Carola Dunn by My Dearest Valentine Read Free Book Online Page A

the inevitable barker. “Shilling a head, see the mandarins and their dancing girls, see the Emperor on his golden throne. Walk right in, only a shilling a head!”
     “That’s an awful lot,” said Jenny wistfully. “The swings Mary and Anna went on yesterday were only sixpence, weren’t they, Miss Ros?”
     “I can’t remember.” Rosabelle urged the pair towards the tent. “It doesn’t matter, anyway. You may never have another chance to see the Emperor of China.”
     “Aren’t you coming too, Miss Ros?” Eliza asked.
     “No, I’ll meet you at Dibden’s pastrycook’s for hot chocolate.” Quickly she explained how to find the stall and arranged a meeting time.
     Jenny and Eliza disappeared into the tent as cymbals clashed, and Rosabelle hurried on.
     Dibden’s was as busy as the day before. Rosabelle hovered on the outskirts of the throng, wondering how to attract Mr Rufus’s attention. She didn’t like to be so bold as to go to the booth’s side entrance.
     “Looking for Mr Rufus, miss?” enquired a breathless voice at her side. The lad with the empty tray slung before him was the one who had so enjoyed selling hot pies on Monday.
     “It’s Jackie, isn’t it? I...I would like just a word with Mr Rufus.”
     Young Jack gave her a knowing look. “Step back here, miss, and I’ll tell him you’re here.”
     It seemed an age before Mr Rufus came out, already wearing his greatcoat. He frowned at her. “Alone again!”
     “Would you rather I had brought a chaperon?” Rosabelle asked saucily.
     “No,” he admitted, lips quirking, “but I cannot think it safe for a beautiful young lady to walk alone here. I should never forgive myself if you were to come to any harm.”
     “I shan’t.” Did he really consider her beautiful? Pretty, attractive—but his eyes confirmed his words: to him she was beautiful. And he was worried about her. “Men rarely bother a female who walks briskly and with determination,” she averred. “It’s when one stops and loiters, as I did when I arrived here—”
     “Someone accosted you?” he demanded, fists clenched.
     “Only Jackie,” she soothed him. “With kind intent.”
     “Be careful,” he ordered sternly.
     “I need not, now, for I have you to protect me. Let us go and get your fairing. Where is the artist?”
     “On Freezeland Street, over towards the Southwark bank. The fellow had better do you justice, or I’ll make him start over.”
     “I already have instructions from Papa not to pay him if it’s not a good likeness,” Rosabelle told him, laughing, as they set out, “and if it is, to sit for a second.”
     “For your father?”
     “I promised him a fairing, too.”
     “Did all the gingerbread arrive unbroken?” he asked with studied casualness.
     “Yes, I...Thank you for the baker’s dozens. I had enough to spare for the laundrywoman and her daughters.”
     “You gave them all away?”
     “I kept one.”
     To her relief, he did not press her. Turning right into Freezeland Street, he pointed out a juggler keeping a dazzling array of spangle-covered balls spinning through the air. Glittering in the sunlight, they emitted a constant, whispering tinkle.
     Rosabelle and Mr Rufus stopped to watch for a few minutes, then dropped a few clinking coins into the man’s hat and moved on. A nearby tent offered a performance of The Tempest (abridged), acted by marionettes so lifelike as to be indistinguishable from living, breathing players. Judging by the thunderous roar, either they had reached the storm scene or the audience was applauding with extraordinary enthusiasm.
     “I should like to see that,” Rosabelle sighed.
     “There will be another performance, I daresay,” said Mr Rufus eagerly. “I’ll find out when it starts.”
     “I cannot stay so long.”
     “Tomorrow?”
     “Perhaps.”
     He stepped up to the doorman, returning a moment later to report, “Tomorrow they perform A Midsummer