‘My sister has a bad habit of escaping. If you hadn’t found her who knows what would have happened?’
Ophelia was the precocious daughter of Maria, the Squire’s second, much younger wife. Little Ophelia had breathed new life into the ancient house and, at just seven years old to Edward’s twenty-four, she held the key to her half-brother’s heart in one tiny hand. She’d been quick enough to take advantage of her mother’s absence from the Hall, visiting friends in Edinburgh, and go tramping about the estate on one of her ‘expeditions’.
‘It was never my intention to frighten you. Please forgive me if that was the case and accept my heartfelt thanks for your service to my sister.’
Selina shrugged—a fleeting movement of one slight shoulder. ‘It was what anybody would have done under the circumstances.’
Edward nodded as though she had said something more gracious. She really did have the most disarming manner, he thought. Not at all polished, or even very polite, but there was honesty in her words, a lack of affectation that was oddly refreshing.
He shouldn’t admire it; indeed, his interest in her was unnerving. Get a hold of yourself, man, he chastised himself uncomfortably. You’re not some green lad, swooning over a milkmaid.
‘Well. Thank you all the same.’ After a moment’s pause Edward delved into his waistcoat pocket, wrestling with something contained within.
Selina flinched backwards at the movement, glancing this way and that; she seemed on the point of darting away through the trees—
‘No! Wait.’ Edward held up both hands. Bunched in his right was a snowy handkerchief, which he held out to Selina as gingerly as he might on approaching a wild bird.
‘You have some mud on your face, and a scratch—it’s been bleeding.’ He smiled wryly, one hand moving to the moon-shaped scar below his right eye. ‘I know from experience that it’s best to treat such a wound as soon as possible.’
Selina stiffened, and Edward saw another complex look dart across her countenance before she regained her composure.
‘Oh. Thank you.’
She tentatively took the handkerchief from Edward’s outstretched hand, her eyes never leaving his face. He watched as she dabbed at her cheek and cleared the dirt from her skin.
She may well be the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.
For all the scratches that marred her face, she was strikingly lovely in a way totally apart from the celebrated society belles of his circle. The notion was unsettling: hadn’t he long thought himself immune to the charms of women? The fact that in that moment, with the trees whispering around him and leaves strewn at his feet, he found himself as vulnerable as any other man was alarming in the extreme.
He would disregard it. She confused him, straying dangerously close to stirring something deep within him that he wanted left undisturbed, and that he couldn’t allow.
When she tried to return the handkerchief, he backed away with a shake of his head. ‘You keep it. Call it a memento.’
‘I’m not sure how much of today I’m like to want to remember.’
Edward bowed. ‘I understand. Whatever else you might feel, I hope you won’t forget that you have a friend in me. If I’m ever able to repay your kindness I shall endeavour to do so. I pay my debts.’
Selina’s answering smile was strange and still mistrustful, as though she knew a secret she didn’t intend to share. She was moving away from him, backing out of his reach in the direction of the place where Edward had seen her horse waiting for her. He watched her go, wishing the graceful movement of her stride wasn’t so damnably intriguing.
‘If that’s the case, you owe me twice over.’
‘Twice?’
She was almost out of sight. Edward frowned as she turned away from him, confusion clouding into his mind. Twice? How was that?
‘Once for today. Once for before.’
She threw the words over her shoulder and with a whisk of her crimson skirt disappeared between the trees.
Chapter Two
Selina gazed up at the ceiling of the darkened caravan, arching in a perfect curve above her head. Orange embers glowed in the grate of the compact stove set against one wall, dimly illuminating the gilt-painted woodwork of the shelves and bunks to gleam like real gold. A sliver of moonlight fell from one not quite shuttered window, slicing down to leave a pale splash on the polished floor.
Like all Roma women, Selina kept her vardo spotlessly clean, and even Papa, when he came to call for a cup of tea, knew to wipe his boots before he was allowed to cross the threshold.
A sideways glance across the narrow cabin showed her grandmother was asleep, the mound of colourful crochet blankets she slept under rising and falling with each breath. In the eerie stillness of the night even that small movement was a comfort.
Selina sighed. It’s no use.
Sleep evaded her, just as it had on the previous three nights. Each time she closed her eyes pictures rose up to chase each other through her mind: Edward as a young lad, on the day she had first encountered him all those years ago, attempting to smile through gritted teeth as she cleaned his wounded face, and then his adult counterpart, the blond curls just as vivid but his shoulders so impressively broad beneath his fine coat that Selina felt her heart beat a little faster at the memory.
Would that distinctive hair have been soft beneath her fingertips, she wondered, if she’d leaned down from her tree to touch?
The very notion made her breath hitch in her throat before she slammed the brakes on that train of thought, horrified by its wayward direction.
You can stop that this moment, Selina. What’s the matter with you?
At least the mystery of who he was and why she had encountered him there had been solved. Edward Fulbrooke. Ambrose’s son and Charles’ nephew. Perhaps she should have suspected, she mused as the image of his face drifted unstoppably across her mind’s eye once again, wearing the same dazzling smile he had flashed her mere days previously. But Edward’s father and uncle shared the same chestnut hair and ruddy complexion, quite unlike his cool fairness. There was no physical resemblance. And as for character...
Certainly as a boy he had been agreeable, she recalled as she lay in the darkness. He’d looked surprised to see her there in the woods, hunting for wild mushrooms, and she herself had felt nothing but sympathy for him at the state of his bloodied cheek. In those days she’d had no real reason to fear the gentry; Mama had still been alive, and in her childish innocence it had felt the most natural thing in the world to go to him, to help tend to his wound and to feel a slow creep of pleasure at having made a new friend who delighted her with his strange old-fashioned manners.
But then they had killed Mama. The Roma had left the Fulbrooke estate, never intending to return—and Selina’s hatred of the gentry had been burned into her heart like a brand.
It was just as well he didn’t remember me. He might have wanted to talk, otherwise, and that would never have done.
Selina shifted beneath her bedclothes, attempting to make her body more comfortable than her mind. The fact Edward had been just as courteous as a grown man as he had been as a lad was as surprising as her apparently instinctive attraction to him—and almost as confusing. The upper classes were renowned among her people for their contempt of the Romani, fostering the animosity that raged on both sides.
Had her care of Edward as a child opened his mind to the possibility the Roma were more civilised than he would otherwise have believed? she wondered. Or perhaps she was giving herself too much credit, Selina thought wryly. Certainly she was giving him too much space in her head.
The fact that she had slipped Edward’s handkerchief beneath her pillow meant nothing. There just wasn’t anywhere else to keep it. Zillah, with her hawk-like eyes, would spy it at once if she left it on her shelf, and carrying it upon her person seemed unduly intimate. Perhaps she should just get
rid of it, wad it into the stove, but the thought made her uncomfortable in a way she couldn’t quite identify.
Beneath her pillow it would have to stay, incriminating embroidered initials and all, and Selina could only pray nobody would find it.
‘You’re still awake, child.’
Selina jumped, and sat up so quickly she almost hit her head on the low shelf above her bunk. ‘I thought you were sleeping, Grandmother.’
‘So I was—until you decided the early hours would be a good time to begin talking to yourself. A sign of madness, as well you know.’
‘Sorry. I didn’t realise I’d spoken aloud.’
‘You didn’t.’ Zillah rose up in her bunk, arthritic bones creaking. ‘You’ve been tossing and turning all night; any fool could tell you have something on your mind. I’d wager it’s the reason why you rode back into camp three days ago as if the devil himself was after you.’
‘It’s nothing, Grandmother. Go back to sleep.’
‘I will not. Make a cup of tea, girl, and tell me what ails you.’
Selina groaned inwardly. There really was no stopping Zillah once she got the bit between her teeth. A lifetime on the road—a hard path for any woman—had instilled in her an almost legendary resolve. There was no room for weakness in a vardo. At past eighty years old, with silver hair and a face lined with the countless creases of age, Zillah had a mind that was still sharp as a knife, and she was revered among the Roma for her experience and wisdom.
Of course she’d noticed Selina’s absence from camp, and how distracted she had been for the past few days—how could Selina have expected anything less?
She swung her legs down from her bunk and shuffled, still cocooned in blankets, the few steps towards the stove. She could have made a fire in her sleep by now, she was sure, and it wasn’t long before their copper kettle was whistling shrilly. Two doses of strong, sweet tea were poured into china cups, and she conveyed them back to where her grandmother sat, swathed in a thick woollen shawl and regarding her expectantly.
‘Well?’
‘Well, what, Grandmother?’ Selina hopped up into her bunk, cup clutched to her chest.
‘I would like to know what it is that bothers you. Start from the beginning, and don’t leave anything out.’
‘I don’t know what you want me to say.’ Selina glanced at Zillah from beneath her lashes. Even in the darkness she could see her grandmother’s eyes were fixed on her, gleaming bright as a pair of new pins. ‘There isn’t anything I can think of.’
Edward’s face rose up before her mind’s eye before she could stop it, his hazel gaze locked onto hers, and she frowned down into her teacup. How was it that the only man ever to make her blush was a gentleman, and a Fulbrooke at that? She had every reason to loathe his family, and yet the pull of Edward’s powerful appeal was impossible for her to ignore.
No Roma man had ever tempted her so much, that was for sure. Although plenty had vied for the hand of Tomas Agres’s pretty daughter, Selina had never felt more than a passing flicker of interest in any of them beyond a stolen kiss or two.
The only one who had ever made her think twice was a handsome youth named Sampson, and even his charms had quickly vanished when she’d overheard him boast of his confidence in winning her without even needing to try. Since her swift and loud rejection of him nobody else had dared approach her, for which Selina felt nothing but relief.
The only man whose good opinion she needed to consider was Papa, and that had suited her just fine—until Edward Fulbrooke had come striding back into her life, his handsome face making her question every rational thought she’d ever had.
‘Are you absolutely sure?’
‘Yes.’
‘You lie,’ stated the old woman flatly. ‘Do you think I’m blind? That I’ve finally lost my aged mind after all these years?’
‘Of course not!’
‘Then don’t play games with me, girl. I can read you like a book.’
Selina sighed, shoulders slumping in resignation. Perhaps it wouldn’t be such a terrible idea to talk things over, she mused. There had never been any secrets between the two of them; living in such close quarters didn’t really leave much room for intrigue. Besides, she had too much respect for Zillah to continue with such an unconvincing lie.
Edward’s image surfaced once again, all disarming smile and broad shoulders, and she forced it back roughly. It was definitely because she was overtired. She wouldn’t waste a single, solitary second thinking about him or the musculature hidden beneath his coat under usual circumstances. The distress of that day must have disturbed her more than she’d realised, and now her mind was playing tricks on her. Perhaps the benefit of her grandmother’s wisdom would help her regain her mental equilibrium. She just wouldn’t tell her every detail.
‘Very well.’ Selina took a sip of tea and braced herself for the inevitable. She had no doubt it would not be pleasant. ‘There was an incident while I was scouting for food.’
‘What kind of incident, child?’
‘I was set upon by two men. They chased me for a few miles, then I managed to climb a tree and hide until they left.’
‘Did they hurt you?’ Zillah’s voice was soft in the darkness—ominously so.
‘No. No doubt they would have done, had they caught me, but another man came and threw them off the scent. I suppose it’s to him I owe my escape.’ She hadn’t thought of it that way before, she had to confess, and, looking at events in such a light, didn’t it make her earlier behaviour towards Edward seem a little ungrateful?
Not to mention rude, she chided herself. You didn’t do much to show him Roma aren’t really insolent and ill-mannered.
But, no. One good act could never hope to negate generations of malice. Even if Edward had surprised her that day, there was nothing to say he wouldn’t revert to his class type on any other. Besides, she thought grimly, if he’d known where they were camping would he have acted entirely less chivalrously?
‘I see. And this heroic figure of a man—what of him?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean what of him, Lina? Why did he intervene? What manner of person was he? Roma?’
‘No, Grandmother.’ Selina’s mouth twitched at the thought as a sudden recollection of Edward’s refined features flitted through her mind, his lips curved yet again into a distressingly attractive smile. ‘Most definitely not Roma.’
Zillah’s eyes narrowed. ‘Come along, Selina. At my age I don’t have time for guessing games. What is it you think you cannot tell me?’
Selina took a deep breath.
‘He was gentry.’
There was silence.
‘Grandmother...?’
‘Speak on, girl.’
The mound of crochet blankets shifted as Zillah turned to face her directly with a close scrutiny Selina could have done without.
‘What strange circumstances led such a high and mighty gentleman to concern himself with the likes of you?’
‘I found his sister lost in the woods. I was trying to return her to where she came from and I was seen. The men who saw me assumed I was trying to steal her—and they weren’t pleased.’ Selina shivered suddenly and drew her blankets round her more tightly. What exactly would they have done if they’d caught her? The endless possibilities made her feel sick. ‘The gentleman saw where I was hiding but sent the men away before they realised. He said his sister had told him what happened, and if I ever needed help I was to call on him.’
Zillah gave a short caw of laughter. ‘Call on him? What does he think we would ever need him for?’
She clucked to herself for a few moments, evidently tickled. Selina tried to smile, but found her face was cold.
‘And did he have a name, your new friend?’
‘He—yes. Grandmother, he was the late Squire’s own son.’
‘I would never endanger our people,’ Selina breathed. ‘I gave no clue where I had come from. He has no reason to suspect we’re on his land.’
Zillah gazed at her a moment longer, before exhaling slowly. ‘Good.’
It would be disastrous to move the camp now, and both women knew it. Winter was approaching fast—the hardest time of year for those living on the road, whose lives were a trial at the best of times.
All their menfolk, with the exception of just two elderly grandfathers, were away working on the Oxford Canal, undertaking the backbreaking labour of widening it. Even their adolescent boys had gone, taking up shovels and picks and toiling alongside the grown men. The work was hard, and the hours long, but they were able to make a few coppers to take back to the waiting women on their short visits home that would allow them to buy provisions for the entire winter—including costly coal to feed the stoves that kept their caravans warm.
Such opportunities didn’t arise every day, and Selina’s father had jumped at the chance. Even the prospect of returning to the Blackwell estate, with all its nightmarish memories, would be worthwhile if it meant securing the survival of the camp. If the Roma moved on now the men would have to give up this precious source of reliable income.
It isn’t just the men’s jobs at stake, though, is it?
Selina bit her lip as she thought of the women who’d had the misfortune to bear autumn babies: three of them, all born within a few days of each other, struggling to breathe in the raw mornings and coughing their hearts out at the first suggestion of a frost. They would never survive the jolting journey along pitted roads if the camp had to move. The chill would get into their tiny lungs and one of the women would be sewing a miniature shroud before they knew what had happened.
The Marriage Rescue Page 3
