Lady Julia Grey Bundle

by DEANNA RAYBOURN

  She put out her hand and I stepped back sharply. "No, thank you." I turned to the others. "The rest of you do go ahead. Magda is quite good at that sort of thing. I am sure you will find it most interesting."

  I turned and left them, chattering like magpies as they quarrelled genteelly over who should go first. Plum was already consumed with his sketching, and I knew he hated to be disturbed. I made instead for a little clump of trees some distance away where I spied a familiar figure. I waited until I was near to hail him.

  "Not interested in horseflesh, Mr. Ludlow?"

  Like Plum, Mr. Ludlow was attempting to sketch the scene, but his talents fell far short of my brother's.

  "Say rather the situation puts me in mind of a child with his face pressed against the window of the candy shop without a tuppence in his pocket," he said with a rueful smile.

  I motioned to his sketchbook. "I hope I am not interrupting you?"

  He laughed, showing lovely, even white teeth. "I am but a dilettante, a hobbyist. It is an act of mercy to prevent me from putting pencil to paper."

  He tucked the sketchbook and stub of pencil into his pocket. "And you? No liking for the prognostications of Gypsy witches?"

  I shuddered. "I have had quite enough of those to last a lifetime, thank you. In any event, they always say the same things, don't they? Tall strangers, unexpected legacies, shipboard journeys. None of it ever comes true."

  He dusted off a bit of fallen tree with his handkerchief and we sat. We were silent a moment, comfortably so, to my surprise. His posture was relaxed, but lightly, as if he were accustomed to holding himself in readiness. He had the bearing of an athlete, and it occurred to me he had probably taken a number of prizes at school.

  "This is a peaceful spot," he said finally. "I can understand why they come back here every year."

  "It is also very near St. Leonard's Wood, which is of course an attraction to them."

  He turned to me with a puzzled expression. "St. Leonard's Wood?"

  "Do not tell me you have not heard of it!" I cried. "You have been here some days, and no one has told you the tale? There is an enchanted wood, just the other side of that coppice. It is said that centuries ago a French hermit by the name of St. Leonard battled a dragon there, and slew it. But he was injured in the fight, and wherever his blood fell, there God raised white lilies to bloom every year. And in return for his bravery, God banished all snakes from the wood, and hushed the nightingales so that St. Leonard could meditate in peace."

  Ludlow was smiling. "A charming story, but it seems a bit harsh on the nightingales."

  "I thought so, too," I confided, "but you can well understand why the Roma would wish to camp where they would not be troubled by snakes."

  "Indeed I can," he agreed. We fell silent again. It was a pleasant afternoon. The sun was low in the sky, casting long shadows over the scene, burnishing the Roma camp in its gentle light. It was a scene fit for a Romantic painter, and I wondered if Plum would be able to capture it. The ladies were apparently taking it in turns to enter Magda's tent and have their fortunes told. I knew the nuances of her performance, for I had seen it often enough.

  First she would offer them a choice: cards, palms or leaves. Once they had chosen, she would compose herself, drawing inward as though straining to hear a voice from another world. After a long moment, when one's nerves were stretched and the hairs on one's neck were prickling, she would open her eyes and put out her hands. No matter the medium, her hands were always deft and warm. They moved through the cards quick as a conjurer's, or stroked one's palm with the same gentle firmness one would use on a cat.

  The leaves were different. She kept a kettle of water hissing away by the fire outside, and when a visitor approached, she brewed the tea in a battered pot and poured it carefully into a chipped china Jubilee cup painted with the face of the queen. The tea was thick with leaves and never sweetened. It was quite a trick to strain the tea between the teeth as Russians do to keep the leaves in the cup. When the cup was empty, Magda tapped and swirled and inverted it, then turned it right again to scry the depths. Her expression never varied, nor did her tone. She spoke flatly of what she saw, relating the future as calmly as one might speak of the weather or the state of the roads. For her, nothing was yet fixed in stone. Choice and free will had as much to do with one's future as any fortune-teller's tricks. She told only of what might come to pass, not of what must be, and I had long suspected her of embellishing her fortunes slightly to suit her audience.

  Now, for instance, Lucy was just leaving the tent, smiling widely and reaching out to embrace her sister. She was radiant with happiness, and I thought it very likely Magda had spied her ring and spoken cannily to her of wedding trips and babies to come. She might have mentioned a house as well, and a trunkful of pretty frocks. Lucy was a simple creature, and Magda knew well how to take the measure of a person, for good or ill.

  Emma went next, reluctantly, I fancied, but Portia was in an organising mood and firmly motioned her into the tent. Lucy linked arms with Portia and Mrs. King and began to chatter, doubtless relating every detail of Magda's predictions.

  I turned to Mr. Ludlow. "I wonder if you will think me very impertinent, but I should like to ask—will they be happy, do you think?"

  Mr. Ludlow was a young man of sound common sense. He did not flinch or pretend to overly precious manners. The question was a serious one, and he regarded it as such.

  "I believe they will, my lady. My cousin is a simple man, and from what I have been able to determine about Miss Lucy, she is a simple girl."

  "And that is a simple answer," I teased.

  He smiled again, a bit tiredly, I thought. "I meant only that most people get on well enough so long as their interests are compatible. He wants to live a luxurious, comfortable life and to have sons. She wants the same. I see no reason they should not be happy."

  I nodded. "Where does Sir Cedric live?"

  "He keeps a house in London, but I have been commissioned by him to find a country house. Kent, he suggested. Someplace with good, fresh air and plenty of grounds for exercise."

  "For the children?" I hazarded.

  "For the children." He paused and looked toward the cluster of gentlemen ranged about Magda's brother. They were examining a very fine hunter, chestnut brown with an elegant back. "He never thought to marry, you know. He shall not see fifty again. He will tell you quite freely he thought all that rubbish was behind him. And then he met Lucy and was, quite simply, bewitched."

  I looked to where Lucy was sitting on a piece of carpet, nibbling at the fingers of her gloves, her expression sweetly vacant. "I do not see it," I said flatly.

  Mr. Ludlow's mouth twitched. "He does, my lady. And who are we to judge her charms? She is pretty and pleasant, and he is growing old."

  "I have been frightfully rude to ask such things, and it is very kind of you to pretend not to be shocked."

  His eyes widened, and I noticed they were a rather subtly spectacular colour, brown and green and flecked with gold, like a cool country stream in the dappled light of a summer's afternoon.

  "My lady, you have not asked anything that all of society has not asked. At least you asked directly instead of inviting me to supper to pretend an interest in my hobbies."

  "Really, how appalling!"

  He shrugged. "It has only happened twice, and since I refused to speak of the matter, I am certain it will not happen again. Word has got round that I am unforgivably silent on the subject, and people do not think to invite me for any other reason."

  To express sympathy to him would have been insulting, even though I felt acutely sorry for him. He had clearly been raised a gentleman's son, perhaps with expectations. It seemed apparent some financial ruin had befallen his family, and now he must depend upon the kindness of his better-heeled relation to employ him. A man would have to exercise all his skills of diplomacy, purge himself of pride, to accept such a position.

  I nodded toward the horse. "What d
o you make of that creature? He seems sound enough from here."

  Ludlow did not hesitate. "He is too nervous. You can just see the white of his eye all round. Sir Cedric will tell you he is spirited, but Cedric knows steamships, not horses. That animal would throw you at the first gate and happily leave you to limp home. Why do you smile, my lady?"

  "Because that was my brother Benedick's horse. He sold him for precisely that reason. I do hope Father does not buy him again."

  "Again?"

  I nodded. "Father has purchased him three times, and sold him on every time because he cannot be controlled. Then he forgets how awful the beast was and buys him back again. It's really quite foolish of him."

  Ludlow and I shared a smile. It occurred to me then that some men demand a second glance, others require it. Ludlow was the latter, nondescript and calm as a millpond, but calmness has its own attractions. "May I dare to ask a further impertinence?"

  He bowed gallantly from the neck. "Of course."

  "What will become of you now that Sir Cedric means to settle in the country?"

  Ludlow stretched his long legs out in front of him, crossing them at the ankle. "I shall remain in London, I daresay. His investments are diverse. It takes a man quite in the thick of things to handle the correspondence. Sir Cedric thinks he can manage very well spending most of his time in the country. I shall travel down to Kent as needed to receive instructions, and the London office will be under the supervision of his director. And, of course, he must be in London during the Season. He has many interests in Parliament, and must be in attendance when it is sitting."

  "He sounds quite the magnate," I said lightly.

  "That he is, and entirely self-made, although he does not much care for people to know it."

  "I hold the American view that self-made men are the most worthy," I told him. "If a man can better himself through his own gifts, his own native wit and determination, why are we so quick to think the worse of him for it?"

  Ludlow considered this for a moment. "Perhaps because we have a thousand years of history instructing us to the contrary. We are taught that a man is born to his place, and in his place must he die," he finished, with the faintest edge to his voice.

  "You must be quite invaluable to him, that he would entrust such responsibility to you."

  A fleeting wistful smile touched his lips. He nodded toward Snow, who stood just at the fringes of the crowd gathered round the hunter. Snow had doffed his hat and was raising his face to the fading sunlight. He looked like a man thoroughly contented with his lot in life, his expression one of perfect contentment.

  "That gentleman has the life I would have chosen for myself."

  "Really? I should think you would have made an excellent curate. You have a soothing voice. One does not like to hear about damnation from a man who sounds as if he were pronouncing a sentence from the Queen's Bench."

  Ludlow laughed. "I was reared for it. My mother and Sir Cedric's were sisters, daughters of a vicar with a country living. Sir Cedric's mother married a miserly merchant who died when Cedric was but a lad. Cedric was brought up in poverty. He was apprenticed at the age of seven, if you can imagine it. My lot was quite different. My mother married a gentleman, the fourth son of a baronet. It was always hoped I would be given the living attached to the baronetcy's estate."

  "And you would have been happy there?"

  He closed his eyes briefly. "It is the most sublime place I have ever seen. It is in Cornwall, sheltered in a valley so beautiful, it must have been wrought by the hands of angels. I went there only once, but the memory of it lives with me still. The rectory was small, a doll's house, but perfect in every detail. There was a rose garden and a chicken house and a nuttery and every last gift that nature can offer."

  He sighed, and in that one small exhalation I heard a lifetime's anguish. "My father quarrelled with his brother, the current baronet. They did not make it up before my father died, and though I tried to apologise and make amends, my overtures were not received with approval. I was given to understand my father's sins would not be forgiven, nor mine for being his son. It was up to me to make my way in the world, as best I could."

  I shook my head. "I cannot approve this system we have of keeping young men on leashes to be led about by their betters. My sisters and I are settled with some degree of independence, but my brothers feel the weight of my father's authority, even as grown men. And my father has been the soul of liberality. Any other man in England would have thrust my brothers into the church and the army and the navy just to be rid of them, whether they had any vocation for those institutions or not."

  Ludlow gave me a look of approbation. "Most ladies would have no sympathy for impecunious gentlemen, tossed by fortune's whims."

  "Mr. Ludlow, I like to believe I would have sympathy for anyone thwarted in his happiness."

  He smiled, the first genuine smile I had seen from him. The corners of his eyes crinkled; he looked younger suddenly and almost content.

  "My lady, I may at least lay claim to being useful. Believe me when I say that service has its own rewards."

  I thought of my own exhilaration when I embarked upon the investigation into my husband's murder, and the killing boredom when it was finished, the restlessness that came with stitching cushions and pressing flowers day after monotonous day.

  "On that point, Mr. Ludlow, we are in complete agreement." I rose, and he jumped to his feet. "No, no. Stay where you are, I insist. I mean to walk a bit and admire the scene. Perhaps you will make that sketch after all."

  He laughed, a light, pleasant sound, and reached for his sketchbook. "I may at that, my lady."

  I left him then, and turned my steps toward the path to the river and Brisbane.

  THE NINTH CHAPTER

  You would look up to heaven, but I think The devil, that rules i'th'air stands in your light.

  —The Duchess of Malfi

  I walked nearly to the river before I spied him, his good shoulder propped against an ancient willow. He was staring at the dark water as a soft river breeze ruffled his hair. He did not turn, even when I drew close enough to touch him.

  "Curiosity is a character flaw, and a dangerous one," he remarked in an acid tone. "Or didn't your father teach you that?"

  "He tried," I said cheerfully. "But I am afraid that lesson, like so many others, simply did not take."

  He turned then and looked directly at me. I had forgot how singularly intense his focus could be. He had a trick of staring quite through me, stripping me bare while revealing nothing of himself. There had been moments, only a few, when he had been unguarded with me, giving me the smallest glimpse into the man behind the impenetrable façade. This was clearly not to be one of them. He kept his arms folded over the breadth of his chest, and I wondered if the gesture was meant more to contain himself or to keep me at bay.

  With some effort, I was able to breathe evenly, and when I spoke, my voice was steady.

  "I do hope you are enjoying your stay at the Abbey. Have you been in Sussex long?"

  He ignored my opening gambit. "I will not tell you anything," he said flatly.

  I opened my eyes very wide and blinked at him. "Of course you mustn't. I should not expect it of you. You are a professional, after all."

  He ground his teeth together in a manner I knew only too well. "On that point, I must request your discretion."

  "Why, Brisbane, are you suggesting that your fiancée does not know what you are? I am astonished. A gentleman should be more forthcoming with his intended. How is she to know if you can support her adequately if you do not share these things?"

  He took a step closer, using his height to great advantage. The breeze had risen, whipping his greatcoat about him like great black wings, and he loomed over me like some sort of fallen angel. "Are you enjoying yourself?" he demanded.

  I nodded. "Oh, immensely! And you must promise to invite me to the wedding. I shall be bereft if I cannot wish you well on your nuptial day. I think I s
hall wear green. Not fashionable for weddings anymore, but during Tudor times it was just the thing. I believe it has some connotations of pagan fertility, but we shall draw a veil over that."

  His jaw tightened a bit more. "I will not discuss this with you. Not Charlotte, not my profession, and not my presence here at Bellmont," he repeated.

  I fluffed the velvet trim on my cuffs and adopted a tone of supreme indifference. "So you have said, and I agreed with you. Really, Brisbane, you do not listen at all. You shall want to remedy that before you take a wife. A lady likes to be listened to. Tell me, as we are friends, what became of Mr. King? She did not murder him, did she? I shall feel quite nervous for you if you marry a murderess."

  His hand twitched, and though he did not reach for me, I knew I had prodded him too far. Teasing Brisbane was not a sport for the faint of heart. It was only slightly safer than baiting bulls. I could not help myself. Perhaps I wished to punish him for the long, lonely months without word. Perhaps I wished to punish him for forcing Charlotte upon us. I only knew I wanted to hurt him, not deeply, but the temptation to twist the knife was irresistible.

  "Honestly, Brisbane. You cannot seriously expect me to believe you intend to marry her. She is ridiculous. She would bore you to sobs in a fortnight."

  He opened his mouth, to say something vicious I have no doubt, but I held up a hand. "No, you mustn't tell me. I would rather not know." I tapped the black sling firmly. To his credit he did not flinch. "I do hope you are convalescing well. The air here is quite restorative."

  "I am fine, thank you for your concern," he ground out, his lips stiff with anger.

  "Excellent. And how is Monk? Keeping well, I trust?" Monk was his majordomo, as well as a sometime operative in his investigations. I had only the vaguest theories as to Brisbane's activities whilst I had been away, but I knew whatever they had been, Monk would have been at the thick of them.

  "Monk is in London. And since you will learn of it as soon as you speak with Valerius, I will tell you he is looking after Monk while he recovers from a broken leg."