Carola Dunn by My Dearest Valentine

the office, helping her father prepare the Journal de Modes to be sent to the printer, when Philip brought up the post. Papa flicked through the small pile and handed one to her. He watched as she slit the seal.
     The note began like yesterday’s. Mr and Mrs Dibden thanked the Macleods for their obliging enquiry after the health of their son. But below, in a hasty scrawl, Rosabelle read:
      Dear Miss Macleod,
     I just told Mama that Dennis (our footman) told me you came yourself on Monday and Particlarly asked for  poor Rufus to be told you had called and she said who? so I told her you are Madame Yvette’s daughter (she knew at once who Madame Yvette is though I confess I did not)(you see I have been opening and ansering all the letters as Mama is busy Nursing poor Rufus) She said she will mention your Name to him when next he wakes up. He is very ill.
                 Your obedient servant
           (I hope that is the Right Ending, it looks a bit Odd)
                 Sarah Dibden (Miss)
                 (Rufus’s sister)(younger)
     Oh dear, I hope you can make sense of this scrible I haven’t time to rewrite it. SD.
     Rosabelle had to turn the page to read the last part of this missive, which was squeezed in around the edge.
     Finishing, she glanced back over it, her eye at once caught by the underlined word. “Papa, he is very ill.”
     “We knew that already, lass.” He took the sheet from her and read it. “‘Twas written before he was told you had called. That’ll set him well on the road to recovery.”
     “Suppose he’s delirious?” Rosabelle fretted. “Or if he’s told ‘Miss Macleod,’ it won’t mean anything to him. He only knows me as Miss Rosabelle. Oh, Papa, how could I have been so dreadfully puffed-up, when I love him?”
     “‘If thou remember’st not the slightest folly
     “‘That ever love did make thee run into,
     “‘Thou hast not lov’d.’”
     Rosabelle sighed. “I must answer Miss Sarah’s letter. She sounds a very amiable girl, don’t you think? I’ll mention about ‘ Miss Rosabelle,’ just in case.”
     The next news did not arrive until Wednesday evening. Miss Sarah Dibden informed Rosabelle that Rufus had taken an immediate turn for the better on hearing her name and she thought it was excessively romantic.
     Rosabelle was elated. The very sound of her name had cured him!
     Then it dawned on her that he might have recovered anyway, that his improvement did not necessarily mean he loved her. She struggled to be unselfishly glad as Sarah’s daily letters chronicled his convalescence.
     Monday dawned again, two weeks since the first day of the Frost Fair. Drawing back the curtains at her chamber window, Rosabelle saw a pair of pigeons on the sill. The male puffed out his neck-feathers, iridescent green and purple, and cooed as he bowed and bobbed to his mate. It was Valentine’s Day, Rosabelle recalled, the day when birds—and maids and men—chose their mates.
     And she still had not received a single word from Rufus himself, either in his own hand or reported.
     Though the twopenny post delivered on Sundays, yesterday had brought no note from Sarah. No doubt Rufus had at last recovered enough to warn his sister to drop the correspondence. He must be so disgusted with Rosabelle’s behaviour, he couldn’t bear even to hear her name. If he had ever loved her, she had killed his love.
     A tap on the door. “Miss Ros, you awake?”
     “Just a moment, Jerry!” She put on her dressing-gown and went to open the door. “What is it?”
     “The post came early, acos they’re extra busy Valentine’s Day.” The footman handed her a letter.
     For a moment hope flared, then she saw Sarah’s writing. “Thank you.” Better than nothing, unless it was to tell her this would be the last.
     Her feet were almost as cold as her heart, so she went back to bed to open it. It was thicker than usual, she realized, her