Born to Trouble (13 page)

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.

Standing up, she walked to the pot of stew which was simmering over the open fire, stirring it vigorously before throwing a few sticks on the flames. The girl might be able to cook but she would never make a good wife for any man, let alone Byron. Pearl was bad at bottom – she felt it in her water. If Byron did but know it, she was saving him from a life of misery. There were plenty of good gypsy girls who were ready and willing to comfort him – he could take his pick – and if he married one of them, the pure line would continue. Which was all that mattered.

Less than a mile away, Pearl was saying much the same thing. ‘I can’t marry you, Byron. You know I can’t. Your family have been kind to me and I’m grateful, but I’ll always be an outsider. They’re expecting you to marry well, one of the daughters of a respected Romany family, you know that.’

‘As my wife you
will
be respected.’ His voice was soft. He had expected opposition but he wasn’t about to give up.

‘It wouldn’t be enough.’

Ignoring this, he said even more softly, ‘I love you, Pearl. I have for a long time. Do – do you love me?’

Her long lashes swept down over her eyes. ‘As . . . a brother.’

‘You have the same feeling for me as you do for Algar and Silvester?’

‘No. Yes. Not exactly.’ He was confusing her. ‘What I mean is, you’re special.’

‘Special is a good start.’

‘But I don’t think of you in
that
way.’ She raised her eyes and he saw they were swimming with tears. ‘I don’t think I’ll ever want to marry anyone.’

He knew what she was trying to say, and now his voice came low and gentle as he took her hands. She had long since stopped trembling when he touched her, and he had always rewarded her faith and trust in him by restraining himself. He did so now, merely keeping her fingers in his, but without pulling her into him as his whole being wanted to do, when he said, ‘If you give us a chance I can make you want to marry me. I promise. I won’t hurt you, Pearl.’