The Lady Julia Grey Bundle (74 page)

The next day I left the Abbey directly after breakfast. It was a crisp, cold morning and I took care to wrap myself in my warmest clothes before setting out. I walked slowly, taking in deep draughts of fresh air and puffing them out in little clouds. The road was still muddy and my hems were deeply soiled by the time I reached my destination at the Gypsy camp. I lifted my nose, sniffing appreciatively at the little cooking fires kindled in the river meadow. Magda’s brother, Jasper, raised a hand in greeting and disappeared into one of the caravans. A moment later Magda appeared, her unruly hair plaited with scarlet ribbons. The cold must have driven her into her caravan, for I did not see her tent and the tiny chimney of her caravan was smoking heavily. She smiled broadly as she approached, wrapping a heavy woollen shawl about her shoulders.

“Come to cross my palm with silver?” she asked, giving me a throaty laugh.

“I wanted to thank you for your hospitality to my father’s aunt. She is not a very nice person. I am sure she did not express her appreciation for your kindness.”

Magda tipped her head, her bright black eyes snapping as she looked me over from head to toe. “There is more. You want answers, do you not? Perhaps it is time you got them.”

She turned and made for her caravan, never looking round to see if I followed. She led the way inside, and I paused on the threshold to admire her little home. It was
compact and more orderly than I would have expected, all her possessions neatly stowed on pegs or in little cupboards fitted into the walls. There was a stove for warmth and a narrow bed snugged under the curved roof. A tiny table laid with a sprigged cloth and two chairs completed the furnishings, and yet there was no sense of meagreness about the place. The bed was spread with a yellow taffeta coverlet and curtains fashioned of flowered chintz covered the windows. The trim had been painted a bright blue, and the effect was one of exuberant high spirits.

She waved me to a chair and fussed a moment with the kettle and brightly patterned teacups. She arranged them on the table, careful to avoid the small crystal ball resting on its pedestal in the middle. When she had poured out and we had warmed our hands, she reached for mine, turning it over and stripping off the glove to read my palm. She peered closely at it, clucking once or twice, then released it. I pressed my hand against my teacup, but even through the warmth of the porcelain I could still feel the light stroke of her fingertips as she traced the lines.

“You want to know about him,” she said finally. “Very well. Ask.”

I did not stop to wonder why she was willing to speak now when she had never done so in the past. Perhaps she was in a generous mood, perhaps she felt badly for things that had been between us in the past. Or perhaps it was another means of making mischief for her. With Magda, there was simply no way to know.

“You spoke of a woman called Mariah Young,” I began.
“You told me about her months ago. You said she had died. Who was she?”

Magda took a deep swallow of her tea and settled back in her chair. She eased her feet out of her shoes, scratching one calf with the toes of the other foot. There was a hole in her stocking and it was badly worn at the heel. She scratched for a long moment. I knew better than to prod her. She had her own rhythms, and she would speak in her own time.

Finally, she put her shoes back on and put down her teacup. “Mariah Young was a Gypsy girl, known among the travellers of this isle for her gift. She had the second sight, and a powerful gift it was. But she had other gifts too. She was beautiful and lively, with a cloud of black hair down to her waist and the tiniest feet you ever saw. She danced for money and told fortunes and collected hearts. She broke them all too, all but one.”

Magda’s voice, accented by her native Romany tongue, was peculiarly suited to storytelling. It was low for a woman’s, and she had a way of speaking that held the listener in thrall. I glanced down at the crystal ball on the table between us, and for an instant I could almost see a tiny figure with high-arched feet, dancing and snapping her fingers.

“The one man Mariah Young loved was not a Romany. He was a rogue, come from an old and proud Scottish family, and his people hated Mariah. But he must have loved her in spite of his wicked ways, for they married, and after seven full moons had passed, she gave birth to a child, a boy with his mother’s witchcraft and his father’s wildness.”

Magda’s eyes sharpened. “But blood will out, and the
noble rogue left his wife and son. Mariah did not grieve for him. His love of drink and other women had killed her love, and when she saw she was rid of him she danced as she had not danced since she was wed. She took her boy to her people, tried to teach him the ways of the travellers. But the child was a halfling, born between two worlds, belonging to neither. When he was but ten years old he ran away, leaving his mother behind, and for the first time in her life, Mariah Young knew what it was to have a broken heart.”

I took a sip of my tea and averted my eyes. The tea was bitter now, and I put it down again.

“Ah, the taste of regret,” Magda said softly. “You wish you had not come. But you did, and you must let me finish the tale I have begun. After her son left her, Mariah Young would not dance, could not tell fortunes. Her gift failed her, and in its place came headaches, blinding ones. She took laudanum to ease them, and one day, when her little green bottle was as empty as her pockets, she stole a bottle from the chemist. She was discovered and put into gaol. Do you know what it means to a Gypsy to be locked up, lady? It means death to us. If we cannot breathe freely, we cannot breathe at all. And Mariah Young had no wish to live. She turned her face to the wall and died, but before she did, she cursed her gaolers. She cursed the chemist and the judge and anyone who could hear the sound of her voice. And before she died, she cursed her own son. She gave him the legacy of her sight, knowing he would fight against it, knowing it would destroy him slowly from within.”

Magda’s voice trailed off, a menacing, unearthly whisper.
There was a scream of laughter from outside the caravan—one of the children, I think—and I jumped. I picked up my glove and yanked it on.

“That is a faery story for children. I wanted the truth.”

Magda shrugged. “What is the truth? Mariah Young was Brisbane’s mother. He ran away and she died in gaol for stealing a bottle of laudanum. Those are facts. Are they the truth? No, for they do not tell you of the heart, and that is where truth lives, lady.”

“And I suppose it is the truth when you moan on about death in his shadow?” I asked, my voice thick with sarcasm.

“Did someone not die at the Abbey?” Her tone was even, but I saw the twitch of a smile at the corners of her mouth. “Come, lady, let us be friends. We have known each other too long to keep bad feelings between us. Give me your cup and I will tell you what I see.”

Reluctantly I swallowed the rest of the tea and handed her the cup, the same Jubilee cup she always used for tasseomancy. She upended it on the saucer and turned it thrice, then picked it up and peered inside. After a moment she gave it to me. “There is an eye. You must be watchful.”

I looked into the cup. Near the bottom was an oval shape, pointed at the ends with the sinister suggestion of a pupil. I thrust the cup back at her.

“Is that all? I must be watchful? Watchful of what?”

Magda shrugged again. “Sometimes the tea leaves do not have much to say. But I will tell you this—he fights with himself, he struggles, and to be with such a man, you will struggle as well.”

“Did the tea leaves say that too? They’ve grown chatty.”

She smiled, but this time there was no hint of the theatrics of the fortune-teller. It was a genuine smile, warm and sincere. “No, I say it as a woman who has lived a hundred lifetimes. He is a man beset by devils, and to be with him is to fight them too. But, oh, what a battle!” she finished with a wink.

“You have always warned me off of him. Why do you encourage me now?”

“Because I am growing old and sentimental.” She waved a hand, imperious as a queen. “I see only a little, lady, but I know that your fortune is as twined with his as the ivy to the oak. Be happy. And do not forget to cross my palm,” she admonished with a chuckle. She opened her hand for a coin.

I rose and reached into my pocket. “I have no silver, but I hope these will do.”

I laid the Grey Pearls across her palm, spilling them into her lap.

“Lady,” she began, her eyes round with wonder. I shook my head.

“They are real, and they are yours. Father can help you sell them for a fair price, if you like. Have Jasper arrange it.”

I left her then, and we did not exchange another word. She did not thank me; I did not expect it. I had little doubt our paths would cross again some day.

T
welfth Night marked the beginning of the end of that fateful house party. My brothers and sisters collected their children and returned to their homes, most of them on speaking terms for once. Plum had written to say he had been invited to stay in Florence for Alessandro’s betrothal celebrations and would be leaving for Ireland as soon as the nuptials were concluded in the summer. Portia looked closely at me when she related the news, but I merely smiled and went on feeding Grim his sugared plums. Much to Father’s delight, Lysander and Violante had decided to remain in England for the birth of their child, and Hortense—by now fast friends with Violante—had agreed to play companion to
her. And in a small piece in the
Times
I learned that Scotland Yard was very pleased to report the apprehension of a jewel thief of some notoriety. Brisbane’s name was not mentioned, nor was the Tear of Jaipur, though I knew they meant Charlotte King. But as closely as I read the columns, there was no word of letters patent or the viscountcy of Wargrave. There was, however, the smallest mention of an estate in Yorkshire changing hands into the possession of Nicholas Brisbane. It was no great estate, and no lofty title, but I was happy for him.

As for me, I went to London with Portia and Jane, accompanied by Florence and Grim, and of course Morag, grumbling as usual about the extra work. I had much shopping to do to outfit the Rookery, and I felt the need for the diversions of city life and the comforts of steam heat. Portia’s house, a vast, modern place, was impossibly warm even in the dreariest months. We settled in companionably, and the dark days of January passed quickly away.

One wet afternoon late in January, Jane and I lolled by the fire, talking desultorily of things we might do once the weather improved. The butler entered with the tea things, and Portia followed him, flipping through the post. She had already opened one letter, and I caught the quickest glimpse of a bold black scrawl before she shoved it to the bottom of the stack.

“Jane, dearest, won’t you pour? And Julia, you can hand round the cakes. Mind you take some of that sponge. Cook is quite proud of it.”

Jane poured as Portia handed out the letters. Out of the
tail of my eye, I saw her slip the opened one behind the cushion of her chair as she sorted through the rest. She lit on one from Aunt Hermia, and exclaimed, reading it out to us as we sipped our tea and nibbled at sandwiches.

“Aunt Hermia says Hortense is well, and Violante is feeling quite strong now. She has put Father on a diet,” she said with a smothered laugh. “Apparently he was a bit bilious, and she has decided he must not eat butter, gravy, or pastry. Poor Father!” We exchanged smiles. Father was the most powerful man of our acquaintance, but he was also the most susceptible to being fussed over. They might have begun rockily, but Violante was very likely in a fair way to becoming his favourite daughter-in-law.

Portia’s expression sobered. “Father has received a letter from India. Oh, dear.”

I took a bite of the slice of sponge. “What is it, dearest?”

Portia shook her head sadly. “It is Sir Cedric. He suffered a fatal attack on the voyage to India. He is dead.”

The cake tasted dusty suddenly, and I put down the plate.

“How awful,” Jane murmured. She refilled my cup, sweetening it heavily. “Drink this, Julia. You have gone quite pale.”

I obeyed and felt marginally better. “What sort of attack?”

Portia shook her head. “She does not say. One imagines it must have been his heart. He was a rather florid sort of man.”

“Perhaps an apoplexy,” Jane suggested. She shook her head. “Poor Lucy Phipps.”

I said nothing. I was thinking of Emma. Emma and her blind devotion to her sister, her jealous love. I thought of
the slippery precipice of murder, and how much easier it must be to do the act again after you have raised your hand to it once.

“Not Lucy Phipps anymore,” Portia corrected. “Aunt Hermia says that Sir Cedric died after they were wed. She is Lady Eastley now. She has inherited his entire fortune.”

“How tragic,” Jane went on. “To be so newly married, and to lose one’s husband. I cannot imagine that the money is any great comfort to her. She must be utterly shattered.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” I said faintly. “I think the money may be a very great comfort. She was always quite poor, you know.”

“And now she and Emma will never want for a thing so long as she lives,” Portia finished.

As we sipped our tea in silence, I was conscious of a deep unease, a vague dissatisfaction that something had gone quite gravely wrong and could never be mended.

When Jane had retired and Portia had left to bathe the repulsive Puggy, I poured myself another cup of tea and went to the chair where Portia had been sitting. The letter was still there, a little the worse for having been sat on. Doubtless she expected to retrieve it later. I sipped at my tea, holding the letter and debating with myself. It was a very short argument.

I slipped the letter from its envelope and read it quickly. There was no salutation, no endearment, and I felt a great deal more at ease when I read the brisk tone of the letter itself. I had not forgotten Portia’s smug air when she informed me she had business with Brisbane.

By all means, come in April. The worst of the weather will be past, and I am told the spring is rather lovely here. I shall be vastly interested to see what you can do with the place. Do not think I am being modest when I say it is a ruin. It lacks every modern convenience, and I hope you are prepared for every possible discomfort. I can offer you only cold rooms, bad food, and lumpy beds.

As for your sister, I will not mention her again, except to say this: do not entertain the idea of bringing her. The estate is not fit for company. And since I flatter myself that I know you a little better than you might believe, I will repeat, DO NOT BRING YOUR SISTER TO YORKSHIRE.

 

The rest of the letter was a tangle of information about trains and schedules and domestic arrangements. I only skimmed it. I folded the letter and replaced it in the envelope and tucked the envelope behind the cushion. Portia would know soon enough I had read it, but there was no purpose to starting that quarrel just yet.

Instead, I busied myself making a list of everything I would need to pack for my trip to Yorkshire. I was keenly interested in seeing this ruin of an estate, and if Portia meant to put his household in order for him, she might well be glad of an extra pair of hands. Besides, April was three long, dreary, grey months away. After a winter in the city, I would be gasping for country air, and Yorkshire was reputed to be tremendously scenic. I had never been, but
I had heard the moors were staggeringly lovely. Of course, I never expected Brisbane and I would find a body there. But that is a tale for another time.