by Liz Carlyle
“If you please, ma’am, you’re wanted on the platform in a quarter hour,” said the woman in black. “We’ll be awarding the prizes for Best Girl and such.”
“Oh, yes! Our charity school presentations.” Setting her hands rather proudly together, Lady Leeton smiled round at all of them. “Lady Madeleine, Lady Anisha, permit me the honor of introducing our school’s matron, Mrs. Day, and our wonderful volunteers. This is Mrs. Drummond, who helps with deportment. And Mrs. Howe, who oversees needlework. And lastly, Mrs. Ashton, who helps with grammar. I cannot think what we would do without them.”
Each of the ladies curtseyed in turn as Lady Madeleine made a gracious fuss over them. Anisha held back, one eye upon Sir Wilfred, for she had a sudden notion.
At last the four ladies drifted away.
“Well, if you will excuse me,” said Lady Leeton. “Oh, and Wilfred—I shall wish you to manage the striking of the stalls once afternoon tea has commenced. Everything goes on the carts back to the stables. Now mind you watch Potter and the footmen, and do not let them dawdle.”
Sir Wilfred tugged his forelock subserviently. “Yes, ma’am!” he said speciously. “I am your servant. At least donations have nearly doubled last year’s, most of it from the fortune-teller’s tent.”
Lady Leeton’s gaze fell upon Anisha, and she darted impulsively forward, giving her a little hug. “Oh, my dear, how ever can I thank you!” she declared. “You have quite amazed everyone. What a flair for the dramatic you have.”
“Thank you,” Anisha murmured.
“Oh, Anisha has a great many talents.” Lady Madeleine caught Anisha’s arm through her own almost protectively. “I never cease to be amazed. Why, she understands the movements of the heavens better than half the Royal Astronomical Society, and she’s an expert in herbs and botanic medicine.”
“Are you?” exclaimed Lady Leeton. “Do you know, Lady Anisha, the subject of herbals utterly fascinated my father. As an apothecary, he amassed a famous collection of . . . oh, dear, what are they called, Wilfred?”
Leeton smiled wearily. “Pharmacopoeia, my dear.”
“Yes, that!” she said brightly. “Papa had some dating back to the fifteenth century. You must come inside and see the moldering old things. Perhaps you can make something of them, for heaven knows I cannot—” Abruptly, her gaze shifted. “Oh, look! There is Mr. Hundley, who has not yet made a donation this year. Pardon me, ladies.”
Leeton watched her go with a vague smile. “Hannah is nothing if not ruthless,” he said musingly. “Poor Hundley will be walking back to Mayfair in his drawers by the time she’s finished.”
But Madeleine had turned to a lady in a green dress who was enquiring after one of the lace fichus she had purchased. Anisha seized her chance.
“I wonder, Sir Wilfred, if we might take a turn about the bandstand?” she asked quietly. “There was something . . . well, something a little awkward I wished your advice on.”
Leeton pulled a sympathetic face and offered his arm. “I have thought all day, my dear, that something troubled you.”
“Yes, though I have been loath to discuss it with anyone,” she said. “But I remember your kind advice at the Royal Opera House. The matter concerns two gentlemen, you see, whose characters you know.”
“Well, my discerning judgment has been often remarked by my friends,” he said a little pompously. “How may I help?”
Anisha feigned embarrassment and they set off, her arm resting lightly upon his. “I think, Sir Wilfred, that I am being courted,” she confessed when they had drawn away from the crowd.
“Oh, heavens!” He grinned down at her. “That troubles you?”
“No, it is just that I cannot decide whose suit I ought to favor,” she said. “The first gentleman, as you might guess, is our mutual friend.”
“Ah ha!” Leeton patted her hand. “I knew old Royden was smitten!”
“But the second gentleman—” Here, she lowered her lashes and snared her lip for an instant. “The second you know as well. It is my brother’s friend, the Earl of Lazonby.”
She felt the faintest hitch in Leeton’s gait. “Ah,” he answered. “Lazonby, eh? Well, well. A handsome fellow, to be sure. And rich as Croesus now.”
Anisha cast a glance over her shoulder as if watchful. “But his character, sir,” she said, dropping her voice. “I have been told, if you will forgive my saying, that you once knew him well?”
It was Leeton’s turn to color faintly. “Ordinarily Hannah does not like me to speak of the past,” he grumbled. “But she started it, didn’t she? Before we married, you see, I settled down and ceased my . . . my less salubrious activities.”
“How good of you.”
“Well, that vile business with Sir Percy drew too much police attention, and by then I’d seen my way into the theater business.” He shrugged. “In fact, I’d already contracted to purchase the Athenian. But in my wilder days, yes, I knew Lazonby. A dashing young rogue, by gad.”
“Oh, he can be most charming,” Anisha agreed. “And I have to tell you, fond as I am of Mr. Napier, I think I am leaning toward Lazonby. But perhaps I’m naïve? Do you imagine, Sir Wilfred, that he did anything wicked? There have been the most frightful stories in the Chronicle this past year.”
“Oh, stuff and nonsense, I expect,” said Sir Wilfred. “There’s a young fellow on their staff with some sort of liberal ax to grind. Tried once or twice to barge in on me. But I put a cinder in his ear and sent him off again, I can tell you.”
“So Lazonby didn’t murder anyone?”
Here, Sir Wilfred hesitated. “I thought not at the time,” he answered, “and I told what little I knew on the witness stand. Still, I was shocked it came to a trial. Figured he’d make a run for it—off to the hells of Paris, or such, after he got my message.”
“Your message?”
“Indeed,” said Sir Wilfred. “As soon as the police called on me, I saw which way the wind was blowing.”
“Because of his quarrel with Lord Percy?”
“It was more of a harangue,” he answered, “for it takes two to quarrel. Lazonby was a hardened gamester, there’s no disputing. And, despite his tender years, dashed good at it. But I never saw him lose his temper at the table. If anything, he took life too lightly.”
“But Lord Percy called him a cheat.”
“So he did, in a fit of pique,” Sir Wilfred agreed. “But Percy was jealous of Lazonby. There’d been a little trouble with a female who had eyes for Lazonby—ah, but I oughtn’t speak of such things to you.”
“Oh, I know Lord Lazonby was a bit of a womanizer,” she assured him. “My brother warned me. I won’t have him if I can’t bring him to heel.”
“Well, best of luck with that,” said Sir Wilfred doubtfully. “In any case, it wasn’t the first time someone had called Rance Welham a cheat. If he’d killed them all, we could have laid the corpses end to end round Trafalgar Square.”
Anisha stopped on the grass some distance from the bandstand. “Sir Wilfred, you much reassure me,” she said. “And I was wondering, too . . .”
“Yes?” he said solicitously.
Anisha weighed her words, wondering how far to press him. Wondering, too, if she’d had the whole of the truth from Lady Leeton.
“What is it, my dear?” said Sir Wilfred gently. “You are still worried?”
“A little.” Anisha averted her eyes for an instant. “I was wondering, Sir Wilfred, if ever you had heard of a thing called the Black Horse syndicate?”
For a moment, he was dead silent. “Well,” he finally said, “if I had, I would not admit it, my dear. Do you understand me? And I must ask you where you heard tell of such a thing.”
Anisha bit her lip. “Lady Bessett gave me the name of a fellow—a police contact of her father’s. He’s retired now, but he once was involved, I collect, in the criminal underworld.”
Sir Wilfred frowned down at her. “You ladies called on such a fellow?” he said disapprovingly. “Re
ally, my dear. I fear the two of you are involving yourselves in ugly—possibly even dangerous—matters. I do wish you would not.”
“Oh, Lady Bessett did not accompany me,” Anisha insisted. “But I did have some papers to show him.”
“What sort of papers?” Sir Wilfred was still scowling.
On impulse, Anisha withdrew the gaming vowels from her reticule. “I found these tucked in a book in Lazonby’s withdrawing room when my brother and I were there for dinner,” she said, not knowing how else to explain their possession. “I was curious, you see, about these pencil markings.”
Sir Wilfred took them, and an odd smile passed over his face. “Heavens,” he said. “I thought the police still had those. It all seems a lifetime ago. So I still owe Lazonby nine hundred pounds, eh?”
Anisha laughed. “I’m quite sure he’s forgotten,” she said. “But I did think, perhaps, that the markings might mean something. So I showed them to Mr. Kemble.”
“Mr. Kemble—?” said Sir Wilfred. “He was watching you at the theater.”
“And now we know why.” Anisha shrugged. “But it little matters, for Mr. Kemble said the notes were worthless. But he did mention this thing—the Black Horse syndicate—though he wasn’t sure who was in it.”
“Memories do fade,” said Sir Wilfred sympathetically. “Ah, well. I really should settle my debt with Lazonby.”
“I’m sure it’s not necessary.” Then, to stick with her lie, she abruptly added, “—because I shouldn’t wish him to know we discussed it, or that I took these.”
“Indeed, no good can come of needling old wounds, my dear,” he agreed. “In fact, it would be best if you let me destroy them now.”
Anisha gave a long sigh. “Oh, I had better tuck them back where I got them next time I get the chance,” she said, putting them away. “Women will insist upon being the most trouble-making creatures on earth, will they not?”
At that, Leeton laughed and resumed their sedate stroll. “Oh, I am a happily married man for a reason, my dear,” he said. “I shall say nothing to incriminate myself!”
They had turned the entire circle around the bandstand. Madeleine was still with the lady in green, and Lady Bessett had joined them. All eyes were turned to the platform, where Lady Leeton was calling for everyone’s attention.
The next minutes were spent in awarding various end-of-term prizes to the students of the charity school. No less than a score of fresh-faced young misses trod across the platform to curtsey before Hannah Leeton, who was clearly in her element playing Lady Bountiful as she handed out awards for stitchery, arithmetic, deportment, penmanship, and a host of other subjects.
When it was over and the girls thoroughly applauded, Anisha turned to her companions, dismayed to realize she’d never got her lemonade. “Well, the Mysterious Karishma must return to her duties,” she declared.
“That would be the Great and Mysterious Karishma,” Lady Madeleine advised. “Never sell yourself short. Wait, you never took any refreshment. Shall I send you something?”
“Oh, thank you!” Anisha declared. “Anything wet.”
Back in Lady Leeton’s gaudy tent, she had scarcely wrapped her sari when a shadow appeared at the opening.
“Lady Anisha?” One of the school volunteers poked her head into the tent. “I was coming this way, and Lady Madeleine wished you to have a lemonade.”
“Oh, thank you!” Anisha smiled, and motioned her in. “Mrs. Drummond, isn’t it? You are quite as kind as your palm suggested.”
“Heavens, it’s nothing.” The lady came in with a smile and set the glass down, but the other two volunteers remained outside.
Anisha nodded toward the tent flaps. “I see the Great and Mysterious Karishma has one victim remaining amongst you,” she said drolly. “Would she not like to come in and have her palm read?”
Mrs. Drummond grinned mischievously. “Oh, Mrs. Ashton!” she sang over her shoulder. “You’ve been spotted. You must come in and pay your shilling to the Great and Mysterious Karishma, or she may cast a curse upon you.”
On a laugh, the third lady—Mrs. Howe—dragged Mrs. Ashton into the tent. “Come along now, my dear,” she declared. “Miriam and I have already done it. You must have your palm read.”
The younger lady hesitated. “I should be happy, of course, to donate,” she demurred.
“Oh, we shan’t be satisfied with that!” Mrs. Howe teased. “Out with your hand!”
Mrs. Drummond, too, continued the cajoling, and soon Mrs. Ashton was seated opposite Anisha, but her posture was stiff. Anisha felt most unhappy, and more than a little responsible for the lady’s discomfort.
Mrs. Ashton was a lithe, pretty woman, but not quite an elegant one, for she slumped her shoulders as if in compensation for her height—a troubling habit, since it limited one’s pranayama and brought on illness, Anisha firmly believed. Fully framed by massive ringlets of thick chestnut hair, her face, too, was vaguely familiar—someone from church, perhaps, Anisha thought. But her eyes; oh, they were the green of frozen pond water, and just about as welcoming.
Anisha left aside her silly turban, suddenly disquieted. “Namaste, Mrs. Ashton,” she said, bowing. “Do you wish an audience? Or shall this be a private reading?”
Mrs. Ashton surprised her. “Private,” she said, her voice oddly clipped.
Their faces falling with disappointment, the older ladies nodded and swept from the tent.
Anisha joined her in sitting down, but Mrs. Ashton still looked decidedly uncomfortable. For a long moment, Anisha studied her across the table, finding herself inexplicably troubled. She was not going to like what she saw; she knew this without so much as unfurling the woman’s fingers.
Mrs. Ashton, she suspected, knew it, too.
Anisha sighed. “We do not need to do this, you know,” she said quietly. “We may simply sit here quietly until your friends are convinced you have surrendered with grace.”
Some dark, fleeting emotion sketched across the woman’s face, and she flung out her right hand, palm up. “No sensible person is afraid of nonsense,” she said haughtily. “Go ahead, mysterious Karishma. What do you see there? Six children and a brilliant marriage? Or riches beyond my wildest dreams?”
Anisha surrendered to the inevitable. “Either, I daresay, is possible,” she said, drawing the hand nearer.
And yet she knew that, for this woman, neither was likely.
For a time she delayed the truth, merely tracing the life and heart lines, along with their many obstructions, then methodically working her thumb over the hard Venus, the coarse Moon, the over-large Sun, all the while wondering at the sadness of it all.
After a time she shook her head. “This is not your dominant hand.”
The woman faltered. “What do you mean?”
“The hand you use most,” said Anisha. “Which is it?”
“I . . . it is both,” said the woman. “I’m ambidextrous. What of it?”
“Can you write with both hands?” Anisha prodded. “Sew with both hands? When you step, which foot goes first? One part of our nature, you see, must always lead the other.”
Mrs. Ashton simply blinked at her. “I step with the foot that is best positioned,” she said. “Yes, I can write and sew with both hands. A little better, perhaps, with the left.”
Anisha accepted this by nodding. “Give me the left as well, then, if you please.”
She had expected the woman would refuse, but she did not. “By all means,” said Mrs. Ashton, throwing open the left hand beside the right. “I have nothing to hide.”
But Anisha was very much afraid she might. Again, she inspected the open hand carefully. Never had she seen such a conflicting array of mounds and lines; such emotional inconsistencies and such a duality of nature.
At last she sat back on her stool. “You are Gemini born, are you not?” she said quietly. “In early June?”
Mrs. Ashton gave a swift intake of breath. “Yes.”
Anisha nodded. “And li
ke many of your kind, you are of two natures,” she continued. “Natures which are often in conflict. You are torn in half, your better self being dominated by your lesser self. Indeed, ma’am, I fear you could be driven to destruction if you do not have a care.”
Mrs. Ashton sneered and drew back her hands. “What utter drivel.”
“I think you know it is not,” Anisha gently pressed. “Indeed, I think it is the very reason you sent your friends away. Though you hide it exceedingly well, in much of life you are confused and filled with doubt. But you refuse to acknowledge this uncertainty, even to your inner self. I sense you are a deeply unhappy woman, Mrs. Ashton, for all your kindnesses and volunteer work.”
The woman surprised her by throwing out both hands again. “Show me how you decide such nonsense,” she challenged.
Anisha did so, tracing over the lines and pointing out the ones that were stunted, the mounds which were more or less than was optimal, and the signs of conflict etched so deeply into both hands. “And perhaps most importantly,” she explained, “here your Sun mound is disproportionately large. It reveals your devotion—your passion, if you will.”
“And devotion has become a bad thing?” said Mrs. Ashton snidely.
“When you are devoted to something which is destructive, yes,” said Anisha. “You have the courage of your convictions, Mrs. Ashton—and they are eating you alive. And this—ketu—it is overdeveloped. This is called in English something like ‘tail of the dragon,’ and in Mithuna rashi—in Gemini rising—developed as yours is, it is most unhealthy.”
The woman gave a sharp laugh. “Unhealthy in what way?”
“You have no freedom of spirit,” said Anisha. “You have also a remarkable ability to deny yourself pleasure. Moreover, your mind has been at times unwell, and you know this.”
“How dare you!” The woman recoiled. “You suggest that I am mad?”