Everything about her proclaimed she was different, that she would never be able to fit in. The thought had been in the back of her mind for days, but now it was jabbing away like a needle into soft flesh. And she had to fit in. This tribe of people who had taken her in, this strange clan who looked so fierce and yet could be so gentle, they were the only folk in all the world she could trust. If Byron hadn’t found her, she would have surely died, curled up in that tree – and that would have been the end of all her problems.
‘Look, over there.’ Freda caught her arm, pointing to a field of scarlet poppies blazing their glory with every twist and turn of their silky heads amid the corn. ‘I love to see the poppies, don’t you?’
Pearl nodded. She didn’t tell the gypsy girl she had never seen a full field of the crimson flowers before, only the odd one or two blooming alongside bindweed and purple spear thistle when she had taken her baby brothers for a walk Tunstall way. Distant elms shimmered beyond the golden corn, and above, the deep blue sky provided a breathtaking contrast of colour.
Pearl felt something swell in her breast and travel to her throat. Whatever happened in the future, she was glad Byron had found her. She wanted to live. It was as though she was answering a question within herself which had been there since she had first woken up in the Romany caravan. There would be more days like this, when the sky was so high that even the larks seemed unable to reach it, and the light was so bright it wiped everything dark clean away.
Byron turned round again, his eyes tight on her as he said, ‘You’ve gone very quiet.’
She smiled at him, the ache in her heart easing still more at his obvious concern. ‘It’s all so beautiful,’ she said softly. ‘I never knew it was so beautiful.’
PART THREE
The Blossoming
May 1908
Chapter 9
The first eight years of the new century had seen changes within the world in general and England in particular. There were many men of influence who believed that with a new King on the throne and a victorious conclusion to the Boer War, Britain was set to grow more powerful than she’d ever been.
These same stalwarts of the Establishment were not so happy about the changes in other areas. The disgraceful affair of Mrs Emmeline Pankhurst forming a new militant movement called the Women’s Social and Political Union stuck in many a man’s craw. Everyone knew giving the vote to women would not be safe. Men and women differed in mental equipment, with women having little sense of proportion, as one MP put it.
Equally dangerous was the notion to put more of these machines called motor cars on the road. The agreement between the Hon. Charles Rolls and Mr Henry Royce to sell motor cars under the name Rolls-Royce was nothing to get excited about. Rattling about the countryside and frightening the horses, whatever next? So said the members of the old guard as they sat in their gentlemen’s clubs, smoking their cigars and drinking fine brandy, their coach and horses waiting outside.
There were many too within the Romany community who sensed the winds of change beginning to blow. The towns of the Industrial Revolution were growing, swallowing large parts of the surrounding countryside. Hamlets were turning into large villages and large villages into small towns. Some of the old Romany routes and byways were being lost, and the old folk in particular felt it keenly, becoming fierce in their desire to protect their heritage and discourage anything they saw as a watering-down of their way of life.
None were so passionate in this regard as Halimena. Always a woman of indefatigable opinions, she had become more dogmatic and bigoted with each passing year, and Pearl’s presence within the camp and especially her own family was a constant thorn in her flesh. A gorgie living with them, learning their ways and secrets, summed up everything that was bad about their changing world, and the old woman never missed an opportunity to make her feelings known. It was due to her relentless opposition that Pearl had not been taught the Romany language, something which did not trouble Pearl particularly but which did serve as a constant reminder to both her and the others that she was not one of them. Not that a reminder was needed. One only had to look at Pearl to see she was different.
Now eighteen years old, the beauty which had been apparent in the child was fully developed in the woman. Although only five foot four inches tall, Pearl carried herself very straight and with a natural grace that was not lost on an observer. Her thick, dark-brown hair fell to her shoulders in glossy waves and the colour touched on a deep chestnut in places. The smooth natural cream and pink of her skin had changed to pale honey from a life in the fresh air, but this only served to accentuate the cornflower-blue vividness of her heavily lashed eyes and the redness of her full lips. Even the palest of the gypsy girls looked dark next to Pearl, their jet-black hair and deep brown eyes adding to the contrast. This was not without its problems in that it brought Pearl to the attention of outsiders when they stayed in any one place for more than a few weeks, the local male population in particular. At those times Byron was never far from her side.
It was Byron that Pearl was thinking of as she deftly skinned and prepared several rabbits for the pot late one cool May afternoon. She had taken over the cooking, cleaning and washing for the family a couple of years ago, leaving Corinda free to weave the mats and baskets they sold. Try as she might, Pearl had never become as adept as the gypsies at these tasks, but had discovered she had a natural gift where cooking was concerned. Even Halimena had been heard to give grudging praise on one or two occasions, ostensibly when Pearl was not within earshot. Corinda had been generous in sharing the Romany knowledge of natural herbs and plants and cooking methods which could enhance a dish, but she was the first to say Pearl could make the most ordinary dish extraordinary.
The stew underway, Pearl stood up and stretched, glancing across the campsite in the direction Byron had taken that morning. He and his father and brothers had left at first light. The gypsies had arrived at the site on the outskirts of Newcastle the day before. It was a spot the community had been coming to for decades, and Mackensie and his sons were sure they’d have no trouble trading the horses they’d brought over from Ireland a few weeks ago. Byron had told her there was one wealthy landowner in particular who didn’t quibble at the price for the right horse.
Byron . . . Pearl bit down hard on her bottom lip as she was apt to do when troubled. She wished there was someone she could talk to about this matter which had been slowly coming to the surface over the last three years – ever since Freda had got married, in fact. Now both Algar and Silvester were betrothed, and she knew Byron would speak soon.
He liked her. She shut her eyes and then opened them to stare up into the cloudy slate-blue sky. It had been a bitterly cold March, and April hadn’t been much better; now it was nearly the end of May and she was still going to bed with several layers on. That was another way in which she was different, since the gypsies prided themselves on not feeling the cold. It had been the week before, when a few rare hours of sunshine had lit up the wood close to where they had been staying, that Byron had persuaded her to go for a walk with him. The countless drifts of bluebells reflecting the deep blue of the sky that day had been a sight to see in the clearing they’d come to, the pyramid blossoms on the horse-chestnut trees and the dazzling green and gold of oak trees making the woodland magical.
She had been laughing at Rex cavorting amongst the bluebells when she’d become aware that Byron had fallen silent. She had glanced at him and the look in his eyes had made her immediately turn her head and call to the dog, acting as though she hadn’t heard Byron when he spoke her name in a deep thick voice. But then he had taken her hand and she had been forced to look at him. Before he could speak, she’d said, ‘I want to go back. Please, Byron. The evening meal won’t cook itself.’
He had stared at her, his dark attractive face the same as usual, the fierce, hungry look gone from his eyes. Quietly, he had murmured, ‘There are things I need to say, Pearl.’
‘Not now.’ She had
smiled at him, pretending not to understand. ‘I need to get the dinner on or your grandmother will be on her high horse.’
He’d sworn softly – in his own language, but she knew a profanity when she heard one. ‘Then soon, all right? I want us to talk, really talk.’
She had nodded rather than prolong the conversation, but since that day had been very careful not to be alone with him. But that couldn’t go on for ever. Again she shut her eyes for a moment. It wasn’t that she didn’t like Byron, she did. Loved him, even. But not – not in that way. She heaved an unsteady breath. The feeling she had for Byron was similar to that she’d felt for Seth, that was the only way she could describe it to herself. And although she might not know much, she knew the love between a man and a woman was made up of more than that.
Not that she ever wanted to be married. She gave a little shudder. She couldn’t imagine letting anyone lay their hands on her and do what Mr F had done, let alone want them to. But the gypsy women were happy with their menfolk; she had lived among them long enough to know that Freda and Madora and the other girls she’d grown into womanhood with both loved and desired their husbands. Madora already had three bairns and Freda was expecting her second come September.
Holding her hands against her chest, she pressed them as if to assist her breathing while she asked herself whether, loving babies and little ones as she did, she could be content with life as a single woman.
The answer came strong and harsh in her mind. More content than if I was being pawed and slobbered over by a man. She didn’t name Byron in her head at this point. It was merely a man. Any man.
Turning sharply, she went to the pile of wood behind the caravan for more fuel for the fire. It was as she returned with her arms full of twigs and small logs that she saw Byron and his father and brothers, and she gauged immediately from their jaunty manner that the day had been a good one. Byron’s gaze met hers and she knew he had been looking for her. He always searched her out with his eyes the moment he was back. When she was younger, this had been reassuring; it was as though Seth was still around. Lately, it had become unsettling.
She busied herself with seeing to the fire and only looked up at Byron when he reached her side. She answered his smile with one of her own. ‘I gather the trading went well?’
He nodded. ‘Tollett knows a thoroughbred when he sees one.’ The Romanies had been dealing with the manager of the Armstrong estate,Wilbert Tollett, for years and always for a tidy profit.
Pearl stirred the stew. ‘Dinner won’t be ready for a while yet but there’s some suet pudding and cold meat if you’re hungry,’ she offered, adding some field mushrooms to the pot.
Byron looked down at the slender wisp of a girl he had loved for years. More times than he would care to remember, he’d lain awake all night planning the words he’d use when he asked Pearl to marry him, but then in the cold light of day he’d cautioned himself not to rush her and spoil their friendship. She needed more time, he could see that. He had told himself this when she had reached fifteen and he had danced with her at Freda’s wedding. Then when she was sixteen, then seventeen. Most of the gypsy girls were wed and bedded by the age of fifteen or sixteen, but Pearl wasn’t a gypsy girl. And the ill-treatment she’d suffered which had been the means of bringing her into his life was also the means of keeping him from speaking.
When he had recognised his feelings for what they were some years ago, it had taken him a while to get past the fact that he wouldn’t be the first – but that didn’t matter now. None of it was her fault – she’d been a child still, and in one way what had happened then had no bearing on the woman he wanted as his wife. In another way it had huge relevance because it had scarred her, if not physically then emotionally. But he could break through her fear and reserve, he knew he could. And now she was eighteen and he couldn’t wait any longer. Here he was, twenty-five years old, and never yet had he taken a woman, because from the age of sixteen he had been waiting for Pearl. If he wasn’t careful, one of his brothers would marry before him – and that would reflect badly on him, as the eldest son. Suddenly he knew he couldn’t wait another day, another minute. His voice determined, he said, ‘Leave that,’ as he turned her away from the fire and the big iron pot. ‘You’re coming for a walk with me.’
Her eyes wide, Pearl stared up into his face. For a moment a protest hovered on her lips but something in his manner told her he wouldn’t take any excuse. The day she had dreaded had come. Silently she passed him and fetched her thick shawl from the caravan, wrapping it around her shoulders as she joined him again.
They didn’t speak as they left the field where the campsite was, walking side by side but without touching. Pearl was conscious of a whirl of thoughts milling about her head but they all boiled down to one thing. Could she bear what she would have to bear if she said yes to Byron? And if she said no, what would happen to her? She wouldn’t be able to go on living with these people she had come to think of as her family and friends. It wouldn’t be right or fair on Byron.
She glanced down at Rex who was following at Byron’s heels. The big dog was showing signs of age, with white appearing round his muzzle and a rheumy quality to his eyes, although he was still as lean and fit as ever. She owed her life to Rex and Byron. The knowledge had been hammering away at her for months, years – ever since the night she had danced with him at Freda’s wedding. That had been the first time she had seen what was in his eyes. How could she refuse him anything?
Byron opened the wooden gate which led into another field full of cows, and just before she passed through it she glanced back once at the caravans and tents. The blue smoke from the campfires rising into the sky and the noise of children fighting, dogs barking, men shouting and horses neighing was all suddenly infinitely precious and familiar.
Swallowing hard she stepped through the gate to where Byron was waiting and they walked on.
Halimena had been sitting in the entrance to the tent apparently dozing, her hands resting on the cabbage net she was making. The nets were her forte and she was very skilful at them; they were always in great demand with the villagers to protect their garden crops from rabbits and birds and other pests. But she hadn’t been asleep; she rarely slept in the day and she almost always never missed anything that went on around her. She had watched Byron and Pearl leave together and she thought she knew what her grandson was about. That girl had played him like a violin for years, fluttering her eyelashes but keeping her distance until he was fair foaming at the mouth. But he’d been restless of late, she’d seen it, and likely the girl had decided he was ripe for pulling in.
Halimena’s teeth ground together in anger.
Well, she had taken no direct action, she had merely prayed to the spirits of the wind and sun and stars to come against the forces that protected the girl, but now it looked as though she would have to take matters into her own hands.
Her thin lips moved one over the other, since the thought was frightening. No mortal interfered with the destiny of one of the guardian’s chosen ones: retribution could be swift. But she couldn’t let Byron, the eldest son and the keeper of his father’s name, marry the gorgie. Not while she had breath in her body. The old ways were being cast aside – even Mackensie had fallen whim to looking on the girl as one of his own – but the blood couldn’t be diluted.
Sitting quietly, looking over the busy scene in front of her, she hatched her plans. It would have to appear as an illness. Her mind jumped from one potion to another. Something undetectable. Something which would not affect the rest of the family. It had to be so innocuous that no trace would remain. But how would she be able to introduce it into the girl’s food or drink?
The celebrations on Midsummer’s Day. Halimena’s black eyes narrowed. Admittedly it was a month away, but that would be all right. It wouldn’t be seemly for the couple to marry before gathering the Buckleys and the Locks together – and that would take some time. Months, in fact. No, nothing would be done before Midsummer�
�s Day. And it was the custom for the oldest member of the family within the Lock tribe to cook the sun bread in the bonfire that was lit to honour the Sun God, then at his highest ascent. Everyone ate the unleavened bread she would serve to them, and who was to know if Pearl’s plait was made with corn mixed with darnel grass containing ergot? She had noticed the black fungus on the darnel’s seedheads in a field near Gateshead last summer and, knowing it to be a powerful poison when digested, had carefully preserved a bundle of darnel grass on which the parasitic growth was prevalent.
Her hands beginning to automatically work at the cabbage net, she considered the idea. She had never seen it herself, but it was said that victims of the fungus became insane and subject to all manner of strange delusions. Severe spasms affecting the working of limbs resulted in gangrene and the loss of fingers and toes, and some folk screamed like wild animals. Even Byron, besotted as he was, would shy away from marrying a woman who had suffered a bout of madness.
Of course, she would have to be extremely prudent. It wouldn’t do for the girl’s portion of bread to fall into the wrong hands. But once eaten, all evidence would vanish, and with no subsequent nausea or stomach upset to suggest that anything untoward had been digested.
Her eyes gleaming, Halimena’s fingers sped on as nimbly as a young woman’s. Her own grandmother had told her that once on their travels, when she was a small child, they had come across a whole village affected by eating bread made with polluted corn. People had been deluded into the belief that they could fly, throwing themselves out of upstairs windows and smashing to the ground, only to try to get up to dance and run on broken limbs. It would be interesting, she thought, to see for herself the result of consuming the fungus.
Born to Trouble Page 10