by Laura London
I was rather overcome by this astonishing offer, but it had a good effect on my spirits.
“I’m not sure,” I replied. “Perhaps you’d be so good as to advise me?”
“Oh, yes,” said Lady Ellen, turning pink from gratification. “I love to give advice, but I’m r-rarely asked for any. Shall we sit together on the floor? Oh, what’s this you’re doing—polishing silver! I shall help you!”
She sat on her knees, lifted a spoon, dunked it in the pot of polish and began to buff it with the soft cloth Betty had abandoned. I sat beside her, tossing my braids to the back so that their length wouldn’t brush on the tarnish-soiled newspaper.
“I beg your pardon…” I began, “but would you mind… that is, do you live in this house?”
“Not today. T-today I snuck in,” she said, looking rather pleased at this accomplishment. “For the month I’ve been staying with Mrs. Perscough, four miles to the north. Five of her sons (all under the age of eight) have been taken with the measles, and as I’ve already had them, I offered to stay and help keep the boys entertained while they recuperated.”
It seemed to me a charitable zeal approaching saintliness for anyone to undertake the prolonged entertainment of five boys under eight, especially if those boys were suffering from the peevishness of spirit natural to anyone recovering from serious illness. I began to express my respect, but the lady with the brown ringlets would have none of it.
“I’m not so saintly as you think,” she confessed in a frank way, “because, you s-see, I had an ulterior motive for my offer. I’ve lived at Edgehill for the last two years since my father died, with my stepmother, Lady Gwendolyn. She takes care of the domestic details that Lord Brockhaven doesn’t care a pin about and in r-return, he makes her quite a splendid allowance. Frequently, she goes traveling, now that she has the money, and she’s happier than she’s ever been before in her life. She married Papa when I was ten, after my own mother died, and really she’s been a dear to me, so I’m glad things are better for her. Poor Papa! I don’t wish to defame his memory, but he was so… well, one that never likes to leave the house and his cozy study for any purpose. I’m afraid our social life was nearly nil. You, I suppose, have been everywhere…?”
“Oh, no,” I said, distressed by the sadly wistful note in her voice. “Not everywhere. Only in Great Britain and—and parts of Europe.” Seeing that my remark had failed in its intended effect, I turned the conversation to its original course. “Was it to do with your stepmother that you went to stay with Mrs. Perscough?”
“Yes, it was. Last month Lady Gwendolyn received an invitation to stay with one of her great friends in Sussex. To tell the truth, I did what I could to get out of going along, b-because her friend has twin boys who are a year older than me and their favorite game is to make fun of my stammer.”
I was incensed. “How wicked!”
“They don’t mean to be unkind,” said Ellen with a forced smile. “I truly believe they don’t. It’s as much my own fault, for I can’t seem to bear for them to see it hurts me, so I laugh along and t-try with all my heart not to let my stammer show. The problem is that the more I don’t want to stammer, the more I do stammer. Around men, I’m hopeless. A blithering fool.”
How great was the warmth of my feeling toward this girl who had taken it upon herself to befriend me. Me, a gypsy, despised by most of her race! I hastened to comfort her unhappiness.
“But to stammer is a gift from the God of All Things, Lady Ellen. Surely you must know that? Among my people, it would be said that you are blessed, and therefore loved by the fairies. Somewhere in the world, at every moment, there is a new babe struggling to make his first word. When a fairy sees this, she flies to you, whisks away a word, and gives it to the baby so that he can say his first precious word. What could be more lovely than to have given speech to so many tiny souls?”
It was obviously the first positive thing Ellen had ever heard about her stammer, and she was moved almost to tears. We just smiled at each other for a moment and then I asked, “Why is it that you couldn’t have remained at Edgehill in Lady Gwendolyn’s absence?”
Much later, when I knew more of her world, I wondered how Ellen had kept herself from laughing at my question, for it must have seemed foolish to her, but there was not a trace of condescension in her gray eyes as she said, “My stepmother is an aunt to Brockhaven and Robert, but I’m not related by blood at all. Lord Brockhaven is a much-talked-about man, and if I was to be here unchaperoned, society would treat it as an appalling scandal, I assure you. The Beau Monde is like that. Suspicious. And with Brockhaven being such a rake, he can’t come within ten yards of a woman without being rumored as her lover. That’s why Betty didn’t like me to be here, and I don’t suppose Lord Brockhaven would like it much either.”
“Then I wonder—how did you hear of my situation?”
“Joey Copeil, the third under footman at Edgehill, told the story of your arrival to his brother, Bob, the cobbler. Bob told his wife, who told it to Mr. Bumper, who carves wooden chickens to sell to the travelers that come in the spring and summer to see Edgehill. Mrs. Bumper told my maid, Patty. First I heard that Lord Brockhaven had c-caught a gypsy on his property and intended to send her to jail. I didn’t think it for a minute! The laws against poaching are barbarous, and Lord Brockhaven would never give anyone up to them.”
“Has he a reputation for kindness?” I asked, not quite able to believe it.
“Oh, no, no, no—did I say that? He isn’t kind, but he’s… good.” From her expression I guessed that certain sinister memories intruded into Lady Ellen’s consciousness. “Well, he’s not precisely g-good either, and if you would ask any of the neighboring landowners, they’ll tell you that he’s the most arrogant man in their acquaintance. You see, that’s how he acts with his peers—but there’s not a man in this county who treats better his dependents. There are occasions when he’s displayed the greatest sensitivity toward his social inferiors.”
“And there are times,” I said, “when he hasn’t.”
Pretty sympathy filled Lady Ellen’s brown eyes. “That’s true as well… have you been cruelly, cruelly used?”
I gave a sudden smile and held up a finger. “Only one ‘cruelly.’ What other rumor did you hear?”
“I heard that you were being held here against your will, harem-style. That I knew was a falsehood, because it would be ridiculous for Brockhaven to force his attentions on anyone when women attack him on the streets begging to be his mistresses. Or at least,” she added conscientiously, “one did. Last season a dancer from the ballet whisked her gown to her waist right there at Vauxhall Gardens and made a heartfelt declaration of her affections. I wasn’t there, of course, but people talked of nothing else for days on end.”
I couldn’t forbear not to ask, “What did Brockhaven do?”
“I don’t know, but it must have been very shocking. Even Lucia Perscough, who tells everything, would not repeat it to me. One can pretty much assume, though, because Lucia did admit to seeing the dancer riding with Brockhaven in Hyde Park one week later. Of course, that was nearly a year ago and it’s quite blown over. Brockhaven runs through his mistresses at a shocking pace. And his brother Robert is, if anything, worse, but I can’t believe he’d have to lock anyone up either. You see, that’s why I had to see for myself. If there is any way that I can serve you, I will! Tell me everything.”
Feeling rather undone by the voluminous request from such a sympathetic listener, I said in a shaky voice, “Thank you, Lady Ellen! May a thousand hedgehogs make their homes in your garden.”
It was then that I learned that gorgios don’t value hedgehogs as they ought, for it was clear from Lady Ellen’s surprised expression that she failed to understand the goodwill intended by my blessing. I taxed her with it and she admitted, to my shock, that she had never made use of a hedgehog and worse, had never met anyone who had! I was astounded, for what could be more succulent than the flesh of the hedgehog cooked
in clay? And the fat—why, there is nothing more effective for the treatment of all ailments of the skin, from boils to dandruff to removing calluses of the foot. I changed the subject quickly so I would not show my new friend how appalled I was at her ignorance.
“May I begin by asking you if you have heard of the Marquis of Chadbourne?”
Lady Ellen appeared to be intrigued. “Yes! He owned Chad Hall and his lands march with Lord Brockhaven’s property, or at least they used to. The old marquis is dead and his granddaughter lives on the property now.”
“His granddaughter? Then… did the marquis have sons?”
“Yes, indeed. There were two. Martin was the youngest. He died some years ago of a diseased liver. His daughter, Isabella, married a cousin of Lord Brockhaven’s and they live in Chad Hall.”
“Robert mentioned them, I think! If it is the same people you mean, he said something about not wishing to introduce me to them.”
Lady Ellen puzzled over this while she selected another spoon to polish. “How very odd of him, to be sure, for I can’t imagine why…” She rubbed thoughtfully at a tarnished spot. “Ah, well, where was I? The two sons of the marquis. I know very little about the elder son, who would be Isabella’s uncle. They say he was bored with the deadly respectability of being heir to a great title, and he ran away from home before I was born. Made a dreadful misalliance, if I remember correctly, with a gypsy girl.” She stopped suddenly and stared at me with new-found knowledge exploding in her eyes like Chinese candles. “Are y-you the Marquis of Chadbourne’s granddaughter?”
“That… that seems to be what Lord Brockhaven believes.”
Lady Ellen’s almond-shaped eyes opened wide. “You’re a m-missing heiress? A gypsy heiress! It’s beyond anything! Good heavens. Why, then you’re…”
We were interrupted by the sound of running feet from the hallway, and Betty burst into the room, explaining, “Master Robert is coming up to speak with the gypsy girl—I heard him talking to one of the footmen on the lower landing! What would he do should he find you prowling in a bachelor household, Lady Ellen?”
“I don’t know—do you think he would try to seduce me?” said Lady Ellen, looking hopeful.
“He’s more likely to take you over his knee, give you twenty whacks with the hairbrush, and send you about your business like he did Julie Aldgate, that dizzy friend of yours he found sneaking into his bedchamber last fall.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of,” said Lady Ellen. She bounced to her feet, sending a shower of silver spoons flying in all directions, and dove under the bed. I just had time to catch sight of Lady Ellen’s gray-hooded cloak flung on a chair and throw it under the bed after her as the masculine footsteps neared the door.
Robert entered and said good afternoon to me and to Betty, who was still breathing heavily from her own run down the hall. Before he could say anything else, he stared at the floor beside the bed. Following the line of his gaze, I saw with dismay the tip of one of Lady Ellen’s prettily made riding boots protruding from underneath the bedspread. He raised an eyebrow, and asked me calmly, “Did you know there’s someone underneath your bed?”
The someone under the bed exclaimed “Oh!” There was a pronounced rustling of material, and a small figure cocooned in gray wool wiggled from under the bed and cannonballed from the room, whacked hard into the opposing hallway wall, and took off down the corridor at a run. Betty looked flustered and said, “ ’Twas one of the maids, sir, dusting the underside of the bed.”
“Which one of my brother’s maids is it,” asked Robert blandly, “that does her dusting in fifty-guinea riding boots?” I joined Betty in an intent examination of the floor.
“It wasn’t Julie Aldgate,” Betty mumbled.
“Then we’ll let it pass. But, Betty, don’t let whoever she may be run tame in here again. I’ve no wish to be challenged to pistols at dawn by any red-faced, ale-bellied, irate papas from the local squirearchy. Now,” he said, his gaze turning full on me, “our gypsy captive. I am here out of pity for what I thought was your solitude. How would you like to come with me to the sunroom and let me teach you to play chess?”
Pride held me back a moment, then I said yes, because the loneliness and the closeness of the small chamber were a weight on my soul, the more so after the pleasure of Ellen’s visit.
I was not sure that I trusted Robert, and I had little interest in chess, as my grandmother had taught me that cards and board games were the devil’s invitation to idleness and folly. Yet neither my distrust nor my disinterest were strong enough to deter me from seizing the chance to escape my confinement, even if it would be only for a short time.
The sunroom was high-ceilinged, with long, arched windows that let in slanting pillars of sunlight. A chessboard as wide as a barn window was laid out in the middle of a deep blue and scarlet Persian carpet and beside it was a round mahogany case.
“Come and sit on the rug,” invited Robert as we entered the room. “You see? Gypsy-style. Did you ever play before?”
“No,” I replied. “My grandmother said such things were a waste of time.”
“Oh, yes. It wastes time—but elegantly.” The mahogany case was set on a spinning platform; he moved it around to the latch, and opened it to remove and display in his hand an elaborately carved chess piece. “My father had the set made as a present for my mother. This is the queen, carved in my mother’s likeness.”
I took the piece and examined it closely. The little ivory face was beautiful and it had long hair curling down its back, but even in this miniature figure, the artist had managed to portray an aura of haughtiness and self love.
“My father, naturally, the king.” Robert removed another piece from the case and held it at arm’s length. “It’s a futile thing, vanity. Here he stands, immortalized in ivory and no higher than your ankle. Grotesque. There’s a lesson in it, though I can’t think what it is. Vincent could, probably.”
“Vincent?” I questioned, taking the ivory king in my hand.
“My cousin, Brockhaven’s cousin. You’ll meet Vincent—you can bet on his becoming conspicuous as soon as he hears about you.”
Robert’s tone was not cordial, so I asked curiously, “Will I like him, do you think?”
“I imagine.” Robert’s expression conveyed nothing. “People generally do.” As though the subject bored him, he shifted my attention back to the chessman.
“The castle pieces, as you can see, are based on Edgehill, which, thank God, my father never got a chance to inherit and ruin. And the pawns—it was my father’s idea of a jest to have them made in my brother’s image. Alex was three years old at the time. Fortunately for me, I hadn’t been born yet.”
I set down the king and gently lifted one of the pawns. It was a handsome little boy with curly hair. “How proud he looks,” I said softly. “But sad, as though he’d scraped his knee and doesn’t want anyone to know. What happens to the pawns in the game?”
“They’re the discards that the other pieces trample at will,” said Robert. “Now let me tell you about the queen. That’s where the throne’s power really lies…”
In spite of myself, I began to follow Robert’s lively instruction. He described the way each piece could move and had barely begun to explore with me the subtleties of the game’s strategy when he was called away by a lackey, who came to announce that Mr. Stewart said Mr. Robert ought to come and talk to the two bricklayers who were laying the foundation for the new buttery. There was a quarrel going on, it seemed, on whether there ought to be a second door, and, though Robert protested that he knew nothing and cared less about the design of butteries, he excused himself to me and went anyway, ordering the footman to remain outside the door, saying with a grin that it was to guard me from temptation.
Left to my own devices, I moved the pieces experimentally around the board, handling each one with great care, while the sun touched on my back like a great warm hand. Following an impulse, I lined the chess pieces in a row and lay down
beside them; with my cheek on the floor, they looked almost like real people, down to the rings on the queen’s hand. The shifting, swirling dust motes in the beam of sunlight looked like a magic dust that would impart to them the gift of life; and come alive they did, in the dream I had as I fell into a light sleep.
I was being held prisoner in the tiny castle; the queen was standing guard outside the door. I had been dragged to the castle behind the ivory horse and my legs were sore from walking. The pawn astride the horse was John Stewart and he kept turning back to look at me, his ivory face impassive. I was frightened—of the queen, of the horse, and most afraid of being small. But then the king appeared, walking regally toward me through the sunbeams, and helped me from the window of the castle; and we danced together. The king had the features of the Earl of Brockhaven and as we danced my tiredness and fear began to drain away. His hand was steady on my back, and there was in his eyes a concern as deep as the black night that surrounded us, the silver stars reflecting their shimmer in the sparkling fabric of my gown. The stars became brighter, and my rapture increased, until finally the light was so intense that I had to blink to protect my eyes from the glare.
As I opened my eyes, I found myself looking into a blinding fog of sunlight. I blinked again to clear my vision, and saw the Earl of Brockhaven sitting in a chair before me, his chin resting in one hand, his long legs stretched out before him.
“It must have been a beautiful dream,” he said.
“The chessmen… came to life.” I struggled to sit up and looked about me, not sure if the dream had ended, and took in my hands the little ivory king. I looked back at Brockhaven and said, stupidly, “You’re back.”
“As you see.” He stood and lifted the chess piece from my hand. “It’s my father’s likeness. Did Rob tell you? The carver flattered him, of course. He’d put on weight by then. Drinking. And my mother”—he picked up the queen—“never looked this virginal.”
