Carola Dunn by My Dearest Valentine Page A

heart beginning to pound. She ripped open the seal.
     Inside was a second sheet, folded in four. On the front, a pie was painted in watercolours, with a verse in shaky handwriting beneath it. Rosabelle’s sight blurred, and it was a moment before she was able to read:
    Sing a song of sixpence,
    A pocket full of rye,
    Just one loving, hopeful heart,
    Baked in a pie.
     Through the yellow paint, the outline of a heart was faintly visible. Half laughing, half crying, Rosabelle opened the first fold.
     Another pie, with a slice missing. Above it flew a crimson heart with wings, surrounded by musical notes.
    When the pie is opened,
    Make sing this heart of mine!
    Tell me to expect a call
    From my dear Valentine.
    Beneath was more wobbling writing, Dreadful doggerel, bad as the Frost Fair ballads, but penned with love.
    * * * *
     Maman made Rosabelle wait until eleven o’clock to call in Russell Square. She went too, for propriety’s sake, and Papa came along, saying, “Never too early to start discussing marriage settlements.”
     “Papa, you wouldn’t!”
     “Not until Mr Dibden mentions the matter,” he assured her with a smile.
     “He’ll be at his business.”
     But he wasn’t. Mr and Mrs Dibden greeted the Macleods, and presented their two daughters. Rosabelle heard scarcely a word. Rufus was not there in the drawing room with his family.
     Mrs Dibden nodded to the younger girl. Sarah took Rosabelle up a pair of stairs, sighing on the way, “Oh, it is more romantic than a novel, I vow. And how very fortunate that today is Valentine’s Day! Here she is,” she announced dramatically, opening a door.
     Bundled in rugs, Rufus lay on a sofa near the window. Rosabelle paused on the threshold, suddenly uncertain, shy as she had never felt with him before.
     “Your face is thinner,” they both said at the same time.
     He grinned, and her shyness vanished. “We shall both have to live upon gingerbread and hot chocolate for a while,” he said with a chuckle, “and perhaps the odd hot pie.”
     “Oh, Rufus!” she cried, and ran to him.
     As she knelt by the sofa, he caught her hand and raised it to his pale, hollow cheek. “I was afraid you were only a Midsummer night’s dream,” he said lovingly, “but when I regained my senses, I knew you couldn’t be. After all, we met at the Frost Fair.”
     
    * * * *
     
     

A Maid at your Window
     
    Tomorrow is Saint Valentine’s day,
    All in the morning betime,
    And I a maid at your window,
    To be your Valentine.
    Shakespeare, Hamlet
     
     
    “I cannot go with you.” Philomena delved into the wardrobe for her warmest cloak. “I promised to take Toby to see the wizard.”
    “Wizard?” Seated at the dressing table in her elegant green velvet wrapper, her sister seemed more interested in the exact placement of one blond curl.
    “Mrs Barleyman says village rumour has it that a wizard has rented Marsh Cottage.”
    “Really, Philo, you cannot persuade me that you believe in witches and warlocks,” murmured Aquila, “when you are forever prating about scientific methods of canary breeding. And you spoil that brat abominably.” She studied her face in the looking glass and sighed. “I suppose the vicar’s wife will be shocked if I darken my eyebrows. How I miss Vienna!”
    As Philomena stuffed her fur-lined mittens into the pocket of her cloak, she admired her half-sister’s aristocratic profile and English fairness. She herself had inherited her Italian mother’s dark hair, delicate features, and fragile appearance.
    “Of course I don’t believe in wizards. I daresay it is some inoffensive old eccentric. But I had rather take Toby for a walk than help with the pageant. All the ladies in the village will be there.”
    “Cousin Cressida is no gossip. You need not fear that everyone will be staring at you, waiting for you to betray your origins, as did my wretched aunt. Admittedly, a morning spent making paper flowers for the St Valentine’s Day