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Authors: My Dearest Valentine
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time than seemed possible, from stair after stair, the Thames wherries pulled out into the stream. Boathooks reached, caught, dragged the hunted from the hungry current into the frail cockleshells dodging between the floes.
Mr Rufus appeared at the top of the stairs, soaked to the waist, a dripping child in his arms and a weeping woman clinging to the skirts of his coat. Rosabelle ran to him.
He thrust the child at her. “Take care of them. There’s not much more I can do from here. I’m going out in a boat, to wield the boathook so that the rowers can concentrate on their oars.”
He leaned forward, over the wailing child’s head. His kiss was warm on Rosabelle’s mouth. Then he was gone again.
Rosabelle cast a last glance at the dreadful scene, then set about helping the woman and child. They were soaked to the skin, and beginning to shiver convulsively. She sent Fanny to the carriage to fetch a lap-rug, while she stripped the little girl naked and her mother to her shift.
As Rosabelle wrapped the child in her own pelisse, Fanny came back with the rug. Before the woman had been enveloped in its folds, another dozen drenched fugitives reached the wharf, with more behind.
Peters was close on Fanny’s heels, his heavy, caped topcoat already half off. Fanny—rather unhappily—took off her cloak. They were but the first.
As word spread of the disaster on the Thames, the people of London rallied round. The poor brought ragged sheets and blankets; rich merchants sent bales of woollen cloth and cartloads of clothes; charitable institutions set up soup-kettles all along the wharves. Dockside warehouses were opened to shelter the victims from the wind, which no longer seemed benign.
Rosabelle had no time to think. More and more of those the boatmen saved had to be carried ashore and into the nearest warehouse. Chilled to the bone, they were incapable of stripping off their own sodden clothing. Her fingers numb, Rosabelle worked alongside whores and dock-labourers, tapsters and jarveys, fishwives and chimney-sweeps, struggling with buttons and tapes and hooks and pins. She undressed women and men alike, for modesty was an unaffordable luxury when frigid death lurked close at hand.
And then suddenly the influx ended. Swaying with weariness, Rosabelle stumbled towards the great door of the gloomy warehouse to make sure no one else was coming.
Peters caught up with her and took her elbow. “Time to go, Miss Ros. There’s others’ll tend ‘em now. You done your bit, and more, and you need to get home and change your clo’es.”
A gust of wind blew in through the door, making Rosabelle aware that her own gown was damp. She shivered. The coachman was in his shirtsleeves, and the knees of his breeches showed wet patches where he had knelt. Fanny, joining them, was also damp and weary.
“Fanny, have you seen him? Mr Rufus?”
“No, Miss Ros. Likely he ended up at one of the other stairs and went home by now.”
“Yes, I suppose so.”
As cold inside as out, Rosabelle let Peters lead her to the carriage. She slumped in one corner, her head resting back against the squabs. Her eyes were closed, but branded on the lids was the last sight she had seen on her last glance at the river.
Just as Mr Rufus ran down the stairs to embark in the first wherry available, one of the little boats out on the swirling water was struck by an ice floe and overturned. He had gone out onto the perilous stream, among the deadly floating islands. Had he come back?
* * * *
Between the tales told by Fanny and Peters, and the newsboys already crying scores drowned—though hundreds were saved—Madame Yvette and Mr Macleod did not wonder at their daughter’s low spirits. Clucking, Madame hustled Rosabelle to bed and plied her with tisanes and broth.
“It will not do to fall ill with the Season almost upon us,” she scolded gently as Rosabelle pushed away the cup of broth, silently shaking her head.
Mr Rufus appeared at the top of the stairs, soaked to the waist, a dripping child in his arms and a weeping woman clinging to the skirts of his coat. Rosabelle ran to him.
He thrust the child at her. “Take care of them. There’s not much more I can do from here. I’m going out in a boat, to wield the boathook so that the rowers can concentrate on their oars.”
He leaned forward, over the wailing child’s head. His kiss was warm on Rosabelle’s mouth. Then he was gone again.
Rosabelle cast a last glance at the dreadful scene, then set about helping the woman and child. They were soaked to the skin, and beginning to shiver convulsively. She sent Fanny to the carriage to fetch a lap-rug, while she stripped the little girl naked and her mother to her shift.
As Rosabelle wrapped the child in her own pelisse, Fanny came back with the rug. Before the woman had been enveloped in its folds, another dozen drenched fugitives reached the wharf, with more behind.
Peters was close on Fanny’s heels, his heavy, caped topcoat already half off. Fanny—rather unhappily—took off her cloak. They were but the first.
As word spread of the disaster on the Thames, the people of London rallied round. The poor brought ragged sheets and blankets; rich merchants sent bales of woollen cloth and cartloads of clothes; charitable institutions set up soup-kettles all along the wharves. Dockside warehouses were opened to shelter the victims from the wind, which no longer seemed benign.
Rosabelle had no time to think. More and more of those the boatmen saved had to be carried ashore and into the nearest warehouse. Chilled to the bone, they were incapable of stripping off their own sodden clothing. Her fingers numb, Rosabelle worked alongside whores and dock-labourers, tapsters and jarveys, fishwives and chimney-sweeps, struggling with buttons and tapes and hooks and pins. She undressed women and men alike, for modesty was an unaffordable luxury when frigid death lurked close at hand.
And then suddenly the influx ended. Swaying with weariness, Rosabelle stumbled towards the great door of the gloomy warehouse to make sure no one else was coming.
Peters caught up with her and took her elbow. “Time to go, Miss Ros. There’s others’ll tend ‘em now. You done your bit, and more, and you need to get home and change your clo’es.”
A gust of wind blew in through the door, making Rosabelle aware that her own gown was damp. She shivered. The coachman was in his shirtsleeves, and the knees of his breeches showed wet patches where he had knelt. Fanny, joining them, was also damp and weary.
“Fanny, have you seen him? Mr Rufus?”
“No, Miss Ros. Likely he ended up at one of the other stairs and went home by now.”
“Yes, I suppose so.”
As cold inside as out, Rosabelle let Peters lead her to the carriage. She slumped in one corner, her head resting back against the squabs. Her eyes were closed, but branded on the lids was the last sight she had seen on her last glance at the river.
Just as Mr Rufus ran down the stairs to embark in the first wherry available, one of the little boats out on the swirling water was struck by an ice floe and overturned. He had gone out onto the perilous stream, among the deadly floating islands. Had he come back?
* * * *
Between the tales told by Fanny and Peters, and the newsboys already crying scores drowned—though hundreds were saved—Madame Yvette and Mr Macleod did not wonder at their daughter’s low spirits. Clucking, Madame hustled Rosabelle to bed and plied her with tisanes and broth.
“It will not do to fall ill with the Season almost upon us,” she scolded gently as Rosabelle pushed away the cup of broth, silently shaking her head.
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