Read Carola Dunn for Free Online Page B

rolled up in a protective sheet of blank paper. He presented it to Rosabelle with a bow.
     “Thank you. I shall have it framed and hang it on my chamber wall.” She bit her lip, which had suddenly developed a distressing wobble. “I’ll treasure it forever.”
     He looked at her gravely. “For as long as the remembrance brings happiness.”
     Rosabelle nodded, unable to speak for a moment, then said with a gasp, “I want to give you something!”
     “There is something I should treasure forever, if you don’t think it an impertinence to ask.”
     “W-what?”
     “This morning I saw an artist taking likenesses. I thought his work quite good. It would be an honour and a joy to possess your portrait.”
     “Oh!” Rosabelle exclaimed, flustered. “Well, I daresay, if that is what you really want....”
     “It is,” said Mr Rufus positively. “The fellow works swiftly. You would not have to sit with the frost nibbling your toes for more than a few minutes.”
     “Oh, the time!” Though the chimes of the church clocks on both sides of the river rang clearly through the sounds of the fair, she had paid no attention. Turning to the print-seller, she asked, “Do you know the time, pray?”
     “The half hour struck about ten minutes ago, miss.”
     “I must go! Anna and Mary will be waiting for me, and the coachman, too.” Rosabelle started back towards the pastrycook’s stall.
     Mr Rufus fell into step at her side, offering his arm. When she took it, he laid his hand on hers. “You will come again? Yes, you always pay your debts. This time you owe me a portrait, and that I will accept.”
     “I promised to bring two more of the girls, if the freeze holds.”
     Contentedly he assured her, “It looks set for a sennight. I shall see you tomorrow.”
    * * * *
     The parcel of gingerbread, when Rosabelle opened it at home, turned out to contain not twenty-four but twenty-six pieces. Twice a baker’s dozen, she thought. Six stars, six crescents, six crosses, seven men with currant eyes--and a heart.
     Hastily she wrapped the last in a handkerchief and hid it in a drawer of her dressing-table.
    * * * *
     Wednesday morning. Frost flowers bloomed on Rosabelle’s chamber windowpanes, and the rising sun glistened on frosted roof-tiles across the way. Down below in the street, the breath of men and horses rose in clouds of steam.
     Rosabelle spent the morning attending customers downstairs while her mother supervised some complicated cutting-out up in the workroom. In general, Madame Yvette’s clients were easy to deal with, since they knew she would not hesitate to dispense with their custom should she decide they were more trouble than they were worth.
     Today the worst was a spoiled young lady about to embark upon her first Season, who wanted a flame-coloured ball dress. Her mama, Lady Warburton, had failed to convince her that only white and the palest pastels were acceptable for girls making their come-out.
     “I declare, I do not know what to do with the child, mademoiselle,” she whispered, wringing her hands, while Miss Warburton glanced through a book of fashion plates. “I am at my wits’ end. Pray make her see reason!”
     Thanks to her mother’s training, Rosabelle succeeded with a mixture of firmness and persuasion in diverting Miss Warburton’s yearnings to silver net over pale blue satin.
     Lady Warburton was lavish with her thanks. “We shall both order the entire Season’s wardrobes from Madame Yvette,” she promised. “And Elizabeth’s next year, and Marianne’s two years after that.”
     “Madame will be honoured to serve you, my lady,” Rosabelle assured her.
     “You may be sure I shall highly recommend your tact to your mother, and to all my friends with willful daughters,” whispered her ladyship. “Naturally I should never venture to tip Madame, but will you be offended if I offer you a little something extra for yourself, my dear?” She pressed three