Gene of Isis

by Traci Harding

  ‘And that’s not all,’ I warned, but was saved from continuing the confession alone when I spotted our coachman sitting on the side of the road. He was nursing his head, but was obviously not seriously injured.

  Lord Devere pulled the carriage to a stop, so the driver could once again take the reins. ‘How long have you known about this?’

  ‘Our brother only told me after Ashlee disappeared.’ I saw my beloved’s jaw tense in anger. ‘Please, my lord, your brother is very scared and saddened by all that is unfolding around him. I fear that he is in greater trouble than he will even disclose to me.’

  My husband took a deep breath, and patted my hand to reassure me that he was not angry, and that he would be diplomatic.

  I felt lightened of a great load by the time we arrived at the gypsy camp. The air had been cleared between the Devere brothers, and even though they were still at odds in their beliefs, my lord had resolved to continue helping his brother if only to see where this little adventure led. Still, Mr Devere would not discuss the brotherhood to which he and their father belonged. And, rather than feeling overlooked, my husband was extremely glad he’d been left out of the club that was now causing his younger brother so much grief. My lord didn’t ask Mr Devere to prove his claim of psychic talent. I felt that perhaps my husband didn’t want his scepticism overturned, at least not today.

  It took a while to establish what language to converse with the gypsies in, but after a couple of attempts we all settled on Italian. My Italian was a little better than that of my male companions and the women seemed more disposed to conversing with me, so I urged Mr Devere to allow me to do the questioning.

  It was the elder of the band who spoke with me; she led me to a caravan and sat me down on one of the seats by the table there. Mr Devere followed us, and as there was no seat for him, he stood behind me and placed his hands on the back of my chair to listen in and try to follow the conversation. The old gypsy insisted that she hadn’t seen any mademoiselle, but invited us to join them for the evening meal as it was growing late.

  Mr Devere shook his head; he wanted to keep moving and was already halfway to the carriage.

  I thanked the old woman and as I rose she gripped my hands and closed her eyes for a moment. ‘You are a good friend to this woman you seek,’ she told me with a reassuring smile. ‘All will be well for her, and you.’ She let go of my hands.

  I hadn’t had my fortune told in a long while and I was pleased to have good news. ‘Shall I find her, do you think?’

  The gypsy woman shook her head and smiled warmly. ‘How can you find what is not lost?’

  I felt I caught her meaning and was amused. ‘It is true, Ashlee is never lost. Perhaps I should have asked, would she find us?’

  The old woman nodded to concede that was a more apt question. ‘All in divine order,’ she replied as I wandered toward the carriage from which both my companions now beckoned.

  ‘You gave up very easily, Mr Devere.’ I seated myself beside my husband in the carriage, feeling a little frustrated. ‘Could we not have taken up the offer of dinner? We might have learned something. Now we have run out of leads.’

  Mr Devere ignored me and motioned the coachman closer to have a quiet word with him. ‘Take us to Orleans.’

  The coachman looked as if he had had enough for one day, but he confirmed the order and acted on it.

  ‘My wife was sitting in that chair,’ Mr Devere motioned toward where I’d been sitting with the

  old gypsy, ‘when she made the decision to go to Orleans.’

  ‘Why Orleans?’ I wondered. ‘That seems a strange route to Italy.’ Privately, I thought that Ashlee would head for the exotic Eastern lands, as Hereford had been so fond of them.

  ‘She’s on a rescue mission,’ he confessed, very concerned, and a little sad. ‘I sense there is a male travelling with her whom she trusts implicitly.’ He looked to me for confirmation.

  At first I was stumped by the suggestion. ‘Ashlee does not have a lover, if that is what you are suggesting.’ I dismissed his foul implication. ‘If she did, I would know of it, I assure you.’

  Mr Devere appeared thankful and ashamed. ‘There is somebody, I know it!’ He begged me to think harder. ‘A friend, perhaps?’

  I strained to think, but outside of my family there was no one. ‘No,’ I assured him, ‘men do not interest Ashlee—’ And there was the answer! I clicked my fingers, having solved the puzzle. ‘It’s a spirit.’

  Mr Devere knew I was right and smiled, relieved to have an alternative to the more obvious lover scenario that he’d envisaged. My Lord Devere, however, was distressed.

  ‘Have you both gone mad?’ he growled. ‘Just listen to yourselves. I think you are making this all up as we go along, and Mrs Devere is really back in Paris.’

  ‘I would not play games with her life,’ Mr Devere assured his brother. ‘I am happy to go on alone. I’d move faster on horseback.’

  I feared that this was the excuse Lord Devere had been waiting for in order to pull out of the chase and return to Paris.

  ‘I am hardly going to pull out now. All this mystique is so intriguing.’ He grinned his sceptic’s grin. ‘We should soon, however, find lodgings for the night and something to eat.’

  Clearly, Mr Devere would have kept going if given the choice. He looked out the window and nodded.

  ‘She’ll have to rest too, Earnest.’ Lord Devere knew what his brother was thinking.

  ‘My husband is right,’ I said, fearing that Mr Devere would take off on his own and then we’d never find him or Ashlee! ‘Ashlee may have superhuman talent, but she does not have superhuman stamina.’

  I do.

  I could have sworn I heard the thought resonate from Mr Devere’s mind, but he looked at me and forced a smile.

  ‘We could all use the rest,’ he said, most unconvincingly.

  FROM THE TRAVEL JOURNALS OF MRS ASHLEE DEVERE

  I had never experienced anything quite so exhausting as the ride to Orleans on horseback. Rumer and I only stopped to eat and answer nature’s call. We slept a little when we lost the moonlight and could no longer see the road. For two women travelling alone at night it was safer to keep moving at good speed, but as I lay down in a field under the stars that night, I did not fear for my person for I knew my knight was keeping watch.

  Fearful for her brother and kinsmen, Rumer kept me moving and encouraged me on when I thought I would drop. I felt a little ashamed that one day in the saddle could deplete my energy so badly, or perhaps being on the run was starting to take its toll. I really longed for a big hot tub and somewhere to relax—read a good book perhaps!

  As we approached Orleans, I felt Albray join with me, and his strength and vigour aided to uphold my weary form. He spoke to me in my thoughts as we rode, suggesting how we might handle the forthcoming audience, if indeed the duke would agree to see me.

  Upon approach to the duke’s estate in Orleans I stopped to tidy myself and gain the right frame of mind. I was a nineteen-year-old girl who held no diplomatic power whatsoever. What had I been thinking when I’d agreed to do this?

  Our plan will work, Albray assured me as I mounted my horse to ride the final leg to my quest.

  I’m betting my life on it. I hadn’t come all this way to lose faith in my own ability and Albray’s—I was going to do this come hell or high water. ‘Shall we go fetch your brother?’ I asked Rumer, who smiled broadly and took off ahead of me.

  She was feisty and fun to travel with. Full of energy and sound logic, Rumer was a year younger than I was and far more worldly. Her hair hung in long masses of dark curls and her large dark brown eyes added to the animation of her confident character. If Cingar was anywhere near as alluring in appearance as his sister, women probably fell in love with more than just his violin playing.

  With her big flared skirts, Rumer rode her horse in the male fashion, which I could not hope to do in my frock without baring more than was wise. What I wouldn’t have done
for a pair of men’s trousers!

  When Gasgon de Guise was informed that an English woman had come to plead for the lives of the imprisoned Italian gypsies, he must have been intrigued to say the least.

  I was led into the duke’s room of court and after thanking the duke for his time and consideration I was asked to explain myself.

  ‘Your grace,’ I began, ‘I have been commissioned by the relatives of your prisoners to ascertain what evidence your lordship has to verify the claim that witchcraft was responsible for your son’s ailments.’

  The duke was astonished. ‘Are you a lawyer, Miss Winston?’ he said in a very condescending tone, as if to imply that it was impossible.

  ‘My area of expertise is not law, your grace, it is witchcraft,’ I informed. ‘It is an academic study. My governess was the Dowager Countess, Lady Charlotte Cavandish. Perhaps you’ve heard of her?’

  ‘Of course I have heard of her! That name is legendary in France.’ He seemed insulted and yet heartened at one and the same time. ‘The Countess Cavandish would have been able to tell me what was ailing my boy, whereas my surgeons have proven useless. Every day he grows sicker and sicker…damn those gypsies!’

  ‘Please, your grace, the most unbelievable circumstances have led me to your door during this grave time. Perhaps it was fated that I see your child? I am very knowledgeable in both the black arts and the sciences.’

  The duke seemed ready to try anything, and I ascertained from his light-body that he was not an evil man by nature—or at least he did not think of himself as such. ‘If you restore my boy’s health I will release the gypsies. But if he dies,’ he fixed me with steely blue eyes ablaze with fear and hatred just waiting to vent itself on someone, ‘I shall have them all shot and you shall give the order.’

  Albray? In my mind I began to panic.

  You’re doing fine, there’s nothing to worry about.

  That’s easy for you to say, you’re dead already!

  De Guise dismissed me and instructed me to follow his steward. ‘The gypsy witch must wait under guard for you. I shall not have her near my son.’

  I didn’t feel comfortable about that, considering the duke’s low regard for Rumer’s race. ‘This girl is in my care. Do I have your assurance that she will not be harmed?’ I had no clue whether the word of Gasgon de Guise was worth anything anyway.

  ‘No harm will come to her,’ the duke assured me, ‘provided you cure my son.’

  This deal just gets worse and worse. I decided to retreat quickly before the stakes became any higher.

  The chief steward led me to the head maidservant, who we met at the main staircase. The middle-aged woman looked pale and drawn, as did the steward—as had the duke for that matter. I assumed it was just the stress of the little master’s illness that was causing the muddy patches in the head centres of all these people’s light-bodies, for their dis-ease was plain to me.

  I asked the maidservant to outline the boy’s symptoms.

  ‘At first it was just a headache,’ she explained, nursing her own head which was obviously ailing her. ‘His condition degenerated rapidly into spasms of nausea and extreme general prostration. He complains of a burning throat…his hands and feet are icy cold. I fear we shall lose him to dehydration before long.’

  In the young master’s withdrawing room we found the manservant of Master de Guise keeled over and vomiting into a woodbin. He too had muddy patches superimposing the higher centres of his light-body, but his disease had extended down through his stomach as well.

  The true cause of the illness was soon clear to me. I smelt it as soon as I entered the young master’s chambers. ‘Fresh paint,’ I eyed the deadly walls, ‘of lethal green.’

  ‘The curse is spreading!’ The maidservant panicked.

  ‘This is not the work of a curse.’ I gripped both her shoulders to calm her. ‘The illness stems from the paint on these walls. Find me some liquid ammonia and I shall verify that,’ I instructed. ‘Tie a scarf over your nose and mouth, so that you do not breathe in any more of the paint fumes.’ I found my handkerchief and used it for that purpose. ‘Have that man taken to another room. He needs to be in darkness and silence…that will slow the poison.’

  ‘Poison!’ The maid was shocked.

  ‘Do as I tell you, quickly, for I suspect arsenic poisoning. Ammonia will turn this paint blue if it contains copper arsenate.’

  ‘But the master’s chambers…’ The maid began to weep and I made haste to the bedroom door. ‘Get some help up here to move these people!’ I ordered, shocking the maidservant into action. ‘No one comes into these rooms.’

  There wasn’t much left of the six-year-old boy. The duke’s physicians had obviously used all their remedies on him, as the room reeked of the smell of medicine regurgitated.

  ‘Dear gods, what am I going to do?’ I knew what had caused the illness but I had no idea how to heal it, or if in fact it could be healed.

  The answer is between your breasts.

  I was startled by Albray’s brazen claim only as long as it took me to fathom his meaning. ‘The Star!’ I’d been carrying it for so long I’d forgotten it was even there. ‘The powder will cure him?’ I asked.

  Completely, Albray assured. So, if you don’t want this to look like some sort of miracle, you’d better come up with some feasible explanation for his speedy recovery.

  ‘Chiara might know an antidote for arsenic poisoning,’ I suggested.

  I shall return. Albray vanished.

  I discarded the bedclothes, as everything in these rooms was likely to be permeated with the poison. ‘Hold on, little one.’ I bundled the child into my arms and went in search of another room, in any colour but green.

  Albray returned with a list of ingredients to make an infusion, and I relayed the potion’s preparation to the head maidservant. It was only after much scientific study, later in life, that I realised the ingredients of Chiara’s brew were very high in iron, and that, by modern standards, was a perfect arsenic antidote.

  It seemed to take an age for the servants to return with the broth, but in the interim the head steward reported he’d confirmed my suspicions—the ammonia had reacted on the paint as I had described and the findings were being reported to the duke.

  ‘Good old Nanny.’ I sat alone in the darkened room with the young master. It was only due to her suspicion of green that I’d known about the ammonia reaction to copper arsenate, for Nanny always carried a small vial of ammonia when shopping for fabric.

  The young Master de Guise was fading fast. ‘Albray, perhaps we should not wait for the alibi?’

  If you expose your talents, or that you carry the Star vial on your person, this situation is going to become much more complicated.

  The boy’s breathing stopped altogether.

  ‘Please, not yet…’ I reached down into the neck of my gown to retrieve the Star vial.

  Someone approaches, Albray warned me to refrain.

  ‘He’s dead, Albray!’ I was panicking. I needed time to form a strategy. How could I save any of us now? ‘We hesitated too long.’

  Our plan is still sound, Albray assured me. Just make sure the maid does not learn of the boy’s passing.

  To buy us time, I assumed, but when the door to the room opened and the maidservant entered I was forced to quickly address the situation. ‘Put it down over there. Thank you, and leave quietly,’ I instructed in a whisper, trying not to sound too desperate.

  ‘My duke requested that I look over the master and report on his condition.’ The weighty maid strode toward the bed.

  ‘Your report to the duke shall be far more positive if you give the infusion a half hour to do its work,’ I said.

  The maid turned back to me. ‘I must say I feel much better for having had a cup of your brew, Miss Winston.’

  ‘It is an old gypsy remedy,’ I confessed.

  The maid stared at me, horrified, but then shrugged and smiled. ‘Today has been a most enlightening day, miss.�
� She curtseyed to me, which she was certainly not required to do. ‘I shall speak with you in half an hour.’ She waddled to the door. ‘Can I fetch you some tea and something to eat?’

  ‘I’d greatly appreciate that.’ Despite my panic, I was starving.

  ‘A Last Supper perhaps?’ I said to Albray once we were alone. He stood out in the darkness, his spirit glistening like an angel. ‘Now what do you suggest we do?’

  Give the child the powder, he prompted, as if that went without saying.

  ‘Surely it can do no good now…’ but I fished out the vial, eager to try anything at this point.

  Just a small amount will do the trick, washed down with some of Chiara’s brew.

  ‘All right.’ I was doubtful, but I fetched a cup of broth.

  I sprinkled about a tenth of the vial’s contents on the boy’s tongue and closed his mouth. I replaced my vial for safekeeping, and then raised the head of the deceased lad to trickle Chiara’s brew into his mouth. The next thing I knew the child was coughing and spluttering all over me.

  ‘Mademoiselle?’ The blue-eyed boy with dark angelic curls looked at me, wide-eyed and energetic, like he’d just woken from a sleep, rather than a fatal illness. The child looked over my shoulder. ‘Monsieur?’ Albray was the only other being present. ‘Is the sickness gone?’ He was amazed to feel so well after days of torture.

  ‘Oui, the sickness is gone.’ I placed the broth in his hands. ‘But I think you had best choose another colour for your chambers, or better still, choose new chambers altogether.’

  ‘Oui,’ the lad agreed, ‘the new paint smelt rather bad.’

  Albray and I got a chuckle out of that observation.

  Even having achieved a miracle, my problems in Orleans were far from over.

  Gasgon de Guise was, of course, extremely grateful for his son’s return to health. He proclaimed, with his duchess in attendance, that I had undone the curse of the gypsies and he would set them free.

  At this stage I wanted to point out that I had also proved that the illness was not the work of a gypsy curse. I refrained, however. The duke had been informed of my findings and if I made him out to be the fool, I would lose what favour I had gained by my service to his house. Instead, I decided it wiser to focus on and clarify our arrangement. I felt there was some sort of catch to what was being said by the duke. ‘So all the gypsies, including Cingar and Rumer Choron, are now free to leave with me.’