Carola Dunn (6 page)

 “I should like to see that,” Rosabelle sighed.

 “There will be another performance, I daresay,” said Mr Rufus eagerly. “I’ll find out when it starts.”

 “I cannot stay so long.”

 “Tomorrow?”

 “Perhaps.”

 He stepped up to the doorman, returning a moment later to report, “Tomorrow they perform
A Midsummer Night’s Dream
, every hour on the hour. They cut the plays short, he says, for fear of their patrons’ freezing.”

 “Very short! But I should like to see the puppets acting.”

 “And I have been racking my brains for an enticement to bring you to the fair again tomorrow. There’s no knowing how much longer it will last.”

 Their eyes met. In his, Rosabelle read an acknowledgement of the fleeting nature of their relationship.

 “I shall try to be here—at your stall—at the proper time,” she said softly.

Chapter 6

 “Tolerable, tolerable,” Mr Macleod allowed grudgingly. “He’s caught the look o’ ye, lass. ‘Tis no sae bad, considering.”

 “Considering what, Papa?”

 “Considering ‘twas drawn by a fellow wha sells his skills for a shilling at a fair.”

 “Half a crown, Papa.”

 “Wheesht, the mon robbed ye!”

 “
Pas du tout,
” maman disagreed. Leaning on the back of the sofa, she peered over his shoulder at the portrait. “It is excellent,
mon cher.
We must have it framed.”

 Her husband sighed and nodded. For a moment, all three studied the picture in silence. Somehow, in a swift sketch in black and white, the artist had not only accurately delineated Rosabelle’s features, he had brought them to life. There was a glow in her eyes and a breathless expectancy in the tender curve of her mouth.

 “
Ma foi,
one would say a girl in love!”

 “It must be a trick he has,” Rosabelle said hastily as both her parents turned their gaze from her image to her face. “I daresay many of the people who ask for likenesses are girls wanting portraits for their sweethearts, so he draws them that way to please them. He didn’t know the gentleman I wanted mine for was my own dear Papa.”

 “I’ll take it to be framed tomorrow,” said her father gruffly.

* * * *

 On Thursday, Madame Yvette could only spare one of her seamstresses to go to the Frost Fair. Esther was a thin, shy, perpetually worried girl, the sole support of her crippled mother. She offered to give up her turn to one of the others, but Rosabelle was determined to give her an hour or two of fresh air and recreation.

 “But, Miss Ros,” Esther whispered timorously, “I can’t afford to take time off.”

 “You won’t lose any pay,” Rosamund promised. “I have to go to the furrier to choose some ermine trim first, and you know Madame doesn’t let me go to the City alone.”

 “You can borrow my cloak, Esther,” called Betsy from the other side of the workroom. “It’s ever so warm, and you’ll need it. Colder than a miser’s heart it is out there on the ice.
Brrr!
”

 Esther gratefully accepted Betsy’s offer. Her own pelisse must be thin and threadbare, Rosabelle guessed, ashamed of herself for not noticing last time they went out together. She’d have to have a word with maman about that. She would point out that Esther was one of the best embroiderers, and if she took a chill, it would cause no end of difficulties.

 Maman always preferred to disguise her kindness and generosity as businesslike common sense.

 The carriage was in use, so Jerry summoned a hackney for Rosabelle and Esther. Neither of the footmen had had a chance to go to the Frost Fair. One must always be at hand to open the door and usher in customers, and one to run errands to the great houses of Mayfair and St. James’s.

 “Sunday’s my half day, Miss Ros,” Jerry said, handing her into the hackney with as much ceremony as if she was a duchess entering a crested coach. “D’you reckon the river’ll stay froze till then?”

 “It certainly doesn’t feel like a thaw at present,” she said with a shiver. “It’s as cold as ever.”

 How much longer? Every time she met Mr Rufus, she found the prospect of never seeing him again more painful. Already what was supposed to be a brief, lighthearted flirtation had deepened into genuinely tender feelings. What if the present weather continued for another week? A fortnight?

 But well before the end of a fortnight Rosabelle would run out of seamstresses to give her an excuse to go to the fair. Then she would have to decide whether to break the connection deliberately, or to continue her visits brazenly, with no excuse. Either way, she saw heartbreak ahead.

 Mr Rufus seemed to accept that she was beyond his reach, but if he had any hidden hopes, with time they would grow. Perhaps the apparent cruelty of putting an immediate stop to their meetings—regardless of freeze or thaw—would be kinder in the end.

 As the hackney made its way along the Strand, Rosabelle tried to persuade herself good fortune had given her Esther as her sole companion today. The girl could not be left on her own; she would have to attend the marionette play with Rosabelle and Mr Rufus. With her retiring nature, she would not intrude, but her very presence must put a brake on the intimacy of sitting together in a darkened tent.

 “I hope you have not set your heart on the swings or the donkeys, Esther,” Rosabelle said. “There is to be a performance by puppets of
A Midsummer Night’s Dream
which I should rather like to attend.”

 “A real play, Miss Ros? Not just Punch and Judy?” Esther heaved a beatific sigh. “I’d like it best of anything.”

 Yes, Esther was the ideal companion. She never joined in the workroom gossip, so she was not likely to mention Mr Rufus. The others were bound to ask her what she had done, but the play would provide plenty to talk about.

 Everything had fallen out perfectly—if only Rosabelle could ignore the hollow feeling which filled her whenever she contemplated the inevitable goodbye.

 The business at the furrier’s diverted her for a while. She didn’t know ermine, sable or chinchilla as well as she did silks and cambrics, but Mr Jacobson, the wealthy Jewish fur importer Madame Yvette always dealt with, was teaching her. He always assisted Rosabelle personally, recognising her mother’s eminence among dressmakers to the Ton. Naturally, whenever Madame Yvette’s customers wished to purchase furs on their own account, she directed them to Jacobson’s.

 The intricate give and take of commerce interested Rosabelle, though not as much as the actual process of creating beautiful clothes. Bookkeeping and accounting, on the other hand, she found dull. The beauty of harmoniously balanced numbers escaped her, however eloquently Papa spoke on the subject. She knew maman was glad not to have to manage that side of things.

 Suppose Mr Rufus had a flair for numbers, and business in general, Rosabelle thought as she and Esther approached the river. Would maman and Papa look more kindly on him, overlook his humble situation, if he proved competent to help their daughter in future?

 There was no way to find out, she concluded dispiritedly, blenching at a vision of her parents interviewing Mr Rufus for the position of husband and finding him wanting.

 “What dreadful, rough men!” Esther whispered, nervously eyeing the watermen on the wharf.

 “Their manners and appearance are rough, but they mean no harm.”

 “The others said they won’t let you go through without paying.”

 “The freeze has interrupted their usual livelihood, so they must charge a toll to feed their families. You should sympathize with that.” Rosabelle paid the fee and they descended to the ice.

 Esther gazed about with interest, and was pathetically grateful for a handful of hot chestnuts, but she showed no disposition to linger along the way. Rosabelle hurried her along. It had taken longer than she expected to get there. They would only just be in time to catch the beginning of the next performance, if Mr Rufus was ready to go at once.

 He was watching for her, standing in the booth entrance in his greatcoat.

 Coming to meet her, he said with a grin, “I’ve wrapped myself up in anticipation of your arrival at a quarter to every hour since noon.”

 “That’s only twice.”

 “Including noon. Three times. Let’s go, we’ll just make it before the curtain rises.”

 “I hope there will be room for all of us. This is Esther.”

 Mr Rufus blinked as if, with no eyes for anything but Rosabelle, he had not even noticed the other girl’s presence. “How do you do, Miss Esther,” he said courteously, and offered each an arm. “I’m glad you have come with Miss Rosabelle. I’ve warned her against walking about here alone.”

 Throwing a scared look around her, Esther grasped his sleeve as if it were her only chance of safety and scurried alongside. He gave her a kind but dismissive smile, then turned to Rosabelle.

 “I trust they have not mangled the play too badly. Are you familiar with it?”

 “Yes. My mother is not interested in the theatre, but Papa is a devotee of Shakespeare’s works. He has taken me to every new production since I was quite small. This is one of my favourites.”

 “There’s no knowing what they have made of it,” he cautioned. “Not only are the actors puppets, it has been cut to less than an hour, remember.”

 “I hope they’ve kept all the funniest bits,” Rosabelle said. She felt in need of cheering up. The joy of being with him was overshadowed by the coming parting.

 As if he read her mind, there was a sadness behind his smile. “I believe you can count on that. I’ve strolled past the tent twice today, and each time I heard great merriment. Here we are.” He freed his arm from Esther’s grip and reached into his pocket.

 Hearing the jingle of coins, Rosabelle said quickly, “I’m paying for this,” as she loosened the strings of her reticule.

 “Let me treat you.”

 She didn’t want to hurt his pride, yet she could not let him spend his meagre wages on her. “I might,” she said in a low voice, “but I cannot allow you to pay for Esther. And it will look...most particular if I pay for her and you pay for me.”

 “‘Urry up, ladies an’ gent! Show’s beginning.”

 “As you will,” said Mr Rufus resignedly, “but I pay for myself.”

 The doorman accepted their shillings impartially, and they went in.

 They found seats on a bench to one side, with a good view of the stage. Rosabelle sat between Esther and Mr Rufus. Though the tent was not really full enough to justify the way his elbow pressed against hers, she made no attempt to move away. Soon enough, his touch would be no more than a painful but precious memory.

 Thank heaven the marionettes were not to perform Romeo and Juliet. Rosabelle could not have kept her composure through that tragic romance. She was not sure she’d be able to laugh at the comedy ahead, no matter how well done.

 It was very well done. The puppeteers’s version of
A Midsummer Night’s Dream
concentrated on Bottom’s adventures. Rosabelle simply could not help laughing, especially as Esther lost all her diffidence and chortled like a gleeful child at the antics on stage. Mr Rufus’s mirth was transmitted to Rosabelle as much through the contact between them as by sound. His ribs must be aching with laughter.

 At the end, they all emerged into daylight with tears of merriment in their eyes.

 “Oh, Miss Ros,” Esther gasped, “I never seen anything like it in all my born days. I can’t wait to tell Mam all about it.”

 “Hot chocolate all round first,” said Mr Rufus, “before you go anywhere. My treat,” he added with a meaningful glance at Rosabelle.

 “I’d like to bathe my feet in hot chocolate,” she said with a smile of acquiescence. “They are two blocks of ice. The show was so funny I didn’t even feel them freezing till now.”

 “I expect they quickly went numb. We’ll go in and sit by the oven and you’ll soon thaw.”

 The word
thaw
sobered both of them. Esther did not notice, prattling away as she rehearsed the tale she’d tell her mother about flying fairies, the man with an ass’s head, and the talking wall in
Pyramus and Thisbe
.

 They drank their chocolate. Rosabelle bought Esther a meat pie. Shyly the girl asked to have it cut in half so that she could take half home. She ate her half hungrily, and Mr Rufus gave her a gingerbread man to take to her mother.

 All the while, he and Rosabelle exchanged scarcely a word. Their eyes met often, but in the dim interior of the booth Rosabelle found it impossible to read what his were telling her.

 At last she could prolong her stay no longer.

 “We must go.”

 Mr Rufus accompanied them outside. “Tomorrow?” he asked.

 “I...I’m not sure.”

 After a moment of shock, he nodded. His face was bleak as he took the hand she held out to him. She thought he was going to kiss it, but he raised it to press the back briefly against his cheek.

 Wordless, he bowed. Turning away, Rosabelle blinked back tears that had nothing to do with merriment.

Chapter 7

 That night, a gusty wind blew in from the west. Along with premonitory puffs of cloud, it brought a mellow dampness to the air, a hint of spring, a promise of snowdrops and crocuses and violets.

 Rosabelle yearned for frost flowers.

 “Ye’ll no go on the ice today, lass,” her father said at breakfast on Friday morning. “‘Tis too risky wi’ the change in the weather.”

 “Yes, Papa,” she acquiesced, subdued. “What do you want me to do today, maman?”

 They discussed the day’s work.

 “It may sleet tomorrow,” said Madame Yvette, “but today everyone will be thinking of muslins. You had best go to Braithwaite’s this afternoon for samples of the newest muslins. And we need seed pearls for the embroidery on Lady Vanessa Seagrave’s Presentation gown. How I wish the good Queen would stop insisting on hoops at Court!”

 “Van Biederbrok in Hatton Garden for the pearls?”

 “Oui, chérie. Make sure they are all of a size. You may take the carriage, but have the pearls delivered. It is for the seller to bear the risk of carrying them through the streets.”

 That word again: risk. Did Mr Rufus realize the danger of going on the frozen Thames with a balmy breeze blowing? Very likely rain was already falling in the West, feeding the river with warmer water. How long would the ice hold up to that insidious assault?