Monde was turning out along with the common people to enjoy the wonders of the Frost Fair.
With real ladies to compare her against, Mr Rufus would soon realize Rosabelle had no claim to gentility. If he hoped for some advantage from flirting with someone above his station, he would quickly transfer his attentions to an aristocratic damsel likely to be of more use to him.
Naturally Rosabelle would not care a rap. She’d be a little disappointed in him—but she expected that anyway. She just hoped he would not think the worse of her for inadvertently misleading him.
Well, almost inadvertently. She could have disabused him if she tried, when he spoke of her servants, instead of letting Betsy interrupt.
Still, what did it matter to her if he believed she had deliberately deceived him?
Recognizing that her thoughts about Mr Rufus were growing hopelessly muddled, Rosabelle concentrated on navigating through the crowd. They reached the top of the stairs, where several very happy watermen were collecting in tolls far more than they could have earned by toiling at their oars. Anna and Mary were thrilled at the sight of the fair spread out below. Rosabelle was astonished at how much it had grown since yesterday.
Freezeland Street now stretched all the way from bank to bank, and all the gaps along it and the Grand Mall had filled. In the four quadrants between them, a number of stalls were set up higgledy-piggledy, clustering close to the crossroads where the greatest throngs might be expected.
Rosabelle wondered if she would be able to find Dibden’s booth, or get close to it if she found it. Starting down the stair, she shaded her eyes against the pale but glaring winter sun and looked for the donkeys.
“There they are,” she exclaimed in relief. She glanced back at her companions. “Do you want to take a donkey-ride?”
Anna, close behind, glanced back in turn before replying, “We’d like the swings better, if you don’t mind, Miss Ros.”
“Of course not, but I shan’t join you. I daresay Betsy told you of my one experience in a swing.”
Their giggles were answer enough.
“Ooh, look!” Mary exclaimed breathlessly, eyes round, as they reached the bottom of the steps. “He must be freezing.”
A black pugilist pranced upon a stage, clad in no more than breeches and a sleeveless singlet. Rosabelle hastily averted her eyes from his bulging muscles as he waved his fists, bellowing a challenge to all comers. Below the stage swirled a group of well-dressed youths, some egging on one of their number to answer the challenge, others holding him back.
“He’ll be made mincemeat of, silly young chub,” said Anna. “Look there, Mary, there’s a hot-chestnut man. I wonder if it’s the same one Betsy told us about.”
In response to this broad hint, Rosabelle purchased a paper of chestnuts. Nibbling, they wandered on, passing a large tent with a barker outside.
“Walk up, ladies and gemmun! See the wonders of naycher, only fourpence, can’t be beat. Bearded lady, ape-boy, two-’eaded calf, tattooed savage, dozens more. ‘Ad to leave the mermaid at ‘ome, didn’ want ‘er getting froze to death. Walk up!”
The barker outside the smaller tent next door advertised his single attraction in an even louder voice: “Come see the counting pig! On’y fruppence and ‘e’ll count your pennies right afore your eyes. Sir Francis Bacon, the on’y counting pig on ice, fruppence a show!”
Mary and Anna were tempted, but they decided to stick with the swings. Rosabelle paid for their ride, and gave them directions to the pastrycook’s stall.
“Join me there, or if I’m not there, wait for me. At least, if you wander off, listen for the church clocks and come straight back when they strike half past three, or we’ll never find each other. Here is money for hot chocolate.”
She left them, and hurried off around the corner into the Grand Mall, then slowed her steps as