What next, indeed? Next turned out to be the fortune-teller. This one offered everything from crystal balls to tarot cards—‘You pays your money and you takes your choice,’ was painted in crude words across the front of a canvas tent.
‘I’ll pay,’ announced Marcus, to be met with, ‘No, I will,’ from Louise and they had a friendly wrangle in the entrance to the booth, to the delight of the small girl who was collecting entrance money.
Inside was dark and somewhat smelly. The smell came from a few candles burning in the gloom. The fortune-teller was a gypsy woman, rather elderly, with a face like a witch in a painting which hung in the corridor at Cleeve House in London.
She stared at the pair of them and said in a deep voice, ‘You’ve paid for one only, so I take it that it’s the lady who wishes to know her future.’
‘Yes,’ said Louise, staring at the crystal ball on the table between her and the gypsy woman. Beside the ball rested several packs of tarot cards, a bowl of clear water, and something which looked like a magician’s wand.
‘And which do you choose, m’lady?’
Louise said, to Marcus’s amusement, for, all unknowingly, she had assumed Madame Félice’s haughty tones, ‘Why do you address me as m’lady?’
The woman leaned forward and said ‘Come, come, you are m’lady, are you not? Do you think to deceive me by wearing the clothes of a servant?’
Louise, flabbergasted, stared back at her, and then, in a most unladylike manner, jerked her thumb at Marcus, and her manners having deserted her completely, asked, ‘And him? What about him?’
Without turning her head to look at him the woman smiled and said softly, ‘Why, he’s an even bigger fraud than you are. Is this a prank you are engaged in? A prank designed to trick me, so that you might go home to boast to the quality of how you unmasked the gypsy fortune-teller? If so, you must do better than this.’
Marcus, who had been listening to her, his face a picture—although what sort of picture he might have found it difficult to say—now spoke.
‘You are right, madame—and yet you are also wrong. Unriddle me that.’
She looked straight at him for the first time. ‘Oh, my fine gentleman who has never worked in an office in his life, do you hope to trick me with such a question.’
She put her hands over her eyes before dropping them and saying, ‘I am right that you are quality, so why are you dressed as though you are not? Is it possible that you have put on your false clothes to deceive the world rather than me? That you entered my tent on a whim and not by design?’
‘Oh, bravo,’ said Marcus softly. ‘And now let me unriddle you a little. I am dressed as a clerk, but I betray nothing of what a true clerk is. My cuffs are neither frayed nor ink-stained, my poor stock is clean and new, and has not been laundered so many times that it is frayed. My hands betray none of the signs that I spend the day with a quill pen in them. My nails are clean and my writing finger is uncallused.
‘Shall I go on? Or shall I inform you how you know that I am a gentleman and that my companion is not a servant. Oh, I forgot our manner… Everything you have told us so far is the result of careful observation, there is nothing magic about it.’
The gypsy woman did something strange. She threw back her head and began to laugh. ‘Oh, you are a rare one, you are. Everyone who meets you tends to underestimate you. They think that because you are straightforward you are not clever—and cunning—tell me how I know that simply by looking at you?
Marcus shook his head. ‘No, no, you have not only looked at me, you have heard me speak. Now, scry for my companion—I believe that is the phrase—and tell me of her future, something which you could not guess simply by looking at us and speaking to us. I am willing to pay you to use all of the tools of your trade, if that is what you call it.’
‘Oh, I like you, m’lord, as I believe you to be. I wish I had met you when I was as young and pretty as your lady is, we could have had a rare time together. Does she know how lucky she is going to be when she shares your bed?’
Louise blushed, and, adopting her Madame Félice voice again, for it was pointless trying to pretend to be her own servant, said, ‘I came here to have my fortune told, pray tell it.’
‘You’re a fair match for him, I see,’ said the woman. ‘Give me your hand, dearie, we’ll begin with that.’
Louise laid her hand palm up on the table. The woman peered hard at it saying, ‘Ah, yes, you are a lady, but not yet a lady. I cannot tell from this what your future might be, for it is strange, but not as strange as your past. Your hand tells me of that and little more—which is passing wonderful. Should you wish to learn your future then I must look in the crystal—do you wish to learn your future, lady? Many do not.’
‘Yes,’ said Louise swiftly, before she could change her mind. ‘I am tired of contemplating my past—I would learn of my future if possible.’
‘Then keep your hand in mine, for you have a power which few possess: and that is to prevent anyone from truly knowing you if you are minded not to allow them to. That is why your hand is closed to me. Open your heart to me, lady, and I may be able to help you.’
Louise nodded agreement and tried to reveal herself to the woman before her. The gypsy muttered some words before looking deep into the crystal.
Suddenly, however, she threw Louise’s hand from her with a guttural cry, exclaiming, ‘No, your past is so powerful that it insists on being known. Blood, lady, you are surrounded by blood—but none of it is yours, nor have you shed it. All those whom you most dearly loved were taken from you. Your father you never knew, he died in blood not long after you were born. You had a husband who was no husband—I cannot see him—I only know that blood surrounds him, too.’
She cried out again, before adding, ‘Let me rest a moment, for you have tired me greatly. I think that I can see that you have a future, and a long one, but it is dim.’
Marcus’s mouth twitched. He had been trying not to smile at what he thought was a fine old piece of pantomime, until the gypsy spoke of Louise’s husband who was no husband, and of the blood which surrounded both him and her. He saw that his love’s face had grown pale and for a moment thought of taking her away from someone whom he had earlier decided was a charlatan and trickster—but now he did not know what she was.
Except that Louise made no effort to rise, or to leave—and the decision must be hers, after all. The gypsy was stirring again. She had begun to mutter words in a language which neither Marcus, nor Louise, knew.
‘I have broken the spell which binds you,’ she said, reverting to her accented English. ‘It was laid on you and yours long ago—and it is on him, too,’ she added, pointing at Marcus. ‘It curses you both because what you inherited was sacred and was stolen from those who raised it and false gods put in its place. Now, I will look again in my crystal in order to discover whether, having banished it, I may read your destiny more plainly.’
She took Louise’s hand again, and this time recited a form of words, again in that strange language, before she looked deep into the ball before her.
‘Yes,’ she exclaimed, ‘there is something there, it is still dim, but I can read a little of what the magic is trying to tell me. Alas, it is not clear, it is still vague and distant so that I have nothing detailed to tell you. All I can say is that you will gain your heart’s desire. What you have been looking for all of your life you will also surely find, although I cannot plainly see what that is. It involves a name and a great house—a strange house—and there your joint destinies lie. More, I cannot tell you. Your will is strong, lady, and I needed to subdue it to see even the little I have.’
She relinquished Louise’s hand and lay back in her intricately carved chair panting as though she had run a race.
‘Oh, I am so tired. To break the spell which binds you both was a feat almost beyond my endurance.
‘This spell,’ asked Marcus, intrigued even though he still thought that the old woman was making this whole farrago up
—and even though she had spoken truly of some parts of Louise’s past. ‘This spell, Madame, to what does it relate?’
‘All I can tell you is that there is a Grove which was called Sacred which was despoiled long ago, and they who live in and own it will suffer from a curse placed upon them by the original owners, a curse which will ruin their lives so that they will rarely know happiness. Far away from it, some might find contentment. More than that I cannot say—other than that I have lifted it from you and your lady, so that you may live long and happy lives.’
Both Marcus and Louise were thinking of Steepwood’s Sacred Grove, and of the ruined lives of all those who had ever owned the Abbey and the grounds in which the grove was situated. It was not until his father had left England—and the grove—behind that he had found happiness in India.
He half-began to ask the gypsy whether she could lift the curse altogether, but true child of the Age of Reason that he was, he found himself inwardly laughing at such an absurd notion.
Yet the old woman had said so much that was true.
Louise had begun to stir. She had been shocked by what the gypsy had told her. She said, her voice low, for she was still distressed by what she had both seen and heard. ‘You said that I would be happy, and that I would find that for which I have always wished. Can I believe you?’
The old woman’s smile was weary. ‘I can only tell you what I saw—and hope that you and your man will find in the future the happiness which you seek. Time alone will prove me right or wrong, but I believe that the crystal told me true.’
She looked Marcus straight in the eye, saying, ‘You do not trust me, young sir, because you are limited by your cleverness. You only believe in what you can see, hear and touch, not in the something more than that which lies around us and which we can only dimly understand, if at all.’
Marcus rose and bowed to her, and acknowledged what she had just said. He spoke without mockery, quoting from Shakespeare’s play, Hamlet. ‘There are more things in Heaven and Earth, Horatio, than are dreamed of in your philosophy.’
‘Exactly so, young fellow. Leave me now. I may scry no more this afternoon. You brought a strong and evil power in with you, and that power has gone, but it was heavy work for me to rid you of it, heavy work.’
They were outside again, blinking in the orange sunlight of an early October afternoon. Louise said, her voice faltering a little, ‘Are we to believe all that, Mr Marks?’
Marcus turned around and slipped an arm around her shoulders. For the first time since he had met her she looked frail and wan. He gave her a reassuring hug, careless of passing watchers. After all, a young clerk might hug his sweetheart in the street, might he not? The constraints which bound Marcus Cleeve did not obtain here.
‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘I thought her a fraud at first, but later…I find later difficult to explain. All that talk about blood, and then the Sacred Grove and the curse of which we both know…’
‘Exactly,’ said Louise, echoing the gypsy’s last words to them. ‘How could she know of that? And the Abbey—the strange building she called it, and so it is being religious house and home combined. You must admit that was frightening. I agreed with you when you told her that she could guess that we were not working people because to an observant eye everything about us betrays our true station—but the rest—how did she know that?’
‘Louise,’ Marcus said gravely. ‘Try not to think too much about what she told you. Or, if you must, believe what she said at the end.’
‘About our future happiness?’
‘Yes, you were speaking of the future earlier this afternoon. Try to believe that she spoke truly. Look, I do believe that the roses are already returning to your cheeks, my dear Miss Louise. Keep them there and I promise to eat oysters again if you will eat jellied eels! How is that for a great concession on my part?’
‘Dear Mr Marks,’ said Louise, who after the strangeness of their recent experience had forgotten that she was supposed to be holding Marcus off, not encouraging him. ‘Dear Mr Marks, how kind you are. Yes, I will eat jellied eels though I have never done so before and hope that they will not make me feel sick!’
Nor did they. Eating from their paper screws full of fishy delicacies Marcus and his love found it possible to forget past and future, and enjoy the mindless present which was Chelsea Fair.
‘Blasted Northamptonshire, and bloody Steepwood,’ grumbled Jackson aloud. ‘It would be raining again.’
He had come hot-foot from London, which he considered to be the only civilised place in the Kingdom, and was bound for the cottage in Steep Ride where Solomon Burneck now lodged.
It would be a pleasure to upset the surly bastard once more. It quite made this whole tedious business worthwhile.
The cottage was at the end of a muddy lane leading off an equally muddy by-way. Jackson watched from a distance until he saw the landlady leave—he wanted no witnesses to what he was about to do. Burneck himself opened the door and made a disagreeable face at him.
‘What, you again!’
Almost the same words as Marcus Angmering had used, but the tone was very different.
‘That’s right,’ Jackson said, ‘regular bad penny, aren’t I? Let me in, will you, this rain’s damned wet.’
‘Why should I?’ asked Burneck. ‘You’ve no right…’
‘This is my right,’ said Jackson, ‘and a damned useful one it is, too.’ And he put a hard and horny hand on Burneck’s chest and pushed him into the cottage’s small front room.
‘Hey, damn that,’ spluttered Burneck. ‘I haven’t invited you in and an Englishman’s home is his castle.’
‘Number one,’ said Jackson. ‘This isn’t your home, you’re only a lodger, and number two, it’s not a castle, so I can do as I please. Is the Missis in?’
‘Yes,’ lied Burneck.
‘Now there’s a lying tale to begin with,’ grinned Jackson, ‘for I saw her leave with her shopping basket not five minutes ago.’
‘She’ll be back any moment.’ Burneck sounded desperate.
‘If she does, and I doubt it, I’ll tell her that you’re gallows-meat I’m hauling off to the County gaol. So now you can take me upstairs and we can have a cosy little chat.’
‘What for? You know that I had nothing to do with my pa’s death. Why should I kill him? I’ve lost room and board and my position in life.’
Jackson began to laugh.
‘Your position in life! What’s that? The place where you’re beneath everyone’s feet and consideration?’
He slammed the door behind him, saying, ‘Now, you piece of low-life filth, tell me all that you know about the Marchioness, Miss Louise Hanslope as was. I’ve a burning curiosity about the lady, seeing that Sywell chose to marry her when he was a ripe piece of spoiled beef.’
‘His choice, not mine,’ grumbled Burneck. ‘Can’t imagine what you want to know about her for.’
‘Well, I’m after wondering why Sywell married her at all—his bailiff’s adopted daughter, wasn’t she? Now, what I want you to tell me is who she was before Hanslope adopted her.’
‘And how the devil should I know that? I’ve no idea.’
Jackson grabbed him by the collar. ‘Why is it that I don’t believe you? Tell me the truth, damn you. Tell me all about the child Hanslope brought here out of nowhere, and tell me why your master, who always had an eye for the main chance, married her. What main chance was he thinking of when he did such an odd thing? Knowing Sywell’s reputation, there must have been something in it for him.’
Burneck began to shake his head. ‘I don’t know…’
Jackson took him by the throat this time and breathed ale fumes into his victim’s purpling face.
‘Keep mum, you lying wretch, and I’ll run you in for Sywell’s murder, that I will.’
‘You wouldn’t do that. You know that I didn’t do it,’ Burneck croaked desperately.
‘Wouldn’t I just! My masters want this business ended and don�
�t care how it’s done. I could end it tomorrow by fitting you up as the murderer. You’d do as well as another. Save yourself by telling me about Sywell and the girl. Otherwise…’
Burneck began to babble at him, his eyes wild. ‘Let me go, then. If I have your word that you’ll leave me alone if I talk, I’ll tell you everything. After all, what’s to lose, if I do? They’re all dead but the girl.’
‘Exactly—now talk. And I want the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth or you’ll be in the dock at the Old Bailey.’
‘It was when Johnny Hanslope came to my pa and said that his sister was dying and he had to go to Cheltenham to see her safely buried and to bring her little girl back with him. M’lord said he could go, grudging-like, and when Johnny had gone to make ready for the journey I told M’lord that to my certain knowledge he had no sister, and what was he doing pretending that he had one and going all the way to Cheltenham to rescue her?
‘M’lord always loved a puzzle and he liked to know everything about those who worked for him. Knowledge was power, he always told me. He gave a great laugh and said, “Follow Johnny there and find out what he’s up to. Perhaps it’s nothing but an old mistress of his and her by-blow, but we might as well know. Don’t let him twig you’re after him, though.”’
‘Just like that, eh?’ queried Jackson, who was beginning to be intrigued by this tale and was also amused by the way Sywell alternated between being Pa and M’lord to his bastard son.
‘Aye, he was bored, you know. So I ups and follows Johnny to Cheltenham, and true enough there was a dying woman and a little girl. I took rooms at the local inn and made a few discreet enquiries. What really interested me was that the dying woman was a Frenchie. What was Johnny Hanslope doing with a Frenchwoman? She had a funny name, too.
‘So, I watched the house and one morning Johnny came out with the kid and walked over to a neighbour who I’d been told was giving him and the girl dinner. After a short time he walked back into the village. So I entered the house by the back way, and searched it. Upstairs I found the Frenchwoman lying on the bed—quite dead, but still warm. I suppose that he’d gone to fetch the laying-out nurse.’
The Missing Marchioness (Mills & Boon Historical) Page 10