Carola Dunn (5 page)

 Mr Rufus walked with an easy stride, his pace adjusted to hers. The two or three inches between their elbows seemed to Rosabelle to be filled with the tension that comes before a storm. When, inevitably in the crush of people, his sleeve brushed hers, the discharge of lightning made her head spin, her pulse race, and her knees tremble.

 At one such moment she stumbled. Instantly he steadied her.

 “The ice is slippery in places. Won’t you take my arm?”

 “Y-yes. Thank you.”

 Rosabelle slipped her hand through his arm, half expecting the contact to make her lose her balance altogether. Instead, she was enveloped in a sense of safety.

 As she relied upon his strength to save her from falling, she trusted to his honour not to take advantage of the favour she showed him. Wondering how to express these feelings, or whether they were better not put into words, she looked up at him.

 He was smiling down at her. “I shan’t presume,” he said softly. “At least, not much. I should like to buy you a fairing, something to remind you of this day. May I?”

 “I....” No, she must not tell him nothing could make her forget. Yet she could not deny him. “If you wish. Not something expensive.”

 “Nor anything as ephemeral as gingerbread! Would you like a ballad? They all seem to mention the Frost Fair every other line, so you will never mistake it for a memento of any other occasion.”

 She realized they were standing in front of one of the printing presses set up on the ice by competing booksellers. This one had hired a singer to perform his latest publication, to a tune from The Beggars’ Opera. Thus advertised, the broadsides were selling fast.

 Rosabelle listened for a minute. The words struck her as high-flown nonsense, rhyme and rhythm both stretched to the breaking-point, or beyond. They must have been hastily scribbled by a Grub-Street hack—in fact, a lean, grey-haired man was seated at a table to the rear of the press, busy at his next composition.

 Mr Rufus was also listening, and he forestalled her. “No,” he said decidedly, “such rubbish would in time make a travesty of your memories.”

 “It’s quite dreadful, isn’t it?”

 “Appalling. We shall seek further.”

 But Rosabelle noticed that the ballad-seller was also disposing of prints at a great rate to purchasers attracted by his singer. “Let’s just take a look a those pictures,” she proposed. “I was thinking yesterday how I should like to draw the scene, if only it were not too cold to sit still.”

 Though the pictures must have been created in almost as much haste as the ballads, among the mere scrawls was the lively work of a close observer and expert sketcher and engraver. Rosabelle chose one which showed fair-goers and booths against a background of London Bridge and St. Paul’s Cathedral.

 Mr Rufus paid for it, and a bit extra to have it rolled up in a protective sheet of blank paper. He presented it to Rosabelle with a bow.

 “Thank you. I shall have it framed and hang it on my chamber wall.” She bit her lip, which had suddenly developed a distressing wobble. “I’ll treasure it forever.”

 He looked at her gravely. “For as long as the remembrance brings happiness.”

 Rosabelle nodded, unable to speak for a moment, then said with a gasp, “I want to give you something!”

 “There is something I should treasure forever, if you don’t think it an impertinence to ask.”

 “W-what?”

 “This morning I saw an artist taking likenesses. I thought his work quite good. It would be an honour and a joy to possess your portrait.”

 “Oh!” Rosabelle exclaimed, flustered. “Well, I daresay, if that is what you really want....”

 “It is,” said Mr Rufus positively. “The fellow works swiftly. You would not have to sit with the frost nibbling your toes for more than a few minutes.”

 “Oh, the time!” Though the chimes of the church clocks on both sides of the river rang clearly through the sounds of the fair, she had paid no attention. Turning to the print-seller, she asked, “Do you know the time, pray?”

 “The half hour struck about ten minutes ago, miss.”

 “I must go! Anna and Mary will be waiting for me, and the coachman, too.” Rosabelle started back towards the pastrycook’s stall.

 Mr Rufus fell into step at her side, offering his arm. When she took it, he laid his hand on hers. “You will come again? Yes, you always pay your debts. This time you owe me a portrait, and that I will accept.”

 “I promised to bring two more of the girls, if the freeze holds.”

 Contentedly he assured her, “It looks set for a sennight. I shall see you tomorrow.”

* * * *

 The parcel of gingerbread, when Rosabelle opened it at home, turned out to contain not twenty-four but twenty-six pieces. Twice a baker’s dozen, she thought. Six stars, six crescents, six crosses, seven men with currant eyes--and a heart.

 Hastily she wrapped the last in a handkerchief and hid it in a drawer of her dressing-table.

* * * *

 Wednesday morning. Frost flowers bloomed on Rosabelle’s chamber windowpanes, and the rising sun glistened on frosted roof-tiles across the way. Down below in the street, the breath of men and horses rose in clouds of steam.

 Rosabelle spent the morning attending customers downstairs while her mother supervised some complicated cutting-out up in the workroom. In general, Madame Yvette’s clients were easy to deal with, since they knew she would not hesitate to dispense with their custom should she decide they were more trouble than they were worth.

 Today the worst was a spoiled young lady about to embark upon her first Season, who wanted a flame-coloured ball dress. Her mama, Lady Warburton, had failed to convince her that only white and the palest pastels were acceptable for girls making their come-out.

 “I declare, I do not know what to do with the child, mademoiselle,” she whispered, wringing her hands, while Miss Warburton glanced through a book of fashion plates. “I am at my wits’ end. Pray make her see reason!”

 Thanks to her mother’s training, Rosabelle succeeded with a mixture of firmness and persuasion in diverting Miss Warburton’s yearnings to silver net over pale blue satin.

 Lady Warburton was lavish with her thanks. “We shall both order the entire Season’s wardrobes from Madame Yvette,” she promised. “And Elizabeth’s next year, and Marianne’s two years after that.”

 “Madame will be honoured to serve you, my lady,” Rosabelle assured her.

 “You may be sure I shall highly recommend your tact to your mother, and to all my friends with willful daughters,” whispered her ladyship. “Naturally I should never venture to tip Madame, but will you be offended if I offer you a little something extra for yourself, my dear?” She pressed three sovereigns into Rosabelle’s hand.

 Rosabelle smiled and curtsied.

 At last her mother came down and Rosabelle was free to go. She had to return to Braithwaite’s a length of mismatched rose sarsnet delivered in error, and obtain a replacement, and there was a haberdashery order for Lowe’s in Gracechurch Street.

 “And then I may go to the Frost Fair, maman?”

 “
Oui, chérie.
They talk of nothing else upstairs. I hope you find some amusement there, as well as giving pleasure to
les demoiselles?
”

 “Oh yes, maman,” said Rosabelle, willing herself not to blush, “it is very amusing, and I don’t believe I’ve seen half of it yet.”

 “Enjoy yourself then,
ma petite
.” Madame reached up to pat her tall daughter’s cheek.

 On her way up to the workroom, Rosabelle looked in on her father. “I’m off to the fair, Papa.”

 He groaned and reached for his cashbox.

 She laughed. “It’s all right, I don’t need any money. I have a little left from yesterday, and a customer tipped me this morning. I’ll bring you a fairing.”

 “Don’t you go spending your bawbees on fiddle-faddling rubbish, lass!”

 “Papa, you don’t want a broadside ballad rhyming ‘ice’ with ‘nice’ and ‘hot pies,’ and printed right there on the Thames?”

 “I do not!” he said emphatically.

 “What about a portrait of your loving daughter? There is an artist taking likenesses.”

 “Aye, that I’d like fine, if it looks like you. And if it doesna, ye’ll no pay the fellow.”

 “No, Papa.” Rosabelle would see what the artist produced for Mr Rufus before deciding whether to buy a second portrait for her father. She did hope it would be a likeness worth treasuring. “I daresay he draws a flattering picture, to please his customers,” she said.

 “No need to flatter you, lass, and that’s enough o’ fishing for compliments!”

 She pouted at him, kissed his forehead, and went on to fetch her companions of the day from the workroom. While Eliza and Jenny put on their outdoor clothes, Rosabelle went back down to her chamber to don her cloak. It was the same ruby velvet she had worn yesterday and the day before, the only one she had. “All verra weel being elegant,” as Papa said, “but more than one at a time is pure extravagance.”

 Rosabelle didn’t mind. Supposing Mr Rufus forgot her face—not yet having a portrait to remember her by—he would recognize her by her cloak.

 The carriage took them to Braithwaite’s, but then it had to return to Bond Street to carry one of the show-room assistants to a customer’s house for a fitting. Eliza and Jenny were in a fever of impatience to get to the fair. Rosabelle relented and took a hackney to Gracechurch Street though she would rather have walked.

 Not that she was any less impatient, but the way from Cheapside led up Cornhill. She had hoped to take a look at the establishment where Mr Rufus usually passed his days. The windows of the hackney were too grimy to see anything without peering, which the girls would have thought very odd.

 By the time Rosabelle had transacted her business at Lowe’s, the afternoon was well advanced. The three girls walked at a brisk pace down Gracechurch Street and Fish Street Hill towards London Bridge.

 Mr Lowe had directed them to Old Swan Stairs as the nearest access to the river. Rosabelle paid their tolls and they descended to the ice.

 The bridge loomed to their left. Ahead lay the beginning of the Grand Mall, with half its length to go before the intersection with Freezeland Street. Jenny and Eliza dawdled along,
ooh
ing and
aah
ing over everything, unable to decide what particular treat they wanted. Rosabelle began to despair of reaching Dibden’s stall in time for more than a brief exchange of words with Mr Rufus.

 They paused outside a tent advertising a Grand Chinese Masque. From within came the delicate sound of plucked strings.

 “Show about to start!” cried the inevitable barker. “Shilling a head, see the mandarins and their dancing girls, see the Emperor on his golden throne. Walk right in, only a shilling a head!”

 “That’s an awful lot,” said Jenny wistfully. “The swings Mary and Anna went on yesterday were only sixpence, weren’t they, Miss Ros?”

 “I can’t remember.” Rosabelle urged the pair towards the tent. “It doesn’t matter, anyway. You may never have another chance to see the Emperor of China.”

 “Aren’t you coming too, Miss Ros?” Eliza asked.

 “No, I’ll meet you at Dibden’s pastrycook’s for hot chocolate.” Quickly she explained how to find the stall and arranged a meeting time.

 Jenny and Eliza disappeared into the tent as cymbals clashed, and Rosabelle hurried on.

 Dibden’s was as busy as the day before. Rosabelle hovered on the outskirts of the throng, wondering how to attract Mr Rufus’s attention. She didn’t like to be so bold as to go to the booth’s side entrance.

 “Looking for Mr Rufus, miss?” enquired a breathless voice at her side. The lad with the empty tray slung before him was the one who had so enjoyed selling hot pies on Monday.

 “It’s Jackie, isn’t it? I...I would like just a word with Mr Rufus.”

 Young Jack gave her a knowing look. “Step back here, miss, and I’ll tell him you’re here.”

 It seemed an age before Mr Rufus came out, already wearing his greatcoat. He frowned at her. “Alone again!”

 “Would you rather I had brought a chaperon?” Rosabelle asked saucily.

 “No,” he admitted, lips quirking, “but I cannot think it safe for a beautiful young lady to walk alone here. I should never forgive myself if you were to come to any harm.”

 “I shan’t.” Did he really consider her beautiful? Pretty, attractive—but his eyes confirmed his words: to him she was beautiful. And he was worried about her. “Men rarely bother a female who walks briskly and with determination,” she averred. “It’s when one stops and loiters, as I did when I arrived here—”

 “Someone accosted you?” he demanded, fists clenched.

 “Only Jackie,” she soothed him. “With kind intent.”

 “Be careful,” he ordered sternly.

 “I need not, now, for I have you to protect me. Let us go and get your fairing. Where is the artist?”

 “On Freezeland Street, over towards the Southwark bank. The fellow had better do you justice, or I’ll make him start over.”

 “I already have instructions from Papa not to pay him if it’s not a good likeness,” Rosabelle told him, laughing, as they set out, “and if it is, to sit for a second.”

 “For your father?”

 “I promised him a fairing, too.”

 “Did all the gingerbread arrive unbroken?” he asked with studied casualness.

 “Yes, I...Thank you for the baker’s dozens. I had enough to spare for the laundrywoman and her daughters.”

 “You gave them all away?”

 “I kept one.”

 To her relief, he did not press her. Turning right into Freezeland Street, he pointed out a juggler keeping a dazzling array of spangle-covered balls spinning through the air. Glittering in the sunlight, they emitted a constant, whispering tinkle.

 Rosabelle and Mr Rufus stopped to watch for a few minutes, then dropped a few clinking coins into the man’s hat and moved on. A nearby tent offered a performance of
The Tempest
(abridged), acted by marionettes so lifelike as to be indistinguishable from living, breathing players. Judging by the thunderous roar, either they had reached the storm scene or the audience was applauding with extraordinary enthusiasm.