by Angie Ray
The sweet sound caused his stomach muscles to contract again. He stared at her, an unnamed longing rising in him. He wanted... He wished... For a moment, his smile slipped, and the darkness pulled at him. It was becoming more and more difficult to ignore.
“Very well, you impossible man. I forgive you.” Her light voice tugged him back. “Though I really shouldn’t.”
*****
Jeremy was sitting forlornly on the bottom step when Margaret came down the stairs the next morning.
“Papa and Mama are fighting,” he said when Margaret asked him what was the matter.
“Oh dear,” Margaret said. She knew Geoffrey had received a letter from London yesterday. Cecilia had not looked very happy about it. “Would you like to go for a walk with me?”
Jeremy shrugged. “I don’t know.” He glanced at her sideways, a sly gleam in his eyes. “There is a fair over at Middleton. I asked Mama if I could go yesterday, and she said she didn’t want to go, and she didn’t think Papa could maneuver on his crutch very well in a crowd.” The gleam intensified. “Uncle Bernard is going today.”
“He is?” She frowned a little. Why hadn’t he mentioned it to her? Did he think she was upset about last night? If so, she must reassure him--she wanted to become friends again. And what better place for friends to go than the fair? “Perhaps I will ask if I can go also. Would you like to go, too?”
“Miss Westbourne, do you mean it? Oh, that would be prime!” His eyes shone and he almost smiled.
Margaret held up a hand. “I must convince your uncle, so don’t get your hopes up,” she warned.
“Oh, I’m sure you can convince him, Miss Westbourne.” The glow in his eyes was undimmed. “He’s always staring at you with a silly look in his eyes. He’s batty over you.”
Margaret smiled a little at Jeremy’s innocent interpretation of what had probably been a glare of disapproval, but she did not correct the child. Jeremy’s excitement was contagious and she felt exhilaration pumping through her veins. She grinned down at him and took hold of his arm.
“Let’s go find Bernard then. And we will see if you are correct about my persuasive powers.”
*****
Bernard stared at Margaret in dismay. He didn’t want to say no, but he had some business to attend to at the fair. He couldn’t let her interfere.
“Don’t you think you should rest today?” he tried to dissuade her. “You may take a chill after your soaking.”
Margaret laughed. “Nonsense. I’m healthy as a horse.” She smiled beguilingly. “Please, Bernard, Jeremy and I truly would like to go to the fair.”
He swallowed. How could he refuse her when she smiled at him like that? When she smiled like that, it made his pulse race, his heart pound. It reminded him of how enticing her rounded bottom had looked when she bent over the billiard table and how soft the skin between her breasts felt. It reminded him of how how she had clung to him last night, her breasts pressing against him, her arms and legs wrapped around him like a lover’s....
“Please, Bernard?”
A fine sweat broke out on his forehead as he remembered how close he had come to kissing her before the boat tipped. Had she guessed he wanted to sweep her into his arms and kiss her until they were both breathless?
He shook himself, mentally. What was the matter with him? Where had all these carnal thoughts come from? He had to control them--and himself. Margaret was too fine and pure to be subjected to such base desires. He couldn’t allow lust to sully his love for her.
“Bernard?”
Reluctantly, he agreed. He would have to make certain she was otherwise occupied while he conducted his business. He couldn’t delay it. Last night’s incident had been no accident. He had been pushed, and he knew who had done it. And although part of him was grateful that he had been prevented from kissing Margaret and ruining everything, today he was determined to do something to get rid of Phillip.
He hoped she wouldn’t interfere.
As they drove to the fairgrounds, Bernard made several more attempts to change Margaret’s mind. He would gladly drive her home if she decided she didn’t want to attend the fair after all.
“I hope you won’t regret this, Margaret,” he said, deliberately giving his voice the direful tone of a clergyman predicting hell and damnation.
“I don’t think I will.” He saw her glance at Jeremy who was bouncing on the seat. She smiled and whispered, “Even if I don’t like the fair, it’s worth going just to see Jeremy so animated, don’t you think?”
“We’ll be lucky if we’re not robbed,” Bernard warned as they drove along. “There are all sorts of unsavory characters at these affairs.”
Leaning forward, Margaret grabbed Jeremy’s arm to prevent him tumbling out the window. She didn’t reply.
“The amusements are low, too.”
Margaret nodded absently. Jeremy was attempting to swing from one of the carriage straps, not too successfully.
“Not at all the sort of thing to appeal to a lady. I can’t understand why you want to go to this.”
“Why do you want to go, Bernard? If you disapprove so much, I’m surprised you planned to go at all.”
Caught off guard, he flushed. “I have a fancy to have my palm read,” he muttered.
“You wish to see a fortune teller?” Margaret couldn’t conceal her astonishment. “Surely you don’t believe in such nonsense?”
“Certainly not. But it will be amusing.”
She looked at him strangely, and he decided not to say anything more.
The fairground was a mass of milling people. A few stalls had been set up, but mostly hawkers walked through the crowd. Women with yokes slung around their shoulders to hold trays sold everything from ribbons and lace to cricket balls and tops. Tempting smells wafted from the wheelbarrows and carts of men selling pickled whelks, fried fish, and hot green peas. Puppet shows and players drew small knots of people, making passage through the grounds even more difficult.
Bernard immediately directed them towards a group of tents a short distance away. Margaret stepped forward, and a child bumped into her.
“Watch out for that little ragamuffin, Margaret. He is probably a cutpurse” said Bernard. The boy tugged at his cap, muttered, and darted away.
“Look, kidney puddings!” Jeremy exclaimed. “May I have one, Uncle Bernard, please?”
“I don’t think it’s a good idea. You don’t know what’s in them.”
“I would like one, too,” Margaret said. “Please, Bernard?”
He grumbled, but he bought the puddings. As they walked along, Jeremy wolfed his down. Margaret, after removing her gloves, ate hers more slowly. Bernard tried not to watch as she savored it. When she was done, she licked her fingers discreetly.
Looking up, Margaret saw Bernard staring at her. Thinking he was disgusted, she hastily pulled her gloves back on, half expecting him to lecture her on her manners. Instead, to her surprise, he stopped and tugged out his handkerchief. “You have a spot of pudding on your chin,” he said gruffly, lifting the cloth to her face. Gently he wiped her mouth.
“Uncle Bernard, a talking pig!” Jeremy tugged at Bernard’s jacket. “Isn’t that amazing? We must go in and see it.”
Bernard’s hand dropped and he glared at Jeremy. “No, I don’t want to see the talking pig; it is a hoax of some sort. I’ve never heard of anything so ridiculous.”
“But Uncle Bernard, the sign says--“
Margaret noticed a sign on another tent. It said “Madame Razinski--Amazing Seer into the Future”.
A Gypsy...a Gypsy! It was so obvious, she didn’t know why she hadn’t thought of it before. Who better to ask about curses than a Gypsy? What incredible luck that she’d come to the fair with Bernard....
Bernard.
A suspicion formed in her brain. Had it truly been a coincidence? She looked at him, a question in her eyes.
He flushed a little, but nodded. “It seems the logical way to get rid of--I mean, this curse
business upsets Aunt Letty so, I thought we should try to break it.”
“Of course!” She reached for the flap.
“Margaret, what are you doing? Surely you don’t intend to go inside that filthy tent? You and Jeremy can wait outside. Margaret!”
Margaret ducked under the flap and paused to let her eyes adjust to the dim light. Bernard, entering right behind with Jeremy, bumped into her.
“I beg your pardon, Margaret,” he said stiffly. “Margaret, are you certain this is wise?”
She ignored him, her eyes fastening on a Gypsy sitting on a cushion in front of a low table. The woman had coarse black hair and a large dark mole on one cheek. Gold hoops dangled in her ears and numerous gold and silver chains were draped around her neck and arms. Her tattered red dress had a crazy assortment of patches, partially concealed by an enveloping moth-eaten shawl.
“Welcome, giorgios,” she said, not lifting her eyes from the cards she was laying on the table. Her low, scratchy voice had the exotic accent of some faraway land.
Margaret knelt on the cushion opposite the Gypsy. Bernard and Jeremy did not move from their positions by the flap. The woman raised dark, beady eyes, and inspected Margaret thoroughly. Her gaze flickered briefly to Bernard and Jeremy before returning to Margaret. “What can Madame Razinski do for you, pretty lady?”
Margaret glanced at her companions. Jeremy’s eyes were round, while Bernard stood with his arms folded. With a small toss of her head, she tugged off a glove. “I would like to have my fortune told.”
The woman lifted Margaret’s hand and stared hard at the palm. “Ze picture is unclear,” she said finally.
“How odd.” Margaret followed the Gypsy’s gaze.
“I believe she wants some money,” Bernard said.
“Oh, of course.” Margaret fumbled for her reticule. With an exasperated sigh, Bernard tossed a few coins onto the table.
The Gypsy took her hand again. “Ah, it becomes more clear. I see a man. His face is hidden.” The Gypsy nodded significantly. “I see a long journey, across ze water....”
Bernard snorted. “Perhaps this wasn’t such a good idea. I think we are wasting our money on this fraud.”
“Wait. We should at least ask about it.” Margaret shifted her weight. Even though the cushion was soft, she was not used to kneeling, and her knees were beginning to ache. Bernard’s disapproval and Jeremy’s wide-eyed curiosity did not ease her discomfort. “Do you know anything about curses?”
“I do not deal in ze black arts,” the Gypsy said cautiously.
“I don’t want to know how to lay a curse. I want to know how to break one.”
“Ah,” said the Gypsy. “Zis I can do. When a witch curses someone, she sends an object into ze body of ze victim. For a small fee, I can extract zis object.”
“What kind of object?” Jeremy piped up.
“It could be one of many zings. A fish-bone, a pig-bristle, a straw. I, myself, once removed a maggot from ze stomach of a curse victim.”
“Coo!” breathed Jeremy. “I’ll bet Uncle Phillip has thousands of maggots in him.”
A vivid and most unpleasant image made Margaret wish she hadn’t eaten the pudding. “Unfortunately, the victim of this curse has been dead for over seventy-eight years. Is there another way?”
“A bottle of ze holy water sometimes works. It’s only three shillings.”
“Margaret....” Bernard’s foot tapped on the packed earth.
“Or, I could retrieve ze curse token for you,” the Gypsy said. “Zat is more expensive.”
“What is a curse token?”
“Ze person laying ze curse usually has in her possession somezing zat belongs to ze victim--a personal item, such as a ring, or handkerchief. A hair, or fingernail clipping is even better. To break ze curse, you need only return ze token to ze victim.”
Bernard had had enough. “If we want to retrieve a token, we will do it ourselves. Come along, Margaret.” Reaching down, he pulled her to her feet.
Hastily, Margaret dropped another coin on the table. “Thank you,” she said over her shoulder as Bernard yanked back the flap, and pulled her outside into the bright sunshine.
Jeremy immediately began to babble. “Coo, this is prime. Are we going to help Aunt Letty break the curse?”
“We’ll talk about it later, Jeremy,” Bernard said with a stern glance.
Margaret staggered as someone bumped into her, and Bernard reached for her arm to steady her. “Are you hurt?” he asked.
“No, I’m fine.”
Her thoughts were busy while they walked around the fair. Although the Gypsy hadn’t seemed very credible, it was possible that one of her methods would work. Of the three options Madame Razinski had offered, Margaret thought retrieving a ‘curse token’ sounded the most feasible.
Excitement bubbled in Margaret. Although she knew the chances of finding a token were almost nonexistent, at least she had something definite to do. Perhaps they would get lucky. And surely Bernard would help....
She glanced sideways at him. His brow was furrowed, and he was frowning. Silently, she sighed. What was the matter with him? She would have to ask for his help later when he was in a more propitious humor. For now she would enjoy the fair.
“It’s late,” Bernard said, a few hours later, glancing up at the sun. He pulled out his watch. Looking at it, he frowned and shook it, then carefully wound it a few times. Putting it back in his pocket, he said, “It’s time for us to go.”
“What?” Jeremy said. “But I only got to ride the roundabout three times, and I haven’t seen the talking pig, or--“
“Perhaps we can come another day, Jeremy,” Margaret tried to console him. “We must get back. Lord Mortimer is coming to dinner tonight.”
“That’s hours and hours away. Besides, who cares about that old dilberry? I hate him. He’s mean to Aunt Letty and his grandfather was the one that cursed her.”
“Jeremy!”
“Watch your tongue, young man,” Bernard frowned.
“Yessir.” Jeremy’s words were respectful, but he maintained a sullen silence once in the carriage.
In spite of his appalling rudeness, Margaret sympathized with Jeremy. She wasn’t looking forward to Mortimer’s visit either. But she also couldn’t wait to tell Phillip what she had discovered about the curse.
Chapter Seventeen
Mortimer, wearing too much jewelry and too much cologne, arrived late, but he didn’t bother to make any excuses to the assembled family. Sitting next to Margaret at dinner, he let his cold gaze wander over her blue satin dress in the same manner as when he had first met her. She felt like a slug had just crawled over her skin.
“Very nice,” he said. “Barnett, you must have gained some finesse over the years to be able to bag this little filly.”
Margaret stiffened.
Malicious amusement entered Mortimer’s eyes. “Please forgive my frankness,” he said smoothly. “Bernard and I are such old friends, I sometimes forget to mind my tongue.”
Doing her best to hide her revulsion, she said politely, “I didn’t know you and Bernard were friends.”
“Yes, indeed, although we’ve had our differences. By any chance has he told you about our duel?”
Margaret did not like the spiteful smile Mortimer directed at Bernard. Glancing at her fiance, she saw he was staring down at the roasted pigeon on his plate, but making no move to eat it.
“I don’t think I want to hear--“ she started to say.
“Please, I insist. The tale is most amusing. It happened about ten years ago. Bernard was a tad...clumsy, shall we say?--as a youth. He had a habit, you see, of tripping over his own feet. Naturally, he was the target of many good-natured jibes.”
“Mortimer,” Aunt Letty said hesitantly. “I don’t know if--“
“Wait.” Mortimer waved his hand languidly, causing the light to reflect and sparkle off his rings. “I haven’t told you the best part. When Bernard was perhaps sixteen, he and I got int
o an argument over some small thing. I was three and twenty, my manhood well established and would you believe he actually challenged me to a duel? The fellows and I had a good laugh, and naturally I accepted. I planned to teach him a thorough lesson--I am an expert swordsman--so we met in a clearing in the oak spinney behind Durnock Castle and you know what happened?”
Bernard did not look up from his plate, but his knuckles looked white where he gripped his fork.
Margaret saw Mortimer looking at Bernard’s hands. His lips curved and his icy green eyes met hers for a brief moment.
He hates Bernard, Margaret realized with a jolt as she looked into his eyes. His gaze returned to her fiance as he finished his story.
“He tripped and somehow managed to stab himself with his own sword!” Mortimer laughed unpleasantly.
For a moment, Margaret thought Cecilia would forget all dictates of etiquette and say something rude, but Geoffrey laid a hand on her arm and she remained quiet.
“Bernard’s family and mine have been friends for generations,” Mortimer continued. “Ever since my grandfather and Bernard’s great-grandfather collaborated to get a murderer hanged.”
Margaret stiffened. What did he mean?
Aunt Letty also stiffened. “Phillip was not a murderer.”
“I don’t understand,” Margaret said. “Who was Bernard’s great-grandfather?”
“Baron Robeson,” Mortimer supplied. “The Lord High Steward on the case.”
Robeson! How could she have forgotten Robeson was one of Bernard’s junior titles? No wonder the name had sounded familiar when Phillip mentioned it. But what could this mean? Margaret felt a slow dread rising in her. With an effort she pushed aside her disturbing thoughts and concentrated on the conversation.
Mortimer was apologizing to Aunt Letty.
“I beg your pardon. I had forgotten how fond you were of Phillip. Miss Westbourne, I take it Letty has told you the story of the infamous Phillip Eglinton. Did she also tell you she sometimes hears his ghost whispering to her?”
“Ah....”