“Five,” he admitted ruefully. He leaned forward and pressed a kiss to the top of my head. “But I only meant it once.”
He left me then and I was glad of it. I did not want him to see me weep.
Boxing Day was, in a word, noisy. The tradesmen called for their boxes and were quite civilly invited in for mince pies. We had a tremendous luncheon of the Christmas remains with far too much drink. By the afternoon, the children were rampant with sugar and excitement and the adults were sore-headed as bears. Father organised the children into a game of pirates, which entailed plundering the lumber room costume boxes and much shrieking and running about the Abbey. Raids were conducted and booty secured, and at one point I was even taken prisoner by my niece Perdita, and tied to my chair with a petticoat. She ran off as soon as she had secured me, waving a wooden sword and screaming threats in an alarming Irish accent. Portia had a great laugh at my expense. She had only been tied with a cravat and worked her way free very quickly. I quirked a brow at her loftily.
“You may well laugh, but I have just been captured by Grace O’Malley, the greatest pirate queen ever to sail the Seven Seas,” I told her.
Portia snickered as I tried unsuccessfully to free myself. Eventually she was prevailed upon to untie my bonds. At that moment our niece returned and fixed me with a stern look.
“You were not supposed to free yourself. I must give you to Tarquin. He has ransomed you,” she told me.
“Thank you, but I think not. I would rather be your prisoner than your brother’s. He put spiders in my bed the last time I slept at the farmhouse.”
Perdita’s expression turned mulish. “But you must, Auntie Julia. He has paid the ransom,” she insisted. “See?” She dug into her pocket and extracted a handful of plunder. There, on her grubby palm, lay a necklace of perfect grey pearls I had never thought to see again.
Portia and I gasped and lunged for them at the same time. Startled, Perdita shrieked and threw them into the air. Portia caught them neatly, while I took our niece by the shoulders.
“Perdita, dearest, where precisely did you get this necklace?”
She looked inclined to pout, but if Benedick’s children were high-spirited, they were also well brought up.
“Tarquin gave it to me.” Her expression darkened. “He would not agree to the bracelets as well, but I thought you were worth them.”
“Indeed. And where is Tarquin now?”
“Mounting an attack on the kitchens. He means to take the larder. He wants cake.”
I released her and patted her on the head. “Thank you, dearest. Play with Auntie Portia now. She will be your prisoner. I must have a word with your brother.”
Portia shot me an evil look, and the last I saw, Perdita was lashing her ankles to a chair while Puggy danced around, snarling.
Tarquin was easy enough to find. I ran him to ground in the kitchens precisely where his sister said he would be. He must have been successful, for he was busily stuffing his pockets with ginger nuts and Cook was nowhere to be seen.
“Tarquin, my boy, may I have a word?” I asked him. He blinked at me, owlish in a pair of very smart spectacles. He was the cleverest of Benedick’s children, and I suspected he would be the handsomest.
“You’re my prisoner now,” he informed me. “Did Perdita tell you? I paid an enormous ransom for you,” he said, wrapping a striped scarf about my head. “I will release you and make you one of my crew if you promise to fight for me.”
“Very tempting offer, I am sure,” I said, removing the scarf. “But I wanted to ask you about that ransom. Where did you find the necklace?”
He pulled a disgusted face. “That bit of rubbish? You needn’t worry, Auntie Julia. It is only a bit of glass. I found it stuffed in the bear.”
I stared at him. “The bear? You mean Maurice?”
He nodded and tucked another ginger cake into his pocket. “There is a hole under his arm where the stuffing is coming out. I saw it when we were playing hide-and-go-seek earlier. I put my hand in, and I felt something I thought might be pebbles or some choice marbles. It was only those bits of trumpery. I found these as well—you can have them if you like.”
He reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out my bracelets. I felt a little weak as I looked at them. Thousands of pounds’ worth of perfectly matched pearls with diamond clasps, an empress’ treasure, lying serenely on a boy’s palm.
“Did you find earrings as well? And a great long rope of pearls?”
He shook his head. “But I did not have long to look. Grandfather was coming, and I had to hide.”
I nodded knowledgeably. “Of course you did.”
His face brightened. “Would you like for me to have a look round for you now? I know just where I found these bits. I daresay the others are there as well.”
I nodded and he led the way, careful to take a circuitous route to avoid the scalawag ways of his uncle Ly, who was laying plans to board his ship and overthrow him, Tarquin told me solemnly.
At length we reached Maurice the bear, and Tarquin made a careful search. He retrieved every last piece of the Grey Pearls, presenting them to me with as much ceremony as the chancellor handing the crown jewels to the queen.
As my hands closed over them, he turned to me, his young face quizzical. “Aunt Julia, they aren’t real, are they?”
I smiled at him. “Yes, they are, my dear boy. And I thought I would never see them again. Thank you.”
He goggled at me, and in return for his aid I promised to return to serve as his crew once I had secured the pearls in my room. I put them away, nestling them onto their bed of black satin, and paused. I thought of Charlotte, the last person to touch them. Poor greedy Charlotte, clever and avaricious and dishonest. For all her sins, there was something almost likeable about her. I wondered where she was, and if she had eluded Brisbane, if he would believe her if she claimed not to have the pearls. Hiding them in the hole in Maurice’s pelt had been a stroke of genius. It had been the merest accident they had been recovered. Perhaps she had thought to come back for them some day, or perhaps she had been happy enough to escape. It did not matter now.
I closed the lid with a snap. I was done with them.
The next day I left the Abbey directly after breakfast. It was a crisp, cold morning and I took care to wrap myself in my warmest clothes before setting out. I walked slowly, taking in deep draughts of fresh air and puffing them out in little clouds. The road was still muddy and my hems were deeply soiled by the time I reached my destination at the Gypsy camp. I lifted my nose, sniffing appreciatively at the little cooking fires kindled in the river meadow. Magda’s brother, Jasper, raised a hand in greeting and disappeared into one of the caravans. A moment later Magda appeared, her unruly hair plaited with scarlet ribbons. The cold must have driven her into her caravan, for I did not see her tent and the tiny chimney of her caravan was smoking heavily. She smiled broadly as she approached, wrapping a heavy woollen shawl about her shoulders.
“Come to cross my palm with silver?” she asked, giving me a throaty laugh.
“I wanted to thank you for your hospitality to my father’s aunt. She is not a very nice person. I am sure she did not express her appreciation for your kindness.”
Magda tipped her head, her bright black eyes snapping as she looked me over from head to toe. “There is more. You want answers, do you not? Perhaps it is time you got them.”
She turned and made for her caravan, never looking round to see if I followed. She led the way inside, and I paused on the threshold to admire her little home. It was compact and more orderly than I would have expected, all her possessions neatly stowed on pegs or in little cupboards fitted into the walls. There was a stove for warmth and a narrow bed snugged under the curved roof. A tiny table laid with a sprigged cloth and two chairs completed the furnishings, and yet there was no sense of meagreness about the place. The bed was spread with a yellow taffeta coverlet and curtains fashioned of flowered chintz covered the windows. The tri
m had been painted a bright blue, and the effect was one of exuberant high spirits.
She waved me to a chair and fussed a moment with the kettle and brightly patterned teacups. She arranged them on the table, careful to avoid the small crystal ball resting on its pedestal in the middle. When she had poured out and we had warmed our hands, she reached for mine, turning it over and stripping off the glove to read my palm. She peered closely at it, clucking once or twice, then released it. I pressed my hand against my teacup, but even through the warmth of the porcelain I could still feel the light stroke of her fingertips as she traced the lines.
“You want to know about him,” she said finally. “Very well. Ask.”
I did not stop to wonder why she was willing to speak now when she had never done so in the past. Perhaps she was in a generous mood, perhaps she felt badly for things that had been between us in the past. Or perhaps it was another means of making mischief for her. With Magda, there was simply no way to know.
“You spoke of a woman called Mariah Young,” I began.
“You told me about her months ago. You said she had died. Who was she?”
Magda took a deep swallow of her tea and settled back in her chair. She eased her feet out of her shoes, scratching one calf with the toes of the other foot. There was a hole in her stocking and it was badly worn at the heel. She scratched for a long moment. I knew better than to prod her. She had her own rhythms, and she would speak in her own time.
Finally, she put her shoes back on and put down her teacup. “Mariah Young was a Gypsy girl, known among the travellers of this isle for her gift. She had the second sight, and a powerful gift it was. But she had other gifts too. She was beautiful and lively, with a cloud of black hair down to her waist and the tiniest feet you ever saw. She danced for money and told fortunes and collected hearts. She broke them all too, all but one.”
Magda’s voice, accented by her native Romany tongue, was peculiarly suited to storytelling. It was low for a woman’s, and she had a way of speaking that held the listener in thrall. I glanced down at the crystal ball on the table between us, and for an instant I could almost see a tiny figure with high-arched feet, dancing and snapping her fingers.
“The one man Mariah Young loved was not a Romany. He was a rogue, come from an old and proud Scottish family, and his people hated Mariah. But he must have loved her in spite of his wicked ways, for they married, and after seven full moons had passed, she gave birth to a child, a boy with his mother’s witchcraft and his father’s wildness.”
Magda’s eyes sharpened. “But blood will out, and the noble rogue left his wife and son. Mariah did not grieve for him. His love of drink and other women had killed her love, and when she saw she was rid of him she danced as she had not danced since she was wed. She took her boy to her people, tried to teach him the ways of the travellers. But the child was a halfling, born between two worlds, belonging to neither. When he was but ten years old he ran away, leaving his mother behind, and for the first time in her life, Mariah Young knew what it was to have a broken heart.”
I took a sip of my tea and averted my eyes. The tea was bitter now, and I put it down again.
“Ah, the taste of regret,” Magda said softly. “You wish you had not come. But you did, and you must let me finish the tale I have begun. After her son left her, Mariah Young would not dance, could not tell fortunes. Her gift failed her, and in its place came headaches, blinding ones. She took laudanum to ease them, and one day, when her little green bottle was as empty as her pockets, she stole a bottle from the chemist. She was discovered and put into gaol. Do you know what it means to a Gypsy to be locked up, lady? It means death to us. If we cannot breathe freely, we cannot breathe at all. And Mariah Young had no wish to live. She turned her face to the wall and died, but before she did, she cursed her gaolers. She cursed the chemist and the judge and anyone who could hear the sound of her voice. And before she died, she cursed her own son. She gave him the legacy of her sight, knowing he would fight against it, knowing it would destroy him slowly from within.”
Magda’s voice trailed off, a menacing, unearthly whisper.
There was a scream of laughter from outside the caravan—one of the children, I think—and I jumped. I picked up my glove and yanked it on.
“That is a faery story for children. I wanted the truth.”
Magda shrugged. “What is the truth? Mariah Young was Brisbane’s mother. He ran away and she died in gaol for stealing a bottle of laudanum. Those are facts. Are they the truth? No, for they do not tell you of the heart, and that is where truth lives, lady.”
“And I suppose it is the truth when you moan on about death in his shadow?” I asked, my voice thick with sarcasm.
“Did someone not die at the Abbey?” Her tone was even, but I saw the twitch of a smile at the corners of her mouth. “Come, lady, let us be friends. We have known each other too long to keep bad feelings between us. Give me your cup and I will tell you what I see.”
Reluctantly I swallowed the rest of the tea and handed her the cup, the same Jubilee cup she always used for tasseomancy. She upended it on the saucer and turned it thrice, then picked it up and peered inside. After a moment she gave it to me. “There is an eye. You must be watchful.”
I looked into the cup. Near the bottom was an oval shape, pointed at the ends with the sinister suggestion of a pupil. I thrust the cup back at her.
“Is that all? I must be watchful? Watchful of what?”
Magda shrugged again. “Sometimes the tea leaves do not have much to say. But I will tell you this—he fights with himself, he struggles, and to be with such a man, you will struggle as well.”
“Did the tea leaves say that too? They’ve grown chatty.”
She smiled, but this time there was no hint of the theatrics of the fortune-teller. It was a genuine smile, warm and sincere. “No, I say it as a woman who has lived a hundred lifetimes. He is a man beset by devils, and to be with him is to fight them too. But, oh, what a battle!” she finished with a wink.
“You have always warned me off of him. Why do you encourage me now?”
“Because I am growing old and sentimental.” She waved a hand, imperious as a queen. “I see only a little, lady, but I know that your fortune is as twined with his as the ivy to the oak. Be happy. And do not forget to cross my palm,” she admonished with a chuckle. She opened her hand for a coin.
I rose and reached into my pocket. “I have no silver, but I hope these will do.”
I laid the Grey Pearls across her palm, spilling them into her lap.
“Lady,” she began, her eyes round with wonder. I shook my head.
“They are real, and they are yours. Father can help you sell them for a fair price, if you like. Have Jasper arrange it.”
I left her then, and we did not exchange another word. She did not thank me; I did not expect it. I had little doubt our paths would cross again some day.
THE THIRTIETH CHAPTER
Think you there was or might be such a man As this I dreamt of?
—Antony and Cleopatra
Twelfth Night marked the beginning of the end of that fateful house party. My brothers and sisters collected their children and returned to their homes, most of them on speaking terms for once. Plum had written to say he had been invited to stay in Florence for Alessandro’s betrothal celebrations and would be leaving for Ireland as soon as the nuptials were concluded in the summer. Portia looked closely at me when she related the news, but I merely smiled and went on feeding Grim his sugared plums. Much to Father’s delight, Lysander and Violante had decided to remain in England for the birth of their child, and Hortense—by now fast friends with Violante—had agreed to play companion to her. And in a small piece in the Times I learned that Scotland Yard was very pleased to report the apprehension of a jewel thief of some notoriety. Brisbane’s name was not mentioned, nor was the Tear of Jaipur, though I knew they meant Charlotte King. But as closely as I read the columns, there was no word of letters pat
ent or the viscountcy of Wargrave. There was, however, the smallest mention of an estate in Yorkshire changing hands into the possession of Nicholas Brisbane. It was no great estate, and no lofty title, but I was happy for him.
As for me, I went to London with Portia and Jane, accompanied by Florence and Grim, and of course Morag, grumbling as usual about the extra work. I had much shopping to do to outfit the Rookery, and I felt the need for the diversions of city life and the comforts of steam heat. Portia’s house, a vast, modern place, was impossibly warm even in the dreariest months. We settled in companionably, and the dark days of January passed quickly away.
One wet afternoon late in January, Jane and I lolled by the fire, talking desultorily of things we might do once the weather improved. The butler entered with the tea things, and Portia followed him, flipping through the post. She had already opened one letter, and I caught the quickest glimpse of a bold black scrawl before she shoved it to the bottom of the stack.
“Jane, dearest, won’t you pour? And Julia, you can hand round the cakes. Mind you take some of that sponge. Cook is quite proud of it.”
Jane poured as Portia handed out the letters. Out of the tail of my eye, I saw her slip the opened one behind the cushion of her chair as she sorted through the rest. She lit on one from Aunt Hermia, and exclaimed, reading it out to us as we sipped our tea and nibbled at sandwiches.
“Aunt Hermia says Hortense is well, and Violante is feeling quite strong now. She has put Father on a diet,” she said with a smothered laugh. “Apparently he was a bit bilious, and she has decided he must not eat butter, gravy, or pastry. Poor Father!” We exchanged smiles. Father was the most powerful man of our acquaintance, but he was also the most susceptible to being fussed over. They might have begun rockily, but Violante was very likely in a fair way to becoming his favourite daughter-in-law.
Portia’s expression sobered. “Father has received a letter from India. Oh, dear.”
Silent in the Sanctuary Page 37