Lady Anne 03 - Curse of the Gypsy

by Donna Lea Simpson

  Anne considered having the familiar and reassuring coachman close by, but it was silly to fret. She trusted Tony implicitly, and if she was ever to make up her mind whether to accept his marriage proposal, then she needed time alone with him to make her decision. Heaven only knew, being away from him hadn’t made the decision any more clear.

  “No, Sanderson, it is quite all right,” she said, stiffening and sitting up straight, holding herself a little away from the marquess’s solid body. “His lordship and I will be going directly to the gypsy camp, then on to Farfield Farm, and return here immediately after.”

  They rode out of the stable into the sunshine, the green vista of Harecross Hall’s open lawn beckoning. But despite the temptation of a long open green and a fresh, well-bred mount, Darkefell kept Golden to a trot as they descended the sloping lane from the stable, and across the green sward of lawn leading to the wood, a cultivated arboretum. The earl’s grandfather had been an ardent horticulturist and had planned the forest to contain over a hundred species of trees, some rare, with a walking trail through. It sheltered the fields and farmlands from the wind across the channel, which was brisk and tearing at times.

  It was on the other side of this that the gypsies had camped, with the earl’s permission.

  She was enjoying the sensation of bumping against Darkefell’s solid chest far too much, and to keep from thinking of it, Anne rapidly spoke of her long-ago fear of the gypsies, and her beloved brother Jamey’s defense of her from the gypsy boys. She told him everything, rambling while he masterfully handled the gelding, making him raise to a canter as they approached the wood.

  But once they were near the heart of the woods, he slowed the animal to a walk and wrapped one arm around her waist.

  “What are you doing?” Anne asked, twisting to look into his eyes.

  “I thought I had schooled you to know what comes now,” he said with a wicked chuckle that rumbled through his chest.

  As he leaned his head down and under her bonnet brim she said, “Stop! Tony, we have to talk.”

  He reared back his head and stared into her eyes. “I suppose that is true, my lady, but not right now.” He leaned in again to kiss her.

  “Stop!” She stared up at him, her eyes narrowed. “Tony, I think talk should come before any more kisses,” she said firmly.

  She moved to slide down but he held her firm.

  “Kiss first, then talk,” he growled.

  In his power utterly, his strong arms holding her in place, she submitted.

  As the horse moved slowly down the wooded lane, Darkefell kissed her until her head whirled, birdsong filling her ears, the rustle of the leaves in the breeze that touched the treetops sounding like waves on the beach in Cornwall, where she had learned what it was to love him as much as he loved her. It was so peaceful, so serene.

  Until a woman’s frantic screams split the tranquility.

  Nine

  Darkefell immediately straightened. “What the devil?”

  “I despise that sound!” Anne said fervently, twisting, trying to see ahead of them. “Why are there always women screaming?” It was the sound that had greeted her the very night she arrived at Darkefell’s Yorkshire estate two months before, and preceded her tripping over the murdered body of Cecilia Wainwright.

  The screaming kept on, and it took only a second for Darkefell to react, spurring Golden to a gallop, while Anne clung to him, turning her face into his vest front. But she could not keep her eyes hidden like some fretful, poor-spirited coward, and though she still clung to Tony, she pointed the way. The forest opened out into the meadow and Anne cried, “The gypsy camp! That must be where the screaming is coming from.”

  The screams had died, but now that they were closer and slowing, and as the thunder of Golden’s hooves quieted, they could hear the babble of voices, and a woman’s high thin wail of distress. When the marquess drew to a halt, Anne slipped down from the horse and raced to the tangle of gypsy women and children clustered near a tent.

  “What’s wrong?” she cried.

  Florrie whirled, but she looked beyond Anne, and pointed, crying out, “He has come back! The man I spoke to, the one you asked about … but he is different.”

  “No, no,” Anne said, soothingly, putting one hand on the woman’s bare arm. “This is the man I was asking about’s twin brother. What is going on here? We heard screaming.”

  “It is Drina,” she said, tears streaming down her face. “There is blood. Not good. She will lose the baby. We saw a cat yesterday, and that means death!”

  “A cat means death? No, no, that was just my pet, not some sign. I promise!” Anne said. “Let me see this Drina,” she continued, pushing through the crowd by the tent entrance. The men had scattered, for, as Anne knew, in gypsy culture men stayed out of women’s affairs.

  “Anne,” Darkefell said, calling her over. He still held Golden’s reins. “What can I do to help? I don’t wish to interfere, but …” He shrugged.

  It was the very first time she had seen him looking helpless. She returned to his side and said, in a low tone, “I don’t know if they’ll allow it, but I think Dr. Davies should be called. This sounds awfully like a miscarriage to me, and if so, the poor mother’s life could be in danger. Will you go for him?” She gave him directions to Dr. Davies’s home.

  Relief at being able to help flooded his handsome face. “I’ll go immediately.”

  She gave him a quick hug and a smile, and he leaped up on Golden and galloped away. Turning back to Florrie, she said, “May I see Drina? Please? I only wish to help.”

  “The mother should be consulted, but she is still ill. We fear she is going to die!” the young woman said, wringing her hands. “Oh, what have we done that God is cursing us? It is that maid, that Mary … she made God angry at us!”

  “Stop! I told you that wasn’t so,” Anne said, and took her arm, pushing back through the mass of women. She ducked into the tent to find that there were two very competent women already helping the poor mother-to-be. And there was blood, but to Anne, it did not seem like a lot. She crouched down.

  The gypsy woman near Drina stared at Anne, then spoke a few words in her own language to Florrie, who answered. Anne was lost, not knowing what to do, but she was reassured by the calm demeanor of the young pregnant woman’s attendants. She watched for a while, but most of their efforts seemed to be concentrated on keeping the young woman calm and still.

  “Is … is blood common in pregnancy?” she asked the unfriendly woman attending the girl.

  She was silent for a long moment, but then said, with a shrug, “It happens.”

  “Does it mean … does it mean Drina will lose the baby?” Anne whispered so the girl, who appeared to be calming and even falling asleep, could not hear her.

  Again the woman shrugged. “If it is God’s will, she will lose the baby, but I had seven children, have bled three times while carrying, and have only lost one.” She shook her head. “But this is her first child.”

  “I feel so helpless,” Anne said, watching the other young woman put a damp cloth to the pregnant woman’s forehead.

  “It is not your place to help.”

  And it wasn’t, Anne thought, as she watched the two competent women attend their tribe mate. Hesitantly, she said, “I … I sent the man with me to get the doctor from town.”

  Angrily, the woman hissed, “He will not see this one! Men have no place interfering with babies.”

  Florrie took Anne’s arm and pulled her from the dark tent and away from the immediate area. “You must not interfere,” she said urgently. “It is our business, Drina’s baby.”

  Anne battled the feeling of helplessness and the sense that she should do something to help. The gypsies were an insular people, a nation within a nation, but in all the years she had known of them, they had been so, and had never caused trouble for the people of Hareham and Harecross Hall. “All right. If he comes, I will send him away. Florrie, Mr. Destry—you remember an older
man wearing a wig, my father’s land steward?—was here telling you all that you had to move, as the villagers were becoming angry.”

  The young woman, tight-lipped, nodded, her hand resting on her own belly. “And then he came back and said we may stay for now. What have we done so bad?”

  “The villagers seemed to think your men were responsible for some of the trouble in the village.”

  “We did not do any of those things, and we told them so, but still, we were spat on.”

  “You have not … uh … borrowed any items? Clothing? Food?”

  “No. We work, we trade. Not all gypsies steal, you know.”

  “I know, and it wasn’t right to accuse you with no proof. I have reason to believe I know who did at least some of the tricks.” Anne stopped and thought. Perhaps the Noonan boys weren’t the only source of trouble in Hareham. If Hiram Grover was truly around, as the gypsies had implied and Tony thought possible, then could he have been the one who stole food and clothes, and did some of the other things that could not be construed as childish tricks? It was something to think about, but not that moment. “I know Madam Kizzy cursed some in the village, and that is why the people of Hareham are upset. They’re afraid. What else happened? There must be more that I have not heard?”

  The woman looked shifty-eyed for a moment, then muttered, “It is possible that she said their children would fall ill, their women would lay with other men, and their crops would blight, the hops would not bloom, the vegetables would rot.”

  Anne sighed. No wonder the men of the village were upset. They could probably stand their women laying with other men, they’d be upset if their children were ill, but their crops being blighted … that would anger them sorely. “I hadn’t heard the part about the curse on the crops. No wonder they’re angry; that’s their lives she threatened. May I see Madam Kizzy?”

  Florrie nodded and followed Anne to the gypsy elder’s cart. Both climbed up. The familiar odors of spices and smoke assailed Anne’s nostrils and the brilliant light of day was filtered to a dull haze by the canvas over the cart and the multitude of colorful scarves hung about. The woman still lay on her pallet, but she was conscious. Her young attendant, the girl child, held a cup to her lips. The old woman stared at Anne, her eyes bleary but open.

  “Madam,” Anne said softly, crouching down by her cot, “are you any better? The son of my maidservant, who suffered the same illness, has begun to recover.”

  She muttered a string of unrecognizable words, and Anne turned to Florrie to elucidate.

  “She says that is good, for though the maidservant was a screeching woman who was rude to her, the boy did her no harm. She did not curse him, and the malediction on your maid was simply to keep her mouth shut.”

  Anne bit back a smile, for she knew how Mary could be when she was worked up. “Mary was badly frightened, you know, but you must understand. She was angry that you were telling his fortune; it’s against her religion. If I took one of your children without permission and … and let the doctor examine him or sent him to our school, you would be angry.”

  The woman nodded, and beckoned her young attendant for more water.

  “We have been doing what you said, honored lady,” Anne’s gypsy friend said. “We have given the mother only boiled water to drink. And you see, she is better.”

  “She does look better to me, not so pale. I hope that means Mrs. Jackson will recover, too!” Anne said. “But to fully recover she’ll have to start eating. May I … may I send some vegetables and eggs from the home farm? Would it help?”

  Florrie hesitated and looked toward Madam Kizzy.

  Every time before when Anne had brought food, she had traded for something else; the gypsy men were accomplished smiths and had a way with horses, so they would do some work in the Harecross Hall stable. The women made beautiful scarves and baskets. But she didn’t want them to reciprocate every time. It must be taxing to pay for goods with so many young mouths to feed.

  Anne searched for some way of not making it seem like charity, for despite popular belief that they were thieves and cheats, in the long history of Harecross Hall and the gypsies, she had only seen them working hard and living simply. From what she had heard, they would rather steal than take charity, as odd as that seemed to her. It was a matter of pride. As Florrie pondered, Anne reached out, touched her arm and said, “I would like to see the mother recover. I am so sorry for letting the villagers talk us into trying to evict you from our land when we had given you permission to stay here until harvest is done. Let me give you these things as an apology.”

  Florrie nodded and offered a shy smile. “Perhaps we can pay you another day.”

  “If you will all be open with us, that’s all the payment I wish for. Answer my questions in exchange. I need to talk to you about the man who looks like the fellow who came here with me today, and about the fat man.”

  “The dead, but not dead man,” Madam Kizzy said, struggling to rise a little. Her young girl attendant placed a pillow behind her head.

  Her English had an odd construct, a quality of foreignness, though the gypsy woman had likely been born in England and lived in Kent her whole life. This was one of the things that interested Anne’s father, for he was fascinated by how language was formed in closed communities. “Why do you call him that, madam, a ‘dead, but not dead’ man?”

  “It is what he called himself. He said …” She paused and her wrinkled brow furrowed. “What did he say? My mind escapes me.”

  Anne waited, but after a moment knew what was required. Madam Kizzy was indeed recovering apace. She took some coins from her pocket and held one out. “May I offer a reward for this information?”

  The woman reached out and snatched the coin, saying, “He told me that his life was ‘four feet.’ It meant, he said, that his life was gone, though he still lived.”

  Anne pondered that. Four feet. “Ah! Forfeit? Yes, if he is found guilty of the crime we believe he committed, then he is supposed to be punished, and the punishment would be taking away his life. His life would indeed be forfeit.”

  A commotion in the encampment erupted, and Anne started up from her crouched position and crept to the door.

  Darkefell was there, seized by his arms by two young gypsy men. “Anne!” he shouted. “Are you all right?”

  “Of course, Tony, I’m very well. Why would I not be? Do stop shouting. Please, let him go,” she asked the young men. “Tony, come here,” she said, beckoning him.

  He shook himself away from the men, settled his jacket and gave them both filthy looks, then stalked toward the gypsy cart. Anne bit her lip. He was not accustomed to being bested, even by two men, she could tell. But the gypsy men were tough and rangy, and though it took two of them to hold him, both appeared fit enough that one could perhaps have done it.

  Or perhaps not, she thought, watching Tony flex his shoulders as he walked. He really was very strong, she thought, and blushed that she liked that so much. She had always thought a mild scholarly fellow would suit her to the ground, but apparently male power had its fascinating edge even for her rational self.

  “I couldn’t find the doctor,” he said as he approached.

  “That’s all right. Everything’s all right, Tony,” she said. After asking the old gypsy woman’s permission, she held back the curtain and the marquess carefully hoisted himself up, the cart moving under his bulk. Anne’s gypsy friend motioned the younger girl away, and the child hastened out, her eyes averted from Darkefell as she squeezed behind him.

  The old woman pointed, her crooked finger shaking. “It is he!”

  “No, madam, this is that man’s twin. He seeks his brother, and wishes to hear what I’ve heard, about the fat man who visited you.”

  The gypsy woman stared at Darkefell for a few minutes, and he returned her steady, even gaze. Anne didn’t want to speak, for she felt there was something going on that she could not quite understand.

  “You two,” the woman finally said, “yo
u and your brother, you look alike, but not alike.”

  Anne was about to speak, but Darkefell moved his hand and she stayed silent.

  “We are what is called identical twins,” he said. “Some twins are alike, while others seem to be no more alike than any other brothers. But Julius and I have become less alike over time and distance.”

  She nodded, gazing steadily at him. “She saw him,” she said, pointing toward Anne, “and thought him to be you, perhaps? She asked us, though the man ran away and has not come back.”

  He nodded. “I haven’t seen my brother either, but I’m looking for him. I understand he was here looking for another man, a man named Hiram Grover, and that you have seen this man.”

  “He’s a very bad man,” Anne added. “He tried to kill me once. We thought him dead, but he isn’t and he’s terribly dangerous. He killed a young woman who was … who was carrying a child. She did nothing wrong to deserve it. He must pay for what he did.”

  The old woman said, “This is nothing we wish to know. That is gajo business.”

  “You will not be involved,” Darkefell promised. “I’m just trying to find Grover and my brother. Do you know where either went?”

  “No, they just went. The fat man … he said his troubles were all this lady’s fault,” she said, her crooked finger pointing at Anne.

  Anne thought for a moment, back to another conversation; she was told the fat man—she didn’t know he was Hiram Grover at the time—said his trouble was all a “spinner’s” fault … could he have said spinster, and Madam Kizzy misunderstood the word?

  “You knew it was Anne he spoke of?” Darkefell asked.

  “He described her to me, but I was not sure then. He said if she had not gone north, then he would not have been forced to run away. I didn’t understand, but it was not my business, and told him that. He was living in the woods, and came to us begging for food. We gave him food. To not share food is a grave sin. But we told him he must wash first, for to be dirty when eating is wrong, you know.”