened her brown cotton pinafore and trotted briskly along the deserted passageway to the storeroom to return the bucket. She stowed it carefully on one of the racks of wooden shelves, which was covered in more buckets, brushes, and cloths. If anyone saw her, she was planning to say that she had been polishing it.
“Pssst! Rose!” A whisper caught her as she headed for the storeroom door, and Rose shot around, her back against the wall.
A small, grayish hand beckoned to her from under the bottom shelf, behind a large tin bath. “Come and see!”
Rose took a deep breath, her heartbeat slowing again. No one had seen her unauthorized use of the bucket. It was only Maisie.
“What are you
doing
under there?” she asked, casting a worried look at the door. “You'll get in trouble. Come on out.”
“Look,” the whispery voice pleaded, and the grayish fingers dangled something tempting out from under the shelf.
“Oh, Maisie.” Rose sighed. “I've seen it before, you know. You showed it to me last week.” But she still crouched down and wriggled herself under the shelf with her friend.
It was Sunday afternoon. At St. Bridget's, that meant many of the girls had been in Miss Lockwood's parlor, viewing the relics, the tiny, sad little things that had been left with them when they were abandoned. Rose didn't have any relics, which was why it was a good time for borrowing buckets. Even if anyone saw her, they would probably be too full of silly dreams to care.
“Do you think it's meant to hold a lock of hair?” Maisie asked wistfully. “Or perhaps a likeness?”
Rose stared thoughtfully at the battered tin locket. It looked as though it had been trodden on and possibly buried in something nasty, but it was Maisie's most treasured possessionâher only possession, for even her clothes were only borrowed.
“Oh, a likeness, I'm sure,” she told Maisie firmly, wrapping an arm around her friend's bony shoulder. Really she had no idea, but she knew Maisie dreamed about that locket all week, and the hour on Sunday when she got to hold it was her most special time, and Rose couldn't spoil it for her.
“Maybe of my mother. Or perhaps it was hers, and she had my father's picture in it. Yes, that would have been it. I bet he was handsome,” Maisie said dreamily.
“Mmmm,” Rose murmured diplomatically. Maisie wasn't ugly exactly, but she was very skinny, and no one looked beautiful with their hair cropped short in case of lice. It was hard to imagine either of her parents as handsome.
All Rose's friends spent Sundays in a dream world, where they were the long-lost daughters of dukes who would one day sweep them away in a coach-and-four to reclaim their rightful inheritance.
Strangely though, unlike all the other girls, Rose did not dream. She had no relic to hang her dreams on, but that wasn't the main reason. Quite a few of the others didn't either, and it didn't hold them back at all. Rose just wanted to get out of St. Bridget's as soon as she possibly could. It wasn't that it was a bad placeâthe schoolmistress read them lots of improving books about children who weren't lucky enough to have a home. They lived on the streets and always went from bad to worse in ways that were never very clearly explained. Girls at St. Bridget's were fed, even though there was never enough food to actually feel full, only just enough to keep them going. They had clothes, even a set of Sunday best for church and the yearly photograph. The important thing was, they were trained for domestic service, so that when they were old enough, they could earn their own living. If Rose dreamed at all, that was what she dreamed of. She didn't want to be a lady in a big house. She'd settle for being allowed to clean one and be paid for it. And perhaps have an afternoon off, once a month, although she had no idea what she would do.
Occasionally, girls who'd left St. Bridget's came back to show themselves off. They told giggly tales of being admired by the second footman, and they had smart outfits that hadn't been worn by six other girls before them, like Rose's black Sunday dress and coat. She knew because the other girls' names had been sewn in at the top. Two of them even had surnames, which was very grand. Rose was only Rose, and that was because the yellow rose in Miss Lockwood's tiny garden had started to flower on the day she'd been brought to St. Bridget's by the vicar. He'd found her in the churchyard, sitting on the war memorial in a fish basket and howling. If Rose had been given to dreaming like the others, she might have thought that it meant her father had been a brave soldier, killed in a heroic charge, and that her dying mother couldn't look after her and had left her on the war memorial, hoping that someone would care for a poor soldier's child. As it was, she'd decided her family probably had something to do with fish.
Rose hated fish. Although of course in an orphanage, you ate what there was, and anyone else's if you got half a chance. She knew no grand lady was going to sweep into the orphanage and claim her as a long-lost daughter. It must have been a bad year for fish, that was all. It didn't bother herâjust made her all the more determined to make a life for herself outside.
“What do you think they were like?” Maisie asked pleadingly. Rose was good at storytelling. Somehow her stories lit up the dark corners of the orphanage where they hid to tell them.
Rose sighed. She was tired, but Maisie looked so hopeful. She settled herself as comfortably as she could under the shelf, tucking her dress under her feet to keep warm. The storeroom was damp and chilly, and smelled of wet cleaning cloths. She stared dreamily at the side of the tin bath, glistening in the shadows. “You were two, weren't you, when you came to St. Bridget's?” she murmured. “So you were old enough to be running about everywhereâ¦Yes. It was a Sunday, and your parents had taken you to the park to sail your boat in the fountain.”
“A boat!” Maisie agreed blissfully.
“Yes, with white sails, and ropes so you could make the sails work, just like real ones.” Rose was remembering the illustrations from
Morally
Instructive
Tales
for
the
Nursery
, which was one of the books in the schoolroom. The two little boys who owned the boat in the original story fought about who got to sail it first, which obviously meant that one of them drowned in the fountain. Most of the books in the schoolroom had endings like that. Rose quite enjoyed working out the exact point when the characters were beyond hope. It was usually when they lied to get more jam.
“You were wearing your best pink coat, but your mother didn't mind if you got it wet.” Rose's voice became rather doubtful here. She hadn't been able to resist putting in the pink coat, but really, it was too sillyâ¦Suddenly she realized that Maisie was gazing longingly at the side of the tin bath.
“Yes, look, it's got flower-shaped buttons! Are they roses, Rose?”
Rose gulped. “I'm not sure,” she murmured, staring wide-eyed at the picture flickering on the metal.
“Daisies, I think⦔ Had she done that? She knew her stories were goodâshe was always being bothered for them, so they must beâbut none of them had ever come with pictures. Pictures that moved. A tiny, plump, pretty Maisie was jumping and clapping as a nattily dressed gentleman blew her boat across a sparkling fountain.
White
trousers!
Rose's matter-of-fact side thought disgustedly.
Has
this
family
no
sense?
“Oh, the picture's fading! No, no, bring it back, Rose! I want to see my mother!” Maisie wailed.
“Ssssh! We aren't meant to be here, Maisie, we'll be caught.”
Maisie wasn't listening. “Oh, Rose, it was so pretty! I was so pretty! I want to see it againâ”
“Girls!” A sharp voice cut her off. “What are you doing in here? Come out at once!”
Rose jumped and hit her head on the shelf. The picture promptly disappeared altogether, and Maisie burst into tears.
“Come out of there! Who is that? Rose? And you, Maisie! What on earth are you doing?”
Rose struggled out, trying not to cry herself. Her head really
hurt
, a horrible sharp throbbing that made her feel sick. Of all the stupid things to do! This was what happened when you started making pictures on baths. Miss Lockwood looked irritable. “Maisie, you know you're not supposed to take that out of my office,” she snapped, reaching down and seizing the locket. The flimsy chain broke, and Maisie howled even louder, tugging at the trailing end.
Rose could tell that Miss Lockwood was horrified. She really hadn't meant to snap the locket, and she knew how Maisie treasured it. But she couldn't back down now. “Silly girl! Now you've broken it. Well, it's just what you deserve.” Red in the face, she stuffed it into the little hanging pocket she wore on her belt and swept out. “Go to bed at once! There will be no supper for either of you!” she announced grandly at the door.
“Well, that's no great loss,” Rose muttered, putting an arm around Maisie, who was crying in great heaving gulps.
“Sheâbrokeâmyâlocket!”
“Yes,” Rose admitted gently. “Yes, she did. But I'm sure we can mend it. Next Sunday. I'll help, Maisie, I promise. And I don't think she meant to. I think she was sorry, Maisie. She could have made us stand in the schoolroom with books on our heads all evening, like she did to Florence last week. No supper's not that bad. It would only be bread and milk.”
“It might not be,” sniffed Maisie, who seemed determined to look on the black side of things. “It might be cake.”
Rose took her hand as they trailed dismally back to their dormitory. “Maisie, it's
always
bread and milk! The last time we had cake was for the coronation, nearly three years ago!” Rose sighed. She couldn't help feeling cross with Maisie for getting her into troubleâbut not
very
cross. After all, she'd been tempting fate with the windows anyway. Maisie was so tiny and fragile that Rose always felt sorry for her. “Do you want me to tell you a story?” she asked resignedly, as they changed into their nightclothes.
“Will you make the pictures come again?” Maisie asked, her eyes lighting up.
“I don't know,” Rose told her honestly. “It's never happened before. And there might be trouble if we get caught. I'm sure it's not allowed.”
“It isn't in the Rules,” Maisie said, pouting. “I know it isn't.”
Miss Lockwood read the Rules on Sundays before church, so they'd heard them that morning. Rose had to admit that Maisie was right; she didn't remember a rule about making pictures on baths. Which was odd. It must mean that it wasn't a very common thing to do because the Rules covered
everything
âeven the exact length of an orphan's fingernails.
“It just feels like something that wouldn't be allowed⦔ Rose said.
Which
is
why
it's such fun
, part of her wanted to add. “Oh, all right. But I think it needs something shiny for it to work.” She looked around thoughtfully. The dormitory was long and narrow, high up in the attics of the old house. Everything was very clean, but shiny was in short supply. There was hardly room for the girls to move between the narrow, gray-blanketed beds, let alone space for polished furniture.
Maisie followed her, craning her neck to peer into corners. “My boots are shiny!” she suggested brightly.
Rose was about to say they couldn't be, then realized that Maisie was right. All the girls' shoes were made and mended by the boys from St. Bartholomew's orphanage over the wall. They had a cobblers' workshop where the girls had a laundry, so that they could be trained up for a useful trade. Maisie's boots had just come back from being mended, and they were black and shiny, even if they'd been patched so often that there was nothing left of the original boot. If she could make pictures on a bath, why not a boot?
The two girls sat huddled together under Rose's blankets, staring at the polished leather. “It'll be a lot smaller, if it even works,” Rose warned.
“I don't mind.” Maisie didn't take her eyes off the boot. “I want to see what happened.”
“It isn't really what happened⦔ Rose reminded her. “Just a story I'm making up, you know that, don't you?”
“Yes, yes.” Maisie flapped her hand at Rose irritably, but Rose didn't think she was really listening. “Show me!”
***
Long after Maisie had cried herself to sleep that nightâheartbroken by the flickering image of her tiny self running through the park and crying for her motherâand the other girls had come chattering to bed, Rose lay awake.
Had she made it all up? It had seemed so real somehow.
What
if
I've turned into a fortune-teller?
Rose worried to herself. She didn't
believe
in fortune-tellers. But of course she'd invented itâshe'd put in that pink coat, from the little girls she'd seen out the window. So if it wasn't real, why had it upset Maisie so much? Why had she believed it more than all Rose's other stories?
The
pictures
, Rose told herself.
The
pictures
made
it
seem
too
real. I wanted to believe it too. I'm not doing that again.