by Winona Kent
“He will be taking a wife soon himself,” Augustus said. “He has not spoken of it to his father, but Esmerelda, who is his grandmother, has the skill of foretelling. She confided to me that he loves a woman who is not of the Gypsy life.”
“I know who she is,” Charlie said. “She has a son.”
She stopped herself again. Too much.
But Augustus seemed unsurprised.
“She has indeed given birth to a son,” he said. “And if Jobey marries this woman, there is every chance he will not be welcomed back by his father. Not because of her son, but because she is a gadji, not of their world. So, to mark her joy at his forthcoming wedding, Esmerelda gave Jobey a gift. A deck of cards, the Tarot. But missing one of its number. To mark also her sadness at his leaving.”
The Tarot, Charlie thought. The incomplete deck in the Travellers Room at the museum. Missing just one of its cards…
“As the night drew on,” Augustus continued, “Jobey approached me. He told me of his plans to work with leather, to make saddles and harnesses.”
He paused.
“The woman who will become Jobey’s wife was lately employed at the manor by my son. And here is the duplicity of which I spoke earlier. The child, Daniel, is his. But Louis will not accept paternity. I fear this is not the first time, and it dismays me more than any of the transgressions he has committed in the past. I have ensured Daniel receives a sum of money, each year on this day, to make amends for the wrongdoing.”
“That is very generous of you,” Charlie said. “And you have a good deal more generosity and kindness in you than your son. Who this night has committed a further outrage.”
“This comes as no great revelation,” Augustus said, wearily. “What has he done?”
“The Dog’s Watch has been burned in a fire,” Charlie said. “And Mr. Deeley has been accused of causing it. But your son is the guilty one, Monsieur Duran. He hates Mr. Deeley. And me. He set the fire to rid himself of both of us.”
She stopped again, and bent over, holding her middle.
“You are in pain,” Augustus observed, with concern.
“I am not well,” Charlie whispered. “And I fear I must return home. Very soon.”
She could not hold the tears back.
“I care very much for Mr. Deeley, Monsieur Duran, and I am certain he entertains the same feelings for me.”
She shook her head, hopelessly.
“But I cannot bear the thought of leaving him. He will almost certainly be found guilty…and then he will hang.”
“Why must you return home?” Augustus asked. “The journey back to London is certainly arduous, and the city air is foul and not at all conducive to healing. Would you rather not convalesce in the country, surrounded by your cousins? And you will be near to Mr. Deeley…who may yet be granted a reprieve.”
Charlie looked at the gentleman who was destined to become her ancestor, searching his face for a way to tell him the truth.
“I cannot think of any way for him to prove his innocence, Monsieur Duran. The magistrate is Mr. Ferryman, whose loyalty is to your son, and whose dishonest word he will believe above all else.”
Augustus thought upon this, and then withdrew something from the pocket of his coat.
“I have discovered,” he said, “after many years of being, that in some instances, it may be better to put your trust in the fates, than to try to argue with them. This is the card that Esmerelda removed from the deck that she gave to Jobey Cooper.”
Charlie looked at the faded picture of a trouserless man, his stockings fallen down about his knees, feathers in his disarrayed hair. He carried a long stick on his shoulder, and his face showed confusion.
“She told me it was the card of beginnings.”
“It is the card of The Fool,” Charlie said.
“I will overlook that unfortunate detail. So you know the Tarot?”
“I have a passing familiarity.”
“Esmeralda told me that this card may also represent a journey. Perhaps of the physical. Perhaps of the spirit. Perhaps a journey made up of unexpected events.”
Augustus pressed the card into Charlie’s hand.
“I will give it to you, with Esmerelda’s words. ‘Choose your direction wisely and quickly. Your answer may lie at the beginning, not at the end.’”
Charlie looked again at the card, and then at Augustus.
“You may pass this off as insanity,” she said, slowly, selecting her words with care. “You may ascribe it to my delicate health, to a turning of the mind caused by the illness that is coursing through my body…”
She paused. Augustus was staring at her, intently. Would he understand? Could he understand?
“I live here. Here.” She indicated the village, with her hand, sweeping her arm across the view of the green that was before them. “But not now. I live almost 200 years from now. Sarah’s cottage is my cottage. Sarah is my great-grandmother. Six times into the past. And you…”
She looked again at Augustus, staring deeply into his blue eyes—the same blue eyes she had inherited, through the generations.
“You are my great grandfather.”
Augustus’ eyes were fixed on hers.
“Six times into the past,” he said, clearly, slowly, and without a hint of doubt.
Charlie picked up her mobile, and switched it on. 49%.
She flipped to the portrait that Nick had sent her.
“Look,” she said, showing Augustus the little screen. “That was painted in 1827. Two years from now.”
Augustus took the mobile from Charlie’s hand. He turned it over and over, curiously, delicately, like a geologist examining a rock that had been cracked open to reveal the glittering minerals inside.
He looked, then, at the picture on the little screen, which showed Sarah and himself, side by side, not just a passing likeness, but a painting which had captured their faces exactly.
“If you believe this is insanity, I would not blame you for a moment,” Charlie said.
Augustus’ eyes were transfixed on the portrait. “And how does this likeness come to inhabit the device?”
“It was sent,” Charlie replied. “Dispatched by my cousin. From the future. Through the air.”
“Ah,” he said, with a nod, although Charlie was quite certain he understood none of it.
He placed the mobile back in her hand.
“You have a message,” he said.
Chapter 31
The cellar beneath the Dog’s Watch Inn was an unaccommodating hole dug into the earth, lined with rough bricks, and more or less abandoned to whatever decay and pestilence might find a home in its depths. It was a foul, dark and damp place, Charlie thought, as Lemuel Ferryman led her down the stairs. There was water everywhere, and it smelled of burned, wet wood.
At the rear of the cellar, a small room had been constructed of more bricks and mortar. Mr. Ferryman selected a large iron key from his ring and inserted it in the lock of the heavy wooden door. Opening the door partway, he held his lantern up, so that Charlie could observe the prisoner.
Huddled on a wooden bench, which did double duty as a bed, Mr. Deeley slept without pillow or blanket. His face was unshaven and bruised, and bore the marks of a beating administered out of sight of witnesses.
Charlie set the bowl of porridge she had been carrying down on the muddy floor beside the bench. She had also brought a heel of bread, and a mug of water, all that Lemuel Ferryman would allow.
The smell of the porridge—or perhaps the noise of the door scraping open and squeaking on its hinges—awoke Mr. Deeley.
“Stay as you are,” Mr. Ferryman advised, as his prisoner struggled to sit up. “Mrs. Collins has brought you breakfast. Make the most of it, as lunch is optional, and entirely dependent upon my disposition.”
Mr. Deeley abandoned the idea of sitting up, and instead eased himself onto his back.
“Your kindness,” he said, “is unparalleled.”
“I daresay your
temper has improved with the passage of night.”
“Mr. Reader made an excellent argument with his fists. And his boots.”
“I shall convey your compliments to him,” Mr. Ferryman replied. “And leave you to your conscience. And your breakfast.”
He turned to Charlie.
“You have seen he is safe and sound. Are you satisfied?”
“I am greatly dissatisfied, sir,” Charlie replied. “But I will stay with Mr. Deeley a while, if you will agree to it.”
“My disposition on this Monday morning has yet to be tested. I will agree to one hour.”
“As you wish,” Charlie said. “Thank you.”
Lemuel Ferryman placed his lantern on the floor, then closed the door behind her, taking care to ensure that it was once again securely locked.
“Hello, Mr. Deeley,” Charlie said.
“Hello, Mrs. Collins,” Mr. Deeley answered, with a smile. “I am cheered greatly by your presence. Although the circumstances and surroundings leave a great deal to be desired.”
“I would find happiness in your company,” Charlie said, “anywhere. And under any circumstance.”
She knelt beside him, and gently touched his bruised face.
“This is a terrible, horrible miscarriage of justice.”
Mr. Deeley turned his head towards her.
“I know. But Mr. Ferryman will believe the lesser Monsieur Duran’s words over mine. There is nothing to be done.”
He shut his eyes.
“I will hang.”
“You will not hang,” Charlie said.
“So I shall be shipped off to Van Diemen’s Land. Fifteen years hard labour for a crime I did not commit. If I survive the floggings.”
“You will not hang and you will not be transported.”
“How can you be so certain?” Mr. Deeley answered, sadly.
“Mr. Deeley…”
Charlie stopped. And then began again, with a great deal of hesitation.
“I am in this place by accident…”
“More so, me,” Mr. Deeley replied, grimly, not entirely understanding.
How could she explain it to him? Augustus had understood readily.
The thought of losing Mr. Deeley was devastating. As devastating as the fate that awaited him, that Nick had described in his last message.
“I cannot bear to think,” she said, struggling to control her voice, so that he would not see her tears, “that we will be apart.”
She touched his face again, and he grasped her hand. He kissed her fingers, her wrist, the delicate skin on the inside of her arm.
“Mr. Deeley…Shaun…”
He stopped. “Forgive me. I have taken too much of a liberty.”
“You have not,” Charlie said. “And I would be happy for you to take much, much more.”
Still on her knees on the floor, she leaned over, and kissed him tenderly, on his lips. She loosened his shirt, and touched her lips to the smoothness of his chest…
Mr. Deeley’s fingers brushed the plunging edge of her gown, caressed the curve of her breasts hidden by the fabric, felt her rising response…
He drew her close to him, and then kissed her lips, her neck…then slipped his fingers beneath her bodice and, emboldened, lifted her breast, exposing what lay beneath. He discovered the concealed rosebuds of her passion, touched them with his lips and tongue, then devoured them, greedily, and without restraint.
“I cannot imagine a life that is without you,” he whispered.
“Nor I,” Charlie said. “I ache for you.”
He drew her close once more, found the fastenings that ensured her modesty, and quickly loosed them.
“If these are to be my last memories of you,” he whispered, “then let them be my sweetest.”
Chapter 32
From the top end of the Village Green, where the Dog’s Watch Inn—and Mr. Deeley’s prison cell—were situated, it was only a short walk back to Sarah’s cottage.
Charlie stopped to observe the activity around the public house, which had been partially damaged by the flames, but was not, apparently, beyond repair. The windows could be re-glazed. The door, floor and ceiling were still intact. The walls inside were smoke-and-water stained, but in no danger of collapse.
Outside the building, Lemuel Ferryman sat perched upon an upended cask, compiling lists of what needed to be done for the local tradesmen. The last completed, and dispatched by way of a boy from the stables, Mr. Ferryman got to his feet to greet his old friend, the lesser Monsieur Duran.
“I have the honour of wishing you a good morning, sir. But alas, not the wherewithal to afford you a drink. You will have to patronize The Rose and Crown for some days, until my damage is made right.”
The lesser Monsieur Duran surveyed the whitewashed exterior of the inn, which had been blackened where the smoke had rolled out of the broken windows and the open door.
“It is with regret that I take my custom to The Rose and Crown,” he replied. “But I will welcome the restoration of your establishment. I feel a certain…responsibility.”
You can say that again, Charlie thought, uncharitably, watching from a safe distance across the road.
“How is this, sir?” Mr. Ferryman laughed.
“Monsieur Deeley was lately employed by me. So. I will pay for your repairs.”
“This is an unexpected offer,” said Mr. Ferryman, “but it is welcomed. And accepted with much gratitude.”
“May I ask after the contents of your insides? All has been lost?”
“Not all,” Mr. Ferryman answered. “Less than I had at first believed. Regrettably, some libations. Several tables, and a number of chairs. The bar and the wall behind it, which must be restored.”
“I suppose,” said the lesser Monsieur Duran, “that the paper which you held most highly in your esteem, and most lately upon your wall, is now in cinders.”
“You suppose correctly, sir. As I can find no trace of it within the vicinity of where it was last seen. It is a lamentable loss.”
And there, Charlie thought, holding that place in her middle that would not cease to cause her pain, was the undisputable answer to what had happened to the deed to the Village Green, and the vacant square of land at the end of Poorhouse Lane.
Burned up in a deliberate fire.
That would likely never have happened at all, if she had not convinced Sarah to go the ball.
Cause and effect.
The lesser Monsieur Duran took his leave of Lemuel Ferryman.
And Charlie continued on her way. It was half past eleven, according to the clock in the steeple of St. Eligius Church. Sarah’s lessons would soon be finishing at the vicarage—for she was still employed there, even if that employment was due to shortly cease.
She wondered where Augustus had gone. Back to the manor, to further incur the wrath of his son? Not likely. Not after what he’d revealed to her as they’d sat together under the Village Oak. Not likely the hostel attached to The Dog’s Watch, either. Lemuel Ferryman would have wasted no time in informing his very good friend of the presence of his father.
The hostelry at the Rose and Crown, then?
Her pondering was answered the moment she unlatched the cottage’s kitchen door, and let herself inside. For there sat Augustus, at the big wooden table. And there, also, sat Sarah, beside him, a pot of fresh tea steeping nearby.
“My dear cousin!” Sarah exclaimed. “Where have you been? Your bed was not slept in. I have been most concerned.”
“I fell asleep under the Village Oak,” Charlie said. “I apologize if I caused undue alarm. Monsieur Duran discovered me earlier, and we had a conversation. Has he not mentioned to you that we spoke?”
“It is my turn to offer apologies,” Augustus replied. “For I was distracted by other things.”
“Monsieur Duran has proposed that we might marry,” Sarah said, her eyes bright. “He came to the vicarage, and sought me out. In the middle of the children’s lesson in Algebra.”
> “I hope you said yes,” Charlie replied, with humor.
“Mrs. Foster gave me the honor of a swift and positive reply,” Augustus confirmed. “The inspiration for my impulsive request having come directly from you, Mrs. Collins. For you are easily the most gloriously impetuous woman I have ever encountered.”
“Oh,” Charlie said. And then again: “Oh.”
“Of course, I gave my notice to Mrs. Hobson on the spot,” Sarah said, with just a hint, Charlie thought, of self-satisfaction. “Her children are now no doubt attempting to burn down the lesson room. I am certain Reverend Hobson will be able to take charge. Sooner, if not later.”
“May I be the first to offer my congratulations to you,” Charlie said, meaning it. “I cannot begin to tell you how pleased this has made me.”
“I believe I have an understanding of the depth of your feelings,” Augustus replied, with a smile. “Your congratulations are welcomed. And very much appreciated.”
“If it had not been for you, my dearest Catherine, Monsieur Duran and I might never have become acquainted. I owe a debt to you for my present, and future, happiness.”
Charlie sank onto a chair. The throbbing, stabbing appendix pain was too much. She shut her eyes.
Sarah was on her feet immediately, and at Charlie’s side. “Will you not allow me to fetch Mr. Tamworth, Catherine? He is the village surgeon. Surely there is a tonic he can prepare for you, or a poultice which may draw out the affliction?”
Charlie shook her head.
“No,” she whispered. “I thank you, but no. What I suffer from cannot be cured by a poultice or a tonic. Although it would be good if you could find something that might take away the pain.”
Augustus also stood. “I know where there is a dose or two of laudanum,” he said. “If you will permit me…?”
“Yes,” Charlie said. “Please.”
Augustus departed, with haste.
“Surely you will lie down,” Sarah coaxed. “It cannot have been good for you, sleeping on the ground outside. Let me help you upstairs, to your bed. And I will put some hot water into a bottle for you, to warm away your distress.”