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?
Throughout the morning, tension built in Rosabelle until she felt she might explode at any moment. When at last she set out for the City, with Fanny as her companion, she ordered the coachman to drive down to the riverside first. She had promised Papa not to venture onto the ice, but if she saw the Frost Fair still in full swing, she would have to do something.
Peters drove them to the top of the Queen Hithe stairs. Rosabelle stepped out of the carriage. To her dismay, the river was still covered with the gaily-flagged booths and tents.
“Can’t we go, Miss Ros?” Fanny begged.
“No, it’s not safe. Oh, what am I to do?”
A trickle of people, much reduced from the past few days’ flood, was passing the toll-collecting watermen and descending to the ice. Among them, Rosabelle picked out a pair of lads of twelve or so, and called them over.
“I’ll give you a shilling to take a message for me to someone at the fair.”
“An ‘ole shilling, miss?” asked one.
“Yes. Find the booth of Dibden’s, the pastrycook, on the Grand Mall just west of Freezeland Street. Near the donkey-rides. Ask for Mr Rufus and tell him Miss Rosabelle is waiting for him at the Queen Hithe stairs. Can you remember that?”
The other boy gave her a cheeky grin. “Dibden’s, Mr Rufus, pretty Miss Rosabelle waitin’ at Queen ‘Ithe. Reckon ‘e’ll come straight, miss!”
“There’s a crown for you if you come with him,” said Rosabelle, partly to ensure her message’s reaching its destination, partly from a pang of conscience at sending the lads into danger. They were going anyway, but if they came to harm on an
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?
Throughout the morning, tension built in Rosabelle until she felt she might explode at any moment. When at last she set out for the City, with Fanny as her companion, she ordered the coachman to drive down to the riverside first. She had promised Papa not to venture onto the ice, but if she saw the Frost Fair still in full swing, she would have to do something.
Peters drove them to the top of the Queen Hithe stairs. Rosabelle stepped out of the carriage. To her dismay, the river was still covered with the gaily-flagged booths and tents.
“Can’t we go, Miss Ros?” Fanny begged.
“No, it’s not safe. Oh, what am I to do?”
A trickle of people, much reduced from the past few days’ flood, was passing the toll-collecting watermen and descending to the ice. Among them, Rosabelle picked out a pair of lads of twelve or so, and called them over.
“I’ll give you a shilling to take a message for me to someone at the fair.”
“An ‘ole shilling, miss?” asked one.
“Yes. Find the booth of Dibden’s, the pastrycook, on the Grand Mall just west of Freezeland Street. Near the donkey-rides. Ask for Mr Rufus and tell him Miss Rosabelle is waiting for him at the Queen Hithe stairs. Can you remember that?”
The other boy gave her a cheeky grin. “Dibden’s, Mr Rufus, pretty Miss Rosabelle waitin’ at Queen ‘Ithe. Reckon ‘e’ll come straight, miss!”
“There’s a crown for you if you come with him,” said Rosabelle, partly to ensure her message’s reaching its destination, partly from a pang of conscience at sending the lads into danger. They were going anyway, but if they came to harm on an
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