Carola Dunn (8 page)

 The bell jangled behind her and she hastily moved forward into a gap at the back counter.

 A harried assistant turned to her. “Yes, miss?”

 “I’ll take two of those and two of those,” Rosabelle said, pointing at random. As he wrapped her purchases in a paper, she asked urgently, “Is Mr Rufus here?”

 His hands stilled and he looked at her. “No, miss, he’s at home in bed with an inflammation of the lungs. That’ll be ninepence, miss, if you please.” Swiftly he completed the wrapping.

 Her head in a whirl, Rosabelle paid and took the neat parcel he thrust at her. She had expected to hear
alive
or
dead
, not something in between. Before she could think what to ask next, he was serving someone else.

 It had not dawned on her that Mr Rufus, so vital and vigorous, might succumb slowly and painfully to his icy wetting. Inflammation of the lungs! She had no experience of the malady, but she was sure she had heard of it as frequently fatal. Was he getting proper care? Had he seen a physician, or at least an apothecary? Was someone looking after him, buying medicine for him, feeding him, keeping him warm?

 Her stomach clenched at the thought that he might be lying alone and shivering in some squalid garret.

 She had turned away from the counter, and the press of customers had hustled her several steps further towards the door. Now she swung round, desperate to find out more. Everyone was busy. If she stopped one of the rushing waiters to ask Mr Rufus’s whereabouts and circumstances, very likely he would not know or be willing to tell her. She didn’t know what to do.

 “Miss Rosabelle!” It was Jackie. “You look ill, miss. Come and sit down.”

 She let the boy usher her to a just vacated table. Sinking into a chair, she said in a trembling voice, “I’m not ill, but I just found out Mr Rufus is. Jackie, do you know how bad he is?”

 “Pretty bad, I heard, miss, but the doctor says he has a chance to pull through, being in general strong and healthy.”

 “A chance? But at least he has seen a doctor. He is getting proper care?”

 “I’m sure he is, miss, what with his ma and two sisters.”

 “Do you know where he lives, Jackie? I should like to enquire after him, to send a message.”

 “I dunno the exact direction, miss. It’s one of them big houses in Russell Square. I can ask the number, or you c’d leave a message for Mr Dibden to take home this evening.”

 “Mr Dibden?” Rosabelle said, surprised.

 Jackie gave her an odd look. “His pa. Mr Rufus’s. Most days he goes home ‘bout six or.... Hi, miss, don’t faint!”

 The room whirled about Rosabelle’s head. Mr Rufus Dibden, of Russell Square, of Dibden’s Pastrycook’s, caterers to the Lord Mayor of London! Why hadn’t he told her?

 Anger restored her enough to take the glass of water Jackie anxiously pressed upon her. A few sips enabled her to thank the worried lad with tolerable composure.

 “Pray don’t tell anyone I came,” she added, rising.

 “No, miss. D’you want me to find out that house number for you, miss?”

 “No, thank you. I must go.”

 As Rosabelle reached the door, Jackie ran after her with her forgotten parcel. He opened the door and bowed her out.

 With quick steps she crossed the pavement to where the carriage awaited her. “Home, Peters.” She climbed into the gloomy interior and handed the paper of pastries to Mam’selle Fogarty. “Here, eat what you wish. I’m not hungry after all.”

 As the carriage moved off, Rosabelle cast a last, hurt glance through the window at the pastrycook’s flourishing establishment. Mr Rufus Dibden’s deceit had cost them any chance of happiness. Why hadn’t he told her who he was?

 
“Don’t tell anyone I came,”
her own instruction to Jackie echoed in her head. Unnecessary, since he knew her only as Miss Rosabelle. He didn’t know who she was—any more than Mr Rufus Dibden did.

 The realisation shocked her. So certain of her own imagined superiority, she had let him believe she was a high-born lady. To a blue-blooded damsel, a wealthy tradesman’s son was of no more account than a shop assistant. Rufus could only have stamped himself as a coxcomb had he asserted his higher status, and he was far too sensitive not to know it.

 Rosabelle screwed her eyes shut to keep back the rising tears. It was all her fault. If only she had been honest with him from the first!

 Had he known who she was, he could have sent a message warning her not to go to the Frost Fair on Friday. Then he would not have been on the wharf when the ice cracked. He would not have risked his life to rescue those rash fools who ventured onto the river despite the plain signs of a thaw.

 Had he known who she was, even if he had viewed the disaster, the prospect of their future happiness together might have held him back. Had her smug conceit made him so miserable he wanted to die?

 By the time the carriage reached New Bond Street, Rosabelle was so miserable she wanted to die.

 As the carriage door opened and light fell on Rosabelle’s face, Mam’selle Fogarty exclaimed, “You’re ill, Miss Ros!”

 “No,” Rosabelle said wearily. “I have the headache a little.”

 “You go on up, dear, and I’ll tell Madame you’re not well.”

 Too downhearted to argue, Rosabelle dragged herself up the stairs and sank onto a sofa. A moment later her mother came in.

 “What is the matter, chérie?”

 Rosabelle buried her face in her hands. “Oh, maman, he is Rufus Dibden,” she wept, “and he is dying, and it’s all my fault!”

 Under maman’s gentle probing, the whole story came out. “So you see,” Rosabelle finished, “if he dies, I’m to blame.”

 “Nay, lass,” said her Papa, who had come from the office in time to hear most of the tale, “dinna fash yoursel’. ‘Men have died from time to time, and worms have eaten them, but not for love.’”

 “
Zut alors
, Kenneth, this is not one of your most helpful quotations! Rosabelle, chérie, consider how you slight your
amant
in suggesting such a motive. Is it not possible that he rushed to the rescue because he is a brave and compassionate man, a true hero?”

 “Oh yes, maman, he is, he is. But he is still dying!”

 “That remains to be seen. You were told he is very ill. Now it is up to you to give him a reason for living. If you are correct about his feelings—”

 “Of course she’s correct,” said Papa indignantly. “Any man in his right mind must love my lovely lass.”

 “If you are correct, chérie,” maman repeated, “then knowing who you really are and that you are concerned for his health may be all the medicine the young man needs.”

 Rosabelle sprang up. “I’ll write to him at once.”

 “For a young woman to correspond with a young man is
peu convenable
—not proper. You will not wish to offend his parents.”

 “Write from all of us,” Papa suggested. “‘Mr and Madame Yvette Macleod and Miss Rosabelle Macleod beg to enquire....’ That will tell who ye are, without much tiresome explanation. All the world knows of Madame Yvette.”

 Both his wife and his daughter kissed him, and his long face broke into a beam.

 Madame returned below to a waiting client. Rosabelle and her father repaired to the office. The note was written, rewritten, folded, and sealed, and then Rosabelle despairingly remembered she didn’t know the Dibdens’ house number.

 “The post-man will know,” said Papa. “I daresay they’ll be getting enquiries by the dozen.”

 “Then, if he’s too ill to read them himself, perhaps they will not tell him about our note. Papa, let me take it myself! I’ll find out the number when I reach Russell Square.”

 “Your mama wouldna like it,” he said, frowning. His face cleared. “So I’ll go wi’ ye, and we’ll no tell her till after.”

 They took a hackney. Rosabelle had never been to Russell Square before. There was a garden in the centre which must be beautiful in spring and summer, and the houses were finer than many in Mayfair, especially those on the west side. Among them, the Dibdens’ betrayed itself by the straw spread on the cobbles in front to deaden the sound of hooves and wheels.

 The sight banished Rosabelle’s excitement. Now she felt only dread.

 A sombre footman opened the door. “The ladies aren’t receiving,” he said.

 “Oh no, I wouldn’t expect...,” Rosabelle stammered. “Pray give this to.... Oh, pray make sure he knows I enquired!”

 “I’ll give it to the mistress, miss.” The footman gave her a curious but kindly look. “And I’ll say the young lady brought it personal, but I can’t promise Mr Rufus’ll be told.”

 “How...how is he?”

 “Desp’rate ill, miss, but not quite despaired of.”

 Rosabelle swung round blindly and buried her face in her father’s waistcoat.

 His arms around her, he spoke over her head. “Tell your mistress, laddie, that it might do Mr Rufus some good to hear what’s in yon paper.”

 “Very good, sir.” The footman bowed, and closed the door as Mr Macleod supported Rosabelle down the steps and into the hackney.

 On their return, maman shook her head reproachfully and put Rosabelle straight to work.

 “Be thankful you are not
en vérité
a young lady of leisure,” she said, “with no occupation to keep you from moping yourself into a decline. I have heard this morning from several ladies already come up to London from the country to order their gowns in plenty of time for the Season. There is a great deal to be done.”

 Maman kept Rosabelle busy all day. Her misery receded to a dull ache, always there in the background. She realized, distantly but with gratitude, that everyone was particularly kind and attentive to her, without being intrusive. Between them, servants and employees had apparently put the clues together and worked out more or less what was going on.

 No news of Rufus Dibden arrived until the last delivery of the twopenny post. The postman brought a formal note written in a round, careful schoolgirl hand: Mr and Mrs Dibden thanked Mr and Mrs Macleod and Miss Macleod for their obliging communication. Mr Rufus Dibden was presently too ill to be informed of all the kind enquiries about his health.

 “He doesn’t even know I care!” cried Rosabelle, desolate.

 “Write again this evening,” said her mother. “Jerry or Philip may take it in the morning.”

 “Can’t I...?”

 “No, chérie. To send by a footman instead of the post gives sufficient particularity. To go yourself would be not at all
comme il faut
. That sort of persistence will offend, or give rise to contempt. Consider, to his family you are quite unknown.”

 Her father gave her a wink. Later he whispered, “Your mither’s ay richt, but if we don’t hear tomorrow that yon lad’s been told of your enquiry, I’ll go mysel’ the day after.”

 Rosabelle hugged him.

 On Tuesday afternoon she was in the office, helping her father prepare the Journal de Modes to be sent to the printer, when Philip brought up the post. Papa flicked through the small pile and handed one to her. He watched as she slit the seal.

 The note began like yesterday’s. Mr and Mrs Dibden thanked the Macleods for their obliging enquiry after the health of their son. But below, in a hasty scrawl, Rosabelle read:

 
Dear Miss Macleod,

 I just told Mama that Dennis (our footman) told me you came yourself on Monday and Particlarly asked for  poor Rufus to be told you had called and she said who? so I told her you are Madame Yvette’s daughter (she knew at once who Madame Yvette is though I confess I did not)(you see I have been opening and ansering all the letters as Mama is busy Nursing poor Rufus) She said she will mention your Name to him when next he wakes up. He is
very
ill.

             Your obedient servant

       (I hope that is the Right Ending, it looks a bit Odd)

             Sarah Dibden (Miss)

             (Rufus’s sister)(younger)

 Oh dear, I hope you can make sense of this scrible I haven’t time to rewrite it. SD.

 Rosabelle had to turn the page to read the last part of this missive, which was squeezed in around the edge.

 Finishing, she glanced back over it, her eye at once caught by the underlined word. “Papa, he is very ill.”

 “We knew that already, lass.” He took the sheet from her and read it. “‘Twas written before he was told you had called. That’ll set him well on the road to recovery.”

 “Suppose he’s delirious?” Rosabelle fretted. “Or if he’s told ‘Miss Macleod,’ it won’t mean anything to him. He only knows me as Miss Rosabelle. Oh, Papa, how could I have been so dreadfully puffed-up, when I love him?”

 “‘If thou remember’st not the slightest folly

 “‘That ever love did make thee run into,

 “‘Thou hast not lov’d.’”

 Rosabelle sighed. “I must answer Miss Sarah’s letter. She sounds a very amiable girl, don’t you think? I’ll mention about ‘ Miss Rosabelle,’ just in case.”

 The next news did not arrive until Wednesday evening. Miss Sarah Dibden informed Rosabelle that Rufus had taken an immediate turn for the better on hearing her name and she thought it was excessively romantic.

 Rosabelle was elated. The very sound of her name had cured him!

 Then it dawned on her that he might have recovered anyway, that his improvement did not necessarily mean he loved her. She struggled to be unselfishly glad as Sarah’s daily letters chronicled his convalescence.

 Monday dawned again, two weeks since the first day of the Frost Fair. Drawing back the curtains at her chamber window, Rosabelle saw a pair of pigeons on the sill. The male puffed out his neck-feathers, iridescent green and purple, and cooed as he bowed and bobbed to his mate. It was Valentine’s Day, Rosabelle recalled, the day when birds—and maids and men—chose their mates.

 And she still had not received a single word from Rufus himself, either in his own hand or reported.

 Though the twopenny post delivered on Sundays, yesterday had brought no note from Sarah. No doubt Rufus had at last recovered enough to warn his sister to drop the correspondence. He must be so disgusted with Rosabelle’s behaviour, he couldn’t bear even to hear her name. If he had ever loved her, she had killed his love.