Free Carola Dunn by My Dearest Valentine

worked for one of the best.
     Had worked?
     Heart in mouth, Rosabelle pushed the door open and went in.
     

Chapter 8
     
     Though Rosabelle’s heart was in her mouth, her mouth began to water as she stepped into the pastrycook’s. The mingled aromas almost awoke her appetite, but her anxiety was too great for that.
     No one appeared to notice the jangle of the bell as the door swung shut behind her. The large room was abuzz. Customers stood and waited their turns at the counter which ran down one side and across the back; more sat at the small tables to the right, where waiters in striped aprons hurried to and fro.
     Rosabelle scanned the faces of the waiters and the counter assistants. The one face she wanted was missing. Perhaps he was working in the kitchens today. The shopmen were dashing in and out through a swinging door to the rear of the premises. Mr Rufus might appear at any moment.
     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