by Lisa Kleypas
There was no need to elucidate. Decent gadjis didn’t marry Gypsies. His blood was mixed, and even though Amelia herself might harbor no prejudices, the routine discriminations Cam encountered would certainly extend to his wife and children. And if that wasn’t bad enough, his own people would be even more disapproving of the match. Gadje Gadjensa, Rom Romensa … Gadje with Gadje, Roma with Roma.
“What if your heritage made no difference to her?” Westcliff asked quietly.
“That’s not the point. It’s how others would view her.” Seeing that the older man was about to argue, Cam murmured, “Tell me, would either of you wish your daughter to marry a Gypsy?” In the face of their discomforted silence, he smiled without amusement.
After a moment, Westcliff stubbed out his cigar in a deliberate, methodical fashion. “Obviously you’ve made up your mind. Further debate would be pointless.”
St. Vincent followed his lead with a resigned shrug and a facile smile. “I suppose now I’m obliged to wish you happiness in your new life. Although happiness in the absence of indoor plumbing is a debatable concept.”
Cam was undeceived by the show of resignation. He had never known Westcliff or St. Vincent to lose an argument easily. Each, in his own way, would hold his ground long after the average man would have collapsed to his knees. Which made Cam fairly certain he hadn’t heard the last word from either of them yet.
“I’m leaving at dawn,” was all he said.
Nothing could change his mind.
Chapter Thirteen
Beatrix, whose imagination had been captured by the magic lantern, could hardly wait for evening to come so she could view the selection of glass slides again. Many of the images were quite amusing, featuring animals wearing human clothes as they played piano or sat at writing desks or stirred soup in a pot.
Other slides were more sentimental; a train passing through a village square, winter scenes, children at play. There were even a few scenes of exotic animals in the jungle. One of them, a tiger half-hidden in leaves, was particularly striking. Beatrix had experimented with the lantern, moving it closer to the wall then farther away, trying to make the tiger’s image as distinct as possible.
Now Beatrix had taken to the idea of writing a story, recruiting Poppy to paint some accompanying slides. It was decided they would put on a show someday, with Beatrix narrating while Poppy operated the magic lantern.
As her younger sisters lounged by the hearth and discussed their ideas, Amelia sat with Win on the settee. She watched Win’s slender, graceful hands as she embroidered a delicate floral pattern, the needle flashing as it dove through the cloth.
At the moment, her brother was lolling on the carpet near the girls, slouched and half-drunk, his long legs crossed native-fashion. Once he had been a kind and caring older brother, sympathetically bandaging one of the children’s hurt fingers, or helping to look for a lost doll. Now he treated his younger sisters with the polite indifference of a stranger.
Absently Amelia reached up to rub the pinched muscles at the back of her neck. She glanced at Merripen as he sat in the corner of the room, every line of his body lax with the exhaustion of heavy labor. His gaze was distant as if he, too, were consumed with private thoughts. It troubled her to look at him. The rich hue of his skin, the shiny appleseed-darkness of his hair, reminded her too much of Cam Rohan.
She couldn’t seem to stop thinking about him this evening, and also Christopher Frost, the images forming a jarring contrast in her mind. Cam offered no commitment, no future, only the pleasures of the moment. He was not a gentleman, but he possessed a ruthless honesty that she appreciated far more than smooth manners.
And then there was fair-haired, civilized, reasonable, handsome Christopher. He had professed a desire to renew their relationship. She had no idea if he was sincere, or how she would respond if it turned out he was. How many women would have been grateful for a second chance with their first love? If she chose to overlook his past mistake and forgive him, encourage him, it might not be too late for the two of them. But she wasn’t certain she wanted to resume all those abandoned dreams. And she wondered if it was possible to be happy with a man one loved but didn’t trust.
Beatrix pulled a glass slide from the front of the lamp casing, laid it aside carefully, and reached for another. “This one’s my favorite…” she was saying to Poppy, as she slid the next image in place.
Having lost interest in the succession of pictures on the wall, Amelia did not look up. Her attention remained on Win’s embroidering. But Win made an uncharacteristic slip, the needle jabbing into the soft flesh of her forefinger. A scarlet drop of blood welled.
“Oh, Win—” Amelia murmured.
Win, however, didn’t react to the pinprick. She didn’t even seem to have noticed it. Frowning, Amelia glanced at her sister’s still face and followed her gaze to the opposite wall.
The image cast by the magic lantern was a winter scene, with a snow-blurred sky and the dark cache of forest beneath. It would have been an unremarkable scene, except for the delicate outline of a woman’s face that seemed to emerge from the shadows.
A familiar face.
As Amelia stared, transfixed, the spectral features seemed to gain dimension and substance until it seemed almost as if she could reach out and shape her fingers against the waxing contours.
“Laura,” she heard Win breathe.
It was the girl Leo had loved. The face was unmistakable. Amelia’s first coherent thought was that Beatrix and Poppy must be playing some horrid joke. But as she looked at the pair on the floor, chatting together innocently, she perceived at once that they didn’t even see the dead girl’s image. Nor did Merripen, who was watching Win with a questioning frown.
By the time Amelia’s gaze shot once more to the projection, the face had disappeared.
Beatrix pulled the slide from the magic lantern. She fell back with a little cry as Leo charged toward her and made a grab for the slide.
“Give it to me,” Leo said, more an animal growl than a human voice. His face was blanched and contorted, his body knotted with panic. He hunched over the little piece of painted glass and stared through it as if it were a tiny window into hell. Fumbling with the magic lantern, Leo nearly overset it as he tried to jam the slide back in.
“Don’t, you’ll break it!” Beatrix cried in bewilderment. “Leo, what are you doing?”
“Leo,” Amelia managed to say, “you’ll cause a fire. Careful.”
“What is it?” Poppy demanded, looking bewildered. “What’s happening?”
The glass fell into place, and the winter scene flickered on the wall once more.
Snow, sky, forest.
Nothing else.
“Come back,” Leo muttered feverishly, rattling the lantern. “Come back. Come back.”
“You’re frightening me, Leo,” Beatrix accused, hopping up and speeding to Amelia. “What’s the matter with him?”
“Leo’s foxed, that’s all.” Amelia said distractedly. “You know how he is when he’s had too much to drink.”
“He’s never been like this before.”
“It’s time for bed,” Win remarked. Worry seeped through her voice like a watermark on fine paper. “Let’s go upstairs, Beatrix … Poppy…” She glanced at Merripen, who stood at once.
“But Leo’s going to break my lantern,” Beatrix exclaimed. “Leo, do stop, you’re bending the sides!”
Since their brother was apparently beyond hearing or comprehension, Win and Merripen efficiently whisked the younger girls from the room. A questioning murmur from Merripen, and Win replied softly that she would explain in a moment.
When everyone had gone and the sounds of voices had faded from the hallway, Amelia spoke carefully.
“I saw her, too, Leo. So did Win.”
Her brother didn’t look at her, but his hands stilled on the lantern. After a moment he removed the slide and put it back in again. His hands were shaking. The sight of such raw misery was difficult to
bear. Amelia stood and approached him. “Leo, please talk to me. Please—”
“Leave me alone.” He half shielded his face from her regard, palm turned outward.
“Someone has to stay with you.” The room was getting colder. A tremor began at the top of Amelia’s spine and worked downward.
“I’m fine.” A few stunted breaths. With a titanic effort Leo lowered his hand and stared at her with strange light eyes. “I’m fine, Amelia. I just need … I want … a little time alone.”
“But I want to talk about what we saw right in front of us.”
“It was nothing.” He was sounding calmer by the second. “It was an illusion.”
“It was Laura’s face. You and Win and I all saw it!”
“We all saw the same shadow.” The barest hint of wry amusement edged his lips. “Come, sis, you’re too rational to believe in ghosts.”
“Yes, but…” She was reassured by the familiar mockery in his tone. And yet she didn’t like the way he kept one hand on the lamp.
“Go on,” he urged gently. “As you said, it’s late. You need to rest. I’ll be all right.”
Amelia hesitated, her arms chilled and stinging beneath the sleeves of her gown. “If you really want—”
“Yes. Go on.”
She did, reluctantly. A draft from somewhere seemed to rush past her as she left the room. She hadn’t intended to close the door fully, but it snapped shut like the jaws of a hungry animal.
It was difficult to make herself walk away. She wanted to protect her brother from something.
She just didn’t know what it was.
After reaching her room, Amelia changed into her favorite nightgown. The white flannel was thick and shrunken from many washings, the high collar and long sleeves textured with white-work embroidery that Win had done. The chill she had taken downstairs was slow to fade, even after she had crawled beneath the bedclothes and curled tightly into a ball. She should have thought to light a fire at the hearth. She should do it now, to make the room warmer, but the idea of climbing out of bed was not appealing in the least.
Instead she occupied her mind with thoughts of hot things; a cup of tea, a woolen shawl, a steaming bath, a flannel-wrapped brick from the hearth. Gradually warmth accumulated around her, and she relaxed enough to sleep.
But it was a troubled rest. She had the impression of arguing with people in her dreams, back-and-forth conversations that made no sense. Shifting, rolling to her stomach, her side, her back, she tried to ignore the bothersome dreams.
Now there were voices … Poppy’s voice, actually … and no matter how she tried to ignore it, the sound persisted.
“Amelia. Amelia!”
She heaved herself up on her elbows, blind and confused from the sudden awakening. Poppy was by her bed.
“What is it?” Amelia mumbled, scraping back a tangled curtain of hair from her face.
At first Poppy’s face was disembodied in the darkness, but as Amelia’s eyes adjusted, the rest of her became dimly visible.
“I smell smoke,” Poppy said.
Such words were never used lightly, nor could they ever be dismissed without investigation. Fire was an ever-present concern no matter where one lived. It could start in any number of ways, from overturned candles, lamps, sparks that leaped from the hearth or embers from coal-burning ovens. And fire in a house this old would be nothing less than disaster.
Struggling from the bed, Amelia hunted for the slipper box near the end of the bed. She stubbed her toe, and hopped and cursed.
“Here, I’ll fetch them.” Poppy lifted the tin lid of the slipper box and took the shoes out, while Amelia found a shawl.
They linked arms and made their way through the dark room with the caution of elderly cats.
Reaching the top of the stairs, Amelia sniffed hard but could detect nothing other than the familiar accumulation of cleaning soap, wax, dust, and lamp oil. “I don’t smell any smoke.”
“Your nose isn’t awake. Try again.”
This time there was a definite taint of something burning. Alarm speared through her. She thought of Leo, alone with the lantern, the flame and oil … and she knew instantly what had happened.
“Merripen!” The whip-crack force of her voice caused Poppy to jump. Amelia gripped her sister’s arm to steady her. “Get Merripen. Wake everyone up. Make as much noise as you can.”
Poppy obeyed at once, scampering toward her siblings’ bedrooms while Amelia made her way downstairs. A sullen glow came from the direction of the parlor, an ominous flickering light bleeding beneath the door.
“Leo!” She flung the door open and recoiled at a furnace blast that struck her entire body. One wall was covered in flame, rippling and curling upward in hot tentacles. Through a bitter haze of smoke, her brother’s bulky form was visible on the floor. She ran to him, grasped the folds of his shirt, and tugged so hard that the cloth began to give and the seams crackled. “Leo, get up, get up now!” But Leo was insensible.
Shrieking at him to wake up and gather his wits, Amelia tugged and dragged without success. Frustrated tears sprang to her smoke-stung eyes. But then Merripen was there, pushing her aside none too gently. Bending, he picked Leo up and hoisted him over a broad shoulder with a grunt. “Follow me,” he said brusquely to Amelia. “The girls are already outside.”
“I’ll come out in just a moment. I have to run upstairs and fetch some things—”
He gave her a dangerous glance. “No.”
“But we have no clothes—it’s all going to go up—”
“Out!”
Since Merripen had never raised his voice to her in all the years they had known each other, Amelia was startled into obeying. Her eyes continued to smart and water from the smoke even after they had gone through the front door and out to the waiting darkness of the graveled drive. Win and Poppy were there, both huddled around Leo and trying to coax him into waking and sitting up. Like Amelia, the girls were dressed only in nightgowns, shawls, and slippers.
“Where’s Beatrix?” Amelia asked. At the same moment, the estate bell began to peal, its high, clear tone traveling in every direction.
“I told her to ring it,” Win said. The sound would bring neighbors and villagers to help, although by the time people reached them, Ramsay House would probably be consumed in flames.
Merripen went to lead the horse from the stable, in case that went up, too.
“What’s happening?” Amelia heard Leo ask hoarsely. Before anyone could reply, he was seized by a spasm of coughing. Win and Poppy remained beside their brother, murmuring gently to him. Amelia, however, stood a few yards apart from them, knotting her shawl more tightly around her shoulders.
She was filled with bitterness and fury and fear. There was no doubt in her mind Leo had started the fire, that he had cost them the house and had nearly succeeded in killing them all. It would be a long time before she could trust herself to speak to him, this sibling she had once loved so dearly and who now seemed to have transformed into someone else entirely.
At this point there was little left of Leo to love. At best he was an object to be pitied, at worst a danger to himself and his family. They would all be better off without him, Amelia thought. Except that if he died, the title would pass to some distant relative or expire, and they would be left with no income whatsoever.
Watching Merripen, illuminated in the cloud-blunted moonlight as he worked to pull first the horse and then the barouche from the stables, Amelia felt a surge of gratitude. What would they ever have done without him? When her father had taken in the homeless boy so long ago, it had always been regarded by the residents of Primrose Place as an act of charity. But the Hathaways had been infinitely repaid by Merripen’s quiet, steady presence in their lives. She had never been certain why he had elected to stay with the Hathaways—it seemed all to their advantage rather than his.
People had already begun to arrive on horseback, some from the village, some from the direction of Stony Cross Manor. T
he villagers had brought a handpump cart pulled by a sturdy draft horse. The wheeled cart was sided by troughs, which would be laboriously filled with river water, people carrying buckets back and forth. Cranking a wooden lever would push the water through a leather hose and expel it through a metal nozzle. By the time the process was under way, the fire would be raging out of control. However, it was possible the handpump would help to save at least a portion of the house.
Amelia ran to the approaching villagers to describe the shortest route to the nearby river. Immediately a group of men, accompanied by Merripen, set off at a run toward the water, buckets swinging from the yokes on their shoulders.
As she turned to go back to her sisters, Amelia bumped into a tall form behind her. Gasping, she felt a familiar pair of hands close over her shoulders.
“Christopher.” Relief flooded her at his presence, despite the fact that he could do nothing to save her home. She twisted to look up at him, his handsome features bathed in erratic light.
He pulled her close as if he couldn’t help himself, pressing her head to his shoulder. “Thank God you’re not hurt. How did the fire start?”
“I don’t know.” Amelia went still against him, thinking dazedly that she had never expected to be held by him again. She remembered this, the way she fit against him, the security of his embrace. But remembering that he had betrayed her, she wriggled free and pushed her hair from her eyes.
Christopher released her reluctantly. “Stay away from the house. I’m going to help with the handpump.”
Another voice came from the darkness. “You’ll be of more use over there.”
Amelia and Christopher both turned with a start, for the voice seemed to have come from nowhere. With his dark clothes and black hair, Cam Rohan seemed to emerge like a shadow from the night.
“Bloody hell,” Christopher muttered. “One can barely see you, dark as you are.”
Although Rohan could have taken umbrage at the remark, he did not respond. His gaze ran over Amelia in swift assessment. “Have you been hurt?”
