“We’d hoped to have our fortunes told,” Cynthia told him.
He gave her a dazzling smile, and lingered on her face speculatively. “Ah! Ye’d like someone to dukker for ye, Gadji?”
A lethal flirt, this one. Cynthia enjoyed lethal flirts. Argosy stirred beside her, like a young bird of prey ruffling its feathers in warning.
Ah, this was good. But she must be very careful.
Violet was a bit too quiet. She was watching the Gypsy boy raptly. But he seemed to have forgotten her after his initial burst of flirtation, or he was carefully not flirting with the daughter of a Redmond, because he did not want to be skewered on a Redmond pike.
“Very well.” Samuel said. “Follow me. It’s of a certainty me auntie will dukker—tell your fortune—for ye, if ye’ve coin fer it.”
The four English guests followed the slightly limping Gypsy, who led the brown horse and was followed by the yellow dog.
“Probably stolen,” Argosy muttered. “The horse.”
“Probably,” Samuel said cheerfully over his shoulder. “I canna recall.”
Samuel disappeared into the third tent they came to, and emerged followed by a sallow Rom girl dressed in shades of beige and brown. Her somber clothing was almost an apology for the springing abandon of her curls. Cynthia swiftly counted nine hairpins glinting in the mass, but snakes of glossy dark hair bobbed everywhere over her forehead anyway. Her face was spherical and the color of tea mixed with milk; her eyes were a shade darker than harvest moons.
“I shall dukker for ye, Gadji,” she said. “But I mun see yer coin, first like.”
“Martha! Come away.”
The scolding voice emerged from another tent, and turned out to belong to a tall handsome woman with a comet tail of silver striping her dark hair. “Ye’re not yet ready to dukker, as ye ken. Ye’ve work to do. Off.” Then she said something rapidly in Rom that made Martha’s face darken, and the girl vanished with a flounce back into the tent.
The woman sighed, said something sternly to Samuel in Rom. He replied contritely and glanced at Cynthia. The woman nodded.
And then Samuel receded with a waved farewell to the English visitors and a flick of a glance at Violet, who watched him go.
“Come with me, my friends,” the woman said pleasantly. “I am Mrs. Leonora Heron. The auntie of Samuel. I mun see the color of yer money before I dukker.”
“How much?” This came briskly from Jonathon.
The Gypsy must have assessed her company in an eye-blink: all the shininess apparent—boots and buttons—fabrics spotless, clothing expensive, cut to fit each of them expressly. They were clearly all cared for by servants. They had smooth faces and spotlessly gloved hands.
“Six shillings,” was her exorbitant response. She smiled serenely.
Cynthia coughed. It was the price of a stagecoach ride from London to Edinburgh. The woman’s nerve was admirable. Her acumen impressive.
Argosy shrugged. He shook six shillings from a purse inside his coat and handed them over to the Gypsy, who gave each one an insultingly close examination.
They passed inspection.
She motioned her aristocratic friends into the tent, which was pungent with the smell of dried herbs and lit by a single large oil lamp, which enclosed them in glow and atmospherically portentous shadows. Cynthia saw their silhouettes thrown against the back wall of the tent, and she thought, as Jonathan and Argosy moved closer together, that their shadows together made one the size of Miles Redmond.
She squared her shoulders and tossed her head. Argosy was handsome, and his purse clinked as though it were nearly bottomless, and here he was, next to her, smiling, eager to be supernaturally persuaded that she would be part of his future.
Miles had slept badly. A carafe of very black coffee and the content of his correspondence revived his mood, however. He’d broken half a dozen seals this morning on letters from members of the Royal Society. Half a dozen brilliant, adventurous men expressing enthusiasm, pledging time and resources for his next expedition.
He savored the thrill quietly; the satisfaction ran bone-deep. Not once had he doubted he would return to Lacao on a grander scale, because he’d always accomplished everything he set out to do.
But it might have taken years to plan, years to amass the proper resources and financing.
And now…well, now the dream of returning to Lacao was as far away as his own nuptials. And he imagined the thrill of announcing that the expedition had been fully and neatly financed.
He thought about passion, and the forms it took.
He thought about Cynthia Brightly, enclosed in a carriage with Argosy on the way to visit the Gypsies; there was nothing like an enclosed space to nurture intimacy. She would next be enclosed in a tent with Argosy, if they were to have their fortunes told. Jonathan and Violet would be there, too, of course, and no untoward intimacies would take place. And Argosy was a gentleman.
But the idea of her in dark places, close to another man who would one day have the privilege—the right—to touch her skin whenever he wished it—
He jerked his thoughts roughly back to his other passion, his other world: Lacao, and an expedition, and the girl who was the means to it all, and therefore, he told himself, must be a part of his passion, too. Because his mind had a gift for rationalization, and refused to be subjugated to the mad desires of his body.
Miles stood up quickly and forged the stairs, because he was almost late to meet Lady Georgina to take her for a stroll. He’d set the appointment yesterday, once it had become clear that everyone else would be otherwise occupied. And because he was dutiful.
She stood diffidently in the downstairs drawing room, in muslin striped in pale yellow the precise shade of her hair. He watched her surreptitiously from his peculiarly aerial position. He could see her hands, covered in white gloves, folded tightly, nervously, together; her face was already funneled in a large straw bonnet, decorated with lively silk flowers.
Nothing about Georgina caused his mind to launch into embarrassingly florid superlatives. Nothing about her affected his breathing or his temper. His mind, in fact, functioned just as admirably in her presence as it did in her absence.
He gazed down and tried to picture her standing in his home, greeting their guests, should they marry. He pictured her in bed, his body covering her lush white body, her shy gray eyes gazing up at him, those round breasts—
His mind could gain no purchase on any of the images. They altogether refused to form. Thinking it felt like a betrayal. And this was patently ridiculous and unnerving and confusing.
She admired him fiercely, at least. It was in her eyes, in the light of her face when she heard his footsteps on the stairs as he came down now. This was flattering and inexplicable.
But perhaps an indication that the girl had a certain sensibility after all. She should have been mooning for Jonathan. Or for Argosy. Who was at this moment enclosed in a carriage with—
“Beautiful day for a walk, Georgina.”
Why did he always begin with the weather? Because “Platitude” was a language everyone spoke, he supposed.
“Oh, yes!” she agreed.
“Perhaps the lediboptera will be out in force.” He was teasing her by getting the word wrong.
“I hope so,” she agreed eagerly.
He stifled a sigh. His sense of humor always seemed to alarm her into earnestness. He didn’t think Georgina unintelligent. Perhaps once she was filled with someone else’s thoughts and opinions they would then transmute into thoughts of her own, like specimens grown under different laboratory conditions.
And then he had a useful but traitorous thought: it would be no sacrifice to leave her behind when he went on an expedition, and perhaps that was reason enough to wed her.
As they strolled by in the garden, and he asked Georgina to tell him of her interests, a common blue flapped by.
He didn’t point it out to her. It was something, somehow, he wanted to keep for himself.
Chapter 14
The extravagantly curled Gypsy girl was in the corner of the tent when the quartet entered, rustling and clinking things, adding them to a trunk. As Samuel Heron had said, they were making ready to break camp.
“Sit, please, my friends.” Leonora Heron gestured vaguely.
There were no chairs.
Violet was always reluctant to muss anything, and she glanced skeptically at the floor of the tent. But it appeared to be spotless, and the place smelled very clean, like an apothecary, or a doctor’s office.
Her brother gave a long-suffering sigh, produced a handkerchief, and spread it out for her on the ground. She knelt upon it.
They all knelt in the circle of light.
“How do you see the future?” Argosy was breathless with eagerness.
He was close to Cynthia. His knee, quite daringly, brushed hers, moved away, brushed again. This contributed to his breathlessness. Cynthia kept her own knee very still. She watched her shadow blend with his and part on the tent wall across from them as they leaned toward Mrs. Heron. She felt a peculiar twinge of oppression.
And then their shadows separated again when he turned to smile at her, that easy, secret smile, those white teeth in his amber-tinted symmetrical face.
“I shall dukker by reading your palms and the leaves, brother,” she said. “Martha, bring in the kettle, please.”
The girl stood and flounced out of the tent, but not without touching lowered-lashed looks upon all the young men. Jonathan was not immune to this particular look. He smiled.
Argosy, however, was utterly focused on the business at hand. “You will read our palms, and the tea leaves for all of us?”
“Six shillings more to read the leaves,” Mrs. Heron said placidly.
“Mrs. Heron…” Jonathan was alarmed.
Argosy had his purse out and was poking through it. “I can give you three shillings.”
“Six shillings for all of you to read the leaves,” Mrs. Heron said gently but firmly.
Argosy looked at Jonathan, who shrugged, and turned out his palms to indicate he had nothing.
“Three shillings for just Miss Brightly and myself?” Argosy gave Cynthia one of his little secret smiles.
“Certainly.” Mrs. Heron smiled. “It is the cost of tea, you know,” she added, by way of apology. “I canna give the dukker away.”
“All right,” Argosy said, sounding bored.
Cynthia doubted that he ever considered the cost of anything. He probably didn’t know the cost of tea. But Gypsies were very clever, she thought. The cost of the reading certainly had nothing to do with the cost of tea.
Martha returned with the kettle, hovered in the lamplight to ensure that both Jonathan and Argosy were able to get a good look at her. Leonora Heron said something in Rom, and she handed over the kettle with a pout and retreated reluctantly to the edges of the tent.
Leonora Heron then shook earthy-smelling leaves from a packet into the bottom of two shallow white cups and poured the steaming water over them. Cynthia, half mesmerized, watched the water slowly darken into drinkable tea.
“While it becomes tea I will dukker wi’ yer palm. Turn your hand up so, Gadji,” she said to Jonathan. She demonstrated with her own hand.
With a wry look at his sister, Jonathan extended his hand and gave it to Mrs. Heron.
Argosy watched breathlessly, leaning forward.
“Ye’ll ’ave a long, long life…” Leonora murmured matter-of-factly, sounding a bit distracted, tracing a finger over his palm. “Ye’ll break one heart. It might be your own, I canna say…”
“Oh ho!” Jonathan said nervously. Everyone else rustled a little, too.
She peered beneath his little finger. “Ye’ll have ten children—”
Jonathan snatched his hand away as though she’d spat in it.
Leonora Heron’s eyes widened innocently. Cynthia half suspected she’d read Jonathan’s character correctly, too, that the Gypsy woman had known precisely how he would react to that particular bit of news and saw a way to earn her shillings easily.
“I’m done,” Jonathan said simply.
Mrs. Heron shrugged. “Next, Miss Redmond, I will read yours.”
Violet extended her hand gracefully, as though bestowing a blessing on a peasant.
Leonora Heron frowned into the hand for a long time. “I see a long ocean voyage.” She sounded surprised.
Violet rolled her eyes.
“Aye…a journey far from home…a tall stranger…dark…”
“Lavay!” Martha blurted from the back of the tent.
There was sudden, total silence. Everyone swiveled toward the Gypsy girl, astounded.
“What is it, bibi?” Her mother said sharply.
Martha didn’t come forward. “The word was in my ear, Mama. At least I think it was in my ear.” She sounded genuinely surprised, and almost tremulous. “I ’eard it. Just…‘Lavay.’”
“Who is Lavay? The tall, dark stranger?” Violet wasn’t terribly impressionable, but now she was curious. “Do you know anyone named Lavay?” It was a general sort of question for everyone in the tent.
Everyone shrugged.
“I do not know,” Martha said sullenly. “Lavay. That is all.” She fell silent.
It was Violet’s turn to take her hand nervously, quickly, away from Mrs. Heron. “Perhaps you will read for Lord Argosy now,” she said shortly.
And then she folded both of her hands back into her skirt, as though she didn’t want anyone else discovering things in them.
Mrs. Heron said something to Martha in Rom, something that had a soothing inflection, and the girl resumed rustling and packing things.
Lord Argosy whipped out his hand eagerly.
The Gypsy took it, gently spread his fingers, and pored over his palm thoughtfully. “This line is yer line o’ the ’eart, Gadji…” She’d chosen to trace a line that nearly bisected his hand. “…an’ I see ’ere…” She paused to examine it. “Why, I think ye’ll wed inside two months.” She took pains to sound astonished. “I see…is it…” She clucked thoughtfully. “Why, yes. There is a girl. I see a girl. She is dark. She has light eyes. She is…quite charming. Not quiet.” She looked up at Argosy. “But ye mun act quickly if ye want ’er. She is desired by many.”
Argosy looked alarmed. He swiveled to gaze passionately at Cynthia.
She produced a reassuring smile for him. She felt like producing a kiss for the Gypsy.
Argosy smiled with relief.
“What else do you see?” he asked the Gypsy. As the beginning of all of this had been so promising.
“I see much pleasure and excitement,” she said, tracing another line in his palm. She made this almost a purr.
Argosy slid a sidelong glance at Cynthia. The man did enjoy innuendos. He cleared his throat. “I don’t suppose, Mrs. Heron, you’d be willing to expound on the nature of the pleas—”
“Duck!” Martha screeched.
Everyone flung themselves forward and hands over their heads.
“What, what?” Leonora Heron frowned and turned to her daughter.
“The duck is…empty.” Martha trailed off, sounding faintly abashed to be saying something so patently absurd.
There was a stupefied silence.
“Bloody hell,” Argosy muttered, managing to sound both astounded and resigned. “I suspected as much.”
“What the devil, Argosy?” Jonathan said crossly.
Argosy shook his head, and exchanged a glance with Cynthia, who was nervous now.
Leonora turned and said a stream of something to her daughter in Rom. Her face was troubled.
Martha shrugged in the shadows; there was a flash of her white teeth. She was no longer disconcerted, but rather, enjoying the attention.
But she dutifully returned to packing the trunk. The lid closed with a dull thunk; she latched it noisily.
“And ye, Gadji?” Mrs. Heron beckoned with little swoops of her hand to Cynthia.
&
nbsp; Cynthia gave her palm to the Gypsy, who took and cupped it in her roughened hand and began to use a finger like a compass point to trace lines. Leonora looked at Cynthia’s palm for what seemed an inordinately long time.
Then she looked up into her face. And what Cynthia read there was a gently curious, puzzled sympathy.
Cynthia instantly felt panicked. She pled silently, with her eyes.
Leonora Herron met her plea with a firm complicity.
“I see…” Leonora began quickly. She hesitated, then said firmly. “A wedding in yer future. Is it yer wedding, gadji? I think perhaps ’tis.” Argosy rustled restlessly; his knee brushed Cynthia’s again, more decisively. It was surprisingly knobby; she could feel it through the fine fabric of her skirt and the fabric of his trousers. “I canna quite see whether yer groom is fair or—well, I think he mun be a man of great strength—”
Argosy meltingly met Cynthia’s eyes. Great strength. She thought of a certain pair of hands. A certain pair of shoulders. Dark eyes behind spectacles.
And she smiled slightly at Argosy. Who warmly, sultrily, returned it with one of his own.
“And I also see—”
“Blood!” Martha shrieked.
Everyone jumped. Violet clapped her hand over her heart. Cynthia jerked her palm away from Leonora Heron. It was already cold and clammy. The steeping tea toppled and gurgled onto the tent floor.
Leonora gamely attempted to ignore the interruption. “Oh, and see!” she said hurriedly to Lord Argosy. “Here in yer cup, Gadji. The leaves ’ave made an ’eart.” Tea leaves clung to the side of the cup. They all glanced into it, frowned—the residue might well have been in the shape of a heart—then Argosy turned to look at Martha firmly.
He was an aristocrat, after all. He wanted her to expound, and expected her to comply.
Cynthia began to panic in earnest. The girl really did have some sort of horrible, fragmented gift. Martha Heron was petulant chaos on legs. Not ready to dukker yet, indeed. Ready to shriek out non sequiturs that might very well spell the ruination of Cynthia’s future, more like it.
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