Midsummer Night

by DEANNA RAYBOURN

  After our own port and cigars—the ladies might withdraw at Bellmont Abbey but they partook of precisely the same pleasures as the gentlemen—the company broke into groups. Some made up tables for cards, others withdrew to the billiards room, and several clustered about the instruments in the great hall, preparing for a little musical entertainment. Seeing no sign of Brisbane, I slipped out of the hall and made my way noiselessly to the great staircase. I passed Maurice, the enormous stuffed bear, and as I brushed past his moth-eaten fur, an arm reached out to pull me behind it.

  “Brisbane!” I exclaimed, only his mouth was on mine and the word was lost.

  After a long and thoroughly pleasurable moment, he lifted his head and I tried to catch my breath. His hand was still in a compromising spot and I returned the favour, smothering his groan with my lips.

  He was muttering something and I pulled away to hear it. “Forty-eight hours. Forty-eight hours. Forty-eight hours.”

  “Unless,” I began, then broke off, feeling suddenly shy.

  “Unless?” he prompted, his witch-black eyes glittering brilliantly in the dim light.

  “Unless you would like to slip upstairs now,” I murmured. “I can dismiss Morag. No one need know.”

  A slow smile curved his lips and he bent his head to nip my lower lip with his teeth. “Tempting, my lady. But I am engaged to play billiards with your father and your brother Benedick. They have threatened my manhood if I do not appear, and I’d rather keep that intact.”

  “So would I,” I said seriously.

  He burst out laughing and kissed me again. “Tomorrow after luncheon. The river meadow.”

  I nodded and he slipped out from behind Maurice, leaving me deliciously bemused. I adjusted the décolletage of my gown and waited a few seconds, then emerged. Out of the tail of my eye, I caught a glimpse of a white apron whisking around the corner. One of the maids, eavesdropping, no doubt. And I had a very good idea which.

  * * *

  The next afternoon I fended off a clutch of feminine well-wishers—every female relation seemed to have forgotten I had been married before and wanted to offer advice—and made my way out of the Abbey and down to the river. There was no sign of Brisbane at first, but as I walked down the bank, I spied a pile of clothing, gentleman’s garments of excellent cut, folded neatly. Just then I heard a splash in the river and turned swiftly.

  Brisbane was breaching the surface of the water, first a seal-dark head, then a long, muscular back, then...

  I watched, mesmerised, as he swam a little distance then abruptly dove underwater and turned to swim back. He had not seen me, but I settled myself on the bank and enjoyed the spectacle of my betrothed disporting himself.

  At length he stopped and shook his head. He caught sight of me and gave me a slow smile of invitation. “Coming in? The water is cold but I am most assuredly not.”

  He got his feet under him then and rose, water cascading from his bare shoulders, running in rivulets from his firmly muscled chest, down to his waist. He waded towards the bank, the water dipping lower with each step. It had just reached the top of his hips when he scowled.

  “Bloody buggering Christ,” he muttered.

  “Language, Brisbane,” I said mildly, but he was not attending. He was staring over my shoulder to where a Gypsy woman stood—the same woman who had predicted doom for me the previous day.

  She grinned. “You’ve grown up, lad. A far sight bigger than the last I saw you.”

  I felt a rush of irritation. “Madam, you are impertinent,” I said, tartly.

  She turned her broad smile upon me. “Impertinent? Nay, lady, for I’ve known wee Nicky since he were a lad, haven’t I, boy?” she asked, tossing the question to Nicholas.

  He stood, his arms folded over his chest as the water lapped at the olive skin below his navel. “What do you want, Marigold?”

  She spread her hands wide. “What else? To wish you well, boy. You are to be married tomorrow and I mean to see it. Perhaps your lady will invite me,” she said with a meaningful glance at me.

  I looked to Brisbane, but he gave me no sign of what he wanted. He merely stood, implacable as a chess king, while I faced the woman.

  “If Brisbane wishes you there, of course we can accommodate another guest,” I told her.

  She gave a short, sharp laugh, like the bark of a fox. “Do you hear the lady? How gracious she is! She can accommodate me. It’s for you to say, boy.”

  She fixed Brisbane with a determined look and he gave a gusty sigh. “Very well. If it means so much to you. Marigold, this is my fiancée, Lady Julia Grey. Julia, may I present Marigold Lee? My aunt.”

  3 Silent in the Grave

  Chapter Three

  Cupid is a knavish lad,

  Thus to make poor females mad.

  —A Midsummer Night’s Dream, III.ii.440

  I stared at the woman in rapt fascination. I had recently made the acquaintance of another of Brisbane’s aunts, the enchanting Rosalie, and as I peered more closely, I saw a faint family resemblance. Both had beautiful dark eyes, but Rosalie’s had been gentle where this woman’s gaze was coldly assessing. She was appraising me, and she made no secret of it as she looked me over from hair to hem.

  She inclined her head with all the majesty of a queen granting the most perfunctory recognition to a lowly subject. I looked from her to Brisbane, and if the situation had not been so fraught with resentment, it might have been amusing that they were standing in precisely the same posture—although it must be noted that Brisbane’s aunt was decidedly less nude.

  “Perhaps you ought to dress, Brisbane,” I murmured.

  Before he could reply, there was a rustling in the meadow grass and another woman appeared, this one considerably younger, scarcely older than Brisbane himself, and wearing an anxious expression.

  “There you are, Marigold! And wee Nicky, too. How good to see you, boy!” She was shorter than Marigold, but with the same lovely eyes and a peculiar, whispering sort of voice.

  Brisbane’s expression softened. “Hello, Alma.”

  The woman turned to me. “And this must be the bride!” Not waiting for confirmation, she clasped both my hands in hers, peering intently into my eyes. “I hope you will both be very happy.”

  “Thank you—” I began, but Marigold stepped in, lifting a warning finger to Alma.

  “We know better than that. The signs,” she said darkly.

  Alma darted an anxious smile at me as she dropped my hands. “The signs are not always clear,” she said, her soft voice apologetic.

  “But they were enough for Marigold to come along predicting gloom and despair, is that right?” Brisbane asked. River water still dripped from his black hair, and he looked like an angry riparian god.

  Marigold shrugged. “I only speak of what I have seen.”

  “Of what you wanted to see,” Brisbane fired back.

  They seemed at an impasse, both of them rooted to the spot, colour high and eyes snapping. I stepped forward to pour a little oil on the troubled waters, extending my hand to Alma.

  “You are quite correct. I am Julia. How do you know Brisbane? Are you a relation as well?”

  Her furrowed brow smoothed as she shook my hand. “Yes, my dear. I am his aunt. Marigold and I were born Youngs—his mother’s sisters.”

  “And Rosalie’s,” I remarked.

  Marigold’s complexion darkened further. “Do not speak her name. She has forsaken the travellers’ ways. As has the boy,” she said, jerking her chin at Brisbane.

  “For Christ’s sake, Marigold—” Brisbane began.

  “Language,” Alma and I said automatically. We caught each other’s eye and smiled.

  But there was no lightening the mood between aunt and nephew. Marigold lifted her hand and pointed directly at Brisbane. “You have chosen to marry outside your own people. It is a disgrace.”

  She spat on the ground as if to wash the taste of his dishonour out of her mouth. His mouth curved into a bitter smile
.

  “What do you expect, Marigold? After all, I’m not a Young. Not really. I’m just a poshrat.”

  Although the Roma guarded their language fiercely, I had gleaned a few words, and poshrat was one of them. It meant half breed, a child born of a Gypsy union with a gorgio, accepted by neither.

  “You are Young enough to have the sight,” Marigold replied coldly. “That makes you one of us. And yet you scorn your gift to work with them,” she said, flicking her eyes to me. “And now you marry one. Well, I wish you luck of her, boy. You will need it.”

  With that final pronouncement of doom, she turned on her heel and strode through the meadow grass, making no sound as she went. Alma looked from one of us to the other, shrugging her shoulders by way of apology.

  “She will come ‘round,” she promised. “Give her time.”

  Brisbane gave her a kindly look, but shook his head. “You might as well wait for the sun to move around the earth, Alma. She will always hate me for being less of a Gypsy than she is.”

  Alma’s expression was pitying. “No, dear boy. She does not hate you for being less of a Gypsy than she is. She hates you for being more.”

  She gave me a quick nod before hurrying after her sister. I watched her go, the meadow grass parting before her nimble stride. I turned, but Brisbane was already out of the water, buttoning his trousers over his damp skin.

  “You’ll catch cold if you don’t dry yourself properly,” I told him.

  He scooped me into an embrace. His chest was warm from the sun and his skin smelled of the fresh river water. “Not even married and scolding already? I hear they make a bridle for that.”

  “Do you mean to subdue me?” I asked in mock horror.

  “The idea does offer some extremely diverting possibilities,” he murmured as his teeth grazed my ear.

  I gave him a little push. “We need to talk to them. You ought to make amends with your aunt.”

  He pulled back, his gaze cool. “Why?”

  “I would like them to come to the wedding.”

  He blinked rapidly. “You cannot be serious.”

  “As the grave,” I told him.

  “Julia, your entire family, no, the entire village of Blessingstoke will be filling St. Barnabas to the rafters tomorrow. Half of Debrett’s is invited and you want to add Gypsies to the mix?”

  I stared at him, comprehension slowly dawning. “Brisbane, I am not ashamed of what you are. Are you?”

  He opened his mouth, then snapped it shut. After a long moment, he spoke. “No, of course not. I love my mother’s people. But I am not one of them, not entirely. And they never let me forget it. For every Roma like Alma who recognises me as a child of their blood, there are half a dozen like Marigold who wouldn’t cross the street to—” He broke off with a rueful smile. “Well, let’s just say they wouldn’t bestir themselves to save me if I happened to be in peril. It is a complicated relationship, Julia.”

  “Not least because your gift is greater than Marigold’s apparently,” I added.

  His gaze slid away. “So she fancies.”

  I put a finger under his chin and turned his head back towards me. “Brisbane?”

  “Very well. Marigold is good with palms, but that’s the extent of her skills. Rosalie has her potions and embrocations, and Alma can read tea leaves when the moon is full, but none of them have the ability my mother did.”

  Brisbane seldom spoke of his mother, and the effort cost him. She had died, tragically, in circumstances for which he still blamed himself. “The ability you have,” I reminded him.

  “Marigold resents it. It always rankled her that my mother had the sight and she didn’t. Seeing a poshrat like me inherit it half killed her. She might have been more understanding if I’d stayed with them and married a Gypsy girl and used it for them. But because I dared to strike out on my own and live with gorgios, well, you saw her.”

  “She is wrong, you know. What you do is important. You save people,” I told him, pressing my lips to the half-moon scar high upon his cheekbone. “You saved me.”

  His arm tightened about my waist and we stood for a long moment, wrapped in each other.

  “My God, you’re like a pair of rabbits, rutting in the hedgerows,” said a lazy voice behind us.

  I turned to see my brother Plum picking his way towards us through the grass. I gave him a sweet smile. “I will give you a thousand pounds to go away and pretend you never saw us.”

  His expression was rueful. “I am sent by our dear sister Olivia to find you, and I would not dare her rage for ten thousand, particularly when she has a splitting head from drinking too much of Father’s best single malt last night. I come bearing news: your wedding dress has arrived from Paris and she wants you to try the blasted thing on. And, Brisbane, if you are quite finished mauling my sister, you might think about putting on the rest of your clothes.”

  Plum took me firmly by the hand and towed me away, and as we left, Brisbane reached for his shirt. Over the sound of the rushing river, I could hear him muttering to himself, “Thirty-six hours. Thirty-six hours.”

  No sooner had we left Brisbane than I pointed Plum in the direction of the Gypsy camp.

  “I want to pay a call,” I told him.

  “A call? Julia, they’re Gypsies, not the ladies’ benevolent society. What the devil are you thinking?”

  As we walked, I sketched out the scene I had just witnessed between Brisbane and his aunts. “I think she feels left out,” I finished. “She put on an air as if she were jesting, but I believe she thinks the Roma have been terribly slighted at not receiving an invitation.”

  “And you mean to invite them? Into St. Barnabas?”

  I turned to face him squarely. “I do. And if that troubles you, you can take yourself off right now. I’ll not hear another word against Brisbane or his family. I mean it, Plum.”

  He held up his hands as if to ward me off. “I believe you. And you must know I am the last person who would speak ill of Brisbane.”

  I raised a brow in his direction. “That surprises me. I did not think you had entirely warmed to him.”

  “I didn’t. Not at first,” he admitted. “But I have had occasion to speak with him about his work. Quite interesting stuff.”

  “Are you thinking of becoming an enquiry agent?” I teased.

  He rolled his eyes heavenward. “Should art prove any more inhospitable, I well might. I am sick to death of trying to translate what I see in my mind onto canvas or marble. It’s maddening stuff. I know why all the great ones drank or took hallucinogens.” His expression turned thoughtful. “Perhaps that’s my problem. I ought to take hallucinogens.”

  “Could you wait until after the wedding, dearest? I’ve enough to worry about at present.”

  We made our way to where the Gypsies usually camped, but even if I had not known the way, the noise would have betrayed them. They were packing up, and doing it in something of a hurry. Marigold stood by her vardo overseeing the organised chaos. Children ran hither and yon while the women packed up the clotheslines and doused the cooking fires and the men prepared the horses. Marigold’s expression was inscrutable, but I fixed a smile on my face as I approached. Plum hung back, showing unaccustomed tact, and fell into conversation with one of the men about a horse.

  Marigold pursed her lips as I came near.

  “I am sorry to see you are leaving.”

  She shrugged and made no reply.

  “I apologise for not issuing an invitation to the wedding sooner.”

  Her laugh was short and sharp. “Lost the address, did you?”

  I would not be provoked. I stepped closer and she raised a brow at me in the same imperious gesture I had seen Brisbane use a hundred times.

  “I know you and Brisbane are not on the best of terms, but it would mean a great deal to us both if some of his family was here to see him wed.”

  “The signs—” she began.

  I held up a hand. “I do not care about the signs. I know
what you see. And it isn’t the first time I have been warned about him. There will always be those who think to crush the happiness of other people.”

  Colour rose high in her cheeks, and I felt a little rush of satisfaction that I had scored a touch on her. But immediately the satisfaction was replaced with regret. I had not come to make an enemy of her, and I hastened to mend the moment.

  “I do not think the people who have warned me against him mean to be malicious,” I said quickly. “I believe they speak from kindness, however misguided.” The colour in her face ebbed, but her mouth was set in a mulish line. “There will always be things about him I do not understand—shadows from his past that haunt him still, dangers he faces on a daily basis. Death is as much a part of him as life is because of the work he has chosen. And because of the gift he bears, the gift which shows him things I know he would rather not see.” Her lips softened and I moved closer, my voice pitched low. “You see him as someone who has an ability you envy, but have you ever considered the price he pays for it? He is not entirely one of you, but neither can he ever be truly a gorgio, not with the second sight. He is caught between two worlds, Mrs. Lee—yours and mine—and it costs him something every day of his life. I should think for the love you bore his mother, your own sister, you could spare a little for her son on his wedding day.”

  She did not turn her head, did not look at me. She drew a deep breath and lifted her chin.

  “Alma, do not forget my green bodice,” she called, nodding to where her sister was taking down a line of washing.

  I waited, but she did not turn to me, did not acknowledge in any way that I was present or that I had spoken at all. I knew when I was beat.

  “Very well, Mrs. Lee. Then I wish you safe travels. I trust we will not meet again.”

  I turned on my heel and began to walk smartly away.

  “And all good luck to you, my lady,” she called after, her voice harsh. “You will have need of it.”

  Plum caught up to me as I strode away. “What the devil was all of that about?”