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
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
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