FROST FAIR
In February 1814, the Thames froze and a Frost Fair was set up on the ice.
Excerpt
Rosabelle
stopped to look out over the Thames. The sound of barrel-organs,
fiddles, pipes and drums floated across the ice in the sparkling air,
punctuated by the shouts of barkers. Flag-bedecked tents, stalls and
booths were laid out in two main streets, crossing in the middle.
"Oooh,"
sighed Betsy in ecstasy, "a merry-go-round, and swings! And
look, Miss Ros, donkey rides! Could I? Not all of them, I mean,
just one?"
Continuing
down the stair, Rosabelle smiled at her companion's childish delight.
"If I have enough money on me. They may charge exorbitant
prices because of the setting. Which will you choose?"
"I'll
have to look closer afore I make up my mind. What about you? What
d'you fancy?"
"Oh,
the donkeys, I think. I still remember being sick on the swings at
Bartholomew Fair when I was a little girl, and why ride a wooden
horse when you can ride a real, live donkey?"
"I
will, too, then," Betsy decided.
...
A
fingerpost stuck in a barrel of stones, pointing towards Southwark on
the south bank, announced Freezeland Street. The first tent, a
hastily erected shelter of sailcloth over a rough wooden frame, was a
tavern. On the benches within, men sat quaffing ale and bantering
with serving wenches bundled up in warm wraps. Opposite was a
skittle alley, and next to it a barker invited passers-by to step up
and try their luck at the Wheel of Fortune.
"Oysters!
Fresh oysters, sixpence a dozen," cried a woman carrying two
buckets on a yoke.
"Hot
chestnuts, roasted on ice!" called a man sitting by a brazier
full of glowing coals. Though it was raised on iron feet, it stood
in a puddle.
"I
hope the ice is good and thick," said Betsy.
"Let's
have some chestnuts," Rosabelle proposed. "They'll warm
your fingers."
She
bought two-penn'orth. They strolled on, peeling off the charred,
crackling skins and munching the sweet insides.
There
were toy shops and a Punch and Judy show. Rival printing presses
tried to top each other's ballads celebrating the Frost Fair. Dogs
barked at small boys sliding on a smooth patch of ice, and fiddlers
sawed away while young men hopped and swung with their sweethearts on
an improvised dancing stage.
"Fry
your own sausages! Take 'em 'ome pipin' 'ot."
"Lapland
mutton, roasted right 'ere on the river, shilling a slice!"
"Prick
the garter! Try your skill and win a vallible prize!"
"Buy
my brandy-balls!"
"Cut
and a shave," shouted a barber, his chair set up in the open
with the striped pole stuck in the ice. "Cut and a shave.
Razors sharper'n icicles!"
Rosabelle
stopped to glance over the wares of a bookstall, while Betsy admired
the gaily painted swings next door. The attendants, their breath
puffing out in clouds, pushed the gondolas higher and higher, while
the girls seated inside with their swains squealed and giggled.
"Changed
your mind?" Rosabelle asked.
"It
does look like fun, but it'd be better if you've got a young man.
No, let's find the donkeys."
"Over
that way, I think."
As
they turned right on the Grand Mall, which ran down the middle of the
Thames from Blackfriars Bridge to London Bridge, Rosabelle glanced
back down Freezeland Street. Beyond tents and booths, behind the
wharves and warehouses of the City, the spires of churches rose, and
over to the left, Paul's great dome towered high above the rest.
...
"There
they are." Betsy pointed to where a string of patient donkeys
plodded across the ice towards a space marked with hoofprints and
other unmistakable evidence of a less mentionable nature. "Aren't
they sweet? I hope I can ride that one with the red and yellow
ribbons, the one with a side-saddle. I wish I had a lump of sugar to
feed it."
"Perhaps
the stall next door will let us have some, that one with the 'Dibden,
Pastrycook' sign. Look, they are selling hot chocolate, so they must
have sugar. I'll tell them we shall buy chocolate after our ride, to
warm us."
"Can
we really? I'm ever so glad it was my turn to go with you today,
Miss Ros!"
Rosabelle
went up to the counter beneath the slapdash, hastily painted sign.
On it were laid out trays of tarts and biscuits and gilt gingerbread
shapes. From the back of the stall came the mouthwatering aroma of
hot meat pies, mingling with the sweetness of the fragrant steam from
the chocolate pot on its spirit lamp.
A
young man with curly brown hair peeking from beneath his hat was
serving a customer with a crisp, golden, hot apple turnover, redolent
of cinnamon and cloves. He took the money and turned to Rosabelle.
"What
can I do for you, madam?" he enquired, an appreciative light in
his sparkling blue eyes.
Though
she was not unaccustomed to admiration from the opposite sex,
Rosabelle felt a blush rise in her cheeks. No doubt they matched her
nose and her cloak, she thought ruefully. But there was nothing to
take offence at in his merry gaze, so she smiled back.
......................
"Do
you think the ice will melt soon?" Rosabelle asked.
"I
fear it is already melting from below. The chief danger, though, is
not sinking through as it melts but that it will break up. I've
talked to people coming off who speak of creaks and groans underfoot.
It isn't only that the air is too warm. Today is a spring tide,
with high tide a little while ago. In winter the sea is always
warmer than rivers, and salt water freezes at a lower temperature
than fresh."
"So
the ice is being undermined? I wondered about the effect of warmer
rainwater flowing in from the west."
His
glance was admiring. "I hadn't thought of that." He
turned to gaze westward. Dark banks of clouds were building beneath
the haze which had spread across the sky during the morning. "A
good point. But the main factor, I believe, is that as the tide
continues to ebb, the ice is left unsupported. When it fails, it may
collapse very suddenly."
"Any
moment now?" asked Fanny, who had been listening with a bemused
expression. "Eh, Miss Ros, I'm that glad we didn't go to the
fair. Can we leave now? I don't want to see all those people
drownded!"
As
one, Rosabelle and Mr Rufus turned to stare with dread out across the
river.
"What
can we do?" cried Rosabelle.
"Nothing,
now. I've tried to explain my reasoning to everyone I've spoken to.
Some listened. Some didn't."
Rosabelle
listened, trying to hear the creaks and groans of the overburdened
ice. All that came to her ears was the merry notes of barrel-organs,
fiddles, pipes and drums, the shouts of barkers, the hum of the
crowd's myriad voices.
"I
can't—"
With
a crack like a thousand coachmen's whips snapping in unison, the ice
split. The music ended in a horrid jangle and screams rent the air.
The watchers on the wharf saw jagged channels open, dark, toothed
mouths gaping for their prey.
The
prey fled, those who could, swarming across the remaining ice towards
the banks, leaping the widening gaps. Some made it.
Some
did not.
Rosabelle
closed her eyes in horror. When she opened them, Mr Rufus was gone,
as were the boatmen. In less time than seemed possible, from stair
after stair, the Thames wherries pulled out into the stream.
Boathooks reached, caught, dragged the hunted from the hungry current
into the frail cockleshells dodging between the floes.
Mr
Rufus appeared at the top of the stairs, soaked to the waist, a
dripping child in his arms and a weeping woman clinging to the skirts
of his coat. Rosabelle ran to him.
He
thrust the child at her. "Take care of them. There's not much
more I can do from here. I'm going out in a boat, to wield the
boathook so that the rowers can concentrate on their oars."
He
leaned forward, over the wailing child's head. His kiss was warm on
Rosabelle's mouth. Then he was gone again.
Rosabelle
cast a last glance at the dreadful scene, then set about helping the
woman and child. They were soaked to the skin, and beginning to
shiver convulsively. She sent Fanny to the carriage to fetch a
lap-rug, while she stripped the little girl naked and her mother to
her shift.
As
Rosabelle wrapped the child in her own pelisse, Fanny came back with
the rug. Before the woman had been enveloped in its folds, another
dozen drenched fugitives reached the wharf, with more behind.
....
A MAID AT YOUR WINDOW
Philomena and her sister Aquila, having left Vienna after their diplomat father's death, are staying in the countryside in England with a widow and her small son, distant relatives.
Excerpt:
"I
know the way," Toby told her importantly. "I'll show you."
Philomena's
modish grey, fur-collared cloak was more suited to strolling in the
Prater in Vienna than to climbing stiles and tramping down a
Lincolnshire lane. Fortunately, the overnight freeze had hardened the
muddy ruts and even glazed the puddles with a thin layer of ice.
Though Marsh Cottage was isolated from the village of Valentine
Parva, they were soon close enough to see a trickle of smoke rising
from the chimney.
Between
leafless hawthorn hedges, the lane ran down a slope to ford a small
stream, with a narrow wooden bridge for foot passengers. On the other
side, in a dank, overgrown hollow, stood the wattle and lath cottage.
"It's
situation does look aguish, as Mrs Barleyman said, but it's not
really tumbledown," Philo commented as they stopped, by silent
mutual consent, to observe their goal. "Just dilapidated."
"What's
lapidated mean?" Toby held her hand tightly, his round cheeks
pink with cold and anticipation.
"Badly
cared for. It needs a coat of whitewash, and the tiles are covered
with moss, though there don't seem to be any holes in the roof, nor
broken windows. But the fence has fallen down, and it looks as if the
garden has grown wild for years."
"That's
good, 'cause there's lots of bushes for us to hide behind when we
look through the windows."
Philo
was struck with the impropriety of their expedition. She had not
really intended to do more than view the place from a distance. I
don't care, she thought
rebelliously. It was all very well for Aquila to be a model of
decorum; her
mother had been their father's lawful wife. As Aquila's aunt and
cousins had made plain, the offspring of an unmarried Italian opera
diva was beyond the pale no matter how well behaved.
"Come
on," she said. "We'll climb through that gap where the
fence has fallen down."
Philomena's
cloak caught in a tangle of bare rose stems, and Toby reached the
diamond-paned window first. He peeped over the sill, then ducked and
made hurry-up gestures, mouthing silent words, his eyes sparkling
with excitement. She joined him, crouching.
"It's
a real
wizard," he whispered. "Look!"
Cautiously
she straightened until she could see into the room. Amid a clutter of
glass tubes and vessels burned a lilac flame. By its ghostly light a
dim figure was visible, moving in the background. A hand reached out,
holding a beaker, and poured something over the flame.
A
flash of brilliant white light and an earsplitting crack
made Philo jump and blink. In the afterglow of the explosion, she saw
a black face, oddly distorted, that slowly sank from view.
"Stay
here!" Philomena cried to the open-mouthed Toby. "I must see
if he's hurt."
The
cottage's front door opened directly into the room. After a momentary
hesitation on the threshold, Philo hurried round the equipment-laden
table. The wizard was sitting on the floor, his soot-masked
expression somewhat dazed.
"Are
you all right?" she demanded sharply.
"I
think so." His speech sounded educated. Struggling to his feet,
he added, "Only, I don't seem to be able to see very well."
She
pulled off a glove, reached up, and removed the blackened spectacles
from his nose. He grinned, his teeth startlingly white.
"Thank
you, Miss...?"
"I
am Philomena Ware."
Despite
his filthy blue smock, his bow was gentlemanly. "Thank you, Miss
Ware. Allow me to present myself: my name is Robert Mayhew."
Centred in pale circles that had been protected by the glasses, his
hazel eyes smiled at her...
WOOING MARIANA
[original title: A Kiss and a Kitten]
A governess, inheriting enough money to live on, retires to a cottage in a small village and crosses swords with the Lord of the Manor.
Excerpt:
What
on earth would his army companions think if they knew his errand? he
wondered ruefully. Lieutenant Colonel Perrincourt riding out at
daybreak in search of a kitten to comfort a little girl!
The
second cottage he came to on the way to the village was Miss
Duckworth's. Glancing over the hedge, he saw her standing on the
doorstep.
He
tipped his hat.
"A
glorious day!" she called, smiling.
Her
head was bare, her pinned-up braids glossy in the slanting sunbeams.
The nip of the frosty air had brought a becoming colour to her
cheeks. She must have just stepped out to admire the scene, for she
wore neither pelisse nor gloves. Her blue gown, in spite of its
demure neckline and long sleeves, displayed her maturely elegant
figure to advantage.
Damian was seized by a burning desire
to make up for his previous gruffness, to mend relations between
them. Miss Duckworth, now moving down the path towards him—she had
on boots, he was glad to note—seemed quite prepared to let bygones
be bygones. He could do no less.
He
wanted to present himself in a favourable light. An ex-governess
would approve of his efforts on Lucy's behalf, he thought, and
perhaps she knew of a litter of kittens in the village. He might even
ask her advice as to whether he was doing the right thing for the
child.
He
drew rein.
Around the corner of the cottage
pranced a yellow dog. Damian instantly recognized the colour, the
size and shape, the long, blunt muzzle, floppy ears, and feathered
tail.
"Your
misbegotten hound killed my niece's kitten!" he burst out
furiously.
Miss
Duckworth gave him an icy look and turned back towards the cottage.
"Come, Lyuba!" she said. The
dog followed her.
Damian was not going to let her get
away with ignoring his complaint. He swung down from the saddle,
scarcely conscious of wrenching his back in his haste. Flinging his
mount's reins over the gate post, he stormed after her up the snowy
path.
"Did
you hear me, madam? Your wretched whelp caught and killed Lucinda's
kitten in the woods! The child is heartbroken. If you cannot
discipline the vicious brute and teach it to behave itself, I shall—"
The
door closed in his face.
Raising his hand to bang the knocker,
Damian hesitated. It would be more dignified, and very likely more
productive, to write to her, warning that he would have the beast
shot if she failed to train it not to kill. A vivid but calm
description of Lucy's sorrow was more likely to rack Miss Duckworth
with guilt than shouting at her.
He
had frightened her...or had he? She had not fled, but retreated in
good order before his boorish attack. Why did he find it so
impossible to treat her with ordinary, gentlemanly courtesy, as he
did every other female of his admittedly limited acquaintance?
The
door opened.
Miss
Duckworth stepped out, closing the door behind her. In her arms she
bore a fluffy white kitten with a black patch over one eye, a purring
kitten which she deposited in his hastily extended hands.
"Might I suggest," she said
coldly, "that in future you attempt to ascertain the facts
before going off at half-cock? Good day, Mr Perrincourt."
She
went back into the house and shut the door.
Chapter 10
Just
before her front door thudded shut, Mariana heard a yelp of pain.
Seething, she attempted to ignore it. The latch clicked into its slot
and she turned away.
Lyuba
gazed up, her bright brown eyes innocent, loving—and just a trifle
reproachful?
With
a sigh, Mariana addressed her: "So you wish me to heap coals of
fire upon his head, do you? I dare say he merely raised his hand to
push on the door, and bashed his knuckles against it."
The
tip of the puppy's tail swished gently, but she continued to regard
her mistress with unwavering reproach.
"Or
is it that you want your new little friend back?" Mariana sighed
again. "No, you are right, I must at least see if the
chucklehead has damaged himself."
Once
more she opened the door. Mr Perrincourt stood there, half bent over
in an awkward posture, one hand pressed to the small of his back, the
other arm cradling the kitten. His face was shockingly pale, and
below the brim of his top-hat, Mariana saw beads of sweat bespangling
his brow.
"My
dear sir, what is it?" she cried, alarmed. "You are in
pain. Come in and sit down!"
"I
cannot move without support," Mr Perrincourt choked out. "Have
you a walking stick? Or an umbrella..."
She
flew to his side. "Here, give me the kitten." She could not
resist a sly dig: "If you trust me with him. Now, can you put
your arm across my shoulders? I am strong, sir, you need not fear to
put your weight on me. That is it. Be careful of the step."
"The
step is where I came to grief," he said ruefully, leaning on her
heavily as they crossed the threshold. "I moved backward without
care and twisted to keep my balance. My back..."
"Mrs
Perrincourt has mentioned your injury. What will suit you best?"
Mariana asked, supporting him into her sitting room. "A straight
chair, or to lie upon the sofa?"
"I
am best off lying flat upon the floor," Mr Perrincourt confessed
with embarrassment, "but quite apart from the discourtesy, I
fear I cannot get down there without aid, far less rise again when
your patience is exhausted."
"I
shall call my maid, and if need be, send for your servants to help
you up when my patience is exhausted," she said dryly. "Hetta!"
Grumbling under her breath, the maid
lent her assistance. Soon the Squire was flat on his back on
Mariana's rug, with a cushion beneath his head and another under his
knees. Though the procedure obviously hurt him a good deal, not a
murmur escaped his lips until he was settled there, when he produced
a groan of relief.
The
dog, an interested spectator, trotted over to lick his face.
"Lyuba, come away!"
"No,
let her be," said Mr Perrincourt. "I deserve that she
should bite off my nose. I do not deserve that you should be so
kind."
..........
