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Authors: My Dearest Valentine
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“Hot drinks will help to warm you thoroughly. Shall I send for chocolat instead?”
Rosabelle burst into tears. Maman rocked her in her arms as though she was still a little child.
“A crise de nerfs is natural after such an experience, chérie. Tomorrow you shall stay in bed.”
But lying in bed gave her all too much time to think, so on Saturday morning she got up as usual. She found it impossible to present the necessary cheerful face to clients downstairs, and the chatter in the workroom was unbearable. In the end, she took some embroidery to the drawing room to work on in peace. It was a complicated task which demanded her full concentration.
If now and then Mr Rufus’s face floated between her and her work, she fiercely blinked it away. Dead or alive, he was lost to her forever, so what did it matter whether or not he had survived unscathed?
By Sunday, that argument had worn itself out. Rosabelle bitterly regretted not having sent to Dibden’s yesterday to discover Mr Rufus’s fate. Now she had to wait until Monday. Filled with restless energy, she would have liked to go for a long walk in one of the parks. Rain poured down all day, and maman refused even to consider letting her going out. She paced the drawing room, back and forth, back and forth, like a caged tiger at the Tower.
Monday, the seventh of February, a whole week since she first met Mr Rufus, was merely damp and dreary. However hopeless her love, she had to see him.
If he was still alive.
Growing impatient with her fidgets, her mother hurried to make up the list for Braithwaite’s. “Take the carriage,” she said. “You must go to Van Biederbrok’s, too, to select the seed pearls, since you did not get them on Friday. Lady Vanessa’s gown cannot be made up until the embroidery is done. I shall have to put off her first fitting appointment.”
“I’m sorry, maman. I’ll go there first.”
At the jeweller’s, Rosabelle managed to give her attention to choosing matching pearls. She found it more difficult at the cloth wholesaler in Cheapside, which had none of the interest of rarity. Fortunately her companion, Mam’selle Fogarty, was one of the older and more knowledgeable seamstresses. Between them, they settled on the needed materials.
Bidding Mr Braithwaite a hurried good-bye, Rosabelle led the way out to the waiting carriage and went to speak to the coachman.
“Peters, there is a pastrycook’s shop in Cornhill called Dibden’s. At the sign of the Pie and Pipkin. Do you know it?”
“Aye, Miss Ros, I seen it often. Half way up on the left, just past the Royal Exchange. Hungry?”
“I didn’t eat much breakfast.” Which was true. She had lost her appetite last Friday and it had yet to return.
“Have you there in a jiffy, miss.”
The carriage seemed to crawl the quarter mile, through the busy traffic of Cheapside and Poultry and past the vast pillared portico of the Mansion House. There was the still vaster Bank of England, off to the left in Threadneedle Street, and the Royal Exchange with the Stock Exchange just beyond it. Here was the financial heart of the City of London, of England, of the world.
And, half a dozen houses farther up Cornhill, here was Dibden’s.
The carriage stopped. “Wait here, I shan’t be a minute,” Rosabelle told Mam’selle Fogarty. She stepped down, her gaze on the pastrycook’s premises.
Shop was too meagre a word. Over the double fa‡ade with its sparkling windows on either side of the door, the sign—gold on dark green—read
PASTRYCOOK DIBDEN CATERER
established 1679
Caterers to the Lord Mayors of London
with a golden pie on one side, a golden pipkin on the other. Beneath, in smaller script, was a list of further distinguished customers, from the Directors of the Bank of England to Merchant Taylors’ and Grocers’ Halls.
Dibden’s was no commonplace small shop. If Mr Rufus was no more than a shopkeeper’s assistant, at least he
Rosabelle burst into tears. Maman rocked her in her arms as though she was still a little child.
“A crise de nerfs is natural after such an experience, chérie. Tomorrow you shall stay in bed.”
But lying in bed gave her all too much time to think, so on Saturday morning she got up as usual. She found it impossible to present the necessary cheerful face to clients downstairs, and the chatter in the workroom was unbearable. In the end, she took some embroidery to the drawing room to work on in peace. It was a complicated task which demanded her full concentration.
If now and then Mr Rufus’s face floated between her and her work, she fiercely blinked it away. Dead or alive, he was lost to her forever, so what did it matter whether or not he had survived unscathed?
By Sunday, that argument had worn itself out. Rosabelle bitterly regretted not having sent to Dibden’s yesterday to discover Mr Rufus’s fate. Now she had to wait until Monday. Filled with restless energy, she would have liked to go for a long walk in one of the parks. Rain poured down all day, and maman refused even to consider letting her going out. She paced the drawing room, back and forth, back and forth, like a caged tiger at the Tower.
Monday, the seventh of February, a whole week since she first met Mr Rufus, was merely damp and dreary. However hopeless her love, she had to see him.
If he was still alive.
Growing impatient with her fidgets, her mother hurried to make up the list for Braithwaite’s. “Take the carriage,” she said. “You must go to Van Biederbrok’s, too, to select the seed pearls, since you did not get them on Friday. Lady Vanessa’s gown cannot be made up until the embroidery is done. I shall have to put off her first fitting appointment.”
“I’m sorry, maman. I’ll go there first.”
At the jeweller’s, Rosabelle managed to give her attention to choosing matching pearls. She found it more difficult at the cloth wholesaler in Cheapside, which had none of the interest of rarity. Fortunately her companion, Mam’selle Fogarty, was one of the older and more knowledgeable seamstresses. Between them, they settled on the needed materials.
Bidding Mr Braithwaite a hurried good-bye, Rosabelle led the way out to the waiting carriage and went to speak to the coachman.
“Peters, there is a pastrycook’s shop in Cornhill called Dibden’s. At the sign of the Pie and Pipkin. Do you know it?”
“Aye, Miss Ros, I seen it often. Half way up on the left, just past the Royal Exchange. Hungry?”
“I didn’t eat much breakfast.” Which was true. She had lost her appetite last Friday and it had yet to return.
“Have you there in a jiffy, miss.”
The carriage seemed to crawl the quarter mile, through the busy traffic of Cheapside and Poultry and past the vast pillared portico of the Mansion House. There was the still vaster Bank of England, off to the left in Threadneedle Street, and the Royal Exchange with the Stock Exchange just beyond it. Here was the financial heart of the City of London, of England, of the world.
And, half a dozen houses farther up Cornhill, here was Dibden’s.
The carriage stopped. “Wait here, I shan’t be a minute,” Rosabelle told Mam’selle Fogarty. She stepped down, her gaze on the pastrycook’s premises.
Shop was too meagre a word. Over the double fa‡ade with its sparkling windows on either side of the door, the sign—gold on dark green—read
PASTRYCOOK DIBDEN CATERER
established 1679
Caterers to the Lord Mayors of London
with a golden pie on one side, a golden pipkin on the other. Beneath, in smaller script, was a list of further distinguished customers, from the Directors of the Bank of England to Merchant Taylors’ and Grocers’ Halls.
Dibden’s was no commonplace small shop. If Mr Rufus was no more than a shopkeeper’s assistant, at least he
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