Free The Rose of Sebastopol by Katharine McMahon Page B

said, “where I have an appointment.”
    “An appointment. But how could you? We didn’t know what would be happening today.”
    “I wrote to my friend, Miss Barbara Leigh Smith, that I’d call this morning if I possibly could. She’ll be expecting me, I’m sure. Come on, let’s walk, we’re missing too much,” and she dived across the knees of the other passengers and strode out in her serviceable boots while I tottered along in my smart shoes and was jostled by the crowd. She asked the way in her ringing voice and then away she dashed again, dodging hand-carts and perambulators as if she had been a Londoner all her life.
    “Who is this Miss Leigh Smith? I didn’t know you had friends in London,” I panted, catching up with her at last.
    “Apart from you? Well, this is someone I’ve been writing to for a couple of years, a cousin of our Derbyshire acquaintances, the Nightingales. I found out through their aunt Julia that they never acknowledge this Barbara because she’s illegitimate, even though she is just about the most accomplished and brilliant woman in the country. She’s a close friend of Dr. Elizabeth Blackwell. Surely you’ve heard of Elizabeth Blackwell, Mariella, a real, qualified woman doctor in the United States.”
    She marched up the steps of 5 Blandford Square and rang the bell. “We mustn’t stay long,” I whispered as the door opened. “Don’t you think we may be needed back home?” I was still reeling from her casual use of the word illegitimate .
    The house reeked of oil paint and Miss Leigh Smith received us in a first-floor sitting room arranged as a studio; sheets were draped across the furniture, the curtains had been pinned back, an oilcloth covered the floor, and an easel was set up by the window. She wore a voluminous wraparound apron, and her auburn hair, definitely her most beautiful feature, was pulled firmly from a jutting forehead. At first she looked puzzled when Rosa introduced herself. “Miss Barr? I’m sorry . . . I don’t . . .” then seized both her hands: “Rosa Barr. Of course. My correspondent from the north.” Her handshake was disturbingly firm and she held a brush in her other hand. Although she whipped the covers off chairs so we could sit down, we had obviously disturbed her work. “I belong to a society of painters and we set ourselves challenges by picking themes. For next month we have chosen the subject of desolation and I am right at the beginning.”
    “Goodness,” said Rosa, peering into the canvas.
    “Yes, well, it’s a theme that suits our mood. There is plenty of desolation in our world at the moment. One doesn’t have to look far. What do you think?” Rosa and I stared at a landscape so full of the rushing movement of wind, clouds, and sea that I felt a tremor of excitement, as if Henry had touched me.
    “It’s wonderful,” said Rosa. “The sky is brilliant, those racing clouds...I paint, but only pastels. I would have no idea how to use oils like this, layer on layer.”
    “I took classes at Bedford College. Have you heard of it? I think having proper lessons and the influence of other people make all the difference. My friends help me—I have wonderful friends. Have you heard of the artist Gabriel Rossetti, for instance? He is my inspiration.”
    “But how do you find these people? Can anyone attend that college? Is it very expensive?”
    The doorbell rang, and in came two gloomily dressed women, who hugged Barbara and called each other by their Christian names, Marian and Bessie. I pushed my chair back a little. My gown was far too elaborate compared to theirs and their talk frightened me, especially when they asked Barbara about a paper she was writing on married women who divorce. Until that moment I had never even heard the word divorce uttered in public.
    Rosa said: “What is the argument of your paper? ”
    “We have a friend called Caroline Norton,” said Bessie, “whose husband took her children away from her