Roseanne wherever she had a fancy to go, leaving her godmother to pursue her own busy social life, and it was a day or so after the dinner dance that they found themselves in the National Gallery. It was while they were admiring some splendid examples of the Netherlandish school that the young man standing close by spoke to them, or rather to Roseanne.
‘Forgive me,’ he began, ‘I overheard you discussing this picture—you know something about it, do you not? Are you interested in oil-paintings of that period?’
When Roseanne nodded, her beaky nose quivering with the unexpectedness of it all, he asked, ‘You paint yourself?’ Then when she nodded again, ‘Then let me explain…’
Which he did at some length, taking her from one painting to the next with Matilda, intrigued, keeping discreetly in the background. He seemed all right; he had a nice open face, not good-looking, but his gaze was direct, and he had introduced himself and shaken hands. ‘Bernard Stevens,’ he told them, working as a picture restorer for a famous art gallery and painting when he had the time. Roseanne had to be prised away from him after half an hour or so but only after she had promised to meet him there on the following morning, ostensibly to discuss more paintings but Matilda, studying her face, thought that was only partly the reason.
‘You won’t tell Aunt Maud?’ begged Roseanne.
‘Roseanne, you’re twenty-two, old enough to decide whom you want to know. Of course I shan’t breathe a word.’
All the same she played discreet gooseberry the next morning, and again on the following afternoon, only now it was the Tate Gallery. She had been reassured to hear him mention the names of several people whom Roseanne’s godmother had talked of from time to time and he appeared well dressed and had good manners; she was no snob, but just supposing the gentle little flirtation turned into something more serious—she would have to answer to Lady Fox.
They were to go to the theatre on the next evening, quite a small party and Matilda found herself paired off with an elderly man, a widower who told her at great length about his late wife’s ill health, and during the interval, when she had hoped to escape him for a short while, he led her firmly to the bar where he fetched her a tonic and lemon without asking her what she would like. ‘I don’t approve of pretty young ladies drinking alcohol,’ he told her and, because she had a kind heart, she accepted it nicely and sipped at it. She really needed something strong. Vodka? She had never tasted it. Brandy and soda? She looked around her—everyone there appeared to be drinking gin and tonic or champagne.
She took another sip and while appearing attentive to her companion’s remarks—still about his wife too—glanced around her. There were some lovely dresses, and the grey crêpe was drowned in a sea of silks and satins. There was a vivid scarlet gown worn by someone with her back to Matilda and standing beside it, looking over the silk shoulder, was Mr Scott-Thurlow, watching her.
She went pale with the strength of her feelings at the sight of him and then blushed. It seemed impossible for her to look away but she managed it and she hadn’t smiled because he had looked unsmilingly at her.
She tossed off the tonic and lent a sympathetic ear to her companion’s description of his late wife’s asthma, murmuring in all the right places and not really hearing a word.
She went to bed later, feeling unhappy, longing for a scarlet gown in which she might dazzle Mr Scott-Thurlow and at the same time wanting to go home then and there. She even wept a little and then her common sense came to the rescue; scarlet would look hideous with her hair and no way could she go home and leave Roseanne just as the girl was beginning to find her feet—perhaps she would find romance too.
And it seemed likely; two days later, attending a preview of an up-and-coming portrait painter and this time with their hostess, Matilda was intrigued and delighted to see Bernard Stevens. He was with a friend of Mrs Venables and naturally enough was introduced, and presently he bore Roseanne off to make a tour of the rooms while Matilda stood between the two older ladies and listened with interest while Mrs Venables asked endless questions about Mr Stevens. The answers seemed to satisfy her and Matilda reflected that their month in London would make one of them happy, at least. That night after they had gone to bed Roseanne came along to her room, brimming over with excitement. She should get excited more often, thought Matilda, sitting up in bed, lending a sympathetic ear; it added a sparkle to Roseanne’s plain face; even the unfortunate nose seemed less prominent and her mouth had taken on a softer curve.
Bernard, Roseanne told her, now that he had made the acquaintance of her godmother, was going to find a way to meet her parents; her godmother was one of the few people her mother listened to, and Mrs Venables liked him. ‘Isn’t it wonderful?’ breathed Roseanne. ‘Our meeting like that? He thinks I’m pretty, only my clothes are wrong—you always said that too, didn’t you? He’s going to meet me one day and go with me to choose an outfit. I wish we were staying here forever.’
‘Well, if you want a super wedding you’ll have to go home to get ready for it, and the sooner you do that the sooner you can get married. Big weddings take an awful lot of organising.’
Which started Roseanne off again until she gave a final yawn and said goodnight, but on her way to the door she stopped. ‘I’m ever so glad it’s happened to me—I wish it could happen to you too.’
‘Nothing,’ declared Matilda in a falsely cheerful voice, ‘ever happens to me.’
She was wrong; fate had a testy ear tuned in to that kind of remark.
* * *
THEY HAD BEEN for a morning walk and now they were hurrying home as rain, threatening to be heavy, began to fall. There was a short cut to the house through narrow streets lined with small, rather shabby shops and used a great deal by drivers avoiding the main roads. They were turning into it when they saw half a dozen people standing on the edge of the pavement looking down at something.
‘I’m going to see what it is,’ said Matilda and despite Roseanne’s peevish reluctance went to look. A small dog was lying in the gutter, wet, pitifully thin, and also obviously injured.
No one was doing anything; Matilda bent down and put out a gentle hand. ‘Leave it alone, miss,’ said a large untidy man roughly. ‘‘’E’ll bite yer—’it by a car, ’e’ll be dead in no time.’
Matilda flashed a glance at him and got on to her knees, the better to look at the little beast. It cowered and showed its teeth and then put out a tongue and licked her hand.
‘How long has it been here?’ she demanded.
‘‘Arf an hour…’
‘Then not one of you has done anything to help it?’ She turned to look at them. ‘Why, you’re nothing but a bunch of heartless brutes.’
‘‘’Ere, that won’t do, lady—it’s only a stray, ’arf starved too.’
No one had noticed the car which drew up on the other side of the street; Mr Scott-Thurlow was beside her, bending his great height, lifting her to her feet before anyone had spoken again.
‘Oh, dear, oh, dear,’ he said softly, ‘Miss ffinch helping lame dogs…’
‘Don’t you start,’ she warned him fiercely. ‘This poor creature’s been here for half an hour and no one has lifted a finger.’
Mr Scott-Thurlow wasted no time. ‘Get me a piece of cardboard,’ he ordered the man nearest him, ‘flat, mind you, and
