Silent in the Grave

by DEANNA RAYBOURN

  “Romany is ours, lady. It is a powerful language, with great magic. We do not give our power or our magic away,” she had told me. It made a curious kind of sense, although I still did not see the harm it would do if an English girl could count to ten in Romany. But Magda’s message had been plain. I would not be allowed into their camp if I trespassed on their language. I never attempted to speak Romany again.

  But I drank it in whenever I listened to them talk, marveling at the smooth, liquid sound of it. I began to think it impossible that an English-speaker could ever learn it. It was a very unbuttoned sort of tongue, demanding enthusiasm and passion and a liveliness that those with cold northern blood could not muster.

  I relaxed a little as the old man rambled on, and after a few minutes I allowed Val to lead the way toward the horse ring. A deal was in progress, with an Englishman, protesting the price, ranged against a Gypsy horseman who was holding firm. They were each backed by a dozen or so men of their own kind, shouting and jeering as negotiations moved back and forth. Several times the buyer named a price and put out his hand in the traditional manner of Gypsy horse-dealing; scornfully, the dealer slapped it away and named a better one. Between them the horse stood placidly, his head hanging low, his eyes shifting from his Gypsy master to his prospective buyer. He looked handsome, and sound enough, and I wondered how many times he had been sold and found his way back to the Roma.

  My father often bought horses from Magda’s people and had never had any difficulty with them, finding their horseflesh to be of the highest quality and their prices fair. But he always maintained that this was because Magda’s people knew and liked him. They were permitted to camp on his land, and so treated him fairly when horse-dealing. But other Gypsies, he warned us, were far too clever and tricky for us. He had always instructed my brothers to purchase their horses at Tattersall’s if Magda’s menfolk were not to be found. My second brother, Benedick, had neglected to follow this good advice once, purchasing a solid-enough looking animal from a traveling group of Roma when he was in Cornwall. He had been particularly taken with its glossy coat, I remember. It washed off during the first good sweat. Benedick had tried desperately to get his money back, but of course they were long gone, doubtless laughing themselves sick over the stupidity of the young gorgio lordling too stupid to spot a bit of dye in a horse’s coat. I looked as closely as I dared, but this horse seemed genuine enough in his colour, if a bit spavined. And if the prospective buyer did not look to that before the sale was completed, he deserved to be fleeced.

  We slipped past them and toward the boxing tent, where a match was in progress. According to the hawker outside, the Gypsy champion, an enormous brute, was fighting all comers for a pound. We listened to his patter for a moment, rather impressed at the fighter’s credentials. His record was a prodigious one, and it occurred to me that they might attract more challengers if they did not stress so openly the number of men he had knocked down.

  Val paid the entrance fee for both of us, grumbling as he did so. I reminded myself to reimburse him for the night’s adventures. His allowance was generous, but so were his expenditures. The remainder might not run to an evening’s entertainment.

  My eyes watered as soon as we stepped inside and I fought against the urge to cough. It was close in there, with three or four dozen men crowding around, smoking and cursing at the combatants. The rank smell of sweat and horse, sawdust and stale beer clung to the canvas, and I could hear quite distinctly the sounds of solid fists slamming into bare flesh. Val shot me a doubtful look.

  “Are you certain you’re up for this?”

  I nodded, but he continued to look dubious. He needn’t have bothered. I had seen a number of prizefights as a child. Father adored them, and if he happened upon one, he had not been terribly fussy about bringing me along. I had only to promise not to tell Aunt Hermia and he would bribe me with ginger nuts. I had rather enjoyed those illicit outings. The fighting was brutal, but Father carefully explained the finer points and I always enjoyed the little wagers we placed. The summer I backed seven winners was the summer he stopped taking me along, I remembered wryly. He had begun taking Valerius instead, but he always said wistfully that Val lacked my appreciation for watching grown men thrash each other.

  I was surprised now at how quickly it all came back. It seemed that one bare-fisted fight was rather like every other. A few sharp-eyed men would make money on the affair, and several dozen men, largely inebriated, would not. The crowd, ever in danger of having their pockets picked, ringed a beaten-down area thickly laid with sawdust tamped hard by booted feet. It even smelled the same, I remarked to Val. He grimaced, which I thought rather weak from a student of anatomy.

  He kept us carefully to the back of the spectators while he scanned the crowd, looking for Brisbane. I had difficulty seeing over the heads in front of me, and for the briefest of moments I regretted my disguise. Had I come in skirts they would have all made way for me, I thought ruefully. But then if I had come in skirts, I would have doubtless attracted unwelcome attention, women being scarce at such events.

  A few of the men shifted and I realized the crowd was a bit thinner on the other side. I motioned to Val. We edged past, keeping to the back of the tent as we made our way around. There was a crunching hit suddenly, and a roar went up as the crowd surged forward. I was very nearly knocked off my feet, but I kept my wits and shoved hard against the man who had jostled me.

  He turned, his face fat and moistly red in the light of the hanging lamps.

  “Watch yourself, sonny. Mustn’t get trampled, now, my lad.”

  He turned back to the match and I gave a little sigh of satisfaction. Finally someone had owned me for a boy, even if it was only a drunken lout at a prizefight. I threw a little look of triumph at Val, but he was staring straight ahead, over the man’s head at the fight itself. I nudged at him, but he simply stared. He jerked his chin toward the boxers.

  “Look,” he hissed finally.

  I edged around the fat man, thoroughly annoyed. He had probably seen a broken nose that had intrigued him or something else perfectly useless, I thought irritably. I rose up on the balls of my feet, peering over the fat man’s shoulder, and got my first proper look at the boxers.

  There was indeed a broken nose. Both of the fighters were stripped to the waist. The touted champion stood facing me, streaming blood freely from a pulpy pile in the middle of his face. He was dashing blood out of his eyes with his fists, his expression murderous. Then he smiled, horribly, revealing teeth bracketed in blood. He spit a tooth into the sawdust, but continued to grin like some demented creature. Slowly, deliberately, he raised his fists—enormous, meaty things, the size of hams. He swung heavily, but his opponent darted back lightly, just out of reach. There were bruises beginning to darken the side of the slighter man’s torso, and I wondered if his face was undamaged. It did not seem possible that he could have inflicted such damage on the champion and sustain only a few bruises himself.

  But as I watched them battle, I began to understand why. The Gypsy had size on his side, but that was his only advantage. He was heavy and slow, his feet moving as if stuck in treacle.

  I pursed my lips, madly disappointed. From a champion I expected more than brute strength. There should be finesse and even a certain elegance of movement. Father had taught me that fist-play was no different from swordplay, demanding skill as well as strength. This Gypsy was nothing more than a machine, hammering whatever lay in his path.

  His challenger, on the other hand, was something else entirely. He held himself like a horse will at the start of a race, lightly, ready to spring. His head moved quickly, luring blows that he avoided with a catlike nimbleness. It was so delightful to watch that I nearly laughed out loud. He was a natural, and I regretted bitterly that we had come too late to place a bet on him.

  I was just beginning to anticipate a nice long bout when the challenger did something that ruined it all. He moved back again, this time canting himself sideway
s, forcing the champion to move off balance. Then he raised his fist, and with one quick, brutal blow to the jaw—so fast the eye could not follow—it was done. The Gypsy took a moment, rocking on his heels, eyes rolling back white. Then, without a sound, he fell to the sawdust. A great cloud of it went up with the cheer and money began to exchange hands. The fat man in front of me threw his hat down in disgust.

  “Have you lost, then, sir?” I asked, too amused to be careful.

  He fixed me with a baleful look. “I have, indeed. The bastard knocked him down in less than two minutes!”

  He stomped on his hat and stumped away, cursing fluently. I turned back to what was left of the match, laughing. The crowd had dissolved into a flood of curses and barbs, in Romany and English, and the challenger turned to accept them, as well as his share of the winnings. For the first time I was able to see his face, which surprised me in two ways. First, there was no blood. And second…

  “Good Lord,” I said to no one in particular. “Brisbane has rather a nasty right.”

  THE TWENTY-NINTH CHAPTER

  Quit, quit, for shame! This will not move;

  This cannot take her.

  If of herself she will not love,

  Nothing can make her:

  The devil take her!

  —Sir John Suckling

  “Song”

  The revelation that Brisbane was a skillful prizefighter was not the only one disclosed that night. As he pulled on his shirt, collecting the approbation of those who had profited from his victory, he talked with them, his voice clearly audible to me, even over the crowd. But it sounded strangely unlike his voice, and it took me almost a full minute to realize why.

  Brisbane was speaking Romany. He was speaking, my addled brain told me, a language that he could not possibly know. But of course he did know it. Fluently and idiomatically, to judge by the laughter of his companions. His hands moved as he spoke, sketching the dramatic gestures that every Roma uses to punctuate his speech. He knew this fluid tongue, and there was only one way he could have learned it.

  As Brisbane paused in his conversation to reach for his shirt, Val made to raise a hand in greeting. I slapped it down, motioning him to silence. “We must go. Now,” I said through clenched teeth. “Before he sees us.”

  “What the devil is wrong with you? We’ve been scouring the Heath for the better part of the evening, looking for him, and now that we have found him, you want to leave?”

  “I will explain it all later. Just come with me—now.”

  To his credit he came, although still muttering about the inconsistency of women. I did not much blame him. I was busy cursing my own stupidity. How could I not have seen it? I had repeatedly remarked to myself upon his swarthiness, his unEnglishness. I had thought him French or perhaps even a Jew. But I had never once imagined the truth.

  We made for the tent flap, moving quickly and quietly behind the crowd so as not to attract attention. But just as I put my hand to the flap, it was brushed aside by a man entering. Magda’s brother, Jasper. I pulled back hard, slamming into Val, but Jasper did not see either of us. His gaze was focused on Brisbane, who swung his head around as if on a wire. Jasper gave him a perceptible nod and melted out of the tent as quietly as he had come.

  “Oh, no,” I breathed. Val put a questioning hand on my shoulder, but I shook my head and slipped out of the tent, careful to move in the direction opposite to the one that Jasper had taken. We had walked only a few steps when Val seized my arm and dragged me behind a caravan.

  “What is the matter with you? You have insisted we must find Mr. Brisbane, and there he is. You wanted to find Magda’s people, and we have just seen Jasper. What is it you want?”

  I jerked my arm out of his grasp. “I want to get out of this place without Brisbane knowing I’ve come. I should not have followed him here and I have seen something I was not meant to see.”

  “His business with Jasper?”

  I rubbed at the place on my arm where he had gripped me. I had not realized Val’s fingers were so strong. I would have a bruise there.

  “No, not entirely. Well, yes, that is part of it. Jasper has apparently decided to give Brisbane what he came for.”

  “And what is that?” he asked.

  “The rope to hang you with.”

  “What?” His voice was incredulous. “Julia, what are you talking about? This has nothing to do with me. You said you engaged Mr. Brisbane on a matter of business. How does that involve me?”

  “It is too complicated to explain now. I thought I had taken care of it, and it seems I have done nothing but complicate matters to the utmost. I do not yet know how I will put it right, but I will. I must get home, though, and quickly.”

  I heard the imploring note in my voice and so did Val. He relented. He gave me a quick nod and we turned for the far side of the camp, where I prayed the cabman would still be waiting. It would be a long ride back to Grey House, but at the end of it I could count on a hot meal and a hotter bath.

  I stepped out from behind the caravan and into the fitful light of a crowded campfire. And at just that moment Nicholas Brisbane moved out of the shadow of the boxing tent, lifting his head, sniffing the air like a dog. His eyes roved past the firelight, skimming lightly over the figures moving between us. They came to rest on me, peering through the gloom. His eyes narrowed, his teeth bared, and I took to my heels.

  I had something of a head start—perhaps an eighth of a mile. But it did not matter. I had known almost as soon as I began to run that he would catch me up. I did not dare to imagine what he might do to me once he did. But I was soon to find out.

  I suppose I expected him to beat me. Some might have even said he was justified. I had discovered that which was never meant to be known. Most Englishmen held Gypsies as lower than dogs. Less than a Jew, better than an African? No, I knew ladies who kept blackamoor pages quite happily, but would never let a Roma set foot in their house. They were thought to be capable of any treachery, cunning and malicious and black-hearted as devils. I could not blame Brisbane for not confiding in me. I, too, would have hidden my bloodlines under the circumstances.

  But I did not think my sympathy would win me any points this night. So I fled, dashing past campfires and under clotheslines, dodging onlookers and mocking laughter on my way across the camp with Brisbane in furious pursuit. I put on a burst of speed as we neared the carriages, hearing him closing behind me with every stride, Val wheezing along somewhere behind. And then I realized that Brisbane had eased into a lope. He was keeping pace with me, but deliberately he did not close, allowing me to lead him to the hackney where he could catch me up easily and have at me in private.

  Gasping, I reached the door and had just grasped the handle when his hand came down hard upon mine. His shirt was open, sweat-stuck to his sides. Absurdly, I noticed his pendant, lying in the hollow of his throat. I noticed, too, that I had lost my hat somewhere along the way. I should have to order a new one, I mused. If I lived so long.

  Val skittered up, a hand pressed to his side.

  “Mr. Brisbane, what are you about, chasing my sister all over God’s own creation?” he demanded loudly.

  Keeping his hand firmly anchored upon mine, Brisbane turned to Val. He might have omitted the precaution. My side was burning from the run, and he looked barely winded. If I decided to flee I would not make it three steps before he caught me again.

  “Have a care for her reputation,” Brisbane advised softly. “Do you have any notion of what would become of her if it became known that she visited a Gypsy camp dressed like that?”

  Val flushed angrily. “You think I should have prevented it.”

  Brisbane’s face was expressionless. “I think that is beyond the reach of your abilities, Mr. March. But I think you might have provided a better escort.”

  Val’s hands tightened and he stepped forward.

  “Don’t be stupid, Val. He’s quite right. I was a fool to come and you were a fool to come with me.”
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  Brisbane did not look at me. “Now, if you will oblige me by getting into the cab, Mr. March. I have some business to discuss with your sister.” Val hesitated, but Brisbane’s features were stony. Val threw me a look, of supplication I suppose, but I flicked my eyes toward the cab, indicating he should do as he was told. I doubted Brisbane intended to murder me on Hampstead Heath, but if he did, it was probably no more than I deserved.

  Brisbane stepped aside, pulling me with him, so that Val could enter the hackney. With Val and the cabman looking on, there was little privacy there, so I was not entirely surprised when he put his hand under my elbow and directed me to a stand of trees some short distance away. They were a bit of a screen at least, and would offer some protection from Val witnessing the humiliation of what I was certain would be the dressing-down of my life.

  “You needn’t bother, really,” I said as he pushed me against a tree. He had an arm above me, clamped to the rough trunk, ensuring I could not escape. “I will not run away. I deserve everything you care to throw at me. I have been vile and stupid and completely untrustworthy. You may shout as much as you like.”