Carola Dunn (2 page)

 For want of anything better, Rosabelle was about to accept his offer, when Mr Rufus pushed through the circle.

 “What’s the trouble?” he asked, his face full of concern. “The young lady’s hurt herself?”

 “It’s her ankle,” Rosabelle explained. “I fear she has broken it.”

 “Very likely just a sprain,” he said reassuringly, “but deuced painful all the same. Up you get, Miss Betsy, put your weight on me—that’s right—and hop along, and we’ll soon have you somewhere more comfortable.”

 Sniffling, Betsy made her painful way, leaning on his strong arm, towards the pastrycook’s. Rosabelle picked up her muff, which she had dropped, and followed.

 “How’d you know my name?” Betsy asked.

 “I heard your mistress address you. I’ve a good memory for names, it’s useful in my line of business. Customers like one to recall their names. And I never forget a pretty face.” As he said this last, he turned his head to smile back at Rosabelle, apparently addressing the compliment to her.

 Which was all very well, but she was clearly only one of many fated to clog his memory. Still, he was only a shop assistant, however charming. The galleries of female countenances adorning his mind were no concern of hers.

Chapter 2

 The pastrycook’s shopman assisted Betsy into the booth and sat her down on a bench near the cast-iron oven where the pies and turnovers were baking.

 “Ooh, it’s lovely and warm,” she exclaimed.

 From the “doorway” where she stood, Rosabelle could feel the radiating heat. “I’m surprised it has not sunk through the ice,” she said.

 “The legs of the firebox are set on bricks.” Mr Rufus moved aside to let her see. “And the bricks on thick planks laid across more bricks. We’ve scarcely even made a puddle. My own notion,” he added modestly.

 “Ingenious.” Rosabelle advanced into the booth. “Betsy, how does your ankle feel now?”

 Betsy warily turned her foot from side to side, and winced. “It hurts like anything, Miss Ros.”

 “If she can move it, it cannot be broken, can it?”

 “I think not, ma’am.”

 “Thank heaven. Pray turn your back, while I see if it is swelling.”

 Mr Rufus obliged, stepping forward to the counter to help his busy colleague serve a new rush of customers. Rosabelle sat down on the bench beside Betsy and stooped to examine the injured joint.

 “It seems a little swollen,” she said doubtfully. “We had best take your boot off, I suppose. How I am to get you off the river, I cannot conceive.”

 “I’m ever so sorry, Miss Ros,” Betsy wailed. “Don’t leave me here!”

 “Of course not, you goose.” Rosabelle found herself gazing pleadingly at Mr Rufus’s back, as if she expected him to come to the rescue again.

 Even if Betsy was able hop as far as the bank, which seemed unlikely, he could not be expected to risk his employer’s wrath by leaving his work for long enough to support her. Perhaps he would be kind enough to find a couple of men willing to carry her for a fee. Rosabelle looked in her purse. A shilling, a threepenny bit, some pennies, and a few farthings—and once ashore she still had to pay for a hackney to take them home.

 Mr Rufus finished with his customer, and a moment later turned with a steaming mug in each hand.

 “Your chocolate, ladies.”

 “I...I don’t think I can afford it now. I didn’t bring much money with me, and I shall have to hire someone to help Betsy ashore, and a hackney....”

 “It’s on the house.” He put a mug into her hand.

 “Oh, but your master....”

 “Trust me,” he said with a grin, “I shan’t be turned off without a character. Call it my treat, if it makes you feel better.”

 Blushing, Rosabelle persisted. “Can you afford it?”

 “A ha’pennyworth of hot chocolate will not break the bank, ma’am.”

 “He gives you a discount? I beg your pardon, I don’t mean to pry.”

 “Your concern for my solvency does you credit,” he said gravely, but with a twinkle in his eye. “Pray believe I shall not suffer for the expense of two cups of chocolate. Now drink up, and then we shall see about getting you both safe to dry land. We have the handcart we used to transport everything here. I daresay Miss Betsy will contrive to perch on it while I wheel her across the ice.”

 “Oh yes,” Betsy assured him.

 Rosabelle did not venture to protest any further. He knew his own affairs best, and the temperament of his employer. “You are very kind,” she said gratefully.

 She sipped her chocolate. Somewhat to her surprise, it was excellent, as good as she had ever had at home or at Gunter’s, the grand confectioner in Berkley Square. Perhaps Dibden’s was in a better way of business than their presence among the mostly tawdry hawkers at the Frost Fair suggested.

 Mr Rufus’s appearance ought to have given her a clue, Rosabelle thought, eyeing his back as he helped at the counter again. Those broad shoulders were clad in good Bath cloth, and the boots below his fawn stockinette pantaloons had the high gloss held only by the best leather. His high-crowned beaver was glossy, too. His neckcloth, she recalled, was snowy white, starched, tied in an exuberant knot which matched what she had observed of his character, and stuck with a gilt pin.

 She hoped he was not living above his means. Altogether, he was almost as smart as the Cheapside mercers’ assistants, who were notorious for lounging on their masters’ doorsteps, prinked up to the nines.

 Mr Rufus was better-spoken than most of those jackanapes. Maybe he had studied elocution with an eye to bettering himself—which might explain his attentions to a well-dressed young female. Rosabelle was more elegantly clad than many a blue-blooded damsel with a house in Mayfair and an estate in the country.

 No mere shopman could aspire to such heights, however. She preferred to believe he was simply chivalrous by nature.

 He turned, and caught her gazing at him. His amused air made her lower her eyes in confusion.

 “Are you ready to...? Oh, just a moment.” He swung round as the hot-pie lad dashed up to the booth entrance.

 “More pies!” He handed over a jingling purse.

 “They won’t be ready for a few minutes yet,” said Mr Rufus, emptying the coins into a cash-box beneath the counter. “You’re selling too fast for me. Sit down and catch your breath, Jack.”

 “I’m not tired, honest. It’s fun running around crying ‘Hot Pies.’ It was a prime notion to set up on the ice.”

 “Makes a change, eh? All right, you give Oswald a hand here and keep an eye on the pies in the oven, whilst I help these ladies ashore.”

 The youth had not noticed the girls in the shadowy depths of the booth. He tipped his hat with a grin and a wink. “Sure you can manage without me, Mr Rufus?”

 “Quite sure,” said Mr Rufus dryly. Pulling on leather gloves, he gave Betsy his arm.

 The handcart was quite clean, but Rosabelle was glad it was not she who had to undergo the decidedly undignified ride in it. Betsy giggled, enjoying it almost as much as the donkey ride. Mr Rufus made nothing of the weight as he pushed her along, bumping over the ruts in the ice.

 “You came from the City bank, ma’am?” he asked Rosabelle, walking at his side, as they came to the crossroads.

 “Yes, down the steps at Three Cranes Wharf, but it doesn’t matter where we go up. I haven’t a carriage waiting. My mother needed ours today so we came in a hackney.”

 Rosabelle at once regretted speaking of the carriage. It was quite unnecessary, since she had already mentioned taking a hackney, and he was bound to think she was boasting.

 But his friendly manner did not change as he manoeuvred the cart around the corner into Freezeland Street, saying cheerfully, “Three Cranes Wharf will do very well. It’s straight ahead, and rough as the ice is in these makeshift streets, it is worse where wheels and feet have not tamped it down. Besides, we are more likely to find you a hackney in Queen Street than in some of the lesser byways.”

 
We
, he said, so he did not mean to abandon them at the edge of the river. Rosabelle wished she had enough money in her purse to give him a big tip.

 Or would it offend him? She had never met anyone quite like him before. Whatever his station in life, he seemed to have more gentlemanly instincts than many who went by the name of gentleman.

 “There are more stalls setting up all the time,” said Mr Rufus as they passed a couple of men struggling to spread canvas over a wooden framework. “Business has been good today. By tomorrow word of the fair will have spread and we shall have the crowds out in force if the freeze holds.”

 “Was it your idea to bring Dibden’s to the Frost Fair?” Rosabelle asked.

 “Yes, though more for the fun of it, as young Jackie said, than because the company is in need of the custom.”

 “And you were put in charge?”

 He laughed. “None of the older men wished to exchange the warmth within doors for the chill outside. Jack and Oswald are volunteers, and there are two or three other young fellows eager to take their turns. I let them off for half an hour now and then to explore the fair.”

 “I thought I might bring another of the girls tomorrow,” Rosabelle said tentatively. “It doesn’t seem fair that only Betsy should see the fun.”

 Mr Rufus turned his head to look at her, with a warm smile in his blue eyes. “I wager your servants are happy to work for you, ma’am.”

 “I hope so, though they are not exactly—”

 “Miss Ros,” Betsy interrupted in a tone of deep foreboding, “how’m I going to get up them stairs?”

 The wharfside loomed before them. Several people were coming down the steps, and nearby one of the cranes was lowering a heavy load in a sling.

 “We’ll get the crane to hoist you,” Mr Rufus proposed straight-faced. “Just remember to hold on tight to the hook.”

 “No!” Betsy squeaked in horror.

 “He is quizzing you again, goose. All the same, I cannot quite see how it is to be done. You surely cannot carry her up alone, sir.”

 “Do you impugn my strength, madam? But you are right,” he admitted with a sigh. “I might manage it but it would be risky. No, I believe I shall have to persuade those fellows at the top to labour a little for their fee. One of those hulking brutes will make nothing of it.”

 Recalling the waterman’s earlier comment, undoubtedly lewd, Rosabelle was doubly glad it was not she who had hurt her ankle. She had rather be lifted in a sling, swaying in mid-air, she thought, than submit to being carried by any of the uncouth boatmen.

 As soon as the last newcomer set foot on the ice, Mr Rufus ran up the stair. Rosabelle could not hear what he said, but she watched closely to see whether money changed hands. She could not repay him now, but it would give her an excuse....That is, when she came tomorrow she would bring funds enough.

 No payment appeared to take place, however. The men all laughed, and one slapped Mr Rufus on the back in an amicable gesture which visibly rocked him. He came back down the stair, a waterman lumbering after him.

 “All settled,” he announced.

 His burly companion picked up Betsy as if she weighed no more than a meat-pie. He slung her squealing over his shoulder, in a flurry of flannel petticoats, and set off upward. Anxiously, Rosabelle hurried after, not wanting to leave Betsy alone at the top at the ruffians’ mercy a moment longer than necessary.

 “Take care.” Mr Rufus was close behind her, his hand at her elbow to steady her. The warmth of his touch seeped through the barriers of leather and cloth to envelop her in a glow from the tips of her toes to the crown of her head.

 Trying to explain away the flustering phenomenon, Rosabelle assured herself it was just because he was heated from the baking and his exertions with the handcart.

 They reached the top to find Betsy perched on a barrel, pink-faced but none the worse for her unorthodox ascent. The watermen were by now noisily engaged in fending off a band of nine or ten urchins without the means to pay the toll. The men had the size and strength, the boys the numbers and agility. Foul language appeared to be shared equally between them.

 Mr Rufus seemed scarcely to raise his voice, but it cut through the babble: “I’ll pay the fee for whichever boy is first to bring a hackney carriage for these ladies.”

 The urchins raced off, now calling insults to each other.

 “I only hope they don’t bring back half a dozen hackneys!” said Mr Rufus, laughing.

 “If they do,” Rosabelle retorted, “I shall leave you to deal with the squabbling jarveys. What is the toll for a child?”

 “A penny, I believe.” He held out his hand to stop her as she felt in her purse. She looked up. His face was serious, with a half-smiling question in his eyes. “You may repay me tomorrow,” he said softly.

 Rosabelle nodded, and busied herself with tightening the strings of her reticule.

 The ragamuffins returned in short order. Half of them clung to various parts of the hackney they brought with them, the rest cavorted around it. All of them came, and as the carriage stopped on the wharf, they clustered together. In silence they regarded Mr Rufus with doubtful hope.

 “Sixpence the lot,” he said to the watermen.

 “A tanner it is, gov’nor.”

 Whooping, the boys scampered towards the stair.

 While Mr Rufus paid their toll, lifted Betsy down from the barrel and helped her to hop to the hackney, Rosabelle spoke to the driver.

 “New Bond Street, Number 36.”

 “Yes’m.” He saluted with his whip.

 She climbed in, wrinkling her nose at the musty smell. Suppressing a twinge of jealousy at the sight of Mr Rufus’s hands clasping Betsy’s waist, she caught the girl as he lifted her in, and settled her on the shabby seat. He closed the door.

 Rosabelle lowered the window. “Thank you,” she said. It seemed inadequate, but what more could she say? The jarvey was already whipping up his sorry nag.

 “It was my pleasure,” said Mr Rufus emphatically, and he bowed as the hackney moved off, rattling over the cobbles.

 “How is your ankle now, Betsy?” Rosabelle asked.

 “It aches a bit, Miss Ros, but it only hurts really bad if I put my weight on it.”