by Mira Stables
But the opening procedure was decorous enough. The tea drunk, each participant must take her cup between both hands, swirl it three times about—in the direction of the sun, never withershins—and invert it over the saucer.
The telling began. The girls first, since obviously their impatience would brook no delay. To Ann’s relief it seemed very much the usual stuff of fortune telling. She could see little harm coming from a prophecy of early marriage for Meg—who blushed delightedly at the prospect—or a promise of travel and change for Jenny, who seemed equally pleased. She prepared to listen indulgently to her own future as Bridie saw it. Perhaps it was the soothsayer’s promise of a journey and a wedding in the near future that startled her into half belief. For how could Bridie have known that Barbara’s letter had brought directions for her journey, or that the wedding was fixed for the first week in September? She had not even mentioned it to Janet.
There was to be a meeting with two gentlemen, both thin, but one tall and the other short, both of whom would influence her future. That was more the sort of thing one expected. But it was the final prophecy that distressed her.
“And ’tis not for so very much longer ye’ll be calling High Garth home,” pronounced Bridie mournfully. “Changes be coming. Look at that!” She indicated a powdering of tiny tea particles in Ann’s cup. “But ’tis good fortune. Back in your rightful place ye’ll be.”
Ann could scarcely protest that High Garth was her rightful place—the best place in the world, so long as it held the man she loved—but her feelings were plain to be seen, and were promptly endorsed by a chorus of protest from Janet and the girls.
“I can only be telling what I’m after seeing,” insisted Bridie, “but if you’ll let me look in your hand, ma’am, I’ll be learning more.”
But Ann wasn’t at all sure that she wanted to hear any more on those lines even if she didn’t really believe it, and said that first she wanted to hear Janet’s fortune, and Janet, though she declared herself too old for such cantrips, was very willing.
Bridie smiled contentedly over this cup. “Here’s good fortune indeed! ’Tis all around you. Oh—there’s doubts and difficulties first, but they’re soon by with, and you’ll see happiness come to those you love and share it with them. And there’s a journey,” she added, “a short one, and it’s a bit off yet.”
“And that’s as well,” retorted Janet tartly. “The only journey I’m like to take will be to the grave yard and I’m in no hurry for that. Old I may be, but I’ve still plenty to do before I start goffering my shroud. But I liked that other bit you said about happiness all around me. Say it again.”
After Bridie had complied, it was Janet who returned to the question of Ann’s future. “Let her read your hand, love,” she urged. “None of us wants to think of you leaving High Garth. Maybe your own hand’ll tell a different tale.”
So Ann surrendered her hands to Bridie’s inspection, and that wise woman, sensing the tension in the girl, talked placidly about the art of palmistry, indicating the main lines in the hand, explaining their significance, and pointing out the difference between the left and right hands of the same subject, which they could all see. “The left shows what you were born with, the right what you’ve made of it,” she summed up, and fell silent, studying Ann’s hands intently, now that they lay relaxed and trusting in her hold.
It was some time before she spoke again, and when she did, a close observer might have noticed that though she still held Ann’s hands lightly in hers, her gaze was now fixed on the glowing heart of the fire, the bright eyes hooded by the wrinkled lids. Her voice came slow and hesitant at first, its lilting accent muted to a gentle monotone that was oddly impressive.
“’Tis a strong hand, a giving hand. There’s high courage in it and a deal of pride and hasty temper, and there’s warmth and tenderness and loyalty beside. You’ve travelled far, child, and known bitter loneliness. Well do I know ’tis a home you seek, and it’s a fine home you’ll be after making for the man who takes you to wife. But homes are not made from sticks and stones, my dearling. ’Tis the heart of your man you must win, and he proud and stubborn as yourself. Yet in the end it shall be well with you. Gold in plenty you shall have and noble rank besides. Yes, when you have forgotten your pride and gone down into the dark waters, you shall have your heart’s desire.”
She fell silent. And such was the spell she had woven about them that not even the twins moved or spoke until Janet leaned forward to put another peat on the fire.
“Well that’s a fine fortune to be sure,” she said drily. “It certainly sounds as though we at High Garth will be bidding you farewell, for there’s no gold to be gleaned in these parts.”
Bridie did not answer. Her face was drawn in lines of great weariness. Janet put a kindly hand on her arm. “You’ve tired yourself out with pleasuring us. Come now. Meg will heat some milk for your cordial. Then you shall smoke a pipe in comfort before you sleep.”
Meg ran to do as she was bid. Jenny said in a disappointed tone, “But I did want to hear more about Miss Ann’s fortune. Hers was much the most exciting. Do you suppose she’ll marry a prince?”
“She’ll need to travel far indeed, if she’s to find one worthy of a decent lass,” said Janet with unusual cynicism. “I doubt she’ll have to settle for a mere duke or maybe a belted earl”—Her voice trailed off into silence. She stood for an appreciable moment with her mouth half open, an oddly arrested expression on her face. “But there’s still the gold,” she muttered, and stooped to see if the milk was hot enough.
Bridie seemed much restored by the cordial, compounded from the hot milk, seasoned with nutmeg, butter and sugar, and suitably diluted by the addition of a brown syrupy liquid from a bottle in her pack. She lit her pipe and sat puffing peacefully, but she would have no more truck with fortune telling. When Jenny teased her for more details of Ann’s future, and, drawing a blank here, asked mischievously what she could see in her own future, she scowled and said sombrely, “No wise woman reads her own future, girl. Think! You listen to my words and stare and giggle and believe only the part that pleases you. Nor do I always tell all that I see. Of what use to distress good friends with promises of sorrow that will surely come? But when I look into the future I see its fabric whole, with its pain and grief as well as its joy. ’Twould take a braver woman than me to seek such knowledge for herself. Though it is true”—she turned to Janet—“that there’s times when I sense well enough what’s coming, without seeking, just as the animals know when storm threatens and take shelter. Lately I’ve been uneasy with such knowledge. Change is coming. I’m thinking it’s nothing bad, for it’s finding myself curious that I am, rather than afraid to meet it, but it’s something big.”
Janet nodded respectfully. She understood premonitions and how they could cloud the spirits, even if one had not ‘the sight’, as Bridie had. Jenny was effectively silenced and she and Meg went off to bed in rather subdued mood.
Ann found herself uncomfortably impressed. That last speech was very convincing. Not a doubt that Bridie believed her own prophecies. Not a doubt, either, that she had come close to the truth where Ann was concerned. Oh—not the bits about rank and fortune, of course. Those were nonsense, prompted by Bridie’s generous Irish optimism. But the part about sticks and stones not making a home, and about winning the heart of a man who might be proud and obstinate, had shown a dangerous gift of insight. It occurred to Ann that she had best tread warily while the bright dark eyes were watching. Whatever her mystic powers, Bridie, as her son-in-law was very fond of saying, could see further through a millstone than most.
Chapter Thirteen
Bridie was persuaded to stay over another night ‘to rest her weary bones’, though as far as Ann could see it was little enough resting that she did. She begged leave to help milk, explaining that she’d not milked a beast this many a year past and wanted to see if she still had the knack of it. And Will, who always declared that cows would hold back their mi
lk from a stranger, was hugely delighted at the success of her coaxing fingers and crooning voice. Then she was at the churning, murmuring words of power to make the butter come quickly. And then, after a long conference with Janet, she vanished, accompanied by Jenny carrying a basket, to return some time later with a quantity of herbs and blossoms.
“Couldn’t find any elder flowers,” she complained, “so late in the season and all the fruit setting. But there was groundsel a-plenty and that will help. Can I be using the fire for a while, Miss Beverley?”
Ann watched curiously as the herbs were put in a pan with some lard and cream and Bridie proceeded to stir and pound the weird mixture over the low fire, but Philip clamouring for her assistance at that point, over the difficult business of subtracting seven from three, missed the final stages of manufacture. Consequently she stared in surprise at the two little pots that were presented to her after supper that night. They held a smooth creamy substance of a delicate greenish tint, smelling deliciously of rose water. That must have come out of Bridie’s pack, thought Ann, for no one at High Garth possessed anything so frivolous.
“Now you’ll use this every night,” instructed Bridie, “and plenty of it. Janet has found some gloves that belonged to Mr. Patrick’s mother, so no need to fear that it will soil the sheets.”
Instinctively Ann glanced down at her hands. They were roughened by the unaccustomed work that they had done recently.
“Yes,” nodded Bridie. “And Janet here was after telling me that you’re going to a grand wedding next month. You’ll want your hands smooth and white for that, won’t you, now? Meg is going to do the baking for the week before you go. Time she learned to manage a brick oven, isn’t it, Meg, me dearling? It’s knowledge she’ll be needing soon enough.”
Meg blushed furiously but was understood to say that she was very willing, if Miss Ann would show her what to do. Ann thanked Bridie for her thoughtful kindness but protested that she could not sit for a whole week with idle hands, to which Janet promptly retorted that there was plenty of mending to be done, a task that would not hinder the healing work of the herb balm, not to mention Master Philip’s lessons. Patrick put an end to the argument by saying quietly, “You must certainly follow Bridie’s advice, Miss Beverley, after she has gone to so much trouble. Nor must you shame us, here at High Garth, by appearing at your sister’s wedding with toil-worn hands.”
It was gently spoken, but it was an order. Ann subsided meekly. She had taken pains to keep out of his way as much as possible since Philip’s birthday, pinning her hopes to the probability that he would miss her when she went away and would overcome whatever foolish scruples were holding him back. Meanwhile a maidenly reserve seemed to be sound policy, as well as soothing to her pride. She still blushed when she remembered the confiding way in which she had lifted her mouth for his kiss. That should not happen again, she vowed fiercely.
The talk ran on in leisurely fashion over the small happenings of the day. Janet was proudly informing Bridie that they had clipped over a hundred sheep that summer, “the fleeces of good quality, too.” Will had put up some low obstacles in the small croft so that Jigs and Philip might learn to jump, and Jenny was teasing Meg over some mysterious message concerned with young Robert Alder. Meg’s blushes and the soft glow in her eyes seemed to lend substance to Bridie’s hints. Ann could not help feeling the prick of envy. Meg was not yet sixteen, but already her future seemed secure. Some would say she was over young to be thinking of marriage, but Far Riggs needed a mistress and if the young couple remained constant in their affections there was nothing to prevent an early wedding. Not for a year at least, Janet had thought, when she and Ann had discussed the frequency with which Robert turned up at High Garth. “Not before she’s seventeen. She’s scarcely got her growth yet, and still plenty to learn about managing a household. But if they’re both of the same mind in a year’s time, then I reckon we’ll see a wedding. Young Robert might ha’ looked higher, but Meg’s a good lass and not portionless. Her dad’s always been a saving sort of man.”
Ann sighed, quite unconsciously, and wished that her own future was equally clear-cut and promising. Patrick’s quiet voice ended her reflections.
“Has your sister set the date of her wedding yet, Miss Beverley?”
Rather diffidently Ann outlined the arrangements that Barbara had suggested. A carriage would be sent for her—the road as far as Dent was quite reasonable—and Barbara assured her that she could perfectly rely on the abigail and the coachman who would have charge of her journey. Both had been for many years in Broughton service. She must bring a night bag, since it would be necessary to lie one night in Lancaster, but nothing else, since the trunk that she had left with her sister had already been unpacked and her clothes were awaiting her arrival. It seemed unnecessary to enlighten the present company as to Barbara’s views, freely expressed, on the wardrobe that she had brought with her to High Garth. Instead she said that her sister would like her to travel a week before the wedding, if she could be spared.
“There will be many small services that I can do for her—and a vast deal of talking to be done,” she smiled. “Also I am to be bride’s maiden, and although the dress has been made to my measurements, some slight adjustment may be needed.” And then, her burden discharged, she twinkled mischievously at Janet and Bridie, since she dared not look at Patrick, and finished demurely, “You would not have me disgrace High Garth by appearing before the company in an ill-fitting gown, would you?”
Janet looked slightly shocked, but Bridie grinned. What Patrick might have said was unfortunately lost in the clamour of the twins, demanding to know exactly what the dress was to be like. By the time that Ann had eventually pacified them with a promise to bring the dress back with her so that they could see for themselves, he said only that the arrangement seemed to him a very sensible one. If she would write to her sister accepting the suggestions, he would see that the letter was sent off the next time he went to Dent.
With Bridie’s departure the household settled back into its usual routine. It was a quiet time as regards seasonal work, both indoors and out. Save for periodic bursts of wedding fever from the twins punctuated by enquiries from Janet as to the efficacy of the herb balm, the days passed placidly, though the last week, during which Meg undertook the cooking and baking provided one or two hilarious surprises.
At one time Philip had shown some interest in the forth-coming wedding, his enquiries being chiefly concerned with what the wedding guests would have to eat and how many horses the Broughtons kept. But since Ann could provide only speculative suggestions on the first head and none at all on the second, his interest soon waned. The day before she left was a busy one, so many last minute instructions as she must leave for Meg, her packing to be done and her room to be left orderly. Moreover, despite her affection for High Garth, she was looking forward to the reunion with Barbara and sang as she worked, a gay, eager girl with a holiday dawning. Philip probably had some justification for feeling himself neglected. He reacted as might have been expected, passing through every stage of naughtiness from the sullen to the defiant. By supper time he had quarrelled with both the twins and been slapped by Janet. His brother’s presence at the table checked any further outburst, though his hot cheeks and tightly folded lips, not to mention the absence of his usual chatter indicated that his mood was still stormy. Patrick eyed him thoughtfully but made no comment. Ann, guiltily aware that the child’s behaviour was partly her fault, tried to mend matters by asking if he might ride with them as far as Dent next day. “If the day is fine,” she added hastily, when Patrick looked as though he might refuse. “At least, then, you would know where he was.”
“True,” admitted Patrick. “But not if he means to bring that Friday face with him. It would frighten the horses.”
Fortunately the much-injured Philip had a mouthful of hot dumpling at that moment, and by the time he had disposed of it, Patrick’s assent to the proposal was somehow taken for granted.
Ann was duly thankful. She had her own reasons for not wishing to ride alone with Mr. Delvercourt at the present stage of affairs.
With the object of removing Philip from the scene before his sulky demeanour could jeopardize the arrangement, she tried to coax him into going to bed early, an enterprise that might have proved disastrous had not Patrick intervened, asking Jenny if she would be so good as to see to Philip for once as there were one or two matters that he wished to settle with Miss Beverley before she left.
Ann preceded him into the parlour rather nervously, wondering what he could have to say, but it seemed that he wanted only to give her the quarter’s salary that would fall due at the end of September, and then to enquire, rather shyly, if she had funds sufficient to meet any expenses that she might incur during her absence. “You may wish to make some purchases while you are within reach of shops, and there will be vails to the servants, while there is always the possibility that some minor mishap to your carriage may cause you to spend another night on the road. I would be happy to advance you next quarter’s salary if you so wish.”
Ann forgot all about the meekly respectful demeanour on which she had decided. Natural impulse had its way. “You shall do no such thing,” she told him indignantly. “Already I am overpaid, for this quarter’s money is not due until the end of the month.” And then the comical side of the situation struck her and she said mischievously, “How if I did not come back? Your money would be gone. You should not be so confiding, sir.”
An answering gleam lightened his sombre expression. “In that case,” he told her severely, “I would have you pursued with all the rigour of the law, and apprehended. I don’t know what the penalty would be for such a shocking crime. Transportation at the very least, I should imagine.”
