by Lisa Kleypas
"You'll do so without my cooperation," Kev said stonily.
"Why not? Aren't you curious?" "Not in the least."
Rohan's hazel eyes were filled with speculation. "You have no ties to the past or the Rom, and no knowledge of why a unique design was inked into your arm in early childhood. What are you afraid of finding out?"
"You've had the same tattoo for just as long," Kev shot back. "You have no more idea about what it's for than I do. Why take such an interest in it now?"
"I…" Absently Rohan rubbed his arm over his shirtsleeve, where the tattoo was located. "I always assumed it was done at some whim of my grandmother's. She would never explain why I had the mark, or what it meant."
"Did she know?"
"I believe so." Rohan's mouth quirked. "She seemed to know everything. She was a powerful herbalist, and a believer in the Biti Foki."
"Fairy people?" Kev asked with a disdainful curl of his lips.
Rohan smiled. "Oh yes. She assured me she was on personal terms with many of them." The trace of amusement faded. "When I was about ten years old, my grandmother sent me away from the tribe. She said I was in danger. My cousin Noah brought me to London and helped me to find work at the gambling club as a list-maker's runner. I've never seen any of my tribe since then." Rohan paused, his face becoming shadowed. "I was banished from the Rom without ever knowing why. And I had no reason to assume the tattoo had anything to do with it. Until I met you. We have two things in common, phral: we're outcasts, and we bear the mark of an Irish nightmare horse. And I think that finding out where it came from may help us both."
In the following months Kev prepared the Ramsay estate for reconstruction. A mild and halfhearted winter had fallen over the village of Stony Cross and its environs, where the Ramsay estate was located. Beige grasses were crisped with frost, and stones rested hard-frozen by the banks of the Avon and Itchen rivers. Catkins emerged on willows, soft and tender as a lamb's tail, while dogwood sent up red winter stems to splinter the pale gray landscape.
The crews employed by John Dashiell, the contractor who would rebuild the Ramsay manor, were hardworking and efficient. The first two months were spent clearing the remains of the house, carting off charred wood and broken rock and rubble. A small gatehouse on the approach road was repaired and refurbished for the Hathaways' convenience.
Once the ground began to soften in March, the rebuilding of the manor would start in earnest. Kev was certain the crews had been warned in advance that the project was being supervised by a Rom, for they offered no objection to his presence or his authority. Dashiell, being a self-made and pragmatic man, didn't seem to care if his clients were English, Romany, or any other nationality, so long as his payment schedule was met.
Near the end of February, Kev made the twelve-hour journey from Stony Cross to London. He had received word from Amelia that Beatrix had quit finishing school. Even though Amelia had added that all was well, Kev wanted to make certain for himself. The two months' separation was the longest he had ever spent away from the Hathaway sisters, and he was surprised by how intensely he had missed them.
It seemed the feeling was mutual. As soon as Kev arrived at their suite at the Rutledge Hotel, Amelia, Poppy, and Beatrix all pounced on him with unseemly enthusiasm. He tolerated their shrieks and kisses with gruff indulgence, secretly pleased by the warmth of their welcome.
Following them into the family parlor, Kev sat with Amelia on an overstuffed settee, while Cam Rohan and Poppy occupied nearby chairs. Beatrix perched on a footstool at Kev's feet. The women looked well, Kev thought… all three stylishly dressed and groomed, their dark hair arranged in pinned-up curls, except for Beatrix, who had plaits.
Amelia in particular seemed happy, laughing easily, radiating a contentment that could only come from a good marriage. Poppy was emerging as a beauty, with her fine features and her rich auburn-toned hair… a warmer, more approachable version of Win's delicate blond perfection. Beatrix, however, was subdued and thin. To anyone who didn't know her, Beatrix would appear to be a normal, cheerful girl. But Kev saw the subtle signs of tension and strain on her face.
"What happened at school?" Kev asked with his customary bluntness.
Beatrix unburdened herself eagerly. "Oh. Merripen, it was all my fault. School is horrid. I abhor it. I did make a friend or two, and I was sorry to leave them. But I didn't get on with my teachers. I was always saying the wrong thing in class, asking the wrong questions-"
"It appeared," Amelia said wryly, "that the Hathaway method of learning and debating wasn't welcome in school."
"And I got into some rows," Beatrix continued, "because some of the girls said their parents told them not to associate with me because we have Gypsies in the family, and for all they knew I might be part Gypsy, too. And I said I wasn't, but even if I were it was no cause for shame, and I called them snobs, and then there was a lot of scratching and hair-pulling."
Kev swore under his breath. He exchanged glances with Rohan, who looked grim. Their presence in the family was a liability to the Hathaway sisters… and yet there was no remedy for that.
"And then," Beatrix said, "my problem came back."
Everyone was silent. Kev reached out and settled his hand on her head, his fingers curving over the shape of her skill. "Chavi," he murmured, a Romany endearment for a young girl. Since he rarely used the old language, Beatrix gave him a round-eyed look of surprise.
Beatrix's problem had first appeared after Mr. Hath-away's death. It recurred every now and then in times of anxiety or distress. She had a compulsion to steal things, usually small things like pencil stubs or bookmarks, or the odd piece of flatware. Sometimes she didn't even remember taking an object. Later she would suffer intense remorse, and go to extraordinary lengths to return the things she had filched.
Kev removed his hand from her head and looked down at her. "What did you take, little ferret?" he asked gently.
She looked chagrined. "Hair ribbons, combs, books… small things. And then I tried to put everything back, but I couldn't remember where it all went. So there was a great rumpus, and I came forward to confess, and I was asked to leave the school. And now I'll never be a lady."
"Yes, you will," Amelia said at once. "We're going to hire a governess, which is what we should have done in the beginning."
Beatrix regarded her doubtfully. "I don't think I would want any governess who would work for our family."
"Oh, we're not as bad as all that-," Amelia began.
"Yes, we are," Poppy informed her. "We're odd, Amelia. I've always told you that. We were odd even before you brought Mr. Rohan into the family." Casting a quick glance at Cam, she said, "No offense meant, Mr. Rohan."
His eyes glinted with amusement. "None taken."
Poppy turned to Kev. "No matter how difficult it is to find a proper governess, we must have one. I need help. My season has been nothing short of disaster, Merripen."
"It's only been two months," Kev said. "How can it be a disaster?"
"I'm a wallflower."
"You can't be."
"I'm lower than a wallflower," she told him. "No man wants anything to do with me."
Kev looked at Rohan and Amelia incredulously. A beautiful, intelligent girl like Poppy should have been overrun with suitors. "What is the matter with these gadjos?” Kev asked in amazement.
"They're all idiots," Rohan said. "They never waste an opportunity to prove it."
Glancing back at Poppy, Kev cut to the chase. "Is it because there are Gypsies in the family? Is that why you're not sought after?"
"Well, it doesn't exactly help," Poppy admitted. "But the greater problem is that I have no social graces. I'm constantly making faux pas. And I'm dreadful at small talk. You're supposed to go lightly from topic to topic like a butterfly. It's not easy to do, and there's no point to it. And the young men who do bring themselves to approach me find an excuse to flee after five minutes. Because they flirt and say the silliest things, and I have no idea how to res
pond."
"I wouldn't want any of them for her, anyway," Amelia said crisply. "You should see them, Merripen. A more useless flock of preening peacocks could not be found."
"I believe it would be called a muster of peacocks," Poppy said. "Not a flock."
"Call them a knot of toads instead," Beatrix said.
"A colony of penguins," Amelia joined in.
"A rumpus of baboons," Poppy said, laughing.
Kev smiled slightly, but he was still preoccupied. Poppy had always dreamed of a London season. For it to turn out this way must be a crushing disappointment. "Have you been invited to the right events?" he asked. "The dances… the dinner things…"
"Balls and soirees," Poppy supplied. "Yes, thanks to the patronage of Lord Westcliff and Lord St. Vincent, we've received invitations. But merely getting past the door doesn't make one desirable, Merripen. It only affords one the opportunity to prop up the wall while everyone else dances."
Kev frowned at Amelia and Rohan. "What are you going to do about this?"
"We're going to withdraw Poppy from the season," Amelia said, "and tell everyone that on second thought, she's still too young to be out in society."
"No one will believe that," Beatrix said. "After all, Poppy's almost nineteen"
"There's no need to make me sound like a warty old crone, Bea," Poppy said indignantly.
"-and in the meantime," Amelia continued with great patience, "we'll find a governess who will teach both Poppy and Beatrix how to behave."
"She had better be good," Beatrix said, pulling a grunting black-and-white guinea pig from her pocket and snuggling it under her chin. "We have a lot to overcome. Don't we, Mr. Nibbles?"
Later, Amelia took Kev aside. She reached into the pocket of her gown and extracted a small, white square. She gave it to him, her gaze searching his face. "Win wrote other letters to the family, and of course you shall read those as well. But this was addressed solely to you."
Unable to speak, Kev closed his fingers around the bit of parchment sealed with wax.
He went to his hotel room, which was separate from the rest of the family's at his request. Sitting at a small table, he broke the seal with scrupulous care.
There was Win's familiar writing, the pen strokes small and precise.
Dear Kev,
I hope this letter finds you in full health and vigor. I cannot imagine you in any other state, actually. Every morning I awaken in this place, which seems another world entirely, and I am surprised anew to find myself so far away from my family. And from you.
The journey across the channel was trying, the land route to the clinic even more so. As you know, I am not a good traveler, but Leo saw me safely here. He is now residing a short distance away as a paying guest at a small chateau, and so far he has come to visit every other day…
Win's letter went on to describe the clinic, which was quiet and austere. The patients suffered from a variety of ailments, but most especially those of the lung and pulmonary system.
Instead of dosing them with narcotic drugs and keeping them inside, as most doctors prescribed, Dr. Harrow put them all on a program of exercise, cold baths, health tonics, and a simple abstemious diet. Compelling the patients to exercise was a controversial treatment, but according to Dr. Harrow, motion was the prevailing instinct of all animal life.
The patients started every day with a morning walk outside, rain or shine, followed by an hour in the gymnasium for activities such as ladder-climbing or lifting dumbbells. So far Win could hardly manage any exercises without becoming severely out of breath, but she thought she could detect a small improvement in her abilities. Everyone at the clinic was required to practice breathing on a new device called a spirometer, an apparatus for measuring the volume of air inspired and expired by the lungs.
There was more about the clinic and the patients, which Kev skimmed over quickly. And then he reached the last paragraphs.
Since my illness I have had the strength to do very little except to love [Win had written], but that I have done, and I still do, in full measure. I am sorry for the way I shocked you the morning I left, but I do not regret the sentiments I expressed.
I am running after you, and life, in desperate pursuit. My dream is that someday you will both turn and let me catch you. That dream carries me through every night. I long to tell you so many things, but I am not free yet.
I hope to be well enough someday to shock you again, with far more pleasing results.
I have enclosed a hundred kisses in this letter. You must count them out carefully and not lose any.
Yours, Winnifred
Flattening the slip of paper on the table, Kev smoothed it and ran his fingertips along the delicate lines of script. He read it twice more.
He let his hand close over the parchment, crushing it tightly, and he hurled it into the hearth, where a small fire was burning.
And he watched the parchment light and smolder, until the whiteness had darkened into ash and every last word from Win had disappeared.
Chapter Six
London, 1851
Spring
At long last, Win had come home.
The clipper from Calais was docked, the hold packed with luxury goods, and bags of letters and parcels to be delivered by the Royal Mail. It was a medium-sized ship with seven spacious staterooms for the passengers, each lined with Gothic arched panels and painted a glossy shade of Florence white.
Win stood on the deck and watched the crew employing the ground tackle to moor the ship. Only then would the passengers be allowed to disembark.
Once, the excitement that gripped her would have made it impossible to breathe. But Win was returning to London a different woman. She wondered how her family would react to the changes in her. And of course they had changed as well: Amelia and Cam had been married for two years now, and Poppy and Beatrix were now out in society.
And Merripen… but Win's mind shied from thoughts of him, which were too stirring to dwell on in anything other than a private setting.
She gazed at her surroundings, the forest of ship masts, the endless acres of quay and jetty, the immense warehouses for tobacco, wool, wine, and other items of commerce. There was movement everywhere, sailors, passengers, provision agents, laborers, vehicles, and livestock. A profusion of odors thickened the air: goats and horses, spices, ocean salt, tar, dry rot. And above all hung the stench of chimney smoke and coal vapor, darkening as the night pressed close over the city.
Win longed to be in Hampshire, where the spring meadows would be green and thick with primroses and wildflowers and the hedgerows were in bloom. According to Amelia, the restoration of the Ramsay estate was not yet complete, but the manor was habitable now. It seemed the work had gone with miraculous speed under Merripen's direction.
The gangplank was lowered from the vessel and secured. As Win watched the first few passengers descend to the dock, she saw her brother's tall, almost lanky form leading the way.
France had been good for both of them. Whereas Win had gained some much-needed weight, Leo had lost his dissipated bloat. He had spent so much time out-of-doors, walking, painting, swimming, that his dark brown hair had lightened a few shades and his skin had soaked up sun. His eyes, a striking pale shade of blue, were startling in his tanned face.
Win knew that her brother would never again be the gallant, unguarded boy he had been before Laura Dillard's death. But he was no longer a suicidal wreck, which would no doubt be a great relief to the rest of the family.
In a relatively short time, Leo bounded back up the gangplank. He came to Win with a wry grin, clamping his top hat more firmly on his head.
"Is anyone waiting for us?" Win asked eagerly.
"No."
Worry creased her forehead. "They didn't receive my letter, then." She and Leo had sent word that they would be arriving a few days earlier than expected, owing to a change in the clipper line's schedule.
"Your letter is probably stuck at the bottom of a Royal Mail
satchel somewhere," Leo said. "Don't worry, Win. We'll go to the Rutledge by hackney. It isn't far."
"But it will be a shock to the family for us to arrive before we're expected."
"Our family likes to be shocked," he said. "Or at least, they're accustomed to it."
"They'll also be surprised that Dr. Harrow has come back with us."
"I'm sure they won't mind his presence at all," Leo replied. One corner of his mouth twitched in private amusement. "Well… most of them won't."
Evening had fallen by the time they reached the Rut-ledge Hotel. Leo arranged for rooms and managed the luggage, while Win and Dr. Harrow waited in a corner of the spacious lobby.
"I'll allow you to reunite with your family in private," Harrow said. "My manservant and I will go to our rooms and unpack."
"You are welcome to come with us," Win said, but she was secretly relieved when he shook his head.
"I won't intrude. Your reunion should be private."
"But we will see you in the morning?" Win asked.
Yes." He stood looking down at her, a slight smile on his lips.
Dr. Julian Harrow was an elegant man, supernally composed, effortlessly charming. He was dark-haired and gray-eyed and possessed a square-jawed attractiveness that had caused nearly all of his female patients to fall a little bit in love with him. One of the women at the clinic had remarked dryly that Harrow 's personal magnetism not only affected men, women, and children but also extended to armoires, assorted chairs, and the nearby goldfish in a bowl.
As Leo had put it: " Harrow doesn't look at all like a doctor. He looks like a woman's fantasy of a doctor. I suspect half his practice consists of love-struck females who prolong their illness merely to continue being treated by him."
"I assure you," Win had said, laughing, "I am neither love struck, nor am I the least bit inclined to prolong my illness."