Lady Anne 03 - Curse of the Gypsy

by Donna Lea Simpson

  Four

  Darkefell slipped away, deciding not to wait for his mother before traveling south. He left word for her to follow as soon as she was ready and set out early the next morning with Osei, riding toward a small parish near Ecclesfield, close to Sheffield, where Theophilus Grover, despite his father’s assertion that he was headed for a bishop’s appointment, toiled in obscurity as a country parish vicar. It was a long ride, but finally, road weary and increasingly uneasy, they came upon the place.

  The vicarage was a tiny stone cottage in a village of about ten houses, hard by the small church. Darkefell and Osei first visited the church, but an elderly woman who was cleaning the nave floor said that the vicar was at home taking his midday meal, so they proceeded to his cottage. Judging by the size of the church and village, Grover’s parish must be one of the smallest in England, and likely the poorest compensated.

  Darkefell left Osei holding the horses and walked up to the vicarage, rapping smartly on the door. After a moment a little maid, a girl not more than thirteen or so, opened it and stood gaping at the marquess. “Is your master at home?” he asked.

  She gaped for a moment more, then curtseyed and rushed away, leaving him standing on the step like some kind of tradesman. He looked back at Osei and shrugged.

  A moment later Theophilus Grover appeared at the door, bowing. “I am so sorry, my lord, that Judy left you waiting like that. She has been sent to us for training, but I really despair of ever making her know how she should treat guests. Please come in, my lord.” He hesitated as he looked out at Osei, then bent toward Darkefell and murmured, “Would Mr. Boatin deign to come in?”

  “Do you have a lad about to take care of the horses?”

  “Yes, yes, of course, my lord,” Grover said, his balding head perspiring and his pale eyes wide. He retreated into the cottage and shouted, “Boy! Boy, see to the horses.”

  His nervousness made Darkefell suspicious. Once inside and ushered to Grover’s cramped and dreary study, where religious books filled the shelves and heavy draperies kept out any rays of natural light, Darkefell watched Theophilus Grover.

  “Now, what brings you back here, my lord?” the fellow said, after ordering the nervous maid to serve a weak cordial, some homemade berry abomination, in tiny glasses.

  “When we last spoke, Theo, I was under the impression that your father had died in his fall from Staungill Force.”

  The other fellow’s eyes were watchful and either he was not enough of a deceiver to cover the fact that he was not surprised by the marquess’s line of conversation, or he did not intend to deny it. But he stiffly said, “Has something occurred to give you another opinion?”

  As Grover raised his glass of cordial to his lips, one small beam of light pierced the gloom through a break in the curtains and lit a ruby on the fellow’s thick index finger, a ruby set in a signet ring, one that Darkefell had last seen on Hiram Grover’s finger the very night of the denouement, when he accused Grover of Cecilia Wainwright’s murder. How had Theophilus gotten it, if it was missing along with the body of his father? And why had the fellow not mentioned contact if he had no feelings of guilt?

  Darkefell glanced at Osei and raised his eyebrows, then looked directly at the ruby ring. Grover was more perceptive than Darkefell had given him credit for being, and caught the look. He flushed a deep red and jerked his hand down, spilling the cordial and dropping the glass.

  “When did you last have contact with your father?” Darkefell asked, knowing the time was right to catch Grover out.

  “M-my father?” He cleared his throat and whipped out a handkerchief, sopping up the cordial from his embroidered waistcoat. When he looked up again, his face had regained its normal color, and he stiffly said, “I have not seen my father since before his dreadful fall on your estate.”

  Osei immediately followed up what appeared to be an honest, if evasive, statement, saying, “But he has written to you, Mr. Grover, that is clear.”

  The man’s eyes widened but he stayed silent.

  “There’s no need to evade our questions, Theo,” Darkefell said, keeping his tone even with some difficulty. “If you had not heard from your father you wouldn’t be wearing that family ring. Grover had it on his finger the night he fell.”

  Though the man trembled, he nodded.

  “He wrote to you?”

  Sighing heavily, Theo passed one hand over his balding pate and said, “In a sense. All I received was the ring, and a note, in his handwriting, recommending Deuteronomy five, verse sixteen.”

  Osei said, “Thou shalt not bear false witness against thy neighbor.”

  Grover stared at him wide-eyed.

  Irritated by what he interpreted as Theo’s astonishment at Osei’s erudition, Darkefell said, “Yes, Mr. Boatin knows our Bible probably better than I. And has read a translation of Alcoran, and is attempting to learn the Mandarin language by using Varo’s study so he can translate an ancient scroll brought back from Cathay by my grandfather.”

  Grover looked blank.

  Osei shifted in his seat, uneasy as he always was when his employer mentioned his intellectual achievements. But he spoke up. “What did you make of the letter, Mr. Grover? Do you still have it?”

  Grover nodded, his pale eyes full of misery, and turned his back as he rustled through his desk. He turned and held out a single sheet of paper with a short note scrawled on it. “I received this two weeks ago with the ring. Nothing else.”

  “False witness,” Darkefell mused, staring at the sheet of paper. “Is he saying we are lying about him killing Miss Wainwright?”

  “I have come to believe he could not have done such a thing,” Theo said, his voice trembling. His eyes watered. “To kill a young woman in such a brutal way? My father would never commit such a heinous crime. It makes no sense to me.”

  “Theo, the father you remember from your youth would not have done this, but he changed. You know he did, or you would not have had to break off your filial relationship with him,” Darkefell said.

  Grover nodded slowly but did not meet the marquess’s steady gaze.

  Darkefell rose, as did Osei, and the three men proceeded out to the gloomy, narrow hall. At the door, Theo appeared to struggle with something for a moment, and then said, “I have reason to believe the letter came from Kent, my lord. Perhaps the town of Ringwould.”

  Darkefell experienced a jolt of fear, even though he had already deduced that Hiram Grover was near Anne. “Harecross Hall is nearby.”

  Theo nodded, misery in his pale eyes. “I’m so sorry, sir,” he whispered.

  Osei and Darkefell exited as a boy brought their horses around the side of the cottage, but as Osei took the reins of his mount, Theo, following them into the afternoon sunshine, blurted out, “Mr. Boatin, would you … would you ever consider speaking to our church group on the abomination of slavery?”

  Osei paused and gazed steadily at the other man, but his tone was neutral when he said, “My time is at my Lord Darkefell’s disposal, sir.”

  “We’ll see, Theo,” Darkefell said, springing up to his saddle. “Let us speak of this another time.”

  As they rode back toward Ecclesfield and their inn Darkefell said, with a side glance at his secretary, “How useful it is to be able to defer to someone else when asked to do something you don’t wish to do.”

  “What gave you the impression I would not like to speak to Mr. Grover’s church group, sir?”

  Darkefell stared over at his secretary in the slanting sunlight. Osei’s expression was, as usual, unreadable, his eyes concealed by the glint of the rays of the descending sun in his spectacles. “Do you mean you would do it? Such a reticent fellow as you?”

  Osei sat his mount perfectly, back straight, hands holding the reins lightly, but with authority. “My lord, I am becomingly reticent for my position, but it has never been a natural part of my character. I was raised to be a warrior. Certainly public speaking cannot be worse than facing an enemy in battle?”
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  Darkefell chuckled. “Don’t judge that by me. I would rather face a hundred foes than stand up in front of a group of bluestockings and church elders to talk.”

  “Then once again we learn we are very different.”

  “I don’t think I’ll ever plumb your depths, Osei. Of what would you speak, if you did this thing?”

  “I would paint such a picture as would have the ladies fainting and the men staggered in disbelief,” Osei said, his expression grim in the shadowy light. He let a moment pass, then added, “In other words, I would simply tell the truth of my story, the slave ship, the death and contagion in that creaking, damp hold, the hell of it all. I would say how we were treated worse than cattle, and tell how my companion prisoners were tossed overboard into the cold Atlantic like sacks of moldy flour.”

  He was quiet for a moment, then continued. “Perhaps I never did make it to my destination, the torment of slavery, but, my lord,” he said, meeting Darkefell’s eyes, “you saved my life for a purpose. The abolition of slave trade is a subject dear to my heart, as you must know.”

  “You are completely free, Osei, to accept Theo’s invitation. And I would like to be there when you make that speech,” Darkefell said, with deep feeling.

  The marquess thought of a letter he had recently sent to London and wondered if he should share the subject. Osei had lost sight of a sister who had been taken into slavery at the same time as he, and Darkefell hoped to find out where she had been taken. But he didn’t know a thing yet, and didn’t wish to get Osei’s hopes up. It felt odd, to be doing such a thing in secret. It was nothing he had thought of doing for years and he wondered, why now? Was it possible that simply being with Lady Anne Addison, witnessing her active involvement in life, was transforming him into a better person? That only held if one believed that for a man, being more sympathetic was a good trait. He wasn’t sure. He was often uncomfortable with himself now, wondering how he had led a blinkered existence for so long, never noticing that those around him were not happy.

  He was becoming anxious to know what had happened to Osei’s sister and if there was any possibility of reuniting the siblings. Perhaps it was that lately, seeing Julius again, knowing him to be alive, had brought back to him the importance of a sister or brother. He feared that Osei had kept hidden his pain for a long time, knowing how little could be done, unless by someone like the marquess.

  Inevitably, thinking of Anne brought her back vividly before his eyes. She filled his mind and heart for the rest of the ride back to Ecclesfield. They had quarreled, and since leaving Cornwall he had thought he should try to erase her from his heart, but it was too late. No matter what he did, she would not be uprooted. He loved her too deeply.

  “You know, if Hiram is in Kent, Anne is in danger,” he said as they rode into Ecclesfield.

  Osei answered, “I had thought that same thought, my lord.”

  “Then let us get to Kent as quickly as possible.”

  “Does that mean …?”

  “Yes,” Darkefell said, in tones of dread. “That means going by Royal Mail coach.”

  When Darkefell and Osei got to a nearby inn, the marquess wrote a few hurried letters while his secretary settled their account and arranged to leave their horses there in Ecclesfield to be collected by his groom at Darkefell Castle. Then he and Osei set out on the Royal Mail, that bone-jarring, wearying, but swift mode of transport, one he had never taken but had heard excoriated in the press.

  ***

  Dr. Davies had not been available the day before, so it was Wednesday morning when Anne rode over to Farfield Farm with him in his pony trap. Poor Mrs. Jackson was still unconscious. She had not vomited any more, but showed no sign of improvement, nor had Robbie, back at Harecross Hall. The doctor examined Mrs. Jackson and concurred with Anne’s diagnosis: the woman had the same compliant as Robbie, and likely the same as the gypsy mother. He looked up from the elderly woman’s still form in the candlelit gloom. It was only he and Anne in her room, for Mr. Jackson was helping Dorcas with the washing up, and Jamey was busy with his lens and some current study he was performing.

  “We must find out the commonality,” he fretted. “If I had something to study, some notion of what they had all eaten, or with whom they had contact …” He trailed off, shaking his head.

  Anne mused, “I can’t think what it would be, for three more disparate people there could not be. The women are both elderly but Robbie, why he’s a healthy young boy. Otherwise I would be thinking the gypsy and Mrs. Jackson’s ailment pure coincidence.”

  “Mrs. MacDougall swears it is a gypsy curse.”

  Anne snorted in derision. “Nonsense.”

  “Nonetheless,” the physician said with a stern look, “word has somehow gotten around in the village. They are connecting this malady with Harecross Hall. Some are saying the gypsies have cursed the harvest and that your hops will be poisonous.”

  Anne was a countrywoman and no fool. If opinion hardened in such a vein there would be no selling the hops, not for any price. Superstition it might be, but no one liked taking chances. Better safe than sorry was a timeworn aphorism.

  “They will get better,” she answered as she rose to leave with the doctor. “They have to get better!” Though lives were more important than selling the hops harvest, if they saved the first, then they likely saved the second. Something must be done, and quickly. As much as she was worried about Mrs. Jackson, it was poor little Robbie, with his whole life ahead of him, that concerned her most, and he was no better this morning than he was the night before. No worse, but no better.

  Dorcas had taken charge at Farfield Farm; the woman was a strong influence and could handle even Jamey’s occasional outbursts, with Mr. Jackson’s familiar presence. They had broth and aspic to feed Mrs. Jackson if she awoke, and Anne decided she would send more help for the constant laundry that needed to be done and other heavy tasks.

  Back at Harecross Hall, the doctor said good-bye and sent his respects to the earl, and Anne went inside.

  “Milady,” Epping, the butler, said, his eyes wide, “I dislike disturbing you, but Mrs. Aylesworth is upset. Those boys … they’ve been in her room and grubbing through her … her private things.”

  Anne felt the slow burn of anger. “Those boys” were Mrs. Noonan’s ill-mannered brood.

  “And Mrs. Macey,” he said, naming the cook, his calm voice echoing in the wood-paneled expanse of the great hall, “is in an uproar as well. It seems there have been thefts from the buttery, and—”

  Childish laughter floated down to them and Anne’s temper burned white hot. Those boys! This campaign of terror explained their quietude of the last forty-eight hours; they were busily planning new outrages. They should be held in chains in the dungeon, if Harecross Hall only had a dungeon. “I will speak with Mrs. Noonan,” she replied to Epping. “Tell Mrs. Aylesworth I will replace anything that has been damaged and have the locksmith from Hareham here to fit new locks to her door, the buttery, the servants’ quarters and anything else you think needs to be locked against the little fiends. I will speak with Mrs. Noonan about this outrage, I promise you.”

  Anne sailed upstairs to check again on Robbie. Mary sat by her son’s bed, sewing a torn hem on one of Anne’s workaday gowns. There was no change, she said, though Robbie had awakened long enough to take a few spoonfuls of broth. He looked thinner to Anne, but his awakening was a good sign and Mary hoped he was on the mend. It was startling how quickly such tiny signs of health became important; every sigh, every smile, every waking moment was counted, and toted up against the vomiting or moments of hallucination.

  Weary from anxiety, Anne climbed back down from the servants’ wing, then crossed the landing to head toward her father’s library, intent on examining some of the books concerning hops growing and agriculture in general. She hoped to find something, anything, that would point to a solution. She was just near the gallery overlooking the main hall when she heard a wail of dismay, and wild laughter.
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  Those children!

  Rage built against the incursion of the Noonan brood and the distraction of such annoyance at a time when she had other more important things on her mind. Her campaign to “hint” the family away had so far failed. Until now she had resisted giving absolute orders to the Noonans to leave Harecross Hall, for she had a dread of making her father a laughingstock in the eyes of their relations and the servants by usurping his role as lord and master, but something must be done.

  She charged toward the stairs, but just as she was about to step down she was caught off balance by something snagging her ankle and she began to tumble, catching the railing and keeping herself from falling just in time.

  “Milady!” Epping cried as he raced up the stairs and grasped her free arm.

  “Where is Mrs. Noonan,” Anne cried, pain shooting through her shoulder as she heard that damnable laughter float to her down the stairs. “Where is she?”

  “In the kitchen, milady, consulting with the cook.”

  “Consulting with …” Anne, astonished at the woman’s effrontery, knelt on the step and unwrapped from the baluster a thin wire noose that almost sent her crashing down the stairs. She would see the Noonans gone or go to Bedlam. It was perhaps not a long journey at that moment, for madness was the first step.

  Five

  Anne charged down to the cellar and into the kitchen of Harecross Hall. The potboy scurried out of sight and a scullery maid flattened herself against the stone wall as her mistress strode by. The large kitchen was steamy and fragrant from pots boiling and a joint roasting over the fire. By the small hob grate set to the side of the roasting pit was Anne’s distant cousin, Mrs. Noonan, a blowsy, untidy woman by nature, though with a faded prettiness still in her thirty-seventh year. Her light brown flyaway hair poorly restrained by a lace cap, her bodice stained with innumerable colors, she tended a pot hung over the fire, her round cheeks red from the heat.