Carola Dunn (4 page)

 So Rosabelle would see Mr Rufus next day, and be released from her infatuation. He could not possibly be as wonderful as he had seemed. Could he?

Chapter 4

 Well before the landau reached Three Cranes Wharf, it was forced to a halt by the crush of carriages and pedestrians. As Mr Rufus foretold, news of the Frost Fair had spread and half the world was heading for the river.

 Which made him prescient on top of his other qualities, Rosabelle thought quizzically.

 “We shall get down and walk,” she decided, “or we’ll hardly have any time there.”

 Mary and Anna eagerly agreed. They were both young enough to be excited, for the older seamstress whose turn it really was had denied with a shudder any desire to spend more time out in the cold than strictly necessary.

 Rosabelle told the coachman to pick them up in two hours time. “Do you know any stairs west of here, Peters?” she asked. “This is probably the most crowded spot.”

 “There be Queen Hithe stair, Miss Ros. You can’t miss it, acos there’s a great dock cut into the bank.”

 “We’ll meet you there, then, when the church clocks strike four. If there is a great crush, leave the carriage as close as you can drive, and walk to the top of the stairs, or we may never find you.”

 “Right, miss.”

 As the three girls walked on down Queen Street, Rosabelle noticed several exceedingly smart vehicles, accompanied by liveried footmen. One or two even had crests on the doors. The Beau Monde was turning out along with the common people to enjoy the wonders of the Frost Fair.

 With real ladies to compare her against, Mr Rufus would soon realize Rosabelle had no claim to gentility. If he hoped for some advantage from flirting with someone above his station, he would quickly transfer his attentions to an aristocratic damsel likely to be of more use to him.

 Naturally Rosabelle would not care a rap. She’d be a little disappointed in him—but she expected that anyway. She just hoped he would not think the worse of her for inadvertently misleading him.

 Well, almost inadvertently. She could have disabused him if she tried, when he spoke of her servants, instead of letting Betsy interrupt.

 Still, what did it matter to her if he believed she had deliberately deceived him?

 Recognizing that her thoughts about Mr Rufus were growing hopelessly muddled, Rosabelle concentrated on navigating through the crowd. They reached the top of the stairs, where several very happy watermen were collecting in tolls far more than they could have earned by toiling at their oars. Anna and Mary were thrilled at the sight of the fair spread out below. Rosabelle was astonished at how much it had grown since yesterday.

 Freezeland Street now stretched all the way from bank to bank, and all the gaps along it and the Grand Mall had filled. In the four quadrants between them, a number of stalls were set up higgledy-piggledy, clustering close to the crossroads where the greatest throngs might be expected.

 Rosabelle wondered if she would be able to find Dibden’s booth, or get close to it if she found it. Starting down the stair, she shaded her eyes against the pale but glaring winter sun and looked for the donkeys.

 “There they are,” she exclaimed in relief. She glanced back at her companions. “Do you want to take a donkey-ride?”

 Anna, close behind, glanced back in turn before replying, “We’d like the swings better, if you don’t mind, Miss Ros.”

 “Of course not, but I shan’t join you. I daresay Betsy told you of my one experience in a swing.”

 Their giggles were answer enough.

 “Ooh, look!” Mary exclaimed breathlessly, eyes round, as they reached the bottom of the steps. “He must be freezing.”

 A black pugilist pranced upon a stage, clad in no more than breeches and a sleeveless singlet. Rosabelle hastily averted her eyes from his bulging muscles as he waved his fists, bellowing a challenge to all comers. Below the stage swirled a group of well-dressed youths, some egging on one of their number to answer the challenge, others holding him back.

 “He’ll be made mincemeat of, silly young chub,” said Anna. “Look there, Mary, there’s a hot-chestnut man. I wonder if it’s the same one Betsy told us about.”

 In response to this broad hint, Rosabelle purchased a paper of chestnuts. Nibbling, they wandered on, passing a large tent with a barker outside.

 “Walk up, ladies and gemmun! See the wonders of naycher, only fourpence, can’t be beat. Bearded lady, ape-boy, two-’eaded calf, tattooed savage, dozens more. ‘Ad to leave the mermaid at ‘ome, didn’ want ‘er getting froze to death. Walk up!”

 The barker outside the smaller tent next door advertised his single attraction in an even louder voice: “Come see the counting pig! On’y fruppence and ‘e’ll count your pennies right afore your eyes. Sir Francis Bacon, the on’y counting pig on ice, fruppence a show!”

 Mary and Anna were tempted, but they decided to stick with the swings. Rosabelle paid for their ride, and gave them directions to the pastrycook’s stall.

 “Join me there, or if I’m not there, wait for me. At least, if you wander off, listen for the church clocks and come straight back when they strike half past three, or we’ll never find each other. Here is money for hot chocolate.”

 She left them, and hurried off around the corner into the Grand Mall, then slowed her steps as Dibden’s booth came into sight. She did not want to appear too eager.

 Since yesterday the booth had been improved. Before it now stood two benches for customers to sit on while imbibing their chocolate. The slapdash name-board above had been replaced with a new one, neatly painted in green on white:

DIBDEN PASTRYCOOK

at the sign of the Pie and Pipkin

Cornhill.

At one end was depicted a golden-crusted pie decorated with cut-out pastry leaves and a fluted rim; at the other a brown earthenware pot.

 The stall was besieged by customers. Reluctant to wade into the crush, and to transact her business so publicly, Rosabelle hesitated.

 The crowd was for the most part composed of solid citizens, tradesmen and their wives and children taking a holiday from the demands of commerce to enjoy the Frost Fair. Among them Rosabelle saw the caped greatcoats of two gentlemen, and a footman’s livery. As she watched, three young ladies took possession of one of the benches.

 All three were expensively dressed in fur-trimmed pelisses. From the cut and ornamentation, Rosabelle guessed which rival modiste had designed and made up two of the three. She was more expensive but less exclusive than Madame Yvette, who was in a position to pick and choose her clients, and to dictate to them.

 That plump redhead should never have been rigged out in coquelicot, Rosabelle thought disapprovingly, nor with horizontal bands of fur around the full skirt of her Russian mantle. Worse, the short cape of fur made her shoulders almost as broad as those of the black pugilist.

 In contrast, the equally plump brunette, who was one of maman’s customers, looked almost slim in a close-fitting pelisse, narrow-skirted, with vertical stripes from neck to hem. The rich amber colour flattered her, too. Rosabelle knew the Honourable Miss Abernathy had wanted modish Pomona green, which made her look sallow, but Madame Yvette had not permitted it.

 The third was a fair beauty who would have looked lovely in rags. She was the most animated of the three, chattering and laughing with endearingly mischievous glee. They had probably slipped away to taste forbidden pleasures after telling their mamas they were going to walk in Hyde Park.

 Rosabelle found herself smiling in sympathy.

 A woman pushed free of the throng at the counter and approached the young ladies. Dressed in black, she appeared to be an abigail. She bobbed a curtsy and said something, then moved to stand behind the bench.

 A moment later Mr Rufus emerged from the booth. He carried a tray with three cups of steaming chocolate, which he presented to the three on the bench. He bowed, and through the din of the fair Rosabelle picked out the timbre of his voice. She could not hear what he said, but whatever it was, it made the three ladies blush, bridle and giggle.

 Sympathy vanished as a dart of pure jealousy shot through Rosabelle. In vain she reminded herself that she had known him for a flirt.

 For a moment she watched as he continued to speak to them. Cures were usually unpleasant, were they not? But it was too painful. She need not torment herself with meeting him face to face—she could send Mary and Anna with his blasted sixpence and find something other than gingerbread for fairings.

 She was about to turn away when he glanced around, searchingly, a slight frown creasing his forehead. He saw her, and his face lit.

 Without another word to the aristocratic young ladies, he strode towards Rosabelle. Her heart felt ready to burst. Afraid of what he might read in her face, she looked down and fiddled with her reticule, suddenly clumsy fingers striving to take out her purse.

 “Miss Ross! I was afraid you wouldn’t come.”

 Shyly she raised her eyes to his face. The warmth in his gaze brought a rush of warmth to her cheeks.

 In self-defence, she made a joke of it. “Fie, Mr Rufus, you thought me the sort of person who doesn’t pay her debts? I came to return your sixpence.”

 “Forget the sixpence.” His hands clasped around hers, stilling the struggle with the obstinate reticule cords. “Or no, I’m very glad you remembered it, but I don’t want it.”

 “But you said I could repay you tomorrow. Today.”

 “How else was I to make sure you returned? My dear Miss Ross, your honesty must surely be obvious to the meanest intelligence. I knew a debt would bring you back.”

 Again she concentrated on inessentials so as to avoid commenting on his eagerness for her return. “My name isn’t Ross. They call me Miss Ros, short for Rosabelle.”

 “What barbarism! It’s by far too pretty a name to deserve shortening. May I call you Miss Rosabelle?”

 “If you wish,” Rosabelle said with reckless abandon. After today—or at least once the Frost Fair was ended—she would never see him again, so what did it matter what he called her? Her name sounded sweet upon his lips.

 Nonetheless, she withdrew her hands from his and said firmly, “I want to buy fairings for everyone at home, and I thought gilt gingerbread would serve very well, but you must let me pay the proper price.”

 He smiled. “If you insist. How many?”

 Seamstresses, including the assistants in the show and fitting rooms, cook, coachman, maids, “Oh, and the footmen. I’d better take two dozen in case I’ve forgotten anyone.”

 Mr Rufus’s eyes widened. Two dozen servants made a substantial household. Rosabelle nearly told him that most of those, including the footmen, were employees of the business, not household staff, but she held back. If he still had not guessed that she was not a real lady, she did not want to disillusion him.

 He must be aware no family of the aristocracy, or even the gentry, would accept him as a son-in-law, despite his obviously excellent education. As long as he believed her one of them, he expected no more than a brief flirtation with her, to be laid to the magic of the Frost Fair, so he would not be hurt when it ended.

 Between the owners of a prosperous, fashionable establishment and the employees of a commonplace small shop the gulf was narrower but just as deep. Mr Rufus might hope to jump it, not realizing how determinedly it was maintained by those on the far side. Better that he should continue to imagine the gulf as wide as it was deep. Rosabelle did not want him to suffer the double pain of a snub and dashed hopes.

 Of blighted love she did not let herself think. He could not possibly have fallen seriously in love upon such brief acquaintance. And nor could she.

 “Two dozen of gingerbread,” he said. “Any particular shapes?”

 “I don’t know what you’ve got. I didn’t really look yesterday.”

 “Just the usual, I’m afraid. Diamonds and circles, stars and crescent moons, that sort of thing, and of course men with currant eyes.” He laughed. “I experimented a bit with cutting out icicles and snowflakes, but by the time they came out of the oven they were unrecognizable.”

 “What a pity! Anything will do, a variety.”

 “Very well. I’ll have a neat parcel made up for your maid to carry.” He glanced around, raising his eyes from her face for the first time since he had spotted her. He frowned. “But where is Miss Betsy? Is she still incapacitated?”

 “She is much better, but not able to walk.”

 “You haven’t come alone, have you? There are some rough characters about.”

 “Oh,” said Rosabelle doubtfully, remembering numerous taverns and the rowdy youths by the pugilist’s stage, “perhaps I ought to go back to Anna and Mary. I brought two others, as I said yesterday I would, and I left them on the swings.”

 “They’ll be all right together. You arranged to meet?”

 “Yes, I gave them money for hot chocolate and told them to wait here if I had left to look at the sights.”

 “Then will you allow me to escort you to see the sights?”

 A sudden stillness fell between them. Even the hubbub of voices and music seemed to Rosabelle to come faintly to her ears.

 Until his last question, all their interchanges could be seen as related to his work, or Betsy’s accident, or friendly funning. To wander off with him, alone together though in the midst of crowds, would be an open acknowledgement of the attraction between them.

 “Can they spare you?” Rosabelle temporized, gesturing at the booth.

 His elated look told her she had inadvertently given away her desire for his company. “I brought three fellows today,” he said jubilantly, “expecting a crowd. They will cope between them. Come over here for a minute while I give your order, and put on my top-coat, and then, Miss Rosabelle, I shall be entirely at your service.”

Chapter 5

 Along the Grand Mall they wandered, towards Blackfriars Bridge. Rosabelle heard herself exclaim, laugh, comment on the stalls and entertainers they passed, but a moment later she could not have said what she had just seen. Her consciousness was concentrated entirely on the man at her side.