Free Carola Dunn by My Dearest Valentine Page B

enquire....’ That will tell who ye are, without much tiresome explanation. All the world knows of Madame Yvette.”
     Both his wife and his daughter kissed him, and his long face broke into a beam.
     Madame returned below to a waiting client. Rosabelle and her father repaired to the office. The note was written, rewritten, folded, and sealed, and then Rosabelle despairingly remembered she didn’t know the Dibdens’ house number.
     “The post-man will know,” said Papa. “I daresay they’ll be getting enquiries by the dozen.”
     “Then, if he’s too ill to read them himself, perhaps they will not tell him about our note. Papa, let me take it myself! I’ll find out the number when I reach Russell Square.”
     “Your mama wouldna like it,” he said, frowning. His face cleared. “So I’ll go wi’ ye, and we’ll no tell her till after.”
     They took a hackney. Rosabelle had never been to Russell Square before. There was a garden in the centre which must be beautiful in spring and summer, and the houses were finer than many in Mayfair, especially those on the west side. Among them, the Dibdens’ betrayed itself by the straw spread on the cobbles in front to deaden the sound of hooves and wheels.
     The sight banished Rosabelle’s excitement. Now she felt only dread.
     A sombre footman opened the door. “The ladies aren’t receiving,” he said.
     “Oh no, I wouldn’t expect...,” Rosabelle stammered. “Pray give this to.... Oh, pray make sure he knows I enquired!”
     “I’ll give it to the mistress, miss.” The footman gave her a curious but kindly look. “And I’ll say the young lady brought it personal, but I can’t promise Mr Rufus’ll be told.”
     “How...how is he?”
     “Desp’rate ill, miss, but not quite despaired of.”
     Rosabelle swung round blindly and buried her face in her father’s waistcoat.
     His arms around her, he spoke over her head. “Tell your mistress, laddie, that it might do Mr Rufus some good to hear what’s in yon paper.”
     “Very good, sir.” The footman bowed, and closed the door as Mr Macleod supported Rosabelle down the steps and into the hackney.
     On their return, maman shook her head reproachfully and put Rosabelle straight to work.
     “Be thankful you are not en vérité a young lady of leisure,” she said, “with no occupation to keep you from moping yourself into a decline. I have heard this morning from several ladies already come up to London from the country to order their gowns in plenty of time for the Season. There is a great deal to be done.”
     Maman kept Rosabelle busy all day. Her misery receded to a dull ache, always there in the background. She realized, distantly but with gratitude, that everyone was particularly kind and attentive to her, without being intrusive. Between them, servants and employees had apparently put the clues together and worked out more or less what was going on.
     No news of Rufus Dibden arrived until the last delivery of the twopenny post. The postman brought a formal note written in a round, careful schoolgirl hand: Mr and Mrs Dibden thanked Mr and Mrs Macleod and Miss Macleod for their obliging communication. Mr Rufus Dibden was presently too ill to be informed of all the kind enquiries about his health.
     “He doesn’t even know I care!” cried Rosabelle, desolate.
     “Write again this evening,” said her mother. “Jerry or Philip may take it in the morning.”
     “Can’t I...?”
     “No, chérie. To send by a footman instead of the post gives sufficient particularity. To go yourself would be not at all comme il faut . That sort of persistence will offend, or give rise to contempt. Consider, to his family you are quite unknown.”
     Her father gave her a wink. Later he whispered, “Your mither’s ay richt, but if we don’t hear tomorrow that yon lad’s been told of your enquiry, I’ll go mysel’ the day after.”
     Rosabelle hugged him.
     On Tuesday afternoon she was in