Sheri Cobb South (13 page)

Mr. Meriwether’s jaw tightened, but he remained staunchly silent. Sir Gerald harrumphed into his napkin, while Lord Kendall glared at his son and heir, his brow lowering ominously. The doctor, attempting to pour oil on troubled waters, rushed into speech, but his choice of subject betrayed his recognition of the bone of contention between the two young men.

“As always, Lady Anne, you set an excellent table, but I confess its magnificence is dimmed by the absence of your charming daughter. Where, pray, is Miss Hollingshead?”

“Emma is confined to her room with a sick headache,” Lady Anne said placidly, seemingly unaware of the tension about the table. “I wonder if you might consent to look in on her before you go?”

“Certainly, certainly,” the doctor assured her. “I daresay her nerves are overset by the sad activities of the day. A dose of laudanum should help her rest, and she should feel much more the thing when she awakens.”

As the doctor made his diagnosis, Pickett leaned forward to refill Lady Fieldhurst’s glass. She attempted to catch his eye and convey a whispered warning, but was preempted by Lord Kendall, who addressed her with a query.

“How much longer are we to enjoy your company, Lady Fieldhurst? I regret that you have not seen us at our best. I fear you must be eager to abandon us for London.”

“I can hardly fault you for the weather, Lord Kendall, nor for Mr. Danvers’s tragic demise,” she assured him.

“My dear Lady Fieldhurst, I hope we can persuade you to stay long enough to explore some of the sights of Yorkshire,” put in Lady Anne. “Mother Shipton’s Cave, for instance, or John of Gaunt’s castle.”

“An excellent notion!” seconded the rector, his round face beaming with approval. “In times of tragedy, we must not forget the simple pleasures of life, for we are reminded that they can be snatched from us all too quickly.”

Lady Fieldhurst readily agreed to this program for her entertainment, for the more she could prolong her visit, the less incentive John Pickett would have for entering Lady Anne’s employ as a means of extending his investigations.

It was not until the first course was ending that Lady Fieldhurst saw her opportunity to warn him of her hostess’s intentions. As Pickett removed her plate, the viscountess quite deliberately dropped her napkin on the floor at his feet. He bent to retrieve it, an action which brought his ear in close proximity to her mouth.

“You’d best have a care,” she murmured. “Lady Anne intends to make you an offer of employment.”

“Very good, my lady,” replied Pickett, at his most wooden.

As an answer, it was a great deal too ambiguous for Lady Fieldhurst’s liking. Did he mean “very good” as in “thank you for warning me in advance,” or “very good” as in “what an excellent notion”?

“Well?” she demanded
sotto voce
as he shook the napkin open with a flourish and replaced it in her lap. “What do you intend to do?”

“I think,” he said with a twinkle in his eye that belied his expressionless tone, “that I shall have my fortune told.”

* * * *

A servant’s life, Pickett reflected, was not an easy one. He found himself singularly ill-suited to it, for he was too much in the habit of being his own man to easily adapt to arranging his life for the convenience of even so charming a mistress as Lady Fieldhurst. While he was ultimately answerable to his magistrate, Mr. Colquhoun, for his actions, he was not at that gentleman’s beck and call twenty-four hours a day. In the end, it was not until dinner was finished and the last teaspoon washed, dried, and stored away with the family silver that he was at last able to make good his escape. He set off in the direction of the river, doing his best to look as if he had been dispatched to the village on an errand for the viscountess. Once he rounded the bend which hid Hollingshead Place from sight, however, he veered sharply off the river road and headed for the woods.

The stands of ancient oaks grew thick, their green canopies meeting overhead to block out most of the remaining sunlight. Pickett, straining to see his way in the semidarkness, had ventured only a few yards when he almost ran over a fellow sojourner.

“Oh, how you startled me!” cried a childishly high-pitched voice. “You are Lady Fieldhurst’s footman, are you not?”

Pickett, his eyes growing more accustomed to the dark, recognized the younger daughter of the house, a schoolroom miss of about fourteen. “John Pickett, at your service,” he said, bowing deeply from the waist. “And you, I think, are Miss Hollingshead.”

“Yes—well, actually, my sister Emma is Miss Hollingshead,” she admitted grudgingly. “I am Miss Susannah. But I will be Miss Hollingshead after she marries, which must be soon, now that Cousin Colin will become vicar.”

It would be disgraceful, he knew, for him to pump this innocent child, but his opportunities for first-hand information were few, thanks to his present charade. He could not afford to pass up such a chance. “Forgive me, Miss Susannah, but I was under the impression that your sister was going to make a brilliant match in London.”

“Mama wishes her to, because Mama was the daughter of an earl, and so she wants Emma to marry an earl, too. But I heard Emma tell Mama that she would marry Cousin Colin or no one, and although Miss Grantham thinks that Emma is gentle and soft-spoken just as a lady should be, I know she can be amazingly stubborn when she chooses. And I have known her a great deal longer than Miss Grantham has!”

“I see. And what does your papa say?”

“He only says he will not be rushed into naming the new vicar. I think he does not want to see Emma made unhappy, but then, he does not want Mama to be unhappy, either, and one or the other of them
must
be. Poor Papa!” Her expression grew pensive. “Poor Papa.”

Pickett said solemnly that he did not envy Sir Gerald such a difficult decision.

“Nor do I!” Miss Susannah concurred vehemently. “At least he will not have such a decision to make where I am concerned.”

“No?” Pickett inquired with careful nonchalance.

“No, for I am going to the gypsy camp to have my fortune told, and I daresay the cards will tell me whom I am to marry. Perhaps I should ask about Emma, too, while I am about it.”

“By happy coincidence, I am on my way to the same place. Will you accept my escort, Miss Susannah? I cannot think Miss Grantham would like your wandering about the woods alone.”

This observation provoked a look of such guilt that Pickett surmised the governess was blissfully unaware of her charge’s present whereabouts.

“She would not like it at all—if she knew where I was,” admitted Susannah, confirming Pickett’s worst suspicions.

“In fact, you gave Miss Grantham the slip,” he observed.

“You won’t tell, will you?” pleaded the girl. “She confined me to my room for gossiping with the servants, except that I was doing no such thing, only Jem—the stable boy, you know—was telling me the most
thrilling
story about putting out the fire at the vicarage, but Miss Grantham ordered me to my room and told me no man would ever wish to marry me if I did not learn to behave like a lady. But Miss Grantham
always
behaves like a lady, and no man has ever wished to marry her, either, so if it really makes no difference in the end, I don’t see why I shouldn’t at least have
fun!
And so, since I am already in disgrace for gossiping with Jem (even though it was really no such thing), I might as well run away and have my fortune told, for I have been wanting to do so
forever,
and no one will let me, and I might just as well be punished for two things as one, do you not think so?”

Pickett, following this impassioned speech with some difficulty, thought it behooved him to make what inquiries he could at the gypsy camp, and return Miss Susannah Hollingshead to the care of her governess with all possible speed. Gradually the woods thinned until they stopped at the edge of a clearing where some half dozen dirty canvas tents had been set up. A fire burned in front of one of these, heating the pungent contents of a black cast-iron cauldron. At the front flap of another, a woman plucked a chicken (stolen from the vicarage, no doubt) with brisk, efficient movements. Three men huddled beyond the campsite, smoking crude pipes and staring at the intruders with thinly veiled hostility. As Pickett and his charge watched, a stooped crone emerged from one of the tents, plopped down on a three-legged stool, and stirred the pot with a large wooden spoon, mumbling beneath her breath as she performed her task. Watching her, Pickett was forcibly reminded of the witches’ scene from a recent Covent Garden production of
Macbeth.

“Somehow it doesn’t look nearly as romantic as I had expected,” murmured Miss Susannah, edging closer to him. “In the evenings, when I could open my window and hear the violins and the tambourine, it always sounded so jolly. I thought—I thought—”

“I imagine a young gypsy girl would think
your
life romantic,” Pickett pointed out gently. “After all, you live in a grand house, you wear fine clothes—”

“Well?” called out the crone, brandishing her spoon in their direction. “What do ye want?”

Pickett glanced down at Susannah Hollingshead and found her gazing up at him with a look of mute appeal. Clearly, he was designated as spokesperson. He couldn’t help wondering how Miss Susannah would have coped with this task had she not happened upon him along the way.

“We would like to have our fortunes told,” he informed the crone.

“You’ll never get ‘em done standing over there.”

The crone rose stiffly to her feet and shuffled back into the tent. She remained inside for so long that Pickett began to think she was gone for good. He was just about to suggest to Miss Susannah that they cut their losses and return to the house before her absence was noted, when the old gypsy woman returned, shuffling a stack of cards in her gnarled hands. She sank back down onto the stool with an odd sort of dignity and looked at them expectantly. Pickett, correctly interpreting this as an invitation, took Miss Susannah’s arm and approached the old woman.

“Well, my pretty, let’s see what the cards have to say,” cackled the crone, looking the girl up and down appraisingly.

Pickett glanced down at his companion, and noted with some amusement that Miss Susannah was exceedingly reluctant to claim the long-coveted prize, now that it was within reach. “I’ll go first, shall I?” he suggested.

Miss Susannah nodded mutely, and he dropped a silver shilling into the old woman’s upturned palm. As the two watched, she laid out the cards in a simple geometric pattern. One by one, she turned them over to reveal, not the familiar clubs, spades, diamonds, and hearts, but strange pictures of cups, coins, swords, and oddly dressed people. She muttered as she studied the peculiar collection, sometimes talking to herself, sometimes to Pickett.

“A man of many secrets ... the Page of Swords ... you are on a quest. Much depends upon your success. Hmm ... the Five of Swords ... many things, many people will try to lead you astray. You must not let them.” The old gypsy fell silent for a long moment, then continued, “There is something else, something you want very badly, but that seems to be out of your reach. The Four of Cups, the Ten of Wands ... you may yet achieve your heart’s desire, but not without great difficulty. The Two and the Four of Pentacles ... Yes, money is part of the problem, but there are other, even greater obstacles. The Emperor ... a rich and powerful man who casts a long shadow. The High Priest, another man, one whose good opinion you value. No, not a father. An employer, perhaps ...”

“His employer is a lady,” said Susannah, finding her tongue at last. “The Viscountess Fieldhurst.”

“I see,” said the old crone, studying Pickett intently. Pickett, who a scant fifteen minutes earlier would have sworn the whole thing was so much balderdash, was seized with the uncomfortable notion that the old gypsy saw far too much. He gave her back look for look, willing himself not to blush, and felt no small sense of relief when she fixed her too-knowing gaze on the girl beside him. As a further sign that she had finished with him, she swept up the cards in a single, surprisingly dexterous, movement and began to lay them out again.

“Six of Swords, Four of Cups ...Your life is about to change. You must make a journey ...”

The cryptic tone of Miss Susannah’s fortune, if not the particulars, sounded so similar to his own that Pickett decided the gypsy’s uncanny accuracy was nothing more than a memorized spiel deliberately vague enough that anyone might find some grain of truth within it. Miss Susannah would, after all, be emancipated from the schoolroom within two or three years; it required no gift of second sight to know that her life would indeed change, or that she would make the obligatory trek to London in search of an eligible husband. Glancing down at the wide-eyed girl eagerly absorbing every word, Pickett had no doubt that intrepid damsel could think of some potential changes or journeys of her own which would lend verisimilitude to the old hag’s predictions.

Some slight sound caught his attention, and Pickett looked up to find the same gypsy youth he had seen twice before, first in the burned-out vicarage and more recently at the graveside service that morning, lurking between two tents and watching him warily. As inconspicuously as possible, Pickett detached himself from Susannah’s side and edged away. The youth, seeing what he was about, disappeared around the corner of the nearest tent. Pickett quickly reversed direction and circled the tent from the opposite direction, so that the two young men all but collided behind it.

“Wait!” cried Pickett, seizing the youth by the collar when he made as if to run away. “I want a word with you.”

“I’ve got nothing to say to the likes of you,” came the sullen reply.

“You were at the burial service this morning. I saw you there.”

“So, and what if I was?” spat the youth. “Can’t a fellow attend the burial of his own father?”

Chapter 7

In Which John Pickett Tries His Hand at Burglary, with Unexpected Results

“Father?”
Pickett echoed incredulously. “Cyril Danvers was your
father?”